Solo watched, Kuryakin watched, and the Old Man watched, each experiencing similar emotions. Billy Sol Kaplan was a little man, dry and wizened, older than his chief. He had once been a professor of physics at Yale University. What, now, had happened to Billy Sol Kaplan? Usually he was calm, dour, solid as the metals of which he was an acclaimed expert. But now his breathing was noisy, his little feet were jumping, he was dancing about like a youngster at a discotheque. Finally he made an extraordinary pronouncement.
"Gentlemen," said Billy Sol Kaplan. "Every item contained in these suitcases is made of gold. Gold!"
"Gold!" exclaimed Alexander Waverly.
"Molten gold," returned Billy So!, "has been poured into crude molds, made to look like parts of machinery, then left to harden, and then covered with a thin veneer of sheet iron."
And now it was the Old Man who was prancing as though to his own personal strains of go-go music. Lightly he trod to a phone, lifted the receiver, and said, "Send down Frank McCall. At once." Frank McCall was the money man, the financial wizard, the monetary expert.
They waited, as though a fixed tableau, silent, expectant, motionless, all except Billy Sol Kaplan, who again, quite feverishly, was applying instruments to seemingly crude iron machinery parts.
When McCall, out of breath, arrived, he was quickly briefed on the situation, and then he went into conclave with Billy Sol Kaplan. They talked quietly together, whispered, laughed, again examined with instruments the machinery parts, weighed the parts on a delicate scale, and when Frank McCall came out of conclave he announced, "Your salesman from Bogotá was carrying one hundred thousand dollars' worth of pure gold."
Reaction was a great cumulative gasp, like the hiss of an erupting volcano, from the assemblage—all except Mr. Alexander Waverly, who calmly addressed Solo and Kuryakin.
"Gentlemen."
"Yessir," they replied in unison.
"Please revive our slumbering guest."
"Yessir."
"And bring him up to my office for some gentle interrogation."
"Yessir. Gentle. Interrogation. At once, Mr. Waverly."
The Old Man grimaced good-naturedly.
Solo and Illya left the room.
4. Interrogation
ALEXANDER WAVERLY sat in his swivel chair, his hands loosely clasped on his abdomen. Opposite him, the desk between them, sat Howard Ogden. A distance behind Ogden stood Solo and Kuryakin, like sentinels.
The Old Man coughed, then smiled. "Mr. Ogden, do you know who I am?"
"Owens," said Ogden, disregarding the question.
The Old Man's smile tightened. His gaze concentrated. He saw before him a man lounging easily, long legs crossed, face serenely confident. The face was dark, well structured, with a strong jaw and dark, narrow, glittering eyes. "Mr. Owens, do you know who I am?"
"Sir, you are known, respected, and sometimes feared by the entire world. Nobody knows who your agents are, who your people are, but you— you are internationally renowned. You are Alexander Waverly, head of United Network Command for Law Enforcement. What beats me is, what is your interest in me?"
"Why not you, Mr. Ogden?"
"Owens," said Ogden. "I mean—me—for you— for your organization—I'm a pipsqueak."
"I quite agree with your description of yourself, Mr. Ogden. Pipsqueak."
"Owens," corrected Ogden.
"Let's clear up this Ogden-Owens business," the Old Man said sternly. "Your name is Howard Ogden. You are under indictment by the United States government, an indictment of five years' standing. Five years ago in California you jumped bail and disappeared. I have information that you spent those five years in South America. Do you wish to deny any of this, Mr. Ogden?"
Silence.
"Do you admit you are Howard Ogden?"
Silence.
"Would you prefer that I call in the federal authorities to make the identillcation?"
"No, sir." There was a grim smile now on the dark face.
"You are Howard Ogden?"
"Yes, sir."
"You spent the past five years in South America?"
"Yes, sir—knocking around in South America."
"Now, if you please, Mr. Ogden, why this sudden return to the United States under the alias Harry Owens?"
"Harry Owens. That's the name I was using in South America."
"But why this sudden return to the States?"
"Well, sir, I've been trying to go straight. I got a job, a good job, as a salesman with the Castillo Manufacturing Company in Bogotá. They asked me to come up here to the States, to try to open up the U.S. market for them. Naturally I couldn't refuse."
"Naturally you couldn't refuse," said the Old Man, and then he proceeded to knock the suave Ogden's story into a cocked hat. He sat forward in the swivel chair, fingering the passport and papers on his desk. "Mr. Ogden, your passport and credentials are forgeries—excellent forgeries, but forgeries. Furthermore, no Harry Owens ever worked for the Castillo Manufacturing Company nor has that company any interest in opening up United States markets." Quietly now the Old Man added, "Do you wish to change your story, Mr. Ogden-Owens?"
The suave soldier of fortune remained unruffled. "I'm afraid you've trapped me, Mr. Waverly."
"Exactly my purpose, sir. Now I want the truth!"
"Yes, the truth," said Ogden-Owens smoothly. "Well, sir, I had assumed the name Harry Owens—but Harry Owens had grown sick and tired of the fugitive life in South America. I figured by this time—after five years—the heat was off back here in my own country. So I conceived this plan, this method, of returning to my homeland to start fresh—a new life as Harry Owens."
"So now we have the truth, have we?"
"Yes, sir. And I trust you won't go too hard with me because I lied to you before. If you turn me over to the authorities—please, I should like per mission first to call a lawyer. So that at least my belongings can be taken care of."
"Belongings?"
"My personal effects. My suitcases."
"Suitcases," the Old Man grunted mildly. "But all they contain are small samples of machinery parts."
"True enough, sir. But they don't belong to me. I borrowed them, promised to return them, and I would certainly like to do that." The dark man smiled. "It is all a part of my new resolve—turning over a new leaf, being honest, going straight."
It was time. The Old Man had softened up his wily opponent. Now it was time for the haymaker.
"My dear Mr. Ogden-Owens," said the Old Man softly, "may I inform you that the contents of your suitcases have been carefully examined? I should like further to inform you that your honest and straightforward story is nothing more than a dishonest and crooked mass of lies. Every item in each suitcase is an iron-plated object of gold! Under your alias of Harry Owens, you have illegally trans ported one hundred thousand dollars' worth of gold into the United States! Now, what have you to say to that, mister supposedly reformed ex-criminal?"
No longer suave, no longer smooth, but pale and shaken, Howard Ogden lurched up out of his chair, stood towering, fists clenched, over the seated Alexander Waverly. Solo was beside him instantly. He took him by his neck and elbow and thrust him back into his chair. Howard Ogden sat glum, silent, crestfallen.