"I'm sure he'd be happy to meet you, Mr. Fairchild."
"How do we work it out?"
"Quite simple. He's at our apartment. I came out this morning to do chores here. But I'd be happy to take you back to meet my dad."
"How do we go, Miss Craig?"
"Candy."
"How do we go, Candy?"
"We walk." The blue eyes twinkled mischievously. "Unless you don't like to walk."
"I love to walk," said Illya.
They walked. And on the way, Illya tactfully questioning, Candy told him about herself.
She was Candace Craig, seventeen. All her life, because of her father's profession, she had lived with lions. She was, in fact, an accomplished lion tamer on her own, although she was not quite sure that lion taming would be her lifetime profession. She was still going to school and had lots of time to make up her mind. An Australian, this past year she had gone to school in England, and for the summer vacation she had come with her father to America. At home in Sydney, Australia, there were three little brothers in the care of her mother.
Their walk, a long one, ended at an imposing modern apartment house. Upstairs, a tall man opened the door for them. Candy introduced them.
"Mr. Evan Fairchild of Scope magazine," she said, "meet my dad, Kenneth Craig."
Craig shook hands and said, "Parley told me you were coming." He was a big, blue-eyed, strapping blond man, smiling and amiable. His daughter, in her own feminine way, bore a great resemblance to him.
"Daddy, you'll never guess what happened this morning!"
"What happened, love?"
Candy told her father about Illya's misadventure.
Craig's steely blue eyes hardened. "Dangerous, Mr. Fairchild. Dangerous for any man to wander about alone on circus grounds."
"Mr. Craig," said Illya, "I shall wander no more––unescorted. I have learned my lesson the hard way."
"I'd be happy to serve as your escort, Mr. Fairchild."
"I'd be happy to have you, Mr. Craig. But do you have the time?"
"Time? Of course I have the time. We're quite bored, Candy and I, between performances. Where are you staying, Mr. Fairchild?"
"I haven't picked a place yet. Practically just got here."
"You'll stay here with us"
"Oh, no, please. I wouldn't presume."
"No presumption, Mr. Fairchild, not at all." The blond man smiled. "Fate. Don't ever fight fate, Mr. Fairchild. After all, my daughter saved you from the cats. They're quite docile and well-trained, my big cats, but just as humans are human, animals are animal. Frightened, all of us lash out, and in our fright we can do damage. How would you feel, Mr. Fairchild, if a total stranger suddenly invaded your home?"
"Frightened," said Illya.
"But you," laughed the broad-shouldered blond man, "would be less dangerous than a frightened lion. You could have been in quite a pickle if it weren't for Candy, thank heaven. My daughter has brought you here safe and sound, and I would appreciate it if you would stay here with us, as our guest, during your stay with our circus."
Illya was sorely tempted. "But do you have room?"
"Room? We have nothing but room!"
"Do we have room!" chortled the radiant Candy.
"Mr. Fairchild," Craig explained, "we had to take what we could get for our temporary stay, and what we got was six rooms. Can you imagine? Six rooms! Just for Candy and myself. My goodness, we get lost here! We have room, Mr. Fairchild, an overabundance of room, and we would very much appreciate your being our guest."
"Thank you."
"Do you accept?"
"Gratefully."
"Good! Do you have a bag?"
"In a locker at the railroad station."
"Come along, then. My car's downstairs. We'll pick up your bag and do our best to make you comfortable here."
"Me, too, Daddy? May I?"
"Of course, sweet."
It could not be better, could it? His job was Kenneth Craig, and now he would be a lodger in the apartment of Kenneth Craig. Proximity was necessary for close investigation. "Thank you, yellow-eyed lions, into whose vast cage I happened to have wandered," Illya mused.
They returned with his bag from the locker in the railroad station. Illya got settled in Craig's apartment, and then they had lunch cooked by the sprightly Candy. Lunch consisted of grilled barn steak, golden scrambled eggs, crispy luscious French fries, and coffee for the men and tea for her.
"Quite a cook, my Candy."
"It was delicious."
And then they took him to the fairgrounds and showed him about—but this time escorted—and he took pictures of them, of clowns, of objects of interest, of people and animals, and then they returned to the apartment so that Craig could dress for his afternoon performance.
In his room, waiting for Craig, Illya sat alone, thinking. Were he called upon to cast his vote now, his vote, fervently, would be in favor of Kenneth Craig. Could this fine, robust, happy, outgoing man be a traitor, a double-dealer, a turncoat? Could a man like this, a doting father of a seventeen-year-old girl, be a double agent? Would a man mixed up in treason blithely accompany a stranger, a reporter, on his rounds? Would a man deeply engaged in a complex plot involving international intrigue voluntarily offer the comforts of his home to a total stranger? Wouldn't a man weighed down with conscience, riddled with guilt, rather shunt away a stranger? I vote in favor of Kenneth Craig, but I have no proof. My vote is from hunch, feel, instinct…
"We're ready," called Kenneth Craig. "How're you doing, Mr. Fairchild?"
"Ready," returned Illya Kuryakin.
He sat with Candy Craig in a special box and watched Craig's wondrous performance with the six lions. Craig, dressed in boots and safari outfit, two loaded guns in holsters strapped about his middle, put the lions through their paces without whip, stick, or chair. Using only his voice, his hands, and his body, he received complete obedience from the massive, grunting, growling, saber-toothed animals. Can a man whom wild beasts trust be himself untrustworthy? Can a loving father rapturously admired by an innocent girl be a treacherous snake turning his fangs upon his own? No, voted Illya, joining in the thunderous applause at the finish of Kenneth Craig's marvelous performance.
Illya's vote was one hundred percent in favor of the man who was the object of his scrutiny, but his conclusions were a matter of instinct rather than proof, and so his work was unfinished.
16. Sight-Seeing
SOLO HAD AWAKENED to the fine, bright morning sunshine on his eyelids, thin stripes of sunshine slanting in through the slats of the Venetian blinds. Out of bed, he leisurely showered, shaved, and dressed. He listened through the closet wall. There were no sounds in the adjacent apartment. He stayed in the bedroom for more than an hour—not a sound from the apartment next door, which meant that his hosts were about their business, whatever that present business might be. He shrugged and left the apartment.
He took the elevator down to the second floor and stepped out into the reception room. The clock on the wall said ten after eleven.
"Good morning," greeted the red-haired secretary, "and a most beautiful morning it is, Mr. Owens."
"Good morning, Miss—"
"Dunhill," the girl said, smiling prettily. "Miss Dunhill."
"Good morning, Miss Dunhill."
"It's a lovely day out, Mr. Owens. A bit windy but simply lovely."
Solo gestured toward the offices. "The gentlemen?"
The girl made a face, frowning through her smile.
"Do you have to see them?"
Solo shook his head. "I don't have to. I just thought—"
"Then think the better of it," said Miss Dunhill. She hunched up her shoulders. "They're awfully busy and in an awful mood. I've got orders that they're not to be disturbed—unless it's a matter of utmost importance, and when I got those orders I almost had my head bitten off. Ugh!" She shuddered. "When they're in a bad mood, gosh, they're impossible!" She smiled again. "So, Mr. Owens, if it's a matter of u
tmost importance…"
Solo grinned. "It's a matter of no importance at all."
"Then I advise you to stay clear."
"When will they be free?"
"They're not going to be free—not, at least, during the business day. Matter of fact, they're not even going out to lunch; I'm to order their lunch sent in. They're going to be cooped in there till five o'clock, that I guarantee."
"Do you have your lunch sent in, too?"
"Not me. I go out to lunch." And she smiled up sweetly at the handsome young man standing above her, and suddenly Solo felt the fool. There had been, without his actually meaning it, an implication on his part that he was about to invite her to lunch and she appeared quite willing to accept such an invitation. She was an attractive young lady, and at another time, as Napoleon Solo, it would have been most pleasant to have lunch with Miss Dunhill. But he was working on a job. He was not Napoleon Solo. He was Harry Owens.
Lamely he said, "Well, thank you, Miss Dunhill. Thank you for warning me that this is no time to barge in on the gentlemen."
"Not at all, Mr. Owens," said Miss Dunhill, looking disappointed.
Awkwardly Solo made his way to the elevator and was glad to escape into its lonely confines. He pushed the button for the main floor but went out, as previously directed, through the rear.
The alley was windy and dark, the tall buildings on either side shutting off the sun, and it was not until he rounded the corner that he was able to agree with Miss Dunhill's estimate of the weather—it was a bright, clear, breezy, sunny day.
Briskly now he walked up Park Avenue until he found what he was seeking—a stationery store. He purchased a small cardboard box, tissue paper, wrapping paper, and cellophane tape. Then he walked again until he discovered a post office. Inside, he carefully packed the dial instrument in tissue within the box, wrapped the box, sealed it, addressed it to Alexander Waverly, and mailed it off. The instrument had accomplished its purpose—no sense keeping it about on his person. Suddenly he realized he was very hungry.
Out again on the sunny street, he found a restaurant. He first ordered orange juice, to the astonishment of the waitress—it was already afternoon—then bacon and eggs, toast, and coffee, and he ravenously enjoyed every morsel. His appetite satisfied, he sat back, sipping coffee and thinking. Illya, as Evan Fairchild, was out at Westbury on the tail of Kenneth Craig, but here he was in New York as Harry Owens. What would he, as Harry Owens, do in New York that he could properly report back to Raymond and Langston?
Miss Dunhill, sometime during the day, would report to her employers that Harry Owens had attempted to see them. Good. Quite natural for Harry Owens. She would also tell her employers that she had informed Owens that they would be busy until at least five o'clock. That left Harry Owens footloose and free until that time. What then, with free time, would Harry Owens, a stranger in the city, do in the city? He would go sight-seeing, that's what be would do. Without enthusiasm Solo paid his check and prepared for activities that would make a normal day's report back to Raymond and Langston. He sighed and went out to see sights that he already knew very well. After all, New York was Solo's home town, but it was necessary to make the rounds, just in case his hosts checked up on him.
Suddenly he remembered something else that Harry Owens naturally would do. Harry Owens was carrying ten thousand dollars in cash on his person. What would Harry Owens naturally do to protect that money for the next two weeks? He would deposit it in a bank, that's what he would do.
With purpose now, Solo strode the streets for a bank, found one, entered, established a checking account with a first deposit of ten thousand dollars, and happily gathered deposit slip and checkbook for later display to Felix Raymond and Otis Langston.
Then he tramped the city, making a record for Harry Owens. He went to the United Nations, the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, the Coliseum, Lincoln Center, and the Central Park Zoo, where he munched frankfurters and looked at animals. When he returned wearily to his temporary home, it was ten minutes after five. Before even going to his own apartment, he knocked on the door of his hosts' apartment.
At once Otis Langston opened the door, but when Langston saw who it was an expression of disappointment settled on his face.
"Oh. Owens."
"Expecting someone else?" Solo inquired innocently.
"Well… er… uh…"
From within, Raymond's voice boomed, "How are you, Owens? Have a nice day?"
Solo virtually had to push himself in, knowing he was far from welcome. Smilingly he produced the material from the bank and smilingly he told about his day's sight-seeing. There were no smiles at all from Raymond and Langston, but at least Solo knew they had no suspicions about him, that he was, to them, Harry Owens and no one else. But they got rid of him and were not even subtle about doing it. Langston opened the door, said, "Nice of you to drop in, Mr. Owens, but you've bad a rather busy day, and I'd advise that you rest up a bit, relax," and that was that.
Solo entered his apartment, latched his door from the inside, got himself a glass of milk and a sandwich, brought that to the bedroom, opened the closet door, pulled up a chair, and sat, eating, listening, awaiting developments.
17. Guessing Games
AT FOUR O'CLOCK that afternoon, Alexander Waverly, in his office, had heard a familiar voice crackle from the ceiling loudspeaker. It was Kuryakin on the Communicator.
"Kuryakin here. Reporting."
Instantly Waverly had struck the key on the console board for outside communication.
"Waverly here. Come in, Mr. Kuryakin. I read you clearly. Over."
"First report, Chief. Contact made. Close. I'm living with the guy in his apartment, on his invitation. He's got his kid here with him in this country, a daughter, Candy. Great kid, and he seems to me a great guy."
Waverly interrupted. "Do you have anything solid, Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly coughed. "Solid information to report? Over."
"First report, Chief. Settling in. Close contact. Solid. I'm in a position for character study and overall impression. Interested? Over."
Waverly sighed. "Always interested in what you have to say, Mr. Kuryakin. Over."
"The man is a loving father to his daughter and a kind host to me. He seems to be perfectly happy, does not seem to be burdened down by any secret work––that is, secret work on their side. My guess, he is not involved. Over."
"That's not what you were sent out to Westbury for, Mr. Kuryakin—not to play guessing games. You were sent out for facts. Proof. Understood? Over."
"Yes, Chief. Understood. Over."
"You've made the contact—excellent. Now it's your job to stay close. We know they intend to transport the gold through the Parley Circus. What we don't know is whether Craig is mixed in it. That's your job. So stay close and keep your eyes and ears open. By the way, where are you now? Over."
"I'm alone down in an exit ramp under the grandstand. The circus is on now, and I'm with Miss Candy in a box; I excused myself for a moment. There's a two o'clock show that goes on until four-thirty, then an eight o'clock show that lasts until about ten-thirty. Any special orders? Over."
"No. You're doing fine. Stay with it, stick close to Craig, and report when convenient. Over and out."
Illya put away the Communicator, came up out of the dark ramp, and rejoined Candy in the sun shine of the box. Craig's performance was, of course, over, but the other acts were interesting, breathtaking, thrilling. It was a fine circus.
"What happens to your dad in between?" asked Illya.
"In between what?" Candy smiled.
"I mean, now."
"Well, after the lions are back in the wagon, after Dad's performance is over, he goes back to one of the cabins, showers, and rests. Then he puts on a nice new uniform and comes out for his bow at the grand finale."
"And after that?" asked Illya.
"Well, today we'll show you about after the show so you can take more pictures. Then we'll go back to the apartment
for early dinner. We've planned a lovely dinner for you, Mr. Fairchild. Fruit cocktail, marvelous steaks with mashed potatoes, and I toss up the greatest green salad you've ever tasted. Then, for dessert, Dad's special—rice pudding."
Illya's mouth watered. "Sounds wonderful. I'm glad it's an early dinner."
"Hungry, Mr. Fairchild?"
"You've just made me very hungry, Miss Craig."
At that moment John Parley stepped into their private box. The silver-haired man wore an official badge on his lapel, and around his waist was a wide leather belt from which hung a large leather holster.
"Enjoying our circus, Mr. Fairchild?"
"Immensely, Mr. Parley."
"And I see you've wisely chosen yourself a lovely guide," laughed Parley. "The most beautiful our circus can offer."
"Thank you," murmured Candy.
"And remarkably talented," continued Parley. "You should watch her performance sometime."
"Thank you again," said Candy, blushing now.
"Not at all, my dear. Those are entirely deserved compliments" said Parley and then bowed, did a little wave with his right hand, and went on his way.
Illya, frowning, watched until he disappeared from view.
"Why does he wear a gun?" he asked.
"Oh, don't you know him? I was certain you did. He called you by name."
"Of course I know him," Illya reassured the girl whose face had clouded because she thought she had breached etiquette by not introducing them. "John Parley, the boss."
Candy was smiling again. "That's why he wears a gun."
"I don't get it," said lllya.
"All the circus officials, when they move about the grounds, have guns with them—just in case any of the animals get loose. They're not real guns, Mr. Fairchild. They're tranquilizer dart guns. A shot from one of them would put the animal to sleep."
"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.
MFU Whitman - The Affair of the Gunrunner's Gold Page 5