17-The Hollow Crown Affair

by David McDaniel

  "You forgot to say hold your ears that last time," Illya said. "If I lose my perfect pitch you'll be responsible."

  "Sorry about that," said Napoleon sincerely. "But I thought you'd expect me to act on your directions at once."

  "We'll let it go. I think both rounds made it into the fuel supply. I just hope there's enough of that damned thing left to analyze."

  Sirens were wailing in the distance, drawing nearer, as they turned back into the tailor's shop, dragging the still-smoking anti-tank gun. "The fuzz are coming, Del," said Napoleon. "We can leave the explanations up to you—dealing with curious people is your specialty."

  "Thanks loads," said Del Floria, as the two top agents disappeared into the second fitting booth, leaving the 75-mm recoilless in the middle of his floor. This would have to be a good one.

  * * *

  Inner Reception Station Three, back on post, ordered them to detour by way of Emergency Medical before they went in to see Alexander Waverly. Both were pronounced fit, given two salt tablets for shock and a small tranquilizer on general principles, and sent on their way.

  Waverly was on the telephone as they entered.

  "Of course, John. I quite understand your objection to the anti-tank shells. But we have good reason to believe several square blocks were saved from destruction or severe damage, and a few shattered windows seems a small price to pay...Yes, certainly we'll accept financial responsibility but I must request that City lawyers be found to represent our defense...Please accept my most sincere apologies for the incident, but you must understand that circumstances dictated our action. Certainly. Very well. Thank you." He replaced the handset and glared at Napoleon as if he were personally responsible.

  "I request your help, Mr. Solo," he said, "in deciding what to tell the police to tell the press to tell several thousand individuals who were direct or indirect witnesses to your recent military action on East Fifty-Fourth Street."

  Napoleon Solo cleared his throat and shifted his weight. "Ah, well, sir, it—ah—seemed like a good idea at the time, sir..."

  Illya explained in a few thousand well-chosen words the way they had analyzed the situation and elected to take action. He claimed shared responsibility with Napoleon and described in grisly detail the probable results of continued bombardment with properly attuned infrasonics. When he paused, Waverly said, "Well, Mr. Solo?"

  "Ah, right, sir," said Napoleon. "What he just said."

  "Hm. Very well. I'll have that paraphrased into an acceptable statement and slip it into channels. By the time it gets out no one will be able to recognize it anyhow. One other item which will brighten your day," he added after a pause. "The pulse transmitter embedded in Baldwin's stick has failed to send its last two scheduled signals."

  "But it was guaranteed for six months," said Illya.

  "It was also guaranteed undetectable," said Waverly. "I fear we have underestimated Ward Baldwin."

  Napoleon nodded. "I thought it'd be good for a week at least. Where was it last heard from?"

  Waverly sighed. "The Oyster Bar—in Grand Central Station." His fingertips drummed for a moment on the arm of his black leather chair. "I think we can take this for tentative validation of part of Baldwin's story, at any rate. Uncommonly overt action is being taken against us." He picked up a film cartridge and inserted it into a slot on the side of the desk. The room lights dimmed and a slightly fuzzy picture sprang up in blues and grays, bearing a title and code number.

  "Right," said Napoleon. "That was just before we got the color VTR."

  They watched after that in silence for three or four minutes while distorted radio voices exchanged pre-firing data and orders and the countdown marched away to nothing. At zero the screen flared suddenly white for a long moment before the seared vidicon tube and spasmed circuitry began to recover. Out of the blind gray of stunned photoconductors a picture formed again—the figure of a man sprawled across the breech of the monstrous, coiled gun which now burned with a flickering dull flame and black smoke. As horns and buzzers sounded on the audio, Waverly reached over and stopped the film, shifting it to rewind.

  Only when the lights were all up did he speak, and his voice was bitter. "There it was. Simplest thing in the world, of course. Give us something sudden we don't understand—the flare of light—and follow it immediately with something we do. We forgot the first incident completely." He sucked on his pipe and made a face.

  Neither Napoleon nor Illya said a word for four minutes while Alexander Waverly cleaned his pipe in a total concentration that even forbade the telephone to ring.

  At last he finished and stuffed it about half full of the mixture from the humidor at the back of his desk. When he had it glowing to his satisfaction, he allowed a faint cloud of blue smoke to rise as he spoke slowly.

  "Let us suppose," he said, "that some time in 1964 Joseph King found or was supplied with an individual of little value to him save that his general physical condition, scars, build and dimensions were nearly identical to his own. Almost certainly with the help of Thrush, who were known to be experimenting with cryogenic methods of preservation even then, he killed this man with a precisely measured and directed burst of radio energy, and took steps to freeze the body moments after this had been done. He then carefully arranged his own apparent demise and during the moment of our blindness he switched the prepared and frozen body into his own place and departed by some prearranged route. A jeep could have removed him from the site, given King's knowledge of our security system, if it were waiting just outside the danger area. King had portable shielding there; he could have ducked behind it and gotten out the door without coming into range of the camera again."

  There was a moment's silence. Napoleon said, "You found out something else."

  "As a matter of fact I did. While you were out disturbing the peace and destroying city property, I took advantage of the lull to investigate Mr. King's personal data sheet." He gestured toward the table with his pipe. "I opened it and developed the paper for latent fingerprints." He drew on the pipe again and let a plume of smoke curl towards the air intake.

  "Then, when you were being repaired after your exploits, I called for and received the file of Carol Robinson, the only person authorized to handle the data records before they were sealed in plastic in 1961. The fingerprints," he said, "do not match. In any respect."

  Illya was the first to say something. "King was Lab Chief. He had unlimited access to any part of the building, any time. He could have..."

  "... Counterfeited a whole data packet," Napoleon finished the sentence for him. "Including sealing it in plastic and slipping it into his own file."

  "Which means the fingerprints just found on the paper are almost certainly those of Joseph King himself," said Waverly. "The computer is presently checking them against the rest of our file, but another answer seems unlikely."

  "But if he was frozen," said Napoleon, "why didn't the Bertillion measurements check out exactly?"

  Illya answered that. "I'm reasonably certain King didn't know the Bertillion code. He had odd gaps in his knowledge. Mr. Simpson, now, not only knows it, he has discovered some interesting correlations. No, I have another question entirely. The body was warm when we found it three minutes after the supposed accident—but there wasn't the least sign of decay or cellular damage. He must have been quick-frozen, but how could he have been thawed..." His speech faltered as a delayed connection was made.

  Napoleon said chidingly, "Even I know the answer to that one. Do you want to retract your question? He was quick-thawed and cooked by the same burst."

  "I wish you hadn't said that," said Illya.

  After a pause, Napoleon said slowly, "So do I."

  Chapter 3: "Where Would You Go If You Were Homesick For 1890?"

  For three weeks following their three-minute war, Napoleon and Illya spent the days sitting around the commissary and various offices, engaged in low priority research or flirting as their tastes differed, and playing endless games o
f Superghosts or Botticelli. The former had precedence the Tuesday afternoon as they sat in the nearly-deserted lunch area on the second floor.

  "K," said Napoleon.

  "N, before," said Illya.

  "S, after," answered Napoleon. "N, K, S."

  Illya considered for a moment and said cagily, "T. After."

  Napoleon studied his cup of coffee. "N, K, S, T." He tapped idly on the table with an unoccupied fingertip. "I think you're bluffing. I'll challenge."

  "Inkstand," said the Russian. "G."

  A concealed speaker mentioned their names softly and invited them to Waverly's office. Napoleon finished his coffee, crumpled the cup and lobbed it into a trash bin as he rose. "N, after. I wonder if the All Points Alert has finally paid off."

  "You sound as if you didn't think we could find Baldwin."

  "Do I? More like I'd almost rather we couldn't. Even if he is the key to this whole silly business. Until we straighten out his political situation we'll be in trouble." He frowned as they stepped into the elevator. "What are we doing in the middle of their politics, anyway? We're supposed to be their enemy."

  "Enemies are usually in the middle of each others' politics," Illya said. "In fact from time to time I get the impression that if we didn't have enemies we wouldn't need politics at all. And by the way, I'm not going to add a U, nor am I going to fall for a polyconsonantal trap. Your language is mostly vowels. Add an I."

  "Then I'll put another I on the front," said Napoleon, after a pause. The elevator door slid open.

  "Add a T on the end," said Illya. "Do you want to concede now or think about it for a while?"

  Napoleon stopped at the entrance to Waverly's office and scowled. "Not a chance. L at the beginning, and I think I've got you," he said, and tripped the door.

  Their chief was seated at the master communications consol with a slim silver microphone in his hand, listening to a report from Santiago. He made his recommendations while Solo and Kuryakin took their usual places at the table, then broke the connection and turned his chair to face them.

  "Our Department of Useless Information has come up with one of the most tentative leads on record," he said. "If you feel it is worth anything, you may follow it up until something more promising comes in."

  "What is it, sir?"

  Waverly tossed a neatly printed eight-by-five brochure on the table and turned it towards them. "Cape May, New Jersey, is in the midst of a program that could not exactly be called urban renewal—under the direction of a local home-owner's association they are gradually restoring the town as a Victorian era beach resort. It seemed like the sort of thing that might attract Ward Baldwin, especially as the area is one of the least traveled and least-modernized parts of the Atlantic seaboard."

  "We're at the height of the tourist season," said Illya non-committally. "Would Baldwin be likely to go to a resort area?"

  "This one he might," said Napoleon. "Have you ever heard of it?"

  "Only by geographical reference. It's the south tip of New Jersey."

  "Neither have I, which means it is what the travel folders call 'undiscovered'. Baldwin would make it his business to know about it, especially if it's all Victorian."

  "But a beach resort? I can't quite see Baldwin sunning himself on the public sands."

  "I can," said Napoleon with a glazed look in his eyes. "He wears a blue-and-white striped bathing costume with a shirt..."

  * * *

  After the poisonous stenches of Newark and Elizabeth thinned to a colorless haze on the horizon and the bulk of the traffic dispersed into the tangled access ramps of Interstate 95, the Garden State Parkway ran wide and level southward. Glimpses of the sea flashed in the mid-morning sun far off to the left, and open farmlands rolled away through untainted air. The road narrowed by stages to two lanes in each direction with seventy and more feet of grass between and occasional neat stands of timber, and in time clumps of lank salt grass stood like clusters of green bayonets here and there along the shoulders.

  It was quite definitely past time for lunch when Napoleon came off the end of the Parkway and followed the direction of a sign which said CAPE MAY 2. The low-slung car he drove bumped over the hump of a tiny drawbridge, and his attention was called to the hour by the sign of the Poseidon Grill, standing with an inviting open parking lot off the road to his left. Without hesitation he tapped the signal lever and swung the wheel over. He could face his uncertain search for Ward Baldwin better on a full stomach, and he could consider specific direction of investigations while he ate.

  Mixed seafood platters are a considered risk in the best places. Here the entr�e consisted of one shrimp, two scallops, a tuna cake, a plain fishcake and a square of sole, each in a soggy brown wrapper. The roll was tough enough to bounce and the cherry cheesecake was beyond description. Napoleon began to wonder if Ward Baldwin was really likely to be in this improbable corner of the world. He'd give it no more than two days.

  He decided to let fortune carry him for a while and look around more or less at random. His first stop was in the heart of the three-block business district to pick up a map of hotels and motels—he'd have to show Baldwin's picture to every room clerk in town, more than likely. And that was too much like work. Illya liked leg-work; a pity he'd decided to stick around the office in case something else came in.

  Maybe he could break it up a little. He took the first ten motels and spent three hours covering them, then put the candid portrait back into the glove compartment and returned to the middle of town.

  It lacked fifteen minutes of six as he strolled idly into the store-front Town History Museum on Washington Street. The proprietor looked up through rimless glasses and said, "We're closing in quarter-hour."

  "Oh, I'm just passing through," said Napoleon. "Like to take a look around." He thought of the photograph back in the car, and decided he could ask the gentleman here about Baldwin tomorrow. He would expect Baldwin to spend some time here, if he had been drawn to the area at all.

  He wandered among glass cases for several minutes, lost in the idle contemplation of a more leisurely age, a more elegant age, of which only a few rare relics exist to remind us of all we have lost for all we have gained. Except for Ward Baldwin, who somehow seemed to have brought the best of that vanished world forward with him by sheer force of will.

  He glanced up at the hollow tapping of high heels on the old wooden boards of the floor, and saw a girl in a fluffy blue dress outlined against the late afternoon sun entering the museum.

  "Closin' five minutes, ma'am," said the proprietor. "'F y' come back tomorrah after ten I c'n give y' tour."

  "Oh dear," she said, as Napoleon wandered over towards the desk. "I'm sorry—I thought you were open later." She looked up and fastened her large brown eyes on Napoleon's slightly startled ones.

  Across the wide room a tall ebony clock cleared its throat and painfully and prematurely announced the hour. Neither of them moved until the last stroke faded. Only then did her eyes flick back to the proprietor. "But I'm to meet someone here in an hour..."

  "Sorry, ma'am. My dinner'll be waitin'."

  Napoleon would not have been Napoleon if he had not stepped into the breach at that precise moment. "I beg your pardon," he said, "but there's a small coffee shop at the end of this block where you could watch the street."

  A bright, big-eyed smile glowed across her face as she turned to him. "Why, thank you." She batted her eyes exactly once, and turned back to the old man at the tall desk. "We'll be back tomorrow," she said sincerely and stepped lightly out the door with Napoleon Solo at her side. He wasn't quite sure how he got there, but they came out together and turned in the same direction. Just as he noticed this she said, "Are you just in from New York too?"

  "Uh, yes," he said. "My name's Solo—Napoleon Solo."

  "I'm Chandra Reynolds. I've been here a week. It's a lovely old town. Will you be here long?"

  "I really don't know. I—uh—may be called away at any moment."

&
nbsp; Her laugh tinkled lightly. "How terribly exciting! Are you on secret government business?"

  "Oh no; just a very demanding business. Decisions—they're always calling on me."

  "You've come to the right place, then. I'm not entirely sure this town can be reached by direct dialing. It's a wonderful place to escape from the rest of the world. Do join me for a cup of coffee?"

  Winning the internal debate was the work of a second, and Napoleon accepted. Maybe she had seen Baldwin if she'd been here a week...but the photograph was still back in the car...but on the third hand it was after six, and he was off duty...

  They chatted lightly of inconsequentials over a dinner that more than made up for lunch, and were sipping coffee when Chandra looked up and waved excitedly through the window. "Oh! There he is!" A moment later a long blue car pulled to the curb in the gathering dusk and a broad-shouldered, square-faced man in khaki work clothes got out and entered the restaurant.

  As he approached, Chandra said brightly, "Hi, darling! This is Mr. Solo, from New York. The museum closes at six, honey, not seven. Mr. Solo, this is my husband, Ed. He was working out at the dig today while I went exploring the town."

  "How d'you do, Mr. Solo," said Ed, and exchanged a firm and slightly callused handshake. He took a seat beside Chandra and they started discussing the remains of an ancient Amerind campsite they were excavating for some college in New England.

  In the course of the conversation, Napoleon found himself almost at once on a first-name basis, and eventually invited to come out to the dig tomorrow for a look around.

  "Oh no," said Chandra. "Mr. Solo and I promised the nice man at the town museum we'd be back tomorrow morning to take his tour. You won't have anything for me to translate for another day."

  * * *

  They had lunch together after seeing the museum, and Napoleon showed her the photograph of Ward Baldwin. She studied it intensely and said, "I'm not really sure. There was an old man sitting in the town square a few days ago—I noticed him because he looked almost like part of the decoration, if you know what I mean."