Текст книги "The Invisibility Affair"

Автор книги: Thomas Stratton

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Chapter 6

"What Are You Nuts Doing to My Clean Floor?"

It was a lovely morning in Cudahy. The warm stickiness of the previous day had disappeared sometime during the pre-dawn hours, and the sun had come up into a crisp and cloudless day. Looking a bit less than crisp after their all-night vigil, Illya, Napoleon and Brattner sat in the car a half block from the apartment house containing Kerry and presumably Dr. Morthley and an unknown number of Thrush agents. The remaining members of Milwaukee's U.N.C.L.E. branch were stations on streets surrounding the building.

"Apparently Thrush hasn't taken over the entire building," Napoleon was saying. "That's the tenth man we've seen leaving with a lunch bucket of briefcase."

Illya nodded. "There seemed to be a remarkable number of children leaving for school, also. Thrush has never been noted for encouraging a happy family life."

"It's not so bad, then," said Brattner. "I was a little worried about going up against a whole building full of Thrushes. This way we may stand a chance."

Napoleon declined to comment on such restrained optimism. "First we have to locate the apartment where they're being held. The detector seems to indicate the ground floor, which is logical; easier to get in and out. But someone will have to get inside the building and get readings from several locations in order to pinpoint the apartment. Anyone care to be a door-to-door salesman?"

Brattner shook his head. "We'd have to go back to headquarters and get some sample cases. Here"—he reached into the glove compartment of his car and pulled out a small notebook—"we can take a survey."

"A survey of what?"

"How about the Wisconsin margarine situation" suggested Illya. "It came in handy last night, but it leaves me a bit baffled. I'd be happy to learn more about it."

"Learn while you earn," said Napoleon. "I take it you're volunteering for the mission?"

Illya hesitated, glancing at Brattner. The latter shook his head. "The Thrushes know my men too well. Of course, we know them, too, but there's too big a chance of tipping them off if they see us first. Only two of them have seen you."

"Oh, all right," Illya said. HE rummaged in his briefcase and came out with a comb, which he dipped in a bottle of dye and ran through his hair. "At least this stuff washes out easily; as long as no irate apartment dweller throws a bucket of water on me I'll be all right. Does anyone have a hat I can wear" All reporters wear hats."

"I didn't know that," said Napoleon.

"Actually they don't," Illya replied, "but they do in movies, which is where your average citizen gets his impression of reporters."

A brief conference on the communicators elicited the fact that none of Brattner's men wore the same size hat as Illya.

"I'll get along without one," he decided. He pulled a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from the briefcase.

* * *

Illya pushed open the door of the apartment building and entered a hallway running the full length of the building. At the opposite end of the hall were stairs leading to the second floor and a door facing the alley. Two doors opened off each side of the hall. He quickly walked the length of the hall and climbed the stairs. The second floor was said out identically to the first. Shrugging, Illya walked to the nearest door and knocked. As

he waited, the needle on his wrist detector moved, and he checked it. I pointed down, indicating a source on the first floor or in the basement. Now to get a horizontal reading to spot the exact apartment.

The door opened and a somewhat harassed-looking young woman stood facing him, holding a small boy by the hand. "Yes?" she asked in a challenging tone.

"Good morning," Illya replied as cheerily as he could. "Our local paper is taking a survey and I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time?"

"What kind of survey?"

"We're planning a series on Wisconsin's margarine laws, and we'd like the opinions of some of the local people. So you approve, or..."

"No, I do not approve," she snapped. "Any other questions?"

Illya tried to smile disarmingly. "As I said, we're planning a series on the subject and we'd like as many viewpoints as possible. It would be very helpful if you could take the time to give me your reasons."

The boy spoke suddenly and loudly. "If you're a reporter, where's your hat?"

"I'm not a reporter; I'm a surveyor."

"Then where's your transit?"

"Hush, Johnny," the woman said. Her belligerent attitude seemed to have faded a trifle. "I suppose I can spare a few minutes, if it will help get those idiots on the ball." She made no move to invite Illya inside the apartment, and he decided not to press his luck. Keeping a surreptitious eye on the detector, he pulled out his notebook and a pencil.

"Now then," he said, "if I could have your name for the record, we can get started."

"Mrs. Denver Clark," she said and spelled it out for him. She had a variety of reasons for not liking the margarine laws. Illya dutifully scribbled note, filling several pages before she paused.

"Very interesting," he said. Suddenly the detector sprang to life. Illya deliberately dropped his pencil, and got a good look at the detector needle while retrieving it. Directly across the hall. So far so good. He straightened up. "Incidentally, I've been considering moving to Cudahy for some time. You don't happen to know if any of the apartments here are empty, do you?"

"They're all occupied right now," she answered. "There's a new building a couple of blocks south that's quite nice, I've been told."

"Someone told me one of the ground floor apartments here was vacant," Illya persisted.

"No." The woman laughed suddenly. "They probably got mixed up because that nice M. Forbes took two apartments. Said he did a lot of work at home and needed the space. Such a distinguished looking man! He seems to do a lot of entertaining, but it's all very quiet and respectable. He's a widower, I understand."

The boy had been staring at Illya wrist detector. "What's that?" he demanded loudly, pointing at it.

"Why, er...it's a wristwatch," Illya replied.

"It ain't got no numbers on it!" the boy said accusingly.

"No, it's a very modern..."

"How can you tell time if it ain't got no numbers on it?" the boy demanded.

"Hush, Johnny," the woman said. "It isn't nice to ask questions of strangers."

"He was asking you questions," the boy asserted. "I wanna know how he tells time if it ain't got no numbers!"

"Thank you, madam. You've been a great help to us. Look for our series in the paper." Illya clutched his notebook and escaped down the stairway. At the bottom he pulled out his communicator and reported his findings to Napoleon. "I'm going to try to find the exact room," he concluded. "Kuryakin out."

Approaching the wall of the indicated apartment, he reached into his jacket and pulled a tiny disc the size of a dime. A wire led from it to an even tinier earplug. He placed the disc gently against the wall.

At first he heard nothing but footsteps pacing back and forth. Finally an unfamiliar voice said, "Green, will you sit down?"

"Ah, I'm tired of this joint." The footsteps halted momentarily, the resumed.

"If you must do something," the first voice said, "look in on the prisoners. We'll be moving out; get them packed and make sure Morthley doesn't make a fool of you the way he did last night."

There was the sound of a key in a lock, an inner door creaked open, and Illya heard Kerry's voice. "One might approximate the rudiments of courtesy by notifying the inhabitants of one's intentions before entering."

Illya removed the ear plug and returned the device to his pocket. Returning to the car where Brattner and Solo waited, he reported his success and pointed the location of Kerry and Dr. Morthley.

"But if they're where you think they are," Brattner protested, "they have a window in their room. It can't be that easy."

"No," Napoleon agreed. "I don't think it will be that easy. If they could be removed simply by breaking a window, they wouldn't be there. Those windows undoubtedly aren't all they seem, they do marvelous things with plastics these days. Any such obvious escape route would also be thoroughly booby-trapped. I think I have an idea, however." He pawed through the contents of his briefcase, coming up with a coil of what looked like modeling clay. "We seem to have been well supplied by Chicago with plastic explosive."

"Provided it really is explosive and not some new device that no one has seen fit to inform us about," Illya commented gloomily.

* * *

After one of the Milwaukee agents had tested a small piece of the coil several blocks away and pronounced it explosive, Napoleon began deploying his forces. Brattner and one of his men were stationed in front of the door in the hall which led to the apartment in which the prisoners were confined. Two other agents were assigned to the other on that side of the hall, which presumably led to Forbes' private quarters. One man was left outside the building with orders to halt any attempted evacuation by Thrush forces. Napoleon, carrying the coil of explosive, and Illya, carrying the bulkier coil of a rope ladder, climbed the stairway and knocked at the door of the apartment directly over the one holding the prisoners.

"I rather hope no one is at home," Illya murmured. "It will simplify matters considerably."

Footsteps from behind the door denied this possibility. The door opened and a slender, middle-aged woman stood looking questioningly at them. "What can I do for you gentlemen?" she asked staring at Illya's rope ladder.

Both agents pulled out their identification cards and showed them to her. "As you can see," Napoleon said in his suavest manner, "we are special agents for U.N.C.L.E. and we will need the use of your apartment for a few minutes."

"Yes," Illya agreed before she had a chance to answer. "This is a very important case; kidnapping, you know." Without waiting for an answer, they stepped inside, crossed the living room and pushed open the door to the room directly above the room where Kerry and Dr. Morthley were.

"This is the room we'll need," Napoleon informed the woman.

"That's our bedroom!" she protested, but the agents pushed their way in, calmly but

forcefully.

"It's all right," Napoleon said. "We'll be through in just a few minutes." To Illya he suggested, "You'd better listen in a minute and make sure this the right room."

Illya removed his listening device and pressed it against the floor. Moving from spot to spot under the wide-eyed gaze of the apartment's rightful tenant, he finally nodded,

"They're over here, in the corner."

"Good," Napoleon replied. "That gives up plenty of room to work in. Help me get the bed out of the way."

"Now, wait a minute!" the woman exploded. "What's going on here, anyway?"

"It's quite all right," Napoleon assured her. "By the way, you said your name was...?"

"Beck," the woman replied. "I'm Mrs.—now stop that! What are you nuts doing to my clean floor? I just waxed that!?

Having shoved the bed to one side, Napoleon was engaged in laying down a ring of plastic explosive. Pinching off the end, he patted it lovingly into place and capped it with a tiny detonator.

The woman laughed suddenly. "Oh, I get it! It's all a joke, isn't it?" She looked around suspiciously and her eyes fell on the rope ladder, still coiled tightly under Illya's arm. "There's a TV camera in there!" She was trying to wave into the rope ladder when the two agents took her firmly by the arms and escorted her through the door into the other room.

"Just stay out here for a second, Mrs. Beck," Napoleon told her as Illya closed the door firmly. He saw Illya nod, and squeezed down on the disc in his hand. There was a muffled roar from the other room. Napoleon opened the door, revealing a neat circular hole in the floor. Mrs. Beck gasped as Napoleon sprang across the room, grasped the edge of the hole with both hands, and lowered himself through it.

Illya slipped one end of the rope ladder over a jointed iron bar which he produced from somewhere on his person and extended to full length. As he worked, he tried to reassure Mrs. Beck. "These new plastic explosives are really very good. Same effect as a shaped charge; you'll note we got the required hole without even ruffling your bedspread. We'll have one of our U.N.C.L.E. insurance adjusters around in the morning to settle for damages." He dropped the bar across the hole, let the rope ladder uncoil down into the room below, and dropped through the opening.

Mrs. Beck sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the hole in her nice clean floor. "What does it all mean?" she whispered.

Napoleon landed on the edge of a twin bed, teetered for a moment and sprang to the floor. Kerry was trying to brush plaster out of her hair while crouching in a corner of the room, while an elderly man stood watching him open-mouthed. As Illya in turn landed on the bed and bounced to the floor, there were sounds of muffled shots as Brattner and his men assaulted the outer doors of the apartment.

"Quick!" shouted Napoleon. "Get up the ladder!"

Kerry and Dr. Morthley stared at him for a moment, then began climbing on the bed over which the rope ladder was dangling. At that moment a stinging white gas erupted from the baseboard, like a sprinkler system in reverse. Napoleon held his breath and tried to make his watering eyes focus on the door to the next room. He couldn't locate it. From the sounds behind him, Illya was helping the prisoners up the ladder. He fired twice in the general direction of the door; then suddenly the gigantic form of Andy loomed over him and he received a blow on the wrist that sent his gun spinning away from him. He swung left– handed, but Andy took the blow on his shoulder and plunged by him and he was suddenly facing a gun held by a man with a gold earring. A shot sounded from behind him, and the Thrush agent winced and disappeared into the clouds of gas. A blow from behind knocked him sprawling. He gasped to recover his breath, and received what felt like a lungful of white fire. Staggering to his feet, he tried to locate one of the doors to the room, and suddenly Brattner and another agent were there, helping him into the hallway. He leaned against the wall for a moment, sucking in clean air.

Figures appeared on the stairway, and Illya and Kerry ran to join the group. "Dr. Morthley?" Illya asked.

Brattner shook his head. "Morthley and every Thrush in there disappeared into that concentrated smog. The Thrushes were wearing some sort of nose filters; did you notice them?"

One of Brattner's agents came through the outside door of the building. "George is out cold at the side of the building. They must have got out somehow, and got away."

Chapter 7

"Does This Look Like an OTSMID to You?"

Napoleon's eyes and lungs were slowly clearing. He looked at Illya and Kerry and smiled weakly. "We were partly successful, anyway."

Illya nodded. "I had Kerry started up the ladder when the gas hit. Morthley had fallen down; I was trying to get him to the ladder when the big one—Andy?—showed up out of somewhere and grabbed him. I couldn't see well enough in that fog to shoot him; to likely to hit Dr. Morthley or you, Napoleon. I did wing one of their other men, though; man with a gold earring."

"That's Hunter," Brattner and Kerry exclaimed simultaneously.

"Then I saw Brattner had broken in," Illya continued, "so I went up the ladder and collected Kerry."

Napoleon peered through the open door into the apartment. "The gas seems to be thinning out," he announced. "Don, why don't you see to your man who got knocked out, and Illya and I will see what we can find in the apartment."

By now a small crowd had gathered in the hallway, staring at the tendrils of white haze that oozed through the broken doors.

"What does it all mean?" Mrs. Beck inquired of the world at large.

Mrs. Clark detached herself from the group. Still clutching the boy by one hand, she stepped toward Illya. "I suppose you think you're smart, chasing poor Mr. Forbes out like that! Well, I'll have you know it won't do you any good!" She shook her finger under his nose. "We tenants have a say as to who moves in, and if you think I'm going to put in a good word for you after this, you're crazy!"

Before Illya could reply, she stalked away, dragging the child with her. As they reached the stairs, the boy turned, produced a remarkably loud razzberry, and announced at the top of his voice, "That for your old wristwatch!"

Napoleon tugged at Illya's arm. "You must have a remarkable interviewing technique. However, I think the gas has pretty well dissipated by now."

Together they walked into the apartment. The room they entered had obviously been used as an office and communications center. An adjoining similar room had been Forbes' living room.

Napoleon nodded. "Forbes took two apartments and put in connecting doors. He used one as living quarters and the other for business; changed the living room to an office, the bedroom to a stronghold for prisoners and the kitchen for...hmm." He pushed open the door and confronted and untidy heap of empty boxes, cans, and old newspapers. "Not very good housekeepers, are they? Still, I don't see any escape routes here. We had men on every door, and the windows haven't been opened..." He walked over to a window and tried to raise it. "I suspect it would take a small bomb to open them. They seem to be designed to contain everything except light waves."

Illya had been standing in the doorway between the two apartments, staring first at the living room and then at the office. Finally, he deliberately paced off the distance from the door to the wall in each room and looked thoughtful. "Now why," he mused, "should the apartment used as an office be two feet wider than the one used as living quarters?"

"Oh?" Napoleon came over and they began inspecting the walls. It was Napoleon who noted that the artificial fireplace in the living room didn't fit quite snugly to the wall. After some experimental pulling and tugging, the fireplace swung out into the room, revealing a narrow passageway between the wall of the building and the interior walls of the living room and kitchen. At the end was a door. Napoleon opened it and looked out into the startled face of Brattner.

"So, that's how they did it," the Milwaukee agent said. "It's good camouflage; from the outside that door looks like part of the wall."

Napoleon and Illya emerged. "I still don't see how Andy got through there," Napoleon said. "That place is narrow. How's George?"

Brattner glanced at his agent, who was being steadied by another man and rubbing his head. "He'll be all right. A sore head is nothing to get excited about in this business. They surprised him; he was watching the windows and didn't expect them to come out of the wall on top of him. He'll know better next time."

Napoleon nodded. "We have to talk to Miss Griffin, and I'd prefer to do it away from here. If we could use your car, while you go through the apartment and reassure the tenants that the excitement is over...? You probably won't find much in the apartment, but they did leave a small computer behind."

Brattner grinned gleefully. "That'll cost them to replace. Come on, George, let's go check the apartment. If there's any of that gas left, it'll clear your head." He handed his car keys to Napoleon. "I'll ride back with one of the boys when we're done."

Napoleon and Illya walked around the corner of the building and in the back door. Kerry was standing in the hall, near one of the battered doors. "I'm very sorry, Kerry," Napoleon apologized as they reached her side. "I'm afraid it didn't work out quite as well as we had planned."

"The fact that you were capable of accomplishing your mission insofar as it related to myself is as matter which elicits my extreme gratitude," she replied.

"Now, now," Napoleon said, "calm down. You're all right now, and we still have a good chance of getting your uncle back."

She let out a deep breath and stepped back a pace. "Yes, I'm all right now. Actually it wasn't so bad. They were very polite all the time; they were just so quietly fanatical about things. They hadn't harmed Uncle Willard, either; he'd been pretending to work with them, but they suspected that he was stalling. That's why they wanted me."

The three of them walked outside to the car. "Did you find out where they were keeping the OTSMID?" Illya asked. "They obviously didn't have room for it here."

Kerry related her uncle's information that the OTSMID had been in storage. "But they were planning to move it today," she added. "They were going to put it on a dirigible—or a Zeppelin, McNulty called it."

"A dirigible? You mean one of those things like a balloon only different? With gas bags and all?" Napoleon said vaguely.

Kerry nodded and went on to explain the unlikely sequence of events that had led to a concealed dirigible in the state of Wisconsin. "Why did McNulty call it a Zeppelin?" she asked.

"That's the German term for a dirigible," Illya said. "An invisible dirigible; it has a certain charm."

"We surprised them before they could move," Napoleon said thoughtfully. "So the OTSMID is still stored. If we act quickly, we just might be able to surprise them again." He turned back to the building. "I'm going to get Brattner started on this; cleaning out the apartment can wait."

A few minutes later Napoleon, Brattner, and three agents emerged from the building and separated to walk to their respective cars. Brattner and Napoleon joined Illya and Kerry.

"I think we have something," Brattner said. "There was some Thrush activity not far from our headquarters a month ago, down on Commerce Street. We were looking for a satrapy headquarters, so when they didn't follow up, we let it go. But it could just have been them putting their equipment in storage. We'll cover the area now. George is staying behind to finish checking out the apartment; he is quite up to strenuous activity yet. So far we haven't found anything useful, but"—he smiled happily—"they lost some expensive equipment in there. The place was well designed, too, for a rush job. I wonder who their architect is?"

* * *

Commerce Street barely deserved to be called a street. It came into being only a few blocks northeast of the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, and it seemed to be fighting for its life with a series of railroad tracks that ran alongside it and occasionally down its middle.

Napoleon and Illya stood by their car across from one of the many warehouses in the area, one with a large parking lot alongside the loading docks. Brattner and the other agents were checking other buildings along the street. Pocketing the keys to the car, Napoleon started across the street toward the warehouse.

"There doesn't seem to be very much activity going on around this one," Illya said as they walked toward some narrow steel steps that led up to one of the docks.

The steps rattled as they climbed them. An open overhead door in front of them revealed long lines of crates, all mounted on wooden skids. A large forklift stood idly by, its motor chuffling noisily.

"Coffee break?" Illya asked.

"Strong union, apparently," Napoleon said. As they walked forward he pulled out his communicator and contacted Brattner. "We might have something here," he said. "There isn't any activity at all that we can see; not even a workman in sight."

"Unusual," said Brattner. "That place you picked is usually pretty busy. Have you checked the offices yet?"

"No, but we'll..." The roar of a powerful motor echoed through the building. "Something just took off," Napoleon said into the communicator. "I think you'd better get your men down here." Replacing the communicator, he took off at run after Illya, who had already started toward the rear of the building. They pounded through aisle after aisle of crates, bales and machinery. Rounding a corner they burst into an open space. A row of doors lined a wall fifty feet from them, and a forklift was laboring through one of the doors, carrying a large rectangular object. The driver was a large man wearing grey slacks, a dark brown shirt, and an orange tie.

"I wouldn't swear to the face, but the clothing looks familiar," Illya shouted as he drew his gun.

A shot rang out from somewhere beyond the doors, and chips of concrete from the floor spattered Napoleon's legs. He dived behind a convenient crate as Illya took refuge behind a stack of metal pipes.

The forklift disappeared through the door.

Napoleon risked a quick look and got off two fast shots which drew a fusillade in return. Hastily he pulled out his communicator and explained the situation to Brattner."They've got a truck out there," he added. "If you get here fast enough, you can block their exit."

The forklift roared more loudly and a second later the engine of a truck sprang into even more noisy life. There was the sound of gears grinding, and Napoleon risked another look. This time there was no answering fire, and he caught a glimpse of the truck pulling away. Illya sprinted for the door, while Napoleon informed Brattner of the quarry's impending escape. Illya reached the door in time to see the truck vanish around a corner of the building. He turned and began running back toward the front of the warehouse.

"We're almost there," Brattner's voice came through the communicator, "but I don't know if we can—" There was a grinding sound and the crash of breaking glass, followed by sporadic gunfire. After a second, Brattner's voice came through again. "We couldn't. That truck's tough; we rammed without doing any damage at all."

Illya and Napoleon burst through the front doors of the warehouse, leaped down from the dock, and ran for their car. They could see Brattner's car, where it had attempted to block the truck's exit. Its right front fender was a shambles and headlight fragments covered the street. Fifty yards to the north, the truck was rapidly gaining speed.

Napoleon jammed the keys in the ignition as the door slammed shut. Tires squealed as he took off in "low," shifting to "drive" as they gained speed with the accelerator floored. Illya leaned out the window and attempted to draw a bead on the rear wheels of the truck just as they thudded across a set of railroad tracks. When he stopped bouncing, he drew back inside, rubbed the back of his neck, and glared accusingly at Napoleon.

Two hundred yards away, they could see the truck rounding a slight curve and heading into a three block straightaway that ran along the river. Heading into the curve themselves moments later, they could see they were gaining very little. The truck was nearing the end of the street and braking sharply to take the hairpin turn that wound around to the right a full hundred and eighty degrees and climbed steeply to intersect with another street that crossed over Commerce some fifty feet above it.

Instead of subsiding on the straightaway, the bouncing increased as their speed increased. Illya fired at the truck as it made its turn, but he realized that hitting a truck tire from this lurching, swaying car would be more a matter of luck than marksmanship.

He wasn't lucky. As they braked for the turn, the truck, with hardly a pause, charged into traffic on the overhead street and headed north. Illya sat back and replaced the magazine of his pistol with a full one from his pocket.

Wheeling into the turn, Napoleon suddenly braked violently and the car swerved sideways against the high bank that lined the left side of the street. It came to a halt ten feet from a large oil drum sitting squarely in the middle of the incline.

Illya leaped out and dashed forward. A quick shove and the drum, apparently empty, rolled easily against the bank.

Pulling out into the cross street a second later, they could see the truck disappearing over a hill three blocks to the north. The blaring of horns from a stop-lighted intersection a block behind the truck indicated a difference of opinion which the truck had obviously won.

Another series of railroad tracks bounced them off the car's roof as they raced across. Luckily the traffic light was green by now and they didn't have to fight for the right of way. Topping the hill, they could see the truck, still three blocks away, bulling its way through another stoplight. A chorus of auto horns erupted as it made a rocking left turn and disappeared down the side street.

"Make a note to have some kind of siren put on U.N.C.L.E. cars," Napoleon said, swerving to avoid a car that had pulled out of a cross street in front of them.

"Yes," Illya agreed. "We don't have enough size to bluff through the way he's doing, and even if we did, I don't like the idea of killing innocent bystanders."

"Thrush isn't that particular, apparently," Napoleon said as he watched the truck charge through a red light with its horn blaring and leave a Volkswagen sitting against a curb like a broken beetle. The light was green as Napoleon and Illya raced through, with the Volkswagen's passengers staring at them in shocked silence.

"I wonder what our relations are with the local police." Napoleon wondered as he swerved out to pass a bus.

"Deteriorating by the minute, I suspect," Illya returned.

"Now what's that juggernaut up to!" Napoleon exclaimed. "We were just starting to gain on him!"

Two blocks ahead, the truck made a sharp left turn amid more blaring of horns and disappeared down a side street. Napoleon did the same a few seconds later, earning some colorful language from a bus driver he cut off.

For half an hour the pursuit continued. Whenever Napoleon and Illya started to overtake the truck, it would duck into a side street and emerge again, always; it seemed, through hordes of cross traffic that parted much more readily for the truck than for the pursuing car. By this time, the two agents could hear the wail of police sirens, but so far no police car had been able to get close enough to the chase to be effective.

Longer open stretched, however, were making it more difficult for the truck to retain its lead. Napoleon and Illya were only a few car lengths behind when the truck's brake lights flared suddenly. With a last-second twist of the wheel, Napoleon swerved the car past and stepped on the brakes.