"Happy dreams, then. See you in the morning."
"Have fun, gentlemen."
"Thank you," said Langston and frowned at Raymond. "Felix, if we don't get a move on, they may preempt our reservation."
"Yes," said Raymond. "Good night, Mr. Owens."
"Good night, gentlemen."
They went out, and Solo went to the window in the kitchen.
He saw them enter the black sedan and drive off. He yawned.
In truth, he was tired, and the comfortable bed in the bedroom offered a wonderful invitation, but he had work to do and now be had the opportunity to do that work.
Napoleon Solo got dressed, took the elevator, and descended once again to the vast subterranean chamber.
13. Second Report
IN THE CONCRETE basement, Solo first untied a shoelace and took it out of the shoe. He held one metal tip between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, and held the other metal tip in his right band as a pointer. Pointer outstretched, he advanced upon the vault, a faint vibration beginning to quiver between the thumb and the forefinger of his left hand. The device was reacting to the electric current connected to the burglar-alarm system. Solo traced the current along the bidden wires in the floor and then up a wall to a small fitted panel. He slid the panel open—and there was the alarm switch. He disconnected it, then tied up his shoe again with the shoelace. The vault was his now to open—without clangs anywhere, without buzz alarms, without teletype marks being recorded on the secret tape somewhere in the Raymond and Langston apartment.
Now he went to the rear of the vault, pushed his hand beneath the ledge, and removed the dial instrument. For light he was using the reverse end of the Communicator, which served as a flashlight. He shone the beam of the flashlight on the dial instrument, touched a tiny button on the edge of the instrument, and silently the dial turned, right and left, left and right, number by number, and when its motion ceased Solo had memorized the vault combination.
He pocketed the instrument, went around, flashed the beam at the dial of the vault, made the turns, and opened the vault door. He entered the huge vault, then looked about. Gold gleamed. Six million dollars in gold, but surprisingly it did not take up much room. Gold, compressed to ingots, was a comparatively small quantity in bulk.
He reversed the Communicator, switching it on.
The Old Man was probably home asleep, but there would be a deputy at the receiver at Headquarters to take communication.
"Solo here," he said to the Communicator. "Solo reporting."
The Old Man's voice came through, rasping wearily.
"Ready and waiting. How are you, lad? Over."
"I'm inside the vault. Owens gave us a straight deal. Ingots of gold like bars of butter. Hundreds of them. Our subjects are out for the evening. I advise we move in right now and take over. Over."
"Don't lose your head, mister. We have a subject out there in Westbury more important to us than all the gold they've got there in the vault. Come alive, Mr. Solo. Over."
"Correct. Sorry. Admit, I lost my head." Solo laughed. "I mean, surrounded with all this gold—six million bucks in gold. Sorry. Instructions, please. Over."
"Stay with it, lad. Stay right along with them. See if you can learn just when they intend to transport the stuff to Westbury. Then report. That's it for now. Nice work. Go to bed. Over and out."
Solo left the vault and shut its door. He restored the alarm switch to position. Then he took the elevator back upstairs to his apartment. His work for this day was done. He undressed and showered. He found a fresh tube of toothpaste, but his hosts had neglected to provide a toothbrush. He washed his teeth with his index finger, rinsed, trotted to the bedroom, tumbled into bed, and was immediately asleep.
14. Illya in the Lions' Den
AT NINE-THIRTY the next morning Illya Kuryakin arrived at the Parley Circus on the fairgrounds at Westbury, Long Island. His camera hung by a leather strap from one shoulder, and in a pocket he carried full credentials from Scope magazine.
It was a clear, brisk, lovely day, smelling of flowers and growing things, and Illya happily sucked in the sweet atmosphere like syrup through a straw. He felt alive, vibrant, buoyant.
He strolled along the circus grounds with its vast tents, wagons, and cages. There was no one in sight. It was too early for circus people to be about Finally he came to a rude little makeshift cabin that bore a legend on its door: BRIAN POWELL, PUBLICITY. Illya knocked and a hearty voice called, "Come in."
Brian Powell, seated at a desk, busily working over papers, was a brown-faced young man with a smile like a bright white explosion.
"Yes, sir," he said, "what can I do for you?"
"I'm Evan Fairchild."
The smile bloomed wider. Powell sprang to his feet, came around the desk, and they shook hands. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fairchild. We're quite flattered around here—Scope showing this interest in us. When I got the call yesterday, I pretended to the boss I had a hand in fixing up this great publicity break for us." He winked. "You know how it is."
"Sure," said Illya.
"Anything I can do for you, just say the word."
"I've been walking about the grounds. Rather quiet out there."
"This time of the morning, Mr. Fairchild, it figures to be. Circus people sleep late."
"Do they sleep here, live here? On the grounds?"
"The run-of-the-mill circus people do." He made a grimace. "Including me. But the stars have apartments in town, and Mr. Parley, he has a fine rented house miles from here, by the seashore."
Illya looked disappointed. "Thought I'd be able to talk to him this morning."
"And that you will, Mr. Fairchild. Mr. Parley, just like yours truly, is at work promptly at nine o'clock. If you like, you can see him right now. He knows you're due here, of course. His cabin's quite near. Shall we walk over?"
"Yes. Thank you."
"This way, Mr. Fairchild."
Outside, a wind had sprung up. They battled the wind to Parley's cabin, knocked, entered, and Powell closed the door against the wind.
"Mr. John Parley," said Powell. "Mr. Evan Fairchild from Scope."
"Charmed, I'm sure," said Parley, crisply enunciating.
"My pleasure," said Illya.
John Parley, in his mid-fifties, was tall, slender, handsome, rifle-straight, and silver-haired.
"Has Brian been showing you around?"
"Haven't had the time yet," smiled Powell. "Mr. Fairchild's only just arrived."
"The way I work," said Illya, "I don't like to be shown. I like to wander about on my own."
"Every man to his own manner," acknowledged Parley. "Please consider you have the freedom of the grounds, sir."
"Thank you," said Illya, "and right now, if you please, I'd like to get a few quick photos."
He snapped pictures of the handsome John Parley and then, seeing the look of disappointment on Powell's face, snapped a few of Brian Powell, whose bright smile quickly returned.
"How long do you intend to stay, Mr. Fairchild?" inquired Parley.
"A few days. The magazine wants a rather comprehensive story. I'll arrange to take a place in town."
"Very good," said Parley. "By the way, the circus has two performances a day—at two o'clock in the afternoon and at eight o'clock in the evening. Brian will give you a pass, so the folk here will know you've a right to take your pictures. You'll have your full freedom except, on occasion, when I order the grounds cleared of all strangers."