Their walk, a long one, ended at an imposing modern apartment house. Upstairs, a tall man opened the door for them. Candy introduced them.
"Mr. Evan Fairchild of Scope magazine," she said, "meet my dad, Kenneth Craig."
Craig shook hands and said, "Parley told me you were coming." He was a big, blue-eyed, strapping blond man, smiling and amiable. His daughter, in her own feminine way, bore a great resemblance to him.
"Daddy, you'll never guess what happened this morning!"
"What happened, love?"
Candy told her father about Illya's misadventure.
Craig's steely blue eyes hardened. "Dangerous, Mr. Fairchild. Dangerous for any man to wander about alone on circus grounds."
"Mr. Craig," said Illya, "I shall wander no more––unescorted. I have learned my lesson the hard way."
"I'd be happy to serve as your escort, Mr. Fairchild."
"I'd be happy to have you, Mr. Craig. But do you have the time?"
"Time? Of course I have the time. We're quite bored, Candy and I, between performances. Where are you staying, Mr. Fairchild?"
"I haven't picked a place yet. Practically just got here."
"You'll stay here with us"
"Oh, no, please. I wouldn't presume."
"No presumption, Mr. Fairchild, not at all." The blond man smiled. "Fate. Don't ever fight fate, Mr. Fairchild. After all, my daughter saved you from the cats. They're quite docile and well-trained, my big cats, but just as humans are human, animals are animal. Frightened, all of us lash out, and in our fright we can do damage. How would you feel, Mr. Fairchild, if a total stranger suddenly invaded your home?"
"Frightened," said Illya.
"But you," laughed the broad-shouldered blond man, "would be less dangerous than a frightened lion. You could have been in quite a pickle if it weren't for Candy, thank heaven. My daughter has brought you here safe and sound, and I would appreciate it if you would stay here with us, as our guest, during your stay with our circus."
Illya was sorely tempted. "But do you have room?"
"Room? We have nothing but room!"
"Do we have room!" chortled the radiant Candy.
"Mr. Fairchild," Craig explained, "we had to take what we could get for our temporary stay, and what we got was six rooms. Can you imagine? Six rooms! Just for Candy and myself. My goodness, we get lost here! We have room, Mr. Fairchild, an overabundance of room, and we would very much appreciate your being our guest."
"Thank you."
"Do you accept?"
"Gratefully."
"Good! Do you have a bag?"
"In a locker at the railroad station."
"Come along, then. My car's downstairs. We'll pick up your bag and do our best to make you comfortable here."
"Me, too, Daddy? May I?"
"Of course, sweet."
It could not be better, could it? His job was Kenneth Craig, and now he would be a lodger in the apartment of Kenneth Craig. Proximity was necessary for close investigation. "Thank you, yellow-eyed lions, into whose vast cage I happened to have wandered," Illya mused.
They returned with his bag from the locker in the railroad station. Illya got settled in Craig's apartment, and then they had lunch cooked by the sprightly Candy. Lunch consisted of grilled barn steak, golden scrambled eggs, crispy luscious French fries, and coffee for the men and tea for her.
"Quite a cook, my Candy."
"It was delicious."
And then they took him to the fairgrounds and showed him about—but this time escorted—and he took pictures of them, of clowns, of objects of interest, of people and animals, and then they returned to the apartment so that Craig could dress for his afternoon performance.
In his room, waiting for Craig, Illya sat alone, thinking. Were he called upon to cast his vote now, his vote, fervently, would be in favor of Kenneth Craig. Could this fine, robust, happy, outgoing man be a traitor, a double-dealer, a turncoat? Could a man like this, a doting father of a seventeen-year-old girl, be a double agent? Would a man mixed up in treason blithely accompany a stranger, a reporter, on his rounds? Would a man deeply engaged in a complex plot involving international intrigue voluntarily offer the comforts of his home to a total stranger? Wouldn't a man weighed down with conscience, riddled with guilt, rather shunt away a stranger? I vote in favor of Kenneth Craig, but I have no proof. My vote is from hunch, feel, instinct…
"We're ready," called Kenneth Craig. "How're you doing, Mr. Fairchild?"
"Ready," returned Illya Kuryakin.
He sat with Candy Craig in a special box and watched Craig's wondrous performance with the six lions. Craig, dressed in boots and safari outfit, two loaded guns in holsters strapped about his middle, put the lions through their paces without whip, stick, or chair. Using only his voice, his hands, and his body, he received complete obedience from the massive, grunting, growling, saber-toothed animals. Can a man whom wild beasts trust be himself untrustworthy? Can a loving father rapturously admired by an innocent girl be a treacherous snake turning his fangs upon his own? No, voted Illya, joining in the thunderous applause at the finish of Kenneth Craig's marvelous performance.
Illya's vote was one hundred percent in favor of the man who was the object of his scrutiny, but his conclusions were a matter of instinct rather than proof, and so his work was unfinished.
16. Sight-Seeing
SOLO HAD AWAKENED to the fine, bright morning sunshine on his eyelids, thin stripes of sunshine slanting in through the slats of the Venetian blinds. Out of bed, he leisurely showered, shaved, and dressed. He listened through the closet wall. There were no sounds in the adjacent apartment. He stayed in the bedroom for more than an hour—not a sound from the apartment next door, which meant that his hosts were about their business, whatever that present business might be. He shrugged and left the apartment.
He took the elevator down to the second floor and stepped out into the reception room. The clock on the wall said ten after eleven.
"Good morning," greeted the red-haired secretary, "and a most beautiful morning it is, Mr. Owens."
"Good morning, Miss—"
"Dunhill," the girl said, smiling prettily. "Miss Dunhill."
"Good morning, Miss Dunhill."
"It's a lovely day out, Mr. Owens. A bit windy but simply lovely."
Solo gestured toward the offices. "The gentlemen?"
The girl made a face, frowning through her smile.
"Do you have to see them?"
Solo shook his head. "I don't have to. I just thought—"
"Then think the better of it," said Miss Dunhill. She hunched up her shoulders. "They're awfully busy and in an awful mood. I've got orders that they're not to be disturbed—unless it's a matter of utmost importance, and when I got those orders I almost had my head bitten off. Ugh!" She shuddered. "When they're in a bad mood, gosh, they're impossible!" She smiled again. "So, Mr. Owens, if it's a matter of utmost importance…"