The Stone-­Cold Dead in the Market Affair - Oram John (версия книг .TXT) 📗

He sat down, accepted a coffee, and proceeded to load a brier with dark flake tobacco.

He said, "Thanks for the tip, Mr. Solo. I've heard about you, though, of course, you U.N.C.L.E. people normally work with the Special Branch. I don't know what job you're on now, and I'm asking no questions. That's S.B. business. If you want our assistance, you know you'll get it. But hit-and-run driving is definitely in my province, especially when there's a suspicion of cold-blooded murder."

"You think Bambini killed Price Hughes?"

"I think nothing, Mr. Solo. I go on evidence. A great deal is going to depend on what we find in the garage. W do know that the stain on the material you sent to us by Mr. Gold has been confirmed to be human blood, but the fact that you found it in the trunk of a car known to have been driven by Bambini is no proof that he had anything to do with it."

He pushed his chair back and stood up. "And now, if the young lady will excuse us, we could make a move."

Blodwen said, "Don't wait for the bill. I'll see to it. If you happen to need me I'll be back at the hotel."

Solly Gold looked pessimistically at the inspector. "I suppose there's no chance I'll be invited along for the ride?"

"You know better than that, Mr. Gold."

"Yes, I know. It's the story of my life."

Illya, Solo and the inspector left the restaurant together. A police car dropped them in Stephen Street and they completed the journey on foot.

A man in a shabby suit and cloth cap emerged from the shadow at the entrance to the mews. Jevons asked him, "Anything moving?"

"All quiet," he replied. "The car's in the garage and the place above is in darkness. Nobody's been near it."

"Thank you, Sergeant. Keep your eyes open."

"Yes, sir."

The lock on the garage door turned easily to Solo's key. The three men entered and Solo switched on his flashlight. The beam danced over the Humber's trunk and came to rest on the bumper.

The inspector crouched and examined the gap in the row of emblems. He ran a finger over the short tongue of metal on the twisted bracket. Then he took another emblem from his pocket and tried it against the fracture. The irregular edges of emblem and tongue fitted exactly.

"That clinches it," Jevons said. "This was the car that killed the motorcyclist. This emblem was found only a few feet from the body." He straightened and pointed to the near fender. "Somebody's been doing some respraying, too, and the job's been done in a hurry."

They shut the garage and went back to the plainclothesman on the corner. Jevons told him, "If Bambini shows up, grab him and bring him in. I want him for questioning in connection with the hit-and-run on Hampstead Heath. Have you got assistance?"

"Yes, sir. Two constables." He indicated where they were posted in the darkness.

"Good. Well, don't take chances. You know Bambini. He's sure to be carrying a knife. But get him, Sergeant. I want him badly."

"He won't get away," the sergeant promised.

The police car snaked through the thick traffic in Tottenham Court Road, heading back to New Scotland Yard. Jevons, sitting beside the driver, spoke into the radio-telephone. Solo gathered that he was talking to his superintendent at headquarters.

The car cut down Northumberland Avenue and on to the Embankment, where the lights on the South Bank were reflected in dancing patterns on the black waters of the Thames. It turned in through the gates within a stone's throw of Westminster Bridge and the driver drew it smoothly to a halt.

The inspector led the way to his office on the second floor of the Yard building. It was a cubby-hole of a room, painted in a depressing shade of green. It contained a battery of green steel filing cabinets, several straight-backed chairs and a brown, government-issue table that held three telephones. The only wall decorations were an electric clock and a calendar which showed an improbable English village.

Jevons indicated a couple of chairs. He said, "Make yourselves comfortable — if you can. I'll have to leave you for a couple of minutes while I have a word with my chief. Smoke, if you want to."

He returned five minutes later. Behind him came a uniformed policeman carrying a tray with three thick mugs of canteen tea.

Jevons said, "I'm sorry we can't manage anything stronger. The wheels of crime are lubricated with this stuff. We drink gallons of it, day and night."

Illya tasted it. It was scalding hot and had a flavor reminiscent of tanning solution. He said, "It's excellent," and put the mug carefully on the floor beside his chair.

"An all-station call has gone out for Bambini," the inspector said. "By this time there are C.I.D. men and uniformed patrols combing every dive in the West End. If he's in London we'll find him. It may take a bit longer if he's got out of town, but we'll get him in the end. Now, all we can do is wait."

"You've tried the Gloriana, of course?" Solo asked.

"First port of call," Jevons assured him. "Not a sign of him. But we've got one man inside the building and two men in Newport Street, covering the place in case he shows up."

"Have your people talked to Anna or Dancer?"

"No. We don't want to alarm them at this stage. Not till we've talked to Bambini. We've no evidence that either of them is involved."

Illya asked, "Is there anything that we can do to help?"

"Not a thing," Jevons said. "I would suggest that you go back to the Savoy and catch some sleep. I'll call you as soon as there is anything to report."

They turned out of the big gates and walked slowly back along the Embankment toward Charing Cross Underground Station. The illuminated sign above the entrance showed that the trains were still running.

A cab came cruising from the direction of Hungerford Bridge and Solo hailed it.

Illya protested, "We don't need a taxi. We're only a few steps from the hotel."

"We're not going to the hotel," Solo said. "We've got a lead the police don't know about. I've got a hunch that our little chum Merle knows more about Bambini than she's told us. Let's go."

The door of the house in Berwick Street was standing ajar. They pushed it open and went up the stairs to the first floor. A twenty-five watt lamp burned on the landing in front of Merle's door. Solo pressed the bell and a shrill yapping came from inside the apartment.

"That sounds like Blodwen's poodle," Illya said. "What is she doing here?"

"Probably had the same idea we did," Solo replied. He pressed the bell again. The yapping redoubled, but the door remained closed.

"What's going on in there?" Illya said. "Why don't they answer?"

"I don't know," said Solo. "But I'm going to find out."

He took a strip of celluloid from his pocket, eased it into the jamb of the door and ran it down toward the Yale lock. He pushed and the door opened. The little dog, yapping hysterically, burst out onto the landing. Illya managed to catch her before she bolted down the stairs.

Solo called, "Blodwen! Merle!"

The sound echoed through the apartment.

They went into the living room. A pink-shaded standard lamp bathed the room in an intimate glow. There was no sign of Blodwen, but Merle was sitting in an armchair facing the door. Her lips were drawn back from her teeth in the caricature of a smile. Her eyes stared at them stonily. A knife was buried to the hilt in her half-naked left breast. She was very, very dead.