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

"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.