[Whitman] - The Affair of the Gentle Saboteur - Keith Brandon - Страница 12

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"Gee whiz, mister, my fault," she said, "my fault entirely."

"Yes, ma'am," Solo said, keeping an eye on Stanley.

"I got onto this one-way street just by the other corner. Like before I knew it, I was on this one-way street. Figured I'd go the one block and get off and then, boom, there you were."

"Yes, there I was, wasn't I?" Solo smiled. This was no trick of THRUSH.

"Gee whiz, I sure hope there's no damage, mister."

"Doesn't seem to be. I'll just have to pry us apart."

"I mean, I hope you won't sue me. I'll pay you right here for any damage. I've got some cash on me; if it's not enough, I'll write you a check. You can have my name and address from my license. Anything you say. The thing is—my husband."

"Your husband?" Solo inquired.

"He always ribs me that I'm a lousy driver. Maybe I am, but you don't like it your husband always ribbing you you're a lousy driver. When I get a ticket, I don't care; I pay it and my husband, he don't know about it. But if I get sued, a lawsuit, he has to know—because the car is in his name. You know?"

"Sure," Solo said. "Don't worry, ma'am. There's hardly any damage at all, as you can see. No damage, no payment, no lawsuit. And now if I can get us unhooked—"

"You are a gentleman and a scholar." The fat lady smiled with big white teeth. "And also very handsome, if I may say."

"Thank you, ma'am."

He went to the locked cars, the woman toddling with him. Her bumper was over his, and her car was heavy. He pulled at the bumpers to no avail; he could not dislodge them. Perhaps he should ask Stanley for help. No, better to keep him sitting where he was. He tried again, knowing the strength of one man was not enough; he would have to use the jack from the rear compartment of his car. Then he heard the woman whispering behind him: "Oh, no! We got company. Just my luck."

He looked up. A police patrol car was rolling to a stop behind his car. One of the policemen got out and strolled toward them slowly. He was heavy-set and red-faced, gray hair showing beneath the sides of his visored cap.

"Well, what have we got here?" he said in a gravelly voice.

"Bumpers caught," Solo said. "Would you give me a hand, please, Officer?"

The policeman disregarded him. He looked from one car to the other, then pointed to the one obviously at fault.

"Who owns this heap?"

"Me," the lady said.

"What are you doing wrong way on a one- way?"

"I made a mistake," she said lamely.

The policeman puffed up his cheeks, blowing out a sigh. "Just a little mistake, hey? You got a driver's license, by any chance?"

"Sure."

"Okay, let's have it."

She took her handbag from her car, and from the handbag produced her license. The police man read it slowly.

"You Rebecca Brisbane?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you own this heap?"

"No, sir. My husband."

"Where's the registration?"

"Right here, sir."

She gave him the certificate of registration. He studied it carefully, compared it with the license plate of her car, sighed again, took out his book, and laboriously wrote out the summons. Solo wanted to hurry him but didn't dare. This policeman, positively, wasn't in a pleasant mood, or, simply, he wasn't a pleasant man.

"Okay, Rebecca," the policeman said. "Wrong way on a one-way, that's a violation. You could have killed this gentleman. You know?"

"Oh, I know. This is one ticket I deserve."

For the first time the policeman smiled. He gave her the ticket, the driver's license, and the certificate of registration, and Rebecca returned her possessions to her handbag. Solo fidgeted in the morning sunshine, watching Stanley. Stanley sat uncurious, immobile, disregarding them.

"Now you get back in your car, Rebecca," the policeman said, "and we'll get you loosened up." He put away his summons book and his pen. "You and me ought to be able to manage it, young fella."

They went together to the entangled bumpers. Solo opened his jacket. They wedged their hands beneath the bumper of Rebecca's car. "When I say heave, we'll heave," the policeman said. "One—two—three—heave!" The bumpers became disengaged. "Okay," the policeman called to Rebecca. "Put her in reverse and back up—slow."

Rebecca obeyed. Grindingly her car moved away from Solo's.

"Okay, keep going like that," the policeman called. "Back up to the corner and go your way."

Solo watched until the car disappeared around the corner, turned to thank the policeman—and found himself facing a leveled gun!

"What in the world—"

"Easy does it, young fella. Into the prowl car. Move."

"But—"

"You heard me! In the prowl car. Now move!" The man in the passenger seat of the police patrol car was a sergeant with a gold badge. Rigidly, observing intently, he watched as Solo, under the policeman's direction, entered the car from the driver's side. Then the policeman got in, slammed the door, and Solo was wedged between them, the muzzle of the policeman's gun a sharp warning thrust into his ribs. Solo could see Stanley in the car in front. Stanley was sitting motionless. If this were some complicated deception engineered by THRUSH, then by now Stanley should be out and running. Or was it a deathtrap? He was helpless, wedged between them, the muzzle of the gun tight in his side.

"What's up?" the sergeant said.

"This baby's got a gun on him, that's what's up. He had his jacket open when we were working on them cars. He's wearing a shoulder holster."

"Yes?" the sergeant said.

Solo breathed deep in relief. No deathtrap. Proper police work. But now it became a matter of time. Enough time had been wasted. He had an important appointment, but he was not at liberty to divulge it. "Yes," he said.

The sergeant slipped a hand beneath Solo's jacket, opened the holster, and drew out the pistol.

"You got a permit for this firearm, mister?"

"Yes, but not with me."

Aside from his driver's license there was very little in the way of identification he did have with him. On this kind of job, the fewer papers that could fall into the hands of THRUSH the better.

"Why not with you?" the sergeant said.

"It's hard to explain."

"Well, try."

"I'm on official business. That man up there in my car is a prisoner. I'd appreciate it if you kept an eye on him."

"We're keeping an eye on him," the policeman on Solo's left said. "Just let him make a move and you'll see. But we are also keeping an eye on you, buster."

The sergeant asked, "Any proof of this official business?"

"I'm sorry; no."

"What's your name?"

"Solo. Napoleon Solo."

"What kind of official business?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't tell you."

"By any chance, if I may ask—you got a driver's license, Mr. Solo?"

There were two guns on him now: the police man's, and his own in the sergeant's hand. He moved gingerly getting out his driver's license. The sergeant inspected it and returned it.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to take you in, Mr. Solo. You and that guy up there—your prisoner, you say."

"No," Solo said.

The sergeant had a calm, level voice. "Could be you're telling the truth; these are crazy times we're living in. In that case, can you blame me? You're a guy with a gun and no permit. You say you're some kind of law enforcement officer on business. Could be. But you got no proof for us. So we got to take you in, don't we? At least until that proof is furnished?"

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