Blodwen's voice said, "How're they coming, my Russian cousin?"
"Like gold," he said happily. "Has Solo arrived?"
"He's here now — punishing my Scotch. Want to talk to him?"
"Not right now. Tell him I'm sending some pictures by special delivery. I want them checked."
"The hunch came off?"
"And how! I've found a bunch of weirdies living the simple life behind bullet-proof doors — with aeolian harps and livestock in gorgeous Technicolor to keep the locals at bay."
She said, "And what the hell is a you-know-what harp?"
"Oh, that! It's a quaint gadget of piano wires or guitar strings. You fix it some place where the wind can blow through it and it sounds like slaughter on Tenth Avenue. Just the thing for the baby's nursery."
There was a pause. Then Solo's voice came over the wire. He said, "Nice work, Illya. But play it cool."
Illya grinned into a fly-specked mirror tilted above the switchboard. "I won't life a finger till the gang arrives. Just a unit in one great army, that's me."
He put a bunch of prints into a distinctively colored envelope, gave the postal official some instructions, and walked out into the sunshine.
Chapter Six
Illya pottered around the town for the rest of the day, looking in at the cattle market, buying picture postcards, sharing the joys and sorrows of the granddads on the bowling green. He let it be generally understood that he was a footloose Canadian with no more on his mind than a few days' relaxation. David Davis might have his own ideas, but as long as the free beer held out, Illya didn't think he would talk.
Around dusk he went back to the hotel. The landlord said there had been no messages for him. He ate a leisurely dinner and spent the rest of the evening in the bar. Neither David Davis nor Hugh ap Morgan showed up. At ten o'clock he shut himself in the telephone box in the lobby and dialed Blodwen's number.
Solo answered the call.
Illya asked, "Did you get the pictures?"
"I did, and I've run a check. The old man is Price Hughes, all right. He seems to be a professional eccentric but otherwise his reputation is unblemished. He has more money than Fort Knox and he spends it on good works. Apart from the nut colony you've uncovered he heads an organization for reforming ex-convicts, which he runs from his apartment in Newport Street, London."
"In Soho? That's an odd address for a philanthropist."
"I told you. He's an eccentric."
"Sure." Illya sounded unconvinced. "What about the other two?"
"The guy in the cheaters is one of his strayed lambs. A simple soul called Rafferty with a list of convictions from here to Glasgow. Grievous bodily harm, shooting with intent, mugging — you name it, he's done it. He's worked as a strong-arm man in race-track protection, organized prostitution and smuggling. But now, he claims, he's seen the light. He's been in the clear since he came out of Dartmoor a year ago."
"And Morgan?"
"That," said Solo, "is the jackpot question. You know some of the answers. He got mixed up with politics and did three years for arson. Maybe that's how he got in touch with Price Hughes. But here's the interesting thing. Before he got into trouble he was in line for a professorship at the University of Wales. It seems he was some kind of boy genius with a special bent for electronics. According to my sources he was tinkering about with one of the first experimental computers when the blow fell."
"Intriguing," Illya murmured.
"Wait. It gets better. He did his time in Wakefield, where a prisoner gets a reasonable choice of studies. Morgan elected to work in the printing shop. He knew he was washed up academically and he wanted to learn a trade.
"When he was released the Ministry of Labor found him a place with a firm that specializes in fine printing and engraving, but it didn't work out. He got restless and quit. He joined the army, volunteered for special duties, and was next heard of in one of the hush-hush outfits, forging document for the Resistance movements.
"After the war he drifted from job to job and finally dropped out of sight. He wasn't heard of again until six years ago when Price Hughes bought his farm. Morgan was the first man he hired."
Illya said, "Well, well! Things begin to add up."
"They do, indeed. There's not much doubt that the farm is the center of operations. I think it's time we stopped the presses."
"High time," said Illya. "But getting near them will be quite a trick."
He replaced the receiver and went up to bed.
At nine o'clock next morning he walked into the dining room for breakfast. And there, working earnestly through a plate of ham and eggs, sat Blodwen. She was wearing a suit of cheap tweed with a chain-store blouse. Her black hair was combed lankly and she wore all the wrong kinds of makeup.
She looked up uninterestedly when Illya walked in, then resumed her assault on the ham.
He took a chair opposite from her. The waitress brought him a bowl of cereal.
"Nice morning," he said.
Blodwen scowled. "Dim saesneg," she answered with her mouth full.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The lady do say she don't speak no English," the waitress interpreted. "A Welsh lady she is," she added unnecessarily.
"'Lady' is right," Illya said as a heavy shoe landed on his shin. He got his revenge by making the cereal really audible.
He had got to the toast and marmalade stage when Blodwen brought out a packet of cigarettes. She lit one, then started to transfer the others to a case. Somehow she fumbled the job. The case made a clatter on the table and the cigarettes spread over the floor.
Illya bent down to pick them up. So did Blodwen. Her hair brushed his cheek and he liked it.
She whispered, "The little red schoolhouse. In half an hour."
When the cigarettes had all been retrieved she straightened up, muttering grudging thanks in Welsh and walked out. She left a threepenny piece by her plate for the waitress. Illya thought it was wonderful how quickly she had picked up the customs of the country. He didn't know then that she was born in Wrexham.
He allowed her time to get clear of the hotel, then went down to the lobby and wasted fifteen minutes talking to the receptionist.
There are several schools in Corwen but he thought he knew the one Blodwen meant. It stood only about a hundred yards from the Cader Idris and it wasn't red. He strolled along to it.
She was standing outside the playground gate, holding the poodle. As Illya approached she turned to her right and began walking. He followed at a discreet distance as she cut down a long, narrow street of workmen's cottages. An old Austin twelve was parked at the curb outside a little general store. She climbed in and waited for him to come up. He opened the door, settled himself beside her and said, "Surprise, surprise! When did you get in?"
"Last night. Solo had the thought that you needed a hand." She let in the clutch and headed for the open country. The poodle snuggled into her lap and went to sleep.
"And the fancy dress?"
She laughed. "I was out at Cwm Carrog bright and early this morning, before you were out of bed. Just to see what I could pick up, as you might say.
"As you know, it's a two-story house with entrances front and back. The main entrance, facing on to the drive, has double doors. There's a single door at the back. They're faced with steel painted like wood and all the windows have steel shutters.