The Dagger Affair - McDaniel David (читать хорошую книгу полностью .TXT) 📗

"No idea, at the moment," said Napoleon. "This is your party — do you want to take him home and see if he'll eat?"

"That's what Old Baldy asked for," said John with a grin. He whistled, and two more Thrushes hurried up. "Hustle this meat into the car," he said. "There's been too much noise. The police may come by any day now, and we don't want Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin embarrassed any more than they are already."

Chapter 12: "Let's Take Him Sightseeing."

"Of course you understand my position, Mr. Baldwin. Under the circumstances I cannot tell you anything at all about my associates."

"I understand perfectly, Mr. Horne. You are not the first representative of DAGGER we have interrogated, and we are aware of the rather remarkable precautions your leader has taken to ensure against your informing on him. But you should also appreciate our position. While it is true that we would gain nothing by your death — save a fleeting satisfaction at a job well done — it is also true that we need information, and we need it quickly.

"As far as we could tell, the more subtle forms of investigation, such as sensory deprivation, slow starvation, or the traditional water torture, would probably induce you to impart your information to us willingly — but we lack the time for such methods." Baldwin frowned, leaned back in his red leather chair, and began to disappear in a cloud of blue pipe smoke. After a while he spoke again. "If anyone has any ideas, bring them up."

Napoleon and Illya, a couple of pieces of sticking plaster in evidence, were sitting in on the problematical interrogation of the leader of the band which had attacked them. Robin was nowhere in evidence, which darkened the room a little; she had disappeared after patching up the two U.N.C.L.E. agents and reviving their uncooperative trophy. Waverly was in the wicker armchair across the drum table from Baldwin's chair. Irene sat primly in a narrow straightback, and the two successful hunters shared the horsehair sofa. No one had gotten anywhere.

Irene spoke. "Peter — what part of the country are you from?"

"Cincinnati," he said doubtfully.

"I thought I detected a touch of Ohio in your speech," she said in a friendly tone. "How long have you been in San Francisco?"

He looked at her suspiciously, considering the question. "Oh, a few weeks," he said. "Why?"

"Oh, I just wondered," she said innocently. "I suppose the rest of the group still considers you a newcomer? Now, they wouldn't have given you the job of heading up this important assassination if you didn't have an edge on the rest of them. This means..." She broke off, and abruptly changed the subject. "We've had awfully nice weather for November, don't you think? Just a little sprinkle now and then, but that keeps the air clean. How have you liked it?"

He smiled almost unwillingly. "Well, I haven't seen much of it either. We, uh...we're pretty busy, of course."

Irene nodded. "I imagine so. How do you like San Francisco? Or have you seen it?"

"Not enough to tell. We drove from the airport and right across the bridge, and except for a couple of quick business trips I haven't seen the city itself at all."

Irene sat her glass down firmly. "Ward, part of this young man's trouble is cultural deprivation! I say we've had enough of this formal routine interrogation — let's take him sightseeing."

"Now really, Irene. After all, he is our prisoner. He might try to escape, and that would be bad for our reputations as hosts."

"Oh, we can handcuff him to something."

Baldwin sighed. "All right, my dear." Then he brightened. "And we can kill four birds with one stone, if our guests will pardon the expression, by conducting our famous fifty-cent tour of the city. I shall ring for the car...No, it's after midnight, and Bruno objects to being awakened. Irene, would you like to drive?"

"Certainly. Besides, even the Rolls would be a bit crowded with all six of us in the back, and Bruno hates to have passengers in the front seat."

Waverly cleared his throat. "Mr. Baldwin, if you don't mind, it's rather late for me, and I know this city well. I should like to go to bed early for a change, and your tour may take all night."

"Of course. We would like to have you along, but if you really know San Francisco well, you can learn little. Do you know, for instance, the history of a little side-street that bears your name? Waverly Place was the site of the most terrible tong wars in..."

Irene interrupted what threatened to become a lengthy discourse, saying, "Gentlemen, your warm coats are in the hall closet. I suggest we start our tour right away."

* * *

The prisoner seemed unsure whether or not to enjoy his tour of the city. He listened suspiciously to Baldwin's narrative, as they rolled past the Jack Tar Hotel.

"On our right is the Crackerjack Tar, the greatest mistake ever built north of Los Angeles. In fact, it is rumored that the rectangular blue construction is actually the box Disneyland came in. One major reason I maintain my position as head of the San Francisco branch of the Hierarchy is so that, when we do take over, I can have the personal pleasure of razing that abomination to the ground."

Personally, Napoleon rather liked the glittering futuristic facade of the hotel, but decided it was more polite to hold his opinion to himself.

They passed through the old Barbary Coast area, where Baldwin pointed with relish to the remarkable frescoes and bas-reliefs on the building fronts, and went on past Colt Tower; then a slow drive down Stockton took them through the back-street of Chinatown. Baldwin said, "This is the face of Chinatown most tourists miss. Even at one-thirty there is life stirring. The barred door there opens into Shanghai Rosie's — to the best of my knowledge the last opium den functioning in the traditional manner in the Western Hemisphere. San Francisco generally takes pride in maintaining its links with the past."

A couple more turns brought them up in front of a large two-story building set slightly into a hill. Irene stopped the car, and they all got out. "Here is the nerve center of San Francisco's most famous moving landmark," said Baldwin, as they approached some large windows set close to the ground. Geraniums filled their window boxes.

Inside, under suspended light bulbs, great flywheels spun amid muted thunder, carrying a cat's-cradle of heavy cables around themselves over sheaves of pulleys fifteen feet in diameter and fifty feet apart. There was a smell of grease, and of power.

Baldwin looked at it lovingly. "This is the cable house," he said. "Here the miles of cable that run under the streets of the city return endlessly and go out again. They are tremendously strong, these cables. Day in and day out they bear thousands of pounds of cable cars and passengers up and down the steepest hills, and hardly ever break. They run all day and all night, at a steady nine-point-five miles per hour. The only way to stop one is to shut off the power here. If the grip of a car locks on, and the power is not cut off in time, the grip will be torn out of the car at the end of the line when the cable runs down around the pulley for the return trip. There are tales of runaway cars, but the locked grid is about the worst that ever really happens." He sighed. "There are only three cables left in the city. I only hope we can take over before the forces of progress destroy them too...." They stood in reverent silence for another minute, then got back in the car.