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

Автор книги: Brandon Keith

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16. Sight-Seeing

SOLO HAD AWAKENED to the fine, bright morning sunshine on his eyelids, thin stripes of sunshine slanting in through the slats of the Venetian blinds. Out of bed, he leisurely showered, shaved, and dressed. He listened through the closet wall. There were no sounds in the adjacent apartment. He stayed in the bedroom for more than an hour—not a sound from the apartment next door, which meant that his hosts were about their business, whatever that present business might be. He shrugged and left the apartment.

He took the elevator down to the second floor and stepped out into the reception room. The clock on the wall said ten after eleven.

"Good morning," greeted the red-haired secretary, "and a most beautiful morning it is, Mr. Owens."

"Good morning, Miss—"

"Dunhill," the girl said, smiling prettily. "Miss Dunhill."

"Good morning, Miss Dunhill."

"It's a lovely day out, Mr. Owens. A bit windy but simply lovely."

Solo gestured toward the offices. "The gentlemen?"

The girl made a face, frowning through her smile.

"Do you have to see them?"

Solo shook his head. "I don't have to. I just thought—"

"Then think the better of it," said Miss Dunhill. She hunched up her shoulders. "They're awfully busy and in an awful mood. I've got orders that they're not to be disturbed—unless it's a matter of utmost importance, and when I got those orders I almost had my head bitten off. Ugh!" She shuddered. "When they're in a bad mood, gosh, they're impossible!" She smiled again. "So, Mr. Owens, if it's a matter of utmost importance…"

Solo grinned. "It's a matter of no importance at all."

"Then I advise you to stay clear."

"When will they be free?"

"They're not going to be free—not, at least, during the business day. Matter of fact, they're not even going out to lunch; I'm to order their lunch sent in. They're going to be cooped in there till five o'clock, that I guarantee."

"Do you have your lunch sent in, too?"

"Not me. I go out to lunch." And she smiled up sweetly at the handsome young man standing above her, and suddenly Solo felt the fool. There had been, without his actually meaning it, an implication on his part that he was about to invite her to lunch and she appeared quite willing to accept such an invitation. She was an attractive young lady, and at another time, as Napoleon Solo, it would have been most pleasant to have lunch with Miss Dunhill. But he was working on a job. He was not Napoleon Solo. He was Harry Owens.

Lamely he said, "Well, thank you, Miss Dunhill. Thank you for warning me that this is no time to barge in on the gentlemen."

"Not at all, Mr. Owens," said Miss Dunhill, looking disappointed.

Awkwardly Solo made his way to the elevator and was glad to escape into its lonely confines. He pushed the button for the main floor but went out, as previously directed, through the rear.

The alley was windy and dark, the tall buildings on either side shutting off the sun, and it was not until he rounded the corner that he was able to agree with Miss Dunhill's estimate of the weather—it was a bright, clear, breezy, sunny day.

Briskly now he walked up Park Avenue until he found what he was seeking—a stationery store. He purchased a small cardboard box, tissue paper, wrapping paper, and cellophane tape. Then he walked again until he discovered a post office. Inside, he carefully packed the dial instrument in tissue within the box, wrapped the box, sealed it, addressed it to Alexander Waverly, and mailed it off. The instrument had accomplished its purpose—no sense keeping it about on his person. Suddenly he realized he was very hungry.

Out again on the sunny street, he found a restaurant. He first ordered orange juice, to the astonishment of the waitress—it was already afternoon—then bacon and eggs, toast, and coffee, and he ravenously enjoyed every morsel. His appetite satisfied, he sat back, sipping coffee and thinking. Illya, as Evan Fairchild, was out at Westbury on the tail of Kenneth Craig, but here he was in New York as Harry Owens. What would he, as Harry Owens, do in New York that he could properly report back to Raymond and Langston?

Miss Dunhill, sometime during the day, would report to her employers that Harry Owens had attempted to see them. Good. Quite natural for Harry Owens. She would also tell her employers that she had informed Owens that they would be busy until at least five o'clock. That left Harry Owens footloose and free until that time. What then, with free time, would Harry Owens, a stranger in the city, do in the city? He would go sight-seeing, that's what be would do. Without enthusiasm Solo paid his check and prepared for activities that would make a normal day's report back to Raymond and Langston. He sighed and went out to see sights that he already knew very well. After all, New York was Solo's home town, but it was necessary to make the rounds, just in case his hosts checked up on him.

Suddenly he remembered something else that Harry Owens naturally would do. Harry Owens was carrying ten thousand dollars in cash on his person. What would Harry Owens naturally do to protect that money for the next two weeks? He would deposit it in a bank, that's what he would do.

With purpose now, Solo strode the streets for a bank, found one, entered, established a checking account with a first deposit of ten thousand dollars, and happily gathered deposit slip and checkbook for later display to Felix Raymond and Otis Langston.

Then he tramped the city, making a record for Harry Owens. He went to the United Nations, the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, the Coliseum, Lincoln Center, and the Central Park Zoo, where he munched frankfurters and looked at animals. When he returned wearily to his temporary home, it was ten minutes after five. Before even going to his own apartment, he knocked on the door of his hosts' apartment.

At once Otis Langston opened the door, but when Langston saw who it was an expression of disappointment settled on his face.

"Oh. Owens."

"Expecting someone else?" Solo inquired innocently.

"Well… er… uh…"

From within, Raymond's voice boomed, "How are you, Owens? Have a nice day?"

Solo virtually had to push himself in, knowing he was far from welcome. Smilingly he produced the material from the bank and smilingly he told about his day's sight-seeing. There were no smiles at all from Raymond and Langston, but at least Solo knew they had no suspicions about him, that he was, to them, Harry Owens and no one else. But they got rid of him and were not even subtle about doing it. Langston opened the door, said, "Nice of you to drop in, Mr. Owens, but you've bad a rather busy day, and I'd advise that you rest up a bit, relax," and that was that.

Solo entered his apartment, latched his door from the inside, got himself a glass of milk and a sandwich, brought that to the bedroom, opened the closet door, pulled up a chair, and sat, eating, listening, awaiting developments.

17. Guessing Games

AT FOUR O'CLOCK that afternoon, Alexander Waverly, in his office, had heard a familiar voice crackle from the ceiling loudspeaker. It was Kuryakin on the Communicator.

"Kuryakin here. Reporting."

Instantly Waverly had struck the key on the console board for outside communication.

"Waverly here. Come in, Mr. Kuryakin. I read you clearly. Over."

"First report, Chief. Contact made. Close. I'm living with the guy in his apartment, on his invitation. He's got his kid here with him in this country, a daughter, Candy. Great kid, and he seems to me a great guy."

Waverly interrupted. "Do you have anything solid, Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly coughed. "Solid information to report? Over."

"First report, Chief. Settling in. Close contact. Solid. I'm in a position for character study and overall impression. Interested? Over."

Waverly sighed. "Always interested in what you have to say, Mr. Kuryakin. Over."

"The man is a loving father to his daughter and a kind host to me. He seems to be perfectly happy, does not seem to be burdened down by any secret work–that is, secret work on their side. My guess, he is not involved. Over."

"That's not what you were sent out to Westbury for, Mr. Kuryakin—not to play guessing games. You were sent out for facts. Proof. Understood? Over."

"Yes, Chief. Understood. Over."

"You've made the contact—excellent. Now it's your job to stay close. We know they intend to transport the gold through the Parley Circus. What we don't know is whether Craig is mixed in it. That's your job. So stay close and keep your eyes and ears open. By the way, where are you now? Over."

"I'm alone down in an exit ramp under the grandstand. The circus is on now, and I'm with Miss Candy in a box; I excused myself for a moment. There's a two o'clock show that goes on until four-thirty, then an eight o'clock show that lasts until about ten-thirty. Any special orders? Over."

"No. You're doing fine. Stay with it, stick close to Craig, and report when convenient. Over and out."

Illya put away the Communicator, came up out of the dark ramp, and rejoined Candy in the sun shine of the box. Craig's performance was, of course, over, but the other acts were interesting, breathtaking, thrilling. It was a fine circus.

"What happens to your dad in between?" asked Illya.

"In between what?" Candy smiled.

"I mean, now."

"Well, after the lions are back in the wagon, after Dad's performance is over, he goes back to one of the cabins, showers, and rests. Then he puts on a nice new uniform and comes out for his bow at the grand finale."

"And after that?" asked Illya.

"Well, today we'll show you about after the show so you can take more pictures. Then we'll go back to the apartment for early dinner. We've planned a lovely dinner for you, Mr. Fairchild. Fruit cocktail, marvelous steaks with mashed potatoes, and I toss up the greatest green salad you've ever tasted. Then, for dessert, Dad's special—rice pudding."

Illya's mouth watered. "Sounds wonderful. I'm glad it's an early dinner."

"Hungry, Mr. Fairchild?"

"You've just made me very hungry, Miss Craig."

At that moment John Parley stepped into their private box. The silver-haired man wore an official badge on his lapel, and around his waist was a wide leather belt from which hung a large leather holster.

"Enjoying our circus, Mr. Fairchild?"

"Immensely, Mr. Parley."

"And I see you've wisely chosen yourself a lovely guide," laughed Parley. "The most beautiful our circus can offer."

"Thank you," murmured Candy.

"And remarkably talented," continued Parley. "You should watch her performance sometime."

"Thank you again," said Candy, blushing now.

"Not at all, my dear. Those are entirely deserved compliments" said Parley and then bowed, did a little wave with his right hand, and went on his way.

Illya, frowning, watched until he disappeared from view.

"Why does he wear a gun?" he asked.

"Oh, don't you know him? I was certain you did. He called you by name."

"Of course I know him," Illya reassured the girl whose face had clouded because she thought she had breached etiquette by not introducing them. "John Parley, the boss."

Candy was smiling again. "That's why he wears a gun."

"I don't get it," said lllya.

"All the circus officials, when they move about the grounds, have guns with them—just in case any of the animals get loose. They're not real guns, Mr. Fairchild. They're tranquilizer dart guns. A shot from one of them would put the animal to sleep."

"I see," Illya nodded, "and what's this about your performances, young lady? You didn't tell me."

Candy's soft features were suffused again with a charming blush.

"On Saturdays and Sundays, the afternoon shows, when there are lots of kids in the stands," she said. "Then I'm all dressed up in a beautiful spangled silk costume. Dad does a few tricks with the lions, then he introduces me, steps out of the cage, and I take over for the rest of the performance."

"Well, I didn't know you were that professional."

"I am," she admitted modestly but truthfully. And then the last act, tumbling clowns, ended. The grand finale began, all the performers appeared, the music of trumpets blared to high crescendo, and wave upon wave of thunderous applause rolled through the huge arena.

18. Name-Dropping

ALMOST IMMEDIATELY Solo's stakeout by the open bedroom closet door was rewarded. Raymond and Langston were receiving a guest, and now Solo was inside the closet, his ear pressed to the far wall.

"Tito! How are you?" piped Langston.

"Good to see you, Tito," boomed Raymond.

"We finish up the job. Yes, gentlemen?" rasped Tito in a thick, guttural voice tinged with a foreign accent.

"Join us in a bit of refreshment, Tito?" asked Langston.

There was silence, then the tinkle of ice in glasses.

Solo could distinguish them by their voices. Langston's was a thin, reedy voice; Raymond's was the booming baritone; Tito's was the deep rasp with the foreign blur.

"Today we finish up, and you're the helper, Tito," boomed Raymond. "Everything's in order. Right, Otis?"

"Right," said Langston.

"The passports are all in order?" asked Raymond.

"Right," said Langston.

"You, Tito?"

"Sure, passport," rasped Tito. "But the business—how does it work, Mr. Raymond?"

"We carry out the stuff to the truck," responded Raymond. "It'll take quite a number of trips. We'll use the bags that Owens brought."

"Right," piped Langston.

"I've notilled Parley," said Raymond. "He'll be ready."

Parley, thought Solo. John Parley, the owner of the circus. So he's one of them, a member of T.H.R..U.S.H. That's a piece of information the Old Man will appreciate knowing.

"We'll have the truck loaded by six o'clock," said Raymond. "The stuff won't take up much room—very little in fact. Ingots of gold are quite compact. Six million doesn't take up too much room, believe me, Tito."

"If you say so, Mr. Raymond," laughed Tito, "I believe it."

"We take off at six o'clock," said Langston. "We figure an hour to get there, maybe a little less, depending on traffic. We'll be there by seven, which is between shows of the circus. Parley will order the grounds cleared, so we'll be free to work. You'll drive the truck, Tito. We'll be inside the truck, in back."

"Sure, I drive," said Tito. "But how does the business work, gentlemen?"

"When we get there," explained Raymond, "we're supposed to be health inspectors on a sudden evening inspection. We're supposed to be looking in on the animals' quarters, where they're fed. Parley will have Craig take the lions out of the big wagon and keep them happy in the outdoor cage while we go into the big wagon from the rear."

Craig, thought Solo. Kenneth Craig. But is he one of them or not? Could be either way. Could be he was working with them—or it could be he would simply be following Parley's orders to work the lions in the outdoor cage while the health inspectors entered the big wagon from the rear and did their work there. Please, Solo begged silently, talk more about Kenneth Craig. But they did not.

"So how does it work?" Tito persisted. "The feeding troughs in the big wagon, the lions' feeding troughs, have false bottoms," said Raymond. "It'll be a quick, easy job to load the ingots into the false bottoms. Who would ever think—who would dare!—to look there? The lions themselves are the protection!"

"Wonderful!" growled Tito. "Beautiful! Clever, Mr. Raymond. Very clever."

Solo, listening, had to agree.

"And then," laughed Raymond, "a quick change in the plans of Parley Circus. It'll pack up and take off in the morning. There are chartered planes already cleared, already waiting. A quick change is always good. The unexpected is always good. Any tickets already sold for the few future performances—the money will be refunded."

"How do you like it, Tito?" asked Langston.

"Beautiful," said Tito.

"And we'll fly out with the circus," boomed Raymond. "Parley's already arranged that. We'll be on the list as part of the circus crew."

"What happens to health inspectors?" asked Tito.

"That's not official," laughed Langston. "That's only in case anybody asks questions this evening—and nobody figures to question. Parley will have the grounds clear for us."

There was a silence, and then Tito asked, "What about this business here? Raymond and Langston in America? The munitions firm?"

"The lawyers will handle that," said Raymond. "They know already that Otis and I plan a long trip to Europe. This firm will be dissolved. The lawyers already have their instructions to handle that. Lawyers here in America and lawyers in Australia will work together, liquidating the business here in America."

"Beautiful," rasped Tito.

"We'll deliver the goods to Geneva," said Langston, "and then finally our long job will be over. Six million dollars in gold! We'll be given enormous bonuses and then a full year's vacation before the next assignment. You, too, Tito. You've been our sturdy right arm all this while down there in South America."

"Yeah, me, sturdy right arm," rasped Tito. "Me, I take the vacation on the French Riviera. Me, I like the sun; I love a warm climate. Me, gentlemen," he laughed, "I am ready for this vacation."

"Not yet, dear Tito," said Raymond. "Now we've got work—the most important, the final work. All ready, gentlemen?"

"Ready," said Tito.

"Ready," said Langston.

"Let's go, gentlemen."

There were shuffling sounds, then the slam of a door, then silence. Solo backed out of the closet, quietly closing the door. He went to the kitchen and stationed himself at the window, looking down into the alley. He saw the truck at the curb, but he could not make out the number of the license plate.

He took the Communicator from his pocket and clicked it on.

"Solo here. Urgent. Chief, are you there? Over."

"We're here, Mr. Solo. What do you have for us? Over."

19. Unmasked!

ALEXANDER WAVERLY, eyes haggard, deep furrows in his brow, sat stiffly in his swivel chair, listening intently. His clothes were rumpled; his shirt collar was open; his tie, knot askew, hung limply. Mr. Waverly had had a bad night. He had not gone home. He had remained at Headquarters. He had slept some, but his sleep had been fitful, and he had returned to his post at eight o'clock in the morning.

Seated opposite him across the desk were U.N.C.L.E. agents Jack O'Keefe and Aaron Johnson who, like Solo and Kuryakin, were a team. They, like Waverly, were intent upon the ceiling loudspeaker through which came Solo's voice, metallic via his Communicator.

"...and we are now at a key point. The building is closed and normal business for the day is completed. I am in my apartment on the third floor, by a kitchen window, looking out on the alley in the rear. At this time they are packing the ingots for delivery to the Parley Circus. There is a truck waiting in the alley, but I cannot give you the license number. From my vantage point up here, the license plate is obscured. Parley—John Parley—is connected with them. He is definitely a part of the T.H.R.U.S.H. organization."

Waverly interrupted. "Craig? What about Kenneth Craig? Over."

"Craig may be working with them, and he may not. What word from Illya? Over."

"In favor of Craig, but only opinion. He has no facts as yet, no proof. Continue. Over."

"Raymond and Langston have an assistant. So far I have only his first name—Tito. Have you got that? Over."

"Yes—Tito. Proceed. Over."

"They called him their sturdy right arm in South America. Seems he's the guy who was in charge of the operation down there. But he's up here now for good. He'll be going off with them."

Again Waverly interrupted. "Going off? Where?"

"Easy, Chief."

"Yes, Mr. Solo. Proceed. Over."

"They are to pack the ingots into the truck downstairs. There's no sign of them yet. Ingots are to be placed in the lions' feeding troughs at the Parley Circus. Craig will take the lions out of the wagon and into an outdoor cage so that they can complete that part of the operation."

"So he is involved?"

"Not a hundred percent. They're coming in as health inspectors, to look over the feeding deal on the animals. Parley can legitimately order Craig to take the lions out of their wagon. That way Craig is busy with the lions in the outdoor cage, and they are free to do what they want inside the wagon. That's no proof that Craig is involved. Could be—but also might not be. Clear? Over."

"Okay. Proceed. Over."

"They plan to leave here at six o'clock and to get to Westbury by seven. At that time they do what they're supposed to do, and then the three of them stay over. Parley Circus leaves for Switzerland 'unexpectedly' by chartered planes, already waiting, tomorrow morning. And they, with the gold, go with the circus. Are you reading me, Chief? Over."

"The three go with the circus in the morning. Proceed, Mr. Solo. Over."

"Any idea who this Tito is? Over."

"No. Over."

Suddenly Solo's voice, through the loudspeaker, had a new urgency.

"Here they come! Langston and Tito. They're carrying the stuff in the suitcases that the machinery parts were in. I'm watching them now through the side of my window. They're opening the suitcases, putting the yellow bars into the truck. Raymond's still inside. It figures for a number of trips with the suitcases. Hold everything. I'm watching."

There was a long pause. Waverly lit his pipe.

O'Keefe and Johnson sat motionless.

Then Solo's voice crackled again from the loud speaker.

"Langston took the two empty suitcases back into the building. I saw this Tito. A short, dark, swarthy man—looks like a wrestler. He's wearing a blue suit, white sport shirt open at the neck, no tie. Tight jacket with a nice big bulge in it. Figures for a gun. Langston had a bulge in his jacket, too. With six million bucks in gold, all three figure to be armed." There was a pause, then Solo's voice came through again. "Tito's inside the truck, in the driver's seat. The skinny guy, Langston, he's gone back into the building with the two empty bags. Tito is the lookout now, downstairs. Langston and Raymond will be bringing out the rest of the stuff. I'm waiting for a few minutes and then I'm going down. Okay, Chief? Over."

"I don't want you to interfere now, Mr. Solo. I don't want you to risk any wild action. Over."

"No wild action, Chief. I'll go down, real casual, as Harry Owens. I'm not going to offer to help, nothing like that. I'm going to be a real big dope, period. Harry Owens coming out for a breath of air. But what I want to get for you is the license plate number of the truck. Okay, Chief? Over."

"Okay, but be careful. Over."

"I'm going to cut off communication now. But I'll be back to you, without fail, between six and six-fifteen. Got that? Six and six-fifteen. Definite. Over."

"We'll hear from you between six and six-fifteen. Very good, Mr. Solo. Now, remember, you've done your job. Leave the rest to us. Careful. No wild action, no wild chances. That's an order. Over."

"But you do want that license plate number, don't you? Over."

"I don't want you to take any risks getting it, though." A chuckle. "Yes, we want it but we can live without it. I don't want you taking any further risks, Mr. Solo. Easy does it, lad. Over."

"No risks, no interference. I'll be Harry Owens coming out for a breath of air. I'll talk to you again between six and six-fifteen. Over and out now."

Solo watched. Carefully, quietly, he raised the window. When Langston and Raymond came out with the loaded suitcases, he could hear them talking as they opened the suitcases and packed the ingots into the truck. Their voices floated up eerily from the alley, but clearly. Tito remained in the truck, in the cab up front, as Langston and Raymond went back for more.

Solo was heeding the Old Man's orders—no risks, no chances. He was waiting for the final trip with the suitcases before he went down for a quick look at the license plate. Langston and Raymond went in and out several more times, and then Solo heard what he was waiting for.

"This is it," boomed Raymond. "The last load." They opened the suitcases and began transferring the last of the ingots into the truck.

Quickly Solo trotted to the elevator.

When he came out into the cool, dim alley, Langston was tossing the empty suitcases into the rear of the truck. Raymond, smiling in satisfaction with a job well done, stood nearby.

Raymond saw him first.

"Well, if it isn't our Mr. Owens."

"Out for a breath of air," said Solo, noting the license plate number and committing it to memory.

The lank Langston turned and sniffed. "Mr. Owens," he grunted, acknowledging Solo's presence without enthusiasm.

"Hi," said Solo.

"A special delivery," piped Langston. "A very special delivery. We've got to do it ourselves."

"And for this special delivery we've got a special driver," said Raymond, "a friend of yours, Tito Zagoro. Hey, Tito," he boomed. "Here's Harry Owens."

Tito Zagoro came out of the cab of the truck, whipped out a gun, and pointed it at Napoleon Solo.

Raymond laughed.

"Is this the way a friend is greeted in your country?"

"In my country or not in my country, this is no friend."

"Harry Owens is not a friend?"

"This man is not Harry Owens," said Tito Zagoro, his gun leveled at Solo's heart.