Pulp Fiction | The Stone-Cold Dead in the Market Affair by John Oram Read Online Free PDF Page B

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