Outside Waverly's door the two agents paused for a brief word before going their separate ways. Kuryakin was more serious than usual.

"Take no chances with the black widow, Napoleon," he advised. "She has forgotten more about the battle of the sexes than you'll ever know."

"I've never been afraid of a woman in my life, Illya, and I'm too old to start now," the other retorted.

"Corfu is quite a place too. Your titular ancestor fought a battle or two there, and lost. It's a bad place. In Homer's time it was called Phaeacia. Remember, Ulysses was washed ashore there, and got into a lot of trouble with a woman."

"You should change your name to Cassandra, old man. What can she do, carve me up?"

"Why not? She's a surgeon, too."

"All right, save me out a couple of artificial legs, huh? Say, Illya, what do you suppose she wants those modules for?"

"I've no idea, but I'll wager it's for nothing healthy!"

As the airport bus trundled him into Corfu City, Solo settled himself diligently into his guise of a typical tourist. His fellow travelers were few and unremarkable and he anticipated no difficulty in slipping away from them. In himself he had made no spectacular changes, apart from wearing a rather louder suit than he really cared for. His real disguise lay in his expression and attitude, in the naive wide-eyed gape and stare. Not that this required any great effort, as the place warranted it.

There was that peculiar clearness in the air, the purity of color and tint, the freshness of everything, that is to be found nowhere else in the world. Artists have been known to come with the intention of painting such scenery, only to give up in despair because it already looks like a fresh picture. Out there in the bay, beyond the long narrow causeway, were a couple of mysterious islands, where the gaunt ruins of some old buildings lifted the tops of their bones above thick green cypress. And over there, across the sea that was the Ionian Strait, he saw mighty snow-capped mountains, the Epirus mountains. That was Albania, and the stretch of water between had seen its quota of bloody conflict over the centuries. Sea battles of Christian against Turk, Knight versus Infidel... History. The whole place reeked of it.

The hotel was a pleasant surprise. Not up to Hilton standards, maybe, but the Corfu Palace was reasonably clean, efficient, and the people spoke a kind of English good enough for him to understand. After inspecting and approving his room, and working the tourist image a bit more, he decided to quit wasting time. For all his apparent innocence, he was alert for any sign that anyone was taking more notice of him than was justified. He was not likely to forget what had happened to Frank Stanton, but he thought that if Countess Louise did have some kind of alarm system set for her, he might as well get out into the open and see how it worked. And it would help to do some reconnaissance of the land.

Accordingly, he slung a camera round his neck—only it wasn't a camera but an extremely powerful and compact telescope—and ventured out to explore the town. As he wandered through the narrow winding streets and pretended to be impressed by the Italian-style architecture, the gaudy shops, the unlovely apartment blocks, he kept alert for any one appearing to be unduly curious in his doings, and at the same time tried to understand Stanton's method of work. The older man had been a quiet and effacing but very thorough worker, the type to take time to blend thoroughly with the scenery as a long-standing local resident. Judging purely by results, the approach had failed. Solo decided it might be just as well to throw away that pattern and try a different one. He would be the brash and obvious type, the man who has never been anywhere or seen anything before.

He saw no apparent hostility among the dark-tanned Corfiotes as he dutifully strolled the esplanade and admired the many bandstands, the view across the sparkling blue bay, the wealth of statues in the park, monuments to dead and gone British governors rather than those of the classical Greek kind, and the looming bulk of the old castle, standing up above the east end of the town. Because it was in character, he took time out to cast admiring glances on the many comely young women passing by. Here, as he saw, ancient and modern walked side by side. There were those who favored the traditional, and looked as if they might have just this minute stepped off the musical-comedy stage, with their gold-embroidered jackets in velvet over crisp white linen full-sleeved blouses: while others were as modern as any he might have seen back home, complete with miniskirts and op-art prints.

It was warm. The constant tight-wound tension of trying to do several things at once while seeming to be doing nothing at all made him even warmer. In a while he selected an open-fronted cafe at random and waited for an attractive dark-eyed waitress to attend to him.

"Just something long and cool to drink," he told her, as soon as he discovered she could manage rudimentary English.

"Not food? You want to eat something too?"

"Not really, not unless it's just a light snack. You understand what I mean by 'nack'?"

"Oh yes!" she nodded violently. "One little bit to fill the mouth, to keep the stomach quiet until later. I know. I will bring souvlakia."

"Not until you tell me what it is, you won't!"

"It is very good!" she assured him. "It is the lumps of lamb-meat on a stick and roasted in the fire."

"Shiskebab without the flames." He shook his head. "Not for me."

"No? Perhaps you like dolmadakia better?"

"What's that, before I get it?"

"It is lamb-meat again, but this time it is minced up very small and with rice, plenty of spices, very good, and wrapped up in grape-leaves. Very delicious!"

"I'd hate to sit down to a real meal, in your terms. No, darling, not that. Look, perhaps just a mouthful or two of soup?"

"Ah! Soupa avgolemonov! I bring!" And before he could halt her she went away, to return rapidly with a generous helping of liquid that his palate deduced was chicken soup flavored with lemon. He consumed it to be sociable, and she made up for this by bringing him a tall glass of orange juice that really was delicious. With the ice thus thoroughly broken, he was able to lead her into casual conversation and prod her, very carefully, into talking about the Argyr Palace and its odd tenant. If there was any reluctance, he failed to spot it. As far as her language would stand the strain he was able to learn that the Countess was locally admired and respected but little known. All anyone ever saw of her was the big black car in which she drove to and from the airport, going or coming back. For the rest she kept to herself, as befitted a lady of title and a widow.

"How about staff? Does she use any local people?"

"Not at all. It is believed that her workpeople come by sea, and go the same way, when she goes away, out of the season, but we never see any of them. She is very private. There is one…"

"Yes?"

"A young lady, very beautiful, with blue eyes and yellow hair, very agreeable. Often she comes, here, to get food from the market. She is—what do you say?—cook? I have seen her, not spoken. Others say she is friendly but very keen with money, makes a good bargain. Some say she is in charge, is manager-housekeeper and companion. She does not talk much."

Solo kept the voluble waitress a little longer but there was no more to be had from her. In a while he detached himself and strolled away, heading out of the town. According to his map and information the Palace was no more than five or six miles away, and he fancied the walk. The exercise gave him time to review the possibilities.