by John Oram
He wore nicely shabby grey tweeds and a regimental tie. The sandblasted brier looked like a permanent fixture in his mouth. His shoulders were wide and square. Given a tin hat and a pair of binoculars he was a natural for a trench coat ad. Mike wondered what he was doing in the wilds of Seeland.
The major's voice was curiously gentle.
"I had a feeling you had overestimated the time," he greeted Mike cheerily. "Well, that's all to the good. Gives us more time to chat, what?"
A few minutes' walk brought them to a side road which led straight towards the beech forest. They strode along the path through the great trees and came suddenly to a pair of massive wrought-iron gates, beyond which a drive wound through banks of well-kept shrubs. The bushes gave Mike a hemmed-in feeling. The light had taken on a greenish tinge and there was a dank taste of rotting leaves in the air. After awhile they came into the open again. Around about them was a stretch of park land fringed with trees, and right ahead was the Rodehus. The major stopped to let Mike catch his breath and admire the place.
It was a low, rambling house built in the traditional Danish L-shape but looking as if successive generations had kept adding a shingle here and there and tacking on another room for the unexpected guest. The walls were pink-washed and the windows were flanked by open shutters in a deeper red that matched the roof tiles. A Rolls-Royce could have been driven through the main doors without scratching the paintwork. A velvet lawn swept down to meet the parkland...
They went in by the main entrance and found themselves in a large square hall with a black and white stone flagged floor like a checkerboard. Logs were burning in a fireplace large enough to roast an ox. The flames danced on suits of armor and trophies of arms which decorated the walls. A broad staircase carpeted in purple rose to the first floor and at its head there was a life-size oil painting of a woman in Elizabethan dress. It was more like an English castle then a Danish country manor.
"Here we are," said the major. "And before we get down to business I think a drink is indicated. Come into the library."
The library was darker than the hall. There was a nice smell of old leather and good tobacco. The main furnishings were easy chairs, a long chesterfield and a massive table-desk. Books covered most of the walls and the rest of the space was occupied by sporting prints.
"Make yourself comfortable," said the major, indicating the chesterfield drawn up by the fire. He pressed the bell and a second or two later a thickset, surly man appeared in the doorway. He was dressed like a butler but he had ex-pug written all over his cauliflower ears and battered nose. His hands matched his face, with the knuckles pushed back halfway up his wrists.
"You rang, sir?"
"Whiskey, Charles," said the major.
"I don't want to be awkward," Mike said, "but if it's all the same to you I'll take beer. It's a bit early for the hard stuff."
"Very wise," the major agreed. "Bring some lager, Charles."
The butler brought the drinks, set them on a table and went out, closing the door carefully behind him.
The major poured himself almost half a tumbler of straight Scotch, said "Cheers!" and tossed it down without a blink. He refilled the glass and stood with his back to the fire, looking at Mike thoughtfully.
Suddenly he said, "And now—touching on Norah Bland...."
Mike was so surprised that he almost dropped his beer. To gain time he took a long drink.
Then he repeated slowly, "Bland? Norah Bland? Should I know her?"
"You should," the major said. "You spent a great deal of last night with her." He was smiling coldly. The affable squire manner had dropped from him and his yellow eyes were like agates.
Mike sighed. "Nothing like that ever happens to me. You must be thinking of two other people."
The major shook his head, still smiling thinly. "It won't do, Stanning. Let me refresh your memory. You met Miss Bland on the plane from London. You met her again yesterday afternoon and the two of you were together until early this morning. You took her to dinner at The Seven Nations and then for a drink at The Linden Tree —"
Mike said, "Just supposing you happen to be right, which I don't admit, what in hell has it got to do with you?"
He shrugged. "I thought you ought to know that she is dead."
Something cold clutched at Mike's insides. He remembered honest brown eyes under curled lashes, heard the husky voice saying, "We have so little time." He forgot his act and muttered stupidly, "Norah...dead?...How?"
The major drank again, watching him. At last he said: "After she left you she was in...an accident."
"I don't believe it. It's impossible."
He spread his hands. "That's how it goes, old man." He walked over to the desk and unlocked a drawer. "Somebody always draws the last card." He opened the drawer and rested his hand inside. "But before she died," he continued more slowly, "she handed you a sealed packet."
"So?"
His hand came up, gripping a 9mm Luger pistol. "So I want it," he snapped.
The sight of the gun acted like a cold shower. Mike came out of his trance.
"Put that thing away," he said. "It doesn't scare me. I'm damned if I know what you're talking about, anyway. Norah gave me no packet."
"She gave it to you—sometime during the night. Hand it over quickly, please."
Mike kept his eyes on the gun pointed unwaveringly at his middle. He said, "Don't be childish. Suppose you squirt that thing—how do you expect to get away with it? The hotel clerk and the switchboard girl know you phoned me this morning, and I left her number with the desk when I started out. Even a country copper couldn't fail to add it up if I disappear."
"You're not going to disappear," said the major. "I was explaining the mechanism of the pistol to you and forgot the shell in the chamber. Don't you ever read inquest reports? I can only hope that in your case the necessity for such an interesting ceremony will not arise."
Mike forced a grin. "You've got it all figured out, but it won't get you anyplace. The package is tucked safely away, miles from here."
"You underrate my intelligence. You were followed all morning and your room was searched as soon as you had left to come here. The package is not there, and since you have not been near a post office you must have it with you. For the last time, hand it over."
Mike picked up his glass of beer. "You've been seeing too many movies and they've gone to your head. For some reason you saw fit to put a tail on Norah and me and you seem to be pretty well acquainted with our movements. But about the packet you're all wet. Well, if it amuses you, all right. But you've played cops and robbers with me long enough. Now I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to finish this drink and then I'm going to walk out of here. And if I've got the packet—as you seem to think—it goes out with me."
He raised the glass and drank. His nonchalance would have delighted a charm-school instructress. It had the reverse effect on the major. He swung from behind the desk and came at him, the gun stuck out threateningly.
That was what Mike had played for. As Garbridge came within range he jerked the glass straight into his face. The major's right hand went up instinctively, and in the same instant Mike kicked him right where it would do the most good. Garbridge screamed, dropped the Luger and fell to the carpet, moaning. His face was grayer than his hair. In his football days Mike had been known as a useful place-kicker. And he wanted that gun.
Footsteps pounded across the hall and Charles crashed through the door. He looked down at his boss and cursed.
Mike beckoned him with the Luger. "Get those hands up and stand by the wall," he ordered. "Now listen:
"I'm a peaceful kind of guy, and when a man invites me to have to drink I don't expect him to pump lead into me by way of an appetizer. It upsets my digestion, and when that happens I tend to get more than a little restive. I will be glad if you will explain that to the major when he is in a mood to listen.
"You can tell him, too, that something stinks around this joint. I
don't know what it is, but I intend to find out."
Charles scowled.
"Fine!" Mike scowled back, just to show him he had no monopoly. "One last point. Your boss tells me a friend of mine died today. It occurs to me that maybe she was murdered." The butler's piggy eyes flickered. "It occurs to me further," Mike went on, "that you may have had a hand in it. If that proves to be the case I want you to know that I intend to blast hell out of you with nice filed bullets out of this self-same gun. You'll need a bath tub to plug the hole."
"So 'elp me God..."
"I hope so," Mike agreed piously. "Meanwhile, turn your face to the wall."
Charles shuffled around apprehensively and Mike brought the barrel of the Luger sharply down on his skull. He crumpled without a murmur.
Mike tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers, went into the hall and locked the library door on the outside.
He was not frightened but he was far from happy. He could see that as soon as he left the Rodehus he was in a spot. He had ruined the major for horseback riding for quite some time and assaulted his butler with a lethal weapon for which he had no permit. Garbridge had only to telephone the local police and Mike would have plenty of explaining to do. He could not imagine any rural policeman swallowing the story he had to tell, and he had no witnesses.
On top of mayhem and battery and carrying concealed weapons he still had that package, which might contain anything from heroin to a packet of safety pins. Judging from the major's anxiety to get his fingers on it, he didn't think it would turn out to be the latter.
He listened. There was no sign of movement in the house. If the major had other servants they had obviously been trained to mind their own business. He took out the girl's parting gift, broke the seals and tore off the paper, revealing a plain brown cardboard box and a folded note.
He looked in the box first. All it contained was an unopened pack of Danish cigarettes. He tipped it into his palm and examined it closely. It was a standard brand and the cellophane wrapper was intact. He swore softly and turned his attention to the note.
That gave him another shock. It was from Norah Bland and it was addressed to him.
Mike,
If you read this it means that I haven't shown up to collect the enclosed which, when we get out of here, I'm going to ask you to hold for me. Don't fool with the cigarettes. Take them personally to U.N.C.L.E. offices, New York—and don't let a soul know you have them. If you're broke, borrow transportation. But for God's sake don't lose a minute. Get going, Mike. And good luck.
Mike's eyes were giving him trouble by the time he had finished reading. It began to look as if Norah had anticipated becoming a casualty. He remembered the sadness that had been in her eyes even while he had held her close in the taxi.
He wondered when she had found time to write the note. He was fairly certain the doorman in the Linden Tree had slipped the package to her. Then he remembered that before leaving the club she had gone to powder her nose and had taken more time than had seemed necessary.
He stood for a minute, holding the note and thinking. Then he stuffed the note and box back into his pocket, listened briefly for sounds beyond the library door, and made for the main exit.
Darkness had fallen and he knew he would have considerable difficulty in finding his way back to the highway. He cut diagonally across the lawn and on to the shrub-lined lower drive. It was comparatively easy going there. The problem would be to find the path that led through the beech wood. He wished he had a pocket flashlight.
The entrance gates were still open. As he passed through them he heard voices, and, turning briefly, he saw lights somewhere on the park land. Evidently the major had recovered from his indisposition.
The first fringe of beeches loomed ahead. Mike plunged in among the great trees, running blindly. He had no hope now of finding the path; his one thought was to put as much distance as he could between himself and his pursuers. He had no illusion about what would happen if he fell into the major's hands again.
Low branches whipped at his face as he stumbled along and he felt the salt taste of blood in his mouth. Once he fell, and the sharp pain that stabbed at his ankle made him cry out. He limped on desperately, and then suddenly was on the highway.
Car headlights blazed in his face. He heard a girl call, "Stanning! Here!"
He found the open car door and fell into the seat beside the driver. The motor accelerated smoothly.
The same voice said, "Now, soon, friend Mike, you shall buy the drink you promised me in the Linden Tree."
It was the girl with the red hair.
CHAPTER THREE
Napoleon Solo and Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin entered Del Floria's tailoring shop together. The old man looked up, smiled fleetingly and pushed a small button at the side of his pressing machine.
The two men walked into the third of the "try-on" cubicles at the rear of the shop. Solo drew the curtain while Illya turned the hook on the back wall. The wall swung open and they walked through to the agents' admissions desk of U.N.C.L.E. The girl on the desk had watched their progress on her closed-circuit television screen. She had the two white badges ready to pin to their lapels. A chemical on her fingers set up a reaction in each badge as she pinned it into place.
It is one of the safeguards of the U.N.C.L.E. setup that any person passing through certain areas of the building will trip an alarm unless he is wearing a badge that has been properly activated. On every desk in the building a small red light begins to flash and a signal is heard beating in a repeating tempo of alarm. Steel doors slide shut throughout the enclave, forming self-contained cells in which to trap the intruder. Therefore it is highly...uncomfortable...to stray from the prescribed limits within one's badge is valid.
White badge territory is the third floor. Here are the Policy and Operations offices, interrogation rooms, the armory, and the cubicles occupied by the enforcement agents, the elite of the organization, during their infrequent visits to the home base.
Here, too, is the office of Alexander Waverly, one of the five men of different nationalities who comprise the Policy department of U.N.C.L.E.'s Section I. The only window in the entire U.N.C.L.E. fortress is in Waverly's office. It lends itself to a panoramic view of the East River with the United Nations building centered in the frame. It is not known how Waverly enters or leaves his office. He is either there or not there. Some say there is a fifth entrance to the building reserved for the five Policy directors alone. If there is, nobody has ever found it.
Waverly is a lean, dry, pedantic man in his early fifties. He looks and talks like a university professor of the old school. He wears seedy tweed jackets with leather-patched arms, baggy flannel trousers and much-darned sweaters. While he talks he handles pipes incessantly, but has never been seen to smoke one.
In discussions with his enforcement agents he could be lecturing backward students. He talks around points, hesitating, pausing and often "harrumphing" when he comes to a name. Sometimes he will appear even to forget the name of the man he is talking with. There are many things he appears to forget. Somehow, none of them are important. He may forget the name of an agent, but won't forget the dangers of the situation into which he is sending him. He may seem to be understating the assignment—but will have analyzed every aspect very thoroughly before selecting the right man or woman for the job.
* * *
When Solo and Illya Kuryakin walked into his office Waverly was seated alone at the great teak revolving table shaped like a hollow O. Without speaking he motioned them to chairs. Then he flipped a switch and spoke briefly into an inter-office transmitter.
The red-haired girl came into the room with Mike Stanning. She was no longer in the worn black turtleneck and trousers. She wore a brown deerskin jacket, a Danish ski-sweater in bright colored wools and white non-stretch slacks. Her feet were shod in light brogues that looked hand-made.
Waverly did not get up to greet her. He asked, "Well, Karen?"
The gir
l said, "I don't know that I can add anything to my report. Except that he can keep his mouth shut. I've worked on him all the way from Copenhagen. Nothing. Nothing at all."
"Good!"
There was silence for a moment. Then Mr. Waverly said, "All right, Mr. Stanning. Wait in the next room, will you? There are one or two things I want to discuss with these people."
Mike's long-tried patience gave way.
"Look, what the hell's going on?" he burst out. "Who are you? I am a businessman and I ought to be in London. Instead of that I've been shanghaied to New York in an army bomber without even being allowed to make a phone call to my boss. For all I know I'm out of the job already. I've got a right to know what it's all about."
"You have, indeed, my dear fellow." Mr. Waverly stood up and ushered him to the door. "And so you shall...in just a few moments." He opened the door with old-world courtesy but shut it as firmly as a jailer.
Mike sat down in the small anteroom and began to turn the pages of the magazine he found on the table. It would have made more sense if it had not been printed in Russian. Still, the pictures were interesting.
Karen put her head around the door. "You can come back now."
The party had rearranged itself in his absence. Waverly was still in the same chair but now Solo and Illya sat on either side of him. Karen took her place beside Solo. She lit a torpedo-shaped cigar that looked as out of place as a hayfork in the hand of Venus.
Waverly went straight to the point. "The girl you knew as Norah Bland gave you a packet to bring to me," he told Mike.
"Yes."
"You have it with you?"
Mike took the package from his breast pocket and put it on the table. The teak circle revolved smoothly, bringing the white-wrapped package to Waverly's hand. He said, "Have you any idea what is in it?"
"A pack of North State cigarettes."
