Man From U.N.C.L.E. 03 The Copenhagen Affair Read online

  Solo called the barman. “Same again,” he ordered.

  “Barrin’ miracles, that settles it,” said O’Flaherty. “For nothin’ less would make you pay for drinks twice runnin’ and you shoutin’ the first round. Napoleon, you’re in trouble.”

  The lager came and he swirled the bottom of the tall glass delicately.

  “Now,” he said, settling back comfortably, “perhaps you’ll be so accommodatin’ as to inform me of the reasons for this peripatetic perambulation around our civic sidewalks, and you just fresh from a weary flight across the oceans of the western world.”

  Solo said, “Remember the night at Todos los Santos, Jens?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” he grinned. “And I with one foot in the grave and the other tryin’ to kick the daylights out of them misconcepted Focacci brothers, to say nothin’ of me two guns empty and half an inch of Porky Romero’s shiv atwixt me fifth and sixth ribs? Sure, Napoleon, when you came through that saloon door and got to work with as pretty a bit of boot work as I ever had the pleasure of witnessin’ I give you my word I had begun to misdoubt would Mrs. O’Flaherty’s boy see the risin’ of another sun. ’Twas my life you gave me without a doubt.”

  “Fine. Now here’s where you can start squaring up.”

  O’Flaherty said, “Is there a murder in it, then, or just a nice fancy piece of robbery with violence?”

  “Neither. All I want is information.”

  “As to that,” he said, “’tis well known from Callao to Crooked Corners, Wisconsin, that in the matter of disseminatin’ elucidation and verbiage Jens Johannes O’Flaherty is in a class with himself. Would it be Epstein’s Theory that’s troublin’ you, now, or was you wishful of considerin’ the finer divagations of the higher pragmatism, with a side glance at the influence of the moon upon the tides at Langelinie?”

  Solo cut straight through the Irish. “Where does Garbridge’s mob hang out?”

  His bald dome creased like corrugated sheeting. “Garbridge,” he repeated. “There was a Lefty Garstein runnin’ a cleaners and pressers protection racket in Akron, Ohio, in ’29, and Honky Garside was a torpedo for Hymie Weiss in Chicago, but—”

  “Cut it,” Solo said. “I’m talking about the top-drawer thug called Garbridge with a swank layout in Holte. He’s got a hideout around here and you know where it is.”

  The creases ironed out and O’Flaherty’s face went dead. He gazed over Solo’s shoulder into the swirling tobacco haze. He said woodenly, “I never heard of any Garbridge.”

  “And I never heard of L. B. Johnson. What’s the matter? Scared?”

  A full minute passed before he answered, and then his voice was cold sober.

  “Napoleon,” he said, “I have the reputation of being a tough boyo and it’s yourself knows the truth of it. In sixty years of roamin’ the far comers of the earth I never yet knew what it felt like to drink water and—God between us and harm—I never will.

  “I’ve taken me chances with spiggotty insurrectionists and I’ve been town marshal of Concho, Arizona, and durin’ the late unpleasantness I did me small stint here with Holger Danske to make the Hun feel unwelcome. But I know me limitations. And I’m tellin’ you, Napoleon, they consists of drawin’ the line at tanglin’ with the crazy man you speak of.

  “Sure, I’m scared, and ye can make the most of it, but it’s yourself I’m scared for. A poor misservice I’d be doin’ for the life I owe ye to help you out with the information ye’re after. Bad men is one thing, and you and me can handle ’em, but madmen are another. And mad they are, not barrin’ Garbridge himself, the blackest hearted devil that ever disgraced the mother that bore him. No, Napoleon, I’ll not help ye.”

  Solo tried to smile, but he didn’t feel so good.

  “My flesh is creeping like a laddered nylon,” he said, “and the icebergs in my bloodstream are giving me sciatica. The trouble is, Jens, I’ve got to mix it with these boys because the only alternative is a lifetime of slavery for all of us, and I don’t seem to have the temperament.”

  O’Flaherty’s glass crashed on the table like a bursting shell, showering lager over his anorak. “By the holy!” he exclaimed. “There’s commies in it.”

  “Worse,” Solo confirmed.

  “Now why the devil didn’t ye say so in the first place?” he demanded. “And I thinkin’ you was just bent on a little hell-raisin’ for the pure delight of it. Is it tryin’ to keep me out of the fun you are? Me that made Ireland ring with me desperate deeds while you was no more than a baby in diapers? I take it unkindly of ye, Napoleon, to treat an old man so. Come on, now, and let’s be flayin’ the hide off of the crazy hellions would side the enemies of the true democracy.”

  He was on his feet, all set to lead a frontal attack on the hosts of Mideon.

  Solo shook his head. “Sorry, Jens. It’s a private fight. If you want to help, give me the dope and I swear I’ll let you in if I get the okay from the higher-ups.”

  “That’s a promise, mind.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He sighed. “You can do no more. Now I’ll just see can the bartender find us a drop of whisky to take the taste of sedition from your mouth whilst I give ye the lowdown.”

  The address O’Flaherty gave Solo was a narrow-gutted house in a tangle of streets behind Nyhavn. It stood in a cul-de-sac. There was a seamen’s slop shop on one corner of the cul-de-sac with a cheap cafe facing it. Solo went into the cafe and bought a beer and a smoked eel on rye bread open sandwich. Sitting at a table by the window, he had a grandstand view of the house he was interested in.

  It was a two-story building dating from the early nineteenth century, when they had views about how the poor ought to live. In its first youth it must have been pretty much of an architectural nightmare, and the years had not improved it. One only had to look at the frontage to get a mental picture of peeling wallpaper, louse-infested plaster work and a colony of man-eating rats in the basement. Solo hoped Jens was right. If the major were living there, he would find it a deserved change from the Rodehus.

  Solo watched the blistered door for about twenty minutes, which was as long as he could linger over one piece of smorrebrod without the cafe owner becoming suspicious. Nobody went in or out and there was no clue to be had from the long-uncleaned windows. Solo paid his bill and went out.

  A few yards along the street he found, as he had hoped, a narrow passage. Slipping in, observed only by a prowling cat, he was able to study the back of the house. The lower regions were cut off from view by a brick wall, in which the builder had thoughtfully inserted a door. Solo tried the lock and felt it give slightly. He pushed gingerly until there was space between door and frame.

  All he could see was a small shed, sometime whitewashed, and the beginning of a flagged path. It was enough. On general principles it was an even bet that the path would be short, leading probably to a half-glazed kitchen door. The shed door sagged open, hanging on one hinge. Inside Solo could see the rear wheel of a motorcycle.

  It was no use straining the lock. Solo released the pressure and let the door in the wall settle back in place. There was nothing he could do until dark.

  It was around eight at night when he returned to the alley. He stopped and listened before getting to work on the lock. The door opened easily and he slipped through into the tiny courtyard.

  He flashed the beam of his pencil flashlight around the shed. There was nothing much to see: a broken stove in the rear angle of the walls, a few fruit crates, a collection of empty lager bottles and noisome crusted tins under the window on the house side, and of course the motorcycle, a big Honda. Gasoline fumes dominated the smells, but he could pick out whiffs of moldy sacking, paint, onions and just plain filth.

  He took the Mauser from the shoulder holster, pressed a full clip into the butt and slid the first shell into the chamber. The jacket moved sweetly and easily. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers, leaving the safety catch up.

  The path led to a do
or that was solid and not glass-paneled as he had hoped it might be. There was a window at ground floor level on each side of the door. No light showed from either or from the two on the floor above, but that meant nothing.

  Solo took a black rubber sucker from his pocket and pressed it against the window to the right of the house door. He ran a glass cutter in a wide circle around the sucker, tapped gently and then pulled. The circle of glass came away. He put his hand through the hole, found the catch and opened the window. No lights went on. There was no sound from inside the house. He lowered himself gently into the room.

  It was unfurnished, which made things easier for quick and silent action. He moved carefully over the bare floorboards and into the dark passage beyond.

  In the passage he risked another quick flash of his torch. It showed him the front door, a lot of blank wall and a narrow staircase with a one-in-two gradient. The oilcloth on the treads was the first sign of civilization he had seen and all it did was depress him. When he was prowling he liked a lot of thick carpet under his feet

  He made for the staircase, treading as lightly as an Indian. With his foot on the first tread he listened again. Then he grasped the handrail and started up.

  Something jabbed him in the small of the back and a voice spoke pleasantly:

  “All right, mister. Keep going!”

  Feeling a gun sticking into the vertebrae seems to affect different people different ways. Movie stars, for instance, just laugh it off—a wisecrack, a double back flip, and ping! another miscreant bites the dust and it’s hey, nonny, and away with the banker’s daughter.

  But Solo felt that the barrel prodding his spine probably wasn’t loaded with blank. He kept right on going.

  When they were halfway up a door opened, throwing light onto the landing. A man came out and leaned over the balustrade. He said, “Ole? What’s up?”

  The man behind Solo said, “We’ve got company. It got in through the back window.”

  The room they shepherded Solo into was furnished halfway between an office and a lounge. There was a white wood table with a portable typewriter on it, a bookcase filled with directories and reference books, a couple of shabby armchairs and a sofa to match. A large scale map of Denmark was pinned against one wall, with a calendar flanking it. Light was provided by a bulb depending from a center-fire ceiling fixture. It was all as innocent-looking as a Boy Scout’s clubroom.

  Lounging against the bookcase was one of the handsomest men Solo had ever seen. He had blue-black hair that came in tight, almost negroid curls, a nose and chin like the boys in cigarette commercials, and big eyes that were almost violet. His six-foot frame was beautifully neat in a sweater, riding breeches and laced knee-boots. Solo wondered where he kept his horse.

  He looked up incuriously, then went on filling his pipe from a thin plastic pouch.

  The other two men filtered in. The one who had stood on the landing was a stocky, nondescript type, the kind that fills the balcony at the movie theater or the unreserved seats at the football game. He flopped into one of the armchairs and started to make a meal of his nails, shooting sidelong glances at Solo all the time.

  The man they called Ole kicked the door shut, came from behind Solo and sat on the edge of the table. Solo took a specially good look at him. He was always more than a little interested in people who stuck guns in his spine.

  He was about middle height and weight and he had a face more like a rabbit’s than any human face had a right to be. It was crowned with lank blonde hair. His eyes were very pale blue, with a thin darker circle between the iris and the white, and they held the depth of warm human sympathy you are liable to find in a horned toad. He wore a gray flannel suit, tight-waisted, and his shirt was lavender silk. A primrose tie and ultrafashionable ice-calf shoes completed the outfit. He sat there smiling gently and his right hand pointed a Smith & Wesson .38 police special unwaveringly at Solo’s belly.

  The handsome man had his pipe going. He took it out of his mouth and asked, “Who is this fellow, Ole?” The creamy voice went with the blue-black curls and the eyes.

  Rabbit Face said, “Search me. He came through the window.”

  Solo said, “A stork brought me. Now it’s your turn. You say ‘So you won’t talk, huh?’”

  It didn’t get his goat, which was what Solo wanted. He said in the same even tone, “You’ll talk before we get through with you. Hold the gun on him, Ole. Here, you, Per—search him.”

  Without another glance at Solo he crossed to the table, slipped a sheet of paper into the portable and began typing.

  Per came out of the chair reluctantly. He looked as if he resented having his meal interrupted. He muttered, “Don’t try any funny business,” and started to frisk him.

  Solo said, “There’s a gun in my belt and three hundred kroner or so in my right-hand pants pocket. No letters, no papers, and I don’t mark my linen. So get it over with. You give me the creeps.”

  There was a sudden clatter outside the house. It sounded as if somebody had kicked over the fruit crates in the shed.

  Ole said, “Blast! Get his gun, Per, and leave the rest.” Without taking his eyes away from Solo he said to the handsome man, “One of us had better get out and see if that row meant anything.”

  The big boy nodded, pushed his chair back. “You stay with him. Come on, Per.” It seemed like Per was the maid-of-all-work.

  Solo’s spirits lifted. It looked as if the breaks were coming his way at last. With Handsome busy elsewhere he was prepared to tackle Peter Rabbit, gun or no gun.

  Ole must have guessed his thoughts. He said quietly, “Ten feet is quite a jump, mister.”

  “What?”

  “I’m trying to tell you I’d probably drill you about three times before you reached me. Honestly, friend, I wouldn’t try anything.”

  With his free hand he fumbled in his jacket pocket and brought out a pack of Queens. “Cigarette?”

  “Why not?”

  He shook one out of the pack, stuck it between his lips, found a lighter. He removed the butt long enough to say, “Sorry I had to do it this way but you’ll see why I don’t offer you the pack.”

  “Sure,” Solo said. “Oh, sure.” He was getting ready for the fleeting chance he could see coming.

  As Ole brought the lighter flame up to the cigarette he dived.

  Ole fired once, the slug seared Solo’s shoulder, and then he had him by the ankles. He jerked his feet back and down. His head smacked the flooring, but he didn’t drop the gun and he didn’t lose his nerve.

  As Solo twisted to grab him he lashed out viciously and his heel took a piece out of Solo’s ear. The pain and the force of the kick set Solo back on his haunches. In a fraction of a second Ole had squirmed onto his back and Solo saw the gun coming up again.

  He lunged forward, threw his whole weight on Ole’s gun arm, pinning it. Then he started to work his knee into Ole’s midsection while Ole lambasted his groggy ear with his free fist. He looked like a rabbit but he had the guts of a mongoose.

  It was too bad the big fellow chose that moment to return.

  Solo saw his boot coming a shade too late; he tried to roll with it. Lights exploded inside his skull.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WHEN SOLO CAME TO he was lying on the sofa, looking like a fowl ready for roasting. His arms had been yanked behind him so tightly that his shoulder blades were grinding on each other. The lashing around his wrists had stopped the circulation enough to make his hands feel like boxing gloves. His ankles were tied equally tightly and there were a couple of turns of rope just below the knees. It had all the earmarks of a Rabbit Face job. He had that kind of smooth efficiency.

  Solo decided there was no point in struggling. It might do some good to have the men think he was still out. He lay still and took a quick squint through his eyelashes.

  Handsome had gone back to the typewriter and Ole was relaxing in one of the chairs. It warmed Solo’s heart to note that he had mussed him up more than a littl
e. The gray flannel had lost its chic and the lavender shirt was a ruin.

  Per was jittering in the middle of the floor. Solo reckoned his nails would last out maybe half an hour, with care.

  A new man had joined the party, a man with the kind of face lady novelists usually mean by saturnine. He could not have been there long, because he was still wearing a duffel coat. He was sitting on the table, talking to Rabbit Face.

  Per took his fingers out of his mouth long enough to ask, “How’s the time going, Eiler?”

  Handsome glanced at a wristwatch. “Nearly eleven.”

  He went on clacking the keys and Solo wished he would stop. His head was splitting.

  Per munched some more, flicking suspicious glances from Rabbit Face to the new boy, then back to the big fellow. Suddenly he burst out, “Where the hell’s the Boss? He said he’d be here around nine.”

  Ole grinned cynically. “Probably caught up with a new chick.”

  “Chick be damned!” Per Hung himself into the other chair, lit a cigarette after two attempts. “He said he’d be here at nine and he ought to do what he says. I don’t like it. Something’s gone wrong.”

  Ole said, “Don’t be a fool. Something’s held him up. He won’t be long.”

  Eiler stopped pounding the typewriter; he rested his hands on the table and said quietly, “Control yourself, Per, or I’ll give you something to moan about. Nothing’s going wrong.”

  The clacking started again and every thump of the keys seemed to drive a red-hot hammer into Solo’s brain. Involuntarily he groaned.

  The man in the coat said, “Your friend there is coming round.”

  Per jumped to his feet again, his voice quavering like a soprano at a village charity concert.

  “Okay, okay,” he squealed. “Everything’s fine. So what’s he snooping around for?”

  Eiler kicked his chair back. He crossed the room and swung a right to Per’s jaw with all his two hundred pounds behind it.