career, but an unblemished one. Every day of his life is on record, and there isn't a hint anywhere to connect him with anything more criminal than a few dust-ups in foreign ports when he was young. Absolutely unimpeachable, and totally above suspicion."
"Which in itself is highly suspicious," said Illya, and Napoleon nodded.
"My thought precisely. I put the local Section Three on it. They haven't found anything yet, but if there's anything there, they will."
"Even if it takes them six months. Did you get anything we can use right now?"
This time Napoleon used his drink to fill a few seconds of silence while he thought. "Well, not exactly. All I got was a sort of suggestion. It's not a lead, and it's not a clue, and it has no direct bearing on our assignment - but right now it's the only thing we've got until some thing turns up on Dascoyn."
"If you wanted to capture my interest, you have succeeded. What is this thing - the product of a Ouija board? Or a cryptic message you found in a bottle?"
"Neither. I mentioned already that both Aunt Jane and Father John claimed the hobby of criminology. They gave me the name and address of a man whom they seem to consider the leader of their little clique, and suggested we talk to him."
Illya gave Napoleon a look that implied a straitjacket and probably a padded cell. "A hobbyist?" he said unbelievingly. "An amateur detective of some kind? What on earth could you hope to find out from an armchair expert? He probably follows all the crime stories in the newspapers and pastes them in scrapbooks, with little notations on theories and resolutions. With the resources of Scotland Yard, part of MI-5, and all of U.N.C.L.E., you want to seek the advice of some utterly incompetent little man who has probably never seen an actual crime outside a newspaper photograph?"
Napoleon raised a hand to shorten his partner's out burst. "He may be, or he may not," he said. "Talking with a little old lady and an equally unprepossessing priest, I gained quite a respect for their minds and abilities, as I believe I said only recently. They seemed to admire this man tremendously, and because of this I am willing at least to talk to him. You may either come along or pursue your interests here in the city while I go alone."
"Where? And what do you know about him? What does he do for a living? What's his name, and what are his qualifications?"
"Actually I know very little. He's very old, apparently - somewhere around a hundred years old, according to Father John. Aunt Jane said he was once a detective, though I imagine most of our modem techniques would be beyond him by this point. Outside of that, all I know is that he is long retired, and keeps bees on his little Sussex farm. And his name is William Escott. I'll be going down to see him tomorrow afternoon."
Illya sighed. "I may as well come along. It might be interesting, if not educational."
It was three o'clock on a still May afternoon when two casually dressed individuals descended from the second passenger car of a little local train at the station of a sleepy Sussex town. One was tall, long-jawed, and obviously American. The other was square-faced and blond, wearing American clothes but of less certain nationality. They conversed together in low tones, and though the usual station loungers could have taken oath that neither of them had ever been in the village before, both strode directly up High Street without pausing to ask for directions.
They walked completely through the village and out the other side where High Street narrowed again to a two-laned strip of pavement cracked with heavy use. The shriek of the train announcing its departure from the station came faintly to them across the somnolent haze of the afternoon.
They had walked perhaps half a mile beyond the last houses of the village before Napoleon turned left into a narrow dirt lane that wound off under the branches of great antediluvian oak. The only sounds that reached them
"Which in itself is highly suspicious," said Illya, and Napoleon nodded.
"My thought precisely. I put the local Section Three on it. They haven't found anything yet, but if there's anything there, they will."
"Even if it takes them six months. Did you get anything we can use right now?"
This time Napoleon used his drink to fill a few seconds of silence while he thought. "Well, not exactly. All I got was a sort of suggestion. It's not a lead, and it's not a clue, and it has no direct bearing on our assignment - but right now it's the only thing we've got until some thing turns up on Dascoyn."
"If you wanted to capture my interest, you have succeeded. What is this thing - the product of a Ouija board? Or a cryptic message you found in a bottle?"
"Neither. I mentioned already that both Aunt Jane and Father John claimed the hobby of criminology. They gave me the name and address of a man whom they seem to consider the leader of their little clique, and suggested we talk to him."
Illya gave Napoleon a look that implied a straitjacket and probably a padded cell. "A hobbyist?" he said unbelievingly. "An amateur detective of some kind? What on earth could you hope to find out from an armchair expert? He probably follows all the crime stories in the newspapers and pastes them in scrapbooks, with little notations on theories and resolutions. With the resources of Scotland Yard, part of MI-5, and all of U.N.C.L.E., you want to seek the advice of some utterly incompetent little man who has probably never seen an actual crime outside a newspaper photograph?"
Napoleon raised a hand to shorten his partner's out burst. "He may be, or he may not," he said. "Talking with a little old lady and an equally unprepossessing priest, I gained quite a respect for their minds and abilities, as I believe I said only recently. They seemed to admire this man tremendously, and because of this I am willing at least to talk to him. You may either come along or pursue your interests here in the city while I go alone."
"Where? And what do you know about him? What does he do for a living? What's his name, and what are his qualifications?"
"Actually I know very little. He's very old, apparently - somewhere around a hundred years old, according to Father John. Aunt Jane said he was once a detective, though I imagine most of our modem techniques would be beyond him by this point. Outside of that, all I know is that he is long retired, and keeps bees on his little Sussex farm. And his name is William Escott. I'll be going down to see him tomorrow afternoon."
Illya sighed. "I may as well come along. It might be interesting, if not educational."
It was three o'clock on a still May afternoon when two casually dressed individuals descended from the second passenger car of a little local train at the station of a sleepy Sussex town. One was tall, long-jawed, and obviously American. The other was square-faced and blond, wearing American clothes but of less certain nationality. They conversed together in low tones, and though the usual station loungers could have taken oath that neither of them had ever been in the village before, both strode directly up High Street without pausing to ask for directions.
They walked completely through the village and out the other side where High Street narrowed again to a two-laned strip of pavement cracked with heavy use. The shriek of the train announcing its departure from the station came faintly to them across the somnolent haze of the afternoon.
They had walked perhaps half a mile beyond the last houses of the village before Napoleon turned left into a narrow dirt lane that wound off under the branches of great antediluvian oak. The only sounds that reached them
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