The Splintered Sunglasses Affair - Leslie Peter (электронные книги без регистрации txt) 📗

"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.