Free Pulp Fiction | The Stone-Cold Dead in the Market Affair by John Oram by Unknown

planted for our benefit. You know: 'Okay boys. The boss is dead. The game's up. So you can all go home.' Remember, we're still supposed to think Price Hughes was top man of the British Satrap. Morgan died before he could confess that he blew the cover."
    "It's possible."
    Illya swung the car into the forecourt of the Savoy Hotel and brought it to a halt outside the big doors. He said, "You go on up and get through to Mr. Waverly. I'll garage the car."
    Solo rode the elevator to the first floor, unlocked the door of suite A25 and put his finger on the light switch. A stunning jolt of electricity shot up his arm, momentarily paralyzing him. In the same instant a bare, hairy forearm went around his neck in a Japanese stranglehold. He countered quickly, trying to break the grip that threatened to squeeze the last gasp of air from him lungs. His foot went back, got a hold around the assailant's ankle. They went down in a heap, Solo on top.
    The other man rolled, heaving Solo's body sideways. He wriggled free, smashing a murderous chop to Solo's Adam's-apple as he rose. Solo grabbed wildly in the darkness, caught a handful of shirt and felt it tear. Then a kick crashed behind his ear.
    When he came around, he was lying on a couch. There was a burning taste of liquor in his throat and whiskey dribbling down his chin. Illya, glass in hand, was standing over him.
    He tried to sit up. Pain stabbed through his skull and he lay back again, closing his eyes against the glare of the ceiling chandelier. He asked feebly, "What happened? Did the roof fall in?"
    Illya said, "They were waiting for you. Somebody had removed the switch cover. Really, Napoleon, I am surprised you fell for such an old trick."
    "It can happen to the best of us." Solo raised himself slowly and cautiously opened one eye. He took the glass out of Illya's hand and drank. "Did you see him?"
    "No, I found you lying here. Our visitor had gone."
    "Excuse me," Solo went to the bathroom, ran cold water and sluiced it over his face. It felt good and he plunged his head in the bowl. He came back toweling his hair. "What was he after?"
    "I think you interrupted him on a general exploratory mission," Illya said. "He has been through everything — cases, drawers, everything, and the place is a mess. But he also left something behind."
    He held out his hand. Solo saw in the palm a finely made gold medallion bearing the enameled portrait of a woman saint. Attached to the loop was a broken length of platinum chain. Illya said, "I found this on the floor by your head."
    Solo examined it. "This is unusual, and it cost plenty," he said. "It's the kind of thing you usually see in Italy, Spain and the Latin-American countries. Mothers give them to their sons, and they're sometimes handed down from generation to generation as a sort of good-luck piece. I'd say this one is eighteenth-century. It shouldn't be too difficult to trace. Somebody among the Italian community in Soho ought to recognize it."
    "You are an optimist, my friend," Illya said. "Do you know how many Italians there are in Soho? And Spaniards and Cypriots and Maltese? And if someone recognized it, is it likely they would admit it? Our late visitor is a rough playmate."
    "I know it," Solo massaged his aching head. "But I also know that these things have a strong superstitious value. And I think our little chum is going to move heaven and earth to get it back; so we have at least a starting point."
    He picked up the telephone, dialed Blodwen's number in Newport. When she answered, he asked, "How soon can you make it to London?"
    "Four hours. Maybe less, if I push it."
    "Fine. Then get going."
    "My God!" she said bitterly. "Don't you think a girl needs any sleep?"
    It was five in the morning when she knocked on the door of suite A25. Illya, in pajamas and dressing gown, let her in.
    "All right," she snapped. "Where's the fire?"
    He said, "Don't ask me. This is Napoleon's party."
    "Where is he?"
    "Sleeping, I hope. He's had a