"Who — Merle! How the devil did you find me?"
"Never mind that." The voice sounded strained. "I got to see you urgent. I got some information. Can you come around?"
"I'm in bed," Blodwen said.
"Well, bloody well get out of bed. This won't wait, I tell you. Yvonne, I got to see you — about you-know-who."
"All right," Blodwen sighed. "Give me ten minutes to get some clothes on. Are you at the apartment?"
"Yes. And, Yvonne — don't bring nobody with you. Not even your boyfriend. If you do, I won't talk."
"All right. I'll get a taxi."
Blodwen dressed hurriedly. As she pulled on her stockings she tried to figure out how Merle had discovered that she was at the Savoy. She had been fairly confident that she was not being followed when she left Berwick Street for the Bond Street salon where the dye had been removed from her hair.
Before she left the apartment she opened a suitcase, took out a 7.63mm Mauser pistol in a skeleton holster and strapped it to the inside of her left thigh. There had been a note of near-panic in Merle's voice toward the end of their short conversation. There was no sense in taking chances.
She decided to leave Dolly in her basket, but as soon as she put her hand on the doorknob the little poodle came high-stepping to her side. She had no intention of being left behind. Resignedly, Blodwen picked her up.
There is seldom a shortage of taxis at the entrance to the Savoy Hotel. Blodwen got one right away and it deposited her in Berwick Street within seven minutes.
She found the key of the street door in her handbag and hurried up the stairs. The door of Merle's apartment was half open. She knocked, and Merle called, "In here."
Blodwen went through the short hall to the living room, stopped just too late.
She saw Merle, her black eyes terrified, being held down by a swarthy young man who looked as if he was enjoying his job. Then a pad was pressed over her face from behind, and she lost consciousness.
When she came around she was lying on the stone floor of a room that had the dank smell of a cellar. The pain in her head and shoulder told her that she had been thrown there. She screwed up her eyes against the light from an unshaded bulb near the ceiling and moved her limbs experimentally. Her hands and feet were unbound. And, miraculously, she could still feel the weight of the Mauser against her thigh.
She forced herself to sit up, fighting the wave of nausea that was the aftermath of the drugged pad. She rested for a minute, then got to her feet and leaned against the wall to take stock of her surroundings.
The cellar was long and low, with steel girders supporting the ceiling. The bulb lit only the section nearest the locked iron door. The rest was in semi-darkness, but she could make out the bulk of stacked cases in the shadows.
With sudden shock she realized that the little poodle was not with her. In her weakened state the sense of loss almost unnerved her. She hoped that they had killed her painlessly and not left her to run the streets in panic. For the first time in years she cried.
But even while the tears came, her mind was working on the problem of escape. There was no hope of getting through the door. It fitted flush with the wall and there was no keyhole in its blank inner face. Yet the air in the cellar was fresh. Somewhere there must be a ventilator, perhaps even a loading shaft from the street. She moved toward the back of the cellar, her eyes searching the walls and ceilings.
She reached the first of the stacked cases, and something about their size and shape caught her attention. She looked at them more closely. They were identical with the banded cases she had seen with Illya in the farmhouse at Cwm Carrog. The cellar was one of the stockpiles for the currency operation.
Sounds outside the door brought her swiftly back under the light. She lay down as nearly as she could remember to her original position and closed her eyes.
There came a creak of hinges and then footsteps. A shoe caught her none to gently in the ribs and a man's voice said, "Snap out of it."
She moaned artistically and made a business of turning over. The shoe hit her again, harder this time, and the voice snarled, "Come on. I 'aven't got all night."
She opened her eyes. The dark-haired hoodlum she had seen in Berwick Street was staring down at her. He had a Browning automatic in his right hand and his finger was on the trigger.
He motioned with the barrel toward the open door. "On your feet and start walking. And don't try nothing."
Blodwen said, "What do you think I'm going to do? Bite you?"
"Ah, shut up."
He stayed so close behind her that she could feel his breath on her neck as she climbed a steep flight of twenty stone stairs. He was pretty much of an amateur, Blodwen thought. A more experienced villain would have known better. It is comparatively easy to disarm a captor who fails to keep his distance.
There was an unlocked door at the head of the steps. They went through it into a carpeted passage. Blodwen could smell cooking and hear the muffled sound of a dance band combo. The man prodded her with the gun barrel and said, "Keep going."
They came to a door on the left-hand side of the passage. The man reached past her, turned the handle with his left hand, and said, "Inside." He accompanied the order with a shove that sent her headlong into the room. She recovered her balance just in time to avoid crashing into a fragile table.
Anna Soo Lee watched her unceremonious entrance from her throne-like chair. She said calmly, "I must apologize for Luigi's manners. I assure you that I did not order you to be ill-treated. I wished merely to talk to you."
"You could have called me," Blodwen said. "It would have saved us both a lot of trouble."
Anna smiled. "I doubt whether you would have answered my questions over the telephone."
"Well, before we go any further, I've got a question for you," said Blodwen. "Where's my poodle?"
The delicate eyebrows arched. "Poodle? I am afraid I do not understand you."
"You understand, all right. I was carrying a poodle when I went into Merle's apartment — just before your thugs jumped me — and I haven't got her now. What have you done with her?"
"I know nothing about this," Anna said. "No doubt she is still in the apartment… with your friend." She smiled again. "If you are reasonable, we shall endeavor to reunite you."
"What do you expect to get out of me?
"Simply a little information. You must realize I know a great deal about you already. I know, for example, that you and your friends Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin, are agents of U.N.C.L.E. I am aware that you made great nuisances of yourselves in Wales and, indeed, quite seriously hampered certain operations of the organization which I have the honor to represent —"
"Thrush," Blodwen interjected.
"Exactly. You will notice that I used the word 'hampered,' not 'defeated.' Our plans are too carefully devised and too far advanced to be defeated by your clumsy intervention. You have been watched ever since your masquerade brought you to my club. Your quarrel with the woman called French Louise was a bad mistake. That brought you into the open."
"Then what's your problem?"
She made a deprecating gesture. "Please do not attempt to be facetious. I wish you to tell me exactly and in detail how far your investigations have gone."
"That," said Blodwen, "will be the day."
Anna was unmoved. She said, "I can assure you the day has come. The only question is whether you tell me of your own free will the things I wish to know. If you do not, the alternative will be unpleasant but inevitable."
Blodwen laughed. She said, "I don't suppose another murder would worry you. But I won't be much good to you dead."
"I did not mention murder. It is conceivable, however, that death might seem preferable to continued existence." Anna rose and went to the bellpush in the wall. When she returned to her chair she said, "No doubt you have been told many times that you are a very pretty girl."