Текст книги "The Hollow Crown Affair "

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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"Hm. He seems to know my plans before I do." Waverly released a rare chuckle. "Let's go see him and find out when I am expected."

* * *

"Actually, Mr. Solo, I had expected you two days earlier. Irene told me she saw Mr. Kuryakin on Monday, and I gave you Tuesday to interpret her communication."

"I arrived Tuesday, sir, but out cryptanalysis section wouldn't get more specific than Vermont."

"You needn't have searched the entire state. This is the University, after all—you would hardly have expected to find me grubbing about back in the woods."

"Well, since your life was in danger, we weren't sure..."

"Nonsense. My life has been in danger ever since it began. I have simply learned to take reasonable precautions."

"I'd be interested to know what you consider 'reasonable precautions'," Illya said.

Baldwin pointed at the open door of the Bomb Shop, where a signboard the height of the doorway and eighteen inches wide hung. In red on white, it was headed ATTENTA! PERICOLO! Beneath this, the English read DANGER—KEEP OUT. In only slightly smaller letters, the rest of the sign started with Peligro, Gefahr, Fare, Perigo, Veszely and Primejdie; worked its way through Cyrillic and Green characters, ran down past Opasnost, Niebezpieczenstwo, Bahaja and Tehlike; included samples of the more popular Oriental scripts and trailed off into three alphabets even Illya didn't recognize.

The five of them sat around a small but comfortably furnished room which filled the front quarter of the converted Quonset hut that housed one of the best-planned chemical research labs of its size the UNCLE visitors had seen; they'd spent the better part of an hour being shown around by its proprietor, designer and chief occupant before he would consent to talk business. It had been Chandra, finally, who had insisted on a cup of tea and refused to drink it standing up.

With the tea had come the long-awaited conversation. The clear Vermont sun streamed in the door to ease the slight chill, and eventually Illya brought up Topic A. "Well," he said casually, "how are things with Thrush?"

"Not well, I fear," said Baldwin. "There are twelve other candidates besides myself and King. Since your ill-timed intrusion in Philadelphia, attempts have been made on the lives of eight. For valid reasons every attack has failed, but each has left some indication that either your forces were or I personally was responsible." He paused. "I'm also stung by the assumption that I would repeatedly fail in such a simple task as an assassination."

"King wouldn't be likely to fail if he didn't want to," Chandra observed. "I think you ought to get right to work with whatever Mr. Waverly can tell you about what they've been doing and figure out what they're likely to do if they find you. After all, if UNCLE knows, the rest of the world soon will."

Baldwin nodded. "I'd planned to, Chandra." He levered himself up from his chair. "Would you be a good girl and clean up the tea things? We must get over to my office for the case. Perhaps we could make a test run this afternoon. I take it, Mr. Waverly, that you could spare us a few hours—I may be able to offer you some detailed advice later." He took his mortarboard from the end table, balancing himself on an ebony-and-staghorn cane Napoleon thought he recognized. "For that matter, if you could spare us the evening, there will be a dance in connection with the opening of the football season."

Chandra sparkled at Napoleon and Illya. "Oh, do come! We just got a new shipment from Cape May, and Ed will be cataloguing it until midnight. And I'm just no help at something like that. I'll need someone to be with until he gets there. Napoleon, you will escort me, won't you?"

Illya gave him a look. "How about me?" he said.

"Oh, Mr. Kuryakin, I'm sure we'll be able to find someone for you. So many young men are away in the war."

Illya looked her right in the eye. "Some of us are at war right here," he said.

Napoleon caught the edge in his tone and said, "As a matter of fact, Dr. Fraser's secretary is cute. Dark hair, good figure..."

"Miss Stier? You may see her at my office. Good afternoon, Chandra—and thank you."

Baldwin led the way from the Bomb Shop across stubbly grass to the street. There was a light breeze, and the air was clean enough to flush the last city air from their lungs. Baldwin's black overcoat with the Astrakhan collar stumped along in contrast to Waverly's slightly shorter camelshair as Napoleon and Illya took up a fifty-yard lead after a moment spent saying goodbye to Chandra.

"What precisely do you have to show us?" Alexander Waverly asked.

Baldwin's voice was made harsher and less even by the strain of walking, but he answered. "When I left San Francisco, Waverly, I was fleeing for my life. I was able to bring very little with me, so I chose the most valuable items I could lay my hands on at once. They are valueless to you and could never be sold, but they may yet defeat King, even with Central and the Ultimate Computer itself behind him."

Waverly nodded and pondered Baldwin's words like a riddle. "You carried these with you, I assume."

"In an attache case. Program tapes copied from limited access areas through my Satrap Satellite, containing data on Strategic Programming, Operational Coding, Basic Field Directives and other topics of practical interest. With the help of the campus computer facility..."

"... You have a good probability of predicting what direction their future actions will take. Unless they are aware of your possession of the copies."

"They aren't," said Baldwin simply.

Napoleon and Illya hurried up beside them, and Napoleon said, "Chandra asked if you'll want your electric cart driven over to Williams or if you'll walk back here. She said if you want it, call her—she's going to stay there and tidy up for a while."

"Thank you, Mr. Solo. I shall probably want it sent over. The width of the campus is quite a fair walk in one direction."

"It's nice to see you well, sir," said Illya.

"I'm feeling refreshed by my return to the academic world, Mr. Kuryakin—and the climate here seems to agree with me."

Napoleon started to say something almost involuntarily, but caught a fierce look from Illya and bit his tongue.

They wound along concrete walks past the gray-stone fortress of Converse Hall and came into a newer, larger Quad. Williams Hall, along with its neighbors, backed on its west side facing the older square where stately old trees shed their motley leaves on the deep green grass. Here, in contrast, patches of earth were still bare. The young saplings were scarcely free of their supports, and seemed hardly to know what to do with their foliage now that the weather was turning chill.

It was Illya, ever alert, who first observed the man in the dark suit following them. Sotto voce, he informed the other members of his party.

"The one in the ill-fitting brown suit?" asked Baldwin without turning round. "Is he wearing a blue-and-gray striped tie?"

"I can't tell at this distance," said Illya. "Friend of yours?"

"Hardly. My friends have better taste, as a rule. No, I suspected him of more than scholarly interest in my activities yesterday."

"I could let the rest of you go on ahead while I go back to talk to him," the Russian agent offered.

"That shouldn't be necessary, Mr. Kuryakin. Among my reasonable precautions I have established defensive systems about the campus." He scanned the horizon figuratively, then started off towards Williams Hall again. "Since the curious gentleman is still following us, I shall act on my suspicions." He raised his stick and hailed a hulking young man in a bright green-and-gold windbreaker.

They passed the time of day and exchanged opinions on the football team's chances for success in the impending season, while Illya and Napoleon shifted their weight from one foot to the other and exchanged murmurs with Waverly. Then Baldwin said, "By the way, Mr. Whalen, I have been hearing rumors about football spies from Crawford Academy. Have any of your friends mentioned this possibility?"

"Well, I did hear something about that..."

"I would discount those rumors, myself, but for the fact that the gentleman over there was standing near the practice field yesterday afternoon with binoculars and a notepad. I observed at the time that his tie bore Crawford's colors."

"You mean the guy in the brown?" Whalen glanced suspiciously over Baldwin's shoulder. "He doesn't look like he belongs around here. Wonder what he's looking for. Maybe I ought to go ask him. Thanks, Dr. Fraser."

Whalen nodded to the three UNCLE representatives and wandered off at a right angle to their path. Illya glanced at Baldwin. "You just launched a self-directing guided muscle from one of your defense systems, didn't you."

Baldwin looked pained. "Has it occurred to you, Mr. Kuraykin, that the longer Thrush believes we are ignorant of their surveillance, the better? I understand your thirst for physical action, but I beg you do not indulge it at the expense of my security."

Patiently they strode on towards Williams Hall, Illya watching their tail uneasily from the corner of his eye. They reached and turned the corner of the building just as half a dozen figures strode down another walk into the New Quad some distance away. Just around the corner Illya stopped and turned. The others paused and looked at him.

"Pardon me, sir," he said with a bit of a smile. "I'd like to watch."

He peeked around the corner, looking between the edges of the bricks. Surrounded by a fence of green-and-gold windbreakers, the man seemed a good deal smaller than he had alone in the middle of the Quad. He was fumbling for his wallet when Baldwin's voice drew Illya back.

"Mr. Kuryakin...would you care to join us? The bogey has been effectively neutralized."

Reluctantly, Illya left the view and followed as Baldwin continued. "A secondary reason for withholding your encounter is the problem of time. I have no reason to be hailed as a witness to a charge of unprovoked assault and battery—computer time is valuable, and we will need more than you might think."

"Frankly, sir, I was concerned for the safety of the campus vigilantes."

"Mr. Kuryakin, if you expect a low-level Thrush assigned to a simple surveillance task to whip out a gun and start shooting people, you must indeed underestimate us. He will have been supplied with a perfectly valid cover. All I ask is that he be detained long enough for us to move unobserved from my office to the computer facility." He shook his head. "The direct approach, young man, is not always the simplest. If you had confronted him, he might have become desperate."

"And besides," said Napoleon, "you'd gone to all the trouble of setting up the second string team for your personal swarm of bodyguards."

Baldwin paused and stared at him for a moment. "Of course. To leave it untested would have been a shame."

Chapter 7: "Good Is Better Than Evil Because It's Nicer."

From his office, Baldwin telephoned to another campus extension where he spoke with a Miss Potter. As he did so, Napoleon took the opportunity to introduce Illya to the cute dark-haired secretary, whose name was Lyn Stier. Without going into their shared history, Napoleon got the idea across that they were actually old friends of Dr. Fraser who hade come up to see him as a surprise. She laughed prettily and said, "I'll bet you know a lot about him."

"Not as much as we'd like," said Illya. "Perhaps we could exchange notes this evening."

"The dance? Why, I'd love to! Dr. Fraser..."

Baldwin turned to her as he hung up the telephone. "Miss Stier, I believe those notes can wait transcription a few more days. You may as well take the rest of the day off."

"Oh, thank you," she said, rising and straightening the piles of pages covered with scrawls and obscure formulae in the distinctive jagged handwriting and green ink. As Baldwin beckoned Waverly over for a muttered moment of conferral, Lyn smiled brightly at Illya. "Why don't you meet me there?" she said.

"Miss Stier," said Baldwin suddenly, "as long as you're leaving, could you give me a lift to the computer facility? My leg has been acting up since that lamentable occurrence in Philadelphia." He picked up a locked attache case and limped toward the door as Lyn got her coat. "Mr. Waverly, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin," he said, "I shall expect to meet you later." He opened the door for Lyn and followed her out.

"He means, gentlemen," said Waverly dryly, "that we are to walk to the computer facility and meet him there." He eased himself into Baldwin's chair as Napoleon and Illya started for the door.

Solo stopped first and tapped his partner as he turned the knob, pointing back at Waverly, who was casually filling his pipe from Baldwin's humidor. Solo looked at him a moment, then glanced at Illya and sank into the seat recently vacated by Lyn. "My dear Watson," he said, "put yourself in Baldwin's place. That bogey won't stay neutralized forever, and he'll probably be sure all four of us went in here. If Baldwin gets out unnoticed and one of us is seen occasionally at the window he'll assume Baldwin is still here and maybe keep watching for hours and hours."

"Especially if we leave the light on," said Waverly through a cloud of poisonous smoke.

"So he'll hide in Lyn's car while she gets him past the stake-out," said Illya. "If he keeps ducking down, won't she begin to wonder?"

Napoleon glanced at Waverly, then back at Illya. "My dear Watson," he repeated, "since his leg is paining him severely, he'll want to stretch it out on the back seat where he can remain out of sight. Right?"

"Essentially, Mr. Solo," said Waverly. "Besides, we could do nothing at the computer facility until the data is ready to feed. Mr. Kuryakin, why don't you show yourself briefly at the window and see if anyone is watching?"

* * *

Miss Potter had brown hair and wore a light yellow suit over a neat plain blouse. As she worked over coding sheets with Baldwin, Napoleon observed that the top button was open. The first set of data had already been run when they arrived, unfollowed; the stake-out had studied them intently as they passed him with the width of the street separating them, and had chosen to remain where he thought his duty lay.

Napoleon spent his time chatting with Miss Potter, whose name was also Lin but spelled with an i. She said Dr. Fraser claimed to prefer it that way: "He doesn't have to worry about addressing me or his secretary by the wrong name, but anything he writes down will be sure to go where he wants it to." She smiled charmingly. "You'd almost think he'd planned it this way."

Solo shrugged. "I wouldn't put it past him."

"Neither would I," said Lin, as a chime sounded. "Oops, there's the second Games Theory program coming off now." She got to her feet and hurried to study the printout.

"Games Theory?" said Napoleon, coming up behind her to look over her shoulder.

"Uh-huh. The math department uses it sometimes, but Dr. Fraser is the only person from the chemistry department to utilize this particular capability. He says it has to do with studies of random interactions of molecules...You needn't mention this to him, but I'm afraid he's doing something else."

Napoleon swallowed. "What could he be doing?"

Lin lowered her voice as the machine-gun clatter stopped and the paper shot up to clear the tear-bar. "Several of the faculty have gotten involved in a complex kind of war game called Super-Diplomacy. I wouldn't be surprised if Dr. Fraser were playing in one, with the computer as his general staff."

"There is a large element of truth in what you say." Illya's soft Russian accents spoke from behind them as Miss Potter tore the wide sheet of paper from the machine. "What's the latest news from the front?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to ask Dr. Fraser. The coding language is one I'm not familiar with. I can pick out bits and pieces, but the overall direction is just a little beyond me. All I do is help him set it up."

Baldwin and Waverly entered together and joined the others at the large worktable. Baldwin studied the cryptic typed lines and made a few notes, while Napoleon looked over his shoulder and wondered about something.

"Ah, Dr. Fraser...it certainly is a lucky coincidence that your tapes happened to be in a format this machine could handle."

Baldwin smiled deep in his beard. "Yes. Isn't it."

"What language is it, anyway?" asked Illya idly.

"THROTL," said Baldwin succinctly. "THRush Operational Translating Language. It is distantly derived from Cobol, Fortran, Loglan and Berneckytran, among others, adapted for versatility. I regret I cannot share a direct translation of this sheet with you, but much of the material here is classified and I hope to return to my proper position shortly. Give me an hour alone with it and I will have our next move planned out."

Lin glanced at Napoleon significantly.

* * *

The dance had already begun when Illya poked Napoleon and pointed. Across the gymnasium, on one of a row of folding chairs, sat Irene Baldwin in a perfectly proper and fetching outfit. "She's here to tell Ward something," said the Russian. "And there are entirely too many secrets being kept around here these days. Let's see if we can intercept anything of general interest."

Solo nodded. Chandra and Lyn had drifted off together for a few minutes, and Alexander Waverly had drifted into contemplative silence. Lin Potter had bounced by with a short young man with tangled blond hair and black framed glasses, waved to them and called them to join, but Chandra had something important to tell Lyn and begged their patience for just five more minutes.

They had left Napoleon and Illya standing at the edge of the dance floor, hands clasped behind them, rocking forward occasionally, and conversing in tones just audible above the energetic but uninspired combo. Now they had stopped rocking, and were watching, with the utmost unconcern, the quietly smiling and nearly anonymous woman across the hall.

Finally Illya spoke. "Napoleon," he said, "I think I'll go and ask her for a dance."

Napoleon said nothing for a minute. "Sounds like a good idea," he said at last. "See what you can find out."

The next number was slower with a more definite rhythm, and Illya materialized beside Irene's chair, clicked his heels slightly and offered her his hand. Her eyes were warm as she accepted it and rose, and they turned out onto the floor.

Illya opened the conversation. "I must thank you for the bouquet," he said. "Chandra told us you were on our side."

"Chandra oversimplifies, I'm afraid. I just didn't want Ward to let things get worse. When the situation deteriorates, change it. As for the bouquet, I carried it with me when I went down to the City." She laughed lightly. "Ward always said you wouldn't recognize a clue if it was handed to you on a tray—I'm really pleased to find he was wrong."

Before Illya could think of an answer, she changed the subject and was asking him if he had seen any of Burlington since he'd been here.

"No—we came straight here from the airport."

"What a pity. If you have time, you should ask Ward to give you his ten-cent tour of the city."

"I remember how your fifty-cent tour of San Francisco ended."

"With poor Mr. Horne riding the California Street cable. Yes, that was an enjoyable evening. But I won't be able to come with you this time—Ward and I have agreed not to know each other at all while conditions are so unstable; I should actually be in hiding at the moment."

"Why did you come to the dance, then?"

She sighed. "Sentimental weakness, I suppose. And I did want to see Ward, if only from a distance. Chandra told me how well he looked at Convocation."

"I don't suppose you know what we can expect, where King is, or anything like that."

She shook her head. "Oh no. I just stay close enough that I can come help Ward if he needs me."

The music stopped and they joined the patter of applause as the floor cleared and the tempo changed. Irene stepped back hesitantly. "I probably shouldn't have been seen with you, Mr. Kuryakin. Thank you." And she was gone.

Chandra had kept Lyn occupied just long enough. The two girls emerged from an anonymous doorway seconds after Illya rejoined Napoleon and Waverly. Lyn fastened herself to Illya and drew him back to the dance floor as the combo performed a vicious molto accellerando. Chandra sat next to Napoleon, who greeted her with a look of curiosity. "I don't suppose you're acquainted with Lyn."

"Only a nodding acquaintance—she's Ward's secretary. Where is Ward, anyway?"

"Still working over his computer outputs. But he called for his electric cart so he should be here shortly."

"Oh, look!" said Chandra suddenly. "There's Irene!"

Napoleon nodded. "Illya took a turn around the floor with her while you were out. She told him she'd just as soon not be noticed at all."

"I think you can understand her reasoning," said Baldwin softly behind them. "Her life as well as mine may be in danger. Waverly, I have prepared a set of notes which you will want to study. I need badly to sit down—if you will pardon me..."

He eased himself into a chair and straightened his leg. Chandra greeted him brightly, then seized Solo's arm. "Napoleon, let's dance."

As they stepped onto the floor, Chandra said, "Ward wants to talk to Mr. Waverly, and he really has walked quite enough for the day."

Napoleon started to object, but she said, "Oh, come on. If Mr. Waverly wants you to know something, he'll tell you. And remember what I told you about relaxing and enjoying yourself."

* * *

Sometime later there was an intermission. Under cover of the general clamor, Waverly told his two agents, "I shall fly back to New York tomorrow morning. There are a number of suggestions based on these results which warrant application at once. I would like the two of you to remain here." His gaze shifted. "You are extremely valuable to us, Dr. Fraser, and we would hate to have anything happen to you."

"So would I," said Lyn sincerely. "I think he's just fine."

Illya was paying only partial attention to the conversation. He was keeping at least one eye on Irene Baldwin most of the time, waiting for her to make some attempt to communicate with her husband. If they could get some idea of what the limping devil had in mind...

But Irene sat peacefully on the other side of the dance floor and never even made an attempt to catch Ward's eye. She watched the students milling about the floor and fiddled with her fan, opening and closing it, fluttering it up and down, occasionally touching her cheek or her lips with it, passing it idly from hand to hand.

From time to time Illya recognized one or two letters of the International Semaphore Code, but they seemed random and disconnected, and he berated himself mentally for seeing meaning where there was none.

Then the band struck up another number and both couples took to the floor. Baldwin and Waverly looked after them for some time before the Thrush said, over the racket, "My leg seems to be cooperating again, but the noise here is really more than I prefer to endure." Leaning heavily on his stick, he levered himself erect. "I shan't expect to see you for some time, but you might give additional thought to the other matter we were discussing. Tell Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin my residence at the Bomb Shop is quite adequately protected, but too small to accommodate anyone else. They had best stay at their hotel. I can call them if anything comes up." He bowed, turned, and stumped off to his electric cart.

Waverly checked across the room. Between the leaping forms of the dancers he could still identify Irene Baldwin, and when at last the music stopped and the rest of his party returned, he beckoned Napoleon and Illya to him.

"Baldwin has gone home to the Bomb Shop," he said. "He would prefer to have you on call—I would prefer to have you living in his hip pocket. Be outside his door at ten forty-five tomorrow morning—eight forty-five starting Monday—and stay with him. Mr. Kuryakin, were you able to interpret Irene's message to him?"

"Uh, message, sir?"

"Her signals with the fan. Surely you observed them."

"Well, I caught what looked like a few letters in International Semaphore, but nothing made any sense."

"International Semaphore is useful for filling vocabulary gaps, but the body of her communication was in the traditional flirting gestures with her fan. I recognize the maneuvers, but could not recall their meaning. The semaphore letters were initials, I believe; the flirting gestures were passing out of use when I was a lad, but I may be able to find something on them in our research files."

"Trust Baldwin to find something so old nobody else would know it," muttered Solo. "What else have you found out from him?"

"Several things," said Waverly musingly. "And not all of them have to do with the case in hand. Some of his implications will deserve intensive study at a later date. Until then, you will follow orders and keep your eyes and ears open." He dismissed them with a glance, and Solo looked around.

"Chandra and Lyn have disappeared again," he said, and Illya nodded.

"So has Irene," he said. "It's a disconcerting habit shared by Baldwin's friends."

Napoleon nodded. "Makes a fellow glad he's not a friend."

Chapter 8: "White Clover And Monkshood."

Monday they rose at the crack of dawn, and were on station when Baldwin stepped out of the Bomb Shop into the clear crisp morning. He greeted them without visible surprise and asked if they had had breakfast. They had, and in turn asked politely for permission to sit in on his lectures for the day.

Thus they began the academic round. Dr. Fraser handled only two lectures, Intermediate Organic and Advanced Inorganic. Within a few days, Napoleon somehow gravitated to the former and Illya to the latter—and both found themselves taking notes and discussing the lectures with Baldwin while they helped him around the lab.

The following Friday they were unconsciously beginning to relax after an uneventful week. Nobody had been following them, no attempts had been made on any of their lives, nothing suspicious had happened. And as far as the UNCLE agents could tell, Irene made no attempt to communicate with Ward Baldwin.

They followed him into his office precisely on the stroke of nine as they always did, and found Lyn already there as she usually was. The heat was on, the mail was stacked and ready, and a pot of water was balanced on the radiator. Not as usual, there was a bunch of flowers standing in a wide-mouthed 500-ml. erlenmeyer flask on her desk. Two tall blue flowers stood handsomely among a cluster of short white puffy blossoms.

Lyn looked up as they entered. "Oh, Illya!" she said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," said Illya. "What for?"

"Why, the flowers, of course. They're lovely!"

"I'm glad you like them," said Illya, "but I didn't send them."

She looked surprised. "But—who else?"

He shrugged. "You must have a secret admirer."

Baldwin had taken his seat at the desk by this time, and said, "Miss Stier, have you run off the test for the Organic class?"

"A test?" said Napoleon. "When?"

Baldwin stared at him. "Mr. Solo, you are not enrolled in my class– you are merely auditing."

"Well, I know, sir—but could I take a look at it?"

Baldwin snorted and returned to his mail as Lyn placed a stack of dittoed and stapled sheets beside him. He studied each item carefully and sorted them into three piles and the wastebasket. One colorful piece of heavy folded paper was bound for the trash when he caught himself and looked consideringly at Napoleon Solo. He glanced down and tapped the thing in his palm, then spoke with sarcastic enthusiasm.

"Well! A weekend at a ski lodge! This is the nicest thing that's happened to me in the fifteen years I've been confined to this wheelchair! Mr. Solo..."

Napoleon looked up and reached forward as Baldwin extended what proved to be a gaudy brochure and a robotyped note, offering Dr. Fraser a free weekend at the Redwing Lodge. It included a veiled admission that there was no snow as yet, but emphasized the natural beauty and their own comforts and distractions.

"I can think," said Baldwin, "of a few things for which I have less desire or need than a weekend on a granite crag in the midst of the wilderness. However you, or Mr. Kuryakin, might want to take advantage of the offer; their unawareness of the most important fact about me would indicate that any reasonably competent-appearing male could stride up to their desk with this, identify himself confidently as Dr. Fraser, and move in. They will doubtless have a sleeping bag reserved in my name."

Napoleon leafed through the brochure, bearing in mind the axiom that an artistic rendering of a swimming pool meant they hoped to build one in the next few years. It looked like a nice enough place..."Illya?"

The Russian shrugged. "Why don't you take the weekend off—I'll plan to take next weekend."

Never one to haggle over a favor, Napoleon said, "Now, where is this place?"

* * *

They were alone briefly over lunch, and Illya took the opportunity to ask Napoleon if he'd noticed anything odd in Baldwin's reaction to Lyn's bouquet.

"Anything odd?" said Solo. "I don't think he reacted at all."

"When his secretary receives a bouquet centered around a couple of the most poisonous flowers in the pharmacopea? He's a chemist, and knows poisons—he would have made some remark."

"Those blue ones?"

"They're monkshood—chock full of aconite, which is a very neat, reasonably powerful and untraceable poison."

"What were the white ones? Poison ivy?"

"I think they were clover. But I think, all in all, it warrants being mentioned to Mr. Waverly. We're supposed to be taking note of everything around Baldwin, and anything odd is worth noticing."

Napoleon drew out his silver pen, opened it and extended the antenna. "Open Channel D," he said.

In a matter of seconds Alexander Waverly's gruff, familiar voice answered. Somewhat diffidently Solo described the bouquet and Illya's reason for noticing it, and found Waverly's reaction surprising.