[Whitman] - The Affair of the Gunrunners' Gold - Keith Brandon - Страница 17

The tall, powerful man watched in amazement as the reporter from Scope took a palate-plate from his mouth, rubbed his thumb along its edge, then reinserted it in his mouth.

"Napoleon," Illya said, "I heard you clear. I have some preliminary remarks to make now. I'm alone with Kenneth Craig and the remarks are necessary. Hang on, my friend."

Napoleon!

Craig's eyes bulged from their sockets like blue- tinted golf balls. The man from Scope was talking into thin air—and he was talking to Napoleon. He had called Napoleon his friend! Protectively, Craig's right hand stole up to the gun holster. He might very well need protection against this mild-mannered slender man who, up to now apparently sane, was talking into thin air to Napoleon!

"Mr. Craig," Illya said, "I have some interesting information to impart to you, and it concerns U.N.C.L.E."

At that precise moment John Parley arrived at Kenneth Craig's door. He heard the word U.N.C.L.E. and recognized the voice as that of Fairchild from Scope. His hand poised on the knob, he waited, listening.

"Mr. Craig," said Illya, "my name is not Evan Fairchild. It is Illya Kuryakin. I am an U.N.C.L.E. agent—and so are you, unless you've decided to throw in your lot with T.H.RU.S.H. I'm in the middle of an emergency now, Mr. Craig, and I must act. Do you know what's been going on here?"

"No," breathed Craig, but the holster was open and his hand held the butt of the gun.

"Do you know about the gold from South America?"

"Gold? South America?"

"You don't know?"

"I don't know."

Illya smiled. It was a small smile, the beginning of a happy smile, but not yet a smile of full satisfaction.

"Mr. Craig, I must put you to the test—now! It's imperative that I communicate with Headquarters, and you, as an agent of U.N.C.L.E., know just how I intend to do that. If you're a double dealer—if you've gone over to T.H.R.U.S.H.—then you can stop me. At least you can try to stop me." Illya pointed. "You've got your hand on your pistol. So how will it be, Mr. Craig? Are you T.H.RU.S.H. or U.N.C.L.E.?"

Blue eyes looked into blue eyes. Intensity, like a current of electricity, fairly crackled between them. Then Craig's hand fell away from his pistol.

"U.N.C.L.E.," he said.

"Sir, I can't tell you how much this pleases me."

"Why?"

"I'll explain that later."

"What's this all about?"

"You're going to find out, Mr. Craig—right here and now."

But Craig did not find out right then and there, because John Parley, dart gun in hand, plunged in and shot them, first Craig, then Kuryakin, almost simultaneously.

Smiling grimly, the silver-haired man stood over them, shaking his head in grudging admiration. Leave it to U.N.C.L.E. Kenneth Craig, of all people, was an U.N.C.L.E. agent. And this seemingly harmless reporter from Scope was an U.N.C.L.E. agent. Somehow U.N.C.L.E. had learned of the plot to transport the gold, but U.N.C.L.E. had not learned enough. That was quite evident—otherwise U.N.C.L.E. agents would have already taken over the Parley Circus.

No. U.N.C.L.E. had learned something, but not all. Why, the man from Scope had not even been certain about Kenneth Craig. There was time for T.H.R.U.S.H. to save the situation.

He put away the dart gun, securely bound the unconscious men with cords loosened from the Venetian blinds, and dragged them to a bedroom. From a pocket of the safari uniform he took Craig's keys, locked the men in the apartment, and hurried back to the circus grounds.

There was time. The reporter from Scope had not gotten through to his headquarters.

Craig had been necessary to the plan but not absolutely essential—because of Candy. Candy could handle the lions outside their wagon and keep them happy in the outdoor cage while the false bottoms of the feeding troughs were loaded with the gold. He would spring it on Candy suddenly—a sudden swoop of health inspectors, no time to bring in Craig from the apartment. She was a young girl; she would be easy to handle. Raymond, Langston, and Tito were on their way; soon they would be here. The immediate problem was to keep the girl on the grounds so that she would be available when needed.

He found her in the roustabouts' quarters and asked her to accompany him back to his cabin.

"Candy, how would you like to work the lions tonight—for this evening's performance?"

"But what about Dad?"

"It was his idea," said Parley smoothly. "I've just come from there. He wanted the evening off to go out with his new friend, Evan Fairchild. Of course I agreed."

Candy looked toward the phone. "May I call him?"

"Certainly, dear. But they've already gone out."

"May I try?"

"Please do." He knew there would be no answer. The tranquilizer darts put animals to sleep for three hours. They had once run a test on humans. Unless chemically revived, the humans remained unconscious for twelve hours. Tying them up had been no more than a reflex action. It had not been necessary.

Candy called home. There was no answer.

"I am the messenger boy," laughed Parley. "Your dad gave me a message for you. You are to rest here on the grounds and change here on the grounds. He told me to remind you that you have no keys. He was going to lock the apartment when he went out with Mr. Fairchild." Parley him self had the keys in his own pocket. "They'll be home, waiting for you, after the evening performance!"

"Gosh!" Candy was thrilled. "An evening performance!"

"Your dad has complete confidence in you, and so have I." He smiled, pleased with himself.

"Thank you, Mr. Parley."

He was keeping her available. He needed her to handle the lions in the outdoor cage while the "inspectors" in the huge yellow wagon, having entered through the rear, transferred the gold ingots to the feeding troughs.

There would not be an evening performance. That, now, was essential. Even as the troughs were being loaded, he would be giving orders for the circus to dismantle and pack. Their traveling plans would have to be further pushed forward. The circus would take off for Switzerland—not tomorrow morning—but tonight. It would have to be tonight! He would so inform his masters.

John Parley did not know it, but that was precisely what his masters were going to inform him.

23. Change in Course

WITH TITO driving, the truck rolled along the highway, but well within the speed limit. Tito was aware of the enormous value of the cargo he was carrying, and he was far too wise to risk a brush with the law. How would it look to have a cop order the truck to the roadside and take a peek into its interior? It made Tito laugh and he felt silly laughing alone. A cop might not recognize the ingots for what they were, but a cop might become curious––very curious––about an ordinary delivery truck that contained, inside, two well-dressed, executive-type businessmen. Laughing, Tito leaned back and cocked an ear, but could not hear them talking.

They were seated on the cool metal, Raymond smoking a fragrant cigar.

"Otis, you must not worry," he said to the sallow, pinch-faced Langston.

"But in truth, I am; yes, I am worried."

Raymond laughed. "It's sticking out all over you." He drew on his cigar and let the smoke dribble slowly from his mouth. "Otis, that man in the vault can't do us any harm. He had his chance, but that's over. Now he's finished."