[Whitman] - The Affair of the Gunrunners' Gold - Keith Brandon - Страница 9

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"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.

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