Except for Monty, the barman, the Front Page Bar's only occupant was Solly Gold. He was sitting on a high stool at the far end of the counter, nursing a whiskey straight. He looked undressed without his raincoat.
He said, "So what brings you to the fabled Street of Adventure — and bushwah? Have a drink?"
"Don't ever let the boys on the Bugle hear you say that," Solo advised. "What do you know about a hoodlum called Pietro Bambini?"
"Enough," Solly said. "Born in Greek Street, Soho, father unknown. His mother was an Italian waitress — part of the time. Educated, approved schools and Borstal. Ran with the Focacci mob until the Carey brothers chased Focacci out of the West End and took over. Now he's a freelance, hiring out for the really dirty work. He'd cut his own mother up for kicks. He's a nutter. And vicious with it."
"That's the way I hear it. Did you know he drives for Anna?"
"No. That's new. I'd say she was taking a chance. Like I say, he's no tame bunny. You're sure of your facts?"
"Pretty sure."
"Funny. I'd have thought she was smarter. Now why would she want to bother with a schlemiel like Bambini?"
"That," said Solo, "is the jackpot question."
He outlined the events of the night and day, keeping only Merle's name out of the story. When he told of his visit to the garage in the news, Solly's eyes suddenly gleamed behind the steel-rimmed spectacles.
He asked, "You're positive one of the emblems had been smashed off the bracket? It couldn't have been cut off or rusted off?"
"Positive. The break was jagged and the metal was twisted as if somebody had hit it with a sledge-hammer."
Solly said, "It's time you brought the Yard in on this. The night Hughes's body was found on Hampstead Heath a hit and run driver killed a motorcyclist on the Spaniards Road near Jack Straw's Castle."
Solo explained to Illya, "That's the road that runs along the top of the Heath just north of the Vale of Heath. It's on a direct route to the center of London."
"Check," said Solly. "And guess what they found by the smashed bike."
"I'm ahead of you," Solo said. "And they'd have it at the Yard?"
"Believe me, they're treasuring it. And that bit of sacking you clipped — the lab boys would like to see that, too."
"Fine. Whom do I call?"
Solly drained his glass and stood up. "Leave it to me. It'll be a pleasure."
He retrieved his raincoat from Ted, the porter, and hurried off to the cab rank in the shadow of St. Clement Danes.
Solo and Illya strolled leisurely along the Strand to the hotel. They found Blodwen waiting in the suite. She had washed the henna out of her hair and removed the blue-irised contact lenses. She had switched to a lightweight tweed and had exchanged the stiletto-heeled patent leathers for London-tan walking shoes. Dolly, the poodle, was freshly shampooed and curled and sported a brand-new collar.
"There's no point in keeping the apartment now that Merle knows who I am, and those contact lenses hurt like hell," Blodwen explained. "I've checked in on the floor below, where I'll be handy if you need me. Right now I propose to catch dinner and have an early night."
"We'll join you," Illya said. "For dinner, of course."
They had reached the coffee stage when Solly Gold approached their table with a companion.
"I phoned your number and the switchboard told me where to find you," he said. "This is Detective-Inspector Jevons, of the C.I.D."
Jevons looked nothing like the sleuths of popular fiction. He had close-cropped iron gray hair, blue eyes set rather too close to an over-large nose, prominent ears and a hard square jaw. He wore a navy blue, double-breasted suit, a white shirt and collar with a dark gray tie, and black shoes with rounded toes.
He sat down, accepted a coffee, and proceeded to load a brier with dark flake tobacco.
He said, "Thanks for the tip, Mr. Solo. I've heard about you, though, of course, you U.N.C.L.E. people normally work with the Special Branch. I don't know what job you're on now, and I'm asking no questions. That's S.B. business. If you want our assistance, you know you'll get it. But hit-and-run driving is definitely in my province, especially when there's a suspicion of cold-blooded murder."
"You think Bambini killed Price Hughes?"
"I think nothing, Mr. Solo. I go on evidence. A great deal is going to depend on what we find in the garage. W do know that the stain on the material you sent to us by Mr. Gold has been confirmed to be human blood, but the fact that you found it in the trunk of a car known to have been driven by Bambini is no proof that he had anything to do with it."
He pushed his chair back and stood up. "And now, if the young lady will excuse us, we could make a move."
Blodwen said, "Don't wait for the bill. I'll see to it. If you happen to need me I'll be back at the hotel."
Solly Gold looked pessimistically at the inspector. "I suppose there's no chance I'll be invited along for the ride?"
"You know better than that, Mr. Gold."
"Yes, I know. It's the story of my life."
Illya, Solo and the inspector left the restaurant together. A police car dropped them in Stephen Street and they completed the journey on foot.
A man in a shabby suit and cloth cap emerged from the shadow at the entrance to the mews. Jevons asked him, "Anything moving?"
"All quiet," he replied. "The car's in the garage and the place above is in darkness. Nobody's been near it."
"Thank you, Sergeant. Keep your eyes open."
"Yes, sir."
The lock on the garage door turned easily to Solo's key. The three men entered and Solo switched on his flashlight. The beam danced over the Humber's trunk and came to rest on the bumper.
The inspector crouched and examined the gap in the row of emblems. He ran a finger over the short tongue of metal on the twisted bracket. Then he took another emblem from his pocket and tried it against the fracture. The irregular edges of emblem and tongue fitted exactly.
"That clinches it," Jevons said. "This was the car that killed the motorcyclist. This emblem was found only a few feet from the body." He straightened and pointed to the near fender. "Somebody's been doing some respraying, too, and the job's been done in a hurry."
They shut the garage and went back to the plainclothesman on the corner. Jevons told him, "If Bambini shows up, grab him and bring him in. I want him for questioning in connection with the hit-and-run on Hampstead Heath. Have you got assistance?"
"Yes, sir. Two constables." He indicated where they were posted in the darkness.
"Good. Well, don't take chances. You know Bambini. He's sure to be carrying a knife. But get him, Sergeant. I want him badly."
"He won't get away," the sergeant promised.
The police car snaked through the thick traffic in Tottenham Court Road, heading back to New Scotland Yard. Jevons, sitting beside the driver, spoke into the radio-telephone. Solo gathered that he was talking to his superintendent at headquarters.
The car cut down Northumberland Avenue and on to the Embankment, where the lights on the South Bank were reflected in dancing patterns on the black waters of the Thames. It turned in through the gates within a stone's throw of Westminster Bridge and the driver drew it smoothly to a halt.