Solo grinned. "It's a matter of no importance at all."
"Then I advise you to stay clear."
"When will they be free?"
"They're not going to be free—not, at least, during the business day. Matter of fact, they're not even going out to lunch; I'm to order their lunch sent in. They're going to be cooped in there till five o'clock, that I guarantee."
"Do you have your lunch sent in, too?"
"Not me. I go out to lunch." And she smiled up sweetly at the handsome young man standing above her, and suddenly Solo felt the fool. There had been, without his actually meaning it, an implication on his part that he was about to invite her to lunch and she appeared quite willing to accept such an invitation. She was an attractive young lady, and at another time, as Napoleon Solo, it would have been most pleasant to have lunch with Miss Dunhill. But he was working on a job. He was not Napoleon Solo. He was Harry Owens.
Lamely he said, "Well, thank you, Miss Dunhill. Thank you for warning me that this is no time to barge in on the gentlemen."
"Not at all, Mr. Owens," said Miss Dunhill, looking disappointed.
Awkwardly Solo made his way to the elevator and was glad to escape into its lonely confines. He pushed the button for the main floor but went out, as previously directed, through the rear.
The alley was windy and dark, the tall buildings on either side shutting off the sun, and it was not until he rounded the corner that he was able to agree with Miss Dunhill's estimate of the weather—it was a bright, clear, breezy, sunny day.
Briskly now he walked up Park Avenue until he found what he was seeking—a stationery store. He purchased a small cardboard box, tissue paper, wrapping paper, and cellophane tape. Then he walked again until he discovered a post office. Inside, he carefully packed the dial instrument in tissue within the box, wrapped the box, sealed it, addressed it to Alexander Waverly, and mailed it off. The instrument had accomplished its purpose—no sense keeping it about on his person. Suddenly he realized he was very hungry.
Out again on the sunny street, he found a restaurant. He first ordered orange juice, to the astonishment of the waitress—it was already afternoon—then bacon and eggs, toast, and coffee, and he ravenously enjoyed every morsel. His appetite satisfied, he sat back, sipping coffee and thinking. Illya, as Evan Fairchild, was out at Westbury on the tail of Kenneth Craig, but here he was in New York as Harry Owens. What would he, as Harry Owens, do in New York that he could properly report back to Raymond and Langston?
Miss Dunhill, sometime during the day, would report to her employers that Harry Owens had attempted to see them. Good. Quite natural for Harry Owens. She would also tell her employers that she had informed Owens that they would be busy until at least five o'clock. That left Harry Owens footloose and free until that time. What then, with free time, would Harry Owens, a stranger in the city, do in the city? He would go sight-seeing, that's what be would do. Without enthusiasm Solo paid his check and prepared for activities that would make a normal day's report back to Raymond and Langston. He sighed and went out to see sights that he already knew very well. After all, New York was Solo's home town, but it was necessary to make the rounds, just in case his hosts checked up on him.
Suddenly he remembered something else that Harry Owens naturally would do. Harry Owens was carrying ten thousand dollars in cash on his person. What would Harry Owens naturally do to protect that money for the next two weeks? He would deposit it in a bank, that's what he would do.
With purpose now, Solo strode the streets for a bank, found one, entered, established a checking account with a first deposit of ten thousand dollars, and happily gathered deposit slip and checkbook for later display to Felix Raymond and Otis Langston.
Then he tramped the city, making a record for Harry Owens. He went to the United Nations, the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, the Coliseum, Lincoln Center, and the Central Park Zoo, where he munched frankfurters and looked at animals. When he returned wearily to his temporary home, it was ten minutes after five. Before even going to his own apartment, he knocked on the door of his hosts' apartment.
At once Otis Langston opened the door, but when Langston saw who it was an expression of disappointment settled on his face.
"Oh. Owens."
"Expecting someone else?" Solo inquired innocently.
"Well… er… uh…"
From within, Raymond's voice boomed, "How are you, Owens? Have a nice day?"
Solo virtually had to push himself in, knowing he was far from welcome. Smilingly he produced the material from the bank and smilingly he told about his day's sight-seeing. There were no smiles at all from Raymond and Langston, but at least Solo knew they had no suspicions about him, that he was, to them, Harry Owens and no one else. But they got rid of him and were not even subtle about doing it. Langston opened the door, said, "Nice of you to drop in, Mr. Owens, but you've bad a rather busy day, and I'd advise that you rest up a bit, relax," and that was that.
Solo entered his apartment, latched his door from the inside, got himself a glass of milk and a sandwich, brought that to the bedroom, opened the closet door, pulled up a chair, and sat, eating, listening, awaiting developments.
17. Guessing Games
AT FOUR O'CLOCK that afternoon, Alexander Waverly, in his office, had heard a familiar voice crackle from the ceiling loudspeaker. It was Kuryakin on the Communicator.
"Kuryakin here. Reporting."
Instantly Waverly had struck the key on the console board for outside communication.
"Waverly here. Come in, Mr. Kuryakin. I read you clearly. Over."
"First report, Chief. Contact made. Close. I'm living with the guy in his apartment, on his invitation. He's got his kid here with him in this country, a daughter, Candy. Great kid, and he seems to me a great guy."
Waverly interrupted. "Do you have anything solid, Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly coughed. "Solid information to report? Over."
"First report, Chief. Settling in. Close contact. Solid. I'm in a position for character study and overall impression. Interested? Over."
Waverly sighed. "Always interested in what you have to say, Mr. Kuryakin. Over."
"The man is a loving father to his daughter and a kind host to me. He seems to be perfectly happy, does not seem to be burdened down by any secret work––that is, secret work on their side. My guess, he is not involved. Over."
"That's not what you were sent out to Westbury for, Mr. Kuryakin—not to play guessing games. You were sent out for facts. Proof. Understood? Over."
"Yes, Chief. Understood. Over."
"You've made the contact—excellent. Now it's your job to stay close. We know they intend to transport the gold through the Parley Circus. What we don't know is whether Craig is mixed in it. That's your job. So stay close and keep your eyes and ears open. By the way, where are you now? Over."
"I'm alone down in an exit ramp under the grandstand. The circus is on now, and I'm with Miss Candy in a box; I excused myself for a moment. There's a two o'clock show that goes on until four-thirty, then an eight o'clock show that lasts until about ten-thirty. Any special orders? Over."