18 - The Unfair Fare Affair (8 page)

"I guess not. Tell me about the setup here, anyway. You seem to have it all arranged very nicely."

"It's not bad, at that. From the street you see through that blind, this place is a kind of cheap hotel. We have a bar there, and although 'tis not a port itself, the town sees plenty of boyos from Amsterdam and Rotterdam. And from the canal, too, for that matter. So the bar is crowded…"

"And bugged at every table, no doubt?"

"… and bugged at every table," the fat man agreed equably, with a sidelong glance at the multichannel tape recorder inputs. "We obtain a great deal of useful information from those tapes... when they've been sorted, that is. Which is why bar prices are cheap and why we take care to keep it filled."

"And the hotel?"

"Curiously enough," Hendrik van der Lee said dryly, "the hotel seems to be booked solid all the time. There's never a room to spare when a body tries to book!"

"You yourself never appear on the hotel premises at all, I suppose?"

"Never. I always come along the canal bank on the Sint Pietersstraat. It's easier for the chair that way, for there are steps in the front here, you see. Also it means I'm never connected with the place at all. And there's a third advantage we have here, Mr. Solo."

"You restrict yourself to three?"

Van der Lee chuckled throatily. "Apart from the sailors and other boyos who give me information—er—involuntarily, through the hidden mikes," be said, "there's plenty more who come here to deliver the goods they're paid for."

"I can guess. Hotel porters and taxi men and—"

"Quite, quite. We don't have to be too precise, do we? Well, these ladies and gentlemen have to get in to see me. And whereas a crowd like I have might soon draw attention in another neighborhood, it works very well here. There's always a few sailors droppin' by to see the ould girls on Sint Pietersstraat—I have another entry through one of the houses there—and there's always a multitude comin' to the bar of the hotel. So between them, who's goin' to notice a few extra here and there?"

Annike came back into the room carrying a tray. Pushing aside a heap of manuscripts on the big table, she set out glasses, coffee cups, saucers, a long-handed, conical copper pan full of thick, sweet Turkish coffee, and a bottle of Izarra—the fiery yellow Basque liqueur that was the only spirit the Moroccan-Irishman had ever been known to drink.

"You still have a sweet tooth, I see!" Solo said as the girl handed him a cup of steaming coffee and a glass of the
digestif
.

"Ah, yes. It's a thing you never lose, Mr. Solo. Your continued good health, sir. And now—what can I do for you this time?"

"I thought you might know," Solo said. He had imagined that since Waverly had arranged the meeting, he might have briefed Van der Lee. But the big man merely shook his head slowly.

"Oh, well in that case I'll tell you," the agent continued. "It's just a piece of information I want... but you'll not find it in your filing system or your newspaper stories this time. You might get a lead from your secret microphones, though—if you have enough members of the bent fraternity in your bar. But I have to warn you there's not a police department in Europe that knows the answer to my question."

"Yes, Mr. Solo?"

"Quite simply, it is this: there exists a highly organized escape network in Europe. For a price, it takes people across frontiers, out of reach of the law. All the police forces know it exists; not one knows a thing about it. What I want to know is, one, who runs this organization; two, how it works; and three, how one gets in touch with it if necessary."

Solo sat back on his stool, drained his cup, and set it down carefully on its saucer.

Tufik, or Van der Lee, had not moved. He sat bulkily in his chair, staring straight ahead and humming a tuneless little air through his teeth. The girl, who had been curled up on the floor at his paralyzed feet, rose and refilled the cups and glasses.

Eventually the fat man moved. He spun his chair around and wheeled swiftly to the other end of the table, where he began ferreting about beneath an untidy pile of gossip columns torn roughly from the previous week's Sunday news papers. "There's a telephone in here somewhere," he muttered. "I know there's an instrument on this very table… Ah!" He gave a cry of triumph and flourished an ivory-colored receiver in one hand. His other hand delved back into the pile, and there followed the sound of a dial being spun.

After a moment he began speaking. There was a conversation in rapid Dutch, which Solo was unable to follow, and then he said in English,"... Oh, and by the way—here's a tip you can pass on to the advocate! Tell him, from me, that the articles he wants can be obtained in Brussels… Yes, quite cheaply. In boxes of ten... But tell him they're much stronger than the English ones: I think there's a whole cc. in each." He chuckled and then added, "And tell him the information won't cost him a penny. It's on the house."

He turned the chair back to face Solo. "It's not an easy thing you're askin'," he said slowly. "But if you care to come back around midnight, I think I might have somethin' for you. In the meantime..."

"I know. The little question of emolument? I suppose it's too much to hope that you're still working for Waverly?"

"Indeed it is, Mr. Solo. Indeed it is. Pleasant though that little arrangement was, it was purely temporary, you understand. I wished to take my revenge upon a certain organization, and helping you seemed the best way to do it. But it couldn't last long, mark you: it got in the way of my usual business."

"I can imagine," Solo said. "How much?"

"Well now... seein' you don't take the subscription service––you'd be well advised to consider it, an organization like yours, you know. You should tell Waverly—but seein' you do not, then it's the regular straight fee for a single piece of information."

"Which is?"

"In Dutch currency, two thousand five hundred guilders. And since you are an old friend, we'll consider the three separate pieces of information you want simply as if they were one... "

"Well, thank you!"

"… and add only the customary fifty percent surcharge that we impose in cases where the information sought is especially difficult to obtain."

"Be my guest!" Solo said caustically, holding out his wallet. He paused with his fingers on the thick wad of notes it contained. "Plus, I have no doubt, a healthy percentage for 'service'?"

"Twenty," Van der Leo said calmly. "The staff have to be looked after, as you know, in this kind of business."

"And, if I remember, still more for state tax or something…"

"Mr. Solo!" the fat man interrupted. "You forget what a neat and tidy country it is here. In Holland all prices are net!"

"So thank goodness for small mercies! How much?"

"Wait'll we see now... two five and fifty percent is twelve-fifty makes seven-fifty plus two plus one equals three seven-fifty... plus twenty percent of that equals seven- fifty again... making four five. A straight four thousand five hundred floris, thank you, Mr. Solo."

"About thirteen hundred dollars," Solo said as he counted notes into the fat palm. "It'd better be good!"

"Always trust an old friend," Van der Lee said piously, stuffing the money into his hip pocket. "If you'd like to leave via the hotel, it would probably attract less attention in the long run. Annike will show you the way; she's going out anyway."

"Okay then," the agent said. "See you midnight. What way do I come in?"

"The way you came today. There'll likely be plenty of boyos about on Sint Pietersstraat, and you'll be able to get down to the towpath all right. Just make sure nobody actually sees you go in the archway, that's all."

"Okay," Solo said again. "See you."

He followed the girl into a short passageway and then through two steel doors. In the space between the doors, a tall man with long sideburns and a dark moustache sat at a table cleaning a Walther PPK with a brown butt. Solo recognized the bodyguard Manuel O'Rourke (as he was then) had had in Rio. "Hello, Raoul," he said as he passed. "Nice to see you again."

The tall man looked up and bowed gravely from the waist. He said nothing.

Beyond the second steel door was a tiny office. And outside the office was the foyer of a typical commercial hotel—full of brown paint, out of date brochures and posters, dispirited artificial flowers and faded notices covered in food stains. Through a door at one side they could hear the brawling hubbub of a crowded bar.

Once they were in the street, the girl took Solo's arm. "I like dark men for a change," she said. "It's not many people he sees personally, you know. What do you do, Mr. Solo?"

The agent grinned. "Let's say," he mused, "that if Mynheer van der Lee sells information, then I acquire the same commodity—preferably without paying for it!"

"You are a detective?"

"No—just an information gatherer. There's one item you could supply, Annike."

"Certainly," the girl said, pressing the taut curves of her young body against him as they walked. "If I can. What do you want to know?"

"I want to know what time you have to be back."

"Back with Hendrik? Why, not until midnight. I'm off- duly now."

Solo looked down into her flushed face. There was a mischievous twinkle in the blue eyes, a mocking tilt to her mouth. "That's far too much of a coincidence to be passed up," he said. "Are clients permitted to date the staff?"

"I see no objection if the staff is not on duty," Annike said demurely.

"Fine! Will you come with me then? We'll paint the town red until midnight—when, like all princesses, you'll have to leave the ball. But until then, we'll have a ball! What do you say?"

"I should like that very much," the girl said.

"Swell. Where shall we go then? And I warn you, I may make a pass!"

"I seldom wear glasses," Annike laughed. "Would you like to go to Scheveningen? It's only two miles. We can walk by the sea—and I'd like to try the food at the Bali. I'm crazy about Indonesian food. We could have an early dinner and go to one of the shows, yes?"

"That would be fine. Let's grab a cab right away."

"My car is here," the girl said, stopping beside a Fiat 850 coupe in an unusual shade of mustard yellow, which was parked by the sidewalk. "But where are you staying? Do you have a topcoat? There will be a wind—and it gets cold after dark, you know."

"You're so right!" Solo said. "My hotel is only a couple of blocks away. If you don't mind making a detour, I'll run upstairs and get one while you wait."

He left the girl, looking remarkably voluptuous despite her slender build, in the chic little fastback while he took the elevator to his room.

He washed his hands and face, splashed Lanvin's Monsieur Figaro on his forehead and his wrists, combed his hair, dabbed himself dry with a towel and, after a final look in the glass, went into the bedroom to fetch his coat from the closet.

At first he thought it was gone. Then he realized it had slipped off the hanger and was lying in a crumpled heap on top of his shoes on the floor. With an exclamation of annoyance, he leaned in to pick it up.

The nylon stocking filled with wet sand made no noise as it swung down to meet the nape of his neck.

The floor cracked open into an abyss of darkness, and Solo fell through and went on down.

Chapter 7

Visitors From The East

THE SMALL MAN with the gray crewcut paid off his cab in front of a row of seedy brownstones a block from the East River. He looked sharply once in each direction and crossed the sidewalk to a tailor's shop in the middle of the row. An erect man with a firm, springy step, he walked in his belted gabardine raincoat and his pepper-and-salt suit as though he would be more at home in a uniform. He opened the door of the shop and went in.

Behind the crumbling neighborhood façade, the steel and glass and concrete fortress of U.N.C.L.E.'s headquarters lay hidden––buttressed additionally, like a row of volumes between bookends, by a public garage at one extremity of the block and a restaurant and key club at the other. There were four entrances to the place (and rumor postulated a fifth, known only to Alexander Waverly, though nobody had ever heard him refer to it). The one used the most was for the Command's clerical and technical staff. It was gained through the washrooms of the garage. The entrance used by official visitors was at the far end of the block, through a suite of offices above the key club. There was a water gate—a subterranean channel cut through to the basement level from the East River. And the last entrance was that reserved for U.N.C.L.E.'s Enforcement Officers, the cream of the Command's operatives. It was through the tailor shop of Del Florio in the middle of the block.

The man with the gray crewcut was not, however, an Enforcement Officer. He had in fact never been on the street before. Or in New York. Or, for that matter, in the United States of America. He was just very well briefed.

He strode to the back of the shop, nodded genially to Del Florio, who was occupied with his pants pressing machine, and went into a fitting cubicle. The old man was in his shirtsleeves, tape around his neck. Mechanically, he returned the greeting and pressed the hidden lever at the side of the presser that released the controls operating the secret door inside the cubicle. And then, phoenixlike, he straightened up among the clouds of steam, his brow wrinkled in puzzlement. The gray man had carried such conviction in his manner that Del Florio had assumed he was a new enforcement Officer, one he had not seen before. They came in all the time.

But there was an established routine for new operatives the first time they used the entrance. And the gray man had not followed it. Del Florio pressed another button, which had been installed for just this purpose. If it had been labeled, the label would have read PRVISIONAL ALERT.

Inside the cubicle, the small man hauled down on a certain coat hook projecting from the back wall, waited for the concealed door to swing aside, and walked through into the passage leading to the Command's reception foyer.