“Burn in hell, Golgotha,” Napoleon Solo whispered fervently.

ANOTHER SOLO PERFORMANCE

“REALLY, Solo,” Partridge protested in a low voice so that no one else standing at the bar of the Paris Overseas Press Club could hear him, “I do think you could fill me in a bit about this Orangeberg thing.”

Napoleon Solo shrugged characteristically.

“I thought the AP covered it rather thoroughly.” Partridge made a face. “Oh, yes. Strange explosion in German cemetery. Whole bloody place destroyed. Authorities at a loss and a confounded etcetera. Really, Solo.”

“Really nothing, Billy.”

“Yes, of course. I suppose you’re right. But you chaps in the field always seem to get the best of it. Old I may be and I do have a touch of arthritis in several places but you see, one wants for a little excitement now and then. Keeps the endocrines working properly and all that.”

Solo smiled. “I suppose it does, at that. I usually prefer beautiful women, though.”

“Like your girlie from Army Intelligence?”

“You’re getting warm.”

Partridge smiled sourly. “Not as warm as you, I’ll wager.”

Napoleon Solo slid off his stool. “And here is our beautiful leading lady now.”

Coming toward them was the vision who went by the name of Geraldine Terry. She was tall and athletically graceful in a beige woolen sheath dress, her long, copper colored hair neatly swept to one side in a fashionable one-shoulder fall. Her firm, high breasts made more than one man at the bar turn to cast appreciative eyes at her.

“Hello, Miss Terry,” Partridge brightened. “Buy you a drink?”

“Thank you, Billy, you may.” She smiled at Solo. “Am I late?”

He made a show of consulting his watch.

“Exactly three seconds. I counted.” Partridge sniffed the air as if he didn’t approve of all this romantic nonsense between fellow agents. Yet, even as he ordered a martini for Miss Terry, he was wistfully approving of her fine figure. Rather lean for his tastes, but then, Americans did tend to starve themselves for their appearance.

“Solo,” he began again, manfully.

“Yes, Billy?”

Solo’s dark eyes mocked him, waiting. Confound the fellow. He was as tightly buttoned as a cheap ulster.

“Forget it. Passing thought.”

“I’ll mail you a report, Billy. Scout’s honor.”

Jerry Terry laughed and speared the olive in her martini.

“What shall we drink to?”

Partridge reached for his glass. “I have one. Let’s drink to agents who keep their mouths sealed and don’t confide in fellow agents.”

“Ouch,” said Solo.

They each sipped their drinks. Partridge cocked an eye at Geraldine Terry.

“And you, my girl. Back to the States?”

She looked sober for an instant and then it passed.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. I have to check back to the Pentagon by Friday.”

“We have two whole days, then,” Solo reminded her, staring at her evenly across the rim of his glass. “That can be a lifetime when the people are right.”

Before she could answer, a white-jacketed house boy appeared at Partridge’s elbow. The Englishman scanned him dourly.

“Well, garcon?”

“Pardon,” the Frenchman apologized. “Is this gentleman with you Mr. Napoleon Solo?”

Solo tensed. He suddenly had the old feeling of the world closing in again, enfolding him. Trouble never knew the time of day, the hour or the minute.

“Yes,” he said tightly. “I’m Napoleon Solo.”

The houseboy smiled. “Phone call, sir. Long distance. A Mr. Alexander Waverly. He said it was urgent—”

The man from U.N.C.L.E. kissed Jerry Terry on the cheek as he walked swiftly by her to take the call.