MFU Whitman - The Affair of the Gentle Saboteur by Brandon Keith Page B
Authors: Brandon Keith
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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?"
"Yes," Solo said. "But no."
"You're losing me, mister." Exasperation put a flush on the sergeant's face.
"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?"
"Yes," Solo said. "But no."
"You're losing me, mister." Exasperation put a flush on the sergeant's face.
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