Non-Challenge Fic: The Deadly in My Fashion Affair, Ch. 3

[ssclassof56.livejournal.com]

Chapter 1 here. Chapter 2 here.

Chapter 3
"She must have marvelous organizational skills."

Michael Leary stepped from the afternoon sunlight into the narrow stairwell and allowed his pale eyes to adjust to the gloom. The door to his left proclaimed the services of a palm reader in hand-painted letters. Next to the doorframe hung a sign marked "Vanya's," with an arrow pointing up the steps. Popping a mint in his mouth, Leary began to climb.

The information he had on this designer was sparse, but typical in its content. Vanya had debuted a collection in Paris a few years earlier. The Russian's talent was widely acknowledged, but his stubborn refusal to alter the simplest detail to the whims of his rich clients prevented his acceptance. He had disappeared in anger, only to re-emerge in New York City this month. Leary wondered to what extent his seclusion had affected his abilities or his personality.


Passing through the only door on the second floor landing, Leary characterized the state of Vanya's decor as 'gentile poverty.' Like many of the other studios he had visited lately, the furnishings were thrift-shop best, the designers sparing as little money as possible on anything other than their precious clothes. Presuming the little bell over the front door had alerted Vanya to a potential customer, Leary sank into in a flaking leather chair to wait.

Before long the beads hanging in the archway opposite the door were pulled aside. In the threshold stood a slim man of medium height with longish blond hair and Slavic features. His trousers and loose shirt were expensively made but a few years out of style, presumably remnants of his brief period of affluence.

"I am Vanya,” the designer announced simply.

"Michael Leary,” he replied, rising to hand over a business card. “I’m here on behalf of a party who desires to support a talented young designer.”

"You know fashion?"

Leary could detect traces of contempt in the couturier's voice. Bitterness could be useful. "No. That's your job. Mine is to know the tastes I represent."

Vanya's blue eyes flashed with curiosity. He stood back from the archway, a silent signal that Leary might pass through to the inner sanctum. The room was dominated by a low platform emerging from an alcove on the left.

"I would prefer to see a small variety of garments. Evening clothes, a cocktail dress, something casual..." He let the list trail off, testing the degree to which this Vanya could be led.

Appearing comfortable within these guidelines, the designer gestured for Leary to be seated and disappeared through a door marked Private.

Illya passed through a small supply room stacked with bolts of cloth and opened a second door. The workroom was equally stocked with the appropriate accoutrements for a fledgling fashion house. There was a drafting desk covered with sketches and swatches of fabric; a large cutting table; a sewing machine; and rack of fashionable clothes provided by LaSalle, including a few of Illya's designs.

In the corner behind a folding screen, Faustina was waiting, her chin propped on the top rail. “What’s first?” she asked. Her eyes were brown and her make-up applied with a heavy hand.

"The cocktail dress." Illya removed the garment from the rack and passed it over the screen. "Then the green suit,” he continued as she pulled the dress over her head, “ah...the gold gown and the blue harem.” All but the suit were his own designs.

Faustina came out from behind the screen, fastening the belt at her waist. Illya waited for her to critique his choices, but she made no comment. She had grown unusually quiet and tense as the day progressed. The mood suited her as poorly as the contact lenses, both of them making her unfamiliar and unreadable. Time to jar her out of it. Napoleon had Helsinki; he had Mimi Doolittle.

He grabbed her arm and raked her with his gaze. “You're wearing that like an agent, not like a woman,” he said harshly and untruthfully. “Haven't you had your basic training?”

He had unwisely related the tale of a similar remark when they’d been commiserating over a failed mission. To say she had reacted poorly was an understatement. While he’d had epithets directed at him since joining U.N.C.L.E., never so many unrelated to Communism.

His words struck her with the force of a slap, and she yanked her arm from his grasp. Her shuttered expression vanished, replaced by shock, anger, and confusion in quick succession. Her eyes devoured his face, trying to comprehend the sudden assault.

He raised an eyebrow. “Now it's your turn. I believe it began with ‘Of all the chauvinistic...,’ etc., and ended with a plate of curry in my lap.”

For several seconds she stared at him in mute astonishment. Then she closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “That unfortunate incident was the result of too little sleep and too much vodka. I warned you it was a bad combination, but you insisted Stolichnaya was the cure for all ills.”

Faustina opened her eyes, and Illya was relieved to see them sparkle with wry humor. “And I did pay for your dry cleaning,” she reminded him.

“And you wear that dress beautifully,” he said, mischief in his own eyes. “Like it was made for you.”

He walked out to the showroom to the accompaniment of her soft laughter.



Leary viewed the outfits Vanya had chosen, smiling blandly at them all. The designer finished his commentary on the blue harem outfit as his model returned to the back. Silence reigned.

The dresses were perfect, Michael Leary decided. The model was perfect as well, just the right build. He judged from her vacuous expression and occasional worshipful glances at Vanya that she would also be easily led. But what of the designer?

Eventually, Leary spoke. "You failed to be accepted three years ago, Vanya. I presume you have higher hopes for this collection."

"My clothes speak for themselves, Mr. Leary. The ageless inspiration they represent cannot fail to be acknowledged. In time, the world will see."

Idealistic, but not without ambition. Either attribute could be manipulated. Leary had found his man.

"Congratulations, Vanya." His sepulchral smile finally reached his eyes, which glowed with an unnatural light. "I believe your talents are precisely what I have been searching for. Now we need to have a serious discussion."

"When?"

"Tonight. Meet me in the Oak Bar in an hour." He turned abruptly and left.

Illya remained staring at the archway even after the bell signaled Leary's exit. They were in. He would have more answers this very evening.

In the back room, Faustina, wearing the harem pants and a light-grey blouse, sat cross-legged on the cutting table, putting Illya in mind of a certain television genie. Communicator in hand, she listened intently to the report from the agent on the street below.

"He's in his car and about to pull out into traffic," he informed her.

"Did he signal anyone? Any suspicious people about?"

The agent laughed. "In this neighborhood it would be faster to list the people who aren't suspicious. But no, he headed straight for his car and left as alone as he arrived."

"Good. Check back with us if he makes any stops before his hotel."

"Will do." Faustina closed her communicator and looked at Illya expectantly.

"I'm to meet him at the Plaza in hour."

"We're in!" Faustina smiled, echoing his earlier thought. "Welcome to the world of high fashion, Vanya." She hopped off the table and ducked behind the screen.

Illya allowed a self-deprecating smile to curve his lips. "In what is what I hope to find out. Though I don't think I'll find him entirely forthcoming." He took out his own communicator. "Open channel D, please."

"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin,” Mr. Waverly responded. "What do you have to report?"

Briefly Illya told him about Leary's visit and their meeting that evening. "Very good. Does Miss Pemberley have anything pertinent to add?"

Faustina came out from behind the screen, wearing a dark grey skirt and adjusting her holster. "Nothing at the moment," she said as Illya pointed the device at her. "I hope to have something for you later."

"Fine. Carry on."

Illya looked at Faustina quizzically as he put away his communicator. "What are you doing tonight?"

She pulled on her jacket. "Not all of us face the onerous task of sipping cocktails." Picking up a leather case from the table, she drew out two slim tools and slipped them into an inner pocket. "Some of us get to burgle the Plaza."



Faustina waited by the phones, giving Michael Leary enough time to realize if he had forgotten something and turn around, before she rode the elevator up to his floor. Under cover of dusk, the streets outside had filled with dinner-goers, and Faustina passed only one hurried couple before she reached Leary's room. She knocked twice and heard nothing. After a quick glance to confirm her solitude, Faustina drew the picks from her jacket and slid them into the lock. A little deft manipulation and the lock released.

Inside, the curtains had been drawn against the Manhattan twilight, and the light streaming under the door did little to relieve the thick blackness. A trace of cologne lingered in the air. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and her stomach turned. Willing herself to remain cool and detached, she crushed the intrusive feelings into a ball and buried them deep inside her. Just one more thing for her analyst to dig out later. She hoped he'd name his yacht after her.

Needing to be out of the dark, Faustina decided to risk the nightstand lamp, believing its light would not be detected in the hall. The hotel room proved extremely tidy. The nightstand itself was bare except for the lamp; the drawer held only a Gideon Bible, which she doubted Leary had touched. A black suitcase lay unlocked at the foot of the bed. It contained some underclothes; a few Italian shirts, one still stiff with tissue; and a bag of mints. Faustina's nimble fingers could detect nothing hidden in the lining, and she frowned.

Moving to the dresser, Faustina could see little of interest on top. As she reached for the nearest drawer handle, her hand froze. Something was wrong with the brush. She picked it up, turning it in the lamp light. The bristles were entwined with long blonde strands. Michael Leary had dark, curly hair.

Faustina's gaze swept the room. There it was. A second suitcase, powder blue, sat on a rack, its edge just visible behind the closet door.

She was half-way to the closet when she heard the footsteps approaching in the hall. With silent speed, she moved to turn off the lamp. Its soft click echoed like a shot in the still room. She watched as shadows broke the narrow band of light under the door. A stranger knocked.

Leary or his companion would have a key, so this was someone else. She took out her Special. The wall turned at a right angle just beyond the door. Backing against it, the points of a light switch digging into her back, Faustina waited.

She heard the tiny clicks of someone picking the lock, followed by the louder click of the knob turning. A rectangle of light expanded on the far wall, framing the silhouette of a man. Both disappeared as the door was shut. A dark form appeared inches from her shoulder.

As she raised her hand to slam her Special across the back of his head, his arm reached out for the light switch. Her swing was impeded, and the blow lacked the force to knock him out. He stumbled, dazed, but managed to grasp her other arm tightly. Pulled off-balance, she tumbled to the floor with him.

She landed on her elbow, and her Special skittered across the carpet. The intruder was taller, stronger and doing his professional best to incapacitate her. But she had the advantage of having seen the room lit. She freed an arm and reached up to the foot of the bed. Grasping the handle of Leary’s suitcase, she brought the bag crashing down on the stranger.

The intruder crumpled on top of her with a groan. A familiar groan.

"Napoleon?!" she hissed.

"Faustina?"

Scrambling from underneath him, Faustina found the nightstand and switched on the lamp. Napoleon Solo lay on the carpet, grimacing in pain. Suppressing the urge to kick him, she sat on the edge of the bed and adjusted her clothes. “What are you doing here?" she demanded.

Napoleon sat up and eyed her resentfully. "You hit me with a suitcase.”

“If your head weren't so hard, it wouldn't have been necessary.”

His frown deepened, but he accepted her assistance and rose unsteadily to his feet. He crossed to the mirror to examine the damage.

"What are you doing here?" she insisted, watching him smooth his mussed hair and gingerly explore the lump left by her Special.

"I'm searching Madeline Colbourne's room. What are you doing here?" he echoed.

"I'm searching Michael Leary's room."

Comprehension dawned simultaneously. "She's a blonde," Faustina announced.

Napoleon raised his brows at this non sequitur. "How did you know that?"

Faustina pointed to the dresser. "Her brush is there. And a second suitcase is in the closet. I had just discovered them when you dropped in."

Napoleon examined the brush as she continued, "I thought you were having dinner with her tonight?"

"I am." He straightened his suit and adjusted his cuffs. "A late dinner. She's downstairs getting her hair done now."

Mindful of the passing time, she retrieved her Special. "Come on. Let's get this search over with."

Although it was hardly a Type Two, their search was very thorough and turned up nothing so convenient as a bird emblazoned file detailing Leary's entire plan. Their most interesting discovery was in Madeline's suitcase. Napoleon smiled as his fingers encountered the small jeweler's box. Nestled in the burgundy velvet he found an engagement ring. The flawless oval diamond was at least 1.5 carats, he estimated.

Napoleon held up his prize. "It seems our report left out a tiny, inconsequential fact about Madeline and Michael Leary."

Brow furrowed, Faustina took the small box and removed the ring. As she twisted it at eye-level, the light reflected off an engraving on the inside of the band. "To my saving angel, Love J.D.," she read.

Napoleon’s expression soured. “I'm not used to being one of a crowd.”

"She must have marvelous organizational skills," Faustina mused, returning the box to Napoleon.

"To say the least," he agreed. "All those confused?"

With a sigh, Faustina raised a hand. After a moment, Napoleon lifted his as well.

They completed their investigation in thoughtful silence. When the room was returned to its dark, pristine state, they stole into the deserted hallway and went their separate ways.

Comments

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Well, the plot thickens doesn't it? Love the hitting him with a suitcase because she'd seen the room lit up. Very resourceful. And now I'm wondering what's going on for Illya at the Plaza.

[ssclassof56.livejournal.com]

Thanks. Illya's Plaza visit will be less eventful. But he needs the rest. He'll have a lot coming at him soon enough. :)