Pulp Fiction | The Hollow Crown Affair by David McDaniel (6 page)

"Well," said Solo, "we went right in behind Ward Baldwin—I guess they thought we were with him."

Waverly poked at his cold pipe with a bony fore-finger. "Apparently they continued to think so after they found out who you were. It would seem Baldwin had sought out Thrush Central, probably to make a final attempt at reconciliation or negotiation. When you walked in on his tail, the obvious interpretation was that you were the vanguard of an invading force with Baldwin as the betrayer. I can't think how he could have escaped, but he obviously did."

"Well, we can hardly blame him for leaving town so suddenly, then," said Illya.

"And now we've offended him," said Napoleon, "and he's probably gone off in a snit and will refuse to be found until it wears off or someone can talk him out of it." He sighed. "It may be a while."

* * *

August became September and Ward Baldwin was not seen again. Waverly sent Solo and Kuryakin off on another assignment for three weeks, but their hearts weren't really in it. Summer faded slowly, and the first hints of autumn began to show in New York City. The skirts stayed short, but gusty breezes whipped unexpectedly around corners more often and sweaters began to appear.

One Monday morning early in the month Illya was in mid-town Manhattan on personal business when a sudden shower drove him to take refuge in the doorway of the Automat facing Bryant Park on Sixth Avenue. The sky had been low and leaden all morning, hanging like dirty cotton batting strung among the skyscrapers, oozing a chill dampness, and finally allowed its load of misery to fall on the sooty city beneath. While pedestrians scampered from the spattering drops, fat speckled pigeons huddled high on building ledges and shook their wings angrily at the indignities of the weather.

Illya looked out into the shadowless muted grays, considering the temperature and the condition of the storm fronts he had noticed on the morning weather display, and gave it one chance in three of letting up within the hour. Opting for the lesser evil, he turned and pushed through the bronze doors polished by millions of hands into Horn & Hardart's. A dollar and a quarter later he seated himself at a tray-sized table alone amid the cluster of strangers, right by the window, with a cheering hot meal in front of him. He just started to pour the milk when a flicker of movement caught his eye and he glanced up.

The cardboard carton froze in mid-air, halfway to the glass, as he recognised the cheerful motherly face of Irene Baldwin eight feet away. She wore a faded dress and a knit sweater; an old black shawl covered her head and she was nodding to him. She seemed to have just appeared, and she was carrying a small tray with something on it.

Illya closed his mouth as she approached, and started to put the milk down. She stopped beside his tiny table, smiled at him significantly as he started to rise, and placed the tray before him. He looked down at it uncomprehendingly. There in a small white vase stood a leaf and a twig. He looked up again and got to his feet, but Irene was no longer there. He thought he saw the back of a faded dress in a flicker through the crowd around the cashier's desk, but he couldn't be sure.

Then he saw her outside, with a wide black umbrella, hurrying up the sidewalk. She waved as she passed him, and was lost to view down Sixth in a few seconds. Illya stared helplessly into the rain after her for a while, then looked back at the little vase. Cheap ceramic, but a pleasing design, he thought. And a leaf, and a stick. No, a little branch of pine, with tufts of green needles sticking out of the wolf-gray bark. He picked it up and sniffed it. Fresh. He weighed it in his hand and looked at the leaf. Three-pointed, and already starting to turn color. But it was also still moist and soft. Jagged edges...What was it? Maple? He turned slowly and stared out the window again.
Irene Baldwin???

He looked back down at his own tray, and licked his dry lips. He'd eat it, since he'd paid for it and needed the food. But his appetite was utterly destroyed, and the meal was as ashes in his mouth.

Chapter 5: "Why Mr. Solo! What A Surprise!"

It was obviously a clue—everyone agreed as far as that went. Illya held to the opinion that it was a direct hint and they would be expected to follow it up at once, winning Napoleon to his side in short order. The pine suggested Maine to both of them, but Mr. Waverly pointed out that sugar maples were more prevalent in Vermont and pine was their state tree.

"The leaves are just starting to turn up there," Napoleon said generously. "Illya, do you want to take the field first this time?"

"I'll stay with central heating," said Illya. "Besides, you know the area and can pronounce those names. I've rarely had an opportunity to fight international conspiracies in Vermont."

* * *

Tuesday afternoon Napoleon Solo drove his rented car off the Lake Champlain Ferry and up a ramp into downtown Burlington, Vermont. His hotel reservations were in order; once again his first stop was the Chamber of Commerce for a listing of available accommodations. It was possible that Ward Baldwin still might not want to be found, even if Irene thought he'd avoided them long enough, and it looked as if he would have to go back to showing pictures at hotel desks and bookstores.

Wednesday featured a breakfast that was a little too heavy, an uninspiring lunch, and a lot of strangers who had never seen Ward Baldwin. Dusk found Napoleon sitting, dejected, on a bench in the curve of Battery Park, looking out over the darkening waters of the lake to where the largest western sky he had ever seen spread curtains of orange, blue, pink, purple and gold above the setting sun. He hardly noticed it at first, but he lit a cigarette and set his mind to relaxing and eventually, when the sunset had faded to smoke and embers, he rose, feeling not so much refreshed as eased.

The silhouette on the bench over near the cannon seemed somehow familiar, and he looked more closely when he neared. The girl looked up as he passed beneath the solitary streetlight, and wide brown eyes batted.

"Why Mr. Solo! What a surprise!" said Chandra Reynolds, extending a hand to him. "What in the world brings you up to Burlington?"

Napoleon paused in mid-stride and nearly lost his balance. "Well!" he said. "Uh—hi there!"

"Wasn't the sunset nice tonight?" she said brightly. "
Do
sit down—I think Lake Champlain has some of the most beautiful sunsets in the world. Have you been in town long?"

"Uh, no. I got in yesterday."

"Still on vacation?"

"No—I'm here on business this time."

"Isn't it a delightful coincidence? Ed and I finished the dig in New Jersey just about two weeks ago and our finds have been arriving bit by bit for the last five days. He'll probably be meeting me here in a few minutes after he closes up the office. You
must
join us for dinner."

"Well, I..."

"Oh, now, your business can't keep you busy all night too. You ought to have a union to prevent it. Besides, you should know you can't do business with anyone but friends after hours in New England. Oh—there he is now!" She stood up and fluttered a handkerchief as a long blue car pulled into the south entrance of the park. It braked silently to a halt by them, and Ed Reynolds leaned out.

"Well, hi, Napoleon. What are you doing in Burlington? Hey, how's about joining us for dinner? There's a great little hamburger stand just north of town..."

"Oh, Ed, we should take him to Bove's—that little Italian place on Pearl Street."

"But really, I..."

"Come on, Napoleon," said Ed heartily. "All work and no play is bad for the nerves."

He was half into the front seat when he remembered his own car, at the curb across the park. They assured him they'd bring him back, the parking was unlimited, and he might not be able to follow them to the restaurant. He gave up.

Over dinner they extracted a promise from him to drop out to the University in a day or two to look over the results of their excavation in Cape May County, and after sharing a split of the excellent house red and espresso, they parted in the darkness of Battery Park once again. Napoleon started his car and drove carefully back to his motel. Halfway there he remembered they didn't know where he was staying, he didn't know where they were, and nothing had been specified about meeting again.
Oh well
, he decided,
I expect I'll run into them from time to time
.

* * *

Between bookstores the next afternoon his pocket transceiver chirped. "How are you doing up in the wilderness?" Illya asked.

"Surviving. It's not really so bad—they have electricity in, and even a few radios. How are things in the brawling metropolis? I presume you're doing everything in your power to gain information—any more word from Foxy Grandpa?"

"Not the quiver of a whisker. I eat lunch at the Automat every day in case Irene decides to drop another hint. But we have a possibility for you to check out right there in town. Section Four's Magic Computer is cross-checking every piece of data we have, and just noticed a Dr. Fraser who's booked in as guest lecturer in chemistry at the University of Vermont this semester. That's Dr. W.B. Fraser."

"Fraser?" said Napoleon. "That's Baldwin's middle name."

"Uh-huh," said Illya. "You'll find the University straight up Main Street. Turn left into the campus."

* * *

The campus of U.V.M. looked like an idealized New England college, with smooth leaf-sprinkled lawns, old solid brick buildings with white columns, and a tree-shaded quadrangle in the middle. Napoleon loitered there, watching the students hurry past on their own errands, until he observed a chemistry text under a corduroy-clad arm.

"Ah, I beg your pardon," Napoleon said. "Could you tell me where I could find Dr. W.B. Fraser?"

"He'll either be in his office in Williams Hall or out at the Bomb Shop, unless he has a lecture this hour."

"The Bomb Shop?"

"It's a temporary building on the far side of the campus—his private research facility."

"Where's Williams Hall?"

"Right there," said the student, raising a free arm and indicating one of several buildings that stood along the east edge of the Quad. Solo thanked him and followed his direction.

Inside the stone walls were white-painted and short corridors opened to right and left of a small entry hall. A modest signboard with movable letters said that Dr. Fraser was on the second floor, and Solo went up the wide central staircase.

Behind a bright orange door marked FRASER a pretty dark-haired girl sat at a desk checking papers. Napoleon's identification was definite in the fraction of a second before she looked up—it wasn't Baldwin. He said, "Ah, Dr. Fraser?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "He's lecturing in 208 this hour. He might be able to see you for just a minute at four-thirty, but he has two students scheduled for consultation and then he's handling a graduate research group." She found a loose-leaf appointment book and checked it. "He's free at ten tomorrow, but the Convocation's at one in the afternoon..."

She's his secretary
, Solo reasoned, and said, "Ah, well, I'm not absolutely sure it's Dr. Fraser I want to see. He's about my height, looks in his sixties, ratty beard, walks with a limp?"

"Except for the beard that's Dr. Fraser. I think he has a
nice
beard."

"He may have trimmed it. Are you a friend of his?"

"Golly no. I'm a secretarial graduate, but I had a chem minor so Dr. Fraser had the department assign me as his secretary."

"Is that standard procedure?"

"Hardly. But Dr. Fraser is very highly regarded, and I guess the Board was willing to give him some extras."

"Like the Bomb Shop."

"Uh-huh. I guess it's the wages of prestige."

"I guess. Well, look, I can drop by tomorrow morning. It's not really that important."

"Okay," she said, and returned to her papers as he closed the door and turned back up the hall. It sounded like Baldwin in more ways than one; the physical description fit and Solo was willing to grant that the beard could simply be a matter of taste; also Baldwin would be likely to demand—and get—as many special privileges and perquisites as possible. Well, there was one way of being sure. Where did she say he was lecturing? Two-oh-eight?

An arrow with the same digits directed him down another hall and around a corner into a backwater with a Coke machine, a fire bucket, an old ladder leaning against a wall beneath draped coat racks, and a single door with a rippled glass panel and the numbers 208.

Napoleon Solo eased the door open a crack and heard the familiar harsh, precise voice saying, "... understand the exact nature of the carbon bond. You are all familiar with the simpler hydrocarbons from your weekend parties..." Napoleon drew back. It sounded like him.

Taking a deep breath he opened the door wide enough to stick his head all the way around the corner and look right at the lectern. As the latch clattered, every head in the main room swiveled to stare at him. Ward Baldwin looked coolly back at him from behind the demonstration table and gave him a crisp civil nod before clearing his throat sharply and bringing every eye back to himself.

"Some of you may recall from last semester the formation of the Benzene Ring. If you are confident of your ability to explain its bonding mechanism in words of one syllable, you may glance through chapter eleven while the rest of us re-examine..."

The door closed without a creak, for which Napoleon was profoundly thankful. He felt sure he had blushed just then, and he hated the thought. But at least he had found Baldwin and didn't seem about to lose him again. As he started down the stairs, he wondered briefly if that were really as much of a triumph as it might seem.

Chapter 6: "
Attenta! Pericolo!
"

When Convocation was held in full scholastic ritual at one o'clock the next afternoon, seated somewhere behind the freshmen and trying not to look conspicuous were Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin and Alexander Waverly. Ward Baldwin sat among his faculty, his mortarboard precisely level, his gown faultlessly hung and edged with the colors of Dublin University and the single stripe indicating his Doctorate of Science. If he observed his three friends in the audience, he gave no sign.