The Power Cube Affair - Phillifent John T. (версия книг .txt) 📗

"She is good," Kuryakin retorted. "She almost had me with that knife. Where did it come from?"

"Search me. I didn't see it until she was holding it out."

"I don't suppose she would tell us if we asked. The trouble is"—Kuryakin took up his discarded apron thought fully—"she was trying to show off. If it had been some thing serious, an enemy, she would have reacted in a different way entirely. Here, you dry while I wash."

The chores had been done and coffee was bubbling by the time she came back, looking very humble.

"I don't like to say this," she said, "but I must. I have to thank you two for opening my eyes today. I must seem pretty dreadful to you, all brag and blow!" She looked around. "And you've washed up. I feel utterly useless."

"Don't be silly," Solo told her. "We had all the advantages. Here, have a cup of coffee and relax awhile, or should we be getting back?"

"We've a minute or two yet." She carried her cup over to the window to look out, and then down at the row of carvings. She studied them a moment, then took one up in her hand. "I noticed these before. They're beautiful things. I've never seen anything quite like them." Solo went and she showed him the one she held. "Look at this. It looks like nothing at all in particular, if you just look at it, but doesn't it make you think of a frog?"

"It has that feel, what Picasso would call 'essence of form,' I'd say. And this one is a seal, isn't it. And that a tiger."

"Do you know about these? Where they come from, I mean."

"I know that much, yes. Out there. You were shooting at some, just now. Picked up from the beach."

"Surely not. These have been carved!"

"That's right. John Guard's work. His hobby, I mean."

She put down the frog shape and sighed. "You're really putting me down, aren't you? Flattening me with all the skills and talents I can appreciate and understand. I think we had better go home."

The drive back to London was a silent and steady one. It was late afternoon before she halted for them outside their pseudo-hotel and let them dismount.

"You know the number if you have any orders or information for us later," Solo said.

"I'm not likely to have much of either," she muttered. "Not for you two. Not for a bit, anyway."

They went into the room they shared and shut the door carefully. They had achieved their objective, but neither of them felt happy about it. Kuryakin prowled the room restlessly. The phone buzzed and Solo grabbed at it. Even if it was a job call he would welcome it, rather than this waiting. The switchboard girl told him, "We have a lady on the phone, asking for you, Mr. Solo."

"All right." Solo made a gesture for Kuryakin to get on the extension. "Go ahead, put her on."

A very familiar coo met his ear. "Mr. Solo?"

"That's Miss Thompson, isn't it?" Solo felt a delicate cold chill touch the back of his neck. "What does Captain Barnett want now?"

"Fancy you recognizing my voice! But it's nothing to do with him. It's me. I can do something for you."

"I can't imagine what."

"Let us not play games, Mr. Solo. I don't know what it was you said to Captain Barnett, but you really got him in a flap. He sent me home yesterday, early, and told me I was on indefinite leave, until further orders!"

"Sorry about that. I seem to have got you into trouble."

"Oh, that's all right." She made a tinkling laugh. "I'm not likely to say no to a spot of leave. But you're in trouble. Whatever it was you said—and I think I know—you won't get away with it, you know. The service is very hot on that kind of thing."

"What kind of thing?"

"Well, I don't think it's something I should mention on the phone, but if you could come and see me tonight, both of you, I think I can show you a way out so that nobody gets hurt."

Solo raised his brows and grinned at Kuryakin. Covering the mouthpiece, he said, "Do you get the same smell I do?"

"Walk into my parlor. Ask her how to get there." Solo relayed the query, and she gave them detailed instructions.

"I shall expect you about nine," she said blithely.

"We'll be there," Solo promised, and hung up. "By rights," he murmured, "we ought to inform our Miss Perrell."

"That's right. But we're not going to, are we? I mean, she might get hurt again!"

SEVEN

IT WAS a minute or two short of nine as they began climbing the shallow stone steps toward a row of very secluded villas. The whole area was upper class suburbia, and Solo frowned as they reached the top and struck a private road.

"Mr. Green must pay well," he said. "This area must come a bit high for a Wren's salary."

Kuryakin sniffed the rich odor of growing things, brushed the hedge that hid the villa gardens with his fingertips. "She may well be worth it, Napoleon, where she's placed. I imagine smugglers would give a lot to know just where the navy is at any given time."

"I was thinking along those same lines, Illya. Only Charles assured us, and so did Barnett, that this business wasn't connected with service matters. And if the stuff is coming in by cross channel ferry, the way we saw this morning—oh, I don't know, the more I think about this the more mixed up I get."

"This is it." Kuryakin halted by a gate which bore a rough wood panel painted in Gothic script, THE NEST. Solo caught a glimpse of light colored polish off to one side and hissed at his companion to follow as he crossed the grass to look. There, in the driveway, stood a car. They studied it carefully and with growing excitement.

"Well now," Solo murmured. "Either Miss Thompson can also afford to run a nice new Jag, or she has company."

"Maybe it's Mr. Green himself!" Kuryakin said, like one looking forward to a treat. "Or even the big cheese. That would be nice. Shall we go and see?" They returned to the door and pushed the illuminated bell button. A light came on beyond the half-glass door.

"You're punctual," cooed Miss Thompson, opening the door wide. "Just go straight in through that curtain."

Brushing the curtain aside had all the feel of tackling a short fuse bomb, but there was nothing explosive beyond, just a room. A lot of money had been spent on carpets, furnishings and decor but with little regard for taste. Solo eyed the geometric abstracts on the walls and the weird wire sculpture that mocked him from every ledge and made a face. Kuryakin sighed but kept his face straight. Over to their right was a massive couch. On the left to match it was a sideboard bearing a generous selection of bottles and glasses. Directly ahead, a door stood half-open, yielding a view of the kitchen. She brushed past them and turned.

"Make yourselves at home," she invited. "Just sit any where. I'm making coffee. Won't be a moment."

"You're very kind," Solo breathed, watched her disappear into the kitchen and then looked at his companion. "Did you see what I saw?"

"I think so. We seem to be destined to run into women with one idea in mind. I would say she was wearing even less than Miss Perrell!"

"And what will you bet she's playing the same cards, for the same reasons?"

"Dazzle and distract, and then—pow!" Kuryakin made a chopping gesture, and Solo grinned.

"Only, this time, somebody else will do the pow part." He lowered his voice to a barely audible murmur. "In the right hand wall, past the couch, is a door that could be a bed room. It'll bear watching."