"The Rhyming Man Affair" Chapter 2- for Wednesday is all about April

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Link to chapter 1: http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/702458.html





Solo and Kuryakin followed the car they were tailing at a discreet distance until it slowed to a stop, parking in front of a neatly appointed brownstone in the vicinity of Washington Square Park.

They pulled up behind it, and watched as the driver walked across the sidewalk, up a flight of stairs leading to the front door.  He withdrew a key from his pocket after nervously looking around himself before opening the door and slipping inside.

“That’s our cue,” Napoleon said, as he and his partner exited the car; heading after their quarry.

They took the stairs in just a few steps, and while Solo blocked the view, Kuryakin quickly picked the lock.

They walked inside, not making a sound and were surprised to find nothing; not a stick of furniture nor a painting on the wall.

Solo pointed to the back hall indicating he would search there, while the Russian, being light on his feet, would head upstairs.

After searching they came up with empty handed. The little weasel had disappeared...there was no backdoor, no trap doors they could find.  It was as if he’d vanished into thin air.

“Not possible,” Illya said, running his fingers through his blond hair in frustration.

“We’ll get a team here and have them the place apart one stick of wood at a time if we have to,” Solo growled.

“Open Channel-D, Waverly.”

“Yes Mr. Solo your report,” the Old Man replied without a trace of emotion in his voice.

“We’ve lost him sir.”

“What the deuce?” This time Waverly’s voice went up in pitch. “There was a signal the entire time and his car stopped near Washington Square, how the devil could you lose him Mr. Solo?”

“The car stopped in front of a brownstone, we followed the man inside and...well he disappeared sir. We can’t figure out how he could have gotten past us. Maybe he hasn’t and is still here...I suggest a crew to take the place apart.”

“One is being dispatched as we speak. Mr. Slate will be there momentarily along with a Security team. Report to me as soon as soon as possible. Out.”

Slate and five agents arrived and began to knock holes in the walls and rip up floors, until they found something unexpected under a floorboard.

“Hallo, what do we have here?” Mark said, holding up another envelope addressed to U.N.C.L.E.  He opened it without hesitation.

Same neatly typed characters and another badly written rhyme.

“Three blind mice, three blind mice,

See how they run, see how they run,

They all ran off to save a life

but got their heads cut off with a carving knife,

Did you ever see such a thing in your life

As three blind mice?”

Solo, Kuryakin and Slate looked at each other in bewilderment, when they all heard a strange whirring noise.

“Lookout!” Illya shouted, pulling the others out of the way as a spinning circular blade swept across from a wall to where they’d been standing.  If they hadn’t ducked in time, they would have all been beheaded.

“Everyone out!” Napoleon shouted, “This place could be full of traps.”

Just as they all made it out to the street below, there was a rumble. The windows blew outwards in a loud explosion, sending shards of glass, flames and smoke billowing from the building, knocking them all to the ground.

When Napoleon stood, pulling Illya up first followed by Mark; the brownstone was fully engulfed in flames.

Several agents were injured by the flying glass, though not seriously but still, a medical team was dispatched along with the fire department.

Solo shook his head as they leaned against the little green car still parked there.

“It was nothing but a trap...but why?” He asked.

“I am as perplexed as you my friend,” Illya answered.

“Will you look at that...there’s another envelope inside the car,” Mark tapped Solo on the shoulder.

As the Brit reached for the door handle, Illya stopped him

“It might be booby trapped Mark, best we get a bomb squad here, to investigate first.

Forty-five minutes later the car had been deemed clear, and Slate opened the door, removing the next envelope.

“Sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of guns,

Lots of UNCLE agents just not having fun.

When the play was opened we all  began to sing,

Oh wasn't it a dainty dish to set before the king?

The king was in his counting house counting out his money,

The queen was in the parlour feeling very glummy.

She was moved to the garden, and hung out with the clothes,

when down came a thrush bird and pecked off her nose!”

“What the bloody hell is this supposed to mean?” Slate was beginning to feel completely gutted. He was trying to control the awful feeling he had in the pit of his stomach, worrying about April.

“Clues Mark,” Illya took the paper from him, examining it carefully. “Are they referencing a play? The nursery rhyme...King, Queen? Could it be T.H.R.U.S.H.? Bozhe moy...what does it all mean?” He was beginning to understand Slate’s frustration.

Napoleon snapped his fingers,” Say isn’t there an Off-Broadway play that supposed to open tonight. It’s called ‘The Queen’s Ransom.’ It’s a longshot but…”

“That’s more to go on than we’ve had mate with these bloody poems.”

Without further discussion, the agents climbed into their car, heading for the theatre district...



Continued in the conclusion: http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/732900.html