The Mystery of the Silver Spider - Артур Роберт - Страница 4

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• 4/22
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“Got that?” Bert Young said. “All right, guys, let’s get this show on the road!”

VARANIA! Bob stood on the stone balcony and looked out across the rooftops of the ancient city of Denzo. In the morning sunshine the city was a mass of waving treetops, pierced by tiled roofs and the tall towers of public buildings. The golden dome of a great church rose from a small hill about half a mile away. In the stone-paved courtyard below, scrubwomen with buckets and brushes were shining the very stones.

Behind the five-storey stone palace the Denzo River, broad and swift, wound through the city. Small excursion boats moved slowly along the river. It was a very colorful scene, and from the balcony of their third-floor corner room, Bob had an excellent view.

“It’s certainly different from California,” Pete said, stepping out through the French doors to join Bob on the balcony. “You can tell just by looking at it this city is old.”

“Founded in 1335,” Bob said. He had, of course, read up on Varania and its history in the hectic days before he and Pete and Jupiter had set out on their exciting journey. “Invaded several times and destroyed, but always rebuilt. It’s been at peace since 1675 when Prince Paul put down a rebellion and became the big national hero, like our George Washington. Everything we’re looking at is about three hundred years old. There’s a modern section to the city, but it’s out of sight over that way.”

“I like it,” Pete said admiringly. “How much country is there to go along with the city?”

“Only about fifty square miles,” Bob told him. “It really is a small nation. See those hills in the distance? Varania’s border is at the top of them. The country runs about seven miles up the Denzo River. Grape-growing, making fine textiles, and entertaining visitors are the principal industries. Lots of tourists come here because it’s very picturesque. Because of the tourists, most of the shopkeepers still wear the old Varanian costumes. To give it atmosphere.”

Jupiter Jones, buttoning a bright sport shirt, stepped out of their room and surveyed the view admiringly.

“It looks like a movie set,” he said. “Except that it’s real. What’s that church over there, Bob?”

“I guess it must be St. Dominic’s,” Bob said. “That’s the biggest church and the only one that has a golden dome and two bell towers. See those tall spires? They have bells in them. The tower on the left has eight bells that ring for church services and on national holidays. The one on the right has one big old monster of a bell that is called Prince Paul’s bell. When Prince Paul put down the rebellion in 1675, he rang it to let his loyal followers know he was alive and needed help. They rallied around and chased the rebels out. Since then it has been rung only for the royal family.

“When a ruler is crowned, it rings one hundred times, very slowly. When a new member of the royal family is born, Prince Paul’s bell rings fifty times. For a royal wedding it rings seventy-five times. It has a very deep note, unlike any other bell in the city, and can be heard for at least three miles.”

“Good old Records!” Pete grinned.

“We ought to be getting ready to see Djaro,” Jupiter put in. “The Royal Chamberlain said Djaro would join us for breakfast.”

“Speaking of breakfast, I could use some,” Pete exclaimed. “I wonder where we’ll eat?”

“We’ll have to wait and see,” Jupiter answered. “Let’s check our equipment and make sure everything’s in order. After all, we’re here on business.”

He led the way back into the room. It had high ceilings and paneled walls that had a deep satin glow to them. Over the bed, which was more than six feet wide and in which all three had slept, was a carved coat of arms of Djaro’s family.

Their bags still stood on a stand. They had opened them only to get out pajamas and toothbrushes when they arrived late the previous evening. A jet had flown them to New York, and from there to Paris. However, they had seen nothing of either city, for they had not left the airport. At Paris, they had changed to a big helicopter which flew them to Denzo’s tiny airport.

Then an automobile had taken them to the palace and the Royal Chamberlain had greeted them. Djaro was at a special meeting and unable to see them, he had said, but would join them for breakfast. He had led them through positively miles of stone corridors, to come at last to this bedroom. They had tumbled into bed and fallen asleep immediately, without unpacking.

Now they unpacked and put away their clothes.

When they had put their things in a roomy clothes cabinet that looked about five hundred years old — closets had been unknown when the castle was built — they looked at the three items they had left out.

Three cameras. At least they looked like cameras. And they were cameras, rather large and expensive looking, with flashbulb attachments and plenty of gadgets. But you could also use them as radios. Very special, high-power walkie-talkie equipment was built into the back of each camera. The flashbulb attachment doubled as an antenna for sending and receiving. You could speak into the camera, and your voice would travel as far as ten miles. Even from inside a building the range was a couple of miles.

The walkie-talkies had only two communication bands, and they couldn’t be picked up by any radio or walkie-talkie except one tuned to the same channels. The only such radios, aside from the three that lay on the bed now, were in the American Embassy where Bert Young was.

He had flown with them from Los Angeles to New York, and all the way had talked to them earnestly. Among other things he had said that he would never be too far away from them, and would expect them to communicate with him by camera walkie-talkie every night. Sooner, if something important happened.

“Now understand me, fellows,” he had said, “maybe everything will go smoothly and Prince Djaro will be crowned according to schedule. But I think there’s trouble brewing and I hope you can help us spot it.

“Don’t ask questions — as I told you, the Varanians don’t want anyone prying into their business. Just wander around and take pictures of the scenery, and keep your eyes and ears open. You’ll be reporting to me regularly on the camera-radios. I’ll have a listening post, probably at the American Embassy.

“That’s all for now. After you get on the plane for Paris you’re on your own, except for radio contact. I’ll get to Varania on a different plane and be ready for you. Any further plans we’ll have to make as things develop. For code purposes when you report, you’ll be First, Second, and Records. Got it?”

With that Bert Young had wiped his brow, and they had felt like wiping theirs. It was a rather frightening assignment. To all intents and purposes they were secret agents working for the U.S. government.

Now, remembering all Bert Young had told them, they felt rather subdued. Pete was the first to break the silence. He picked up his camera and opened the leather case in which it was carried. In the bottom of the leather case was still another gadget — a very tiny transistorized tape recorder that could pick up conversation from across a room.

“Before we see Djaro,” he said, “shouldn’t we contact Mr. Young? Just to make sure everything’s working?”

“A good idea, Second,” Jupiter agreed. “I’ll step out on the balcony and take a picture of the view.”

He picked up his camera and trotted out to the balcony. Opening the leather case, he focused on the golden dome of St. Dominic’s.

He pressed down on the button that activated the walkie-talkie.

“First reporting,” he said softly, bending over the camera, apparently to study the picture in the view finder. “First reporting, do you read me?”

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