[Whitman] - The Affair of the Gunrunners' Gold - Keith Brandon. Страница 7

Solo looked toward Langston. "Mister, if you trusted me with a hundred thousand in gold, doesn't it figure that I'd trust you with ten percent of that in cash?"

"Ah, wonderful people, wonderful people they send us from South America," cried Raymond. "Please, Mr. Owens. This way, please."

They led him out to the elevator and up to the next floor. There they showed him their sumptuous apartment.

"Beautiful," said Solo. "You've got a beautiful place here."

"It's where you're going to spend your next couple of weeks," squeaked Langston. "The two-week vacation you've been promised."

"Here?" said Solo, making his eyes round.

"The next-door apartment," boomed Raymond. "The one next to ours, and quite as lovely."

Impatiently Langston said, "We don't have the time now to explain everything, Mr. Owens. You and your large appetite for a man's meal—you've sort of delayed us."

"A quick outline before we go." Raymond smiled. "This place—our place of business—closes down at five o'clock. We've got to hurry now, Mr. Langston and myself, and you'll virtually be shut in." He laughed. "Give you a chance to rest and relax. We'll be back at about seven, and then we'll have a chance to be proper hosts for you. Take you out for a late dinner and an evening on the town. But we really are in a hurry now, Mr. Owens. Come, let me show you your apartment."

It was next door. It was quite posh—three rooms: parlor, bedroom, and kitchen.

"We must be off now," said Raymond. "You'll be locked in at five, but we'll let you out again at seven, and at that time we'll explain all the details to you. In the meantime, anything you wish you'll find right here. See you later, Mr. Owens."

Alone, Solo prowled his new domain. Cabinets and refrigerator were well stocked, but at the moment he was not interested in food. In the bedroom there was a walk-in closet, and as he inspected it he heard a murmur of voices. He pressed his ear against the far wall. It was thin and Solo knew it abutted upon the living room of the other apartment because, ear pressed, he could hear, quite clearly, Raymond and Langston conversing.

"We're already late for Westbury..."

That was Raymond's hearty boom.

"He delayed us." That was Langston's thin wail.

"Otis, my dear man, what do you expect? These aren't people of our own social status. They have their quirks. They're bold, baffling—common adventurers. But he delivered, and that's all we can ask of him, isn't it?"

"All right! Enough of Harry Owens. He delivered and we delivered to him. He's been paid. We've much more important matters to attend. Final arrangements. Now, Felix, move!"

"I'm ready. Who'll drive? Whose car?"

"Mine," declared Langston.

"So be it," said Raymond.

Then there were shuffling sounds and a door slammed. Then silence.

Solo retreated from the closet. Until five o'clock his activities were restricted. There wasn't a thing in the world he could do in furtherance of his duty. So he made himself a peanut-butter sandwich, washed it down with a glass of milk, took off his jacket, took off his shoes, opened his tie, and sprawled out on the bed in the bedroom, his mind teeming but his body resting.

10. First Report

ALTHOUGH HE could not make out particular sounds, he could feel the vibrations, the hum of activity, the faint, far-off thrum of business. But at five o'clock there was the beginning of cessation, bit by bit a deadening, and at five-thirty he was encased in a total, throbbing silence. Dead silence.

Solo got off the bed, put on his jacket, thought about putting on his shoes, and did not. In stocking feet, in the great silence of an empty building, he shuffled to the elevator and pressed the button for the basement.

He came out into a vast concrete room, a room that was certainly forbidden to the employees of the firm of Raymond and Langston, although even if one did venture here, what could he see? At one end a smelting plant, not, in truth, improper for an armaments business dealing, as it did, with steel and iron. At the other end of the concrete basement was a huge steel vault.

Solo bestowed a casual glance at the smelting plant but did not go near it. His present business was with the vault. Shoeless feet cold on the concrete floor, he walked to the vault and around it, carefully inspecting, and in the rear he found a spot suitable for his purposes. That section of the vault had an overhanging ledge.

From a pocket of his jacket he extracted the dial instrument Jenkins had given him. Inserting his hand deeply into the space, he attached the instrument by its suction cups to the underside of the ledge. He stood back for a view. Perfect. The dial instrument could not be seen. Now the electronic dial would turn and whirl in silence when and if the dial on the door of the vault was used; it would register the combination to open the vault.

Solo sighed in satisfaction. The first work of his adventure was accomplished. Now be took the Communicator from a pocket and gazed at it fondly. A marvelous scientific instrument. A direct communication to Headquarters, but on a revolving frequency that shifted second by second. Nobody in the world could overhear a conversation except those special persons equipped with an identical Communicator. He clicked it into operation, then spoke softly.

"Solo here, reporting. First report."

The Old Man's voice came through clear as a bell.

"Waverly here. Proceed with report. Over."

"I've been accepted as Owens. I'm alone in the building. Subjects have gone off to Westbury. I have attached the instrument to the vault. Neither the smelting plant nor the vault has been put to use yet. I'm down in the vault room, the basement. Any further instructions for the present? Over."

Waverly's chuckle crackled through the receiver.

"Were you paid your fee? Over."

"Ten thousand dollars in cash. How's Illya? Over."

"Validated by the magazine. He'll be off in the morning. They've made contact with the press relations man there. He'll be expected and welcomed. Over."

"Any further instructions for now? Over."

"Nothing. Play it by ear and report when convenient. So far, so good. Nice work. Over and out."

There was a click and then silence.

Solo went back to his apartment. He made him self a meal, ate, then stalked about impatiently. There was nothing to do, so he took off his clothes and went to bed.

11. An Evening Chore

AT SEVEN-FIFTEEN in the evening Solo heard a car scrape to a stop. The sound came from the rear. He hurried out of the bedroom to the kitchen, where a window faced the rear. Standing taut at the side of the window, he looked down. It was an alley, wide and long. Some of the Raymond and Langston trucks were parked there. The rear would be the delivery entrance to the establishment. From a black sedan parked at the curb Otis Langston and Felix Raymond emerged and entered the building. Barefoot, Solo swiftly padded back to the bedroom and took position in the closet.

Finally he heard their voices faintly, coming from their living room. He entered the closet and pressed his ear to the far wall. Now he heard them more clearly, but there was not much to hear.

"Time now to take care of the delivery," Langston's thin voice piped.

"Yes," agreed Raymond's baritone.

"What about Owens?"

"Let's have a look."

Instantly Solo was out of the closet, closing the door. He leaped into the bed, pulled up the covers, and closed his eyes. Within a few minutes the men were in his bedroom. Solo snored.