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

"...and we are now at a key point. The building is closed and normal business for the day is completed. I am in my apartment on the third floor, by a kitchen window, looking out on the alley in the rear. At this time they are packing the ingots for delivery to the Parley Circus. There is a truck waiting in the alley, but I cannot give you the license number. From my vantage point up here, the license plate is obscured. Parley—John Parley—is connected with them. He is definitely a part of the T.H.R.U.S.H. organization."

Waverly interrupted. "Craig? What about Kenneth Craig? Over."

"Craig may be working with them, and he may not. What word from Illya? Over."

"In favor of Craig, but only opinion. He has no facts as yet, no proof. Continue. Over."

"Raymond and Langston have an assistant. So far I have only his first name—Tito. Have you got that? Over."

"Yes—Tito. Proceed. Over."

"They called him their sturdy right arm in South America. Seems he's the guy who was in charge of the operation down there. But he's up here now for good. He'll be going off with them."

Again Waverly interrupted. "Going off? Where?"

"Easy, Chief."

"Yes, Mr. Solo. Proceed. Over."

"They are to pack the ingots into the truck downstairs. There's no sign of them yet. Ingots are to be placed in the lions' feeding troughs at the Parley Circus. Craig will take the lions out of the wagon and into an outdoor cage so that they can complete that part of the operation."

"So he is involved?"

"Not a hundred percent. They're coming in as health inspectors, to look over the feeding deal on the animals. Parley can legitimately order Craig to take the lions out of their wagon. That way Craig is busy with the lions in the outdoor cage, and they are free to do what they want inside the wagon. That's no proof that Craig is involved. Could be—but also might not be. Clear? Over."

"Okay. Proceed. Over."

"They plan to leave here at six o'clock and to get to Westbury by seven. At that time they do what they're supposed to do, and then the three of them stay over. Parley Circus leaves for Switzerland 'unexpectedly' by chartered planes, already waiting, tomorrow morning. And they, with the gold, go with the circus. Are you reading me, Chief? Over."

"The three go with the circus in the morning. Proceed, Mr. Solo. Over."

"Any idea who this Tito is? Over."

"No. Over."

Suddenly Solo's voice, through the loudspeaker, had a new urgency.

"Here they come! Langston and Tito. They're carrying the stuff in the suitcases that the machinery parts were in. I'm watching them now through the side of my window. They're opening the suitcases, putting the yellow bars into the truck. Raymond's still inside. It figures for a number of trips with the suitcases. Hold everything. I'm watching."

There was a long pause. Waverly lit his pipe.

O'Keefe and Johnson sat motionless.

Then Solo's voice crackled again from the loud speaker.

"Langston took the two empty suitcases back into the building. I saw this Tito. A short, dark, swarthy man—looks like a wrestler. He's wearing a blue suit, white sport shirt open at the neck, no tie. Tight jacket with a nice big bulge in it. Figures for a gun. Langston had a bulge in his jacket, too. With six million bucks in gold, all three figure to be armed." There was a pause, then Solo's voice came through again. "Tito's inside the truck, in the driver's seat. The skinny guy, Langston, he's gone back into the building with the two empty bags. Tito is the lookout now, downstairs. Langston and Raymond will be bringing out the rest of the stuff. I'm waiting for a few minutes and then I'm going down. Okay, Chief? Over."

"I don't want you to interfere now, Mr. Solo. I don't want you to risk any wild action. Over."

"No wild action, Chief. I'll go down, real casual, as Harry Owens. I'm not going to offer to help, nothing like that. I'm going to be a real big dope, period. Harry Owens coming out for a breath of air. But what I want to get for you is the license plate number of the truck. Okay, Chief? Over."

"Okay, but be careful. Over."

"I'm going to cut off communication now. But I'll be back to you, without fail, between six and six-fifteen. Got that? Six and six-fifteen. Definite. Over."

"We'll hear from you between six and six-fifteen. Very good, Mr. Solo. Now, remember, you've done your job. Leave the rest to us. Careful. No wild action, no wild chances. That's an order. Over."

"But you do want that license plate number, don't you? Over."

"I don't want you to take any risks getting it, though." A chuckle. "Yes, we want it but we can live without it. I don't want you taking any further risks, Mr. Solo. Easy does it, lad. Over."

"No risks, no interference. I'll be Harry Owens coming out for a breath of air. I'll talk to you again between six and six-fifteen. Over and out now."

Solo watched. Carefully, quietly, he raised the window. When Langston and Raymond came out with the loaded suitcases, he could hear them talking as they opened the suitcases and packed the ingots into the truck. Their voices floated up eerily from the alley, but clearly. Tito remained in the truck, in the cab up front, as Langston and Raymond went back for more.

Solo was heeding the Old Man's orders—no risks, no chances. He was waiting for the final trip with the suitcases before he went down for a quick look at the license plate. Langston and Raymond went in and out several more times, and then Solo heard what he was waiting for.

"This is it," boomed Raymond. "The last load." They opened the suitcases and began transferring the last of the ingots into the truck.

Quickly Solo trotted to the elevator.

When he came out into the cool, dim alley, Langston was tossing the empty suitcases into the rear of the truck. Raymond, smiling in satisfaction with a job well done, stood nearby.

Raymond saw him first.

"Well, if it isn't our Mr. Owens."

"Out for a breath of air," said Solo, noting the license plate number and committing it to memory.

The lank Langston turned and sniffed. "Mr. Owens," he grunted, acknowledging Solo's presence without enthusiasm.

"Hi," said Solo.

"A special delivery," piped Langston. "A very special delivery. We've got to do it ourselves."

"And for this special delivery we've got a special driver," said Raymond, "a friend of yours, Tito Zagoro. Hey, Tito," he boomed. "Here's Harry Owens."

Tito Zagoro came out of the cab of the truck, whipped out a gun, and pointed it at Napoleon Solo.

Raymond laughed.

"Is this the way a friend is greeted in your country?"

"In my country or not in my country, this is no friend."

"Harry Owens is not a friend?"

"This man is not Harry Owens," said Tito Zagoro, his gun leveled at Solo's heart.

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.