Текст книги "[Magazine 1968-012] - The Million Monsters Affair "

Автор книги: Robert Hart Davis

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“That will never happen, sir!” he said. “We’ll find some way to stop this monstrous plot against humanity.”

“Are there any leads?” Waverly asked.

“I hope so,” Napoleon said. “I hit one of the ‘liquidators’ with a pellet. He is still unconscious. When he comes to, I’ll interrogate him under the truth serum. If he knows anything, I’ll get it out of him.”

“Liquidators?” Waverly repeated. “Then they did catch up with you. There were four.”

“Two you can scratch from the list,” Napoleon said quietly. “One I have. The other probably helped the ‘monster master’ to get away. He was shot. I don’t know how badly.”

“I see,” Waverly said. “Two to one odds. Very good, Mr. Solo. But there will be others, you know. This is just the beginning. From now on your lives will be a paramount THRUSH target.”

“That’s right, sir,” Napoleon said grimly. “But do not forget that they are my target too! And I don’t usually miss.”

“Oh, I’ll never forget that!” Waverly said. “Never! And now what about Mr. Kuryakin? I noticed quite a strain in his voice. And I also noticed that he hasn’t jumped in with his usual interruptions. Is he -?”

“Never felt better!” Illya said quickly. “Hear that pitty-patter of feet? That is me running the hundred yard dash down Sunset to show how lively I am!”

“Hmmm!” Waverly said. “Anyway, will you be able to keep your schedule and check on that Parisian film importer?”

“Yes, sir!” Illya said without hesitation.

“Very well,” Waverly said. “Gentlemen, thank you. We have made some progress. Please keep me informed.”

“Can you walk?” Solo asked his companion after closing the antenna to break the connection with U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

“No,” Illya said, struggling groggily to his feet. “But I sure can totter!”

“Well, I’ve got to get this THRUSH liquidator out of sight before the police work their way down this far,” Napoleon said.

Kuryakin nodded. He understood the urgency. The police, under Supreme Court decisions, could not question a suspect without his lawyer being present. Such niceties had to be put aside when the fate of civilization depended upon the outcome. The charge of U.N.C.L.E. truth serum in its secret receptacle inside Napoleon Solo’s ring packed a power that no person could resist.

“Where are you going to take him?” Illya asked.

“For a ride,” Solo said. “If you’ll give me a hand, we’ll drag him back in the alley where the police will miss him. Then while you watch over him, I’ll find a phone and call one of the U-drive car agencies to send me down a vehicle. Then I’ll drop you at the airport and find a nice secluded spot somewhere.”

“And then -” Illya asked.

“Oh, then we’ll talk awhile,” Solo said, glancing grimly at the prisoner.

ACT IV – THE MONSTER MAKERS

ILLYA KURYAKIN closed his eyes

when he took his seat on the jet to Europe. He did not open them again until the stewardess shook him on their arrival in France.

He got up, still stiff and beaten from the punishment his body had taken. A small bandage covered the cut on his head and he walked with a slight limp.

The first thing that caught his eye at the airport was a copy of the Paris edition of the New York Times. Splashed across page one was a photograph of rioting teenagers. Except for the Montmarte background, the scene reminded him of the Sunset Strip fury.

On the drive into the city he carefully read the story. There was no mention of the Million Monsters film. A French police official from the Surete insisted that the madness was caused by a new type of drug – quite possibly of the LSD family.

Turning on to the amusement schedule, Illya noted, however, that the film was screening in Paris. One of the theaters was just off the Place Pigalle, not far from the, Moulin Rouge. The riot occurred only a short distance away.

Making a sudden decision, he decided to pass up his reservation at the sumptuous Champs Elysees tourist hotel. Instead he told the driver to find him a place near Pigalle.

The driver grinned and said,. “Oui, oui!”

Leaning back and closing his still weary eyes, Illya thought: “I wish you were right, buddy.”

After checking into a small hotel, Illya put through a call to the offices of the French film exchange that handled Mallon’s films in Europe.

A voice as heady as French wine asked his business. When he asked for Monsieur Maurice Leroux the wine turned chill. It was still polite, but there was an oddly apprehensive note that made Illya’s Slavic face screw up thoughtfully.

“I am so sorry,” the girl’s voice said. “But Monsieur Leroux he has not returned from the trip to Hollywood.”

“I see,” Illya said. “That is most unfortunate. When will Monsieur Leroux return?”

She hesitated. Then said, “Perhaps not for a week.”

“But I saw him in Hollywood only yesterday. He said he was returning at once.”

There was a dead silence, indicating that she had placed her hand over the mouthpiece to consult with someone else.

Illya quickly extracted what appeared to be a cigarette lighter from his pocket. He touched the base of the subminiature tape recorder built into the lighter. Able to pick up vibrations a hundred thousand times too faint for human hears, he hoped that it would be able to record what she said through the cover of her hand on the mouthpiece.

The girl’s voice came back clearly as she removed her hand. “I have a note here which I regretfully overlooked. Monsieur Leroux called this morning from Hollywood. He has extended his stay for three more days.”

“Oh!” Illya said, knowing that Leroux had left the United States, for he checked the plane manifest before leaving Los Angeles himself. “Mr. Leroux called this morning?”

“Oui, m’sieur,” she said in her honey-wine voice. “I took the call myself. I recall now.”

“Then there is nothing else for me to do but wait for him,” Illya said. “I notice that it is near office closing time in Paris. Perhaps you and I could -”

“I am so sorry, m’sieur, but I -”

“It isn’t as if we were strangers, mademoiselle,” Illya said quickly. He pulled a name out of the air. “I am Frank Hudson of the Fred B. Mallon Productions in Hollywood. You remember Monsieur Leroux introducing us when I was in Paris before.”

“Oh, yes, of course, Monsieur Hudson,” she said quickly. “I could not forget so handsome a man!”

“Then if you have an engagement for the evening, perhaps there is time for a before dinner cocktail?”

“Well -” she began doubtfully and then changed her tune abruptly, “But, yes! I must run home to freshen up a bit first. My apartment is in Montmarte.”

She gave him an address on the Rue de Clichy, not too far from where he was calling. “You may call for me at eight-fifteen,” she said.

After he replaced the phone, Illya stood for a moment staring thoughtfully at it. His first thought was that 8:15 was rather late for a before dinner cocktail. His second thought was that she had carefully arranged the time to coincide with darkness in Paris at this time of year. Also it was extremely suspicious how quickly she recognized the non-existent Frank Hudson.

Leaning back on the bed to rest his wearied bones as much as possible, he rewound the subminiature tape recorder. Then adjusting the volume for maximum gain, he replayed the area where she had her hand over the phone mouthpiece.”

He heard the girl’s voice say quickly, “It is Illya Kuryakin!”

Another voice, a man’s, asked suspiciously, “Who is Kuryakin?”

“One of the men from U.N.C.L.E.!” the girl replied breathlessly.

“How did U.N.C.L.E. – Oh, this is terrible. I’m sorry we ever got mixed up in this mess. What -”

“Call LeBlanc! He is our THRUSH contact here. I’ll get Kuryakin to Montmarte. Tell him I’ll do the rest!”

Illya switched off the machine. He closed his eyes with a grin.

“She’ll do the rest?” he said. “I wonder if ‘the rest’ is what she thinks it is!”

He took out his pen communicator and put through an emergency connection to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in New York. His secret coded call brought him directly to the organization’s information files.

“Do we have any information on a Parisian named LeBlanc in connection with THRUSH?” he asked. “And I also want everything I can get on the receptionist in Maurice Leroux’s International Film Exchange in Paris.”

“Stand by,” the chief librarian said. “It will take the computers ten seconds to research the files.”

The seconds ticked away and then the voice converter on the computers started to read off the punched card data: “LeBlanc – no given name known – is a professional assassin who works all over Europe. There is no description of him, for he has never been arrested. He is extremely efficient and works with an exceedingly lovely woman. This woman is an artist in changing her appearance. She also has no known description.”

“Is he connected with THRUSH?” Illya asked.

“We think so, but not enough is known of him to be sure. He is exceedingly clever.”

“Well, mark him down now as a sure THRUSH employee. And as for his girl accomplice, add to her description the fact that she has a voice that sparkles like fine wine.”

There was a short silence at the other end of the connection while the U.N.C.L.E. information office searched its computers for other data of importance.

“Now for your other question about Leroux’s receptionist,” the chief librarian said. “There is no file on any employee of the International Film Exchange. Your request has been referred to our Paris contact. Please switch your communicator to channel F-403. You will receive your answer direct.”

Kuryakin adjusted a tiny dial inside the pen cap. There was a fifteen second wait. Then the miniature speaker went into action again:

“The receptionist at International Film Exchange is named Fifi Montaigne. She was injured by someone who broke into her apartment last night. She is in Boulogne Hospital. She is near death and no one is permitted to see her.”

“Who took her place with the company this afternoon?” Illya asked.

“No one,” the report replied. “The office has been closed.”

“Can you get someone from the telephone office to make a routine check? I want to know if someone was in that office. If not, then how its phone was answered a few minutes ago.”

“It can be arranged. It will take about an hour. We have to clear all our operations with the police.”

Kuryakin looked at his watch. It was close to six and he had over two hours before his date with the fake receptionist.

“Go ahead. Call me here on the pen communicator. Do not use the telephone.”

The call was delayed. Kuryakin slept another two hours and then got up to keep his date with the fake receptionist. He was just going out the door when a tiny electric shock from the pen announced a call.

“The office is empty,” the report said. “We found that the telephone wire had been tapped and an extension run to a transmission box hidden in the wall. When the box is activated, all calls to the phone are automatically switched by radio communication. There is no way to trace where the call goes, since anyone who knew the wave-length could listen in.”

“Very well,” Illya said. “Pass this information on to Waverly in New York.”

“There is something else of utmost importance,” the reporter from the Paris office said.

“I’m late,” Kuryakin said impatiently. “Can you give it to me after I come back.”

“This is so important it may have a bearing on your actions,” the voice said. “There was a body in the film exchange office. It was jammed into a closet in the back storage room where the film reels are kept.”

“Go on!” Illya said in a dull voice, knowing without asking whom the corpse would prove to be.

“It was the body of Maurice Leroux.”

“Do the police know yet?” Illya asked.

“No, but we must notify them at once.”

“Hold off for fifteen more minutes,” Illya said. “And then try and get the police to withhold a public announcement for another hour.”

Kuryakin left the hotel in a run. Ten minutes later he was across the street from the address the girl had given him. Suspecting a trap, he did not go to the second floor apartment himself. He hailed a passing cab and gave the driver a large franc note to go get the girl.

Kuryakin went across the street to a sidewalk cafe. He stood with his back against a wall and his hand only inches from the shoulder holstered U.N.C.L.E. special.

A light rain was starting to fall, but he did not take cover. He kept watching the front of the building for any evidence that someone was following the cab driver.

Certain now that if there was a trap, it was upstairs, Illya rapidly crossed the street. He entered the small foyer and looked cautiously back before climbing the narrow flight of stairs. He was halfway up when the cab driver came racing down. In the dim light he could see the frightened twist of the man’s face. He brushed against Illya as he went down the steps, but apparently was too scared to recognize his fare.

Kuryakin went up the stairs in a dead run, his U.N.C.L.E. special in his hand. The door to the first apartment was open. He could see a mass of blonde hair on the rug. It was blood-stained!

He stepped to the door, looking cautiously about. The dead girl’s legs were drawn up as if she died in acute agony. Her face was frozen by death in a mask of terror.

Illya could see the hilt of a knife protruding from her left side. It was curiously carved.

After a quick glance at the corpse, Illya looked about the room. It was typically middle class with slightly shabby furniture.

A bedroom led off the sitting room. Illya assured himself that no one was hiding there. He looked down at the girl.

“Crazy mixed up kid,” he said. “She was going to take care of a trap for me, but walked into one herself.”

He stared down at the dead girl, feeling a distinct uneasiness. Somehow the girl’s death was a jarring note. It was obvious from what he heard through his amplifier that this dead woman had been a member of THRUSH.

“Then who killed her?” Kuryakin asked himself, “and why? It just doesn’t fit.”

He picked up the phone and called the police. The homicide inspector who arrived quickly was exactly opposite the picture one gets of the French police after reading Maigret. Inspector Gabin had the build of an Abraham Lincoln and the face of a hanging judge.

He gave a noncommittal grunt when Illya showed his U.N.C.L.E. credentials. After that he ignored Kuryakin until after he made a careful turn about the room. Then he stood for a long moment looking down at the dead woman’s face.

Suddenly he cut a sharp glance over at Illya Kuryakin.

“Who is she?” he asked.

“She claimed to be a receptionist for International Film.”

The inspector’s sour face turned more morose. “Mr. Kuryakin! I wish to cooperate with U.N.C.L.E., but I also demand that U.N.C.L.E. cooperate with me! Before you continue your evasive lies, let me say that I recognize this woman. She is a professional undercover agent who has lately been working for your U.N.C.L.E. associates here in Paris!”

“I just arrived,” Illya said. “I didn’t know. I mistook her for the woman I came here to meet. Apparently this agent was also on the woman’s trail. She got too warm and was killed.”

He gave the Frenchman a quick sketch of the case he was working on.

Before the inspector could comment, the medical examiner bustled into the room. As he bent over the girl to begin his examination, her body exploded!

Illya threw himself flat on the floor. A twisted piece of shrapnel cut the shoulder of his jacket. The inspector was knocked down, bleeding from a wound in his throat. The doctor was killed instantly. There was a large gaping hole in the corpse where the booby trap exploded.

Two members of the police team who had been inspecting the bedroom rushed in.

“Be careful!” Illya warned them. “There may be another booby trap implanted in the corpse.”

Waving the two policemen back into the bedroom, he followed them. There he grabbed a pillow from the bed and threw it at the dead woman.

There was a flash of fire and the feathers exploded outwardly to fill the room like a snowstorm.

“It looks like there was a photoelectric cell set with the bomb to explode it when the direct level of light was cut off,” Illya said.

“What a devilish trap!” one of the policemen gasped.

“And it was meant for me!” Illya thought.

TWO

BACK IN HOLLYWOOD, after Napoleon Solo dropped Kuryakin at the airport, he drove to the back of the public parking lot. He waited impatiently for the effect of the knockout drops to wear off his prisoner. Then he inoculated the THRUSH man with truth serum from the tiny reservoir in his U.N.C.L.E. finger ring.

While he waited for the drug to take effect, Solo opened his pen communicator circuit with Waverly in New York so the U.N.C.L.E. chief could listen to the interrogation.

In work so hazardous as this, anything might happen to him and he wanted Waverly to have the information so his replacement would not be handicapped if he was killed.

Solo’s first question verified his theory of the case. Subliminal hypnosis was being accomplished by the Mallon Million Monsters film. Control, the prisoner revealed, was done by radio suggestion.

“Is it possible to give individual commands?” Napoleon Solo asked.

“No,” the prisoner replied in a dreamy voice. “They can only give mass suggestion.”

“Like, say, ‘destroy everything in sight?’”

“Yes,” the prisoner said.

“What is THRUSH’s objective?’

“The subliminal effects are only effective on people up to about the age of twenty-four. From twenty-four to thirty it may or may not work. After thirty the brain cells are sufficiently set that no impression is possible. THRUSH intends to use the twenty-four and under age group to destroy every living person over thirty.”

“Then the rest will be enslaved by THRUSH?” Napoleon asked.

“Yes,” his prisoner said.

“What happens when these mind slaves grow older?” he asked. “Will their minds lose the subliminally induced hypnosis?”

“Yes.”

“What will THRUSH do about that?”

“They will be destroyed between the ages of twenty-four and thirty.”

“Did you hear that, Mr. Waverly?” Napoleon asked.

“Yes,” Alexander Waverly answered back. “This is the most monstrous scheme THRUSH has ever devised! It condemns every person on earth to death or slavery. And even the slaves will be cut down in the best years of their lives!”

“The present riots are just tests, aren’t they?” Solo asked.

“Yes,” his prisoner replied.

“When will the full scale attack be made?”

“As soon as the transmitters can be finished. In about four days.”

“This is terrible!” Waverly said. “Will other media besides motion pictures be used?”

“Yes – radio, TV and everywhere people gather in large crowds.”

“How can they do that?” Solo asked.

“Subliminal broadcasters, portable units, will be taken into sporting events – football, baseball, hockey, basketball – shows, carnivals, and even churches.”

“Four days!” Solo said in a stricken voice. “That doesn’t leave us much time.”

“But we’ll do it,” Waverly said sharply.

“Where is the seat of this thing?” Solo asked.

“Here in Hollywood,” the prisoner replied. “I don’t know where. We are met, blindfolded and led in to our meetings.”

“What did Mallon have to do with this?”

“His daughter is a scientist. She developed the process. Her father saw it as a means of subliminally persuading audiences to come back and see his pictures.”

“Then THRUSH got wind of it and saw it as a means of controlling the world?”

“Yes.”

“Mellon must have realized what was happening and tried to warn you with that anonymous tip about himself,” Solo said to Waverly.

“It would seem so,” Waverly said. “I don’t quite understand about the girl, Marsha Mallon. She attacked you and Kuryakin while apparently under the influence of this monster-making process, but then she seemed untouched by it during the Sunset Strip riot.”

“She is twenty-six, in the age bracket where the subliminal hypnosis works erratically,” the prisoner replied under stimulus of the truth serum.

“How did she become inoculated with the hypnotic suggestion in the first place?” Solo asked.

“She was tricked into it. Griffis, our field director, thought he could use her to murder her father. At times she can be controlled and at other times she breaks loose from the hypnosis.”

“This Griffis sent her to murder Kuryakin and me at the airport?”

“Yes?”

“Did she murder her father?”

“No.”

“Who did it?”

“Members of the THRUSH liquidation team. They were supposed to kill her also but she got away. She has a higher destroy number on the THRUSH liquidation list than either Solo or Kuryakin.”

“We’ll have to stop now, sir,” Solo said into the pen communicator to Waverly. “You know the truth serum’s effects. He must rest.”

“Yes, of course,” Waverly replied. “Forget him now. Find that girl! She is the key to this entire mess.”

“Yes, sir,” Napoleon said.

“What are you going to do with the prisoner?”

“I have some very definite plans for him, sir,” Napoleon replied, his jaw setting in a grim line.

“Just what are you going to do?” Waverly asked, a note of suspicion creeping into his voice.

“Do, sir?” Solo inquired. “I’ll do whatever is necessary. Good-by.”

He snapped down the antenna to cut off the circuit.

The prisoner sprawled back in his seat. His eyes closed and he went into the temporary torpor that was characteristic of the last phase of the truth serum.

Solo took this opportunity to slip a pocket tape recorder out of his jacket. It was the twin of the one used by Kuryakin in Paris.

He flipped the control dial to transmit, but did not start the reels. He switched on the tiny battery and then shoved the operating recorder under the car seat.

Then, while closely watching his prisoner’s eyes, Solo extended the antenna of his pen communicator. A faint bleep came from the speaker as the set picked up transmissions from the hidden recorder. Satisfied, Napoleon shoved the pen back in his pocket.

Now he put the key back in the car ignition and waited for his prisoner to make the next move.

It took about five minutes for the torpor to wear off. After this the subject would feel no ill effects from the truth serum. The minutes ticked away. Solo could tell from the way the prisoner’s breathing changed that the paralysis induced by the drug had passed.

It seemed to Solo that the man’s eyes were still closed. But it was dark in the car and he suspected the prisoner was watching him through partially closed lids.

Solo took a deep breath and braced himself for the coming ordeal. He casually put one hand around on the door handle and reached for the car key with the other. He fumbled it. The key dropped on the floor. He bent over as if to pick it up.

The prisoner exploded into action. He swung a hard blow to Solo’s bowed head. Napoleon took the blow on the cheek. Even though he took it ducking back to soften the force, it jarred him badly.

But he still kept enough of his faculties to carry through the next part of his carefully laid plan. In ducking back, he threw the full weight of his body on the door handle. When the door swung open, he tumbled out. He broke his fall as an acrobat would with his hands. He rolled back under the car in the adjoining parking spot.

Before he could get up, the prisoner had started the car and was burning rubber in a fast getaway.

Napoleon Solo got shakily to his feet. He had a flash of fear that he had made a mistake. But he put the idea aside. Permitting the prisoner to escape was admittedly a desperate move. It might even be a disastrous one, but it promised the quickest results – provided Solo could keep alive.

Napoleon’s head rang. He had taken a harder blow that he expected. He hobbled as swiftly as possible across the parking lot to a U-Drive stand. His U.N.C.L.E. identification got him prompt service. Five minutes later he was wheeling out of the airport, heading toward Hollywood.

The pen communicator was open on the seat beside him. Telltale bleeps from the recorder hidden in the fugitive’s car came in clearly. Then they suddenly dropped in intensity, telling Solo that the man had turned to right angles to his pursuer. Then the sounds picked up volume again and became louder. This indicated that the THRUSH man was turning back, doubling to throw off possible pursuit.

The sounds indicated so many turns that Solo gave up and parked. After about ten minutes the fugitive passed him. Napoleon did not try to follow until the other car was five minutes down the street.

He didn’t need to hurry. The transmitted signals from the recorder would guide him easily.

The trail led him toward the coast and then circled back through Culver City. They passed MGM studios. Through the heavy mesh fence, Solo could see the stark, cardboard outlines of a typical western town set on the studio back lot.

Solo drove on, following the telltale bleep. He kept watching behind for a possible shadow of his own. He saw nothing. The sounds from the escapee’s car increased in volume as Solo passed the main gate of the Mallon Productions Studio and then dropped as Napoleon went past.

Solo drove on, sure now that the car had turned into the dark studio. The wrought iron gates were closed. Behind them Napoleon could see the shadowy figure of a guard.

As he passed, Solo noted the side streets, looking for the best vantage point from which he could observe the studio. He picked a narrow, winding thoroughfare that ascended a low hill topped by a small park. Here he figured he would be screened by sufficient vegetation that he would not be seen from below.

He did not dare risk turning into the street that close to the studio. He had no way of knowing how well it was under observation. But he was sure that if THRUSH was using the studio, they had taken all precautions against being surprised.

So he drove on. He had to go about a mile before he wound back through a subdivision and came in on the park from the rear.

As he came down the winding road past a children’s playground, he saw a car parked by the side of the road. As his lights swept across it he glimpsed a girl’s head suddenly duck out of sight.

Solo turned sharply at a side road and circled away. He parked out of sight in front of some houses across from the park. He climbed out and started back on foot.

As he moved cautiously, keeping close to a thick hedge of oleanders, he drew his U.N.C.L.E. Special, shoving the cartridge carrier over to the paralyzing pellets.

He told himself grimly, “She is alone in that car. No woman would sit out here in the dark alone without a very good reason.”

He came close enough to see the car. He stopped, watching closely. While the screening bushes cut his own view, he was certain that from the car’s position the girl could get a clear view of the Mallon studio below.

He moved closer, more certain than ever now that the girl was the missing Marsha Mallon.

Cautiously Napoleon pushed his way closer. He held the gun ready to fire. Marsha had shown during the Sunset Strip riots that she intended to play a lone hand. Much as he regretted the necessity of knocking her unconscious with the pellets, Solo knew it was the only way he could control her.

After that a dose of the super-powerful U.N.C.L.E. truth serum would provide answers for some of the missing pieces of the Million Monsters jigsaw puzzle.

He still was not close enough to tell for sure if she was the dead producer’s daughter. He crouched nearly double and quickly crossed an open area. Here he stopped, cautiously waiting to see if she had seen the movement.

She kept staring down the hill. In the dark Solo could not make out what she had in her hand, but from the shape he suspected that it was an infrared scope for picking out objects in the dark.

As Solo moved in closer, the girl suddenly dropped the scope. She slid out of the car. He saw her crouch almost double and disappear into the darkness.

Napoleon Solo stopped, wondering uneasily what had frightened her. He waited a full minute and then started forward. He took a couple of steps and halted again when he heard a soft snap. He turned, his U.N.C.L.E. special switched from pellets back to bullets.

Before he could fire he glimpsed a flash of light in the darkness. Then something sharp slammed into his leg.

A rapidly spreading numbness shot up from the wound. He tried to shoot, but the gun dropped from his paralyzed hand. He crumpled. In the last few seconds of lucidity left to him, he realized what had happened. THRUSH had been moving in on Marsha Mallon and he had walked straight into their trap.

His last conscious recollection was of two men standing over him. Then he heard the soft twang the THRUSH gun gives when it fires its own brand of paralyzing pellets.

Then a man’s voice said in great excitement: “I think I got her! We’ve got Marsha Mallon too! Both of them!”

THREE

FOLLOWING THE blast in the Paris apartment Illya Kuryakin spent two hours at police headquarters. A dragnet was put out for the woman who answered Kuryakin’s call to the International Film Exchange. However, the inspector on the case told Illya that he doubted they would find her.

“There is not a single clue,” he said hopelessly.

“There is her voice,” Illya said. “I’d recognize it. It sounded like honeyed wine.”

“There are thousands of women who speak so in Paris, monsieur!” the inspector said. “It would be pleasant to go about the city asking each lovely lady one encounters to speak a few words. But I doubt that this is practical.”

“I suppose not,” Illya said. “But we face an increasingly desperate situation.”

“Unfortunately,” the inspector said, “we forwarded a report of your claim about THRUSH activity spurring these riots to the commissioners. They considered it fantastic.”

“We have definite proof, Inspector,” Illya said. “This is the forerunner of an attempt to destroy world civil governments.”

The inspector shrugged. “I know the reputation of U.N.C.L.E.,” he said. “But we are convinced that our local disturbances are purely spontaneous. In America perhaps your teenagers need stimulus to riot. In Paris it has become a way of life.”

“Then I can expect no help from you,” Illya said.

“We are vitally concerned with these three murders, that of the film exchange man, the U.N.C.L.E. informant, and our own Inspector Gabin. If any information of value to you comes from the investigations, we will of course cooperate with U.N.C.L.E. fully.”