Illya bought another whiskey and drank it slowly. Then he walked out into Market Street, made his way to the Dock Street terminus and after some inquiries boarded a bus for Stow Hill.
The conductor put him off at Stow Park Avenue and he walked down the hill, past tall houses that seemed to be occupied almost entirely by doctors and surgeons, to the wrought-iron gates of Belle Vue Park.
The girl was sitting on a yellow bench by a ring of trees that enclosed a Druid's circle. Beyond the trees grassland swept down to the Cardiff road and the ultramarine-painted buildings of the giant Whitehead steelworks. Behind was the vast panorama of the docks, with Bristol Channel a shining silver ribbon on the far horizon.
"Nice spot," Illya said.
"Peaceful," the girl agreed. "At least, it is now. I'm not so sure about the past." She pointed to the ring of rough-hewn stones. "That flat one in the middle was the sacrificial altar. You can see the little step where the Imperial Wizard, or whatever they called him, got to work with the cleaver. I suppose the other boys stood around and cheered."
"Cozy!"
"Yes. I can never figure out whether it's a genuine relic or just something dumped down to amuse the kids…. So you're my Russian cousin?"
He made a formal bow. "Illya Kuryakin. And you are Blodwen — or should I say Cassandra?"
She grinned. "I thought that would get under the old buzzard's skin. Not that it isn't true. This business is a stinker. That's why I yelled for help."
"I'm glad you did," he said with a warmth which would have annoyed the girl on U.N.C.L.E.'s admissions desk. "Have there been any developments?"
"A few. The police have identified the departed. He was a small-time crook from the Birmingham area. Nothing on his sheet but petty larcenies. God knows how he got involved in this set-up. It seems he came into Newport by long-distance bus from Corwen, a little market town in Merionethshire, North Wales. What he had been doing there is anybody's guess. He had been released from Walton Prison, Liverpool, about a mouth ago."
She put the poodle on the ground and stood up. "Let's walk a little. The park is worth seeing. For my money, it's one of the most beautiful in Britain."
Released from its leash, the poodle bounded over the grass, yapping joyously in a high-pitched key, its big ears flapping like wings.
"One of these days," Blodwen said, as they followed, "she's going to take off and fly. The first jet-propelled dog in history."
Illya said, "So he could have picked up the money either in Liverpool or somewhere in North Wales. The question is where he was taking it."
She shrugged. "Obviously, he was just a courier. My bet is that whoever met him in the pub would have taken the cash down to the docks. There's a big trade between Newport, Russia and the Scandinavian ports, and it would be no trick to smuggle the stuff aboard a ship. I think the idea was to start distribution in Europe, not in Britain. That would be logical."
"Have any of the notes shown up here?"
"A few. One or two fivers in Newport and a couple in Cardiff. But the police traced them back to the big scramble in Market Street. They didn't come from the main stream — wherever that is."
They strolled past the children's playground, where West Indians, Arabs, Sikhs, Chinese and whites from the mean streets of dockland crowded the swings and slides in noisy amity. The bright print dresses of the little girls made the place look like an animated flower garden.
They stopped to watch, and Illya said, "Integration at last. It seems a pity they have to grow up."
"Oh, I don't know. There's no color problem in Newport or Cardiff. The races have been living together for years. They've learned to get along with each other." She smiled suddenly. "Maybe it's because we're a minority nation ourselves."
He said, surprised, "But you're not Welsh?"
"Back to the sixteenth century, both sides of the family," she said. "Don't let the voice fool you. My grandmother was one of the last of the great Welsh witches."
"That figures," he admitted. "The spell lingers."
They walked on toward the red-brick bulk of the Royal Gwent Hospital, which overshadows the eastern end of the park.
Illya said quietly, "Don't look now, but we're being followed."
"You're joking, of course."
"No. He's a medium-sized character with gray hair and a cavalry moustache, and he's wearing a sheep-skin jacket. I noticed him dodging around the mulberry bush as I came into the park. And he's still tailing."
She laughed. "It's your suspicious nature. He's probably just an innocent bystander."
"I don't think so. But we can soon find out. Let's get off the main path."
"All right, Sherlock." She turned to the right and headed across the grass toward a circle of eight weather-gnarled may trees.
"You know," she said, "this park is a kind of living history book. These trees were planted to commemorate the last-ditch stand of the First Monmouthshire Regiment between Wieltze and Verlorenhoek in 1915. Somewhere around a thousand men went into the line. Only a handful came out alive. But they did what they had to do. They stopped the German advance. Now, every spring, these trees are a cloud of blossom. I guess you couldn't find a lovelier memorial anywhere.
"That's how people are around here. When something big happens, they plant trees. Over there" — she pointed to the left — "another ring marks the arrival of the first U.S. naval contingent in World War II." Her voice changed. "And you're dead right, brother. We've got company."
The man in the sheepskin coat was bending down, ostentatiously studying the metal plaque that told of the coming of the American forces.
Beyond the may trees Illya saw a terrace thickly bordered by trees and bushes. He said, "Make for the steps. Move fast. When you get to the top, duck into the shrubbery."
Blodwen picked up the poodle and ran, with Illya close on her heels.
The shadower was taken by surprise. He straightened, and after a momentary hesitation pounded up the steps in pursuit. As he reached the top Illya stepped from behind the bushes and chopped down with an expert karate blow. The man crumpled. His head hit the pavement with a hollow sound, and he lay still.
Illya said, "Now, my friend, we'll see who you are."
He yanked open the sheepskin jacket and searched swiftly. The inside breast pocket of the man's hairy tweed sportcoat yielded a leather wallet and two envelopes. The wallet contained a driver's license in the name of John Carney, a few receipted bills and ten one-pound notes. The envelopes bore the inscription: John Carney, Esq., The Paddocks, Llandrillo, Merioneth. One contained a final demand for payment of water bills; the other, a bookmaker's account.
Illya memorized the name and address, then replaced the wallet and envelopes where he had found them. He put his hands under the man's armpits and dragged him to a bench. Then, with an effort, he hoisted him into a sitting position.
Blodwen, cuddling the poodle, emerged from the shelter of the trees. "Is he…?" She let the sentence tail off apprehensively.
"Certainly not," Illya said indignantly. "I detest violence. He'll have a headache when he wakes, but that won't be for an hour or so. Meanwhile, I suggest we get out of here."
They made their way to the gates leading into Friars Road, climbed the hill and emerged by St. Wollo's Cathedra. Illya pointed to the bus stop. "Back to town?"
"No. We'd better go to my place. I have a feeling we'll be safer under cover for a while."
Blodwen's apartment was on the top floor of a stone-built Victorian house overlooking the Civic Center. The windows gave a view of distant green mountains marred by sprawling new suburbs. The living-room furniture was a comfortable mixture of good pieces and auction-mart bargains. There was a big stereo set in a teak cabinet and a television set with a twenty-three-inch screen. The wall-to-wall gray carpet gave evidence that the poodle had been hard to train.