The Corfu Affair - Phillifent John T. (серии книг читать бесплатно .txt) 📗

"For that, you should be in bed for a week, at least. If it is not convenient here, I can arrange an ambulance and hospital for you."

"That's all right. Just fix it so that I can travel. It will be cared for but I have a very important appointment to keep. Please?"

The doctor departed eventually and Kuryakin, while appreciating his professional skill, was glad to see the back of him. He needed time to think. The crisp memory of a grim, snarling and murderous face, dreadfully familiar, shook up all his preconceived ideas. He reached for his communicator, then stared at it a long while before putting it back in his pocket unused. That was out. He recalled the defection of Frank Stanton, and the total revision of communication methods that had made necessary. Now Solo had gone bad too, with all the inside information he had. Kuryakin set his jaw hard. All at once he felt very much alone.

But there were other channels. He screwed his head round stiffly, to stare at the telephone and think hard, in an attempt to remember the proper routine. Then he rose and limped round the bed to get at it. On the way he saw a dark slim object lying along the edge of the carpet, easy to miss if the light hadn't caught it just right. He kept his eyes on it as he settled on the bed again, lifted the telephone from its bracket and asked for a LOUVRE number. In a while there came to his ear a male voice in a bad mood. Yes, it agreed, this was the UNCLE Carpets and Furnishings Emporium and Wholesale Dealers, but there was no one present at such an hour except himself, the night watchman, and what else would anyone expect? Kuryakin wasn't put off. UNCLE Carpets was the front for U.N.C.L.E. Paris in just the same way that U.N.C.L.E. New York had an innocent front office.

"You will please inform M. Raymond Boncourt that his elderly and very impatient avuncular relative wishes urgently to speak with him. Il y a un situation tres desagreable." There was a click and a wait of approximately forty seconds, then a totally different voice asked, cautiously:

"Volga?"

"Right. Seine?"

"Oui! 'Allo, Illya. Why the round-the-houses approach, mon vieux?"

"Because all other channels are dangerous. Very dangerous. Leaking."

"Oh! All the other channels? You are positive?"

"Confirm. It is very bad. The little Corsican has turned his coat."

There came an audible gasp of shock. "Bleu! That is very bad. And very hard for me to believe."

"Me too. I got shot, twice, finding out. I am most probably dead right now."

"Comment? Oh. I comprehend. You need a funeral cortege, yes?"

"Nothing elaborate. Just get me out of here fast. I have to get this sad news to Greatuncle as quickly as possible. What about flight times?"

"A moment!" The voice went away, came promptly back. "A flight leaving Orly in thirty-five minutes. That suit you?"

"That will do very well. Now bring on your ambulance and carry the body away."

With that fixed he racked the telephone and went to pick up the odd object he had seen. As soon as his fingers touched it he knew what it was, and that Solo must have dropped it in the struggle. To the innocent eye it was no more than a propelling pencil with an eraser. But that eraser served as cover for a very fine lens, and the clip was the trigger that operated the camera up to a maximum of twenty exposures on a cunningly arranged roll of microfilm in the barrel of the pencil. Kuryakin slipped the pencil-camera into his pocket and pondered a while. Then he recalled the folded slip of paper that he had felt in his pocket, and groped for it. He unfolded it very carefully, because the paper was extremely thin and opened out into a fair sized sheet. It was an odd wiring diagram, not too well drawn, and at the first glance it didn't make much sense. Kuryakin scowled at it. There would be plenty of time, later, to puzzle out what it meant. His immediate problem was to account for its presence in his pocket.

A wild thought insisted on being present in his mind. Perhaps Solo had not dropped his pencil camera by accident—but deliberately. And had added this enigmatic diagram at the same time. But why? It was tempting to believe that Napoleon was somehow playing both sides against the middle and acting some peculiar part, but there could be no doubt at all about his recent invasion. That had been intended murder.

Back in the office of M. Lafarge, Solo reported his success with a confident grin.

"Nothing to it. He gave me a fight, sure. I expected that. He was one of their best men. But not any more."

"You are absolutely sure?" Lafarge insisted.

"I didn't hang about for a medical report, if that's what you want. But I shot him I was as close to him as I am to you now. He went down. I waited, outside, to see the doctor come, and go away again, shaking his head. And then the meat-wagon came, and went. And so did I. What more do you want? He's dead!"

"Very well!" Lafarge shrugged. "I suppose it is fortunate that you were here to spot him. But unfortunate that now we shall not do business with the Soviets. That would have been profitable. Alas. Now, about this other matter. For two days you will remain under cover. Then, it is all arranged, you will fly direct to Miami Base, which is in Coral Gables. There you will be met. You will collect one dozen more radio-modules. You will leave again, almost at once, but you will not return here. You will proceed direct to Corfu, to Madame la Comtesse herself. These are her instructions. You understand?"

Solo looked up from cleaning his pistol and snarled angrily. "You bet I understand. I already knew all that, Louis."

"But how could you? The orders are sealed, and private to me!"

"Never you mind how, but I know exactly what the Countess wants from me, at any time. I just know." And he put up a hand to stroke the top of his head.

The little man with the busy steam-press in Del Floria's had to look a second time, and grin, before he was sure that it was Illya Kuryakin. The golden straggle of moustache and beard was bad enough, to say nothing of the bulky jacket and hairy pants, but what put the topper on it was the rakishly askew circlet of white bandage around his head. The little man widened his grin, opened his mouth for a brisk comment, then met the glacial stare in those blue eyes and forgot entirely what he had intended to say. Instead, he manipulated the trap that released the robing room panel; and wondered in silence just what the hell Illya had run into this time?

A similar stifled twist of amusement showed on the lips of the pretty receptionist as she pinned a badge on Kuryakin's lapel.

"I'll tell Mr. Waverly you're on the way up," she said, and her finger was on its way to the intercom automatically until he stopped her.

"You won't," he said coldly, "use that. You won't do anything at all until you hear directly from Mr. Waverly, which will probably be by telephone. This is an emergency. The condition is black!"

He walked stiffly away from her, fighting the tendency to limp. His leg ached. His head hurt. But that was only the minor stuff. There was a fire in his mind that he could hardly wait to unload. For once in his uncertain career he had the dubious satisfaction of seeing Alexander Waverly completely surprised.

"Mr. Kuryakin! You should still be in Paris!"

"Let us hope that a certain interested group of people also think so, and believe that I am, permanently. Don't touch anything yet, sir. I have to report that Thrush has got Napoleon Solo. Alive!"