"That's the man."

"Sure, I know him. So does everybody on the crime beat. A do-gooder. Every time there's a hanging he organizes demonstrations outside the prison. In between, he saves souls. The way I hear it, there's a handout for every ex-con who climbs his stairs." He considered. "When he's there, that is. I haven't laid eyes on him in weeks."

Solo bought three more drinks. When he returned, he asked, "What about that floor-manager in the Gloriana, the hard boy who looks like a Greek?"

"You mean Dancer," Solly said. "He's a Malt and a three-time loser. First time for living on immoral earnings, the other two for grievous bodily harm. Funny thing, he's one of Hughes's proteges. When he came out after a chivving rap, the old man got him the job as Anna's bouncer.

"That's funny. Anna said she never spoke to Price Hughes."

"Go and argue with Anna," Solly retorted. "I'm only telling it the way I heard it."

A barman came over and whispered something to him. "Telephone," he explained. "Don't go away." He weaved slightly unsteadily toward the bar.

He was gone perhaps four minutes. When he came back his expression was less than benevolent. He said, "Naturally, a coincidence. You wouldn't hold out on me, would you?"

Solo said, "I might — if I knew what you were talking about. But I don't."

"Questions, questions, questions — about Anna. About Dancer. About the old nut. But he don't know what I'm talking about." Solly's gesture implored the ceiling to fall. Then his arms fell and he gripped the back of the chair. He leaned over, breathing whiskey fumes into Solo's face.

"That was the office," he snarled. "A police patrol just found your old buddy Price Hughes on Hampstead Heath. Only it took them some time to recognize him. Somebody's been to work with a meat cleaver."

"Well! Well!" Illya said mildly. "And you thought we knew all along. Or maybe you think we killed him?"

"What I think or don't think, who cares?" Solly buttoned his raincoat with extreme care, pulling the frayed belt tight. "What I know if that I've got a story to get — and that means getting the hell out to Hampstead right now. But don't think I won't be seeing you again."

"Be our guest," Solo invited. "Want us to drive you to the Heath?"

"No. An office car is picking me up with a photographer." The anger had gone out of his voice but there was still suspicion in his eyes. "You don't want to tell me your end of it?"

Solo stood up and held out his hand. "See us tomorrow, Solly, at the Savoy. We'll talk then."

"Yes, and keep mum, like always," he grumbled. "You cloak-and-dagger merchants, with you it's one-way traffic."

He shoved his hands into his pockets and swayed, with shoulders hunched, toward the exit.

Illya stared after him. "Do you think he'll make it up the steps?"

"Don't let him fool you," Solo said. "He's as sober as the well-known judge. If there's anything to be found out at the Heath, Solly will find it. He's the best reporter in the business."

"But will he tell us what he finds?"

"That," said Solo, "is one you can play on the nose."

A cold wind was blowing across the river as they came up into Bridge Street, making them hurry to the shelter of the car. Illya turned the ignition key and the engine woke into life. "Where now?"

"Back to the hotel. It's time we had words with New York."

Illya turned the Cortina and drove up deserted Parliament Street, past the Cenotaph with its flags hanging in sculptured folds, and through Whitehall. Swinging left into Trafalgar Square, where students and tourists were still thronging around Nelson's column and the fountain, he asked suddenly, "Well, who killed him?"

"Ask me why he was killed," Solo said. "That's easier. His death warrant was signed the moment you fouled up their Welsh operation. His cover was blown and his usefulness was finished. Thrush doesn't tolerate bunglers."

"But why do the execution so publicly?" Illya objected. "Thrush is usually more subtle."

"There's that," Solo agreed. "A meat cleaver isn't exactly Machiavellian. It sounds more like one of the gangs. It could be a kind of public warning, to encourage the others. But I've got other ideas."

"It could be the body was planted for our benefit. You know: 'Okay boys. The boss is dead. The game's up. So you can all go home.' Remember, we're still supposed to think Price Hughes was top man of the British Satrap. Morgan died before he could confess that he blew the cover."

"It's possible."

Illya swung the car into the forecourt of the Savoy Hotel and brought it to a halt outside the big doors. He said, "You go on up and get through to Mr. Waverly. I'll garage the car."

Solo rode the elevator to the first floor, unlocked the door of suite A25 and put his finger on the light switch. A stunning jolt of electricity shot up his arm, momentarily paralyzing him. In the same instant a bare, hairy forearm went around his neck in a Japanese stranglehold. He countered quickly, trying to break the grip that threatened to squeeze the last gasp of air from him lungs. His foot went back, got a hold around the assailant's ankle. They went down in a heap, Solo on top.

The other man rolled, heaving Solo's body sideways. He wriggled free, smashing a murderous chop to Solo's Adam's-apple as he rose. Solo grabbed wildly in the darkness, caught a handful of shirt and felt it tear. Then a kick crashed behind his ear.

When he came around, he was lying on a couch. There was a burning taste of liquor in his throat and whiskey dribbling down his chin. Illya, glass in hand, was standing over him.

He tried to sit up. Pain stabbed through his skull and he lay back again, closing his eyes against the glare of the ceiling chandelier. He asked feebly, "What happened? Did the roof fall in?"

Illya said, "They were waiting for you. Somebody had removed the switch cover. Really, Napoleon, I am surprised you fell for such an old trick."

"It can happen to the best of us." Solo raised himself slowly and cautiously opened one eye. He took the glass out of Illya's hand and drank. "Did you see him?"

"No, I found you lying here. Our visitor had gone."

"Excuse me," Solo went to the bathroom, ran cold water and sluiced it over his face. It felt good and he plunged his head in the bowl. He came back toweling his hair. "What was he after?"

"I think you interrupted him on a general exploratory mission," Illya said. "He has been through everything — cases, drawers, everything, and the place is a mess. But he also left something behind."

He held out his hand. Solo saw in the palm a finely made gold medallion bearing the enameled portrait of a woman saint. Attached to the loop was a broken length of platinum chain. Illya said, "I found this on the floor by your head."

Solo examined it. "This is unusual, and it cost plenty," he said. "It's the kind of thing you usually see in Italy, Spain and the Latin-American countries. Mothers give them to their sons, and they're sometimes handed down from generation to generation as a sort of good-luck piece. I'd say this one is eighteenth-century. It shouldn't be too difficult to trace. Somebody among the Italian community in Soho ought to recognize it."

"You are an optimist, my friend," Illya said. "Do you know how many Italians there are in Soho? And Spaniards and Cypriots and Maltese? And if someone recognized it, is it likely they would admit it? Our late visitor is a rough playmate."