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."

"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."