[Whitman] - The Affair of the Gentle Saboteur - Keith Brandon - Страница 3

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He walked swiftly, made the turn, saw Solo quite near to the right side of Stanley waiting for the ferry. He moved to the other side and took hold of Stanley's left arm.

"Albert Stanley?"

"I beg your pardon?" But Stanley's brown eyes were riveted to the radio hanging from Illya's hand.

"How do you want it, Mr. Stanley?" Illya said. "Rough or peaceful?"

"I beg your pardon?" Stanley said again.

Solo, smiling, took the other arm. Stanley's head oscillated between them. "Like the man said, rough or peaceful?" Solo repeated. "Either way, we can oblige you."

"I'm a peaceful man," Stanley said.

"Of course you are," Solo said. "Thus we would prefer you to come with us, Mr. Stanley. Peaceably."

He agreed to the preference. He went with them, all the way, peaceably.

2. Dinner With the Old Man

WASHINGTON THIS Thursday was dreadfully hot, but it was cool in the King George Tobacco Emporium, a vast, quiet, clean store with long flat counters and shiny showcases. The clerks wore rubber-soled shoes and gray linen jackets and spoke with English accents, which was perfectly natural, as Alexander Waverly knew, since the King George Tobacco Emporium was a subsidiary of a British firm and all the salesmen were Englishmen.

Waverly, patting his forehead with a folded handkerchief, entered from the steaming street and was instantly recognized by one of the clerks.

"Mr. Cunningham," the clerk said. "So good to see you. Visiting our Washington again?"

"Hot," Waverly said grumpily. "Beastly hot, this town."

"Awfully hot, sir. This isn't our best season of the year in Washington, is it?"

"July—definitely not. Quite an inferno out side."

"Yes, so the customers tell us. What with the air conditioning in here, we don't feel it. How've you been, sir?"

"Fine, thank you. Would you please tell Mr. Montgomery I'm here?" H. Douglas Montgomery was the proprietor of the King George Tobacco Emporium.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cunningham, he's not in right now."

Waverly patted his forehead again and put away the handkerchief. "He'll be back, I take it?"

"Oh, of course, sir."

"When?"

"I don't rightly know, sir. He's out on some errands. I can take your order, if you wish."

"I want five pounds of my pipe mixture—my special mixture. But nobody mixes my special mixture except Mr. Montgomery himself."

The clerk inclined his head, smiled. "Oh, I know that, sir. Of course, Mr. Cunningham. It shall be prepared for you by Mr. Montgomery himself. And where would you like it delivered? Where are you stopping this trip, Mr. Cunningham?"

"Hotel Vesey. Suite eight-oh-three. I'll be there the rest of the day."

"Very good, sir." The clerk made his notations on a pad. "Is there anything else?"

"That's about it," Waverly said.

"Thank you then, Mr. Cunningham."

"Thank you," Waverly said and went out into the humid heat and got a cab and settled himself, beginning to perspire again.

"Hotel Vesey," he said to the cab driver and lit his pipe and puffed slowly as the taxi moved into the traffic toward Hotel Vesey where Alexander Waverly was registered as Dale Cunningham.

"Hot," the cab driver said.

"Yes," Waverly said.

"July in Washington—but the hottest," the cab driver said.

"Hot," Waverly said, puffing contentedly. Just as soon as H. Douglas Montgomery returned to the King George Tobacco Emporium, just that soon would Mr. Alexander Waverly be rewarded with action. Five pounds of the special mixture was the code combination for one word—urgent.

And H. Douglas Montgomery would himself deliver the can of tobacco because H. Douglas Montgomery was chief of the American Division of British Intelligence, Special Services.

When the phone rang in Suite 803 of Hotel Vesey, Alexander Waverly had just completed a cool shower. "Yes?" he said into the telephone.

"Mr. Cunningham?" the voice said.

"This is he."

"Mr. Montgomery here."

"Ah, yes."

"I have your tobacco, sir. When would you like it delivered?"

"Six o'clock?" Waverly said.

"Six o'clock. Excellent, sir."

"I'll be hungry then."

A chuckle came over the wire. "So will I."

"Good. See you at six."

"Good-bye, Mr. Cunningham."

"Good-bye, Mr. Montgomery."

Waverly hung up and then called downstairs to the restaurant, reserving his favorite table for six o'clock.

H. Douglas Montgomery was very tall, very thin, smiling and courteous. Waverly stood up when the maitre d' escorted Montgomery to the table. Montgomery first bowed, a correct military bow, then shook hands; then the two of them sat down.

"How are you, Mr. Cunningham?"

"Very well, thank you, Mr. Montgomery."

"Gentlemen?" the maitre d' said, holding a pencil over his pad as the men looked at the menus. "Something to drink?"

"Nothing here," Montgomery said.

"Nothing to drink," Waverly said.

They gave their order for food and the maitre d' went away and then, for the first time, quietly, Montgomery addressed Waverly by his true name. "Rather a surprise, Alexander. To what do I owe the extreme pleasure of your company this warm day in our fair city?" He had a lean, smooth face, ruddy with high color; his eyes and hair were jet black.

"I'm wondering," Waverly said, "whether to tell you before dinner or after."

"I don't quite understand," Montgomery said.

"Hate to spoil your dinner." Their table was in an alcove, secluded from the other diners and out of earshot.

"Nothing spoils my dinner when I'm hungry. And I'm hungry. By the way, I left the five-pound tin of your special mixture at the desk. All right now"—he laughed—"spoil my dinner. I challenge you."

"Albert Stanley's in New York."

The laughter ceased abruptly. The color fell away from his face like a dropped mask. From pale caverns his startled black eyes gleamed brilliantly. "No!"

"Yes," Waverly said.

Montgomery smiled sheepishly. "You win. I lose. Appetite's gone. Dinner's spoiled."

"You asked for it, my friend."

"That I did. Now please tell me about it, Alex."

Now it was Waverly who was smiling. "I may be able to return some of that appetite to you, Doug. We've got him."

"Pardon?"

"My office called me here at the hotel. Right after you called me, as a matter of fact. My secretary, of course, couldn't give me all the details, not on an open-wire call to Dale Cunningham at Hotel Vesey. I got the facts in a kind of semi-code. Point is, we've got him—he's out of circulation. Solo and Kuryakin picked him up—at work, as it were—planting a nice neat bundle of explosives at the base of the Statue on Liberty Island. Caught him red-handed."

"Albert Stanley," Montgomery mused, "the gentle saboteur." Then his brows knitted. "Did they get Burrows?"

"Burrows?"

Montgomery leaned forward. "Do tell me, Alex. All of it, if you please."

Waverly recited the facts beginning with McNabb's sighting of Stanley at the airport. "I'll do the interrogation myself when I return tomorrow. Neither Solo nor Kuryakin knows yet that I know—nobody in my office does except my secretary—and I'll keep it that way. I'll start fresh, from scratch."

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