reporters, chambermaids, reception clerks, airline stewardesses, and cab drivers who supplied much of his raw material.
He had in fact enjoyed the reputation of being the most up-to-date gossipmonger on Earth... until Solo and his partner, Illya Kuryakin, had unwittingly involved him with THRUSH.[2] After that, he had survived a bomb attack on his headquarters and gone to South America, where—with the connivance of Waverly—he had begun to set up a similar organization. [3]
He had indeed for a short time been an ex-officio member of U.N.C.L.E.'s overseas staff, in which capacity he had materially helped Solo and Kuryakin to foil one of THRUSH's more dastardly attempts at nuclear trouble-making... and now here he was, of all places, in The Hague!
As the barber drew a towel down over the huge face to remove the last traces of soap, the man in the next chair rose and left. Solo slipped into the vacant seat.
"Yes, sir?" A young man with glossy black hair shook a pink sheet and held it out for the agent to insert his arms in the sleeves. The man looking after Tufik was preparing hot towels.
"Shave, please," Solo said, glancing sideways. The fat man's eyes, buried in the rolls of flesh like currants in pudding, were closed.
"Very good, sir... er.. are you quite...?"
The agent looked up absently. The barber had fallen back a pace and was staring at him with raised eyebrows. "What is it then?" Solo demanded.
"You did say... a shave, sir?"
"Certainly."
"But... but... it can't be more than an hour since your... since you had..."
Solo's hand flew to his smooth, recently shaved chin. "Oh... Oh, yes. Yes, that's true. Well, I guess I'd better have... you can trim my hair, eh?"
"Of course, sir. Just as you wish." The young hairdresser looked at him oddly and fished a comb and scissors from his breast pocket. On the outside of the starched linen, the word "Colin" was worked in crimson silk.
"Pays to keep the hair well trimmed," Solo babbled idiotically. "My favorite uncle always advised it."
"Just so, sir." The young man raised his eyes heavenward in silent martyrdom and began to comb and snip. There was no discernible reaction from the next chair. Tufik—a mountain of sheeted pink surmounted by a cone of white towels through which steam rose gently into the air—looked exactly like a strawberry sundae topped with whipped cream, Solo thought.
"My Uncle Waverly," he added a little more loudly.
Among the vaporous towels a tremor manifested itself. A fold of the damp cloth subsided, and an eye was revealed. The eye opened and stared at Solo. Then it closed again.
Solo closed his own eyes and settled in his chair. "Not too much off the back, please," he said.
A few minutes later he heard a bustle of activity to one side as the fat man was divested of his robes and towels, helped on with his jacket, and brushed down. There was a rustle and a chink of money changing hands.
"Thank you, Mynheer," the barber's voice said unctuously. "It is more than kind.... Thank you.... Until the day after tomorrow, then..."
And then the familiar, fruity tones: "Ah, think nothin' of it, Anton; think nothin' of it. When you have it, you might as well spread it about a bit, boy! For there's none as will give you a sight nor a smell of it when you're without it at all.... Friday it is, then. And now I'll be on my way— there's them as is waitin' to see me by the canalside on Sint Pietersstraat..."
And with a squeak of rubber tires, the self-propelled wheel chair was gone.
Solo did not open his eyes. It wasn't necessary. He knew the big man too well to need to make sure. Tufik appeared to be a loquacious, even garrulous person, a heedless and friendly man born with the gift of the gab. Nothing could have been further from the truth. He was in fact a shrewd operator who planned every move—and every single word in his conversation was there because he wanted it to be there, for a purpose. He had mentioned the name of a street in the agent's
He had in fact enjoyed the reputation of being the most up-to-date gossipmonger on Earth... until Solo and his partner, Illya Kuryakin, had unwittingly involved him with THRUSH.[2] After that, he had survived a bomb attack on his headquarters and gone to South America, where—with the connivance of Waverly—he had begun to set up a similar organization. [3]
He had indeed for a short time been an ex-officio member of U.N.C.L.E.'s overseas staff, in which capacity he had materially helped Solo and Kuryakin to foil one of THRUSH's more dastardly attempts at nuclear trouble-making... and now here he was, of all places, in The Hague!
As the barber drew a towel down over the huge face to remove the last traces of soap, the man in the next chair rose and left. Solo slipped into the vacant seat.
"Yes, sir?" A young man with glossy black hair shook a pink sheet and held it out for the agent to insert his arms in the sleeves. The man looking after Tufik was preparing hot towels.
"Shave, please," Solo said, glancing sideways. The fat man's eyes, buried in the rolls of flesh like currants in pudding, were closed.
"Very good, sir... er.. are you quite...?"
The agent looked up absently. The barber had fallen back a pace and was staring at him with raised eyebrows. "What is it then?" Solo demanded.
"You did say... a shave, sir?"
"Certainly."
"But... but... it can't be more than an hour since your... since you had..."
Solo's hand flew to his smooth, recently shaved chin. "Oh... Oh, yes. Yes, that's true. Well, I guess I'd better have... you can trim my hair, eh?"
"Of course, sir. Just as you wish." The young hairdresser looked at him oddly and fished a comb and scissors from his breast pocket. On the outside of the starched linen, the word "Colin" was worked in crimson silk.
"Pays to keep the hair well trimmed," Solo babbled idiotically. "My favorite uncle always advised it."
"Just so, sir." The young man raised his eyes heavenward in silent martyrdom and began to comb and snip. There was no discernible reaction from the next chair. Tufik—a mountain of sheeted pink surmounted by a cone of white towels through which steam rose gently into the air—looked exactly like a strawberry sundae topped with whipped cream, Solo thought.
"My Uncle Waverly," he added a little more loudly.
Among the vaporous towels a tremor manifested itself. A fold of the damp cloth subsided, and an eye was revealed. The eye opened and stared at Solo. Then it closed again.
Solo closed his own eyes and settled in his chair. "Not too much off the back, please," he said.
A few minutes later he heard a bustle of activity to one side as the fat man was divested of his robes and towels, helped on with his jacket, and brushed down. There was a rustle and a chink of money changing hands.
"Thank you, Mynheer," the barber's voice said unctuously. "It is more than kind.... Thank you.... Until the day after tomorrow, then..."
And then the familiar, fruity tones: "Ah, think nothin' of it, Anton; think nothin' of it. When you have it, you might as well spread it about a bit, boy! For there's none as will give you a sight nor a smell of it when you're without it at all.... Friday it is, then. And now I'll be on my way— there's them as is waitin' to see me by the canalside on Sint Pietersstraat..."
And with a squeak of rubber tires, the self-propelled wheel chair was gone.
Solo did not open his eyes. It wasn't necessary. He knew the big man too well to need to make sure. Tufik appeared to be a loquacious, even garrulous person, a heedless and friendly man born with the gift of the gab. Nothing could have been further from the truth. He was in fact a shrewd operator who planned every move—and every single word in his conversation was there because he wanted it to be there, for a purpose. He had mentioned the name of a street in the agent's
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