The Splintered Sunglasses Affair - Leslie Peter. Страница 25

"In which case," Solo interrupted, "they would have been picked up and taken to the mortuary with the body, one would think. And they weren't."

"Or else..."

"Quite. Or else ... Or else some person or persons unknown removed those glasses between the time Leonardo was hit and the arrival of the later witnesses. What we have to do now is find out who that was and why they did it!"

CHAPTER TWELVE 

Questions And Answers

There was no doubt about it whatever. The redhead who ran the tie shop was a most beautiful girl. Solo and Kuryakin had never found it easier to think up questions to ask, especially as they could talk in English, which she understood.

"And this Dutchman who was shot—would you say, signorina, that he was typical of his race?" Solo asked when they had led the conversation round to the shooting.

"Dutch? Him? You must be joking!" the girl said. She undulated across to a display case where Illya was fondling a selection of cravats in amber and orange and beige.

"No, really. It's true!"

"Well, honestly," the girl said. "If he came from Holland, then I'm... "

"... a Dutchman!" Illya and Solo chorused, bursting out laughing and then looking rather sheepish.

The girl repressed a smile. "This one is rather nice, don't you think? The color's definitely you," she said, sidling up to Kuryakin and picking up a length of oyster-green silk. Her voice was husky and her skin, dark above the decolletage of a white pique dress, positively glowed.

"No, but I'm interested," Solo pursued. "I believe there is such a thing as a national type and Leonardo was typically Dutch. Tall, big-boned, with those bland features and opaque blue eyes—"

"What d'you mean, blue!" the girl interrupted. "His eyes were brown."

"Never!"

"But they were! I noticed particularly. They had already filmed—"

"I don't see how you could tell, anyway," the agent cut in, "since he was wearing dark glasses."

"He wasn't wearing glasses. I tell you I particularly noticed the color of his eyes."

"Oh, well," Solo shrugged. "It's not important, I guess... I think I'll take this one with the double stripe, please."

"Yes," Illya said, "and I'll have the black-and-white spot and that one in turquoise and charcoal."

"Don't you like the oyster-green cravat?" the girl breathed.

The Russian dragged his eyes away from the tight contours of the pique dress. "Oh... yes—er—very much," he gulped. "I'll... I'll have that too..."

"Thank you very much, gentlemen," the girl said demurely. "That will be three thousand lira each for the ties, and four thousand five hundred the cravat, thirteen thousand five hundred altogether. I'm much obliged."

"Be my guest!" Solo said, putting away his wallet and accepting the long, thin paper bags.

Out in the street, they discovered that the prognostications of Illya and the post office porter concerning the weather had been justified. Rain had begun to fall and in the warm desk street lamps trailed streamers of light through shop window reflections on the wet pavements. They were unable either to congratulate the porter, however, or question him on his memory of the murdered man, for the post office was closed and he had gone home.

The wider of the two ladies in the flower shop was nevertheless able to confirm that the unfortunate gentleman had in fact been wearing dark glasses; and her leaner cousin in turn corroborated this. By the time Solo had bought some cigarettes from the kiosk across the road and heard once more that Leonardo was in sunglasses "as usual'', their theory looked like being confirmed.

"Oh—and I'll have a box of matches too, please," the agent said as he paid.

The fat man who ran the kiosk leaned forward across the counter. "If you do not mind, signore," he said, "you can get them from the blind man beside you—there, just at the foot of the steps to the post office."

The agent raised his eyebrows.

"It is unusual, I agree," the man explained. "Especially as here in Italy the sale of cigarettes and matches remains—as it does in France—a government monopoly, issued to the public only through licensed tabacci." His shoulders heaved up in an immense shrug. "But what would you do? The poor man must earn a living. Officially, for the books, he is an employee of the kiosk. The local police are good fellows and they turn a blind eye to the fact that he sits physically outside it."

"How apposite of them," Solo murmured as he moved across to the stairway.

The matchseller sat with his back against the column flanking the flight and his feet stretched out in front of him. There was a grey stubble on his wizened face and his eyes were hidden behind the circular lenses of a pair of old fashioned steel-rimmed sunglasses. Below his tray, a cardboard notice announced that he had lost his sight in the service of his fatherland in North Africa and that he had no other means of support.

"Buona sera," Solo said. "Mi dia scatola di fiammiferi, per favore."

"Si, signore. Quanti ne vuole?"

"Me ne dia due di questi." He picked up two of the miniature boxes and dropped some coins into the man's seamed and dirty hand. As he turned to leave, he stumbled clumsily against Kuryakin and one of the boxes spun out of his grasp towards the blind man's face. Instinctively, involuntarily, one of the peddler's hands darted up protectively, was arrested in mid-flight, and then gently lowered again.

Solo retrieved the matchbox from the ground and moved away. "That's all I wanted to know," he murmured. "You stay here, Illya, while I fetch the car. If luck's with us, you won't have to take off again alone!"

And luck was with them. For when Solo drew the Fiat up alongside the sidewalk fifty yards down the street, Kuryakin was still lounging at the cafe-bar with one eye on the match-seller.

It was another hour before the taxi called to take the man home and they could slip into the traffic stream and follow him to a suburb on the road to Susa and Moncenis on the city's western outskirts. There was a pantomime of finding change and getting out of the cab, and then the blind man tapped his way along a brick path and up to a door in a small cottage between a baker's shop and an apartment building.

He fumbled for his key, twisted it in the lock, and opened the door. Once inside the musty smelling hallway, he felt to make sure the curtains were covering the window, and then threw aside his stick, switched on the light, and took off his dark glasses.

Leaning against the wall at the far end of the entrance was Napoleon Solo. And the Berretta in his hand was pointing straight at the matchseller's heart.

The man gave a hoarse cry of alarm. His hand flew to his jacket pocket, and his eyes darted wildly from side to side.

"I wouldn't, if I were you," Kuryakin said softly from behind him. "Mr. Solo is an awfully good shot—and even if he missed, there's still me."

The wizened features twisted into a grimace of fury. "Who the devil are you?" he protested shrilly, whirling round to face the Russian. "What right have you to come bursting into a private house

"All right!" Solo rapped. "Cut it out! We've rumbled your nasty little game, so let's take it from there. And, in passing, of all the mean, low, despicable schemes, faking blindness to feather your own nest really is—"