Pulp Fiction | The Hollow Crown Affair by David McDaniel Read online

  "You looked like you were having fun," said Napoleon, "and I didn't want to butt in until there was somebody for me. By the time you stopped looking as if you were having fun, it was too late."

  "I'm sorry I asked. What kept you?"

  They both leaped sideways as a knot of arms and legs wrapped in gray, gold and red tumbled by, threatening to destroy everything in its path. A fat, obviously heavy spheroid rolled across the grass, fallen from some courageous hand. Illya picked it up and studied it as Napoleon jumped to join him and pull him out of the way of a shower of water as somebody got the fire hose on the steps of Williams Hall into operation again. "Napoleon...oof! Sorry—Napoleon, what's this? One of those balloon things?"

  "Right. You found it; it's yours to do with as you will. Just remember it's not a rigid body when you throw it, and allow for the inertia. Underhand is better."

  "Think I could reach Baldwin's window?"

  "Don't even contemplate it. He's probably watching with his binoculars at this very moment, and if we did anything along the lines of further escalation of hostilities he'd only give us a hard time after the war. But on the other hand he expects us to do our part out here."

  "I see." Illya looked from behind the tree sheltering him from the capricious drops of the thrashing fire hose, now writhing untended across the steps of Williams Hall and showering the entire Quad with chilly water. Suddenly another sound became audible over the racket of the battle.

  Sirens wailed around the corner into the campus and two police cars squealed to either end of the Quad. One braked to the curb just fifteen feet from where Illya and Napoleon stood behind trees, trying to be thin.

  An amplified voice thundered across the Quad. "All right, break it up—break it up. If you clear away now you can go free. In about one minute we'll start making arrests."

  From the center of the square came two Thrushes at a dead run straight for the near patrol car. Illya froze in the shadows as they whipped by him, then swung out and sent the fat quivering balloon sailing through the air towards them. Unhappily, he misjudged its weight. It arced just over their heads and burst on the top of the police car door, splattering the top, sides, hood and upholstery with a brilliant and runny blue dye.

  Illya nearly choked, and looked to see if anyone had connected him with the dye bomb—only Napoleon was staring at him with an absolutely shattered expression. The two policemen grabbed the pair of charging Thrushes and instantly connected them with the desecration of their official vehicle. In record time they were handcuffed and slung into the back seat. By then Napoleon and Illya were halfway up the fire escape at the north end of Williams Hall.

  As they pushed in through the door at the end of the second floor hallway, Napoleon found breath to speak. "Illya," he said. "I'm amazed at you. Throwing a paint bomb at a police car. It's your revolutionary heritage coming to the fore."

  "It was purely accidental," said Illya with a touch of asperity. "And you know I didn't mean to hit that police car—I was aiming at the other two and overshot."

  "Oh, I believe you," said Napoleon. "Thousands wouldn't. I only wonder whether Baldwin will."

  Illya paled visibly. "He couldn't have noticed. It's nearly dark out there."

  "Those were 7x50 binoculars; great for night seeing. And he has a tendency to notice everything."

  "Uh, Napoleon—if he didn't notice, you wouldn't tell him."

  "Well, after all..."

  "I know a few things about you, Napoleon," said Illya uneasily.

  "After all, as I was about to say, there's certainly no reason why he ever should."

  Illya nodded, relieved. "Let's go back to the box seat and see what the stage crew has done towards sweeping up after the evening's entertainment."

  Chapter 12: "Nineteen Sweetpeas And One White Rose."

  If Baldwin had observed Illya's penultimate action, he made no mention of it. He had little commentary to make on the defensive battle other than to admit the results were wholly satisfactory. Two arrests had been made—both witnessed by the two UNCLE agents, and for which Illya may have deserved some glory had he not been unwilling to admit his whole share in the business.

  All the student participants had escaped by their own routes, and the unnumbered strangers who had whooped in and found more fun than they'd bargained for had vanished back into the night. The police were remaining officially silent on the two Thrushes they had arrested, but it was a safe bet that both were out on some legal pretext in a matter of hours with unimpeachable voices vouching for them and a slap on the wrist from Central when they got home.

  The next three days passed in perfect silence except for an occasional remark from Napoleon, whose left ankle had been tightly bandaged to ease a strain he hadn't noticed until he sat down after their retreat to Baldwin's office.

  Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday held the usual round of classes and lab work, with dinner Wednesday in the company of Ed and Chandra. Friday morning started in the same groove, but Lyn had a new bouquet on her desk when they entered the office. Baldwin paused to examine it while Napoleon elbowed Illya.

  "Aesthetically, that's a lousy arrangement," he muttered. "The white one in the middle is a rose, but what are those pink things around it?"

  "Sweetpeas," said Illya. "I think. Do you want me to sneak out and check with Mr. Waverly?"

  "You think it's another coded message?"

  "Miss Stier," said Baldwin, "would you please place a telephone call to Dr. Berg and another to Dr. Carter? Simply tell them that their most generously volunteered assistance will be required for the next two weeks. And then, please, separate and order my lecture notes for the same period."

  Illya spoke up. "Arranging for substitute lecturers? Are we planning on leaving unexpectedly?"

  "No, Mr. Kuryakin. Nor immediately, nor suddenly. But possibly as soon as this evening."

  "Golly, Dr. Fraser," said Lyn. "Is there going to be more trouble?"

  "Not if we leave this evening," said Baldwin. "You need not concern yourself with it—but I will wish you to continue coming into the office daily and keeping my correspondence in order. I expect to be back well within the fortnight specified."

  "I'd be glad to come in every day for the whole semester."

  "You needn't. If I have not returned by Monday the fourteenth you are to tender my most sincere apologies to Drs. Berg and Carter, order all my papers and the contents of my desk, and send them to Mr. Alexander Waverly at an address which I shall give you."

  Illya elbowed Napoleon and muttered, "In answer to your last question, I would not only say it was another code message, I'd even go so far as to say it told him to get ready to go tonight."

  Solo nodded, and a few moments later, as Baldwin bent over some papers and Lyn dialed the telephone, he slipped quietly out. Morning classes were already in session, and sweatered students, some in rubber lab aprons, hurried up and down the hall. From one direction equipment hummed intermittently; from another lecturing voices droned through the steam-heated air of the corridors. He found a corner where he could sit and talk to his pen without attracting undue attention, and called New York.

  Waverly stalled him for nearly a minute while recovering the data on floral interpretation from Section Four. "Hem," he said finally. "I think you have divined the meaning adequately already. You expect, of course, taking into account what you've heard from Mrs. Reynolds, that Irene will be coming sometime this evening to pick up Baldwin and convey him to a place of hiding."

  "The flowers say all that?"

  "If you know how to read them. Sweetpeas mean departure, Mr. Solo. The meaning of the white rose is said to be, quote, I am worthy of you. How many sweetpeas did you say?"

  "Nineteen, sir."

  "An odd number. I would suggest you expect hostilities to commence near seven o'clock this evening."

  "Nineteen hundred hours, in other words."

  "Precisely, Mr. Solo. If nothing happens until the nineteenth of October, I shall be very surpri
sed."

  "Especially since Baldwin expects to be back before then. I'll get in touch with you when I know a little more. Solo out."

  * * *

  After his three o'clock class, Baldwin gave Lyn the rest of the afternoon off—she seemed worried and wished him good luck—and returned to the Bomb Shop with his team of bodyguards. There he busied himself packing a few personal items while Solo and Kuryakin sat in the front room and fidgeted.

  At five thirty he re-entered the comfortable sitting room and said, "Irene may arrive shortly; would you do me the favor of meeting her at the office? I have only a few more things to do here. And would you please carry this bag there for me? Thank you."

  Solo took the small Gladstone and started for the door; Illya didn't rise. "You can handle that by yourself," he said as Baldwin left the room and the door closed solidly behind him. "Besides, I wonder if he might not be trying to split us up again. Mr. Waverly said nineteen hundred hours was the most likely time, and it's only half past seventeen."

  "Well, let's check his marker," Napoleon suggested, hefting the bag. "It'll only take a minute."

  The lock surrendered to a few seconds' work with one of Illya's patented pocket tools and the bag opened. On top of a blue-and-white striped flannel nightshirt with matching nightcap was an antique-gold-framed portrait of Irene. Napoleon looked at Illya and closed the bag. "He wouldn't leave this," he said. "Not with her picture in it."

  "And not where anyone could find that nightshirt," said Illya. "You go ahead—I'll stick around here in case anything comes up prematurely."

  Napoleon had been gone less than ten minutes when Baldwin came back into the sitting room. "Mr. Kuryakin, I've found I neglected to give Mr. Solo the key to my office, and Miss Stier will surely have gone home by this time. I have only a few minutes work left here, and shall follow you directly."

  Illya rose reluctantly. "I shouldn't leave you alone if there's likely to be trouble, sir!" he said.

  "Nonsense! I've been taking quite adequate care of myself for almost twice the length of your life. Here, take the key. The longer you delay the more likely Mr. Solo is to come back and you'll miss him in transit. I have no wish to spend the next two hours playing end man in an inane sequence from some French period farce."

  "Look," said Illya, "sir. I'll leave my communicator with you. If anything happens you can call Napoleon; if I'm with him I'll hear the call." He slipped the little device out of his shirt pocket. "You turn the top like this to open the antenna, and push this little..."

  "Mr. Kuryakin, I am intimately familiar with the operation of your transceivers. Very well—if it will ease your mind I shall keep it with me until I am able to join you." He accepted the communicator and clipped it somewhere inside his vest. Then he re-extended the key to Illya. "Now will you please take this key to Mr. Solo?"

  Illya gave his heels a smart click. "Directly, sir," he said, wheeled crisply and marched out the door. Baldwin looked after him a moment, shaking his head slowly.

  * * *

  The mutter of muffled motors behind the Bomb Shop came faintly to Baldwin's ears less than an hour after he had dispatched Mr. Kuryakin. Twice in that interval he had answered inquiring calls from the two UNCLE agents; the second time he had said, "Mr. Solo, is there any way by which this unit may effectively be left off the hook? I have few things left to do, truly, but with your calling every five minutes to enquire after my health, it is taking me twice as long as it should. Please believe that I will call should any difficulties arise, and practice the virtue of patience." He slapped the little aerial back into its socket and resumed his time-killing perusal of a technical journal which was scheduled to be thrown out.

  Now he looked up at the distant sound of heavy engines starting, and saw that two small lights on a wall panel were flickering inconspicuously. He rose, collected his stick, his overcoat and his hat, and picked up his smaller briefcase. Judging from the racket and the vibration he could feel clearly through the cement floor slab, they had brought in air-hammers to get through the back wall. He smiled. They would find there was a reason for its double protection. Two other lights on the panel flashed brightly and a muffled explosion shook the inner door as Baldwin closed the outer and stepped into a clear frosty evening.

  A tarpaulin was draped loosely over his electric cart beside the door; he twitched it aside and got painfully in. A great hue and cry was going up around the rear of the Bomb Shop as he hummed quietly away into the gathering dusk, and flames were beginning to lick up through clouds of dense gray smoke. The noise had drawn away the men detailed to guard the front, and the damage to his laboratory should be minimal; the area that had exploded was shielded by steel and stone from his research facilities, and even before he hummed around the next corner out of sight he could see the flames shrinking amid clouds of steam as the automatic sprinkler system did its work.

  Once around the corner he switched his single headlamp on and pushed his cart to top speed. Fire sirens wailed by one street away, going the way he had come.

  He zipped into the shadow of the steps before Williams Hall, extinguished the light and climbed awkwardly out of the wide seat. Briefcase firmly in hand, bracing himself on his stick, he made his way up the outer stairs and the inner stairs to the entry hall. Twenty-six shallow steps to climb up to the second floor, with two landings; he was up them in a little over a minute.

  Napoleon and Illya were both resting with their feet up as Baldwin opened the door and said, "Gentlemen, I am here. Please don't take too much longer."

  Both of them were on their feet before he finished speaking, and Illya had the Gladstone bag in his fist. "Ready any time you are," he said.

  "Very good. We have one more stop to make, and then we must be on our way."

  Another flight of steps led to the third floor, and Baldwin was able to negotiate them with little difficulty. "The zoology lab will be deserted," said Napoleon. "Are we going down the fire escape or hiding on the roof?"

  "Do be quiet, Mr. Solo," said Baldwin. "This will take less than a moment."

  Just around the corner from the head of the stairs stood an old white refrigerator, humming quietly to itself. A neatly lettered sign taped to the door said, CAUTION—LIVE VENOMOUS REPTILES.

  Baldwin opened the door, rummaged around in the freezing compartment for a moment and withdrew a small cardboard box. "Spare gas charges for my stick," he explained briefly as they descended the stairs. "They keep best at low temperatures."

  Napoleon thought a minute. "What about the sign on the door," he asked. "What's really in there?"

  "Live venomous reptiles," said Baldwin simply. "They're torpid at that temperature, and don't need to be tended. Perfectly safe."

  "Unless someone leaves the door open," said Illya.

  "The door," said Baldwin, "is balanced to close itself."

  They got to the dim main floor hall as the clock ticked over to 6:57. The street outside was empty. "We heard some sirens go by," Illya commented. "Just before you came in."

  "I believe they were answering a fire alarm, Mr. Kuryakin," said Baldwin.

  "At the Bomb Shop?"

  "I fear so—but the damage will be light and easily repaired."

  "If you ever come back."

  A huge car pulled silently to the curb at the foot of the steps, and Baldwin said, "Ah. Irene is just two minutes early."

  Napoleon's eye traced the graceful bulk of the car as the three men hurried down the wide stone steps. Illya stepped ahead and opened the back door. Napoleon got in as Baldwin ignored the Russian and got into the right front seat. His leg buckled awkwardly as he did so, and he half-twisted into the seat, gripping the edge of the door. He took his left leg in both hands and dragged it in after him.

  "Good evening, my love," he said, with a grimace. "My manually-operated leg is being uncommonly difficult."

  "Good evening, Ward, gentlemen. Do you have everything? We may not be back for some time."

  Illya nodded, and Napol
eon said," I've got a change of socks in my coat pocket and a toothbrush in my inside pocket."

  The motor had been ticking over all this time, but so silently that none of the passengers were aware of it until Irene fed it fuel and eased in the clutch. As smoothly and gently as a passenger train, with the same feel of power and mass, the great car crept away from the curb and gathered momentum. As it started around the corner at the end of the Quad something went TUNGGG! against a door.

  "Are all your windows rolled up?" Irene asked at the back seat. "I'm afraid we're being shot at." The car accelerated and leaned left, away from the shot.

  Napoleon had his UNCLE Special out, and his thumb automatically checking the tiny protruding pin just above the hammer that told him there was a round in the chamber. He snapped off the safety and felt the trigger spring forward.

  "Mr. Solo," said Baldwin with some asperity, "do as you are told and leave the windows rolled up. As a member of the faculty of this University, I would prefer to have as few bullets flying about the campus as possible. The windows are capable of withstanding a .30 calibre machine gun shell at ten feet, and the body is a good deal more sturdy."

  "It's a Mercedes-Benz," said Irene. "A 580-K." She swung the wheel easily as two more shots were faintly heard. "Originally owned by the Nazi General Staff. It guzzles gasoline terribly, but it is beautiful." The car wove from side to side of the deserted campus street, presenting the most difficult target as it sped towards the Main Street entrance.

  A low-slung black car moved out from the entrance and muzzle-flashes flickered at its near windows as the body of the Mercedes vibrated and rang. They swung left again, and a corner of the rear window starred with a sharp CRACK!

  "Oh blast!" said Irene. "And I had it in perfect condition for the Concours d'Elegance next month."

  "It's already been holed a few times," said Illya comfortingly.

  "Holed? Good heavens! I hope not! Considering that they are probably not even using Magnum ammunition, I frankly doubt whether any damage will have been done that I can't repair with a paintbrush."