[Magazine 1966-­02] - The Howling Teenagers Affair - Lynds Dennis. Страница 14

Solo pressed the receive button. There was only silence. He rubbed his chin. The set had a range of five miles on local transmission. Illya knew that Solo would be in the hotel. But Solo had been trying to raise the small Russian for hours. By now, if Illya had escaped the mob, he should have managed to make his way to within five miles of the hotel.

"Bubba, come in. Sonny is here, come in. Bubba?"

There was only silence.

Solo made a tiny adjustment on his miniature set and pressed the send button again.

"Anzac, this is Sonny. Come in."

He pressed the receive button. Immediately a crisp female voice spoke.

"Sonny, this is Anzac Control."

Solo spoke urgently to the girl at U.N.C.L.E. in Sydney. "Has Bubba called in?"

"No report from Bubba," the crisp female voice said. "A report to the Sydney police detailed a riot at The Bedlam. Many hurt—no mention of Agents Kuryakin or Mahyana. The report stated that a musician, one Joseph Hooker, was missing."

Solo thought for a moment. Then he pressed his send button again. "Overseas relay to New York, Section-I priority."

"Immediately, Sonny," Anzac control said.

Solo waited. The room had come to seem stifling now. Where was Illya? Had they caught him? And where were Mahyana and Joe Hooker? Dead—or just captured? There was one hope: THRUSH always tried to capture U.N.C.L.E. agents if it could.

Solo paced. Joe Hooker was of no use to THRUSH. Solo only hoped the bearded musician had the sense to let them think he was with U.N.C.L.E. It would be safer for now. Solo paced. Where was he to go from here? The only lead was The Bedlam, and with his escape they would have abandoned The Bedlam by now. He had to have a lead.

The tiny transmitter-sender wailed its undulating bell-like signal. He pressed the receiving button.

"Sonny, overseas relay from New York. Proceed." Anzac control said.

"Are you there, Solo?" the familiar voice of Waverly said.

"Yes, I'm here, sir. Illya is missing. They have Agent Mahyana, African Section-II, and a musician named Hooker."

The voice of Waverly showed no emotion. "Very well, Mr. Solo. Section-II, South Pacific, will conduct a search for Mr. Kuryakin. However, I think we must continue with our problem. I have a possile area of investigation for you."

"Yes, sir," Solo said. He did not protest. In the work of U.N.C.L.E., only the problem counted. The people were expendable—all, including Waverly, if that had to be.

"With the aid of South Pacific Section-II we have identified the suit worn by the council member N in your picture. A tailor in Sydney, one Max Booth, verifies that he made it. We do not wish to approach Booth for details with local people. So I think it should be in your hands."

"Yes, sir," Solo said.

The tiny set went silent. Solo looked at it for a moment. Then he went to work. His weapons in order, a clean suit on, he left the hotel and walked out into the Australian sun.

A simple check of the telephone directory showed that the shop of Max Booth was only a few blocks form the hotel clerk. The hotel clerk informed Solo that Booth was a very good, if expensive, tailor.

Solo found the small, exclusive shop without incident. He walked in, the picture of the young executive looking for a suit. A small, wizened man hurried to him.

"Yes, sir?"

"I'd like a suit," Solo said simply. The small man cocked his head. "American? May I ask how you heard of me?"

"Through a friend. He saw one of your suits on a man he met and liked it," Solo said.

"You know this man who wore my suit?"

"No, but he was small, thin, about sixty, I'd say. My friend thought he was an industrial scientist, probably a chemist. They were at a chemical convention."

"Ah," Max Booth said. "Yes, small, thin, and a chemist. I made him a fine tweed."

Solo nodded. "That was it, a good tweed. Just what I had in mind. What did you say his name was?"

"Fitzhugh, Marcus Fitzhugh," Max Booth said. "A very wealthy man. One of my best customers. Ah, he's a great man, is Mr. Fitzhugh."

Max Booth turned and walked back toward a curtained fitting room.

"Tweed, you say? Well, perhaps we can suit you. Of course, it will take some weeks. I have a long list."

Solo spoke to the tailor. "He has a strange voice, this Mr. Fitzhugh?"

The tailor stopped, turned. "Voice? Hardly, young man. Marcus Fitzhugh is a deaf-mute. Are you sure you have the right man?"

"I never met him, myself," Solo said, but he was thinking of something else. A deaf-mute! Of course. No wonder they had no record in the files of that voice! A man like Marcus Fitzhugh was certainly in U.N.C.L.E.'s files, but without a voice to cross-reference.

Marcus Fitzhugh never spoke in public, he had said that himself! No wonder. Now all he had to do was contact Waverly and run a check on Marcus Fitzhugh. The man was sure to be in the files. All.

Solo looked up. The tailor was gone. His sixth sense was suddenly alert. It had been too easy. The tailor had told him too much. Why? To throw him off guard. It was a trap.

Solo whirled, half ran for the door. He reached the door and opened it. No one was in the shop or on the street. He pulled on the doorknob.

A puff of cool vapor struck his face.

Solo froze like a statue with his hand still on the doorknob. He could see, think, but he could not move.

* * *

Illya waited four hours in the dank cellar of the Sydney slum. The mob did not return. By the time Illya cautiously left the shelter of the cellar the sun was up over the city. He took out his miniature sender-receiver.

"Sonny, this is Bubba. Come in?"

He pressed the receive button. There was no response. Illya put his tiny set away. Napoleon had certainly gone back to the hotel if he had escaped. The hotel was out of range, and so was Anzac control from here.

Carefully, cleaning up his clothes as much as possible, he worked his way toward the center of Sydney. The people going to work stared at him. He knew he must look odd—a small blond man wearing a black shirt and tight black trousers all stained with mud.

To be sure, Illya took evasive action every time a long black car came near. He wondered about Mahyana and Joe Hooker. He felt angry about the innocent young musician. Still, they would probably be safe enough for now. THRUSH would want to `talk' to them.

His progress was slow. The sun was halfway up the morning sky when he reached the range of the hotel. He took out his radio set again and raised the two threadlike antennae. He sat in a hidden doorway to be unobserved.

"Sonny, this is Bubba! Sonny, come in."

Solo did not answer. Illya felt cold. He made the tiny adjustment on his set.

"Anzac, this is Bubba."

The female voice was cool. `Bubba, Anzac control. Where are you?"

"Safe," Illya said. "Have you heard from Sonny?"

"Yes, an hour ago. He was instructed by New York to proceed to Max Booth's tailoring shop. Are you well?"

"As well as can be expected," Illya said dryly. "Any word on Mahyana or Hooker?"

"None on Agent Mahyana. Hooker is reportedly missing."

"No other word?"

"No. You are coming in? Arrange contact."

"No," Illya said grimly. "I am not coming in."

He clicked off his set and went to the nearest telephone. He located the address of Max Booth's shop. As fast as he could he walked toward the shop. The address was in range of his radio set, and Napoleon had not answered. Illya walked faster.