like a highly select residential hotel slightly gone to seed, and this is in fact its cover function, but there is an astonishing amount of space reserved for other activities which the public knows nothing at all about. It was in one of those "private" rooms that Solo and Kuryakin sat and listened to the tape Mary Chantry had lost her life to get.
The first thing they heard was a crackle that made the ear wince, then the slip-slap sound of sandaled feet going away over a hard floor, and the click-slam of a door.
"Stick it in place, switch on, then go away and leave it," Solo interpreted. Listening to the faint rhythmic creaks, distant shouts, the ding of a bell, he added. "That's a cabin, a ship at sea. Plain enough."
There came the purr of an engine, then the snarl of reverse to halt, more shouts and bells, then a clatter that sorted itself out into two sets of footsteps. The door again, noises suddenly louder for a moment, then the click of closing, and two voices, the first one crisp and cold.
"You saw the girl outside? She's the reason why I asked you to come aboard. She's on to something."
"Indeed!" This was a large and rounded voice, full of good living. "A pity. She's quite decorative. In view of those occasional times when we entertain guests, I've often wondered whether we need a stewardess, and she would fill that bill perfectly. Your note described her as a spy. You are convinced of that?"
"Completely, sir. She showed undue interest about two weeks ago, in France. The crew reported she was asking too many questions, of the wrong kind. So I advertised discreetly for a stewardess, she applied immediately, and I engaged her."
"The better to observe, eh?"
"Exactly. To my knowledge she has been through all the papers and documents she could lay Hands on. She has lockpicks and other devices, and she has a camera—"
"Has?" The well-fed voice became suddenly keen.
"Yes, sir, but it will no longer take pictures, although she doesn't know that. And she has not been able to pass on any of the knowledge she's gained. We haven't touched port since she came aboard."
"What other precautions have you taken?" This time the rotund voice held overtones that made both the listeners shiver.
"One or two. At my suggestion she has adopted the brief swimming costume you saw. Consequently we have been able to abstract her clothing and put it under lock and key. Also all her effects."
"To make sure she doesn't run away, of course. Now, who's behind it all, eh?"
"Some newspaper I would think, sir, judging by the notes we found. But she is freelance, not professional. That's just a feeling."
"You have a flair, Green. An intuition that I am prepared to trust, or you'd not be working for me. Hmm!" Into the silence of consideration came a crackling rhythmic beat, and over It a keening melodic whistle that made Kuryakin raise his brows in surprise.
"'Sir,' " he said, "is tapping the table while he ponders, and he is whistling Bach. 'Jesu joy of man's desiring,' I think."
Solo hushed him as the overfed voice started up once more. "We'll have to shut her mouth, Green, that's obvious."
"Yes, sir. I wanted your decision on that. I can arrange for her to fall over the side—"
"No. Not missing. That way would lead to inquiries, an open file. We can do better than that. A decisive end. How soon can you arrange one of your lamentable demonstrations of juvenile delinquency, somewhere along the coast?"
"This evening, if you wish. Nearby? How about Hastings?"
"Why not? Very well, you go and arrange that and send her here to me as you go. And send Rambo along in about five minutes."
Feet marched away, the door clicked open and shut, and then there was only the chilly sound of that thin, precise whistling. Solo started as the tape ran out and stopped with a crackle.
"Automatic reverse," he said, with his hand over the play back button. "I can't say I'm exactly looking forward to hearing the other track."
"We have no choice," Kuryakin
The first thing they heard was a crackle that made the ear wince, then the slip-slap sound of sandaled feet going away over a hard floor, and the click-slam of a door.
"Stick it in place, switch on, then go away and leave it," Solo interpreted. Listening to the faint rhythmic creaks, distant shouts, the ding of a bell, he added. "That's a cabin, a ship at sea. Plain enough."
There came the purr of an engine, then the snarl of reverse to halt, more shouts and bells, then a clatter that sorted itself out into two sets of footsteps. The door again, noises suddenly louder for a moment, then the click of closing, and two voices, the first one crisp and cold.
"You saw the girl outside? She's the reason why I asked you to come aboard. She's on to something."
"Indeed!" This was a large and rounded voice, full of good living. "A pity. She's quite decorative. In view of those occasional times when we entertain guests, I've often wondered whether we need a stewardess, and she would fill that bill perfectly. Your note described her as a spy. You are convinced of that?"
"Completely, sir. She showed undue interest about two weeks ago, in France. The crew reported she was asking too many questions, of the wrong kind. So I advertised discreetly for a stewardess, she applied immediately, and I engaged her."
"The better to observe, eh?"
"Exactly. To my knowledge she has been through all the papers and documents she could lay Hands on. She has lockpicks and other devices, and she has a camera—"
"Has?" The well-fed voice became suddenly keen.
"Yes, sir, but it will no longer take pictures, although she doesn't know that. And she has not been able to pass on any of the knowledge she's gained. We haven't touched port since she came aboard."
"What other precautions have you taken?" This time the rotund voice held overtones that made both the listeners shiver.
"One or two. At my suggestion she has adopted the brief swimming costume you saw. Consequently we have been able to abstract her clothing and put it under lock and key. Also all her effects."
"To make sure she doesn't run away, of course. Now, who's behind it all, eh?"
"Some newspaper I would think, sir, judging by the notes we found. But she is freelance, not professional. That's just a feeling."
"You have a flair, Green. An intuition that I am prepared to trust, or you'd not be working for me. Hmm!" Into the silence of consideration came a crackling rhythmic beat, and over It a keening melodic whistle that made Kuryakin raise his brows in surprise.
"'Sir,' " he said, "is tapping the table while he ponders, and he is whistling Bach. 'Jesu joy of man's desiring,' I think."
Solo hushed him as the overfed voice started up once more. "We'll have to shut her mouth, Green, that's obvious."
"Yes, sir. I wanted your decision on that. I can arrange for her to fall over the side—"
"No. Not missing. That way would lead to inquiries, an open file. We can do better than that. A decisive end. How soon can you arrange one of your lamentable demonstrations of juvenile delinquency, somewhere along the coast?"
"This evening, if you wish. Nearby? How about Hastings?"
"Why not? Very well, you go and arrange that and send her here to me as you go. And send Rambo along in about five minutes."
Feet marched away, the door clicked open and shut, and then there was only the chilly sound of that thin, precise whistling. Solo started as the tape ran out and stopped with a crackle.
"Automatic reverse," he said, with his hand over the play back button. "I can't say I'm exactly looking forward to hearing the other track."
"We have no choice," Kuryakin
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