The Unfair Fare Affair - Leslie Peter (книги онлайн полностью бесплатно .txt) 📗

That evening he returned to the kavarna and took his usual table. But he affected to be still angry and kept huffily to himself, returning none of the "Hey, there, Milo!" and "Looking for another victim?" pleasantries of the drinkers.

Several hours after he had returned to the attic, the soft knock on the door penetrated his consciousness. He got out of bed, drew on a pair of trousers, and opened it a crack. It was still fine outside, and in the light from a half moon he saw a girl standing at the top of the stairs.

She wore an open trenchcoat with the belt hanging, and the moonlight glinted on her hair.

It was Marinka, the blonde from the kavarna.

"What do you want? What the devil d'you mean by waking me up at this time of night?" Illya snapped ungraciously.

"Let me in," the girl whispered. "I have something to say to you. It's important. Come on! The longer I stand here, the more likely it is that someone will notice."

Grumbling and growling, the Russian opened the door wide and stood aside with bad grace to let her through. Once she was in, he closed it and turned the key before switching on the light. The girl was pushing thirty, thin faced, with large gray eyes.

"You're Kurim Cernic, aren't you?" she asked softly.

"Kurim who? Never heard of him!" Illya said promptly. He did not ask the girl to sit down.

"Look—do not bother to deny it. I know you are Cernic."

"I tell you I never heard—"

"Oh, never mind then! You're not Cernic! But you keep on saying how much you want to get away from here, don't you? Obviously you are on the run, or you would just go."

"Supposing I was, then?" Kuryakin said craftily.

"If you wanted to get out of the city unseen, without the risk of being asked for papers; if you wanted to get out of the country, even... "

"Well...?"

"Well, I think—if you have money—I think I know some one who can arrange it for you," the girl said.

Chapter 11

Getting Underway

AT TEN-THIRTY the following evening, Illya Kuryakin stood on a corner of Wenceslas Square and watched the crowds thronging the wide pavements beneath the trees on the Vaclavske Namesti. Glittering with lights, bordered by push carts, and stalls selling hot parkys, the street pulsed with the gleam of fast-moving traffic. In a few minutes Kuryakin would have to act; but for the moment he was content to stare and to think.

He had argued and protested the previous night for what he considered a sufficiently credible amount of time before he permitted himself to be persuaded to talk seriously. He had guarded his suspicion and his hostility until the last possible moment. But finally he had given in and allowed the girl to make her proposition.

After bargaining and blustering for hours, he had eventually agreed to pay what he had considered privately to be an incredible sum for the privilege of being secretly transported to Zurich, Switzerland.

The girl had refused to divulge any details of how this was to be accomplished; she had merely said that the organization was well enough known to need no references. And she had made a rendezvous for the following night and told him to bring the sum with him in cash. He had filled in the intervening time by going to the roof and removing the correct amount of banknotes from the hoard under the tiles. He had also pretended to remove the balance and mail it to himself poste restante in Zurich. But the bulky envelope had in fact been stuffed with blank paper; by arrangement with Hradec, the loot was to stay in its hiding place for collection by the police.

He had no doubt, standing among the crowds clutching a cheap briefcase to his chest, that the police were keeping him personally under surveillance too. But they could hardly have acted against the girl and her accomplices, since it was not illegal to transport a citizen of the United States from Prague to Zurich, whatever method was used! And in any case it had been agreed that, having delivered Illya into the correct area, they would withdraw and leave the chase to U.N.C.L.E.

But they would be there, just the same, he was sure.

For the moment, though, the hour of truth was at hand. He glanced at his watch—it was ten-thirty-six—shifted the briefcase to his left hand, and walked a little way up the hill. Where the tramlines forked into double tracks, there was a safety zone in the middle of the street. He crossed over and stood there as if waiting for a tram.

At ten-thirty-seven precisely, a car—a Skoda Octavia in anonymous beige—stopped briefly by the safety zone. A door opened. Kuryakin got in.

The girl Marinka was driving, her slender wrists and feet expert about the controls as she whirled the car in and out of the traffic clotting the great square beneath the domes.

"Where are we going?" Kuryakin asked suspiciously. "Surely we can't simply drive out of the city openly like this. There are too many police about, we could be stopped and asked for our papers at any time... and anyway, my face is known."

"Do not worry," the girl said. "All is taken care of but it is best to begin with a short auto ride, lest there is anyone following. We have a rendezvous not far from where you were staying."

"Then why meet in the Wenceslas Square and drive there when we could have..."

The girl sighed. "We can leave the car and walk, if you wish. But it is better like this." She turned down toward the Carlos Bridge and then right along the embankment. Soon she turned again, up into the old town, and stopped by the long, blank wall of a warehouse. The building had perhaps once been some official place, for there were turrets at each end and the high wooden gates were enclosed in an ornamental arch. "See," the girl said. "We are by the repository you see from your window. There is the entrance to the other floors of your building, around that corner."

She pointed to the archway at the end of the wall. "And there is where you have to go now. Inside the gate is a small pass door. Soon, the watchman leaves to fetch his beer for the night. After he has gone, go through the door. It has been... arranged... that it will be open."

"And then?" Kuryakin demanded suspiciously.

"Inside is much furniture, stored on all the floors. But there is also a loading dock with a van and a trailer. They are already packed full. Get into the van—not the trailer— and squeeze as far forward as you can. You will find right at the front a wardrobe, facing away from the doors at the rear of the van. You get into this—it will be quite comfortable with blankets and pillows—and you wait."

"How long for? I don't like vague arrangements like this."

"I also. But here we have no choice. There are many police and you are much wanted. Besides, the people arranging this make good business for themselves, but also they must take risks. So they must state the terms. You understand me?"

"Very well, very well," Illya growled. "But I still don't like it."

"Now," the girl said briskly. "We must act. See, the watchman leaves to visit the kavarna." She waited until an elderly man in overalls had walked from the gates to the corner, and then vanished around it, before she continued, "You have the money with you?... So. Good. No, no—keep it. They will ask for it when it is time. Now, is there anything else before you go?"

"Yes. How long shall I be cooped up in there? When does the van leave? I hate being shut in, not knowing when to expect action... and I've not eaten since this afternoon, either."