Pulp Fiction | The Hollow Crown Affair by David McDaniel (11 page)

Baldwin hobbled up to the southern end and sat. The white granite cube of the statue's base filled the center of the half-circle and he looked casually in several directions for Irene. He didn't see her approaching in the few minutes before the clock in the city hall tower sounded the hour of two, but as the last chime faded in the intermittent snarling of traffic, a voice murmured in his ear.

"You were early."

"Good afternoon, my love," said Baldwin, scarcely moving his lips. "You have discovered a fine meeting place."

"Thank you, Ward. I trust you were able to shake your watchdogs without trouble?"

"I sent Mr. Solo on a weekend in the mountains. I strongly suspect it of being a trap—for me, not for him."

"You think more highly of him than you admit."

"I have never questioned his survival instinct, my dear; merely his intelligence and taste. Chandra took Mr. Kuryakin to lunch."

"Bless her heart. She has a real talent for this work. I wish she would decide to come in professionally, but she keeps saying that it's too much fun to do for money."

"I received your bouquet with pleasure—and the pigeon, of course, arrived this morning."

"She must have gotten distracted. She was sent Thursday night."

"Could she have been intercepted?"

"Not without injury. I'm sure we're safe here for the time being, at least. But I wanted to know whether Alexander Waverly is acting on the advice you gave him."

"Yes. I heard an interim report—couched in the most guarded terms, of course—from him yesterday evening. Our misguided associates will be prevented from doing severe harm without actually suffering setbacks which could reflect adversely on us when this nonsense is resolved. But I was uncertain of my actions after you signaled me at the dance; did you mean that King is coming north or that Thrush Central is becoming increasingly militant? Or vice versa?"

"The fan gestures have the same problem as the flowers," Irene said. "Neither has a vocabulary quite suited to our purpose."

"All the better," said Baldwin seriously. "It forces us to think more deeply of what we are doing. I had no trouble following most of your meanings, in context."

"At the time I didn't know King was coming north," said Irene, "but Thursday I heard through Elma that King had told Central if they weren't able to keep you from cutting them up a bit at a time, he was going to Vermont with his PAR for a field demonstration."

"The Particle Accelerator Rifle? I believe Mr. Solo has referred to it as the
Scrooch Gun
?"

"That's right. Have you seen it? It's all coils and tubing, with fins around the barrel to dissipate the heat from the RF and magnetic coils in between. It looks like a hand-prop for Buck Rogers."

"I'm told it acts like one; the footage I examined was moderately impressive, as I recall..."

"Well, Central offered him an assault force for back-up, but he turned it down. He said he would prove his worthiness for the Council seat by taking care of you and Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin all by himself."

Baldwin released a sigh of pleasure and frank relief. "My dear," he said, "the man is an obvious monomaniac. And monomaniacs never take adequate precautions. He wishes to prove his worthiness? Very well. If he succeeds, he must be worthy. But if he is unworthy—we may close the books on Mr. King."

"He's a very convincing monomaniac," said Irene. "He gave Central one more chance to get you and they took it. There will be a fifteen-man undercover force hitting the UVM campus looking for you about a quarter past five on Monday afternoon."

"You know I would never question your sources, my dear," said Baldwin after a respectful pause, "but are you certain of that?"

"Unimpeachable, my love," said Irene. "But I must admit I am rather proud of it."

"The Computer indicated the likelihood of such an attack, but it predicted a smaller force, optimized at four-point-seven men in an early morning attack Thursday."

"Insufficient data."

"Of course. King's pressure. My campus defense forces will be quite able to take care of this group; an undercover assault force will not be prepared to commit actual mayhem upon uninvolved persons, especially large numbers of them. None of my personal staff should have to lift a finger—and we will probably have very good seats for the show."

"Don't be overconfident, my dear," said Irene. "If a covert force fails, they could still send in an overt one before giving King final permission to take the field." She paused. "Pigeon post isn't fast enough. I'll use the flowers. I can telephone and telegraph a bouquet to precise specifications overnight. I will have the Mercedes standing by if you find the situation a little too hot for you."

"Now, Irene..."

"Adequate precautions include admitting you may lose, dear. You taught me that, and it saved both our lives in Burbank. The Mercedes is in perfect condition and adequately close."

"You are quite right, my love."

The chimes just up the hill sounded the quarter. "We mustn't stay any longer," said Irene. "Goodbye, Ward. Do be careful."

"Of course, Irene. And you as well."

A slight rustling was his only answer, and traffic roared around the little island of silence for several seconds before he rose and walked slowly back in the direction from which he had come.

* * *

Napoleon Solo became aware of things bouncing around and something soft under him. He began sorting out sensory impressions even before opening his eyes to check and decided he was in a car, going downhill on a reasonably good but twisting road. A seatbelt held him in place, and he was wearing his own coat.

He looked blearily around to the right and saw the beginnings of a sunset behind the nearby hills; he looked left and saw Chandra Reynolds at the wheel. "Uh," he said, uncertain of what else to say.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," she said brightly without taking her eyes off the road. "How do you feel?"

"Like a used football. Do you know what happened?"

"Those were the Twins. They were sent out to get you. Fortunately I came along and explained things to them in time; they'll make up a story of some kind to tell the manager. I think they're his cousins or something."

"Oh." He thought for a while. "Are you part of Thrush?"

"Certainly not. They do too many things I don't approve of. But Ward is like a father to me. Naturally I want to know what goes on around him."

"I appreciate that. But how did you know what was going to happen to me?"

"Well, I didn't exactly. But I knew you were in trouble, and I thought I should help you for Ward's sake."

"Thanks anyway. But how did you even know I was in trouble?"

"Oh—I'm a witch. Irene is too. She taught me."

Napoleon smiled, and somehow she caught it though she never took her eyes from the road.

"We are," she said seriously. "You know Ward's physical condition—how do you think he's survived so well all these years?"

Napoleon didn't want to hazard a guess.

"There are all different kinds of witches, Mr. Solo. You might pick up a book called
Conjure Wife
, by Fritz Leiber. I know Fritz—he's a marvellously talented warlock himself."

Napoleon felt the desperate need to change the subject—this one was making his head ache even more. "Uh—where's Ed?" he asked.

Chandra's bright laugh tinkled over the noise of the car. "Oh, he can take care of himself. In case you're wondering, your suitcase is repacked and in the back of the car—it includes the stationery from the dresser drawer and a bath towel with the lodge emblem done in needlework."

"You should have gotten an ashtray, too," said Napoleon. "I think I would have liked one of them."

"Look in the glove compartment," she said. "I got two, but you can have one of them."

"Thank you," said Napoleon weakly and sagged back into the seat as a wave of exhaustion swept over him and bore him down into sleep.

Chapter 11: "I'm Glad They're On
Our
Side!"

Dr. Fraser found opportunity to converse with several of his students on Sunday, and with several more on Monday morning. Napoleon and Illya stayed quietly in the background, wondering at Baldwin's sudden sociability and exchanging sketchy notes on their weekends.

"I'm not really sure what happened Saturday," Illya said. "I'd rather not go into it for a while."

"I have much the same feeling," admitted Napoleon. "At least you didn't get anything broken."

"Well, not exactly," said Illya. "What happened to you, anyway? You look as if you went four rounds with a tree and lost."

"It was very confusing," Napoleon said. "Let me think about it for a few weeks."

The Russian nodded. They were alone over lunch when their communicators signaled. Napoleon's mouth was full—he flapped a hand at Illya, who answered the call.

"Kuryakin here."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Kuryakin," said Waverly's familiar voice. "The information has been found. According to the inexhaustible knowledge of Section Four, monkshood means
danger is near
; white clover means
think of me
. It could mean she will be standing by to help him."

"Uh, we knew that, sir," said Napoleon, having swallowed. "Chandra told us. You were there."

"Of course, Mr. Solo. But she might have wanted to remind him, or to specify that an attack was expected. Is all well?"

"It's been quiet all weekend, sir, and nothing has happened today."

"Very well. See that nothing does. Waverly out."

Illya replaced the little transceiver as Napoleon said, "You didn't mention anything about Baldwin getting away from us for a few hours."

"No—I imagine he saw Irene during that time, and that shouldn't be any of our business. He's still all right, isn't he?"

Napoleon had to agree that he was.

* * *

Shortly past five o'clock Baldwin turned from his desk and addressed the three other residents in his cramped office. "I feel you all should know that it will be relatively unsafe for any of us to venture out of this office for the next hour or two."

Napoleon and Illya looked up from their homework; Lyn stopped checking tests.

"Miss Stier, do you know where Mr. Whalen would be now?"

"I think he's out at the practice field, but he might be at the Delta Sigma Chi house."

"Do you remember that telephone call we discussed?"

"Oh, yes sir. Do you mean..."

"Yes. The time has come to make the call."

Both Napoleon and Illya started to say something, then paused in deference to the other. In that moment of silence, Baldwin fixed them with a raised forefinger which said patience as Lyn lifted the phone and dialed.

"Hi, Billy—this is Lyn. Is Ed there?...Well, if somebody goes out that way, could you send a message? Some guys who said they were from Crawford called and said they'd found out how Dr. Fraser had been mixed up in that business a couple weeks ago—remember? And if he wanted to be one of the boys he was going to get the same thing, and pretty soon...Uh-huh. That's what I thought. Okay. Thanks, Billy. 'Bye.

"Was that right, Dr. Fraser?"

"A little overdone, my dear, but perfectly believable."

This time Napoleon spoke first. "Dr. Fraser, would you mind just a few words of explanation?"

"Not at all, Mr. Solo. Go ahead."

Napoleon bit his tongue and looked helplessly at his partner. Illya coughed.

"Sir," said Illya, "please—what's going on?"

"I am about to teach a group of men respect for both an elder and a younger generation," said Baldwin. He picked a set of powerful binoculars from the lower drawer of his desk and slipped off the lens caps. "And hardly any further action will be required of us."

"You're using innocent bystanders for your first line of defense!" said Illya in dawning realization. "How did you ever..."

"They feel they owe me a favor," said Baldwin simply, and focused his binoculars out the window, elbows braced on the sill.

"For 'that business a couple weeks ago'," said Napoleon. "What did you do for them? Blow up a police station?"

"Makes you homesick for Ireland, doesn't it," added Illya.

"Mr. Kuryakin, let us say I conducted a few badly needed extracurricular practical seminars. Vermont was the home of one of the first guerilla forces in the world, and it seemed a shame to lose such a fine native tradition."

Illya looked blankly at Napoleon and then at Lyn.

"He means the Green Mountain Boys," she said. "They were sort of our Viet Cong in the Revolutionary War..."

Baldwin spoke smoothly across her explanation without taking his eyes from the binoculars. "Miss Stier, politics has no place here. Would you please telephone Mr. Whalen? Tell him that the bogeys are all dressed in gray sweaters and blue shirts and there are..."

Napoleon and Illya rose as one and looked over his shoulder as Lyn dialed. Across the Old Quad they could see three plain black cars just pulling up in a row. All twelve doors popped open and tiny figures piled out.

"... about two dozen of them."

"Oh, Ed, I'm glad I caught you. There's twenty-five or thirty of them...uh-huh, right!...and they're wearing gray sweaters and blue shirts. They're in the Old Quad right now...Good. We'll be ready."

Illya and Napoleon looked at each other and sat back down as Baldwin lowered the binoculars and turned around. "Miss Stier, how many did you say there were?"

"Well, I thought if they thought there were more, they'd be careful or bring more people..."

"Miss Stier, I had already allowed for that factor. There are, in fact, fifteen. If matters ever devolve to a body count, the discrepancy may be noted."

"Oh, come on," said Napoleon. "Who'll remember the number by the time they get here?" He stood up again. "I'm not really quite sure what's happening, but I think it'll be fun. And I want to watch."

Out on the lawn in the gathering twilight an uncertain number of gray-sweatered figures slipped along the walks and among the trees, approaching Williams Hall.

"Mr. Kuryakin," said Baldwin, lifting the binoculars again, "I have no wish to be distracted by you pacing this office behind my back like a caged tiger because you are denied action. In the closet you will find a team jacket in your size. Mr. Solo, there is one for you as well if you wish to join him."