She had almost reached the gaily colored stand when a big woman in an orange terrycloth beach-robe collided with her and sent the armful of magazines flying.

"Excuse me one moment," Illya said to the crippled girl in the wheelchair. "I'll be right back..."

He hurried over and helped Sherry retrieve the magazines from a bed of scarlet and mauve geraniums. "Clumsy bitch!" the girl said with a forgiving smile. "And she didn't even offer to stop and pick them up...thank you so much, Mr. Kuryakin. Now you run along back to Andrea and I'll see you for that apéritif in a few minutes."

The agent turned back—and himself almost collided for the second time with the small, dark man he had seen outside the telephone booth at the airport. The wheelchair had rolled back slightly into the shelter of some ornamental shrubbery, where it was less likely to obstruct the dense crowds sauntering up and down the promenade. Late bathers still climbed the stairs from the Sporting, the Lido and the Ruhl-Plage, but the beach was nearly deserted and waiters had already dismantled most of the umbrellas and mattresses lined up along the carefully raked shingle. The sea was violet, only just strong enough to flop over into token waves at the edge, and the sun had vanished some time ago behind the pale cliffs of hotels and apartment houses fringing the five-mile sweep of the Baie des Anges.

Illya pulled up one of the chairs with which the pavement was bordered and sat down slightly behind the wheelchair. "Sorry about that, Miss Bergen," he said. "Now, I shan't keep you for long—and believe me I do realize how painful it must be to recall the accident. But you must accept my word for it that it's necessary."

The girl in the wheelchair sat with bowed head and made no reply.

"All I want to ask you," he continued, "is, as I said, to make a very, very strong effort to remember every single thing you heard that Flight Engineer say."

He paused. But the swathed figure before him still showed no sign of answering.

"On the telephone," the agent prompted, "you mentioned something about a reading that surprised him. Did he say what that reading was?"

For the third time he waited. And again there was no reply—or indeed any evidence that the girl had heard him speak at all. He leaned forward so that his face was just behind her shoulder. "Miss Bergen," he said. "Miss Bergen—do you hear me?"

Behind the shrubbery, cars locked in the evening traffic jam hooted impatiently.

Illya reached over and touched Andrea Bergen on the arm—then, with a smothered exclamation, he sprang to his feet and tore the chiffon scarf away from her head.

From the scarred face, staring eyeballs bulged sightlessly at the sea. A blackened tongue poked obscenely from between the drawn-back lips. And the length of piano wire with its two polished wood ends lay buried deep in the swollen folds of the dead girl's neck.

Chapter 5 — A surprise for Napoleon Solo

Even in mid-August, there was an edge to the inevitable wind slicing south across Lakeshore Drive and Solo pressed the button to raise the passenger window on the rented Chevrolet as he left the congestion of downtown Chicago and headed for the suburb of Cicero. Far above his head, the street lights roosted on their iron gantries, a double line of futuristic birds marking the waterfront in dwindling perspective.

It was just after dark and the traffic was light. The cool evening seemed to have kept most of the commuters indoors eating or watching television.

Venice Avenue was a long, looping street curving out—it seemed to Solo—practically to Alaska before he hit the thirteen hundred block. The middle-class respectability of its faded private homes and stained concrete apartment houses seemed a far cry from the rambunctious free-for-all of Prohibition, when Cicero had been something very like a personal domain for Capone.

"You come right on over, Mr. Solo," James Lester had said when the agent telephoned earlier. "I'm still covered with these pesky dressings and the burns give me trouble every time I move—but no darned bandage is going to stop J.H.V. Lester from bending his elbow! I got me a good story to tell, and until the doc allows me back into a saloon, the next best thing is to have a real good listener over at the apartment while I let a few fingers of rye slide down my craw!"

"You're sure it won't inconvenience you?" Solo had asked.

"Not on your life! My daughter lives in Winnipeg, my wife—rest her soul!—died ten years ago, and I'm all alone here. Until I can get back to work again, drinking in good company is my occupation. Care to help me in my job?"

With a mental grimace at the man's archaic slang and archly ingratiating manner, Solo pulled up outside a liquor store across the street from Lester's address. A few minutes later, grasping a wrapped fifth of Seagram's V.O., he was standing outside the survivor's door. Thirteen sixty-two was a crumbling old house divided into three apartments, to reach which visitors had to negotiate rusty iron gates, a weed-grown driveway and a communal hall smelling of dust. The agent pushed the illuminated button outside the second-floor plaque labeling the steward's home. A double chime sounded within.

As he waited for the door to be opened, Solo glanced idly at the cracked cream-colored paint of the landing walls. A gleam of brightness in the low-wattage light caught his attention on the far side of the door. Thumbing the button for the second time, he paced across.

Bent slightly outwards from the lintel, a telephone company's lead was reflecting the illumination via a bright core exposed by whoever had recently severed the wire.

With a muttered exclamation, Solo tried the door. It was securely locked. He leaned his ear against the top panel and rapped with his knuckles. No sound came from inside the apartment. Finally, he fished a small silver cylinder rather like a pocket torch from his breast pocket and unscrewed the top. From it he took a selection of thin, delicate but extremely strong instruments in stainless steel. Studying the keyhole for a moment, he chose one and inserted it. It wouldn't turn. Selecting another, he pushed that slowly into the aperture and twisted. He had to manoeuver it this way and that, but at last it clicked sharply and the tumblers dropped home. A gun had somehow appeared in Solo's hand. Pushing off the safety catch, he turned the handle, flung open the door and walked into the apartment.

It was a small place. A hallway with a bathroom off it, one large, untidy room with an unmade bed and dirty dishes on the table, a tiny kitchen—and that was all. A wheelback cottage chair lay overturned on the rumpled carpet.

Lester was in the bathroom. He had been brutally beaten about the head and body, the clothes torn half off his back, the dressings ripped from his burns and hurled to the ground. Afterwards—after he had been knocked insensible, Solo hoped—his murderers had filled the tub under the shower and held his head under water until he drowned. Judging from the expression on the dead man's face, and from the state of the half-healed wounds, his end had been an agonizing one.

Solo's face was very grim as he dragged the sodden body into the living room, lifted it onto the bed and pressed down the lids to close the frightened eyes. It would be pointless to search the place; there was nothing he could do—not even call the police, since the telephone wires were cut.

He ran down the stairs, climbed into the Chevrolet, executed a tight U-turn with screaming tires and headed back for Chicago as fast as he could.

St. Mary's Hospital was on the far side of town, beyond the stockyards. Solo heard the sirens while he was still a mile away. He flashed a very special pass at the uniformed State Trooper who was keeping the traffic moving and coasted to a halt behind the line of police cars, ambulances and fire equipment grouped around the gates. Over the heads of a dense crowd of sightseers flame licked sporadically at the underside of smoke bellying into the night sky.