[Whitman] - The Affair of the Gunrunners' Gold - Keith Brandon - Страница 10

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• 10/23
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Through a low swing door connecting wagon and cage, a lion appeared! Powerful, black muzzled, heavy-maned, the lion, tail swishing, blinked yellow eyes in the sunshine.

Locked in a cage with a lion! Illya shot a glance toward the door leading outside—it was a long distance away! What to do? The lion, standing still, blinking, was looking at him, and he, standing still, was looking at the lion. He feared to make a sudden move. Slowly, ever so slowly, he backed toward the door—and stopped! Another lion pushed through the swing door into the cage and uttered a small sound. Perhaps to the lion it was a small sound; to Illya it was a fearful roar. What to do? How many more were in the huge wagon? Should he make a run for it and risk a leap from a lion? Again he threw a quick glance over his shoulder. It was still a long distance to the door. He stood motionless, confused, hoping against hope that by some miracle, like a happy awakening from a dreadful nightmare, the massive, yellow-eyed, tail-swishing animals would disappear.

15. Invitation Accepted

"STAY, KING! Stay, Mack-boy!"

It was a youthful voice, a girl's voice, but it rang with authority. It came from somewhere behind him. He did not dare turn, did not dare move.

"Stay! Attaboy! Good boys! Good cats!" The great lions stood like statues, making a sound like a purr. "If those are purrs," thought Illya, "then I will happily live the rest of my life deprived of all sounds of purring."

He heard the latch come up, heard the cage door screech open, and then a vision passed before him. Young and pretty, flaxen-haired and blue-eyed, attired in slacks and blouse that matched the color of her eyes, the vision proceeded at a smooth gait toward the lions, talking all the while.

"Good boys. Good old pussycats. Come on. Come along."

She slapped at their flanks, rubbed at their manes, kept on talking in an unexcited voice, soothingly giving orders, pointing toward the swing door. Finally the lions turned and padded through.

The girl bolted the swing door, whirled, and smiled at Illya.

"Are you all right, sir?"

"Uh." The monosyllabic grunt, under the circumstances, was the best he could manage.

"Would you like me to help you out, sir?"

"Thank you," he gasped. "I think I can make it without help."

The girl giggled. They went out of the cage and she latched the door.

"Whew!" breathed Illya. With shaking hands he replaced the camera in its leather case. In the warm sunshine he was perspiring like a runner at the end of a marathon race. He took a handkerchief from a pocket, mopped his steaming face, returned the handkerchief, and looked through the bars of the cage toward the huge yellow wagon. "How many are there in there?" he asked.

"Six."

"Oh, my!"

"They're wonderful, sweet old lions, believe me."

"Yeah," groaned Illya. "Miss, please, who are you?"

"I'm Candy."

"Candy?"

"Short for Candace."

"But how you handled those lions!"

"Candy Craig. My father's Kenneth Craig. I'm sure you've heard of Kenneth Craig."

"But I never heard of you, my dear." Illya was beginning to recover. "And so young. How old, if I may ask?"

"Seventeen."

"Only seventeen? My goodness." Illya's recovery was coming along.

Candy's smiling blue eyes grew stern. "What happened wasn't your fault, sir, whoever you are. That swing door should have been bolted shut. The lions have ample room in the wagon and they're quite contented there until we let them out for work in the cages. That's the duty of the roustabouts, to securely lock in all the animals. But it always happens, toward the end of our stay any where—the roustabouts get kind of careless, negligent. You must not blame yourself, sir. It was not your fault, whoever you are."

"I am Evan Fairchild, a photo reporter for Scope magazine," said Illya, fully recovered. "And right now I'm going to take pictures of you, if you please."

The sparkling girl posed and Illya snapped. Then be put away the camera and said, "I'm dying to meet your father."

"I'm sure he'd be happy to meet you, Mr. Fairchild."

"How do we work it out?"

"Quite simple. He's at our apartment. I came out this morning to do chores here. But I'd be happy to take you back to meet my dad."

"How do we go, Miss Craig?"

"Candy."

"How do we go, Candy?"

"We walk." The blue eyes twinkled mischievously. "Unless you don't like to walk."

"I love to walk," said Illya.

They walked. And on the way, Illya tactfully questioning, Candy told him about herself.

She was Candace Craig, seventeen. All her life, because of her father's profession, she had lived with lions. She was, in fact, an accomplished lion tamer on her own, although she was not quite sure that lion taming would be her lifetime profession. She was still going to school and had lots of time to make up her mind. An Australian, this past year she had gone to school in England, and for the summer vacation she had come with her father to America. At home in Sydney, Australia, there were three little brothers in the care of her mother.

Their walk, a long one, ended at an imposing modern apartment house. Upstairs, a tall man opened the door for them. Candy introduced them.

"Mr. Evan Fairchild of Scope magazine," she said, "meet my dad, Kenneth Craig."

Craig shook hands and said, "Parley told me you were coming." He was a big, blue-eyed, strapping blond man, smiling and amiable. His daughter, in her own feminine way, bore a great resemblance to him.

"Daddy, you'll never guess what happened this morning!"

"What happened, love?"

Candy told her father about Illya's misadventure.

Craig's steely blue eyes hardened. "Dangerous, Mr. Fairchild. Dangerous for any man to wander about alone on circus grounds."

"Mr. Craig," said Illya, "I shall wander no more––unescorted. I have learned my lesson the hard way."

"I'd be happy to serve as your escort, Mr. Fairchild."

"I'd be happy to have you, Mr. Craig. But do you have the time?"

"Time? Of course I have the time. We're quite bored, Candy and I, between performances. Where are you staying, Mr. Fairchild?"

"I haven't picked a place yet. Practically just got here."

"You'll stay here with us"

"Oh, no, please. I wouldn't presume."

"No presumption, Mr. Fairchild, not at all." The blond man smiled. "Fate. Don't ever fight fate, Mr. Fairchild. After all, my daughter saved you from the cats. They're quite docile and well-trained, my big cats, but just as humans are human, animals are animal. Frightened, all of us lash out, and in our fright we can do damage. How would you feel, Mr. Fairchild, if a total stranger suddenly invaded your home?"

"Frightened," said Illya.

"But you," laughed the broad-shouldered blond man, "would be less dangerous than a frightened lion. You could have been in quite a pickle if it weren't for Candy, thank heaven. My daughter has brought you here safe and sound, and I would appreciate it if you would stay here with us, as our guest, during your stay with our circus."

Illya was sorely tempted. "But do you have room?"

"Room? We have nothing but room!"

"Do we have room!" chortled the radiant Candy.

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