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

Автор книги: Brandon Keith

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20. More Guessing Games

NOW THERE WERE three guns pointing at Solo.

Thinly Langston chirped, "If he's not Harry Owens, then who is he?"

"Who, I don't know," retorted Tito. "But not Harry. Harry Owens he is not!"

"All right, mister. Inside!" Felix Raymond, his fleshy face murderously mottled in wrath, pressed the muzzle of his pistol into Solo's ribs. "Inside, or I'll finish you off right here!"

Discretion being the better part of valor, Napoleon Solo did not resist. Three pistols were at least two pistols too many. He obeyed and was hustled downstairs to the basement room.

"Okay, buster," Raymond demanded. "Just who are you?"

"Harry Owens," said Solo.

"A lie!" roared Tito.

"Tito, are you mad?" wheezed Langston. "He delivered the machinery parts. He brought us a hundred thousand dollars' worth of gold. He must be Owens."

"He's not Owens," rasped Tito.

"Then who is he?" cried Langston.

"I'm Harry Owens," said Solo, compounding the confusion.

"Is he?" demanded Langston of Tito. "Take a good look."

"I have looked! An impostor! I know Harry Owens! He is not!"

Raymond, of the three, was the first to regain his composure.

"An impostor," he said quietly. "Some kind of con man, working some angle or other. Probably knocked off Owens and substituted himself." He came close to Solo. "All right, mister. If that's what you did, you have earned my high regard. Maybe we can use a guy like you. Last call, buster. What's your game?"

"I'm Harry Owens."

"A lie!" roared Tito.

"He's the liar, not me," said Solo calmly. "If anybody's working a game, he is. For some reason—some reason of his own—he's denying me—denying my identity."

Tito gasped, choking in anger, the other two looking at him curiously. Solo's life hung in the balance—and Solo lost.

"No," Langston said. "We've known Tito Zagoro too long, too many years. His word against the word of this man—this total stranger. We'd be crazy to doubt Tito."

Tito exposed harsh yellow teeth in a smile of gratitude.

"I thank you," he grunted.

"Don't thank us," growled Raymond. "We should thank you and apologize for doubting you—even for a moment. We've got a wise bird here, Otis, smart enough to make us doubt one of our own people, one of the very best of our own people. Now, who is he, and what the devil's his game?"

A thought occurred to Langston. His long, sallow face went ashen.

"Perhaps—perhaps from U.N.C.L.E.?"

Raymond shook his head. "No," he stated positively. "If he were from U.N.C.L.E. he wouldn't be hanging around here this long, and certainly he'd no longer be alone. By now they'd be upon us, all over us. We couldn't have gone all the way to this point. No. If he were from U.N.C.L.E. we'd be out of business by now."

Give the devil his due, thought Solo. You're a clever man, Mr. Raymond. All things being equal, you have stated U.N.C.L.E.'s case. But you do not know of our doubts about Kenneth Craig; you do not know that a part of our job, actually the most important part, is to determine whether or not Kenneth Craig is a double agent. Otherwise, you are so right, Mr. Raymond—by now Raymond and Langston would indeed be out of business.

Langston nodded.

"Correct. Which means he's a single operator, a shrewd adventurer. He killed Owens, then took over his identity."

"So why," asked Tito reasonably, "didn't he skip out with the two valises? Why, like a dummy, did he deliver one hundred thousand dollars in gold?"

"No dummy," replied Langston. "He squeezed the information out of Owens and then decided to try for the whole bit. He delivered the hundred thousand in order to swallow up six million, and if it weren't for you, Tito, he might have gotten away with it. His last trick is still unplayed because you recognized that he isn't Harry Owens. All right, now, Tito," Langston snapped. "Move!"

"What?"

"Frisk him!"

Tito put away his gun. As Langston and Raymond stood by with leveled pistols, he searched Solo roughly. He looked over whatever Solo had on his person—passport, wallet, money, keys, papers, and the Communicator, which of course Tito mistook for an ordinary pen—and threw each article to the floor.

"Nothing," Tito said. "No gun, no weapon. Only the phony stuff to make him out to be Harry Owens."

Tito took out his pistol and backed away.

Solo stood alone, facing three armed men.

He could not fight them. The slightest attempt would mean death. He shrugged, stood silent. While there is life, there is hope.

Raymond crossed to the wall panel, slid it open, and turned off the burglar alarm. Then quickly he worked the combination of the vault and swung open the vault door.

"All right, mister," he ordered Solo. "Get in!"

Solo hesitated. Tito shoved him roughly.

"In!"

They pushed him into the recess of the dark vault and shut the thick steel door. Raymond whirled the dial, smiling grimly.

"All right, gentlemen. Let's go."

21. "Kitten on the Keys"

ILLYA KURYAKIN had enjoyed a fine dinner with the amiable Craigs. Now he sat with Kenneth Craig, who was enjoying a fat after-dinner cigar, in the entrance room to the apartment, which was its living room. The big blond man was natty in a safari outfit, his guns in their holsters strapped about him. The room was gay with sunshine. Although it was almost six o'clock, it was still broad daylight; it was summer and, what with daylight saving time, there would not be darkness until after eight.

Illya pointed to Craig's pistols.

"Do you always wear those?"

"Always when I'm in uniform."

"Why?" inquired Illya.

"It's a part of my business."

Illya frowned. "I don't quite understand."

Craig laughed. "In a business like mine, Mr. Fairchild, you have to be devoted."

"I still don't understand," Illya said, smiling.

Craig's face took on a serious mien. "With the big cats, one must always be on the ready. When you're putting them through their paces, you never can tell. One of them might suddenly decide to act up, even playfully. But a playful lion, Mr. Fairchild, can be quite dangerous to a mortal man. A shot from a pistol—the very noise—will stop him dead in his tracks. Then I can take over again—order him, cajole him, even whisper to him– and he'll listen. The shot, of course, would be up in the air. I have never had to shoot directly at a lion in all of my career. But you must remember, of course, that the animals I work with have had a long period of training with me. There are certain people who have an empathy, a feel, for those majestic animals, kings of the jungle. Somehow the lions react quite docilely to people with that instinct. Candy, for instance. She handles them as though she were born to them, and they react to her with a softness, a kindness—with, some how, a form of love. I believe in love, Mr. Fairchild. I believe that even wild animals—if they're not frightened and are given love—will return love."

He believes in kindness and love. Can this man be a traitor?

Illya laughed. "But how does that explain wearing guns in the living room?"

"In my profession—at least for me—I believe in wearing them always, and while I'm in uniform at least they don't look too much out of place. What I mean, Mr. Fairchild, is that just as you must be accustomed to the clothes you're wearing, not feel that they're an impediment, so must I be accustomed to the guns, their hanging at my sides, their leverage, their weight. Nothing must be an interference when I'm working with my beasts in the big cage, and especially not the guns. They must be a part of me, like my clothes and like your clothes are to you, Mr. Fairchild. And so whenever possible I wear my guns."

"Yes, I see," said Illya.

Candy, from somewhere in the rear of the apartment, entered the living room.

"Ah, our lovely Candy," said Illya, "who makes the greatest tossed green salad in all this living world."

"Thank you," she said, but quite evidently Candy was perturbed. "I've been looking all over. Daddy, I simply can't find my keys."

"Keys?" said Craig. "Why do you need your keys?"

"I'm going out."

"Got a date?" Craig asked, smiling.

"I'm going to see that the kittens are fed, that the swing door's closed, and that the roustabouts are taking care of things."

"Kittens," laughed Craig, glancing toward Illya.

"Well, a cat when he's small is a kitten," Candy said logically.

"These cats, love, aren't small anymore."

Candy smiled a compassionate smile at the grown-ups.

"Well, to me they're still kittens."

"And with you, love, somehow they still act like kittens."

"But where are my keys?"

"Kitten on the keys," said Illya, making a joke.

"Don't worry your pretty head about keys, dear," said Craig. "Just push the button on the door so it won't lock. Mr. Fairchild and I will be right here till you come back. Won't we, sir?"

"Sure," said Illya.

"Right," said Candy.

"Don't be too long, love."

"All right, Daddy."

Candy went to the door, snapped the button, tried the outer knob to make sure the door was unlocked, waved, went out, and quietly closed the door behind her.

At the circus, she attended to the lions. Her handling of the huge cats was truly a wonder. She petted them, whispered cooingly, wrapped her arms around them, kissed them. Candy loved her lions. They had been fed; they were contented and happy. She went out again, making sure the huge doors of the yellow wagon were bolted. Then up front, through the cage, she inspected the swing door. Securely locked. Good. She had been critical of the roustabouts who had left the swing door unbolted this morning, and they had been duly penitent. She remembered poor Mr. Fairchild, standing there in the middle of the cage, frightened stiff. Now she laughed—but it could have been dangerous. She was happy she had come along in time. Well, she thought, all's well that ends well.

On her way to the roustabouts' quarters, where there were always fun and jokes and sparkling conversation, she met Mr. Parley. He was still wearing his official badge and his dart gun.

"Hi, Candy."

"Hi, Mr. Parley."

"Where you heading for?"

"The roustabouts' quarters."

"Your dad there?"

"No, sir. Why?"

"Is he on the grounds?"

"No, Mr. Parley."

"I want to talk to him. It's rather important."

"He's home."

"Oh. Good. I'll go right over."

"You won't even have to ring," Candy bubbled.

"Pardon?"

Candy laughed. "I've misplaced my keys, so I left the door unlocked. Would you take a message, please, Mr. Parley?"

"For whom?"

"Dad."

"Sure."

"Please tell him I've gone over to the roustabouts' quarters. I should be there for about—well—about an hour. I don't want him to worry. Would you please tell him?"

"Certainly."

"Thank you."

"Not at all."

"'Bye, Mr. Parley."

"'Bye."

22. Say "UNCLE"

NAPOLEON SOLO, hot and perspiring in the dark, fetid atmosphere of the sealed vault, was at first confused and distraught. His initial thought was the natural one—preservation. How long could he live in here? How long could he survive?

It was a high, wide vault. There was sufficient room for him to stand up, sufficient room for him to move about. In the closed-in darkness, hands outstretched, feeling with his fingers, he inspected. No vent, no opening, no place for air to come through. On his knees now, crawling, he repeated the inspection. No vent. No opening. No air.

He sat Indian fashion, ankles at his thighs. Hot air rises. He felt cooler, sitting down, but already he was bathed in perspiration and already the slow suffocation was beginning.

The first confusion was passing, the terror diminishing. He must think! He must think constructively! How long did he have to live? Perhaps an hour. In an hour the oxygen would be exhausted and he would die. A slow death. A choking, suffocating death. No. He comforted himself. He would not suffer. In time he would lapse into a coma; unconscious, he would not suffer; he would be unaware of the desperate, convulsive struggle of his body fighting against the suffocating death. It was small comfort, but it was a comfort.

Now. What to do? His hand crept to the pocket for the Communicator. Of course it was not there! There was no way to get through to the Old Man. And then, already gasping, in the heat, in the already foul air, he remembered!

He took the palate-plate from his mouth, clicked the switch, and put it back in his mouth. He spoke, and even in this horrible predicament, felt ridiculous. When he talked to the Communicator, he was talking to something! Now he was talking, just talking, to nothing—like an actor, alone, saying important lines but to no one, committing his lines to memory. But he was not an actor, and he was not committing lines to memory. He was talking into blackness, hoping against hope—to save his life! He spoke rapidly, fervently.

"Illya. I don't know exactly how far away you are. I don't know if you can hear me, if this darned thing works. I'm in trouble—bad trouble. You're going to have to get through to Waverly, but first I must know if I've gotten through to you. Illya, can you hear me? If so, come back to me. Give me the word. I'm waiting. I'll wait till I hear you. I'm waiting. Over."

In the comfortable living room Kenneth Craig saw the handsome young reporter from Scope magazine suddenly grow pale. Mr. Fairchild, taut, tense, stood up from his chair.

This was it, thought Illya. Suddenly the entire responsibility was right here upon him, and it had come to the point of climax. Solo's voice had been as tight as the skin of an African drum. Bad trouble, Solo had said, and had said that he, Illya, would have to reach Alexander Waverly. That meant that Solo, wherever he was, was under restraint, deprived of his Communicator, and compelled to use the newfangled mouthpiece in an effort to contact Illya. Can you hear me? Solo had asked. Give me the word, he had pleaded. I'm waiting.

And so Illya knew that their adventure was at final phase—it was down to the wire. There was no longer opportunity for the coddling of the suspect, no more time for gentle probing, no more room for further experiment. This was it! Now! Right now Kenneth Craig had to be put to the test!

Craig was on his feet, his head tilted, his eyes slitted, questioning, as he gazed uncomprehendingly at the obviously excited Mr. Evan Fairchild.

Illya positioned himself opposite Kenneth Craig. The man was armed with two heavy pistols, but now was the time of test! In his heart he believed Craig to be an honorable man, but, to paraphrase Waverly: What you feel in your heart is not enough, not evidence, not proof. One's heart can be deceiving. Hunch and intuition are not always dependable.

He stationed himself where, if necessary, he could frustrate an attack. If Craig drew a gun Illya would leap forward, and it would be a fight, possibly to the death. But that was his job and he had to face the possibilities, and the time was now! Kenneth Craig must be put to the test, but at the same time Solo must know that he had gotten through.

The tall, powerful man watched in amazement as the reporter from Scope took a palate-plate from his mouth, rubbed his thumb along its edge, then reinserted it in his mouth.

"Napoleon," Illya said, "I heard you clear. I have some preliminary remarks to make now. I'm alone with Kenneth Craig and the remarks are necessary. Hang on, my friend."

Napoleon!

Craig's eyes bulged from their sockets like blue– tinted golf balls. The man from Scope was talking into thin air—and he was talking to Napoleon. He had called Napoleon his friend! Protectively, Craig's right hand stole up to the gun holster. He might very well need protection against this mild-mannered slender man who, up to now apparently sane, was talking into thin air to Napoleon!

"Mr. Craig," Illya said, "I have some interesting information to impart to you, and it concerns U.N.C.L.E."

At that precise moment John Parley arrived at Kenneth Craig's door. He heard the word U.N.C.L.E. and recognized the voice as that of Fairchild from Scope. His hand poised on the knob, he waited, listening.

"Mr. Craig," said Illya, "my name is not Evan Fairchild. It is Illya Kuryakin. I am an U.N.C.L.E. agent—and so are you, unless you've decided to throw in your lot with T.H.RU.S.H. I'm in the middle of an emergency now, Mr. Craig, and I must act. Do you know what's been going on here?"

"No," breathed Craig, but the holster was open and his hand held the butt of the gun.

"Do you know about the gold from South America?"

"Gold? South America?"

"You don't know?"

"I don't know."

Illya smiled. It was a small smile, the beginning of a happy smile, but not yet a smile of full satisfaction.

"Mr. Craig, I must put you to the test—now! It's imperative that I communicate with Headquarters, and you, as an agent of U.N.C.L.E., know just how I intend to do that. If you're a double dealer—if you've gone over to T.H.R.U.S.H.—then you can stop me. At least you can try to stop me." Illya pointed. "You've got your hand on your pistol. So how will it be, Mr. Craig? Are you T.H.RU.S.H. or U.N.C.L.E.?"

Blue eyes looked into blue eyes. Intensity, like a current of electricity, fairly crackled between them. Then Craig's hand fell away from his pistol.

"U.N.C.L.E.," he said.

"Sir, I can't tell you how much this pleases me."

"Why?"

"I'll explain that later."

"What's this all about?"

"You're going to find out, Mr. Craig—right here and now."

But Craig did not find out right then and there, because John Parley, dart gun in hand, plunged in and shot them, first Craig, then Kuryakin, almost simultaneously.

Smiling grimly, the silver-haired man stood over them, shaking his head in grudging admiration. Leave it to U.N.C.L.E. Kenneth Craig, of all people, was an U.N.C.L.E. agent. And this seemingly harmless reporter from Scope was an U.N.C.L.E. agent. Somehow U.N.C.L.E. had learned of the plot to transport the gold, but U.N.C.L.E. had not learned enough. That was quite evident—otherwise U.N.C.L.E. agents would have already taken over the Parley Circus.

No. U.N.C.L.E. had learned something, but not all. Why, the man from Scope had not even been certain about Kenneth Craig. There was time for T.H.R.U.S.H. to save the situation.

He put away the dart gun, securely bound the unconscious men with cords loosened from the Venetian blinds, and dragged them to a bedroom. From a pocket of the safari uniform he took Craig's keys, locked the men in the apartment, and hurried back to the circus grounds.

There was time. The reporter from Scope had not gotten through to his headquarters.

Craig had been necessary to the plan but not absolutely essential—because of Candy. Candy could handle the lions outside their wagon and keep them happy in the outdoor cage while the false bottoms of the feeding troughs were loaded with the gold. He would spring it on Candy suddenly—a sudden swoop of health inspectors, no time to bring in Craig from the apartment. She was a young girl; she would be easy to handle. Raymond, Langston, and Tito were on their way; soon they would be here. The immediate problem was to keep the girl on the grounds so that she would be available when needed.

He found her in the roustabouts' quarters and asked her to accompany him back to his cabin.

"Candy, how would you like to work the lions tonight—for this evening's performance?"

"But what about Dad?"

"It was his idea," said Parley smoothly. "I've just come from there. He wanted the evening off to go out with his new friend, Evan Fairchild. Of course I agreed."

Candy looked toward the phone. "May I call him?"

"Certainly, dear. But they've already gone out."

"May I try?"

"Please do." He knew there would be no answer. The tranquilizer darts put animals to sleep for three hours. They had once run a test on humans. Unless chemically revived, the humans remained unconscious for twelve hours. Tying them up had been no more than a reflex action. It had not been necessary.

Candy called home. There was no answer.

"I am the messenger boy," laughed Parley. "Your dad gave me a message for you. You are to rest here on the grounds and change here on the grounds. He told me to remind you that you have no keys. He was going to lock the apartment when he went out with Mr. Fairchild." Parley him self had the keys in his own pocket. "They'll be home, waiting for you, after the evening performance!"

"Gosh!" Candy was thrilled. "An evening performance!"

"Your dad has complete confidence in you, and so have I." He smiled, pleased with himself.

"Thank you, Mr. Parley."

He was keeping her available. He needed her to handle the lions in the outdoor cage while the "inspectors" in the huge yellow wagon, having entered through the rear, transferred the gold ingots to the feeding troughs.

There would not be an evening performance. That, now, was essential. Even as the troughs were being loaded, he would be giving orders for the circus to dismantle and pack. Their traveling plans would have to be further pushed forward. The circus would take off for Switzerland—not tomorrow morning—but tonight. It would have to be tonight! He would so inform his masters.

John Parley did not know it, but that was precisely what his masters were going to inform him.