Pulp Fiction | The Dagger Affair by David McDaniel

by Unknown

  The leader stuck out his hand, while peeling back his mask with the other. "Mr. Solo? I'm John Whiting, your friendly neighborhood Thrush rescue party leader. Any casualties on our side?"

  Napoleon shook his head slowly. Not only rescued, but automatically included on "our side." He wondered momentarily whether he had really wanted that badly to be rescued.... "No...not as far as I know. Illya?"

  "No, I'm unhurt."

  "Good. Who is this customer?" asked John, prodding the prone figure with his toe.

  "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 façade 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.

  As they started up again, Baldwin said casually, "Have you ridden a cable yet, Mr. Horne?"

  Their prisoner frowned. "No, as a matter of fact I haven't."

  Baldwin shook his head. "That seems as shame. Irene..."

  "Yes, dear, I heard. We're en route now."


  * * *

  It was just after two in the morning as they pulled to the curb at California and Van Ness. There were no other cars in sight, and there was a faint whispering rattling sound filling the dark street from somewhere.

  "That is the cable, clattering along in its slot," said Baldwin, as they got out of the car. "Mr. Horne, it would be a great pity for you to leave San Francisco without ever having ridden a cable."

  Napoleon was idly fiddling with the links of chain he had produced from somewhere, and Illya had a small padlock. They moved toward Horne from opposite sides as Baldwin continued to talk.

  "Unfortunately, at this late hour there are no cars running on this line. But this should not be a bar to our ingenuity."

  Napoleon flipped the end of the chain around Warren's handcuff chain, and Illya secured it with the padlock. The other end of the chain was a long loop, with some eight feet between it and the handcuffs. Baldwin gave a crisp nod to Napoleon, who ceremonially dropped the loop into the cable slot. He fished about with it for a moment, as Baldwin had instructed him, before it caught, and took off.

  "I suggest you follow it," Baldwin said, as Horne's jaw dropped. "It's not likely to wait for you." And then Horne was dog-trotting down the street away from them at a steady nine-point-five miles per hour. They got back into the Rolls and started after him.

  Within the first block they were driving slowly along beside him, and Baldwin continued, "The other end of the cable is about a mile and a half away, at Market Street. There are a number of hills between here and there — they aren't impossibly steep, but we hope you don't tire easily. Incidentally, I would take care not to stumble. Otherwise you would be dragged at a steady nine-point-five miles per hour all the way, up a hill and down.

  "If, on your way to Market, you should decide to unburden yourself to us on the subject of DAGGER, the padlock could be opened in a moment. If, on the other hand, you should decide not to, you will eventually, shall we say, reach the end of the line. At California and Market, the cable runs down around a pulley for the return journey, and you would be drawn, by the handcuffs, through this inch-wide cable slot at a steady nine-point-five miles per hour. You have something like ten minutes to contemplate your choices. I hope you can think clearly while running."

  Irene let her husband's comments sink in while another block passed, and the street began to rise. Then she said thoughtfully, "I don't think he'd be pulled all the way through, dear. After all, flesh and bone can only stand so much. I think his hands would just be torn off." She considered this a moment, and added, "Of course the result would be the same, since he would bleed to death in a minute or two."

  Baldwin shook his head. "It depends on whether the end of his ulna is small enough to pass through the slot. If it were too large it could shatter and the hand be torn off. But if it fits through, his shoulders would be crushed and his rib cage would follow."

  Napoleon felt rather queasy, and glanced at Illya. The dour Russian agent looked somewhat paler than usual, but that could have been the effect of the streetlights. Then he looked at Horne, trotting grimly along beside the car like a fighter doing road-work. It seemed to be having an effect on him too. Not surprising, all things considered....

  The hill rose more steeply for a block or two, and Horne began to breathe heavily. Baldwin and Irene continued their pathological discussion as casually as a man and wife having a mild disagreement about what kind of cat food to buy. The hill crested off for a short way, and Napoleon hopped out of the moving car.

  He trotted along with Horne for a while, chatting with him, occasionally running backwards facing him. "There's another hill coming up — it's steeper than that last one. But you look in good condition. You can probably make it without stumbling. After that there's only about a mile to go, and most of that's downhill. Pretty steep downhill. That'll be tricky. I'm looking forward to seeing how you can handle it."

  He patted Horne on the shoulder and almost caused him to lose his balance, apologized profusely, and hopped back into the car.

  Conversation lagged after a while, and at one point the Rolls had to stop and wait for a red light while Horne pounded off into the distance. Napoleon called after him, "Don't wait for us — we'll catch up after a little while."

  They let him go on alone for another three blocks, past the crest of the hill and starting down the steeper east slope, before they caught up with him. And then the silent motor of the Rolls enabled them to cruise along behind him for another block before Baldwin coughed loudly and Horne's head jerked around partway. Again he almost stumbled.

  There were tall buildings around them now, and the only sounds were the clattering of the cable under the street, the whisper of the Rolls' motor, and the heavy pounding of Horne's feet and his labored breathing.

  Napoleon tapped Illya on the shoulder and said, "It's your turn to get out and encourage him."

  Illya nodded and jumped lightly out the opposite side of the car. He stopped to let it pass him, then ran around and caught up with Horne. "Hello there," he said. "Just came out to see if you're comfortable. Oh, by the way, you've only got about half a mile to go. See that little thing in the middle of the street? Right next to that. It's fairly level from here on. Do you think you can make it all the way to the end? Do you really want to?"

  Horne was apparently in no mood for conversation, so after a while Illya gave up and got back in the car. "He's in a foul temper," he said glumly.

  Baldwin leaned forward. "We're almost there, dear. Would you care to make a little wager on the results?"

  Irene looked doubtful. "We'll have to set more specific terms. For instance, if his arms were torn off, I think I should win, but if only his legs are left on the street, you would win. Shall we set the chest as the dividing line?"

  "Difficult to judge. He may be torn apart rather badly. Let us be more specific and say the heart. Is that acceptable?"

  "I think so. How much farther is it now?"

  "Only a few blocks. We just crossed Sansome."

  "Dear...I don't want to disappoint you, but would you mind if I stop the car a block or two away? This is going to be terribly messy, and Bruno objects to cleaning the car oftener than once a week. I mean, you know how far those arteries can spurt. Especially since his heart is pounding so hard now."

  "That's quite all right. But didn't you have your heart set on seeing it through? I could certainly get along without it myself."

  "Well, if you don't mind...Boys," she said to Napoleon and Illya, "we're going to pull over in another block or so. Would you object to going the last little way with him on foot?"

  They crossed Front Street, and the Rolls pulled to one side and stopped. Napoleon and Illya got out quickly and hurried up the street. The three sets of footsteps echoed weirdly between the buildings as they came across Davis Street together. There were few streetlights, and the sky was overcast, so the gray stone fronts seemed to rise up and disappear into the darkness without ending, like impressionistic tombstones.

  Illya sprinted on ahead, then stopped and turned. "Here is the place," he called, an odd edge to his voice. "You're almost there."

  Horne, gasping and disheveled, kept coming. He looked up to see Illya with glazed eyes. He was thirty yards away, then twenty, then fifteen. Then he cracked. "No — No!" he gasped. "For God's sake — let me loose! I'll tell you — anything you want to know! Let me go! Quick! Quick!"

  Napoleon was already beside him, key in hand. He worked the padlock and the chains slipped free. He caught one end of it and pulled the loop free of the cable. Illya whistled shrilly, and the Rolls pulled away from the curb and started toward them as Horne sagged to the street and lay there, gasping and shaking.

  "Help him in, please," said Baldwin. "Irene, drive back to California and Van Ness. He may decide not to talk after all, and the cable does run all night."

  "Of course, dear. It will be nice to know all about DAGGER, but I still wonder what would have happened..."

  Mean
while, Illya and Napoleon were firing questions at Horne, who lay sobbing with relief in a corner of the back seat. They learned the names of his associates, the systems through which he received his orders, the story of how they had robbed the warehouse with the aid of the manager, a convert of Keldur's; they learned everything except the location of the DAGGER headquarters and the Energy Damper, which Horne had not seen but had heard about. He wasn't too clear what it did, but it would make the world a better place — this much he knew.

  "Well, it would certainly solve the overpopulation problem," Napoleon admitted.

  Section IV: "The Hand That Held The DAGGER."

  Chapter 13: "I Have A Special Tour In Mind."

  "How many Energy Damper units does Kim Keldur presently employ?" Baldwin asked.

  "None. There were only three, and right now all his time and attention are going into making the Big One."

  "Three?"

  "Yeah. The first working model was taken to New York and used on Solo's car by Garnet. That was big and heavy. Then they made a miniaturized version with more power — and non-directional — and left that at Boulder Dam. And Chernik wired up a test circuit which had all the properties of the Big One except power."

  Irene leaned back slightly and asked, "Dear, do you want to look at the address he gave us, or shall we go home?"

  "Oh, look at it by all means," said Baldwin. "They may have missed him by now, and Keldur should know better than to underestimate our inventiveness in securing information. I only hope we're in time."

  He turned to Napoleon and Illya. "Keldur will probably not be using the Energy Damper as a weapon, offensive or defensive. But he has all the resources of the field agent's kits, plus a number of special order items. And there are, according to this gentleman, on the order of seventy-five to one hundred people in this area under the direct or indirect orders of DAGGER. Most of them know as little about the actual organization as will allow them to fulfill their duties."