Kuryakin hadn't heard him. He was staring at the last entry in the diary. "Listen to this," he said slowly. "Leonardo seems to have used this just as a kind of movable memorandum pad. He doesn't put down dates and times every day, like an engagement book. He doesn't fill it in afterward like an ordinary diary."
"It would hardly do, in our business, would it?" Solo asked drily.
"... But what he does do—he makes cryptic little notes to remind him of things. You know. Rent due tomorrow. Replace lamp in chandelier. Buy birthday card for G. Meet X at 3:15. Check dentist's appointment. That sort of thing."
"So?"
"So the last entry, for the day he died, reads simply: Send glasses to W for repair..."
"W for Waverly? Is that what you mean?"
"It does rather suggest itself, Napoleon."
Solo gave a low whistle. "If that's so, then he was on his way to send a signal to Waverly telling him the glasses were arriving, and what they were for, when he was shot," he said. "Exactly. And presumably he was intending to pack up the glasses and send them off by another route, from another post office, later in the day."
"I wonder if the Thrush people knew how lucky they were, getting him when they did?"
"I imagine not. They'd hired these local toughs to bump him off as quickly as possible, as soon as they discovered the list had been copied and realized it must be him—and that was the first chance they got."
"Yes... I hate to tell you this, Illya, but they stopped using the phrase 'bump him off' several decades ago."
"Rub him in, then, or whatever. But there's one other thing that's odd. Napoleon: an operative of Leonardo's experience really does not need to have a written reminder to send vital information back to his headquarters, does he?"
"No, I guess he doesn't at that. That doesn't tie in with your knowledge of the man's M.O.?"
"He was a very experienced, a very reliable, man. And he was working directly for me on this job. I'm certain, absolutely certain, he would only have put such an entry in that book because he meant it to be seen—by one of us."
"You mean he was covering himself? He thought something might happen?"
"Something can always happen. Napoleon. I think he put it there as a tip-off that the glasses were the medium he'd used to make the hologram... just in case. And unfortunately for him, his precautions turned out to be necessary."
Solo, picking up the sunglasses and turning them over, saw just a pair of expensive spectacles with rather large lenses, one of which was cracked. He grinned. "I hope they're classy enough to have exactly the same curvature on both lenses," he said. "Otherwise, if he happened to have used the one that's got damaged, we'd be back to square one again!"
"You're convinced, then?" Kuryakin asked.
"Oh yes; I'm sure you are right, Illya. There's no doubt about it. We've found the treasure. All we have to do now is get it back to New York!"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Tables Are Turned
Giovanna del Renzio had agreed to take Solo and Illya to the airport. The evening before, they had decided to celebrate a little and she had accompanied them to Angelo's for dinner; this time without seeing either Carlsen or the bulky man in grey! Now she was outside the hotel waiting for Illya to bring the Fiat round from the garage while Solo made a farewell telephone call to the Commendatore.
It was still raining, though there was blue sky over towards the mountains. The girl was wearing a dazzling white vinyl raincoat, with white patent knee boots and an absurd orange umbrella. Beneath this creaking armor of leather and plastic, she was dressed in a simple jersey suit of navy and white which set off the racy lines of her body to perfection. Her hair was set high to keep it up under the umbrella out of the rain.
"Well if we ever needed an argument in favour of Italian holidays, you're definitely it," Kuryakin said enthusiastically if ungrammatically as he loaded their two cases into the boot. Giovanna smiled warmly. "Be careful," she said. "If your precious piece of glass is in one of those..."
Before the Russian could reply. Solo had come out and was shaking hands with the girl. "I've said our goodbyes to the Commendatore," he reported. "And I've also spoken to Rinaldi, my dear. He'll be quite happy if you return the car to him tomorrow. I must say it's terribly kind of you to offer to take it back. It'll save me so much trouble."
"Not at all," Giovanna said politely. "I think we ought to be on our way if you want plenty of time for the plane. The road to Caselle is very busy and it's still quite wet. Will you drive, Napoleon?"
"Okay," Solo said. "Let's go!"
They had just passed the turn-off to the Milan Autostrada when Giovanna leaned forward from the back seat and said: "This little pickpocket you told me about last night—the matchseller outside the post office: was he a member of this Thrush organization, do you think?"
"Absolutely not," Solo said. "He was just a smalltime chiseler who happened unknowingly to have picked up something other people wanted." He changed down and urged the Fiat past a huge truck and trailer that were spraying muddy water up from the wet road.
"But in that case," the girl protested, "why did he take your piece of glass or whatever it was from the body of Leonardo? The pocket book I can understand; but a piece of... You never did get around to telling me just what he used to make that hologram! What did you take off the pickpocket last night?"
Kuryakin turned round in the front passenger seat and grinned at her. "Just that," he said vaguely. "A piece of glass... "
"Illya!" Solo called out, peering through the streaming windshield. "I missed the sign because of that blasted motor bus! Do we take the left or the right fork here for Caselle?"
The Russian wiped condensation away from the glass with his sleeve. "Right, I think," he said, staring in his turn. "No! No, I'm wrong. The left!"
"You were correct the first time," the girl said from behind.
"No, no. It is the left. You can see the airport sign pointing that way."
"It's the left for Caselle, yes. But we are not going to the airport. Take the right fork and then turn right again on the road labelled Leini and Cigliano." There was a sudden coldness and hardness in the girl's voice that made Kuryakin swing round again and Solo flick a glance at his driving mirror.
She was sitting very erect on the edge of the seat and there was a gun in her hand.
"You'd better do as I say," she snapped. "I know how to use this."
Obediently, Solo hugged his nearside and took the right hand fork, steering the Fiat immediately afterward on to the secondary road the girl indicated. He sighed. "I don't know about the pickpocket," he said, "but I suppose you really are a member of what you called 'this Thrush organization'?"
"Naturally. It is relatively easy for us to penetrate such loose systems as S.I.D. and M.I.6... to say nothing of the C.I.A." The girl's voice was scornful.
"Well, congratulations! You really are a master—perhaps I should say, rather, a mistress—of deceit and treachery!" Kuryakin said bitterly.
"Your old fashioned moral strictures leave me cold," Giovanna del Renzio said indifferently. "But I'd rather do without the noise of you talking." Coolly, she raised the muzzle of the gun until it was level with the Russian's neck and pulled the trigger.
There was a sharp, coughing explosion, not very loud, and Kuryakin jerked forward and slumped against the dashboard. As though in reflex, Solo had stamped on the brakes as the gun fired. The Fiat slewed momentarily and almost stopped, sending him lurching forward against the wheel, and then resumed its course as he released the pressure on the pedal.
"I shouldn't do that again if I were you," the girl said grimly. "You have no need to worry. It's only a sleep dart, similar to those you use yourselves. He'll be back with us in less than an hour."
"You've made me break my glasses," Solo said reproachfully. He felt his chest where it had struck the steering wheel and drew out a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket. They had tortoise-shell frames—and one of the lenses certainly was cracked.
"Put them back. You won't need them where you're going."
"And that is? Back to Mr. Carlsen's place, I presume?"
"Yes. By minor roads in case of trouble on the Autostrada. As you see, we're already in open country. Straight over this crossroads here."
"And just what is to stop me," Solo demanded, "from switching off the engine and braking to a halt in the first town we come to? We're bound to pass some villages on the way: it's more than fifty kilometres to Buronzo."
Giovanna del Renzio leaned over the back of Illya's seat, keeping the gun trained warily on Solo, and pushed the Russian's unconscious body down below the line of windscreen and windows. "Use your mirror," she said. "The Cadillac behind is Mr. Carlsen's—and in a minute a Lancia will pull out ahead of you from a layby. Lala Eriksson will be driving. As a foreigner with no papers, do you think any country policeman will believe you against the word of two car loads of local residents? Besides which, I should shoot one of these darts at you before you could say anything... and don't think we couldn't, between us, think up some convincing explanation!"
Solo shrugged. The rain had stopped completely and sunshine was raising steam from the drying road as it curved between meadows of silvery green. Half a kilometer ahead, the familiar Lancia convertible, now with its roof raised, nosed out into the road from under a row of trees and took up its station ahead of him.
"May one ask the point of this—er—maneuver?" Solo enquired.
"Don't be foolish, Mr. Solo. You know as well as I do. When we get to Carlsen's house you will tell us what it is that you took from this pickpocket and, if it is here, we will destroy it; if not, we shall get it and then destroy it."
"And if we don't tell you?"
"You will. One of you will. There are ways and means at that house, believe me. Round this corner we enter the main road to Chivasso for a few hundred meters, and then we turn left off it again. Be ready for a sharp right and then left... And remember I shall be ready for anything else!"
Without taking her eyes from him, the girl laid her arm along the shelf below the car's back window and gave the thumbs-up sign to the Cadillac which was purring along close behind.
Half an hour later, they rolled in convoy along the road where Lala Eriksson and Illya had been forced into the hedge by Solo. Only this time there was no rescuer roaring up behind them between the thickets of cane.
Soon they came to a cross-roads and Solo recognized part of the route he had taken on foot when he had escaped from Carlsen's domain.
Two kilometers later, the Lancia turned in under an archway piercing the high wall of a gatehouse and they were in the driveway he recalled so well. The steel grille gates swung wide as Lala Eriksson sounded her horn, remained open as the three cars drove through, and then slowly shut to remake its electrical circuit with the wire mesh fence inside the wall.
Solo caught a glimpse of a pair of dogs eyeing the convoy, and then they were past the poplar trees and circling the shrubbery in front of the house.
They pulled up below the terrace with a rustle of gravel.
La la Erikssen, slim and dark in a green trouser suit, was climbing from the Lancia's driving seat. Carlsen, his fat face split into a travesty of a welcoming smile, was standing at the front of the steps with one of his torpedoes on either side. And from the Cadillac behind, the manservant and three more gunmen descended.
Giovanna del Renzio slid across the back seat of the Fiat and opened the door. She got out on to the driveway and jerked open the passenger door. Illya Kuryakin slumped inertly to the gravel.
The girl gestured sharply with her gun and Solo in his turn pressed the catch of his door and stepped out of the car.
"Mr. Solo!" Carlsen exclaimed effusively. "How nice to see you again. Let us hope that this time our hospitality will not bore you so much that you feel you have to leave... Giovanna my dear, we are indebted to you for so kindly bringing our friends here. So that they are spared the tedious preliminaries to the entertainment we have prepared for them, perhaps you would be good enough to make Mr. Solo comfortable for the time being, eh?"
Too late, the agent swung round. He saw the snigger on the face of one of the guards; he saw the girl's knuckles whiten on the trigger of the gun that was pointing at him; and then he saw the spurt of flame from the muzzle that whitened, too, and spread and spread until it reached the farthest horizon.