he says! That's a good one!" the man in the leather coat guffawed. "Of course we want your passport; you don't think we fit you up with a new one and still leave you the old one, do you?"
"I haven't the least idea what you're talking about," Waverly said.
There was a sudden silence. It was quite dark in the lane. A gust of wind shook a scatter of heavy raindrops from the bare branches overhead. Squelching in the mud, the other two men moved slowly up to Waverly and their companion. " What did you say?" one of them asked softly.
"I said I had no idea what the hell you were talking about," he snapped. "And what's more, I don't care! All I want to do is get back to my hotel in Amsterdam. So if you'll kindly permit my chauffeur to turn-"
"Amsterdam? Hotel? What are you talking about?" the man snarled—and then, struck by a thought, added, "What's your name?"
"If it's anything to you, my name is Waverly. And I assure you—"
" Waverly ! You're not Fleischmann?' the chauffeur exclaimed blankly.
"Fleischmann? I never heard of him. I tell you—"
Waverly broke off with a gasp as he was seized from behind. Rough hands dragged his overcoat and jacket down over his arms, effectively pinioning his elbows. At the same time, the man who had first spoken reached out a hand and drew his passport from the exposed inner pocket. He flicked over the pages, scowling. "By God, he'll telling the truth!" he said hoarsely.
"Of course I'm telling the truth, you cretin!" Waverly shouted, scarlet in the face and struggling. "This is an outrage! I warn you that my name is one to be conjured with; you'll hear about this!"
"Be quiet, you!" the third man rapped out. "You mean it's definitely not Fleischmann, Karl?"
"Apparently not. Come to think of it, doesn't look like him."
"Then who is it?"
"That, my friend, we shall have to find out."
"Let me go this instant." Waverly yelled. "You can't go around roughing people up and taking their passports and abducting—"
Abruptly he choked on his words. The lane spun up and slashed him across the face as an enormous weight descended on his skull and the inside of his head exploded into a million incandescent stars.
Chapter 2
Solo Shrugs It Off
"AND I REMEMBERED nothing more," Waverly said sourly to his Chief Enforcement Officer, Napoleon Solo, three days later in New York, "until I woke up in this shop doorway at three o'clock in the morning."
"Wow!" Solo exclaimed. "That must have been some sap they slugged you with!"
Wincing slightly at the slang, his superior corrected him. "It was not the result of the—er—sap," he said stiffly. "There was the mark of a hypodermic on my forearm. Apparently I had been drugged."
"And held while they checked that you really were who you said you were—and that you weren't a sleeper fed in to blow their little setup!"
"Ours is said to be an alive and vital language, Mr. Solo," Waverly remarked with a pained expression. "Yet there are times..." He sighed and shook his gray head.
"Then they took you back to Amsterdam in the middle of the night and jettisoned you in the doorway of this jeweler's store?"
"In the Kalverstraat, yes. Apparently I was unable to give a satisfactory explanation of my presence there to two representatives of the law who chanced to pass by shortly after ward—I wasn't myself, you know—and I was—er—placed under surveillance for the remainder of the night."
"They slung you in the pokey!"
"Mr. Solo, please !... Of course, as soon as I was permitted to call my colleagues at Interpol, I was released. The Chief of Police was most apologetic. Most. But by the time we got around to making an investigation, naturally there was nothing left to see."
"You went straight back there with a team?"
"Well... almost. One of the more disagreeable aspects of the case was that, as you may recall, the whole thing started because I was hungry. You will also remember that at the time I was bludgeoned into insensibility, I had
"I haven't the least idea what you're talking about," Waverly said.
There was a sudden silence. It was quite dark in the lane. A gust of wind shook a scatter of heavy raindrops from the bare branches overhead. Squelching in the mud, the other two men moved slowly up to Waverly and their companion. " What did you say?" one of them asked softly.
"I said I had no idea what the hell you were talking about," he snapped. "And what's more, I don't care! All I want to do is get back to my hotel in Amsterdam. So if you'll kindly permit my chauffeur to turn-"
"Amsterdam? Hotel? What are you talking about?" the man snarled—and then, struck by a thought, added, "What's your name?"
"If it's anything to you, my name is Waverly. And I assure you—"
" Waverly ! You're not Fleischmann?' the chauffeur exclaimed blankly.
"Fleischmann? I never heard of him. I tell you—"
Waverly broke off with a gasp as he was seized from behind. Rough hands dragged his overcoat and jacket down over his arms, effectively pinioning his elbows. At the same time, the man who had first spoken reached out a hand and drew his passport from the exposed inner pocket. He flicked over the pages, scowling. "By God, he'll telling the truth!" he said hoarsely.
"Of course I'm telling the truth, you cretin!" Waverly shouted, scarlet in the face and struggling. "This is an outrage! I warn you that my name is one to be conjured with; you'll hear about this!"
"Be quiet, you!" the third man rapped out. "You mean it's definitely not Fleischmann, Karl?"
"Apparently not. Come to think of it, doesn't look like him."
"Then who is it?"
"That, my friend, we shall have to find out."
"Let me go this instant." Waverly yelled. "You can't go around roughing people up and taking their passports and abducting—"
Abruptly he choked on his words. The lane spun up and slashed him across the face as an enormous weight descended on his skull and the inside of his head exploded into a million incandescent stars.
Chapter 2
Solo Shrugs It Off
"AND I REMEMBERED nothing more," Waverly said sourly to his Chief Enforcement Officer, Napoleon Solo, three days later in New York, "until I woke up in this shop doorway at three o'clock in the morning."
"Wow!" Solo exclaimed. "That must have been some sap they slugged you with!"
Wincing slightly at the slang, his superior corrected him. "It was not the result of the—er—sap," he said stiffly. "There was the mark of a hypodermic on my forearm. Apparently I had been drugged."
"And held while they checked that you really were who you said you were—and that you weren't a sleeper fed in to blow their little setup!"
"Ours is said to be an alive and vital language, Mr. Solo," Waverly remarked with a pained expression. "Yet there are times..." He sighed and shook his gray head.
"Then they took you back to Amsterdam in the middle of the night and jettisoned you in the doorway of this jeweler's store?"
"In the Kalverstraat, yes. Apparently I was unable to give a satisfactory explanation of my presence there to two representatives of the law who chanced to pass by shortly after ward—I wasn't myself, you know—and I was—er—placed under surveillance for the remainder of the night."
"They slung you in the pokey!"
"Mr. Solo, please !... Of course, as soon as I was permitted to call my colleagues at Interpol, I was released. The Chief of Police was most apologetic. Most. But by the time we got around to making an investigation, naturally there was nothing left to see."
"You went straight back there with a team?"
"Well... almost. One of the more disagreeable aspects of the case was that, as you may recall, the whole thing started because I was hungry. You will also remember that at the time I was bludgeoned into insensibility, I had
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