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

Chapter 2: "What Do You Know About DAGGER?"

It was warm when they stepped off the plane, and the black surface of the taxiway gave back the heat of the California day which had just ended. Ten minutes later they were in an ordinary-looking black car which bore them north along the San Diego Freeway a few miles in air-conditioned silence. Half an hour after landing, they rolled into a run-down garage on Washington Boulevard in Culver City, and heard the heavy steel door sigh closed behind them.

Their driver hopped out and opened their door. "Elevator straight ahead," he said. "Mr. Feldman is on level three, and he's expecting you."

Ralph Feldman stood up as they came into his office. "Napoleon — Illya," he said. "Good to see you. Sit."

They did. So did the head of the Los Angeles office, as he continued, "Things have been so quiet here in the last month we've been thinking about laying off some of the help. But now that you two are in town I expect the crime rate to go up again, right?" He laughed, then remembered his duties. "Look, did you two have dinner on the plane? Good. And I suppose Waverly briefed you on what's been happening — namely nothing? Okay. There isn't much I can tell you that isn't in the files. We've been watching known Thrush operatives continuously, and haven't even caught one running a red light. All we have to go on is what they were doing up to the 10^th of last month. And that's in these two folders. Ah, the one with the blue tag is from Northern Section, headquarters San Francisco. Davis sent them down by teletype last night for you. If you can figure out anything from them, you're better than the local brains. You'll probably want to spend a while looking over them. Right now the night shift is on, and most of our field workers are off. We don't work day and night, like you New Yorkers do — especially since the dry spell hit. About the most excitement we've had has been a couple of twenty-dollar pots in the office poker game. But look here, I've been doing all the talking again. Since you're here to stir up Thrush's nest, as it were, you should have maximum security quartering. We have a comfortable apartment fixed up down on level five, private bath, kitchen privileges, maid service; a car will be placed at your disposal at once. Do you have any arrangements that would conflict?"

Illya was the first to realize that this was a direct question and an answer was expected. "No, we don't."

"Fine. I'll have your bags taken straight down to level seven. You two are automatically cleared for access to the whole operation here — your New York badges are keyed for our detectors too. How about the car?"

This time Napoleon spoke first. "Yes, I'll need one tonight."

"And I'd like to change clothes," said Illya. "I too have somewhere to go tonight."

Feldman raised both eyebrows. "That's amazing. You're in town half an hour, and already you've got angles of investigation. Will you be wanting tails? The feathered foemen certainly know you're in town, and may be after your scalps. It'd be damned embarrassing to report your loss to Mr. Waverly."

"Thanks, but no," said Napoleon. "Tails are long awkward things to drag around, and I'd be worried about losing him. Besides, if we can't take care of ourselves by now, we shouldn't be here. After all, Mr. Waverly just let us fly all the way across the country without even a tag pinned to our lapels so the stewardess would know where we were going. And we made it with hardly any difficulty."

Feldman laughed. "Sorry if I offended you. A natural precaution. Okay, if Waverly trusts you out in the big world, so do I. Check in about nine o'clock tomorrow morning, and let me know what you've found."

In their apartment on level five, Napoleon emptied his suitcase into the closet, freshened himself and changed to a crisp shirt. Illya put on his most casual black slacks and turtleneck sweater, and slipped a black leather jacket over his shoulders as they started out. Napoleon looked him up and down appraisingly. "Looks like we'll be exploring two different levels of society tonight, old friend. Can I drop you somewhere, or will you check out a motorcycle?"

They rode up to the garage, where Napoleon signed for a specially-equipped red sports model similar to his own and Illya chose a well-worn Harley-Davidson. Moments later they roared out onto the streets and away on their separate missions.

* * *

It was almost 10:00 A.M. when Napoleon drew up in front of his goal — a glittering high-rise apartment on Wilshire Boulevard in West Los Angeles. The address he'd copied from the car-rental contract in New York included the apartment number. He sauntered inside, past the row of numbered but nameless mailboxes, and into the elevator. He didn't notice the girl at the small switchboard in an alcove, who stared at him in wild surmise and then touched a set of buttons.

Suite 12-A was at the corner of the building. Napoleon used the one-way glass in the door to center his tie and pat a stray hair into place. He set his fingertip gently on the button and the door swung open violently. The knob was gripped in the hand of a tall and striking brunette. Napoleon's first impression was that she was about to strike him. "Solo, you officious rat! What are you trying to pin on me this time?"

For a few seconds Napoleon's mind was occupied with rearranging itself. This was not the girl he had raced with this morning — this was..."Helena!" he exclaimed. This girl was one of the most attractive features of an otherwise unattractive organization — Thrush! Well, he wanted to find out about them anyway. Always land on your feet, my boy, he thought to himself, and added aloud, "Well! Journeys end in lovers' meetings!"

"I deny everything," she said flatly. "Categorically and individually. I not only have done nothing you could possibly prove, I haven't done anything you can't prove. Now what do you have to say before I throw you out on your ear?"

"Why, Helena — sultry, beautiful Helena, my favorite little Thrush! How could you think..."

"Because it's true, you rat, and you know it. Now pick up your jaw and bug off before I call the house manager and have you thrown out the window."

"Helena, I'm ashamed of you. I know you haven't done anything, and I just came by on a social call. It seemed that every time I saw you, we ended up shooting at each other. Now, I hate to mix business with pleasure, so I thought that since for once we have no business, we might..."

"You have no business, you fink," she snapped. "And you'll have no pleasure either if you're still here when I finish dialing this phone."

Napoleon backed out the door again, shaking his head sadly. "Helena, your problem is that you have no romance in your..." He dodged the vase that shattered on the opposite wall. "None at all. How..." A candy dish followed the vase into oblivion. "How empty your life must be." He retreated to the elevator, which had waited for him, slipped between the closing doors, and pushed the ground floor button.

In a few seconds he was fast asleep.

* * *

Farther north, on Sunset Boulevard, a slender, sullen-faced young man with straight blond hair sulked into a dimly-lit coffee house called The Fifth Estate. His eyes flickered over the entrance hall as he paused in the door. His black outfit made him appear to be a creature of the night out of which he had come. He ordered brusquely at the service window and found a corner seat near a practicing amateur guitarist who was struggling bravely to master a C-minor chord.