MFU Whitman - The Affair of the Gunrunner's Gold

by Brandon Keith

  "On Saturdays and Sundays, the afternoon shows, when there are lots of kids in the stands," she said. "Then I'm all dressed up in a beautiful spangled silk costume. Dad does a few tricks with the lions, then he introduces me, steps out of the cage, and I take over for the rest of the performance."

  "Well, I didn't know you were that professional."

  "I am," she admitted modestly but truthfully. And then the last act, tumbling clowns, ended. The grand finale began, all the performers appeared, the music of trumpets blared to high crescendo, and wave upon wave of thunderous applause rolled through the huge arena.

  18. Name-Dropping

  ALMOST IMMEDIATELY Solo's stakeout by the open bedroom closet door was rewarded. Raymond and Langston were receiving a guest, and now Solo was inside the closet, his ear pressed to the far wall.

  "Tito! How are you?" piped Langston.

  "Good to see you, Tito," boomed Raymond.

  "We finish up the job. Yes, gentlemen?" rasped Tito in a thick, guttural voice tinged with a foreign accent.

  "Join us in a bit of refreshment, Tito?" asked Langston.

  There was silence, then the tinkle of ice in glasses.

  Solo could distinguish them by their voices. Langston's was a thin, reedy voice; Raymond's was the booming baritone; Tito's was the deep rasp with the foreign blur.

  "Today we finish up, and you're the helper, Tito," boomed Raymond. "Everything's in order. Right, Otis?"

  "Right," said Langston.

  "The passports are all in order?" asked Raymond.

  "Right," said Langston.

  "You, Tito?"

  "Sure, passport," rasped Tito. "But the business—how does it work, Mr. Raymond?"

  "We carry out the stuff to the truck," responded Raymond. "It'll take quite a number of trips. We'll use the bags that Owens brought."

  "Right," piped Langston.

  "I've notilled Parley," said Raymond. "He'll be ready."

  Parley, thought Solo. John Parley, the owner of the circus. So he's one of them, a member of T.H.R..U.S.H. That's a piece of information the Old Man will appreciate knowing.

  "We'll have the truck loaded by six o'clock," said Raymond. "The stuff won't take up much room—very little in fact. Ingots of gold are quite compact. Six million doesn't take up too much room, believe me, Tito."

  "If you say so, Mr. Raymond," laughed Tito, "I believe it."

  "We take off at six o'clock," said Langston. "We figure an hour to get there, maybe a little less, depending on traffic. We'll be there by seven, which is between shows of the circus. Parley will order the grounds cleared, so we'll be free to work. You'll drive the truck, Tito. We'll be inside the truck, in back."

  "Sure, I drive," said Tito. "But how does the business work, gentlemen?"

  "When we get there," explained Raymond, "we're supposed to be health inspectors on a sudden evening inspection. We're supposed to be looking in on the animals' quarters, where they're fed. Parley will have Craig take the lions out of the big wagon and keep them happy in the outdoor cage while we go into the big wagon from the rear."

  Craig, thought Solo. Kenneth Craig. But is he one of them or not? Could be either way. Could be he was working with them—or it could be he would simply be following Parley's orders to work the lions in the outdoor cage while the health inspectors entered the big wagon from the rear and did their work there. Please, Solo begged silently, talk more about Kenneth Craig. But they did not.

  "So how does it work?" Tito persisted. "The feeding troughs in the big wagon, the lions' feeding troughs, have false bottoms," said Raymond. "It'll be a quick, easy job to load the ingots into the false bottoms. Who would ever think—who would dare!—to look there? The lions themselves are the protection!"

  "Wonderful!" growled Tito. "Beautiful! Clever, Mr. Raymond. Very clever."

  Solo, listening, had to agree.

  "And then," laughed Raymond, "a quick change in the plans of Parley Circus. It'll pack up and take off in the morning. There are chartered planes already cleared, already waiting. A quick change is always good. The unexpected is always good. Any tickets already sold for the few future performances—the money will be refunded."

  "How do you like it, Tito?" asked Langston.

  "Beautiful," said Tito.

  "And we'll fly out with the circus," boomed Raymond. "Parley's already arranged that. We'll be on the list as part of the circus crew."

  "What happens to health inspectors?" asked Tito.

  "That's not official," laughed Langston. "That's only in case anybody asks questions this evening—and nobody figures to question. Parley will have the grounds clear for us."

  There was a silence, and then Tito asked, "What about this business here? Raymond and Langston in America? The munitions firm?"

  "The lawyers will handle that," said Raymond. "They know already that Otis and I plan a long trip to Europe. This firm will be dissolved. The lawyers already have their instructions to handle that. Lawyers here in America and lawyers in Australia will work together, liquidating the business here in America."

  "Beautiful," rasped Tito.

  "We'll deliver the goods to Geneva," said Langston, "and then finally our long job will be over. Six million dollars in gold! We'll be given enormous bonuses and then a full year's vacation before the next assignment. You, too, Tito. You've been our sturdy right arm all this while down there in South America."

  "Yeah, me, sturdy right arm," rasped Tito. "Me, I take the vacation on the French Riviera. Me, I like the sun; I love a warm climate. Me, gentlemen," he laughed, "I am ready for this vacation."

  "Not yet, dear Tito," said Raymond. "Now we've got work—the most important, the final work. All ready, gentlemen?"

  "Ready," said Tito.

  "Ready," said Langston.

  "Let's go, gentlemen."

  There were shuffling sounds, then the slam of a door, then silence. Solo backed out of the closet, quietly closing the door. He went to the kitchen and stationed himself at the window, looking down into the alley. He saw the truck at the curb, but he could not make out the number of the license plate.

  He took the Communicator from his pocket and clicked it on.

  "Solo here. Urgent. Chief, are you there? Over."

  "We're here, Mr. Solo. What do you have for us? Over."

  19. Unmasked!

  ALEXANDER WAVERLY, eyes haggard, deep furrows in his brow, sat stiffly in his swivel chair, listening intently. His clothes were rumpled; his shirt collar was open; his tie, knot askew, hung limply. Mr. Waverly had had a bad night. He had not gone home. He had remained at Headquarters. He had slept some, but his sleep had been fitful, and he had returned to his post at eight o'clock in the morning.

  Seated opposite him across the desk were U.N.C.L.E. agents Jack O'Keefe and Aaron Johnson who, like Solo and Kuryakin, were a team. They, like Waverly, were intent upon the ceiling loudspeaker through which came Solo's voice, metallic via his Communicator.

  "...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 f
or 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.

  "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 t
hank 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."