They sat in silence until six-twenty, and then the Old Man came alive. He turned knobs on the console board, adjusting to the frequency of Solo's Communicator. Then he pressed a small button which would set up a vibrancy in the Communicator—the signal for Solo to call in.
They waited, their heads turned up toward the ceiling loudspeaker.
Silence. No whisper of sound came back to them.
"I'm afraid he's in trouble," O'Keefe said slowly. Johnson was on his feet. "Give us the word, Chief!"
"Or maybe he's not in trouble," said O'Keefe, correcting himself.
"Please explain that, Mr. O'Keefe. But quickly, please."
"Maybe he talked his way into going with them. Maybe he's in the truck with them right now. If that's the case he just can't come back to you, Chief—in the presence of Raymond and Langston, he just can't take out the Communicator and talk to you."
"But I told him not to interfere, not to risk any wild action."
O'Keefe kept hoping against hope. "Maybe there was no risk, no wild action. Maybe, even, they invited him."
The Old Man slapped his hands on the desk and stood up. "All right, gentlemen, get a move on! I want a quick inspection of that place and a quick report. I'll be right here, waiting. Maybe I'll have heard from him by the time you communicate with me; if so, I'll inform you. Remember, the building's closed. You'll have to open doors. Take picklocks and whatever else necessary. And let me have word as soon as possible. Now get going!"
Siren howling, the unmarked car raced through the city streets, its overhead red light flashing. O'Keefe was at the wheel with Johnson alongside, urging more speed. But when they arrived at the vicinity of the Raymond and Langston Building, O'Keefe stopped the siren, turned off the red flash, and reduced the speed. He made the turn into the alley behind the building and there the car slid to a stop at the curb.
Johnson, with the picklock, opened the door in short order. Inside, they took the elevator directly to the third floor where they inspected the Raymond and Langston apartment and then the guest apartment. There were no signs of disorder, no signs of a fight or struggle. On the second floor they had a quick look into the offices—all in order. Then they took the elevator down to the basement. The vault room was dark. It took a moment before Johnson found the light switch. Then, as illumination flooded the room, they gasped.
Papers, passport, wallet, keys—all were strewn on the floor—and there—that innocent-looking fountain pen—Solo's Communicator! O'Keefe picked it up, that and the passport. He looked at the passport, saw the name in it, tossed it aside. He looked toward Johnson and was shocked at Johnson's deathly pallor. Johnson was pointing at the vault; his mouth was working, but no sound came out. No sound was necessary. Before Johnson could utter a word, O'Keefe understood and a shiver of horror trembled through his body.
"Could be," he croaked.
He was holding Solo's Communicator as though clinging to it. He had his own, but he used the one in his hand. He clicked it on, coughing. His mouth was dry. He wet his lips.
"O'Keefe here. Chief? Over."
"Talk! Over."
"Signs of a struggle in the vault room downstairs. All of Owens' stuff all over the floor; also Solo's Communicator. Johnson got a wild idea that may be they locked him in the vault. Could be, could not be, but we've got to give it a whirl—"
Waverly interrupted.
"Stay where you are! Over and out!" Waverly touched levers on the console board.
"I want ten men," he snapped. "In two cars. Downstairs. Ready to go. I'll join them."
The answer crackled from the loudspeaker. "Yes, Chief."
"Colin Walker must be one of those ten men. Tell him to take all his equipment."
"Yes, Chief."
"And Dr. Blaine from the lab must be another of the men. He's to have all his equipment, too."
"Right, Chief."
"And send in Brad Randall. Right away. Hop to it!"
"Yessir."
Waverly clicked off.
In two minutes Brad Randall, breathless, in shirt sleeves, pushed through the door.
"Chief?"
Randall was a burly white-haired man, one of the inside executives.
"Take over in here," Waverly ordered.
"Right."
"I'm expecting word from Kuryakin. If it comes through, contact me immediately."
"Right."
"That's it, Brad. Take care of the store." Waverly hurried to the door.
"Chief," Randall called softly. Waverly turned.
"Take it easy, Chief. We're neither of us as young as we used to be."
Waverly smiled, nodded, waved, and went out.
O'Keefe and Johnson heard them coming, and when they entered the vault room there was quite a gang of them—eleven men, including Alexander Waverly. Doc Blaine was also among them, but most important, Colin Walker. Colin Walker was the most accomplished safecracker this side of Leavenworth Penitentiary. Colin Walker, an important U.N.C.L.E. agent, was a genius with safes, locks, and vaults. During the trip to lower Park Avenue Colin Walker had been briefed.
Now, immediately, he went to work. He used an instrument that looked like a doctor's stethoscope. Headset clamped to his ears, his left hand held the listening device pressed against the steel of the vault while his right hand slowly twisted and turned the dial. His face was like granite, rigid in concentration, as he listened and judged the inner clickings of the tumblers.
O'Keefe and Johnson stood directly behind him. The others were gathered in little groups—except Waverly. Alone, he paced up and down relentlessly, and he kept looking at his watch.
It took ten minutes. Even for a genius like Colin Walker, it took ten... long... minutes. Then, with a sigh, he grasped the handle and opened the vault door.
Instantly O'Keefe and Johnson rushed in—and came out slowly, carrying carefully between them the unconscious form of Napoleon Solo.
They laid him on the floor.
25. The Old Man Takes Charge
EXCITEMENT BUZZED through the group like a nest of wasps.
"Quiet!" roared Waverly.
The doctor was on his knees, the side of his head pressed against Solo's heart. When he looked up he was smiling.
"He's alive. He'll be all right, I'm sure. Please stand back, gentlemen." He looked toward Waverly. "My bag, please."
Waverly brought the little black bag. This time the doctor used his stethoscope. Johnson nudged O'Keefe and O'Keefe nodded. Doc Blaine's expression of concentration as he examined Solo was oddly similar to what had been Walker's expression as he had listened to the clicking of the tumblers.
The doctor snapped off the stethoscope and laid it aside.
"No damage. He'll be all right. Somebody help me, please."
Johnson knelt beside him. "What, Doc?"
"We'll take off his jacket, shirt, and tie."
They lifted the unconscious Solo to a sitting position, removed his jacket, shirt, and tie, and gently laid him back. The doctor swabbed Solo's arm with an antiseptic, then, using a hypodermic, injected a stimulant.
"He'll come around in a few moments."
Sure enough, in a few moments Solo's eyes fluttered. Color seeped back into his face and a tremulous sigh escaped his lips. Then suddenly his brown eyes opened wide. He stared, frowned—and suddenly remembered.