MFU Whitman - The Affair of the Gunrunner's Gold

by Brandon Keith

  Langston nodded lugubriously. "That's what I'm worried about."

  "My dear friend," said Raymond, "dead men tell no tales. And by the time he's found we'll be far away and safe."

  "Felix, it was out-and-out murder."

  "You've been involved in murder before."

  "But murder skillfully planned. This job was forced on us––and we botched it."

  "Botched!" Raymond grimaced. "How?"

  "We left his things strewn about on the floor of the vault room."

  "So what? Harry Owens' personal belongings. So what?"

  Langston shook his head. "We won't be in the office tomorrow."

  "Of course not, and everybody there knows it. Miss Dunhill knows we've left for Europe. She doesn't know how, when, or where—none of them do—and that's just the way we want it."

  "But she does know about Harry Owens."

  Raymond scowled. "Otis, you're talking in circles."

  "No, I'm not. She knows Owens was staying as our guest. Suddenly—no Owens."

  "So she'll think he went with us."

  "But suppose somebody goes down to the vault room tomorrow morning. There's Owens' stuff all over the floor, but no Owens. Suppose somebody gets suspicious. Suppose the police are called and the vault is opened."

  "So what? Nobody can tie that murder to us."

  "But they'd be looking for us, if only for routine questioning, and that's what worries me. If by morning we were already out of the country, I wouldn't mind. The higher-ups in T.H.R.U.S.H. will know how to hide us, how to cover up for us. They'll know how to level it out, smooth things over. In a short time we'd be perfectly in the clear. Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Felix, we've always been flexible, you and I—which is one of the reasons we've lasted this long. When the seas are stormy, we know when to change course."

  Raymond's eyes narrowed shrewdly. He puffed the cigar and nodded behind the smoke. "What change in course do you propose?"

  "That the circus moves tonight. Any objection?"

  "None whatever. Every word you said made sense." He grinned. "That's a fine brain ticking away in that bald head. Thank you for some excellent thinking, Mr. Langston."

  Langston smiled crookedly, appreciatively. Felix did not throw his compliments around lightly. "How quickly can they wrap it up out there in Westbury?"

  "It's a fine circus, but it's actually fairly small. If Parley cracks the whip on them—and he will— then with all hands participating, the whole deal can be packed into the vans in an hour."

  "That's the way it must be, Felix."

  "That's the way it will be."

  Nervously Langston looked at his watch. "It's six-fifteen."

  "The traffic's been good. No delays. The way it's going, we'll be there a bit before seven." He tilted the cigar in his teeth and puffed, savoring the fragrant odor. "Still worried, my friend?"

  "A little," said Langston, "but not as much as before. I feel better now."

  24. Ten Long Minutes

  TIME AND AGAIN Waverly's eyes shifted to the silent electric clock on the wall. Somehow as the minutes went by the sweep hand seemed to be moving more slowly, ever more slowly. Six o'clock. Five after six. Ten after.

  Waverly was not anxious about the situation in Westbury. Solo's quick report had been complete and definite. Waverly knew the gold was being moved, who was moving it, how and where. The circus would not be traveling until tomorrow morning. U.N.C.L.E. agents had all night to swoop down on the Parley Circus. But there would be no move made until he had word from Kuryakin on Kenneth Craig, nor would he even begin to make plans until he got the all clear from Solo.

  Jack O'Keefe and Aaron Johnson, fretting for action, were compelled to restraint by the circumstances. They were fully briefed and waited impatiently.

  The Old Man filled his pipe and lit it.

  O'Keefe glanced at the clock. "Chief, it's six- fifteen."

  "I know what time it is," Waverly growled un happily.

  "He said between six and six-fifteen. Six-fifteen at the outside."

  "We'll give him five more minutes."

  They sat in silence until six-twenty, and then the Old Man came alive. He turned knobs on the console board, adjusting to the frequency of Solo's Communicator. Then he pressed a small button which would set up a vibrancy in the Communicator—the signal for Solo to call in.

  They waited, their heads turned up toward the ceiling loudspeaker.

  Silence. No whisper of sound came back to them.

  "I'm afraid he's in trouble," O'Keefe said slowly. Johnson was on his feet. "Give us the word, Chief!"

  "Or maybe he's not in trouble," said O'Keefe, correcting himself.

  "Please explain that, Mr. O'Keefe. But quickly, please."

  "Maybe he talked his way into going with them. Maybe he's in the truck with them right now. If that's the case he just can't come back to you, Chief—in the presence of Raymond and Langston, he just can't take out the Communicator and talk to you."

  "But I told him not to interfere, not to risk any wild action."

  O'Keefe kept hoping against hope. "Maybe there was no risk, no wild action. Maybe, even, they invited him."

  The Old Man slapped his hands on the desk and stood up. "All right, gentlemen, get a move on! I want a quick inspection of that place and a quick report. I'll be right here, waiting. Maybe I'll have heard from him by the time you communicate with me; if so, I'll inform you. Remember, the building's closed. You'll have to open doors. Take picklocks and whatever else necessary. And let me have word as soon as possible. Now get going!"

  Siren howling, the unmarked car raced through the city streets, its overhead red light flashing. O'Keefe was at the wheel with Johnson alongside, urging more speed. But when they arrived at the vicinity of the Raymond and Langston Building, O'Keefe stopped the siren, turned off the red flash, and reduced the speed. He made the turn into the alley behind the building and there the car slid to a stop at the curb.

  Johnson, with the picklock, opened the door in short order. Inside, they took the elevator directly to the third floor where they inspected the Raymond and Langston apartment and then the guest apartment. There were no signs of disorder, no signs of a fight or struggle. On the second floor they had a quick look into the offices—all in order. Then they took the elevator down to the basement. The vault room was dark. It took a moment before Johnson found the light switch. Then, as illumination flooded the room, they gasped.

  Papers, passport, wallet, keys—all were strewn on the floor—and there—that innocent-looking fountain pen—Solo's Communicator! O'Keefe picked it up, that and the passport. He looked at the passport, saw the name in it, tossed it aside. He looked toward Johnson and was shocked at Johnson's deathly pallor. Johnson was pointing at the vault; his mouth was working, but no sound came out. No sound was necessary. Before Johnson could utter a word, O'Keefe understood and a shiver of horror trembled through his body.

  "Could be," he croaked.

  He was holding Solo's Communicator as though clinging to it. He had his own, but he used the one in his hand. He clicked it on, coughing. His mouth was dry. He wet his lips.

  "O'Keefe here. Chief? Over."

  "Talk! Over."

  "Signs of a struggle in the vault room downstairs. All of Owens' stuff all over the floor; also Solo's Communicator. Johnson got a wild idea that may be they locked him in the vault. Could be, could not be, but we've got to give it a whirl—"

  Waverly interrupted.

  "Stay where you are! Over and out!" Waverly touched levers on the console board.

  "I want ten men," he snapped. "In two cars. Downstairs. Ready to go. I'll join them."

  The answer crackled from the loudspeaker. "Yes, Chief."

  "Colin Walker must be one of those ten men. Tell him to take all his equipment."

  "Yes, Chief."

  "And Dr. Blaine from the lab must be another of the men. He's to have all his equipment, too."

  "Right
, Chief."

  "And send in Brad Randall. Right away. Hop to it!"

  "Yessir."

  Waverly clicked off.

  In two minutes Brad Randall, breathless, in shirt sleeves, pushed through the door.

  "Chief?"

  Randall was a burly white-haired man, one of the inside executives.

  "Take over in here," Waverly ordered.

  "Right."

  "I'm expecting word from Kuryakin. If it comes through, contact me immediately."

  "Right."

  "That's it, Brad. Take care of the store." Waverly hurried to the door.

  "Chief," Randall called softly. Waverly turned.

  "Take it easy, Chief. We're neither of us as young as we used to be."

  Waverly smiled, nodded, waved, and went out.

  O'Keefe and Johnson heard them coming, and when they entered the vault room there was quite a gang of them—eleven men, including Alexander Waverly. Doc Blaine was also among them, but most important, Colin Walker. Colin Walker was the most accomplished safecracker this side of Leavenworth Penitentiary. Colin Walker, an important U.N.C.L.E. agent, was a genius with safes, locks, and vaults. During the trip to lower Park Avenue Colin Walker had been briefed.

  Now, immediately, he went to work. He used an instrument that looked like a doctor's stethoscope. Headset clamped to his ears, his left hand held the listening device pressed against the steel of the vault while his right hand slowly twisted and turned the dial. His face was like granite, rigid in concentration, as he listened and judged the inner clickings of the tumblers.

  O'Keefe and Johnson stood directly behind him. The others were gathered in little groups—except Waverly. Alone, he paced up and down relentlessly, and he kept looking at his watch.

  It took ten minutes. Even for a genius like Colin Walker, it took ten... long... minutes. Then, with a sigh, he grasped the handle and opened the vault door.

  Instantly O'Keefe and Johnson rushed in—and came out slowly, carrying carefully between them the unconscious form of Napoleon Solo.

  They laid him on the floor.

  25. The Old Man Takes Charge

  EXCITEMENT BUZZED through the group like a nest of wasps.

  "Quiet!" roared Waverly.

  The doctor was on his knees, the side of his head pressed against Solo's heart. When he looked up he was smiling.

  "He's alive. He'll be all right, I'm sure. Please stand back, gentlemen." He looked toward Waverly. "My bag, please."

  Waverly brought the little black bag. This time the doctor used his stethoscope. Johnson nudged O'Keefe and O'Keefe nodded. Doc Blaine's expression of concentration as he examined Solo was oddly similar to what had been Walker's expression as he had listened to the clicking of the tumblers.

  The doctor snapped off the stethoscope and laid it aside.

  "No damage. He'll be all right. Somebody help me, please."

  Johnson knelt beside him. "What, Doc?"

  "We'll take off his jacket, shirt, and tie."

  They lifted the unconscious Solo to a sitting position, removed his jacket, shirt, and tie, and gently laid him back. The doctor swabbed Solo's arm with an antiseptic, then, using a hypodermic, injected a stimulant.

  "He'll come around in a few moments."

  Sure enough, in a few moments Solo's eyes fluttered. Color seeped back into his face and a tremulous sigh escaped his lips. Then suddenly his brown eyes opened wide. He stared, frowned—and suddenly remembered.

  He saw the men gathered about him and focused on Alexander Waverly.

  "Something—something happened to Illya."

  He tried to get up. The doctor kept him sitting.

  "Easy, Mr. Solo."

  "I—I'm all right."

  "How do you feel?"

  "Thirsty."

  "And a little bit weak? A little shaky?"

  "No. Just thirsty."

  "Somebody get him a glass of water." Somebody went out and returned with a glass of water, which Solo drank thirstily. Then he stood up. O'Keefe made an effort to support him, but Solo shook him off. "I'm okay."

  "Kuryakin?" the Old Man asked.

  "They shoved me into the vault. They had guns on me, three of them. They locked me in." He shuddered. "Murder in there. I couldn't get back to you, Chief—they stripped me of all my stuff, including the Communicator. But then I remembered my mouthpiece––the crazy walkie-talkie that connected me to Illya. I put it into operation and I did get through to him."

  "Then why didn't he instantly report to me? I've had no word from him!"

  "Please, sir."

  "Yes. Forgive me," said the Old Man, silently rebuking himself for the impatient interruption.

  "I got through to him," said Solo, "and he got back to me. He told me he was alone with Kenneth Craig."

  "Where?"

  "He didn't say where. He said that before reporting to you he had some preliminary remarks to make to Craig. It was an emergency, and he had to test him right then and there. Illya admitted to Craig that he was an U.N.C.L.E. man and that it was imperative that he, Illya, communicate with Headquarters. And right there he challenged Craig. If Craig was a double agent, then Craig could try to stop him. Naturally with this independent walkie-talkie system, I couldn't hear Craig, but I sure could hear Illya and he was thoroughly satisfied. I can tell you now that Kenneth Craig is no traitor, no double agent. He is one of us. He simply had no idea of the plotting going on around him."

  "Wonderful," murmured Waverly. "Yes; then what happened?"

  "Suddenly—silence. Something happened to them! I think somebody must have attacked them, overpowered them. I kept trying to get back to Illya. I got no answer. Just a sound—a sound of breathing. Then I passed out."

  "A sound of breathing," the Old Man repeated thoughtfully. Then alertly he asked, "You're still wearing that earpiece, Mr. Solo?"

  Solo grinned. "I couldn't take it out if I wanted to."

  There was an excited murmur from the circle of U.N.C.L.E. men crowded about them.

  "Do you hear anything now, Mr. Solo?" Solo held up his hand. A hush fell. He listened intently.

  "A sound of breathing," he announced. "That means he still has his mouthpiece in operation," declared the Old Man. "It also means that he can't answer for one of two reasons. He's either bound and gagged or he's unconscious."

  "Yes," said Solo.

  Quickly the Old Man pulled his Communicator from a pocket and clicked it on.

  "Waverly here. Brad? Over."

  "Yes, Chief. Over." Randall's calm voice came through clearly.

  "I'm at the Raymond and Langston Building. I want the scanning truck down here right away! And I want Phil Bankhead inside that truck!"

  "Bankhead?" It came through like a shot—explosively. Brad Randall was finally excited. Phillip Bankhead was a major scientist, a professor—the man in charge of the Science Section of U.N.C.L.E. Professor Bankhead was not one to be traveling about in trucks. He had assistants for that purpose. "Did you say Bankhead? Over."

  "That's what I said. Bankhead! In the scanning truck! Now get to it! Over."

  "Right, Chief."

  "Immediately."

  "Right, Chief."

  "Over and out."

  The Old Man put away the Communicator. His eyes were bright and shining. He felt young. For a change he was out of the office and once again, as in his youth, out in the field of operation.

  "Dr. Blaine," he snapped.

  "Chief?"

  "Get that thing out of Mr. Solo's ear."

  "Yes, Chief."

  Using long pincers, the doctor extracted the object from Solo's ear canal. Solo smiled in relief.

  "Mr. Solo."

  "Chief?" Solo's smile ended.

  "How long will it take us to get to Westbury

  "Less than an hour."

  "I—I hope we'll be in time."

  There could be no reply to that. Only silence—a deep, serious silence—finally broken by Dr. Blaine.

  "Chief," he sai
d, holding the earpiece in the pincers, "what do you want me to do with this miniature listening device?"

  "Guard it carefully," said the Old Man. "It's going to lead us directly where we want to go."

  26. Candy Lulls the Lions

  THE DOOR OF Parley's cabin swung open without a knock.

  Felix Raymond peered in. Parley was alone.

  "All right for us to come in?"

  Parley nodded. Raymond entered, followed by Langston and Tito.

  Parley, who had been cleaning out his desk, slammed shut an open drawer and came out from behind the desk. Raymond noticed how pale he was, forehead furrowed, mouth grim.

  "What's the matter, John?"

  "Mr. Raymond, we've got to move the circus as quickly as possible! We've got to get out—tonight!"

  In astonishment Raymond looked at his two companions, and then back to Parley.

  "That's just what I was going to tell you, John."

  "I don't know about your reasons, Mr. Raymond, but mine are most important—absolutely urgent!"

  "All right. Let's hear them," growled Raymond.

  Parley rapidly recited what he had overheard at Craig's door and what had ensued thereafter.

  "They're both back there, unconscious, in Craig's apartment. I've already given orders for the dismantling of the circus."

  "Good."

  "Can you imagine—Kenneth Craig, a man from U.N.C.L.E.? And this reporter from Scope magazine—a man from U.N.C.L.E.?"

  "And the guy in the vault," piped Langston. "No question in my mind now. Also from U.N.C.L.E."

  "What guy in what vault?" demanded Parley.

  Raymond quickly filled him in. "That's why I was going to tell you that the circus would have to move out tonight."

  Parley's frown showed his fright. "You sure that man back there––supposedly Harry Owens––you sure he didn't make contact with U.N.C.L.E. people?"

  Raymond sniffed. "You and my partner––a couple of pessimists. Of course I'm sure. Just because he works for U.N.C.L.E. doesn't mean he's a genius. Bad judgment. He held off too long."