The woman in the peasant blouse came in. She looked from Solo to Illya, then back to Blodwen. She asked, "Everything okay, dear?" Her low-pitched voice had a Continental intonation.
Blodwen said, "Everything's fine, Merle. These are two old friends of mine. They just dropped in to see I was settled properly."
"That's okay, then." She switched on the smile. "Pleased to meet you."
Blodwen went to a glass-fronted cabinet, got out a bottle and poured four large gins.
Merle raised her glass in a gesture that embraced them all. "Cheers!"
They drank.
Merle said, :Excuse me for dropping in, dear. I was worried. I thought they might be fuzz."
"The Law?" Blodwen said. "These boys? That's a laugh."
"I'm glad." She didn't ask any questions.
Illya said politely, "This is a nice place you have here."
She looked around. "Not bad — but the overheads are killing." Then to Blodwen: "You better be getting ready. I thought we'd have a bite together before we go on to the club. I shake up a good ravioli — out of a can."
Blodwen poured her another gin. "Give me a couple of minutes. Talk to these guys while I'm putting on my face." She disappeared into the bedroom, the poodle at her heels.
Merle looked after her. She said, "She's a nice kid. You known her long?"
"Quite a while," Illya said. "We have a mutual uncle."
"That's nice. I didn't realize you were relatives or I wouldn't have butted in."
"We're glad you did," Solo assured her. "She can use a friend."
"Yes, she don't seem to know anybody in the Smoke — excepting you, of course."
"If it isn't a rude question, how did you come to meet her?" Illya asked.
"I was having an eye-opener in a pub by the Windmill Theater and she drifted in. She didn't seem to have a place to go, so I fixed her up. A girl can get into bad company if she ain't careful. And like I said, she's a nice kid." Her mouth twisted bitterly. "Too good for them bleeding Maltese to get their hooks in her."
"She'll be all right with you, though," Solo said.
"Sure. I'm an independent operator, you see. I don't have no truck with the rings."
Blodwen returned. She had exchanged the slacks and sweater for a green sack dress that ended four inches above her knees. The medallion swung at waist level from a long rolled-gold chain.
Merle eyed it, puzzled and astonish. She said, "Look, kid, you can't wear that thing in the Gloriana. Not if you don't want trouble."
"Why not?" Blodwen demanded. "It's pretty."
"Pretty or not, you can't wear it. I'm not asking where you got it. That's not my business. All I know is, the last time I seen it was around the neck of French Louise, and if she catches you with it there'll be bloody murder. So be a sensible kid and take it off.
"Why should I? I came by it honestly. And somebody wants to start something, I can take care of myself."
Merle shrugged. "Okay, please yourself. It's your funeral. But don't say I didn't warn you. French Louise is a bitch in spades."
She stood up. "Let's be on our way. Nice to meet you boys."
Blodwen settled the poodle in its basket with a dish of meat, then she pulled on a black nylon fur coat and ushered them to the door. They walked down to the first floor together. The girls stopped there, and Blodwen said, "Thanks for coming. Now you know where we live, drop around again."
The market had closed down and Berwick Street was practically empty. Solo and Illya walked through to Brewer Street and caught a cab to the hotel.
As the taxi threaded through the first rush of theater traffic Illya asked, "What now?"
Solo said, "The trap's baited. All we can do is wait. I've got a feeling it won't be long."
When they got up to the suite Solo went into the bathroom and pulled out a suitcase. He unlocked it, took out a black transmitter, and placed it on the bed. He unwound aerial wire, draping it carefully in loops around the walls. Then he tuned in and said, "Open channel D."
The voice of the operator in the brownstone block near the East River was distorted by static. She said, "This is a lousy line. Sunspots or something. Why didn't you bounce your call off Early Bird?"
"We'll have to get U.N.C.L.E. to put up his own satellite," Solo said. "Put me on to I.D., please."
There was a second's delay and then a male voice announced, "Identification and Records."
"Hi, Al," Solo greeted. "I want all you can get me on a woman called Anna, surname unknown. She runs a club called Gloriana in Newport Street, London. She is Oriental, probably Chinese but could be Indonesian, about thirty years old, height not more than five feet, weight around ninety-eight pounds, no visible distinguishing marks. Antecedents unknown, but rumored to have come to London from Cardiff. No criminal record, as far as I can trace."
"You say the sweetest things." Al sounded bitter. "All of a sudden I'm a magician? Why don't you try Scotland Yard? The West End squad must know her, even if she's clean."
"I don't want to bring the Yard into it at this stage."
"Okay. I'll do what I can. When do you want the dope?"
Solo said, "Yesterday," and tuned out hurriedly.
He rewound the aerial, packed the set back in the suitcase and went into the living room. He told Illya, "Ring room service and ask them to send dinner up here. I'll call Al back in a couple of hours and see if he's managed to produce."
"Anna?"
"Who else?"
It was ten-thirty when the phone rang.
Solo put down the paperback he was reading and picked up the receiver.
Blodwen's voice said perkily, "Napoleon? Can you do me a teeny-weeny little favor?"
"Where are you?"
"I'm in the Bow Street Police Station. Be a darling and come and bail me out."
Chapter Eleven
The desk sergeant was a middle-aged man with a deeply tanned face that looked like old leather. There was a Burma Star in the row of ribbons above the pocket of his tunic. He said, "Yvonne Grey? I don't know why she had to drag you out of bed. She could have bailed herself out if she'd wanted to. We weren't anxious to keep her."
"I suppose she had her reasons," Solo said. "What is she booked for?"
"Disorderly conduct. She was having a bit of a fight with another woman in Newport Street. We picked them both up."
"Where is she now?"
"In the cells. Sleeping it off, I hope." He signaled to a young constable. "Bring Mitchell up."
He opened a drawer and took out an orange form. "You sign this. Better read it first. If she fails to surrender to her bail, it'll cost you ten quid."
"She'll show up," Solo signed along the dotted line.
The young policeman reappeared with Blodwen beside him. Her red curls were tousled, the front of her dress was torn, and there was an angry furrow where fingernails had ripped down her cheek, but she seemed in high spirits.
She said, "Thanks for coming to the rescue. Have you completed the formalities?"
The sergeant put her handbag on the counter and gave her a form. "Check the contents and sign for them," he told her. "And remember, you've got to be back here in court at ten sharp tomorrow."
"On the dot," she promised. "And thanks for your hospitality."