Текст книги "The Splintered Sunglasses Affair"

Автор книги: Peter Leslie

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CHAPTER TEN 

Finding Out The Facts

Because—in spite of his name—Leonardo had in fact been of Dutch nationality, Solo and Illya found that his murder was being handled by a special branch of the Turin police allied with the S.I.D. In the evening of the day on which Solo had rescued the Russian from a fate worse than death at the home of Carlsen and Lala Eriksson, they sat talking to a very fat and friendly member of its hierarchy.

"So you see, Commendatore," Solo said after he had explained the events leading up to their presence in the city, "exactly why it is so important to us to find out all we can about the killing of Signor Leonardo—and why we should welcome... I correct myself: why we should prostrate ourselves to receive!... all the help we can get in the matter of unravelling his final actions."

The Commendatore wore a beautiful sharkskin suit over his white shirt. He had changed every stitch he wore one hour previously. But it had been a hot day even for Torino, and he wished at all costs to avoid giving offense to these gentlemen from that hygienic paradise across the sea. He took out a large silk handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead, which was beaded with perspiration, stole a surreptitious glance below the arms of his jacket, which was not, and hoped for the tenth time that his men had not been too perfunctory in their enquiry. If only someone had said that the wretched Dutchman had been employed by this high-powered international organization....

He brushed the handkerchief across the ends of his luxuriant black moustache—which somehow seemed to give him more reason for having taken it out—and picked up a folder from his desk. He cleared his throat importantly.

"Alora, the facts of the case, gentlemen, the facts," he said, "are that Mynheer Leonardo was shot down by a marksman with a rifle. And what a marksman! He was standing by a window of the fifth floor landing on the emergency staircase of a block of flats. Behind the block is a vacant lot surrounded by board fences. And beyond the lot is the Corso Alessandro, where finds itself the post office branch in front of which he was assassinated."

"That's beyond doubt, is it—the locale?" Solo asked.

"Si, si. There are three cartridges, spent, on the floor of the landing. .303, probably, the experts tell me, fired from an English target rifle called the P14. And this checks because two bullets have enter his head, poor man, and a third have make a chip in the doorway of the post office on the Corso Alessandro."

"I suppose nobody saw him in the apartment block... on the stairs or anything?"

"But no. The block he is unfinished—that is to say he is finish, but nobody live there yet. All the flats are empty and the doors to the entrance are not yet being installed."

"I see. Anyone could have got in, in fact. What about witnesses to the shooting itself? You have many people who saw him fall?"

"Many, many people. The two ladies in the flower shop. The man and his wife who operate the tobacco kiosk. The blind seller of matches beside. The girl—Ah, signori! That girl!—who has the tie shop. The newspaper vendor. Passers-by. Many people."

"Witnesses, I suppose," Illya put in, "to the fact that he fell down and died in the street outside the post office? Presumably nobody actually heard, still less saw, the shot itself?"

"Aha!" the Commendatore was delighted. "But you are wrong, Signor Kuryakin! Wrong! There was one witness who happened to be looking towards the new block and observed the three puffs of smoke. He was confident enough, our killer, not to use smokeless powder!—and then. Just as Mynheer Leonardo fell to the sidewalk, remarked the noise of the shots. Otherwise—and I am honest with you, gentlemen!—we might still be looking for the place where the shots were fired. There are many tall buildings around, and he spun as he fell so we could not have told from which direction the shots come."

"And the witness?" Solo prompted.

"A lady. She was descending the steps of the post office as the murdered man was about to ascend. That is how we know he was entering and not leaving or just passing by."

"He was actually on the steps. I see. But he didn't have anything at all with him? No packet fell? There was no letter, no piece of paper, no cable form? Nobody could have approached the body and taken anything?"

"No to all questions," the Commendatore said.

"I guess he was going to send a cable in code, telling Waverly what he had used to make the Hologram, and he'd memorized the code," said Illya.

"I expect you're right. This piece of glass, Commendatore... no doubt you realize this is as important to us as finding out who killed our colleague?"

"Evidently."

"He must have put it somewhere, somewhere safe. Because he would have known that we must have it—that it must therefore be easily reached and available to us—and yet hidden from others."

"Clearly. Yet we found nothing. Nothing at all in his apartment, his car, his pockets—even a safe deposit box that we have traced."

"You have been unbelievably efficient," Solo said. "Naturally we do not wish to cover the same ground that your men have so painstakingly investigated. Yet—purely so that we can inhale, as it were, the atmosphere, the ambience of Leonardo's life and surroundings—we should very much like to spend a short while... a half hour at the most... in his apartment, if possible. Would it be trespassing too much on your already over-strained kindness to ask you to arrange this?"

"Perfectly. That is to say... you only have to ask," the Italian smiled.

"You are more than kind," Kuryakin said, taking his cue from Solo.

Later, as they left the building armed with a list of the names of witnesses and their addresses, the key to Leonardo's apartment, and a transcript of all the evidence so far taken, Illya said; "The last time I left a building to interrogate a witness to a crime, some kind gentlemen almost put an end to my career with a bomb as I crossed the road!"

"And just when was that?" Solo asked with a grin. "And what was the crime?"

"It was less than a week ago, Napoleon," the Russian said as they waited to cross the road. "Here... we have plenty of time before that bus comes. And the crime, you ask? It was nothing less than your own kidnapping!"

"Good Lord!" Solo said. "I had no idea my snatch was so important! You must brief me some time on the New York end of this particular comedy. I'm just a little hazy about what happened before I woke up here in Italy—"

His words were torn from his lips as Kuryakin seized his arm and literally hurled him against the side of a delivery truck that was drawn up on the far side of the street. Solo crashed against the steel panels with his shoulder, staggered, and sat down abruptly in the road. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kuryakin rolling over and over in the dust as the big closed car roared past in low gear, missing them both by inches.

"If we needed any proof that your kidnapping and my assignment are related," Illya gasped as Solo helped him to his feet, "that was it! Trying the same trick twice is a little naughty, though... even if it was with a different weapon.

They dusted each other off, politely refused offers of assistance and descriptions of the car that had nearly run them down, and pushed through the crowd of passers-by who had witnessed the affair. They were about to enter an alleyway leading to the square where Solo's car was parked when a girl stepped out of a recessed doorway and blocked their path.

"You were quite right not to waste time with witnesses," she said. "The number plate was undoubtedly false—and there are a very large number of big secondhand American cars of that type in Torino."

Solo looked at her. It was an agreeable task. There was a burnt-orange shantung dress, with a taut, full figure underneath it; black patent shoes with square toes and block heels; a matching handbag and white kid gloves. From the wide-set collar of the dress, the girl's shoulders and neck emerged flower-like to support a head reminiscent of a dark and slightly petulant Madonna. "I'm sorry," he said, smiling, "and I wish I had reason to mean this another way... but I'm afraid you have the advantage of me!"

"Of us," Illya Kuryakin corrected.

In her turn, the girl smiled. There was a great deal of make-up on her eyes, lovingly applied; none at all on her mouth or on the flawless planes of her cheeks. "A branch of the Defense Department labelled S.I.D.," she explained in a low voice.

Solo looked up at her from under his brows. "I find it goes against the grain to question a lady," he said, "and I can hardly ask you to produce secret credentials in the street. But nevertheless... "

The girl laid a gloved hand on his arm. "Understood, Signor Solo; but perhaps I can set your fears at rest without an exchange of papers!.... After my colleague Rossi was delegated to furnish you, yesterday, with clothes, papers, money, a Berretta and a Giulietta—the 1300 ex. decapolable one—I was instructed to keep what my chief calls a 'benevolent watching' brief on you! I have since then observed the following:

"You are staying at the Hotel Europa on the Via Pascal. Last night you retired early after eating in the hotel. You drove out to see Colonel Rinaldi this morning. While you were at the research station, somebody tampered with the braking system of your car and you had an accident on the way back to the Route 24, leading to Susa. The car was spoiled, but you were fortunately not."

"Thank you very much," Solo said drily. "I take it your brief doesn't extend to issuing warnings or lending a hand?"

"Ah, you mock me! But I am watching with binoculars from the other side of the valley. There is a bergerie there and I am inside it. But there was nothing I could do at the time  So. You climb back up to the Colonel and you borrow a Fiat 1500 from him—one that has been slightly gonfie, as the French say, which is to say in English, converted. She is very fast, but you are still too late to meet your friend here at the airport.

"On the way to Caselle, though, you see him being driven away by a lady you know as the Signorina Eriksson. You guess what must be happening and you turn around and follow that couple. After they leave the Autostrada, you catch them up and in a place near to Buronzo you force their car to leave the road. Miss Eriksson escapes and you bring your friend back to the city. And then you call upon the Commendatore... this most aggravating plot used against you as you emerge from there.  Now—my name is Giovanna del Renzio. I am here to help you. What can I do?"

"Take us at once to a restaurant near here," Kuryakin said feelingly, "where we can exchange notes, plan what to do next—and eat. Above all, eat!"

"But of course! We shall go to Angelo's. It is only just one block."

And while they attended to a vast fritto misto with peperoni alia piemontese on the side, Illya sat below an oak beam groaning with pendant cheeses, strings of garlic, Parma beans and sausages, telling Solo and the girl the burden of Waverly's theorizing the previous day.

"So, if I may recap, what it amounts to is this," Solo said finally, pouring the last of the Barbaresco into Giovanna's glass and signalling the waiter to bring more. "Leonardo acquires the list of intended Thrush satraps in Europe. He takes a copy and puts the original back in the safe of the Council Member (who may or may not be Carlsen). Then he visits Colonel Rinaldi and borrows the ruby laser to make a hologram of the list—which he immediately mails to Waverly. That's the initial bit, isn't it? Before I came in?"

Kuryakin nodded. "That's it exactly, Napoleon."

"Fine. He still has, however, the piece of semi-reflective substance which was used in conjunction with the laser beam to make that hologram. Somehow or other, he conceals this—and while he is on his way to let Waverly know what it is and where it is, he is killed, one assumes by agents of Thrush who have discovered the theft and know who is responsible. Are you with me?"

Again the Russian nodded. "In the meantime, though," he said, "either Thrush or a rival organization which is as keen to have that list as we are decides to kidnap you from New York in the hope that they can force from you certain facts: one, whether Leonardo used a hologram and, if so, whether it was sent to Waverly; two, whether or not Waverly has been able to decode it, if he does have it; three, what is the U.N.C.L.E. routine in such matters."

"Do you have any idea if it really is Thrush or not?" Giovanna del Renzio asked.

Solo, exchanging a glance with Kuryakin, pursed his lips and shook his head. "The conversations I had at Carlsen's house would suggest the latter case," he said. "And the killing of Leonardo followed by my kidnapping make more sense if they were done by different teams. If it was the same lot, you'd think they would have captured Leonardo and forced him to talk before they tried me! But if not, then Carlsen might not have known it was Leonardo who stole the list, you see.... Only that it had been stolen and probably sent to New York."

"I see what you mean."

"On the other hand," Solo shrugged. "Does it really seem likely that there would be another organization—one that none of us has ever heard of—which could have found out sufficient facts about Leonardo's assignment to justify the action that has been taken?"

"I guess not," Kuryakin said slowly. "Unless, of course, Leonardo himself was a part of it. But from my own knowledge of the man—and Waverly agrees—that would be so unlikely as to seem impossible."

"Whichever it is, it appears to have been Carlsen who was responsible for doctoring my borrowed car at Rinaldi's place. For it seems to me obvious that the only aim of that operation was to stop me meeting Illya—so that they could put in Miss Eriksson and take him off to the country house to be drugged and interrogated in his turn. How much did she find out before I caught up, Illya?"

"Enough to make me feel an idiot," the Russian said bitterly. "Mainly, I confirmed for them that there was a hologram, that it had been received, and that Leonardo hadn't specified the key for reproducing it. She also wanted to know what we thought about the case and how we proposed to work—but fortunately I stalled off those."

"Where do you suppose Leonardo did hide the glass or whatever it was?" the girl asked. "Mightn't he have mailed that to New York too, from another office?"

Kuryakin shook his head. "It would have arrived by now. He might have mailed it to himself, though—either poste restante or to another address. He might have sent it to a friend, or hidden it. The murderers might even have it!"

"Oh, I doubt that!" Solo protested. "They'd hardly be trying to run us down in the street if they already had it. After all, they only have two objectives: either to stop us finding it, or to stop us getting to Waverly with it if we do find it. If they had it already—"

"That's all very well if it's only one organization involved," Illya argued. "But if there should after all be two... one might have found the thing, and the other, not knowing this, might still be trying to prevent us finding it."

"I see what you mean. My general point is worth emphasising, though: given that this list is vital—for its decoding, from our point of view; for the prevention of this, from the others'—then they have much the easiest task. We have to locate the glass or whatever it is and after that convey it safely all the way back to New York, and then discover how it was used and repeat those conditions, before we can say we've succeeded. All they have to do is destroy it."

"It looks as though the dice are charged against us, then!" Illya said.

"Loaded," Solo corrected automatically. "Talking of which, let's get out of here before this Barbaresco seduces me into ordering a third bottle!"

"Where are you going now?" the girl asked.

"We'll have a look at Leonardo's apartment first. It's the obvious place and I've no doubt both the police and the opposition have already turned it over thoroughly. But you can never take anything for granted in this business; you just have to check."

"Where did he live?"

"An apartment block...," Solo consulted the sheaf of papers he had won from the Commendatore "...in the Corso Svizzere. Do you know it?"

"Yes, of course. I'll take you there. Your car is nearby, isn't it?"

They edged their way out of the oak-benched booth with its red check tablecloth and ceramic condiment set. While Solo paid the bill, a fleshy man with a sallow, blue-chinned face threw a handful of notes on to the table in the adjoining compartment and hurried out ahead of them.

There were two carabinieri deep in conversation on the opposite side of the road when they left. In the square where the Fiat was parked, a nondescript man carrying a raincoat raised one eyebrow a fraction of an inch at the girl as they passed. And two youths apparently lounging against a fountain only straightened up and moved away as Solo started the motor and steered the car out from the kerb. "II Commendatore, I see, likes to make sure that his—er—guests are well looked after," he remarked with a crooked grin.

"But of course," the girl said. "These are determined people—whoever they are. They will undoubtedly try again. And although we bow to nobody in our admiration of your efficiency, it has to be admitted that this is our home ground. I am sure that the Commendatore feels simply that there may be angles unknown to you which we may cover just by being there. As your English proverb has it—a stitch before it is too late, will avoid the use of eight."

"A knit in time saves nine" Kuryakin corrected reprovingly.

Napoleon Solo burst out laughing. "So much for my English proverb," he said. "What about these lights, now? Which way for the Corso Svizzere?"

Leonardo's cover occupation had been as an accountant specializing in American company law. The neat two-room apartment he had lived in was on the tenth floor of a new tower block. The bedroom held a well-chosen selection of clothes just a little on the flashy side, a cupboard full of linen, drawers of shirts, ties, socks, underwear, a pile of freshly laundered handkerchiefs on top of a signed photograph of a girl. The kitchen had been strictly a bachelor one: coffee and fruit juice in the mornings, ice for the drinks, and that was it! And the living room was full of paper. Statements, brochures, prospectuses, accounts sheets and reams and reams of notes overflowed the desk, littered the bookshelves, covered the occasional tables and the dining table, and even dotted the top of a comprehensive hi-fi complex.

But of half-silvered mirrors; sheets of ground glass, frosted glass inserts or portions of semi-transparent plastic they found no trace at all.

After they had spent more than an hour emptying and refilling drawers, cupboards and bookshelves. Solo shook his head and walked to the deep windows. He slid back a glass door and walked out on to a small concrete balcony covered in pots and boxes and jardinieres of geraniums. Below, the glittering lights of Turin mapped the city against the dark.

"I guess we're wasting our time," he said over his shoulder. "The place has been done over by the police and the others, as I said. There's nothing here they would have missed. There isn't a mirror in the place that's not a fixture ... not even one of those round shaving ones most people seem to have."

Kuryakin walked up to the french window and leaned on the jamb. "What about the photo of that girl?" he asked. "You don't think...?"

"It's all in the dossier the Commendatore gave me. She's the daughter of an hotelier with whom Leonardo stayed whenever he went to Bordeaux. They seem to have had an affaire. Period."

"She hasn't received any... packages... with an Italian postmark in the last few days?" the girl asked.

Solo grinned. "They even thought of that. And the answer's no again!"

"What about any other friends or contacts he has over here?" Kuryakin said.

"I asked a special favor of the Commendatore. He has a squad of men investigating it on behalf of the Command. But I don't anticipate any results there; somehow I believe it's going to be something far more simple. After all, Leonardo had to use something that nobody would notice—and that would be equally easy both to hide afterwards and to find again—didn't he?"

"I guess so. Well... if there's nothing here, I suppose we might as well make ourselves rare."

"Scarce," Solo said. "Rare is what they make steak and what diamonds make themselves. Okay; let's go."

They relocked the apartment and trooped out into the carpeted corridor. Apart from the bulky back of a man disappearing through the glass doors leading to the stairs, it was deserted. Solo approached the lifts and pressed the central button between the two sets of gates. There was a car already at the tenth floor and the grooved aluminum portals slid aside with a faint rumble. He was about to hand Giovanna into the brightly lit interior of the cage when Kuryakin laid a hand on his arm. "Just a moment," the Russian said. "That man we saw... why would someone ride to the tenth floor in a lift, get out, and then immediately take the stairs and go down again?"

"Because he'd meant to press the button for the ninth," Solo said.

"It would be easier to stay inside. This is not an express lift that won't stop at some floors. Let's just see... the other one will be here in a moment."

He leaned inside the car, pressed the button for the ground floor, and then ducked out again as the hydraulically operated bar slid the doors shut. The inner gates rumbled together, they heard the whine of machinery as the car began to descend; the indicator arrow above the lifts sank from 10 past 9 to 8. "Suspicious," Solo said. "That's what you are! Now you've delayed—"

Something twanged, twice, beyond the doors with enormous force. With an impact that appeared to shiver the building, a metallic thunderclap struck the far side of the grooved aluminum. There was a subdued rushing noise, rising to a crescendo, from within the shaft. Gear wheels, freed of their load, shrieked up the scale.

Far below, there was a splintering crash which echoed up the empty lift well as the car, its twin steel hawsers sheared, plummeted 160 feet to the winch housing at the bottom of the shaft.