It was nine o’clock in the morning when Solo strolled into the Left Bank Café to talk to the waitress who had served his partner. A quick look around told him she wasn’t there. The only woman waiting tables was well into middle age, short and kind of dumpy, not even close to the description Illya had given him. He took a seat near the window, and she came over.

“Coffee?” she asked, a Brooklyn accent evident in her speech. She already was holding an empty mug and a full pot.

“Yes, black,” he said. “And a little conversation if you don’t mind.” He set a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “Miss…?”

“Amsterdam, Judy Amsterdam. Sure, it’s not very busy. What can I tell you?” she asked as she slid the bill from the table to her pocket.

“I’m trying to find out some information on the new waitress.”

“Oh, her? You missed her. She called in late last night. Her mother died, and she is headed back home for the funeral.”

“Can you tell me anything about her?”

“To be honest, I can’t, and that’s odd, cuz I’m a pretty nosy woman,” she said with a laugh. “And for some reason, people just always want to tell me their life stories. When I got this job, oh, about five years ago, well, let’s say it took all of about ten minutes for me to know all about the boss, his first two wives, his finances, and his plans for the future. But her? No, I can’t say that I knew much about her. She was kinda strange. I mean on the surface she seemed real friendly, but she gave me the creeps. Hey, are you a cop?”

Napoleon flashed his UNCLE badge. She quickly read Law and Enforcement, which was good enough for her to continue.

“So how long have you known her?”

“Not that long. She only came to work here a week ago. Seems weird to me that she would leave home with her mother so sick and all.”

“Leave home?” Napoleon inquired. “She’s not a New Yorker?”

“No, she is from, I don’t know, somewhere in Missouri. I don’t know much about that. It’s all one big prairie to me.”

“How did she get the job?” “Well, one of our night girls, a young college kid – went to NYU – just dropped dead one day. Went to class, but then didn’t show up for work, no call, nothing. Real odd, cuz she was a great kid, hard worker and all. Heart attack, they said. Paul, the owner, he needed a replacement. Peggy came in just 10 minutes after he put the sign up.”

“And where might I find Paul?” asked Solo.

She pointed to the counter. “That’s him at the register.”

“Thanks,” he smiled. “You’ve been really helpful. I can see why people talk to you so readily.”

She blushed as the handsome man paid her a compliment. Too bad she was ten years too old and thirty pounds too heavy. She sighed and went back to work.

Solo sauntered over to the counter. He unceremoniously flashed his UNCLE identification and looked casually at the man at the register.

“Hey,” he began, “I hate to bother you, but I have a couple more questions the other detectives forgot to ask.”

“Sure,” he said. “What do you need?”

“I understand that your new night girl took the order from this Russian guy?”

“Yeah, that’s what she said.”

“Were you here that night?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t see him. I was in the back in the kitchen. My cook called in sick that day so I was taking care of the grill.”

“I hear she’s quit?”

“Yeah, damn shame, too. She was a pretty good waitress. Real good with the customers, although she kinda kept to herself with the other waitresses. I know Ricki didn’t like her,” Farthing said, pointing to the waitress Solo had been talking to.

“What can you tell me about Peggy?

“Not a lot. She said she was from some town south of St. Louis. Let me think. Sydon? Something like that. No, wait, it was Sikeston. Yeah, that’s it.”

“What about the girl she replaced?”

“Why would you want to know about her? What does Meredith have to do with this?”

“Probably nothing. I guess you could say I am kind of a stickler for little details. Can’t rest till I get a feel for the whole thing. So tell me about how she died.”

“She just keeled over in class.”

“She was a student?”

“Yeah, at NYU. Good kid. Always had her nose in a book when things got slow. This isn’t a fast paced place. She loved to read. Good stuff, too,” Farthing said. “She liked to talk about the books from her class. Most of it I had already read, but hey, anything worth reading is worth reading twice. Last thing she gave me was Crime and Punishment. It was from her comp lit. class, I think. Joyce, Dostoyesvsky, Thomas Mann.” He laughed when Solo gave him a surprised look. “I know that I just look like some dope who stands behind a counter, but I have a master’s degree in literature. From Yale.” He grinned again. “But I didn’t want to teach, I just wanted to read, and there aren’t too many jobs that let you do that. So I opened this place, hired some cooks and waitresses, and I read behind the counter.” He held out the copy of Crime and Punishment from Meredith. Her name was written on the end sheet in a neat script. Meredith Unger. “What a shame. I really miss talking to her.”

Solo made a mental note to find out more about the young woman’s death. Maybe it was just an odd coincidence that this woman died right before Peggy came to the café, and maybe it was a coincidence that Peggy’s mother died so suddenly. Well, maybe there was no such thing as a big coincidence, but this was an awfully eerie one.

His next stop was at the apartment that Duncan Moore had shared with Joel Kinworthy. Solo was glad he had brought the UNCLE convertible. It was a long way from Greenwich Village to Amsterdam and 108th, and the day was unseasonably warm. He was lucky to find a parking spot just half a block from their building. A fifth floor apartment in a walk up building. He rang the bell; a disheveled Kinworthy answered the door.

“My name is Napoleon Solo,” he said, flashing his badge for the third time that morning, “and I need to get some follow-up information if you don’t mind.”

“God, I’ve already been through this with the other detectives. This whole thing is killing me. Can you make it kind of quick? I have a class to be at in an hour.” Kinworthy picked up some empty glasses and walked to the tiny kitchen and placed them in the sink. His hand shook and the cups rattled against the porcelain. “Coffee cups from dinner the night before he was killed.” He tried unsuccessfully to hold back a tear. “What do I do with all this little stuff that reminds me of him?” He pointed to a book on the coffee table. “He was reading it while I worked on a paper for my econ class. I guess I will have to get it back to that girl.”

“What girl?”

“I don’t really know her. I just saw her the one time. Some English major he had met at a coffee shop we hang out in.” He opened the book. “Meredith Unger,” he said, reading the name written in neat cursive on the endsheet. “He met her about a week ago, I think. Real talky chick. I have to admit I was a little jealous – I am kind of possessive, I guess. He said she liked the same kind of books he did. I really don’t know anything about her, not even how to get in touch with her to let her know about Duncan.” He wiped his eyes. “The funeral is Friday. They had to finish with the autopsy. God, I hope they fry that bastard!”

Napoleon didn’t think this was a good time to tell him that the “bastard” was his partner. “If he is guilty,” he said. “I want to see justice done, and I want to make sure we have the right guy.”

“The police said Duncan was,” he said, pausing briefly as his voice quivered, “tied to the bed, probably raped, and then murdered.”

“Raped?”

“Well, that’s what I think. I mean, we were close, you know, not just casual lovers. Close. I don’t think he would go over there for sex. And I know this sounds funny considering our relationship, but Duncan was kind of a prude. He wasn’t into bondage. If he was tied up, it was against his will. He liked feeling good, and he was squeamish when it came to pain. And he hated not being in control. No, that monster tied him up, raped him, and killed him.”

Napoleon picked up the book from the coffee table. “Do you mind if I take this?”

“Why?” he started, but then shrugged. “Sure, it doesn’t matter. It’s not Duncan’s anyway. Listen, if you don’t have any more questions, I have to get to class. Like it’s the last thing I feel like doing, but at least for an hour I don’t have to think about this.”

“No more questions,” Napoleon said, and he headed out the door.

Napoleon had one more stop to make. He wanted to get a first hand look at the body and a chat with the medical examiner. A quick call confirmed that Winston was on duty.

“I’ll be there around noon,” he told Winston.

“That’s when my lunch break begins,” he objected.

“I’ll tell you what. Grab me a sandwich on your way over and we can talk over lunch.”

Solo arrived a few minutes early. He poked his head into Winston’s office. “Pastrami on rye, as requested,” he said.

A hungry look gleamed in Winston’s eyes. Solo had to snicker a bit. This guy had probably spent all morning examining corpses, but here he was, ready to devour a huge lunch with no qualms. Reminded him of someone else he knew. Maybe this was a good omen.

“Come on in,” said Winston, taking the bag from Solo. “I have some information that might be interesting.” Solo sat down across from the medical examiner, watching him unpack the contents of the bag. He waited till Winston had taken a couple of bites.

“So what did you find?”

Winston wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand and picked up a folder, tossing it in front of Solo. “These are copies of my report that you can take with you. It’s about as complete as you can get. Let me summarize.” He took another bite of the sandwich and a gulp of coffee from a chipped mug. “Want some coffee?”

“No, thanks,” said Solo.

“Well, to begin with, the cause of death was massive blood loss from multiple puncture wounds. The ligature marks around his neck are incidental, not the cause of death. Made with a tie. I found a couple of strands of fiber that we are working to identify.

“The contents of his stomach show that he ate his last meal between 9 and 10 p.m. Turkey on rye. Matches the remnants or the sandwich found in your partner’s kitchen.”

“My partner?”

“Yeah, your partner,” said Winston. “In this job, you pick up on details that no one else sees. You knew your way around that apartment just a little too well for your relationship to be strictly business. You two friends as well?”

“Yes,” Solo admitted. “Like brothers. That’s why I know that whatever evidence you have will never convince me of his guilt. But I guess I’m not the one who needs convincing. So tell me everything.”

“Okay, well, the teeth marks on the leftover sandwich match Moore’s. There is no question that the other part of the sandwich was eaten by Moore. But there’s something else.”

“I’m all ears,” said Solo.

“Well, there are hand prints on the remnant.” “Yeah?”

“A thumb on one side and three fingers on the other.”

“I don’t follow. Why is that important?”

“They aren’t Moore’s.”

“How can you tell that? Certainly you can’t get finger prints from a piece of bread?”

“No, but the marks are from a right hand, and Duncan Moore’s index finger is half the size that it should be – a childhood accident.”

“So he ate the sandwich, but someone else fed it to him?”

“Exactly,” said Winston.

“So how does that help my partner?”

“The marks on the bread are larger than Kuryakin’s fingerprint. Someone with larger hands was feeding the sandwich to Moore.”

For the first time in two days, Napoleon smiled. “Okay so we can prove that someone else was in the room. Probably the killer. Why do you think that he fed the sandwich to Moore before killing him?”

“Moore was probably already bound. I am sure they made sure he ate part of the sandwich so I could find the stomach contents, which would prove the time he ate. I guess they just underestimated my forensic ability.” Winston looked smug, which was fine with Solo. He could look as smug as he wanted if he could help prove Kuryakin’s innocence.

“Anything else?”

“Yes, and this is interesting. Whoever planned this got sloppy. That’s the funny thing with criminals. Their arrogance proves to be their weakness and their downfall. They think they are smarter than we are, but there is always something they don’t think about. In this case it was oral sex.”

“Huh?”

“Well, they got a little cocky. Really wanted to make your friend look like a pervert. There was semen – Kuryakin’s semen – in Moore’s anus and mouth. They were certain that I would assume that Moore had performed oral sex on your partner and had then been penetrated anally.”

“Okay.”

“Clever, right? Get some of Kuryakin’s semen while he is out cold – which he had to be for all this to be taking place in his apartment. Then insert it into the appropriate places.”

“I still don’t follow.”

“Mr. Solo, have you ever had sex with a woman who also gave you a blow job?”

Napoleon grinned. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“More than once, maybe even many times.”

“Yeah, but I don’t like to brag.”

“Okay, well bear with me,” said Winston. “In all the times when both acts have taken place, which one occurs first?”

“Oral sex.”

“That would be the normal order. But in this case, the evidence left behind is wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“There would be semen in the mouth after oral sex, but there wouldn’t be much left after a second sexual act. I mean, someone who gives a blow job either swallows or not, but very rarely does someone just keep it in his mouth. This guy had an awful lot of ejaculate still in his mouth. Too much for it to be left over from oral sex. Like I said, he would have spat it out or swallowed it, one or the other. Not held on to it.” Winston grinned, looking very pleased with his deductive abilities.

“So you’re saying that the evidence shows that someone put it there by some other method?”

“Exactly.”

“But couldn’t someone argue that the two acts occurred in reverse order, that while in most situations oral sex would occur first, that the anal sex was first and then Moore was forced to perform oral sex.”

“They could argue that, but the killer – or killers – made another mistake. If anal sex had occurred first, there would be a least some trace of fecal matter in the mouth. There was none. No evidence of rectal fluids at all. Something would have shown up. Oh, and the evidence also shows that the semen was put in his mouth after he was killed, not before.”

“How can you tell that?”

“No semen in the lungs. If he’d given your partner a blow job, either voluntarily or not, he would have aspirated at least a little into his lungs. But not if he wasn’t breathing.”

Solo looked pensive. “But couldn’t they just suggest that he’d been raped after his was killed?”

“Yes, anally, but not in the mouth. If he were dead, it would be too, well, loose. No friction. No, the evidence shows that Moore was killed and then someone place Kuryakin’s semen in him.”

“Doctor, I could kiss you,” Solo exclaimed, smiling broadly.

“The pastrami is payment enough,” Winston chortled.

*********************************************************************

Things were looking up. Napoleon felt some of the tension drain from him, but clearing his partner was only part of what needed to be done. They needed to find out who was behind this. Besides, a jury may or may not believe Winston’s theory. Forensics was not widely accepted. Maybe someday. But a jury could still decide what they wanted. The best thing for Illya was still to catch the killers. And he owed it to the senator’s family as well. He knew the key was finding out who this waitress was and how she fit into this conspiracy. He called Illya and then, after a brief stop in the Village, drove to Deer Park, making sure that no one was tailing him.

“Hey, tovarisch,” he said, holding a box from John’s, Illya’s favorite pizza parlor. “I have food and news.”

“The food smells good; hopefully the news will be good, too?” Illya asked hopefully. Napoleon had a different look on his face from his last visit. He grabbed the box and set it on small table in front of the window.

Napoleon removed two bottles of beer and a bottle opener from his jacket pocket and put them on the table. “Lowenbrau?” he asked.

Illya nodded and sat down across from Napoleon. “You said you have news?” he asked, as he lifted a large slice from the box.

“Yeah. It seems that the M.E. is on our side. Actually he called himself a forensic pathologist. Developing field that looks at a lot more than just the cause of death. He reminds me of you in the lab,” Napoleon said with a smile. “He found some really interesting stuff.”

“Yes?”

“You saw the placement of the body, and I’ve told you that it was set up to look like the two of you had been at it…”

“And that I killed him after?”

“Let me finish. I told you yesterday – God, was it just yesterday – that the semen found in his anus and mouth matched yours. So a medical examiner who was not too precise would assume that the two of you had had sex, thus placing you at the scene of the crime.”

“Which would already be assumed since it was my bedroom.”

“Yeah, and it wouldn’t take much to convince a jury. But this guy – his name is George Winston – is meticulous.” Napoleon explained Winston’s theory of why the amount of semen in the mouth proved that it had been put there artificially.

“But it was my semen,” said Illya, “and I don’t remember leaving any samples lying around.”

“But you were pretty drunk and passed out, probably with a little help. My guess is that there was something in the food. Ever gotten a blow job while you were sleeping? You don’t have to be that much of a participant to…”

“I get your drift,” said Illya. “Something in the food, you say. You know the night that I hit Rebecca? We stopped off at the Left Bank that night. Come to think of it, I felt great till we ate there. But I’ve been going there for years.”

“Yeah, but they just hired a new waitress, who, by the way, just quit.”

“She has to be the key here. But what about the day I blew up at headquarters. I hadn’t been to the Left Bank that day.”

“Anything else out of the ordinary?”

“No,” said Illya. Suddenly the expression on his face changed as if a light had gone off. “The girl on the subway, the one who dropped the book, she scratched me. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”

“What book?”

“Turgenev. Said she was a student at NYU. Taking a comp lit class.”

Napoleon folded his arms across his chest and smiled. “This is getting really interesting. So you remember another waitress there? Her name was Meredith, and she died right before Peggy came to work there. That’s why Farthing needed a new waitress. Anyway, she was a student at NYU and was taking a comp lit class – and wait till you hear this. Several days after she died, Moore met a girl who said her name was Meredith who was taking a comp lit class. And she had a book with Meredith Unger’s name in it.”

“Meredith Unger was the girl who died?”

“Yeah. This other woman, and somehow I think she is Peggy Schepers, had her book and loaned it to Moore.”

“But we have no idea who she is, or where she is,” said Illya. “And no photo to go on.”

“Actually we do,” said Napoleon, pulling a black and white Polaroid from his pocket. He showed Illya the photo taken at the Left Bank. “I got this from Paul Farthing. I went by there after I talked to Winston. A friend of Farthing’s stopped in from out of town the other night, and one of the waitresses, uh Judy…”

“Yeah, I know her. Older woman, likes to talk.”

“Right. I spoke to her. So Judy took a picture of Paul and his friend. Look behind them on the left.”

“That’s Peggy.”

“Yes, and when I get back to Manhattan, I’m going to see if anyone can identify her as Moore’s friend Meredith. Now look really carefully. Any chance that she’s also your woman from the subway?”

“I don’t know. It’s too small. Maybe you can have it blown up at HQ.”

“I plan on that,” said Napoleon, “and then I have plans for you.”

“What?”

“You’re flying to St. Louis, renting a car, and then driving to a town called Sikeston.”

“Why Sikeston?”

“Well, Judy and Paul both mentioned that Peggy was from there. It might not be anything, and if she had said she was from Denver or Dallas, I wouldn’t put much stock in it. But she mentioned some little hick town. Maybe it’s a slip, maybe arrogance. But I have a hunch that she may really be from this town.”

“And you want me to check it out?”

“Yeah, but don’t show her picture around. Someone might alert her that we’re suspicious. No, instead I want you to go to the high school there and check out yearbooks.”

“Okay, but if you don’t think I should show her picture around…”

“How secure can a high school building be? Just break in late at night, go to the yearbook room and look through old yearbooks till you find her photo. Even though I’ll bet she is from Sikeston, I doubt if Peggy is her real name. At least not Peggy Schepers. If you can find out her real name, maybe we can find out why she is out for your blood.”