“You’re probably right,” Silversmith said.
“So why make me hang around all that time? You just took in too much fat city too quick, and you’ve got congestion of the synapses. You need a rest. Let me recommend a very nice exclusive resort I know on the south slope of Kilimanjaro—”
“No,” Silversmith said.
“Maybe something more spiritual? I know this guru—”
“No.”
“You are beginning to exasperate me,” Maginnis said. “In fact, you’re getting me sore. Silversmith, what do you want?”
“I want to be happy,” Silversmith said. “But I realize now that I can’t be happy by owning things.”
“So you’re sticking to poverty?”
“No. I also can’t be happy by not owning things.”
“Well,” Maginnis said, “that seems to cover the field.”
“I think there is a third alternative,” Silversmith said. “But I don’t know what you’re going to think of it.”
“Yeah? What is it?”
“I want to join your team,” Silversmith said.
Maginnis sat down on the bed. “You want to join us?”
“Whoever you are,” Silversmith said, “I want to be a part of it.”
“What made you decide that?” Maginnis asked.
“I happened to notice that you were happier than I was. I don’t know what your racket is, Maginnis, and I have certain reservations about the organization I think you work for. But I really do want in.”
“Are you willing to give up all your remaining wishes and everything else, just for that?”
“Whatever it takes,” Silversmith said. “Just let me in.”
“Okay,” Maginnis said, “you’re in.”
“I really am? That’s great. Whose life do we mess up next?”
“Oh, we’re not that organization at all,” Maginnis said, grinning. “People sometimes do confuse the two of us, though I can’t imagine why. But be that as it may: you have just endowed us with all your worldly goods, Silversmith, and you have done so without expectation of reward, out of a simple desire to serve. We appreciate the gesture. Silversmith, welcome to heaven.”
A rosy cloud formed around them, and through it Silversmith could see a vast silver gate inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
“Hey!” he said, “you got me here on a deception! You tricked me, Maginnis, or whoever you are!”
“The other organization has been doing that sort of thing for so long,” Maginnis said, “we thought we really should give it a try.”
The pearly gates opened. Silversmith could see that a Chinese banquet had been set out, and there were girls, and some of the guests seemed to be smoking dope.
“Not that I’m complaining,” Silversmith said.
MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE BROMIDE
THE DESPERATE CHASE
This time it looked like the end for Arkady Varadin, formerly a magician, now a much-wanted criminal. Cool and resourceful in the face of danger, cunning and ruthless, dangerous as a puff adder, master of illusion and fanciful escapes, the thin-faced Varadin had overstepped himself this time.
After a spectacular escape from the Denning maximum-security penitentiary, any other man would have stayed out of sight. Not Varadin. Single-handed, he had held up a bank in the small town of Croesus, Maine. Escaping, he had shot and killed two guards who were foolish enough to reach for their guns. He had stolen a car and made off.
But then his luck turned. The FBI had been waiting for something like this. Within an hour they were on Varadin’s trail. Even then the master criminal might have escaped; but his stolen car ran out of gas.
Varadin abandoned the car and went into the mountains. Five FBI agents were close behind. At long range, Varadin plugged two of them with six shots from his revolver. He had no more ammunition. There were still three agents coming up the mountain, and a local guide was with them.
A bad break! Varadin hurried on. All he had now was $75,000 of bank money, and his escape kit. He tried to throw off his pursuers, leading them up mountains and doubling back through valleys.
But the Maine guide could not be deceived in his native woods. Inexorably the gap closed between the hunters and the hunted.
At last Varadin found himself on a dirt road. He followed it and came to a granite quarry. Beyond the quarry, cliffs tilted steeply into the boulder-strewn sea. To climb down was possible; but the FBI agents would pick him off before he reached the bottom.
He looked around. The quarry was strewn with gray granite boulders of all sizes and shapes. Varadin’s luck, his fantastic luck, was still with him. It was time for his final illusion.
He opened his escape kit and took out an industrial plastic that he had modified for his own use. His quick fingers constructed a framework of branches, lashing them together with his shoelaces. Over this he spread the plastic, rubbing dirt and granite dust into it. When he was done, he stepped back and surveyed his work.
Yes, it looked like any other large boulder, except for a hole in one side.
Varadin stepped in through this hole and, with his remaining plastic, sealed all but a tiny breathing hole. His concealment was complete. Now, with fatalistic calm, he waited to see if the trick would work.
In minutes the FBI men and the guide reached the quarry. They searched it thoroughly, then ran to the edge and looked over. At last they sat down on a large gray boulder.
“He must have jumped,” said the guide.
“I don’t believe it,” said the chief agent. “You don’t know Varadin.”
“Well, he ain’t here,” said the guide. “And he couldn’t have doubled back on us.”
The chief agent scowled and tried to think. He put a cigarette in his mouth and scratched a match on the boulder. The match wouldn’t light.
“That’s funny,” he said. “Either I’ve got wet matches or you’ve got soft boulders.”
The guide shrugged his shoulders.
The agent was about to say something else when an old panel truck with ten men in the back drove into the quarry.
“Catch him yet?” the driver asked.
“Nope,” the agent said. “I guess he must have gone over the edge.”
“Good riddance,” the truck driver said. “In that case, if you gents don’t mind—”
The FBI agent shrugged his shoulders.
“Okay, I guess we can write him off.” He stood up, and the guide and the other agents followed him out of the quarry. “All right, boys,” the driver said. “Let’s go to work.” The men scrambled out of the truck, which was marked EASTERN MAINE GRAVEL CORPORATION.
“Ted,” the driver said, “you might as well plant your first charges under that big boulder the G-man was sitting on.”
THE DISGUISED AGENT
James Hadley, the famous Secret Service agent, was caught. On his way to the Istanbul airport, his enemies had pursued him into a cul-de-sac near the Golden Horn. They had dragged him into a long black limousine driven by an oily, scarfaced Greek. Car and chauffeur waited outside while Hadley’s captors took him upstairs to a disreputable room in Istanbul’s Armenian sector, not far from the Rue Chaffre.
It was the worst spot the famous agent had ever been in. He was strapped to a heavy chair. Standing in front of him was Anton Lupescu, the sadistic head of the Rumanian secret police and implacable foe of Western forces. On either side of Lupescu stood Chang, Lupescu’s impassive manservant, and Madam Oui, the cold, beautiful Eurasian.