The Man from Yesterday Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  “That is the main house,” said the amber-skinned man, who had introduced himself as Mr. Chandra, steward of the estate. “Mr. Bal is there now. Miss Indra also.”

  The jeep shot ahead. Solo had a dim impression of a large, old gingerbread mansion, a leftover from Colonial times. With its several wings and floors, its turrets and gables and widow’s walk reminiscent of dead days when British lancers might have used the earth beneath the airstrip for a polo ground, it seemed grotesque and out-of-place.

  “Why aren’t we going directly to the house?” Solo wanted to know.

  Mr. Chandra replied, “The physicians are with Mr. Bal now, and will be for another half hour or so. They are making their nightly check. Accordingly, Miss Indra felt it would be more convenient if you got settled in the guest house. Then you can meet her at the big house at nine.”

  “If you say so.” Solo grumbled it, rather annoyed by this peculiar runaround.

  The main house and its lights dropped behind, difficult to see in detail in the steamy night darkness. Only a few lights lined the runway, and just one dim marker shone at the far end to indicate the approach. Their pilot had seemed unconcerned, but Solo hadn’t realized until they were on the ground what an unsafe landing it had been.

  MR. Chandra’s face settled into a fixed smile. His teeth shone whitely through his heavy beard. He cut the jeep toward the edge of the runway and bumped off along a rutted surface road. Heavy tropical trees closed in above them.

  Shortly the jeep pulled up in front of a thatch cottage set in a small clearing practically on the edge of the jungle. Across the cottage’s verandah, an old-fashioned hurricane lamp burned on a table in the front window.

  Mr. Chandra climbed out, apologizing: “Unfortunately the cottage is not electrified. But in every other respect, Miss Chandra trusts it will be satisfactory.”

  “We’re less worried about the accommodations,” said Illya, “and more concerned about Mr. Bal’s condition. How is he this evening?”

  Mr. Chandra pointed off toward one edge of the clearing. “By following that path---there, where the paving stones shine---you will arrive comfortably and safely at the main house. Good evening, gentlemen.”

  The bearded man executed a formal bow, left the porch and was soon back in the jeep, roaring back up the rutted road to the airstrip.

  “Goes by the book, doesn’t he?” Solo said as he stepped into the dim parlor with its single lamp, its mosquito netting over the windows, its fusty old Victorian furniture. “Mr. Bal could be in his last extremities, and probably Mr. Chandra would still bow and scrape and insist that everyone refresh themselves before doing anything about it.”

  During his irritated little speech he’d been looking around the cottage parlor, the lamp lifted in his right hand. Illya had proceeded through one of the doors opening off the parlor, the entrance to one of two bedrooms. Solo walked over to that doorway now, watched as Illya flung open the bedroom closet and dumped his small flight bag inside. The lamp cast weird, dancing shadows on the old wallpaper.

  Suddenly Solo froze.

  Turning from the closet, Illya lifted an eyebrow. “What’s wrong Napoleon?”

  “Stand still.”

  Illya didn’t get the point.

  “Did you run out of epithets for Mr. Chandra, or---?”

  Solo’s voice was a raw whisper. “Don’t move. Not three feet behind you---“

  “What is it?”

  Illya’s temple showed a muscle cording suddenly. Solo stared past his shoulder, watching for confirmation that he’d been right the first time.

  Yes, his eyes hadn’t played tricks. Up from behind the pillow on the side of the bed nearest Illya something moist-scaly was rising; rising in an ugly, beautiful vertical glide. There was a space-like head at the top of the rising body, and a long, ferocious tongue darting between the fangs.

  Solo stared at the thing rising from the bed clothing. He whispered:

  “Cobra.”

  Illya Kuryakin turned pale. But he didn’t turn around. He remained statue-stiff. “What shall I do?”

  “Hold that position.” Solo hardly dared to breathe the words. He took a slow, careful step to the rear. The cobra continued to rise, up to its full height now, swaying faintly. Its eyes shone.

  Carefully, so carefully his arm ached from the effort to go slow, Solo inched the lamp downward.

  Downward.

  It seemed to take forever.

  Finally the lamp’s bottom bumped against the top of the little deal table Solo had spied when he walked in. The cobra’s head darted a fraction of an inch. Its tongue and fangs were less than two feet behind the white back of Illya’s jacket.

  The cobra seemed to be moving itself forward, away from the pillows and across the coverlet, inching nearer to Illya every moment even though it remained vertical on the long column of its scaled body.

  Solo’s fingers ached with strain as he reached into the special pocket of his suit and caught the butt of his long-muzzled pistol.

  Illya continued to watch him. The muscle beat violently in his forehead. Night insects made a racket out in the jungle. Slowly, slowly, Solo closed his fingers around the gun butt and began to pull the weapon out of the long pocket.

  The forward sight snagged on the pocket lining. Solo had to twist to free it. The cobra’s fangs ran wet with venom. It seemed to shift forward another few inches. The tongue darted, darted toward Kuryakin’s back.

  “I’m going to count,” Solo breathed. “On three, hit the floor. Not until.”

  “Go ahead.” Illya Kuryakin managed superb muscular control, not moving.

  Solo watched the cobra as it slid forward another few inches. Its fangs dripped.

  “One.”

  Illya’s forehead wrenched as the muscle beat and beat.

  “Two.”

  Illya curled his fingers into his palms and dug his nails into the flesh as he fought for control.

  “Three!” Solo breathed, at the precise instant the cobra’s spade head shot forward.

  Illya dropped, making the floorboards rattle. The cobra struck empty air and launched itself off the bed. Solo knew he wouldn’t have a second chance. He triggered slowly. The pistol thundered.

  The cobra’s head dissolved in a sudden spray of scales and greasy gray matter. The reverberations of the gunshot went echoing away. Breathing hard, Illya picked himself up. He brushed off his hands, turned and stared in horror at all that remained of the snake: a headless, still-wriggling body.

  Solo shoved the pistol into his belt. He stripped a sheet off the bed, gingerly bent and picked up the cobra’s remains, wrapping them round and round with the sheeting material. Then he carried the sheet outside and flung the bundle into the forest. He came back into the parlor, loosening his tie.

  “Well, Illya, Mr. Chandra did say we should make ourselves comfortable. I wasn’t a bit comfortable with that snake’s corpse staring us in the face.”

  “Thank you for that shot,” Illya said, with a composure which belied the inward agitation he must be feeling. He glanced at the mussed bed. “Accident?”

  “Very likely not.” Solo’s eyes were grim. He headed out, picked up his bag. “Got to give Bal’s daughter credit. You can’t say she doesn’t arrange a lively welcome.”

  “Bal’s daughter couldn’t be responsible for---“

  “Of course not. Probably it was a little bird. A thrush. You find them in almost any climate, you know.”

  “So it seems,” Illya replied through the thin partition. “Well, let’s not keep Miss Bal waiting. Not when we have so much to tell her about the reception we received.”

  “I’d prefer not to tell her right away,” Solo called back from the next bedroom as he peeled off his jacket. “If someone here is working for THRUSH, they may begin to wonder what happened to the cobra. And they may let their guard slip to find out.”

  “I must say, Napoleon, I never knew you to be so anxious to protect the reputation of a snake.”

/>   “Anything, Illya, to find the human one. And I’ll bet a dollar there is one, too.”

  THREE

  Within half an hour the two agents had changed clothes and were on their way to the main house. Napoleon Solo wore slacks, a bleeding madras shirt and sandals. He felt much more comfortable in the steaming heat.

  Just before they reached the house, they saw a large black Cadillac pull away down the road which led off the property. In the distance two similar pairs of taillights receded like tiny red eyes, then vanished. The doctors had gone.

  Several servants were gathered in a silent, sullen group on the verandah. As Solo and Illya approached, Mr. Chandra appeared in the main doorway. He spied the loafers, clapped his hands and yelled at them in a singsong tongue. The servants scuttled off into the darkness.

  Chandra let them into the foyer, marble-floored and relatively cool. It was painted a cream color, with dark, high cabinets of mahogany ranged about the walls. A pair of Degas prints lent a touch of the West to the setting.

  “The servants gather every night for a report on Mr. Bal’s condition,” explained Chandra. “The lazy louts use the evening report as a pretext for neglecting their duties.”

  Mr. Chandra’s dark, shining eyes were unpleasant. Solo noticed that the man had extremely powerful hands, which he flexed a little as he walked toward closed double doors at one side of the foyer. “Miss Indra is here, gentlemen, in the library. Was everything in the cottage satisfactory?”

  “Most entertaining,” said Illya with a bland smile. Chandra gave him a sharp, puzzled look. Illya ignored him, levering open the double doors.

  The girl who strode forward from the white-painted mantel to greet them brought a whistle of breath to Solo’s lips. She was tall, splendidly turned out in a smart sleeveless Western frock of beige linen. The fabric’s light color contrasted dramatically with her clear amber skin. Her figure was exceptional, her face beautiful by any standard.

  Indra Bal had dark eyes and hair which was neatly caught into a bun at the back of her head by a smile, elegant ivory clip. She wore white pumps with low heels, and a simple, ivory bracelet on her left arm.

  “Mr. Solo---Mr. Kuryakin.”

  She extended her right hand.

  “I’m Napoleon Solo.” Suavely, he caught her fingers, felt their warmth. Her own smile was forced, though, and her beauty was spoiled by the shadows of fatigue beneath her eyes.

  Illya said: “We’re very pleased to be here, Miss Bal. We hope we can be of service.”

  Indra gave an absent little nod. “I hope you didn’t mind my not welcoming you personally. Uncle Mohandus has always prided himself on his excellent health. It is virtually a fetish with him, and on rare occasions when he has fallen ill, he has always insisted that no one except the immediate family be admitted to his room. Would you gentlemen care for something to drink? Tea? Sherry?”

  Solo spoke up promptly: “Sherry wouldn’t be bad.”

  “This way.”

  Indra led the way to a cabinet. Solo helped Indra with three glasses and the decanter. He had the uneasy feeling that she was holding her emotions tightly checked, and might be hovering in the edge of hysteria.

  After the sherry was poured Solo asked. “How is your uncle, Miss Bal?”

  “You will please call me Indra. I will use your first names also.”

  “Fine.” Illya said. “Has he shown any sign of improvement?”

  “No.” The girl spilled a little of the sherry on the front of her dress, brushed at it with a nervous motion. “Tonight, in fact, he is much worse. The physicians are unable to diagnose his illness. We have many such unfamiliar maladies in this part of the world. But his fever is growing so high that I really don’t know what to do. I’m really almost---“

  Quickly she covered her face, stifled the beginnings of a sob.

  “How many doctors are attending your uncle?” Illya asked.

  “Four,” Indra answered. “The best in Purjipur. But the medical resources of our state are not yet up to those of the Western world.

  She set her sherry aside, scanning their faces. There was courage in that glance, but Solo identified it as courage, that was crumbling away bit by bit.

  “Indra,” he said. “if you think the situation is really that serious, we should---“

  “My uncle will die unless he receives better diagnosis and treatment,” she said bleakly. “Tonight the local physicians admitted that they were at their wit’s end.”

  “Then I suggest we utilize the resources of the organization your uncle has served so well for so long,” Solo said. “I suggest we call our uncle in America.”

  He walked to the ornamental fireplace, turned. “How much does Mr. Bal tell you about our organization, Miss Indra?”

  “He does not violate security, if that is what you mean. Since I am his only relative, however, I have proper clearance to know something about his activities.”

  Illya coughed discreetly. “What Napoleon is getting at, Miss Indra, is this. Your uncle Mohandus, together with two other men in the organization---one of whom has already been murdered—are on the death list of a secret agent who works for the other side.”

  Indra shuddered. “Dantez Edmonds. That filthy man from THRUSH. Uncle Mohandus has told me.”

  “There’s no reason to believe the plagues in the Purjipur villages may be the work of Edmonds,” Solo said. Indra lifted her head sharply as he went on, “And your uncle’s illness may have been caused directly or indirectly by Edmonds as well.”

  “That is highly unlikely,” she said. “Uncle Mohandus hasn’t stirred from the house since he returned from the United States. His headquarters rooms on the third floor are steel-walled. And security here is rather tight.”

  Illya’s eyebrow went up again. “Security? What security?”

  “Every man on this estate who looks to be a servant---and there are some fifty of them---is actually one of my uncle’s agents.”

  Solo whistled. “U.N.C.L.E. operatives? Even I didn’t know that.”

  “In Asia,” Indra answered unevenly, “it is sometimes wise to work in rather devious ways.”

  “How about your steward?” Illya Kuryakin wanted to know.

  “Mr. Chandra? No, he is the only exception. But he’s been with Uncle Mohandus for years. He doesn’t know what Uncle Mohandus does in his third-floor quarters. He doesn’t know of the communications and computer equipment there. Mr. Chandra is never admitted to that part of the house. Indeed I’m sure he believes it’s merely a disused wing, because the entrance to the operations center is quite cleverly concealed. Architects and builders from you country remodeled the entire property to organization specifications when Uncle Mohandus retired from field work and took this executive post.”

  Napoleon Solo was tempted to make a comment about Indra Bal’s misplaced faith in the security of the jungle estate. A memory of the spade-headed cobra deviled him a moment. He thrust it aside, saying: “Then you don’t see any way in which Edmonds or THRUSH could have caused your uncle’s illness?”

  “None at all.”

  “There have been no attacks of monkeys?” Illya’s mouth wrinkled. “I know that sounds a bit ludicrous, but---“

  “I have been in the villages and seen the purple skins,” she whispered. “There is no need to apologize. But we’ve had no trouble like that here.”

  “The monkeys are the reason we think Edmonds is in Purjipur,” Solo explained. “But let’s take care of first problems first.”

  From his pocket he drew his rod-like communicator. He twisted the barrel until the calibrations lined up. The communicator emitted a low wheep-wheep. Solo spoke into one end.

  “Open Channel D, please. Priority clearance.”

  In a moment Mr. Waverly’s voice responded: “Mr. Solo! Glad to know you arrived safely.”

  “Mr. Bal is in extreme straits, sir. The local physicians can’t seem to do a thing for him.”

  “He’ll die without the proper help.” In
dra said. “Of that I am certain.”

  “Any evidence of the participation of---ah---the gentleman from the past, Mr. Solo?”

  “Not so far, sir,” Solo answered. Illya stared at the ceiling, ignoring the lie and probably thinking of the cobra. “I’m requesting assistance sir. Specifically, an U.N.C.L.E. hospital plane as quickly as possible. I want to fly Mr. Bal back to the states. We think his illness is coincidental with the troubles here. But whatever the cause, he’s in very serious condition, and needs the best attention he can get.”

  “One moment, Mr. Solo, please.”

  A tense silence held in the room until Waverly’s voice crackled out again: “We can have a hospital plane in there by this time tomorrow night. I hope it will be soon enough. The pilot will have all necessary instructions. Nonstop back to New York. I will arrange clinic facilities.”

  “Good sir. Thank you. Shall Kuryakin and I stay here?”

  “That would be advisable,” Waverly replied. “The matter of the plague monkeys still merits close attention.”

  “We’ll look into it,” Solo said. “Thank you, sir. Out now.”

  “And thank you both,” Indra Bal said with a low, husky voice when Solo had put the communicator away. There were tears in the corners of her eyes as she smoothed her skirt. “I’ve been very rude. Probably you’ve had no evening meal---“

  “Yes, we are a bit hungry,” Solo had decided it would be well to keep her mind on subjects other than her uncle.

  Indra rang a bell-pull. Mr. Chandra appeared at the doorway, inscrutable as ever. Indra ordered dinner. They had another glass of sherry while they waited.

  The house was stifling. Outside; through the open windows, insects rattled and chirped. Napoleon Solo struggled to make conversation and had trouble. Indra was nervous. She spoke mostly in monosyllables. Solo decided it was going to be a long twenty-four hours until the hospital plane arrived tomorrow night.

  Shortly they went into the large dining room for dinner. The rest of the evening passed without incident. Solo and Illya retired to the cottage a little after midnight, somewhat uncertain as to what their next move should be.

  Nature took care of that, in the form of a blistering, roaring tropical rainstorm which lashed out of the sky at dawn. The storm continued on throughout the day into the evening hours, and made the possibility that the hospital plane could land extremely unlikely.