Pulp Fiction | The Hollow Crown Affair by David McDaniel

by Unknown

  "Now, Irene..."

  "Adequate precautions include admitting you may lose, dear. You taught me that, and it saved both our lives in Burbank. The Mercedes is in perfect condition and adequately close."

  "You are quite right, my love."

  The chimes just up the hill sounded the quarter. "We mustn't stay any longer," said Irene. "Goodbye, Ward. Do be careful."

  "Of course, Irene. And you as well."

  A slight rustling was his only answer, and traffic roared around the little island of silence for several seconds before he rose and walked slowly back in the direction from which he had come.

  * * *

  Napoleon Solo became aware of things bouncing around and something soft under him. He began sorting out sensory impressions even before opening his eyes to check and decided he was in a car, going downhill on a reasonably good but twisting road. A seatbelt held him in place, and he was wearing his own coat.

  He looked blearily around to the right and saw the beginnings of a sunset behind the nearby hills; he looked left and saw Chandra Reynolds at the wheel. "Uh," he said, uncertain of what else to say.

  "Welcome back to the land of the living," she said brightly without taking her eyes off the road. "How do you feel?"

  "Like a used football. Do you know what happened?"

  "Those were the Twins. They were sent out to get you. Fortunately I came along and explained things to them in time; they'll make up a story of some kind to tell the manager. I think they're his cousins or something."

  "Oh." He thought for a while. "Are you part of Thrush?"

  "Certainly not. They do too many things I don't approve of. But Ward is like a father to me. Naturally I want to know what goes on around him."

  "I appreciate that. But how did you know what was going to happen to me?"

  "Well, I didn't exactly. But I knew you were in trouble, and I thought I should help you for Ward's sake."

  "Thanks anyway. But how did you even know I was in trouble?"

  "Oh—I'm a witch. Irene is too. She taught me."

  Napoleon smiled, and somehow she caught it though she never took her eyes from the road.

  "We are," she said seriously. "You know Ward's physical condition—how do you think he's survived so well all these years?"

  Napoleon didn't want to hazard a guess.

  "There are all different kinds of witches, Mr. Solo. You might pick up a book called Conjure Wife, by Fritz Leiber. I know Fritz—he's a marvellously talented warlock himself."

  Napoleon felt the desperate need to change the subject—this one was making his head ache even more. "Uh—where's Ed?" he asked.

  Chandra's bright laugh tinkled over the noise of the car. "Oh, he can take care of himself. In case you're wondering, your suitcase is repacked and in the back of the car—it includes the stationery from the dresser drawer and a bath towel with the lodge emblem done in needlework."

  "You should have gotten an ashtray, too," said Napoleon. "I think I would have liked one of them."

  "Look in the glove compartment," she said. "I got two, but you can have one of them."

  "Thank you," said Napoleon weakly and sagged back into the seat as a wave of exhaustion swept over him and bore him down into sleep.

  Chapter 11: "I'm Glad They're On Our Side!"

  Dr. Fraser found opportunity to converse with several of his students on Sunday, and with several more on Monday morning. Napoleon and Illya stayed quietly in the background, wondering at Baldwin's sudden sociability and exchanging sketchy notes on their weekends.

  "I'm not really sure what happened Saturday," Illya said. "I'd rather not go into it for a while."

  "I have much the same feeling," admitted Napoleon. "At least you didn't get anything broken."

  "Well, not exactly," said Illya. "What happened to you, anyway? You look as if you went four rounds with a tree and lost."

  "It was very confusing," Napoleon said. "Let me think about it for a few weeks."

  The Russian nodded. They were alone over lunch when their communicators signaled. Napoleon's mouth was full—he flapped a hand at Illya, who answered the call.

  "Kuryakin here."

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Kuryakin," said Waverly's familiar voice. "The information has been found. According to the inexhaustible knowledge of Section Four, monkshood means danger is near; white clover means think of me. It could mean she will be standing by to help him."

  "Uh, we knew that, sir," said Napoleon, having swallowed. "Chandra told us. You were there."

  "Of course, Mr. Solo. But she might have wanted to remind him, or to specify that an attack was expected. Is all well?"

  "It's been quiet all weekend, sir, and nothing has happened today."

  "Very well. See that nothing does. Waverly out."

  Illya replaced the little transceiver as Napoleon said, "You didn't mention anything about Baldwin getting away from us for a few hours."

  "No—I imagine he saw Irene during that time, and that shouldn't be any of our business. He's still all right, isn't he?"

  Napoleon had to agree that he was.

  * * *

  Shortly past five o'clock Baldwin turned from his desk and addressed the three other residents in his cramped office. "I feel you all should know that it will be relatively unsafe for any of us to venture out of this office for the next hour or two."

  Napoleon and Illya looked up from their homework; Lyn stopped checking tests.

  "Miss Stier, do you know where Mr. Whalen would be now?"

  "I think he's out at the practice field, but he might be at the Delta Sigma Chi house."

  "Do you remember that telephone call we discussed?"

  "Oh, yes sir. Do you mean..."

  "Yes. The time has come to make the call."

  Both Napoleon and Illya started to say something, then paused in deference to the other. In that moment of silence, Baldwin fixed them with a raised forefinger which said patience as Lyn lifted the phone and dialed.

  "Hi, Billy—this is Lyn. Is Ed there?...Well, if somebody goes out that way, could you send a message? Some guys who said they were from Crawford called and said they'd found out how Dr. Fraser had been mixed up in that business a couple weeks ago—remember? And if he wanted to be one of the boys he was going to get the same thing, and pretty soon...Uh-huh. That's what I thought. Okay. Thanks, Billy. 'Bye.

  "Was that right, Dr. Fraser?"

  "A little overdone, my dear, but perfectly believable."

  This time Napoleon spoke first. "Dr. Fraser, would you mind just a few words of explanation?"

  "Not at all, Mr. Solo. Go ahead."

  Napoleon bit his tongue and looked helplessly at his partner. Illya coughed.

  "Sir," said Illya, "please—what's going on?"

  "I am about to teach a group of men respect for both an elder and a younger generation," said Baldwin. He picked a set of powerful binoculars from the lower drawer of his desk and slipped off the lens caps. "And hardly any further action will be required of us."

  "You're using innocent bystanders for your first line of defense!" said Illya in dawning realization. "How did you ever..."

  "They feel they owe me a favor," said Baldwin simply, and focused his binoculars out the window, elbows braced on the sill.

  "For 'that business a couple weeks ago'," said Napoleon. "What did you do for them? Blow up a police station?"

  "Makes you homesick for Ireland, doesn't it," added Illya.

  "Mr. Kuryakin, let us say I conducted a few badly needed extracurricular practical seminars. Vermont was the home of one of the first guerilla forces in the world, and it seemed a shame to lose such a fine native tradition."

  Illya looked blankly at Napoleon and then at Lyn.

  "He means the Green Mountain Boys," she said. "They were sort of our Viet Cong in the Revolutionary War..."

  Baldwin spoke smoothly across her explanation without taking his eyes from the binoculars. "Miss Stier, politics has no place here. Would you please teleph
one Mr. Whalen? Tell him that the bogeys are all dressed in gray sweaters and blue shirts and there are..."

  Napoleon and Illya rose as one and looked over his shoulder as Lyn dialed. Across the Old Quad they could see three plain black cars just pulling up in a row. All twelve doors popped open and tiny figures piled out.

  "... about two dozen of them."

  "Oh, Ed, I'm glad I caught you. There's twenty-five or thirty of them...uh-huh, right!...and they're wearing gray sweaters and blue shirts. They're in the Old Quad right now...Good. We'll be ready."

  Illya and Napoleon looked at each other and sat back down as Baldwin lowered the binoculars and turned around. "Miss Stier, how many did you say there were?"

  "Well, I thought if they thought there were more, they'd be careful or bring more people..."

  "Miss Stier, I had already allowed for that factor. There are, in fact, fifteen. If matters ever devolve to a body count, the discrepancy may be noted."

  "Oh, come on," said Napoleon. "Who'll remember the number by the time they get here?" He stood up again. "I'm not really quite sure what's happening, but I think it'll be fun. And I want to watch."

  Out on the lawn in the gathering twilight an uncertain number of gray-sweatered figures slipped along the walks and among the trees, approaching Williams Hall.

  "Mr. Kuryakin," said Baldwin, lifting the binoculars again, "I have no wish to be distracted by you pacing this office behind my back like a caged tiger because you are denied action. In the closet you will find a team jacket in your size. Mr. Solo, there is one for you as well if you wish to join him."

  "In other words," said Illya, "the uniform of the defending forces. I heard about these things going on in American colleges, but I never really believed it."

  "Don't worry," said Napoleon. "There are very few casualties. I happen to be a veteran of a few myself, and would be glad to show it to you as it progresses."

  "You must tell us sometime just what you did to Crawford," said Illya over his shoulder as Napoleon led him to the coffin-sized closet and sorted out two green-and-gold jackets. Baldwin didn't answer. Lyn said, "Oh, do be careful," as they left, and shifted her chair over to the window next to Dr. Fraser. From the second floor front they had a perfect view.

  Napoleon and Illya took the steps three at a time and then paused between the inner and outer double doors on the sheltered stairs. "Where are the forces we are to join?" Illya asked doubtfully.

  Napoleon took a quick look outside and saw two gray ghosts disappear behind trees. He eased the door open and looked to either side. "Come on," he hissed. "Quick. And act casual."

  As he spoke he pushed the door open wide and sauntered candidly down the next dozen steps, Illya flanking a few feet behind him and to the left. Out from between the other buildings on either side other green-and-gold jackets were wandering, idly bent on no particular business and all aimed for the center of the Quad.

  It was an eerie moment, and both sides doubtless felt it. In tense silence the scattered bright jackets began to move together, and in a moment one of the gray shadows pulled away from a tree and gave ground. At exactly that moment the entire left flank shattered.

  A dozen or so charged forward and something white flew ahead of them like a snowball. It burst on a tree and a cloud of white billowed out. "Flour grenade," said Napoleon. "It confuses your enemy." Illya nodded. Several more flew as the skirmish line reached the edge of the Quad, and white patches began to appear among the fleeing Thrush forces. They paused once to regroup and started towards their cars, but another line of green-and-gold jackets stood there and now started forward. The little knot of gray-sweatered figures huddled for a moment, then headed in apparent disarray directly towards the steps where Napoleon and Illya stood.

  Illya braced for a defense as he saw more bright jackets hurrying to his aid from either side—and Napoleon broke and ducked back through the doors to safety. For ten seconds Illya wondered dazedly if his partner had lost his nerve, then Solo kicked open the door and emerged with something cradled in his arms. "Here's a good one," he said to Illya as the first four Thrushies reached the bottom steps. "Watch out!" he yelled to the world at large, and twisted something.

  There was a quivering and a belching sound from the thing he held, and something writhed and snapped rigid behind him. Ten feet away the leading attacker was suddenly hit square in the chest with a frothing white rod just over an inch in diameter. He staggered, which can be fatal while going up stairs, lost his balance and was bowled over backwards, twisting to roll onto his shoulder as he fell.

  Napoleon swung the fire hose, yelling something Illya couldn't quite follow, and swept eight more Thrushes and two University men off the stone steps like so many beetles. They scrabbled around regaining their equilibrium and occasionally swinging at each other.

  The second wave of Thrushes never hit. They scattered towards every point of the compass but east. The rest of the green-and-gold jackets spread like a defensive outfield—which many of them were—and started to make interceptions.

  The battle was now fairly joined. The western line moved forward from the cars in open formation, and gray shadows ducked between them. One reached a car and tore the door open, grabbing inside. He was just turning around when something slapped the side of his head and knocked him sideways. An instant later a string of tiny bright flashes in the dusk sparkled around him and the patter of small firecrackers echoed across the Quad. The Thrush straightened up, fumbling around his head, which was now a dazzling blue, as was the top of his sweater.

  Napoleon said, "Ever heard of a water bomb? A water-filled balloon or paper sack designed to burst on impact."

  "It works as well or better with Analine dyes," Illya observed.

  "Uh-huh."

  Four or five bright jackets moved in on the car, and two of them knelt briefly beside it. Napoleon and Illya dove straight down into the midst of the confusion in the middle of the Quad and were caught up in it. A flying body hit Napoleon about the knees and he folded over into the midst of several tussling figures. He was thankful he wore the uniform of the majority as three or four arms pulled him back to his feet and he looked around for Illya.

  Somebody grabbed his shoulder and he spun around with his guard up and a fist cocked. Something wet and slippery filled his face and stung his eyes, and he swung his hands blindly rubbing to clear them. As he was blinking and doubling over defensively, somebody knocked him down again, but by then he was almost able to see and recognized the sharp sticky sweet smell of shaving cream.

  He rolled away, wiping his sleeves across his face. The shaving bomb lay among the fighters now, its valve broken off and top blown free, spinning and spitting gobs of white lather in every direction. Both sides were slipping on the soapy grass and the cement sidewalk was little better—as in another second two more bombs landed almost simultaneously, spreading their foam in widening circles of chaos.

  Illya ran up to him, face smeared. "I think this is what they would call a riot now?"

  "Only a newspaper would call it that," said Napoleon, catching his breath. "This is just a little horseplay."

  "I wonder what Baldwin did to inspire such loyalty?"

  "He'll have to tell us eventu...Look out!"

  Two club-swinging Thrushes charged from the throng towards them. Illya whirled and ducked, catching the first just below his center of gravity with a braced forearm to help him over. The other jumped aside to avoid going the same route, but slipped on a patch of shaving lather. His arms windmilled frantically as his feet skidded diagonally out from under him and he seemed to fly under his own power for almost six feet until he crashed face down at the unmoving feet of Napoleon Solo.

  He looked down at Illya and said, "Why do you always do it the hard way?"

  Some more of the Thrushes had made it back to their cars, and were struggling to get into them as more paint bombs burst on and around them. Suddenly motors roared up the next street and tires squealed around the corner into the
campus. Five cars painted in gaudy colors swung into the Quad and thundered across the street. Heads and arms stuck out the windows waving beer bottles and banners and yelling. The doors burst open on all sides even before the cars were stopped, and at least two dozen howling collegians tumbled out and leaped into the melee.

  Instinctively Napoleon and Illya faded back towards Williams Hall. As they did, the Russian asked, "Who are they?"

  "I'm not sure," said Napoleon. "What color uniform are they wearing?"

  "Would you believe blue and red?"

  "Another precinct heard from," Napoleon sighed. "Do you want to get back into that donnybrook or retire to Baldwin's box seats?"

  "Depends on who's winning," said Illya reasonably. "How is our side doing at the moment?"

  "Who can tell?"

  They moved to the fringes of the battle zone to see what was going on. Something spattered and hissed, and somebody swore. There were cries of Get That Guy!! and three or four people pounced on somebody else. Napoleon and Illya moved forward to investigate. Solo was tackled by somebody in a green-and-gold jacket whose eyes were clenched tight; he went down and yelled at him as he tried to pry him loose. The arms slacked and he forced a bloodshot eye open. "Sorry, fellas," he said. "Those qualified nouns got some spray stuff that fights dirty. Lemme give y'a hand—we'll take 'em out."

  They helped each other to their feet and looked for the center of the brawl. Illya was over there, naturally, matching kicks and grabs with a wide-eyed Japanese boy in a red-and-blue jacket with a Frosh beanie. They both feinted and blocked in practised form, and the Freshman made a grab. Illya swung lightly to the side and almost caught his shoulders, then spun to jump for him as he landed. He charged forward, but the other had found his balance already and caught Illya's forearm as he went by. The Russian agent described a neat double somersault and landed on his back, arms out. Napoleon bent beside him and helped him up as his erstwhile partner ran on to join the action.

  "That son of a gun is good," Illya gasped, getting to his feet and looking around for the little frat man who had thrown him so neatly. "You could have given me a hand," he said accusingly.