"He will have left us a clue of some kind," said Napoleon. "Or Irene will. They have enough faith in us to know we'd have faith in them. Besides, they'll want their car returned."
"Or Irene will," said Illya. "What kind of clue would they leave? Nothing too subtle, but nothing King could possibly have found if he'd gotten us and found the note, or even gotten us to tell him all we know."
"Uh-huh. Not painfully obvious, but something they'll expect us to find. I'll search their room, you search the car."
It was almost three in the afternoon when they returned to the lobby, mutually empty-handed, and were greeted by the manager. "Ah, will y'be wanting the rooms another night? Check-out time's three."
"Oh. Uh, no," said Napoleon. "Thanks. And, uh, you'll get in touch with our New York office for restitution."
"Since Sheriff Patterson says you're okay. Afternoon, gentlemen."
Following a few moments beneath the hood, Napoleon had the engine running without benefit of ignition key, and shortly, with Illya at the wheel, they were rolling back along the coastal road. "I can find our way back from Ellsworth," Illya said, "if we're going the right way for Ellsworth."
"Sun's in the west," said Napoleon. "Let me check the map."
He dug into the pocket on the inside of the door and drew out a blue leather folder. The Maine map was on top, folded wrong. He pulled it out and stared at it a minute.
"Well?" said Illya.
"This map's folded wrong," said Napoleon. "Baldwin wouldn't do a thing like that unless something was meant by it." He studied the exposed face carefully—the central section of the state, a wilderness of straggling lakes and lightly printed roads with more names of mountains than names of towns. He could see no markings and wondered about invisible ink.
"How about invisible ink?" asked Illya.
"It'd have to be more obvious than that," said Napoleon. "How would he know we'd have the right developer?" He unfolded the map and studied it from several angles. Then he stopped. "Ho!" he said. "There's a pinhole. Up there." He pointed. "Near East Pomfret."
"I'm driving," Illya said.
"Sorry. It's north of Milinocket, just below Mt. Katahdin."
"Would you mind hitting those again slowly? I have trouble with your Amerind names."
"It's maybe seventy miles north of Bangor. Up in the sticks. Biggest town for fifty miles won't break ten thousand."
"Seems an unlikely place for Baldwin to go."
"That's why it's so likely. There are no other marks on this map, if you want to try it; there are no other clues. I have four gasoline credit cards, and this upholstered tank is old enough to burn regular and like it."
"Irene won't," said Illya. "The engine is tuned for premium."
Solo sighed. "It goes on the expense account. Here's Ellsworth—watch for a sign. There: BANGOR 27, BAR HARBOR 20. I'll bet that was quite a game."
* * *
It was dusk as they rode north out of Bangor on Interstate 95, with small patchy clouds splattering the darkening western sky like muddy puppy-pawprints, and it was night when 95 ran out and they were delivered back to U.S. 2. They refueled in Lincoln about seven, and some time later Napoleon said, "State 157 takes off to the left pretty soon. We want it."
"Check." The sign was clear in their headlights, pointing them twenty-five miles to Milinocket.
In Milinocket Illya's arms were beginning to get tired, and he said so. "Bear up," Napoleon told him. "In twelve or fifteen miles we'll be at that pinhole. Look for a road that says...There. East Pomfret, Ambajejus Lake..."
"Ambi-what? Never mind. I hope you have the right pinhole."
"So do I," said Napoleon fervently.
East Pomfret boasted two street lights, one on either side of a narrow high-crowned blacktop euphemistically indicated on the map as an 'Other Highway'. The map did not indicate the solitary paved path out of town in the approximate direction of the pinhole, but Napoleon saw it in the edge of the headlight beam. "Turn there."
"If this truck will fit," said Illya. "My steering arms are about to fall off."
"We've come this far—it would seem a shame to quit now."
"If you're wrong, you can drive back. I'm willing to take the time to teach you not to use the clutch as if this were a 300-SL."
Napoleon squinted under the map light. "It looks like three miles on the map, but the road isn't shown and it might wind a lot. If we don't see anything in ten miles, we could dismount and try shouting."
Illya gave him a black look that was lost in the general darkness. "Five miles by the odometer."
"Aw, come on! Seven or eight at least."
The Russian slowed and swung left around the tiny darkened gas station, jockeying between it and the trees beyond the opening of the road. In his mind one thought was clear even above his professional pride in driving: Irene will kill me if I scratch the paint. Twenty yards ahead the road turned beneath interwoven branches and vanished from his headlights, but the car's flanks had cleared the corner. He sped up to twenty and flexed his fingers slightly. "Seven," he conceded.
It was just over four miles when Napoleon said, "Look."
Dim in the headlights on their left was a small signboard. It was the first work of man other than the road since an ancient bridge just outside of East Pomfret; that alone made it worth noticing. As they approached, Illya slowed and studied it.
Painted on the signboard and somewhat faded was the head of a stag, strangely done in gold with silver antlers.
"Bingo," said Napoleon.
"Congratulations," said Illya.
"That is a stag, or, antlered argent. The Fraser clan crest. We're home."
"How do you know so much?"
"A:" said Napoleon smugly, "my mother was a Campbell. B: It was in my file on Baldwin. C: 'Dr. Fraser' wore it on his blazer that evening we had dinner with Ed and Chandra. And D: look at that!"
They had stopped just short of the signboard, and now could see a pair of brick gateposts set several feet back from the road, half-hidden among trees and high-piled bushes. The heavy metal gates, barely visible in the gloom, could be seen to be swinging open even before a concealed floodlight glowed and brightened the entrance.
"I think you were right all along, Napoleon," said Illya. "I beg your pardon for ever having doubted you."
"Thank you, Illya. And I will also admit that it was a hell of a long way to go for a lousy pinhole."
The gates swung closed behind them and the light went out. Ahead a well-tended dirt lane wound through patchy timber for another quarter mile or more before the porch light of a large building appeared ahead with an illuminated garage open adjoining it. They left the Mercedes there next to a two-year-old Lincoln and went around to the front door. Irene answered their ring.
An hour later they were all seated before a blazing fire in the great comfortable living room. Irene had kept two portions of dinner warm in hopes that they would arrive, though Ward had scoffed, and they had been gratefully devoured by the two hungry UNCLE agents. Baldwin passed liqueurs around, and now seemed willing to discuss their situation.
"So King was alone this morning. Unless he has another means of finding us, we should be safe here until the Council election is held. Though in desperation, King might enlist the aid of all available Thrush forces to find us; in that case our security anywhere would be problematical." He clipped the end from a slender cigar with unnecessary vigor. "A pestilence upon King and the fools that follow him! I have been hounded to the most desolate reaches of the planet by this blackguard, deprived of every civilized convenience, forced to live the desperate life of a hunted criminal..." He blew an aromatic cloud of smoke through the cigar and extended the brandy decanter to Solo, who declined.