The Copenhagen Affair - Oram John - Страница 21

• Предыдущая
• 21/24
• Следующая

Knud translated, and the man gasped, “In his study, off the hall.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

Solo said, “Viggo, go and take care of him. Don’t kill him unless you have to.” Then to the man,“ How many of you are there?”

Knud listened and said, “He claims that he and some crazy nurse are the only ones left except Garbridge. The rest are gone.”

“Ask him about Karen. Where are they holding her?”

The man gabbled almost incoherently, stabbing toward the floor with his finger. Knud’s eyes widened comically. He said, “Hvad?”

The man stammered again, “Fodselsstuen! Fodselsstuen!”

Knud said, “I don’t get it. He keeps repeating that she is in the labor ward. He says that’s what made him sick.”

Illya repeated incredulously, “The labor ward? Karen?”

“Ja, ja! Ganske vist.” The man tried frantically to get his meaning home. “Gestapo! De forstaar? Tortur!”

“Torture!” Solo didn’t need that translated. He said, “Tell him to get us there fast.”

With Knud’s scattergun still at his back, the man hurried them to the elevator. As the cage opened on the basement floor they heard a girl’s agonized scream.

Solo put his pistol to the lock of the door and fired three times. They burst into the room together.

Sister Ingrid rushed toward them. She was holding what looked like a white-hot soldering iron.

Illya shot her between the eyes.

Karen had lapsed into unconsciousness. Looking at what had been done to her, Solo knew that was just as well.

Illya asked dully, “Is she dead?”

“No, thank God. But she’s taken plenty. Stay with her, Illya. I’ll send Viggo down with some bandages.”

He nodded. “I’ll see to her.” He started gently to unbuckle the straps that bound her to the couch.

The uniformed man was still cowering under Knud’s shotgun. Solo looked at him contemptuously. He asked, “Do you think we could trust him?”

“As far as you could trust a hyena,” Knud said. “But there’s no fight in him, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s roughly it. Tell him we need a first-aid kit down here right away. He’ll know where they keep the stuff. Tell him to bring it, and fast.”

They got back into the elevator and rode up to the ground floor. A jab with the gun barrels sent the man down the corridor on the double. Solo and Knud went along the hall to the major’s study.

Garbridge was sitting in his chair, hands on the desk in front of him. A whisky bottle, half empty, and a glass stood near his right hand. Viggo sat facing him across the desk, the Mauser gripped in his big fist.

Garbridge said, “Ah! Solo. I was expecting you. I trust you reached our little Karen in time?”

Knud started toward him, cursing. His shotgun came up, his fingers tightening on the trigger.

Solo grabbed his arm, forcing the gun down. “Easy! Don’t let him needle you.”

Garbridge raised a hand protestingly. “Indeed, you wrong me, Solo. I never approved of the methods of the late Sister Ingrid—I assume she is ‘late’? Yes, I thought so! The impetuous Mr. Kuryakin, no doubt—but there are times when such crudity is inevitable.” He shook his head. “You really should have accepted my offer. Now, I fear, we all have our little troubles.”

“Your troubles are not going to be little ones,” Solo said grimly. “You’re through, Garbridge.”

“I’m afraid so,” he admitted. “You have me over the—er—proverbial barrel. I suppose the only question is where I’ll stand trial and on what charges.”

“You’ll be handed over to the Danish authorities in Copenhagen. After that it’s out of my hands.”

“I thought so. By the way, would you very much mind if I stood up? Mr. Jacobsen, here, takes his duties very seriously, and I am getting a little cramped.”

“Suit yourself—but keep your hands where we can see them.”

“Thank you.” He got out of the chair and began to pace the room, hands clasped dutifully behind his back.

Solo said, “All right, Viggo. We’ll take over. You’ll find the porter, or whatever he is, waiting by the elevator. He’ll take you to Illya. Karen needs a little help.”

“You know, Solo,” Garbridge said, “I am genuinely glad you found Karen before it was too late. I was grieved for her.”

“I can imagine.”

“No, no. I mean it. She was beautiful. Perhaps,” he continued musingly, “that is from what all my past—er—mistakes have stemmed. I have loved beauty too much. Human beauty. The beauty of inanimate things. Like these…”

He picked up a Royal Copenhagen vase and ran his fingers caressingly over its smoky-blue surface as though it were a woman’s cheek. “They have been my friends, and”—he grinned suddenly—“they will be my friends now!”

Before Solo or Knud could move he had dashed the vase to the carpet. It burst like a bomb, filling the room with clouds of choking, blinding smoke.

Sorensen let go with both barrels of the scattergun. He was too late. When the smoke thinned the major was gone. A black opening gaped where his chair had stood. From somewhere beneath their feet came the roar of a powerful car engine.

Knud cursed and ran toward the door. But Solo stopped him.

“Let him go,” he said. “Whatever happens he’s finished. Thrush has no time for failures. If we don’t pick him up, he’s a dead man anyway. Meanwhile, we still have some pieces to pick up around here.”

Illya met them in the hall. He looked happier. Solo asked, “Karen?”

“We’ve moved her to a room upstairs. Viggo is with her and an ambulance is on its way. She’ll be okay. What was the shooting about?”

Solo said ruefully, “Garbridge. He had a neat line in potted smokescreens. And a fast car in the basement. Where’s the porter?”

“Long gone. He brought Viggo down to the basement, then while we were busy with Karen, took a powder.” He grinned. “Well, here we go again. Let’s toss for who does the calling-all-cars bit.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SOLO LOOKED moodily out of the window of the office on the Borgergade at the snow-clad Abbey church. The building, a thirteenth-century Franciscan monastery, was one of Horsens’ proudest showpieces. But Solo was not in a state of mind to appreciate its beauty. He was deathly tired, and he had just talked by telephone with Mr. Alexander Waverly in New York.

Perhaps “talked” is the wrong word. He had spent most of the time listening. Waverly was audibly displeased, and he had made good and sure that his chief enforcement agent understood it.

His final words had been, “Mr. Solo, you will find this man Garbridge, and you will find him quickly.” Then the line had gone dead.

Not one word of praise or credit for the fact that the Danish satrap of Thrush had been broken, that the mystery of the flying saucers had been solved and the factory put out of action. The job had not been completed. Garbridge had been allowed to get away.

Not for the first time in his career Solo wondered: What did the man want? What kind of infallible perfection did he expect from ordinary, fallible subordinates?

Within minutes of Garbridge’s escape from the maternity home a dragnet had been tightened throughout Jutland, covering roads, harbors and airports. There were mobile police patrols on every highway and every secondary road that the blizzard had left negotiable. Helicopters were squaring the miles of lakeland and forest. But again the major had vanished as smoothly and completely as the stooge in a conjurer’s trick cabinet. And they did not know even the type of car in which he had driven out of the underground garage.

Illya came into the office, blowing on his half-frozen fingers. He had been to the hospital to see Karen.

“How is she?” Solo asked.

• Предыдущая
• 21/24
• Следующая