[Whitman] - The Affair of the Gunrunners' Gold - Keith Brandon - Страница 18

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Langston nodded lugubriously. "That's what I'm worried about."

"My dear friend," said Raymond, "dead men tell no tales. And by the time he's found we'll be far away and safe."

"Felix, it was out-and-out murder."

"You've been involved in murder before."

"But murder skillfully planned. This job was forced on us––and we botched it."

"Botched!" Raymond grimaced. "How?"

"We left his things strewn about on the floor of the vault room."

"So what? Harry Owens' personal belongings. So what?"

Langston shook his head. "We won't be in the office tomorrow."

"Of course not, and everybody there knows it. Miss Dunhill knows we've left for Europe. She doesn't know how, when, or where—none of them do—and that's just the way we want it."

"But she does know about Harry Owens."

Raymond scowled. "Otis, you're talking in circles."

"No, I'm not. She knows Owens was staying as our guest. Suddenly—no Owens."

"So she'll think he went with us."

"But suppose somebody goes down to the vault room tomorrow morning. There's Owens' stuff all over the floor, but no Owens. Suppose somebody gets suspicious. Suppose the police are called and the vault is opened."

"So what? Nobody can tie that murder to us."

"But they'd be looking for us, if only for routine questioning, and that's what worries me. If by morning we were already out of the country, I wouldn't mind. The higher-ups in T.H.R.U.S.H. will know how to hide us, how to cover up for us. They'll know how to level it out, smooth things over. In a short time we'd be perfectly in the clear. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Felix, we've always been flexible, you and I—which is one of the reasons we've lasted this long. When the seas are stormy, we know when to change course."

Raymond's eyes narrowed shrewdly. He puffed the cigar and nodded behind the smoke. "What change in course do you propose?"

"That the circus moves tonight. Any objection?"

"None whatever. Every word you said made sense." He grinned. "That's a fine brain ticking away in that bald head. Thank you for some excellent thinking, Mr. Langston."

Langston smiled crookedly, appreciatively. Felix did not throw his compliments around lightly. "How quickly can they wrap it up out there in Westbury?"

"It's a fine circus, but it's actually fairly small. If Parley cracks the whip on them—and he will— then with all hands participating, the whole deal can be packed into the vans in an hour."

"That's the way it must be, Felix."

"That's the way it will be."

Nervously Langston looked at his watch. "It's six-fifteen."

"The traffic's been good. No delays. The way it's going, we'll be there a bit before seven." He tilted the cigar in his teeth and puffed, savoring the fragrant odor. "Still worried, my friend?"

"A little," said Langston, "but not as much as before. I feel better now."

24. Ten Long Minutes

TIME AND AGAIN Waverly's eyes shifted to the silent electric clock on the wall. Somehow as the minutes went by the sweep hand seemed to be moving more slowly, ever more slowly. Six o'clock. Five after six. Ten after.

Waverly was not anxious about the situation in Westbury. Solo's quick report had been complete and definite. Waverly knew the gold was being moved, who was moving it, how and where. The circus would not be traveling until tomorrow morning. U.N.C.L.E. agents had all night to swoop down on the Parley Circus. But there would be no move made until he had word from Kuryakin on Kenneth Craig, nor would he even begin to make plans until he got the all clear from Solo.

Jack O'Keefe and Aaron Johnson, fretting for action, were compelled to restraint by the circumstances. They were fully briefed and waited impatiently.

The Old Man filled his pipe and lit it.

O'Keefe glanced at the clock. "Chief, it's six- fifteen."

"I know what time it is," Waverly growled un happily.

"He said between six and six-fifteen. Six-fifteen at the outside."

"We'll give him five more minutes."

They sat in silence until six-twenty, and then the Old Man came alive. He turned knobs on the console board, adjusting to the frequency of Solo's Communicator. Then he pressed a small button which would set up a vibrancy in the Communicator—the signal for Solo to call in.

They waited, their heads turned up toward the ceiling loudspeaker.

Silence. No whisper of sound came back to them.

"I'm afraid he's in trouble," O'Keefe said slowly. Johnson was on his feet. "Give us the word, Chief!"

"Or maybe he's not in trouble," said O'Keefe, correcting himself.

"Please explain that, Mr. O'Keefe. But quickly, please."

"Maybe he talked his way into going with them. Maybe he's in the truck with them right now. If that's the case he just can't come back to you, Chief—in the presence of Raymond and Langston, he just can't take out the Communicator and talk to you."

"But I told him not to interfere, not to risk any wild action."

O'Keefe kept hoping against hope. "Maybe there was no risk, no wild action. Maybe, even, they invited him."

The Old Man slapped his hands on the desk and stood up. "All right, gentlemen, get a move on! I want a quick inspection of that place and a quick report. I'll be right here, waiting. Maybe I'll have heard from him by the time you communicate with me; if so, I'll inform you. Remember, the building's closed. You'll have to open doors. Take picklocks and whatever else necessary. And let me have word as soon as possible. Now get going!"

Siren howling, the unmarked car raced through the city streets, its overhead red light flashing. O'Keefe was at the wheel with Johnson alongside, urging more speed. But when they arrived at the vicinity of the Raymond and Langston Building, O'Keefe stopped the siren, turned off the red flash, and reduced the speed. He made the turn into the alley behind the building and there the car slid to a stop at the curb.

Johnson, with the picklock, opened the door in short order. Inside, they took the elevator directly to the third floor where they inspected the Raymond and Langston apartment and then the guest apartment. There were no signs of disorder, no signs of a fight or struggle. On the second floor they had a quick look into the offices—all in order. Then they took the elevator down to the basement. The vault room was dark. It took a moment before Johnson found the light switch. Then, as illumination flooded the room, they gasped.

Papers, passport, wallet, keys—all were strewn on the floor—and there—that innocent-looking fountain pen—Solo's Communicator! O'Keefe picked it up, that and the passport. He looked at the passport, saw the name in it, tossed it aside. He looked toward Johnson and was shocked at Johnson's deathly pallor. Johnson was pointing at the vault; his mouth was working, but no sound came out. No sound was necessary. Before Johnson could utter a word, O'Keefe understood and a shiver of horror trembled through his body.

"Could be," he croaked.

He was holding Solo's Communicator as though clinging to it. He had his own, but he used the one in his hand. He clicked it on, coughing. His mouth was dry. He wet his lips.

"O'Keefe here. Chief? Over."

"Talk! Over."

"Signs of a struggle in the vault room downstairs. All of Owens' stuff all over the floor; also Solo's Communicator. Johnson got a wild idea that may be they locked him in the vault. Could be, could not be, but we've got to give it a whirl—"

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