Morgan went around to the back of the car, unlocked the trunk and dragged out two heavy suitcases. He took one in each hand and lugged them with some difficulty into the hall. The other two men hurried after him and the door swung shut.
It opened again a minute later. The stocky man reappeared, got into the car and drove it around the yard.
Illya decided to call it a night. He had plenty to think about and there was no use straining the luck.
Getting out of Cwm Carrog was no trick. He went out the front way — along the edge of the drive to the lane — then walked uphill to the place where he had left the knapsack. He picked up the sack but left his sneakers on. When he had walked about half a mile he changed them for his shoes, climbed over the lone wall and nested down among the bracken for the remainder of the night.
At first light he worked his cramped muscles into a state approaching normal, climbed the hill to the ring of pines and hiked down into Corwen from the other side.
Illya timed his arrival at the hotel for a late breakfast. Since he had to pay for it he thought he might as well eat it. Afterward he had a hot bath and changed into more civilized clothes. Then he hung a sign outside his bedroom door: Do not disturb, and went to work on the film.
At noon he left the hotel and hunted out David Davis. He found the old man sitting hopefully on a bench outside a small beerhouse. He took him inside, propped him against the bar with a pint in front of him, and produced one of the prints he had made that morning. It showed the thin man with the nutcracker features.
Illya said, "Do you know this man?"
Mr. Davis cackled. "Der! There's a joker you are. Making me tell you all about him — and all the time you do know him well enough to carry his picture. Yes, indeed. Mr. Price Hughes himself. A speaking likeness."
Illya put a pound note in his willing palm. He said, without optimism, "Forget I ever mentioned him."
Down at the post office he met an official obviously fitted for bigger things. Without asking too many questions he got an ex-directory number in Newport and handed Illya the receiver.
Blodwen's voice said, "How're they coming, my Russian cousin?"
"Like gold," he said happily. "Has Solo arrived?"
"He's here now — punishing my Scotch. Want to talk to him?"
"Not right now. Tell him I'm sending some pictures by special delivery. I want them checked."
"The hunch came off?"
"And how! I've found a bunch of weirdies living the simple life behind bullet-proof doors — with aeolian harps and livestock in gorgeous Technicolor to keep the locals at bay."
She said, "And what the hell is a you-know-what harp?"
"Oh, that! It's a quaint gadget of piano wires or guitar strings. You fix it some place where the wind can blow through it and it sounds like slaughter on Tenth Avenue. Just the thing for the baby's nursery."
There was a pause. Then Solo's voice came over the wire. He said, "Nice work, Illya. But play it cool."
Illya grinned into a fly-specked mirror tilted above the switchboard. "I won't life a finger till the gang arrives. Just a unit in one great army, that's me."
He put a bunch of prints into a distinctively colored envelope, gave the postal official some instructions, and walked out into the sunshine.
Chapter Six
Illya pottered around the town for the rest of the day, looking in at the cattle market, buying picture postcards, sharing the joys and sorrows of the granddads on the bowling green. He let it be generally understood that he was a footloose Canadian with no more on his mind than a few days' relaxation. David Davis might have his own ideas, but as long as the free beer held out, Illya didn't think he would talk.
Around dusk he went back to the hotel. The landlord said there had been no messages for him. He ate a leisurely dinner and spent the rest of the evening in the bar. Neither David Davis nor Hugh ap Morgan showed up. At ten o'clock he shut himself in the telephone box in the lobby and dialed Blodwen's number.
Solo answered the call.
Illya asked, "Did you get the pictures?"
"I did, and I've run a check. The old man is Price Hughes, all right. He seems to be a professional eccentric but otherwise his reputation is unblemished. He has more money than Fort Knox and he spends it on good works. Apart from the nut colony you've uncovered he heads an organization for reforming ex-convicts, which he runs from his apartment in Newport Street, London."
"In Soho? That's an odd address for a philanthropist."
"I told you. He's an eccentric."
"Sure." Illya sounded unconvinced. "What about the other two?"
"The guy in the cheaters is one of his strayed lambs. A simple soul called Rafferty with a list of convictions from here to Glasgow. Grievous bodily harm, shooting with intent, mugging — you name it, he's done it. He's worked as a strong-arm man in race-track protection, organized prostitution and smuggling. But now, he claims, he's seen the light. He's been in the clear since he came out of Dartmoor a year ago."
"And Morgan?"
"That," said Solo, "is the jackpot question. You know some of the answers. He got mixed up with politics and did three years for arson. Maybe that's how he got in touch with Price Hughes. But here's the interesting thing. Before he got into trouble he was in line for a professorship at the University of Wales. It seems he was some kind of boy genius with a special bent for electronics. According to my sources he was tinkering about with one of the first experimental computers when the blow fell."
"Intriguing," Illya murmured.
"Wait. It gets better. He did his time in Wakefield, where a prisoner gets a reasonable choice of studies. Morgan elected to work in the printing shop. He knew he was washed up academically and he wanted to learn a trade.
"When he was released the Ministry of Labor found him a place with a firm that specializes in fine printing and engraving, but it didn't work out. He got restless and quit. He joined the army, volunteered for special duties, and was next heard of in one of the hush-hush outfits, forging document for the Resistance movements.
"After the war he drifted from job to job and finally dropped out of sight. He wasn't heard of again until six years ago when Price Hughes bought his farm. Morgan was the first man he hired."
Illya said, "Well, well! Things begin to add up."
"They do, indeed. There's not much doubt that the farm is the center of operations. I think it's time we stopped the presses."
"High time," said Illya. "But getting near them will be quite a trick."
He replaced the receiver and went up to bed.
At nine o'clock next morning he walked into the dining room for breakfast. And there, working earnestly through a plate of ham and eggs, sat Blodwen. She was wearing a suit of cheap tweed with a chain-store blouse. Her black hair was combed lankly and she wore all the wrong kinds of makeup.
She looked up uninterestedly when Illya walked in, then resumed her assault on the ham.
He took a chair opposite from her. The waitress brought him a bowl of cereal.
"Nice morning," he said.
Blodwen scowled. "Dim saesneg," she answered with her mouth full.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The lady do say she don't speak no English," the waitress interpreted. "A Welsh lady she is," she added unnecessarily.
"'Lady' is right," Illya said as a heavy shoe landed on his shin. He got his revenge by making the cereal really audible.
He had got to the toast and marmalade stage when Blodwen brought out a packet of cigarettes. She lit one, then started to transfer the others to a case. Somehow she fumbled the job. The case made a clatter on the table and the cigarettes spread over the floor.