The Stone-­Cold Dead in the Market Affair

"A table, gentlemen?" he asked.

Solo said, "We'd like to talk to your boss."

The professional smile stayed put but the brown eyes grew wary. "Are you from the police?"

"No. Should we be?"

"I thought..." He let it tail away. "I am afraid Madame is busy. May I ask why you wish to see her?"

Solo said definitely: "You may not. Just tell her it's private. We won't keep her more than a few minutes."

"Very well. If you will take a seat. A drink, perhaps, while you are waiting?"

"Scotch. On the rocks."

"Certainly." He went to the small bar that stood near the band dais, gave the order, then disappeared through a curtained doorway at the back of the room.

A girl wearing nylon fishnet tights and a bodice that ended almost where it began brought the drinks.

Illya asked, "Compliments of the house?"

She said, "Don't make me larf. It cracks me make-up. That'll be thirty bob."

Illya stared glumly into the half-inch of liquid in his glass. "I don't doubt that Madame is busy," he said. "She's probably arranging a takeover bid for Fort Knox."

The man in the di

They followed him through the curtained doorway and up three green-carpeted stairs to a door marked "Private." He knocked, turned the door handle and stood back for them to enter.

The room was more like a boudoir than an office. The walls were covered with expensive hand-blocked paper featuring pagodas, bamboos and small Chinese figures. The Chinese carpet was white and vividly flowered. There was a black lacquered table, heavily ornamented in gold, on which a slim vase held a single crimson rose. A black and gold cabinet, intricately carved, stood against the far wall. Sandalwood joss sticks smoldered before an ivory godling with a face of incarnate evil.

The woman went with the room. She sat facing the door in a chair that had a high back carved and colored like a peacock's tail and quilted arms supported by gri

Solo asked, "You are Madame Gloriana?"

She said, "My name is A

"I am Napoleon Solo and this is my friend, Illya Kuryakin. We would like to ask you a few questions."

"I shall try to answer them if they are not impertinent. You have not had trouble in my establishment, I hope."

"Nothing like that," Solo assured her. He took a picture of Price Hughes from his pocket and handed it to her. "Have you ever seen this man?"

She smiled, showing white even teeth. "Many times. He is my landlord. He owns this whole building."

"That's interesting. When did you see him last?"

She frowned. "I ca

Illya said, "You used the word 'went,' as if he had gone from there."

She looked at him coldly. "I did not mean to imply that. It is just that I believe he is frequently away from London for long periods. May I ask the reason for these questions?"

"We are trying to find him," Solo said. "He doesn't seem to be home, and we have urgent business to discuss with him."

"I am afraid I ca

Dancer's expression said it would be a pleasure.

At the door Solo paused. He said, "We are staying at the Savoy, Suite A25. If Mr. Hughes turns up, perhaps you would get in touch with us."

She smiled again. "If he turns up, I will ask him to contact you."

When the door closed behind them she went immediately to the black and gold cabinet. She took out a telephone and dialed a number.

Chapter Nine

They picked up the Cortina and Solo drove through Trafalgar Square, down Whitehall and found a parking space in the shadow of the Houses of Parliament. Big Ben was striking ten-thirty as they crossed Bridge Street and walked down the stairs into the barroom of an old-fashioned tavern.

Solo shouldered his way through the crowd at the bar, bought two Scotches and carried the drinks to a table where a man was sitting alone. He could have been any age from twenty-five to forty. His thin face was topped by mousy hair that needed cutting. He wore steel-rimmed spectacles with big round lenses and twists of grubby wool on the side-pieces near the ears. There was a glass of straight whiskey on the table in front of him, and he was reading a late edition of the Evening Standard. Several other newspapers, rolled together, protruded from the pocket of his shabby raincoat.

Solo said, "Hi, Solly."

He looked up, surprised. "Well. Napoleon! It's been a long time. So where have you sprung from?"

"Around and about," Solo said, shaking his hand. "This is my partner, Illya Kuryakin."

The hand went out again. "Nice to know you. What are you drinking?"

"You're late," Solo put the Scotch in front of him.

"What a friend." Solly drained his own glass and raised the second. "L'chayim!"

They drank.

Solo explained to Illya: "Solly Gold is alleged to be chief crime reporter of the Sunday Bugle, but nobody ever saw him in the newsroom. He's on first-name terms with every copper and hoodlum in the West End and his capacity for hard liquor is illimitable."

"The schmalz we can do without," Solly said with dignity. "You got something to ask? Ask."

"All right. Give me a rundown on the cute little number who runs the Gloriana Club in Newport Street."

"A

"What do the police say?"

"Nothing. But nothing. Her record is clean. There was a rumor a while back about drug peddling in the club. The Yard investigated. There wasn't even the smell of a reefer."

"Women?"

He spread his hands. "Can you keep them out? Especially since the new Act. Where else have they got to go but the clubs? So women, naturally — but they've got to stay well-behaved. Any chatting up the customers and they're out on their fa

"You make it sound like a Sunday school," Illya said. "Do you know anything about a man called Price Hughes, too?"

"The nutcase next door? New Begi