The Stone-­Cold Dead in the Market Affair - Oram John. Страница 9

She wound down the side-window, leaned out and tossed a torrent of Welsh. The combine driver grinned back stupidly.

Illya was looking through the rear window. He said, "Oh, oh! Don't bother. We've got company."

A black Vauxhall saloon was coming up behind them, fast. It's number plate read LP0094.

Illya's hand went to the P38 under his left armpit, then dropped away. Rafferty was sitting beside the Vauxhall's driver, cuddling a Thompson sub-machine gun. And his finger was on the trigger. He could have put a burst through the Austin's rear before Illya's pistol had cleared its holster.

The black car came to a halt about ten feet behind the Austin. The driver climbed out and took up a position where he could cover both Blodwen and Illya with his wartime-issue Sten gun. He was a sullen-looking teenager, dressed in jeans and a check shirt. His hair hung Beatle-style to his unwashed neck.

Rafferty walked forward, pulled open the car door and stood back a pace, tommy-gun at the ready.

"Get out," he said. "And don't try anything."

He motioned to the teenager with the snout of the gun. "Give'em a rubdown."

The grubby youth cradled the Sten in the crook of his arm and came around the hood of the car. There was a glint in his unpleasant eyes that said he was going to enjoy searching the girl.

Illya said, "I'll make it easy for us all." He took the P38 from its holster and threw it on to the grass.

"You think I'm crazy?" Rafferty sneered. "Turn around and put your hands on the roof of the jalopy."

"How can I?" Blodwen demanded. "I'm holding my dog."

"Well, put the bloody thing on the ground," he said. "Unless you want me to wring its neck. Now come on. Get weaving."

She obeyed. The poodle crouched by her feet, making high-pitched whimpering sounds. She was a pup who liked her comfort.

The teenager ran his hands down Illya's body, patting at chest and hips. "'E's clean," he announced.

"Which is more than could be said for you," Illya murmured. "Did you ever try taking a bath, my smelly friend?"

"Ah, button yer lip."

He moved on to the girl. This time his examination was more lingering. Blodwen shuddered. When his grimy fingers curled near her pelvis she revolted. Her brogue-shod foot lashed back viciously.

The youth screamed and bent double, clutching his groin.

Rafferty laughed.

"Serve you right, you bleeding little creep," he said. "You asked for it." Then his voice hardened. "All right, you two mugs. You're going for a ride."

He marched them to the Vauxhall and opened the rear door. "In!" he ordered. And to Illya, "You first, then the dame."

He wedged himself in beside them, the tommy-gun's snout uncomfortably close to Blodwen's midriff. He warned again, "Don't try anything. I'm liable to get nervous."

Illya said, "You should take something for it. Where are we going, or shouldn't I ask?"

"The boss wants to see you. Now shut up!"

The teenager got behind the steering wheel and made a thumbs-up signal through the windshield. The man on the combine-harvester made an answering gesture. The big machine started up with a jolt and lumbered back the way it had come. The teenager put his foot on the accelerator and the Vauxhall nosed forward.

After a few miles the car turned right off the main road and jolted through a fir plantation along a rutted track that was hard on the springs. The track ended in a farm gate and beyond there were outbuildings and a gray house flanked by macrocarpas.

Illya said, "Ah, the old homestead."

The driver sounded the car horn twice. Morgan, wearing overalls and gumboots, came out of the brick barn and opened the gate. The Vauxhall rolled through into the yard of Cwm Carrog and stopped by the back door of the house. The driver slid from behind the wheel, picked up the Sten gun and opened the door on Illya's side of the car.

Rafferty waggled the tommy-gun and said, "Out!"

Illya stepped down, followed by Blodwen. While the teenager kept his gun on them Rafferty walked forward and opened the house door. He said, "In here," and stood aside for them to pass.

They found themselves in a stone-flagged, white-washed kitchen, furnished with a long Welsh dresser, a plain card table and six straight-backed chairs. An old-fashioned iron range took up most of one end of the room. At the other end there was an open door. Rafferty motioned them toward it.

He herded them through and along a passage that opened into a wide, oak-paneled hall. Heavy gilt frames on the walls held pictures of somebody's ancestors. There was a somber grandfather clock with a tick that sounded like the rap of a hammer on a coffin lid. A broad staircase with dark oak banisters led up to the first floor.

Morgan came through from the kitchen, knocked on a door at the right-hand side of the hall and flung it open. He said, "They're here."

The bright, dry room could have been the parlor in a vicarage. It had cream-pained walls, high and well-proportioned, a molded ceiling with a pattern of wreaths and cherubs, and a fireplace that might have been Adam. The chairs and sofa had loose covers of flowered cretonne somewhat in need of laundering. High leaded windows looked out onto flowerbeds and a green expanse of lawn.

Price Hughes was sitting at a Victorian oval table in the exact center of the room. He wore a rusty black coat, gray striped trousers, a stiff white collar with oversize wings that exposed his Adam's apple, and an old-fashioned black cravat. His feet were incased incongruously in tartan carpet slippers that had black metal fasteners like belt buckles. Apart from the slippers, he could have been an old-time marketplace medicine faker.

He sat huddled forward in the ladder-back chair with his hands on the table, gnarled fingers interlaced. His slate gray eyes were as full of human kindness as a horned toad's.

He said without preamble, "Who are you, and why do you persist in pestering me?" He spoke in a queer harsh whisper.

Blodwen laughed. "That's right," she said. "It seems to me the pestering has been all on your side. Here we are, out for a quiet morning ride, and suddenly your hoodlums set on us with enough artillery to finish a war. This we should enjoy?"

"Morning ride, my foot!" Rafferty interjected. "The bloke was carrying a Luger."

"A P38, my friend," Illya corrected mildly. "There's a difference."

The old man made an impatient gesture. "That's enough! Rafferty, hand your weapon to Mr. Morgan and get back to your duties. One guard is sufficient."

He waited until the door had closed behind the strong-arm man. Then he said to Illya, "Let us have no more prevarication. You have been making inquiries about Cwm Carrog ever since you arrived in Corwen. The girl was here early this morning with some trumped-up story of finding employment in the neighborhood. That, frankly, I find as incredible as your claim to be a Canadian tourist."

"Then what's your guess?" Blodwen asked.

"I will tell you." His knuckles cracked as he pushed himself to his feet. "You are two typically clumsy agents of the United Network Command of Law and Enforcement."

"In that case," said Illya, "you know exactly why we are here. U.N.C.L.E. doesn't approve of naughty people who make their own money."

"And you innocents were sent to stop us?" The old man emitted a graveyard sound that was probably intended to signify amusement. "You had the audacity to pit yourselves against Thrush? That was unfortunate — for you."