"No. You're doing fine. Stay with it, stick close to Craig, and report when convenient. Over and out."
Illya put away the Communicator, came up out of the dark ramp, and rejoined Candy in the sun shine of the box. Craig's performance was, of course, over, but the other acts were interesting, breathtaking, thrilling. It was a fine circus.
"What happens to your dad in between?" asked Illya.
"In between what?" Candy smiled.
"I mean, now."
"Well, after the lions are back in the wagon, after Dad's performance is over, he goes back to one of the cabins, showers, and rests. Then he puts on a nice new uniform and comes out for his bow at the grand finale."
"And after that?" asked Illya.
"Well, today we'll show you about after the show so you can take more pictures. Then we'll go back to the apartment for early dinner. We've planned a lovely dinner for you, Mr. Fairchild. Fruit cocktail, marvelous steaks with mashed potatoes, and I toss up the greatest green salad you've ever tasted. Then, for dessert, Dad's special—rice pudding."
Illya's mouth watered. "Sounds wonderful. I'm glad it's an early dinner."
"Hungry, Mr. Fairchild?"
"You've just made me very hungry, Miss Craig."
At that moment John Parley stepped into their private box. The silver-haired man wore an official badge on his lapel, and around his waist was a wide leather belt from which hung a large leather holster.
"Enjoying our circus, Mr. Fairchild?"
"Immensely, Mr. Parley."
"And I see you've wisely chosen yourself a lovely guide," laughed Parley. "The most beautiful our circus can offer."
"Thank you," murmured Candy.
"And remarkably talented," continued Parley. "You should watch her performance sometime."
"Thank you again," said Candy, blushing now.
"Not at all, my dear. Those are entirely deserved compliments" said Parley and then bowed, did a little wave with his right hand, and went on his way.
Illya, frowning, watched until he disappeared from view.
"Why does he wear a gun?" he asked.
"Oh, don't you know him? I was certain you did. He called you by name."
"Of course I know him," Illya reassured the girl whose face had clouded because she thought she had breached etiquette by not introducing them. "John Parley, the boss."
Candy was smiling again. "That's why he wears a gun."
"I don't get it," said lllya.
"All the circus officials, when they move about the grounds, have guns with them—just in case any of the animals get loose. They're not real guns, Mr. Fairchild. They're tranquilizer dart guns. A shot from one of them would put the animal to sleep."
"I see," Illya nodded, "and what's this about your performances, young lady? You didn't tell me."
Candy's soft features were suffused again with a charming blush.
"On Saturdays and Sundays, the afternoon shows, when there are lots of kids in the stands," she said. "Then I'm all dressed up in a beautiful spangled silk costume. Dad does a few tricks with the lions, then he introduces me, steps out of the cage, and I take over for the rest of the performance."
"Well, I didn't know you were that professional."
"I am," she admitted modestly but truthfully. And then the last act, tumbling clowns, ended. The grand finale began, all the performers appeared, the music of trumpets blared to high crescendo, and wave upon wave of thunderous applause rolled through the huge arena.
18. Name-Dropping
ALMOST IMMEDIATELY Solo's stakeout by the open bedroom closet door was rewarded. Raymond and Langston were receiving a guest, and now Solo was inside the closet, his ear pressed to the far wall.
"Tito! How are you?" piped Langston.
"Good to see you, Tito," boomed Raymond.
"We finish up the job. Yes, gentlemen?" rasped Tito in a thick, guttural voice tinged with a foreign accent.
"Join us in a bit of refreshment, Tito?" asked Langston.
There was silence, then the tinkle of ice in glasses.
Solo could distinguish them by their voices. Langston's was a thin, reedy voice; Raymond's was the booming baritone; Tito's was the deep rasp with the foreign blur.
"Today we finish up, and you're the helper, Tito," boomed Raymond. "Everything's in order. Right, Otis?"
"Right," said Langston.
"The passports are all in order?" asked Raymond.
"Right," said Langston.
"You, Tito?"
"Sure, passport," rasped Tito. "But the business—how does it work, Mr. Raymond?"
"We carry out the stuff to the truck," responded Raymond. "It'll take quite a number of trips. We'll use the bags that Owens brought."
"Right," piped Langston.
"I've notilled Parley," said Raymond. "He'll be ready."
Parley, thought Solo. John Parley, the owner of the circus. So he's one of them, a member of T.H.R..U.S.H. That's a piece of information the Old Man will appreciate knowing.
"We'll have the truck loaded by six o'clock," said Raymond. "The stuff won't take up much room—very little in fact. Ingots of gold are quite compact. Six million doesn't take up too much room, believe me, Tito."
"If you say so, Mr. Raymond," laughed Tito, "I believe it."
"We take off at six o'clock," said Langston. "We figure an hour to get there, maybe a little less, depending on traffic. We'll be there by seven, which is between shows of the circus. Parley will order the grounds cleared, so we'll be free to work. You'll drive the truck, Tito. We'll be inside the truck, in back."
"Sure, I drive," said Tito. "But how does the business work, gentlemen?"
"When we get there," explained Raymond, "we're supposed to be health inspectors on a sudden evening inspection. We're supposed to be looking in on the animals' quarters, where they're fed. Parley will have Craig take the lions out of the big wagon and keep them happy in the outdoor cage while we go into the big wagon from the rear."
Craig, thought Solo. Kenneth Craig. But is he one of them or not? Could be either way. Could be he was working with them—or it could be he would simply be following Parley's orders to work the lions in the outdoor cage while the health inspectors entered the big wagon from the rear and did their work there. Please, Solo begged silently, talk more about Kenneth Craig. But they did not.
"So how does it work?" Tito persisted. "The feeding troughs in the big wagon, the lions' feeding troughs, have false bottoms," said Raymond. "It'll be a quick, easy job to load the ingots into the false bottoms. Who would ever think—who would dare!—to look there? The lions themselves are the protection!"
"Wonderful!" growled Tito. "Beautiful! Clever, Mr. Raymond. Very clever."
Solo, listening, had to agree.
"And then," laughed Raymond, "a quick change in the plans of Parley Circus. It'll pack up and take off in the morning. There are chartered planes already cleared, already waiting. A quick change is always good. The unexpected is always good. Any tickets already sold for the few future performances—the money will be refunded."
"How do you like it, Tito?" asked Langston.
"Beautiful," said Tito.