Текст книги "[Whitman] - The Affair of the Gunrunners' Gold"

Автор книги: Brandon Keith

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10. First Report

ALTHOUGH HE could not make out particular sounds, he could feel the vibrations, the hum of activity, the faint, far-off thrum of business. But at five o'clock there was the beginning of cessation, bit by bit a deadening, and at five-thirty he was encased in a total, throbbing silence. Dead silence.

Solo got off the bed, put on his jacket, thought about putting on his shoes, and did not. In stocking feet, in the great silence of an empty building, he shuffled to the elevator and pressed the button for the basement.

He came out into a vast concrete room, a room that was certainly forbidden to the employees of the firm of Raymond and Langston, although even if one did venture here, what could he see? At one end a smelting plant, not, in truth, improper for an armaments business dealing, as it did, with steel and iron. At the other end of the concrete basement was a huge steel vault.

Solo bestowed a casual glance at the smelting plant but did not go near it. His present business was with the vault. Shoeless feet cold on the concrete floor, he walked to the vault and around it, carefully inspecting, and in the rear he found a spot suitable for his purposes. That section of the vault had an overhanging ledge.

From a pocket of his jacket he extracted the dial instrument Jenkins had given him. Inserting his hand deeply into the space, he attached the instrument by its suction cups to the underside of the ledge. He stood back for a view. Perfect. The dial instrument could not be seen. Now the electronic dial would turn and whirl in silence when and if the dial on the door of the vault was used; it would register the combination to open the vault.

Solo sighed in satisfaction. The first work of his adventure was accomplished. Now be took the Communicator from a pocket and gazed at it fondly. A marvelous scientific instrument. A direct communication to Headquarters, but on a revolving frequency that shifted second by second. Nobody in the world could overhear a conversation except those special persons equipped with an identical Communicator. He clicked it into operation, then spoke softly.

"Solo here, reporting. First report."

The Old Man's voice came through clear as a bell.

"Waverly here. Proceed with report. Over."

"I've been accepted as Owens. I'm alone in the building. Subjects have gone off to Westbury. I have attached the instrument to the vault. Neither the smelting plant nor the vault has been put to use yet. I'm down in the vault room, the basement. Any further instructions for the present? Over."

Waverly's chuckle crackled through the receiver.

"Were you paid your fee? Over."

"Ten thousand dollars in cash. How's Illya? Over."

"Validated by the magazine. He'll be off in the morning. They've made contact with the press relations man there. He'll be expected and welcomed. Over."

"Any further instructions for now? Over."

"Nothing. Play it by ear and report when convenient. So far, so good. Nice work. Over and out."

There was a click and then silence.

Solo went back to his apartment. He made him self a meal, ate, then stalked about impatiently. There was nothing to do, so he took off his clothes and went to bed.

11. An Evening Chore

AT SEVEN-FIFTEEN in the evening Solo heard a car scrape to a stop. The sound came from the rear. He hurried out of the bedroom to the kitchen, where a window faced the rear. Standing taut at the side of the window, he looked down. It was an alley, wide and long. Some of the Raymond and Langston trucks were parked there. The rear would be the delivery entrance to the establishment. From a black sedan parked at the curb Otis Langston and Felix Raymond emerged and entered the building. Barefoot, Solo swiftly padded back to the bedroom and took position in the closet.

Finally he heard their voices faintly, coming from their living room. He entered the closet and pressed his ear to the far wall. Now he heard them more clearly, but there was not much to hear.

"Time now to take care of the delivery," Langston's thin voice piped.

"Yes," agreed Raymond's baritone.

"What about Owens?"

"Let's have a look."

Instantly Solo was out of the closet, closing the door. He leaped into the bed, pulled up the covers, and closed his eyes. Within a few minutes the men were in his bedroom. Solo snored.

"Asleep," whispered Raymond.

"Let's lock him in," whispered Langston. "For safety's sake. No sense his wandering around at this particular time."

"Right."

Napoleon Solo was displeased but could not voice his displeasure. Instead he snored angrily as the men left the room. Solo heard the key in the lock of the outside door and the turn of the lock. In a few moments he padded out and tried the knob. Locked. He returned to the bedroom and opened the closet door, so at least he would know when they came back to their apartment. Then—what else could he do?—he sprawled out on the bed and waited.

Felix Raymond and Otis Langston took the elevator to the second floor. There, in their office, they removed their jackets, ties, and shirts. Raymond opened the safe and pulled out the suitcases. Each carrying a suitcase, they went to the elevator and down to the basement. Langston locked the door while Raymond opened the suitcases.

From a cabinet they took out long asbestos gowns and donned them. Then Raymond handed out the asbestos gloves, and they donned those. Next he took out the over-the-head, fiber glass, fireproof, transparent masks, and they placed these over their heads, the globelike masks fitting firmly on their shoulders. They smiled at one another– they looked like men from Mars.

Now, using bellows, Raymond fired up the smelting machines to intense heat. Item by item, Langston handed him the black pieces of machinery from the suitcases, and Raymond dropped them into the simmering vat. Slowly they melted, the bubbling gold dripping through to the container beneath, the impurities kept back in the tight sieve above.

It was a long process, but finally it was completed.

Raymond poured the yellow, bubbling gold into the ingot molds, then thrust the molds into the freezing apparatus where they quickly hardened to glowing butter-bars of pure gold.

The job was done. The smelting machines were turned off and cooled. The men doffed the masks, the gloves, and the asbestos gowns, and Langston returned them to the cabinet and cleaned up the debris.

Raymond disconnected the burglar alarm, opened the vault, placed the gold ingots safely within, and closed the vault. Then be reestablished the alarm system.

Their work was finished. It had taken a long time.

Langston closed the suitcases and carried them. They went back upstairs to the office. There, Langston neatly stacked the suitcases. They took up their garments and went upstairs to their apartment where, separately, they showered and shaved and dressed in resplendent tuxedos. It was ten o'clock.

Together they went next door to Solo's apartment. Quietly Langston unlocked the door, and they went through to the bedroom.

There, apparently, their man was asleep. Raymond shook him, waking him.

12. Invitation Declined

An," SOLO GROANED. "Ah, ah." He sat up in the bed, yawned, swung his feet to the floor, blinked. "Well, gentlemen! How completely darling you look– formal and all!"

Raymond grinned and bowed, but Langston, looking rather sour, came directly to the point.

"Mr. Owens," said Langston, "you're our guest and it is a part of our promise, a part of the deal, to show you a good time while you're here with us. Do, please, get dressed."

"Ah." Solo yawned.

"Mr. Owens," said Felix Raymond, "we have reservations at a good supper club, the best, and we have plans for a grand evening, a night of amusement and entertainment. And you are our guest."

"Pass me," yawned Solo.

"Mr. Owens," said Otis Langston, "the reservations include you."

"Pass me, if you please, gentlemen. I hate to appear an ingrate, but I'm dead tired, beat. It's been a long day for me. I thank you, but I must decline. All I want is a good, long night's sleep."

Langston frowned.

Raymond smiled.

"Otis, our guest's desires are paramount. If he wishes to sleep, we must, as his hosts, grant him his wish. Are you sure, Mr. Owens?"

A wide-open yawn. "But am I sure, Mr. Raymond."

"If he wishes to sleep, he wishes to sleep," piped Langston. "Do you wish to sleep, Felix?"

"Not at all."

"Nor I." Langston looked with distaste upon Solo. "Then sleep, Mr. Owens. We've no idea when we'll be back. Late, though. We've a long and interesting night in front of us."

"Enjoy yourselves," said Solo.

Langston, frowning, clearly showed his impatience.

"All right, then, settled. Coming, Felix?"

"A moment, please, Otis." Raymond returned his attention to Solo. From a pocket, he took a key and gave it to Solo. "Just in case, Mr. Owens, at any time you want to go out or come in." He laughed. "You're no prisoner here, you know. This key is to the rear door of the building—a private entrance for going out or coming in. That way, you don't have to go through the store downstairs."

"Thank you."

"Last call, Mr. Owens," boomed Raymond, "if you wish to join us."

"Thank you again. I'll take a rain check."

"Happy dreams, then. See you in the morning."

"Have fun, gentlemen."

"Thank you," said Langston and frowned at Raymond. "Felix, if we don't get a move on, they may preempt our reservation."

"Yes," said Raymond. "Good night, Mr. Owens."

"Good night, gentlemen."

They went out, and Solo went to the window in the kitchen.

He saw them enter the black sedan and drive off. He yawned.

In truth, he was tired, and the comfortable bed in the bedroom offered a wonderful invitation, but he had work to do and now be had the opportunity to do that work.

Napoleon Solo got dressed, took the elevator, and descended once again to the vast subterranean chamber.

13. Second Report

IN THE CONCRETE basement, Solo first untied a shoelace and took it out of the shoe. He held one metal tip between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, and held the other metal tip in his right band as a pointer. Pointer outstretched, he advanced upon the vault, a faint vibration beginning to quiver between the thumb and the forefinger of his left hand. The device was reacting to the electric current connected to the burglar-alarm system. Solo traced the current along the bidden wires in the floor and then up a wall to a small fitted panel. He slid the panel open—and there was the alarm switch. He disconnected it, then tied up his shoe again with the shoelace. The vault was his now to open—without clangs anywhere, without buzz alarms, without teletype marks being recorded on the secret tape somewhere in the Raymond and Langston apartment.

Now he went to the rear of the vault, pushed his hand beneath the ledge, and removed the dial instrument. For light he was using the reverse end of the Communicator, which served as a flashlight. He shone the beam of the flashlight on the dial instrument, touched a tiny button on the edge of the instrument, and silently the dial turned, right and left, left and right, number by number, and when its motion ceased Solo had memorized the vault combination.

He pocketed the instrument, went around, flashed the beam at the dial of the vault, made the turns, and opened the vault door. He entered the huge vault, then looked about. Gold gleamed. Six million dollars in gold, but surprisingly it did not take up much room. Gold, compressed to ingots, was a comparatively small quantity in bulk.

He reversed the Communicator, switching it on.

The Old Man was probably home asleep, but there would be a deputy at the receiver at Headquarters to take communication.

"Solo here," he said to the Communicator. "Solo reporting."

The Old Man's voice came through, rasping wearily.

"Ready and waiting. How are you, lad? Over."

"I'm inside the vault. Owens gave us a straight deal. Ingots of gold like bars of butter. Hundreds of them. Our subjects are out for the evening. I advise we move in right now and take over. Over."

"Don't lose your head, mister. We have a subject out there in Westbury more important to us than all the gold they've got there in the vault. Come alive, Mr. Solo. Over."

"Correct. Sorry. Admit, I lost my head." Solo laughed. "I mean, surrounded with all this gold—six million bucks in gold. Sorry. Instructions, please. Over."

"Stay with it, lad. Stay right along with them. See if you can learn just when they intend to transport the stuff to Westbury. Then report. That's it for now. Nice work. Go to bed. Over and out."

Solo left the vault and shut its door. He restored the alarm switch to position. Then he took the elevator back upstairs to his apartment. His work for this day was done. He undressed and showered. He found a fresh tube of toothpaste, but his hosts had neglected to provide a toothbrush. He washed his teeth with his index finger, rinsed, trotted to the bedroom, tumbled into bed, and was immediately asleep.

14. Illya in the Lions' Den

AT NINE-THIRTY the next morning Illya Kuryakin arrived at the Parley Circus on the fairgrounds at Westbury, Long Island. His camera hung by a leather strap from one shoulder, and in a pocket he carried full credentials from Scope magazine.

It was a clear, brisk, lovely day, smelling of flowers and growing things, and Illya happily sucked in the sweet atmosphere like syrup through a straw. He felt alive, vibrant, buoyant.

He strolled along the circus grounds with its vast tents, wagons, and cages. There was no one in sight. It was too early for circus people to be about Finally he came to a rude little makeshift cabin that bore a legend on its door: BRIAN POWELL, PUBLICITY. Illya knocked and a hearty voice called, "Come in."

Brian Powell, seated at a desk, busily working over papers, was a brown-faced young man with a smile like a bright white explosion.

"Yes, sir," he said, "what can I do for you?"

"I'm Evan Fairchild."

The smile bloomed wider. Powell sprang to his feet, came around the desk, and they shook hands. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fairchild. We're quite flattered around here—Scope showing this interest in us. When I got the call yesterday, I pretended to the boss I had a hand in fixing up this great publicity break for us." He winked. "You know how it is."

"Sure," said Illya.

"Anything I can do for you, just say the word."

"I've been walking about the grounds. Rather quiet out there."

"This time of the morning, Mr. Fairchild, it figures to be. Circus people sleep late."

"Do they sleep here, live here? On the grounds?"

"The run-of-the-mill circus people do." He made a grimace. "Including me. But the stars have apartments in town, and Mr. Parley, he has a fine rented house miles from here, by the seashore."

Illya looked disappointed. "Thought I'd be able to talk to him this morning."

"And that you will, Mr. Fairchild. Mr. Parley, just like yours truly, is at work promptly at nine o'clock. If you like, you can see him right now. He knows you're due here, of course. His cabin's quite near. Shall we walk over?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"This way, Mr. Fairchild."

Outside, a wind had sprung up. They battled the wind to Parley's cabin, knocked, entered, and Powell closed the door against the wind.

"Mr. John Parley," said Powell. "Mr. Evan Fairchild from Scope."

"Charmed, I'm sure," said Parley, crisply enunciating.

"My pleasure," said Illya.

John Parley, in his mid-fifties, was tall, slender, handsome, rifle-straight, and silver-haired.

"Has Brian been showing you around?"

"Haven't had the time yet," smiled Powell. "Mr. Fairchild's only just arrived."

"The way I work," said Illya, "I don't like to be shown. I like to wander about on my own."

"Every man to his own manner," acknowledged Parley. "Please consider you have the freedom of the grounds, sir."

"Thank you," said Illya, "and right now, if you please, I'd like to get a few quick photos."

He snapped pictures of the handsome John Parley and then, seeing the look of disappointment on Powell's face, snapped a few of Brian Powell, whose bright smile quickly returned.

"How long do you intend to stay, Mr. Fairchild?" inquired Parley.

"A few days. The magazine wants a rather comprehensive story. I'll arrange to take a place in town."

"Very good," said Parley. "By the way, the circus has two performances a day—at two o'clock in the afternoon and at eight o'clock in the evening. Brian will give you a pass, so the folk here will know you've a right to take your pictures. You'll have your full freedom except, on occasion, when I order the grounds cleared of all strangers."

"Thank you, sir."

"And now—is there anything else?" Parley's smile was a dismissal.

"Well, not here in this cabin," Illya said with a grin.

"Brian will be your man in charge. Anything you wish—ask Brian."

"Thank you again, Mr. Parley. You've been very kind."

Out again in the sunshine and wind, they went back to Powell's cabin where Powell wrote out the pass for Evan Fairchild.

"By the way," said Illya, "could I, by any chance, meet Kenneth Craig?"

"Thought you'd be coming around to asking that. Our star performer. Certainly you'll meet Craig, but right now it's somewhat early, he's not on the grounds yet. But I'll arrange it, Mr. Fairchild, never fear. And... er..." Powell hesitated.

"Yes?" encouraged Illya.

"I mean—I'm no big shot, I know, but if you can get my picture in the magazine—I mean a magazine as important as Scope—my wife back in Australia, she'd feel right proud..."

"If I can, I will," stammered Illya, knowing he could not ever do it. Feeling slightly guilty, he ended the conversation and went out alone into the bright, clean, windy morning.

He wandered about the circus grounds. He chatted with some of the early risers, but they were very few. He strolled about the immense grounds, taking pictures. Then, in a deserted area, he was attracted to a huge wagon, its rear doors bolted. He went a long way around the huge yellow-painted wagon and found that the front of the wagon was attached to a tremendous cage, big enough to contain a small army. The cage had a door latched from the outside. Illya lifted the latch, entered the cage, and commenced taking pictures through the bars of the cage. Brian's remark had stimulated a guilt, and the guilt had stimulated an idea. Illya, though only an amateur, was quite good as a photographer. Perhaps, he thought, if the pictures were good enough, Scope would really use them, and then Brian's wife in Australia would be proud and happy, and Brian would be proud and happy. As a matter of fact, everybody would be proud and happy, including himself.

Shooting pictures, be saw out of the corner of his eye the door, which he had left open, snapped shut by a gust of wind. No crisis, he thought. He was not locked in. The bars were wide enough for his hand to slip through to open the latch. But then suddenly he heard a sound, a growl. He whirled and stood petrified.

Through a low swing door connecting wagon and cage, a lion appeared! Powerful, black muzzled, heavy-maned, the lion, tail swishing, blinked yellow eyes in the sunshine.

Locked in a cage with a lion! Illya shot a glance toward the door leading outside—it was a long distance away! What to do? The lion, standing still, blinking, was looking at him, and he, standing still, was looking at the lion. He feared to make a sudden move. Slowly, ever so slowly, he backed toward the door—and stopped! Another lion pushed through the swing door into the cage and uttered a small sound. Perhaps to the lion it was a small sound; to Illya it was a fearful roar. What to do? How many more were in the huge wagon? Should he make a run for it and risk a leap from a lion? Again he threw a quick glance over his shoulder. It was still a long distance to the door. He stood motionless, confused, hoping against hope that by some miracle, like a happy awakening from a dreadful nightmare, the massive, yellow-eyed, tail-swishing animals would disappear.

15. Invitation Accepted

"STAY, KING! Stay, Mack-boy!"

It was a youthful voice, a girl's voice, but it rang with authority. It came from somewhere behind him. He did not dare turn, did not dare move.

"Stay! Attaboy! Good boys! Good cats!" The great lions stood like statues, making a sound like a purr. "If those are purrs," thought Illya, "then I will happily live the rest of my life deprived of all sounds of purring."

He heard the latch come up, heard the cage door screech open, and then a vision passed before him. Young and pretty, flaxen-haired and blue-eyed, attired in slacks and blouse that matched the color of her eyes, the vision proceeded at a smooth gait toward the lions, talking all the while.

"Good boys. Good old pussycats. Come on. Come along."

She slapped at their flanks, rubbed at their manes, kept on talking in an unexcited voice, soothingly giving orders, pointing toward the swing door. Finally the lions turned and padded through.

The girl bolted the swing door, whirled, and smiled at Illya.

"Are you all right, sir?"

"Uh." The monosyllabic grunt, under the circumstances, was the best he could manage.

"Would you like me to help you out, sir?"

"Thank you," he gasped. "I think I can make it without help."

The girl giggled. They went out of the cage and she latched the door.

"Whew!" breathed Illya. With shaking hands he replaced the camera in its leather case. In the warm sunshine he was perspiring like a runner at the end of a marathon race. He took a handkerchief from a pocket, mopped his steaming face, returned the handkerchief, and looked through the bars of the cage toward the huge yellow wagon. "How many are there in there?" he asked.

"Six."

"Oh, my!"

"They're wonderful, sweet old lions, believe me."

"Yeah," groaned Illya. "Miss, please, who are you?"

"I'm Candy."

"Candy?"

"Short for Candace."

"But how you handled those lions!"

"Candy Craig. My father's Kenneth Craig. I'm sure you've heard of Kenneth Craig."

"But I never heard of you, my dear." Illya was beginning to recover. "And so young. How old, if I may ask?"

"Seventeen."

"Only seventeen? My goodness." Illya's recovery was coming along.

Candy's smiling blue eyes grew stern. "What happened wasn't your fault, sir, whoever you are. That swing door should have been bolted shut. The lions have ample room in the wagon and they're quite contented there until we let them out for work in the cages. That's the duty of the roustabouts, to securely lock in all the animals. But it always happens, toward the end of our stay any where—the roustabouts get kind of careless, negligent. You must not blame yourself, sir. It was not your fault, whoever you are."

"I am Evan Fairchild, a photo reporter for Scope magazine," said Illya, fully recovered. "And right now I'm going to take pictures of you, if you please."

The sparkling girl posed and Illya snapped. Then be put away the camera and said, "I'm dying to meet your father."

"I'm sure he'd be happy to meet you, Mr. Fairchild."

"How do we work it out?"

"Quite simple. He's at our apartment. I came out this morning to do chores here. But I'd be happy to take you back to meet my dad."

"How do we go, Miss Craig?"

"Candy."

"How do we go, Candy?"

"We walk." The blue eyes twinkled mischievously. "Unless you don't like to walk."

"I love to walk," said Illya.

They walked. And on the way, Illya tactfully questioning, Candy told him about herself.

She was Candace Craig, seventeen. All her life, because of her father's profession, she had lived with lions. She was, in fact, an accomplished lion tamer on her own, although she was not quite sure that lion taming would be her lifetime profession. She was still going to school and had lots of time to make up her mind. An Australian, this past year she had gone to school in England, and for the summer vacation she had come with her father to America. At home in Sydney, Australia, there were three little brothers in the care of her mother.

Their walk, a long one, ended at an imposing modern apartment house. Upstairs, a tall man opened the door for them. Candy introduced them.

"Mr. Evan Fairchild of Scope magazine," she said, "meet my dad, Kenneth Craig."

Craig shook hands and said, "Parley told me you were coming." He was a big, blue-eyed, strapping blond man, smiling and amiable. His daughter, in her own feminine way, bore a great resemblance to him.

"Daddy, you'll never guess what happened this morning!"

"What happened, love?"

Candy told her father about Illya's misadventure.

Craig's steely blue eyes hardened. "Dangerous, Mr. Fairchild. Dangerous for any man to wander about alone on circus grounds."

"Mr. Craig," said Illya, "I shall wander no more–unescorted. I have learned my lesson the hard way."

"I'd be happy to serve as your escort, Mr. Fairchild."

"I'd be happy to have you, Mr. Craig. But do you have the time?"

"Time? Of course I have the time. We're quite bored, Candy and I, between performances. Where are you staying, Mr. Fairchild?"

"I haven't picked a place yet. Practically just got here."

"You'll stay here with us"

"Oh, no, please. I wouldn't presume."

"No presumption, Mr. Fairchild, not at all." The blond man smiled. "Fate. Don't ever fight fate, Mr. Fairchild. After all, my daughter saved you from the cats. They're quite docile and well-trained, my big cats, but just as humans are human, animals are animal. Frightened, all of us lash out, and in our fright we can do damage. How would you feel, Mr. Fairchild, if a total stranger suddenly invaded your home?"

"Frightened," said Illya.

"But you," laughed the broad-shouldered blond man, "would be less dangerous than a frightened lion. You could have been in quite a pickle if it weren't for Candy, thank heaven. My daughter has brought you here safe and sound, and I would appreciate it if you would stay here with us, as our guest, during your stay with our circus."

Illya was sorely tempted. "But do you have room?"

"Room? We have nothing but room!"

"Do we have room!" chortled the radiant Candy.

"Mr. Fairchild," Craig explained, "we had to take what we could get for our temporary stay, and what we got was six rooms. Can you imagine? Six rooms! Just for Candy and myself. My goodness, we get lost here! We have room, Mr. Fairchild, an overabundance of room, and we would very much appreciate your being our guest."

"Thank you."

"Do you accept?"

"Gratefully."

"Good! Do you have a bag?"

"In a locker at the railroad station."

"Come along, then. My car's downstairs. We'll pick up your bag and do our best to make you comfortable here."

"Me, too, Daddy? May I?"

"Of course, sweet."

It could not be better, could it? His job was Kenneth Craig, and now he would be a lodger in the apartment of Kenneth Craig. Proximity was necessary for close investigation. "Thank you, yellow-eyed lions, into whose vast cage I happened to have wandered," Illya mused.

They returned with his bag from the locker in the railroad station. Illya got settled in Craig's apartment, and then they had lunch cooked by the sprightly Candy. Lunch consisted of grilled barn steak, golden scrambled eggs, crispy luscious French fries, and coffee for the men and tea for her.

"Quite a cook, my Candy."

"It was delicious."

And then they took him to the fairgrounds and showed him about—but this time escorted—and he took pictures of them, of clowns, of objects of interest, of people and animals, and then they returned to the apartment so that Craig could dress for his afternoon performance.

In his room, waiting for Craig, Illya sat alone, thinking. Were he called upon to cast his vote now, his vote, fervently, would be in favor of Kenneth Craig. Could this fine, robust, happy, outgoing man be a traitor, a double-dealer, a turncoat? Could a man like this, a doting father of a seventeen-year-old girl, be a double agent? Would a man mixed up in treason blithely accompany a stranger, a reporter, on his rounds? Would a man deeply engaged in a complex plot involving international intrigue voluntarily offer the comforts of his home to a total stranger? Wouldn't a man weighed down with conscience, riddled with guilt, rather shunt away a stranger? I vote in favor of Kenneth Craig, but I have no proof. My vote is from hunch, feel, instinct…

"We're ready," called Kenneth Craig. "How're you doing, Mr. Fairchild?"

"Ready," returned Illya Kuryakin.

He sat with Candy Craig in a special box and watched Craig's wondrous performance with the six lions. Craig, dressed in boots and safari outfit, two loaded guns in holsters strapped about his middle, put the lions through their paces without whip, stick, or chair. Using only his voice, his hands, and his body, he received complete obedience from the massive, grunting, growling, saber-toothed animals. Can a man whom wild beasts trust be himself untrustworthy? Can a loving father rapturously admired by an innocent girl be a treacherous snake turning his fangs upon his own? No, voted Illya, joining in the thunderous applause at the finish of Kenneth Craig's marvelous performance.

Illya's vote was one hundred percent in favor of the man who was the object of his scrutiny, but his conclusions were a matter of instinct rather than proof, and so his work was unfinished.