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

"Okay, buster," Raymond demanded. "Just who are you?"

"Harry Owens," said Solo.

"A lie!" roared Tito.

"Tito, are you mad?" wheezed Langston. "He delivered the machinery parts. He brought us a hundred thousand dollars' worth of gold. He must be Owens."

"He's not Owens," rasped Tito.

"Then who is he?" cried Langston.

"I'm Harry Owens," said Solo, compounding the confusion.

"Is he?" demanded Langston of Tito. "Take a good look."

"I have looked! An impostor! I know Harry Owens! He is not!"

Raymond, of the three, was the first to regain his composure.

"An impostor," he said quietly. "Some kind of con man, working some angle or other. Probably knocked off Owens and substituted himself." He came close to Solo. "All right, mister. If that's what you did, you have earned my high regard. Maybe we can use a guy like you. Last call, buster. What's your game?"

"I'm Harry Owens."

"A lie!" roared Tito.

"He's the liar, not me," said Solo calmly. "If anybody's working a game, he is. For some reason—some reason of his own—he's denying me—denying my identity."

Tito gasped, choking in anger, the other two looking at him curiously. Solo's life hung in the balance—and Solo lost.

"No," Langston said. "We've known Tito Zagoro too long, too many years. His word against the word of this man—this total stranger. We'd be crazy to doubt Tito."

Tito exposed harsh yellow teeth in a smile of gratitude.

"I thank you," he grunted.

"Don't thank us," growled Raymond. "We should thank you and apologize for doubting you—even for a moment. We've got a wise bird here, Otis, smart enough to make us doubt one of our own people, one of the very best of our own people. Now, who is he, and what the devil's his game?"

A thought occurred to Langston. His long, sallow face went ashen.

"Perhaps—perhaps from U.N.C.L.E.?"

Raymond shook his head. "No," he stated positively. "If he were from U.N.C.L.E. he wouldn't be hanging around here this long, and certainly he'd no longer be alone. By now they'd be upon us, all over us. We couldn't have gone all the way to this point. No. If he were from U.N.C.L.E. we'd be out of business by now."

Give the devil his due, thought Solo. You're a clever man, Mr. Raymond. All things being equal, you have stated U.N.C.L.E.'s case. But you do not know of our doubts about Kenneth Craig; you do not know that a part of our job, actually the most important part, is to determine whether or not Kenneth Craig is a double agent. Otherwise, you are so right, Mr. Raymond—by now Raymond and Langston would indeed be out of business.

Langston nodded.

"Correct. Which means he's a single operator, a shrewd adventurer. He killed Owens, then took over his identity."

"So why," asked Tito reasonably, "didn't he skip out with the two valises? Why, like a dummy, did he deliver one hundred thousand dollars in gold?"

"No dummy," replied Langston. "He squeezed the information out of Owens and then decided to try for the whole bit. He delivered the hundred thousand in order to swallow up six million, and if it weren't for you, Tito, he might have gotten away with it. His last trick is still unplayed because you recognized that he isn't Harry Owens. All right, now, Tito," Langston snapped. "Move!"

"What?"

"Frisk him!"

Tito put away his gun. As Langston and Raymond stood by with leveled pistols, he searched Solo roughly. He looked over whatever Solo had on his person—passport, wallet, money, keys, papers, and the Communicator, which of course Tito mistook for an ordinary pen—and threw each article to the floor.

"Nothing," Tito said. "No gun, no weapon. Only the phony stuff to make him out to be Harry Owens."

Tito took out his pistol and backed away.

Solo stood alone, facing three armed men.

He could not fight them. The slightest attempt would mean death. He shrugged, stood silent. While there is life, there is hope.

Raymond crossed to the wall panel, slid it open, and turned off the burglar alarm. Then quickly he worked the combination of the vault and swung open the vault door.

"All right, mister," he ordered Solo. "Get in!"

Solo hesitated. Tito shoved him roughly.

"In!"

They pushed him into the recess of the dark vault and shut the thick steel door. Raymond whirled the dial, smiling grimly.

"All right, gentlemen. Let's go."

21. "Kitten on the Keys"

ILLYA KURYAKIN had enjoyed a fine dinner with the amiable Craigs. Now he sat with Kenneth Craig, who was enjoying a fat after-dinner cigar, in the entrance room to the apartment, which was its living room. The big blond man was natty in a safari outfit, his guns in their holsters strapped about him. The room was gay with sunshine. Although it was almost six o'clock, it was still broad daylight; it was summer and, what with daylight saving time, there would not be darkness until after eight.

Illya pointed to Craig's pistols.

"Do you always wear those?"

"Always when I'm in uniform."

"Why?" inquired Illya.

"It's a part of my business."

Illya frowned. "I don't quite understand."

Craig laughed. "In a business like mine, Mr. Fairchild, you have to be devoted."

"I still don't understand," Illya said, smiling.

Craig's face took on a serious mien. "With the big cats, one must always be on the ready. When you're putting them through their paces, you never can tell. One of them might suddenly decide to act up, even playfully. But a playful lion, Mr. Fairchild, can be quite dangerous to a mortal man. A shot from a pistol—the very noise—will stop him dead in his tracks. Then I can take over again—order him, cajole him, even whisper to him— and he'll listen. The shot, of course, would be up in the air. I have never had to shoot directly at a lion in all of my career. But you must remember, of course, that the animals I work with have had a long period of training with me. There are certain people who have an empathy, a feel, for those majestic animals, kings of the jungle. Somehow the lions react quite docilely to people with that instinct. Candy, for instance. She handles them as though she were born to them, and they react to her with a softness, a kindness—with, some how, a form of love. I believe in love, Mr. Fairchild. I believe that even wild animals—if they're not frightened and are given love—will return love."

He believes in kindness and love. Can this man be a traitor?

Illya laughed. "But how does that explain wearing guns in the living room?"

"In my profession—at least for me—I believe in wearing them always, and while I'm in uniform at least they don't look too much out of place. What I mean, Mr. Fairchild, is that just as you must be accustomed to the clothes you're wearing, not feel that they're an impediment, so must I be accustomed to the guns, their hanging at my sides, their leverage, their weight. Nothing must be an interference when I'm working with my beasts in the big cage, and especially not the guns. They must be a part of me, like my clothes and like your clothes are to you, Mr. Fairchild. And so whenever possible I wear my guns."

"Yes, I see," said Illya.

Candy, from somewhere in the rear of the apartment, entered the living room.