[Whitman] - The Affair of the Gunrunners' Gold - Keith Brandon (читать полностью бесплатно хорошие книги TXT) 📗

"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.

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?