What time did Sherry tell you she'd be here?" Solo asked Illya when they had been examining the place for twenty-five minutes—and had found nothing.
"Ten o'clock. The time we arranged to get here."
"Well, that's very odd. We weren't late, so she couldn't have come and gone. When did you last see her, Illya?"
"Last night, of course. We went for a little drive after you left. We had a look at Eze village. And then I drove her home."
"Where did you leave her?"
"Outside her flat, of course," the Russian said, coloring slightly. "In the Rue Masséna."
"All right, all right," Solo said, smiling. "Don't get all Slavic on me. I just thought if you had happened to stay for breakfast, it would —"
"There was nothing like that at all," Illya said stiffly—adding, with a (for him) rare flash of sarcasm: "You forget, Napoleon; I am not the chief enforcement officer!"
" Touché !" The woman's voice drawled sleepily from the door as Solo burst into laughter. Helga Grossbreitner was standing there, leaning against the doorpost. She was wearing a white linen suit with a huge-brimmed hat in lacy black straw—and she looked cool, and infinitely attractive. "Sorry I'm a few minutes late," she added, "but I came on in as the door was open...to hear my virtue—at least by implication—being impugned!"
"Come on in," Solo grinned. "Don't mind my friend: he's just a little jealous."
"Good morning, Helga," Illya said. "Do forgive me. Really, I did not in any way mean —"
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" the girl interrupted. "Don't give it a thought; we're all grown up here. If I don't mind the night porter at a man's hotel seeing me come in without luggage at one A.M., why should I object to good-humored remarks from his friend?" She paused and looked across at Solo speculatively, adding in her throatiest voice: "When are you going to ask me to dinner again, Solo?"
"Tonight," the agent replied promptly. "We're agreed that we should follow up the social life of your employees, and there's a party of them going up to Haut-des-Cagnes. I think we could do worse than tag along. We'll make up a foursome...you do know Sherry Rogers?"
"But of course. Very well. She was already on the staff at the airport when I was working here."
"Good. Which brings me to another point—the one we had been discussing when you came in: Sherry was due here at ten o'clock and now it's twenty-five to eleven. You haven't seen her?"
"I'm afraid not. I shouldn't worry though. She works in Liaison now, doesn't she? There may easily have been some panic at the aéroport ."
"I suppose so. There must be plenty of alarms and excursions in your game, apart from crashes—late arrivals, reroutings, diversions and so on..."
"You're telling me!" the girl said. "Can I help in any way?"
"You can try, if you would. All we wanted to ask Sherry was to keep an eye open for anything in this apartment that she thought might throw a light—however faint—on the crash Andrea Bergen was injured in."
"But of course. Have you found anything at all yet?"
Solo and Illya admitted that they hadn't. Nor, despite the able and willing assistance of Helga, were they able to discover a single thing out of the ordinary in the apartment. Clothes, cosmetics and shoes were all neatly in place; the small kitchen held a collection of canned goods in a refrigerator, as befitted the home of a girl whose business took her away several days a week; household bills and bank statements were neatly docketed in a bureau; a bundle of unexceptional letters from a Second Officer in Swissair lived under the sachets in a handkerchief drawer. By twelve thirty, they had to confess that the apartment would yield nothing.
"I shall leave you, then," Helga said, approaching close to Solo and picking a small piece of thread from his lapel with a gloved hand. "Tonight we meet at what time?"
"Let's say seven thirty, okay?"
"Fine," Illya said. "Unless something's happened that makes it too early for Sherry. I'll
"Ten o'clock. The time we arranged to get here."
"Well, that's very odd. We weren't late, so she couldn't have come and gone. When did you last see her, Illya?"
"Last night, of course. We went for a little drive after you left. We had a look at Eze village. And then I drove her home."
"Where did you leave her?"
"Outside her flat, of course," the Russian said, coloring slightly. "In the Rue Masséna."
"All right, all right," Solo said, smiling. "Don't get all Slavic on me. I just thought if you had happened to stay for breakfast, it would —"
"There was nothing like that at all," Illya said stiffly—adding, with a (for him) rare flash of sarcasm: "You forget, Napoleon; I am not the chief enforcement officer!"
" Touché !" The woman's voice drawled sleepily from the door as Solo burst into laughter. Helga Grossbreitner was standing there, leaning against the doorpost. She was wearing a white linen suit with a huge-brimmed hat in lacy black straw—and she looked cool, and infinitely attractive. "Sorry I'm a few minutes late," she added, "but I came on in as the door was open...to hear my virtue—at least by implication—being impugned!"
"Come on in," Solo grinned. "Don't mind my friend: he's just a little jealous."
"Good morning, Helga," Illya said. "Do forgive me. Really, I did not in any way mean —"
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" the girl interrupted. "Don't give it a thought; we're all grown up here. If I don't mind the night porter at a man's hotel seeing me come in without luggage at one A.M., why should I object to good-humored remarks from his friend?" She paused and looked across at Solo speculatively, adding in her throatiest voice: "When are you going to ask me to dinner again, Solo?"
"Tonight," the agent replied promptly. "We're agreed that we should follow up the social life of your employees, and there's a party of them going up to Haut-des-Cagnes. I think we could do worse than tag along. We'll make up a foursome...you do know Sherry Rogers?"
"But of course. Very well. She was already on the staff at the airport when I was working here."
"Good. Which brings me to another point—the one we had been discussing when you came in: Sherry was due here at ten o'clock and now it's twenty-five to eleven. You haven't seen her?"
"I'm afraid not. I shouldn't worry though. She works in Liaison now, doesn't she? There may easily have been some panic at the aéroport ."
"I suppose so. There must be plenty of alarms and excursions in your game, apart from crashes—late arrivals, reroutings, diversions and so on..."
"You're telling me!" the girl said. "Can I help in any way?"
"You can try, if you would. All we wanted to ask Sherry was to keep an eye open for anything in this apartment that she thought might throw a light—however faint—on the crash Andrea Bergen was injured in."
"But of course. Have you found anything at all yet?"
Solo and Illya admitted that they hadn't. Nor, despite the able and willing assistance of Helga, were they able to discover a single thing out of the ordinary in the apartment. Clothes, cosmetics and shoes were all neatly in place; the small kitchen held a collection of canned goods in a refrigerator, as befitted the home of a girl whose business took her away several days a week; household bills and bank statements were neatly docketed in a bureau; a bundle of unexceptional letters from a Second Officer in Swissair lived under the sachets in a handkerchief drawer. By twelve thirty, they had to confess that the apartment would yield nothing.
"I shall leave you, then," Helga said, approaching close to Solo and picking a small piece of thread from his lapel with a gloved hand. "Tonight we meet at what time?"
"Let's say seven thirty, okay?"
"Fine," Illya said. "Unless something's happened that makes it too early for Sherry. I'll
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