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

"Asleep," whispered Raymond.

"Let's lock him in," whispered Langston. "For safety's sake. No sense his wandering around at this particular time."

"Right."

Napoleon Solo was displeased but could not voice his displeasure. Instead he snored angrily as the men left the room. Solo heard the key in the lock of the outside door and the turn of the lock. In a few moments he padded out and tried the knob. Locked. He returned to the bedroom and opened the closet door, so at least he would know when they came back to their apartment. Then—what else could he do?—he sprawled out on the bed and waited.

Felix Raymond and Otis Langston took the elevator to the second floor. There, in their office, they removed their jackets, ties, and shirts. Raymond opened the safe and pulled out the suitcases. Each carrying a suitcase, they went to the elevator and down to the basement. Langston locked the door while Raymond opened the suitcases.

From a cabinet they took out long asbestos gowns and donned them. Then Raymond handed out the asbestos gloves, and they donned those. Next he took out the over-the-head, fiber glass, fireproof, transparent masks, and they placed these over their heads, the globelike masks fitting firmly on their shoulders. They smiled at one another— they looked like men from Mars.

Now, using bellows, Raymond fired up the smelting machines to intense heat. Item by item, Langston handed him the black pieces of machinery from the suitcases, and Raymond dropped them into the simmering vat. Slowly they melted, the bubbling gold dripping through to the container beneath, the impurities kept back in the tight sieve above.

It was a long process, but finally it was completed.

Raymond poured the yellow, bubbling gold into the ingot molds, then thrust the molds into the freezing apparatus where they quickly hardened to glowing butter-bars of pure gold.

The job was done. The smelting machines were turned off and cooled. The men doffed the masks, the gloves, and the asbestos gowns, and Langston returned them to the cabinet and cleaned up the debris.

Raymond disconnected the burglar alarm, opened the vault, placed the gold ingots safely within, and closed the vault. Then be reestablished the alarm system.

Their work was finished. It had taken a long time.

Langston closed the suitcases and carried them. They went back upstairs to the office. There, Langston neatly stacked the suitcases. They took up their garments and went upstairs to their apartment where, separately, they showered and shaved and dressed in resplendent tuxedos. It was ten o'clock.

Together they went next door to Solo's apartment. Quietly Langston unlocked the door, and they went through to the bedroom.

There, apparently, their man was asleep. Raymond shook him, waking him.

12. Invitation Declined

An," SOLO GROANED. "Ah, ah." He sat up in the bed, yawned, swung his feet to the floor, blinked. "Well, gentlemen! How completely darling you look— formal and all!"

Raymond grinned and bowed, but Langston, looking rather sour, came directly to the point.

"Mr. Owens," said Langston, "you're our guest and it is a part of our promise, a part of the deal, to show you a good time while you're here with us. Do, please, get dressed."

"Ah." Solo yawned.

"Mr. Owens," said Felix Raymond, "we have reservations at a good supper club, the best, and we have plans for a grand evening, a night of amusement and entertainment. And you are our guest."

"Pass me," yawned Solo.

"Mr. Owens," said Otis Langston, "the reservations include you."

"Pass me, if you please, gentlemen. I hate to appear an ingrate, but I'm dead tired, beat. It's been a long day for me. I thank you, but I must decline. All I want is a good, long night's sleep."

Langston frowned.

Raymond smiled.

"Otis, our guest's desires are paramount. If he wishes to sleep, we must, as his hosts, grant him his wish. Are you sure, Mr. Owens?"

A wide-open yawn. "But am I sure, Mr. Raymond."

"If he wishes to sleep, he wishes to sleep," piped Langston. "Do you wish to sleep, Felix?"

"Not at all."

"Nor I." Langston looked with distaste upon Solo. "Then sleep, Mr. Owens. We've no idea when we'll be back. Late, though. We've a long and interesting night in front of us."

"Enjoy yourselves," said Solo.

Langston, frowning, clearly showed his impatience.

"All right, then, settled. Coming, Felix?"

"A moment, please, Otis." Raymond returned his attention to Solo. From a pocket, he took a key and gave it to Solo. "Just in case, Mr. Owens, at any time you want to go out or come in." He laughed. "You're no prisoner here, you know. This key is to the rear door of the building—a private entrance for going out or coming in. That way, you don't have to go through the store downstairs."

"Thank you."

"Last call, Mr. Owens," boomed Raymond, "if you wish to join us."

"Thank you again. I'll take a rain check."

"Happy dreams, then. See you in the morning."

"Have fun, gentlemen."

"Thank you," said Langston and frowned at Raymond. "Felix, if we don't get a move on, they may preempt our reservation."

"Yes," said Raymond. "Good night, Mr. Owens."

"Good night, gentlemen."

They went out, and Solo went to the window in the kitchen.

He saw them enter the black sedan and drive off. He yawned.

In truth, he was tired, and the comfortable bed in the bedroom offered a wonderful invitation, but he had work to do and now be had the opportunity to do that work.

Napoleon Solo got dressed, took the elevator, and descended once again to the vast subterranean chamber.

13. Second Report

IN THE CONCRETE basement, Solo first untied a shoelace and took it out of the shoe. He held one metal tip between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, and held the other metal tip in his right band as a pointer. Pointer outstretched, he advanced upon the vault, a faint vibration beginning to quiver between the thumb and the forefinger of his left hand. The device was reacting to the electric current connected to the burglar-alarm system. Solo traced the current along the bidden wires in the floor and then up a wall to a small fitted panel. He slid the panel open—and there was the alarm switch. He disconnected it, then tied up his shoe again with the shoelace. The vault was his now to open—without clangs anywhere, without buzz alarms, without teletype marks being recorded on the secret tape somewhere in the Raymond and Langston apartment.

Now he went to the rear of the vault, pushed his hand beneath the ledge, and removed the dial instrument. For light he was using the reverse end of the Communicator, which served as a flashlight. He shone the beam of the flashlight on the dial instrument, touched a tiny button on the edge of the instrument, and silently the dial turned, right and left, left and right, number by number, and when its motion ceased Solo had memorized the vault combination.

He pocketed the instrument, went around, flashed the beam at the dial of the vault, made the turns, and opened the vault door. He entered the huge vault, then looked about. Gold gleamed. Six million dollars in gold, but surprisingly it did not take up much room. Gold, compressed to ingots, was a comparatively small quantity in bulk.

He reversed the Communicator, switching it on.

The Old Man was probably home asleep, but there would be a deputy at the receiver at Headquarters to take communication.