Universe Twister - Keith Laumer [107]
"Hey—you!" a deep voice boomed across the room, shattering O'Leary's reverie. He looked around to see who was thus rudely addressed, saw a pair of tall fellows in gold-braided blue tailcoats, white knee breeches, buckled shoes, and tricorner hats bearing down on him from the door.
"Yeah—it's him," the smaller of the two said, grabbing for his sword hilt. "Boy oh boy, the pinch of the week, and it's ours, all ours, Snardley—so don't louse it up." The rapier cleared its sheath with a whistling rasp. Its owner waved it at O'Leary.
"Hold it right here, pal," he said in a flinty voice. "You're under arrest in the name of the duke!"
The second uniformed man had drawn a long-muzzled flintlock pistol of the type associated with Long John Silver; he flourished it in a careless manner at O'Leary's head.
"You going in quiet, rube, or have I gotta plug you, resisting arrest?"
"You've got the wrong rube," Lafayette replied impatiently. "I just arrived: I haven't had time to break any laws—unless you've got one against breathing."
"Not yet—but it's a thought, wise guy." The rapier-wielder jabbed sharply at him. "Better come along nice, Bo: Yockwell and me collect the same reward, dead or alive."
"I seen what you taken and done to a couple pals of mine, which they was snuck up on from behind," Yockwell warned. "I'm just itching for a excuse to get even." He thumbed back the hammer of the big pistol with an ominous click.
"You're out of your minds!" O'Leary protested. "I've never been to this water-logged slum before in my life!"
"Tell it to Duke Rodolpho." The sword poked Lafayette painfully. "Pick 'em up, Dude. We got a short walk ahead."
O'Leary glanced toward the ladies' room as he got to his feet: the door was closed and silent. The landlord stood furtive-eyed behind the bar, polishing a pewter tankard. Lafayette caught his eye, mouthed an urgent message. The man blinked and made a sign as if warding off the evil eye.
"You fellows are making a big mistake," Lafayette said as a push helped him toward the door. "Probably right now the man you're really after is making a fast getaway. Your bosses aren't going to like it—"
"You either, chum. Now button the chin."
A few furtive passersby gaped as the two cops herded O'Leary up the narrow, crooked street which wound sharply toward the grim pile towering over the town. They passed through a high iron gate guarded by a pair of sentries in uniforms like those of the arresting patrolmen, crossed a cobbled courtyard to a wooden door flanked by smoking flambeaux. It opened on a bright-lit room with hand-drawn WANTED posters on the walls, a wooden bench, a table stacked with curled papers in dusty bundles.
"Well, look who's here," a lean fellow with a yellowish complexion said, picking up a bedraggled quill and pulling a blank form toward him. "You made a mistake coming back, smart guy."
"Coming back wh—" A sharp jab in the back cut off O'Leary's objections. His captors grabbed his arms, hustled him through an iron-barred door and along a dark passage ending in a flight of steps that led downward into an odor like the gorilla house at the St. Louis zoo.
"Oh, no," Lafayette protested, digging in his heels. "You're not taking me down there!"
"Right," Yockwell confirmed. "See you later, joker!" A foot in the seat propelled Lafayette forward; he half-leaped, half-fell down the steps, landed in a heap in a low-ceilinged chamber lit by a single tallow candle and lined with barred cages from which shaggy, animal-like faces leered. At one side of the room a man wider than his height sat on a three-legged stool paring his nails with a sixteen-inch Bowie knife.
"Welcome to the group," the attendant called in a tone like a meat grinder gnawing through gristle. "Lucky fer you, we got a vacancy."
Lafayette leaped to his feet and made three steps before an iron grille crashed down across the steps, barely missing his toes.
"Close," the receptionist said. "Another six inches