Long before the coffee was ready, in fact less than ninety seconds later, Roomer was in the kitchen. He had of course neither showered nor shaved but had had time to run a comb through his hair. He was looking the same way the expressionless Mitchell was feeling.
«Never mind the coffee.» Roomer bore an almost savage expression on his face, but Mitchell knew that it wasn't directed at him. «Let's get up to the house/'
They took Roomer's car; it was nearer.
Mitchell said: «God, we're really bright! Hit us over the head often enough and maybe—just maybe—we'll begin to see the obvious.» He held on to his seat as Roomer, tires screeching, rounded a blind corner. «Easy, boy, easy. Too late to lock the stable now.»
With what was a clearly conscious effort of will, Roomer slowed down. He said: «Yeah, we're real clever. Lord Worth used a threat of the girls' abduction as an excuse for his actions. And you told him to offer the threat of the abduction as an excuse for our being there last night. And it never occurred to either of our staggering intellects that their kidnaping would be both logical and inevitable. Worth wasn't exaggerating—he has enemies, and vicious enemies who are out to get him. Two trump cards— and what trumps! He's powerless now. He'll give away half his money to get them back. Just half. He'll use the other half to hunt those people down. Money can buy any co-operation in the world, and the old boy has all the money in the world.»
Mitchell now seemed relaxed, comfortable, even calm. He said: «But we'll get to them first, won't we, John?»
Roomer stirred uncomfortably in his seat as they swung into the mansion's driveway. He said: 'Tm just as sore as you are. But I don't like it when you start talking that way. You know that.»
«I'm expressing an intention—or at least a hope.» He smiled. «We'll see.»
Roomer stopped his car in a fashion that did little good to Lord Worth's immaculately raked gravel. The first thing that caught Mitchell's eye as he left the car was an odd movement by the side of the driveway hi a clump of bushes. He took out his gun and went to investigate, then put his gun away, opened his clasp knife and sliced through MacPherson's bonds. The head gardener, after forty years in Florida, had never lost a trace of a very pronounced Scottish accent, an accent that tended to thicken according to the degree of mental stress he was undergoing.-On this occasion, with the adhesive removed, his language was wholly indecipherable—which, in view of what he was almost certainly trying to say, was probably just as well.
They went through the front doorway. Jen-kins, apparently taking his ease in a comfortable armchair, greeted them with a baleful glare. The glare was in no way intended for them; Jenkins was just in a baleful mood, a mood scarcely bettered by Mitchell's swift and painful yanking away of the adhesive from his lips. Jenkins took a deep breath, preparatory to. lodging some form of protest, but Mitchell cut in before he could speak.
«Where does Jim sleep?» Jim was the radio operator.
Jenkins stared at him in astonishment. Was this the way to greet a man who had been through a living hell—snatched, one might almost say, from the jaws of death? Where was the sympathy, the condolence, the anxious questioning? Mitchell put his hands on his shoulders and shook him violently.
«Are you deaf? Jim's room?»
Jenkins looked at the grim face less than a foot from his own and decided against remonstrating. «In back, first floor, first right.»
Mitchell left. So, after a second or two, did Roomer. Jenkins called after him in a plaintive voice: «You aren't leaving me too, Mr. Roomer?»
Roomer turned and said patiently: 'Tm going to the kitchen to get a nice sharp carver. Mr. Mitchell has taken the only knife we have between us.»
Jim Robertson was young, fresh-faced and just out of college, a graduate in electrical engineering in no hurry to proceed with his profession. He sat on the bed massaging his now unbound wrists, wincing slightly as the circulation began to return. As tiers of knots, Durand's henchmen had been nothing if not enthusiastic.
Mitchell said: «How do you feel?'*
«Mad.»
«I don't blame you. Are you okay to operate your set?»
«I'm okay for anything if it means getting hold of those bastards.»
«That's the general idea. Did you get a good look at the kidnapers?»
«I can give you a general description.» He broke off and stared at Mitchell. «Kidnapers?»
«Looks as though Lord Worth's daughters have been abducted.»
«Holy Christ!» The assimilation of this news took some little time. «There'll be all hell to pay for this.»
«It should cause a considerable flap. Do you know where Marina's room is?»
'Til show you.»
Her room showed all signs of a hasty and unpremeditated departure. Cupboard doors were open, drawers the same, and some spilled clothing lay on the floor, Mitchell was interested in none of this. He quickly riffled through drawers in the room until he found what he had hoped to find—her States passport. He opened it and it was valid. He made a mental note that she had lied about her age—she was two years older than she claimed to be—returned the passport and hurried down to the radio room with Robertson, who unlocked the door to let them in. Robertson looked questioningly at Mitchell.
«The county police chief. His name is McGar-rity. I don't want anyone else. Tell him you're speaking for Lord Worth, That should work wonders. Then let me take over.»
Roomer entered while Robertson was trying to make contact. «Seven more of the staff, all suitably immobilized. Makes nine in all. I've left Jenkins to cut them loose. His hands are shaking so bad he'll probably slice an artery or two, but for me freeing elderly cooks and young housemaids is above and beyond the call of duty.»
«They must have been carrying a mile of rope,» Mitchell said absently. He was figuring out how much not to tell the police chief.
Roomer nodded to the operator. «Who's he trying to contact?»
«McGarrity.»
«That hypocritical old brown-noser!»
«Most people would regard that as a charitable description. But he has his uses.»
Robertson looked up. «On the line, Mr. Mitchell. That phone.» He made discreetly to replace his own, but Roomer took it from him and listened in.
«Chief McGarrity?»
«Speaking.»
«Please listen very carefully. This is extremely important and urgent, and the biggest thing that's ever come your way. Are you alone?»
«Yes. I'm all alone.» McGarrity's tone held an odd mixture of suspicion and aroused interest.
«Nobody listening in, no recorder?»
«Goddam it, no. Get to the point.»
«We're speaking from Lord Worth's house. You know of him?»
«Don't be a damned fool. Who's 'we'?»
«My name is Michael Mitchell. My partner is John Roomer. We're licensed private investigators.»
'Tve heard of you. You're the guys who give the local law so much trouble.»
“I’d put it the other way around, but that's beside the point. What is to the point is that Lord Worth's two daughters have been kidnaped.»
«Merciful God in heaven!» There ensued what could fairly have been described as a stunned silence at the other end of the line.
Roomer smiled sardonically and covered the mouthpiece. «Can't you see the old phony grabbing his seat, with his eyes popping and big signs saying 'Promotion' flashing in front of him?»
«Kidnapped, you said?» McGarrity's voice had suddenly developed a certain hoarseness.
«Kidnapped. Abducted. Snatched.»
«Sure of this?»
«Sure as can be. The girls' rooms have all the signs of hurried and unplanned departure. Nine of the staff were bound and gagged. What would you conclude from that?»
«Kidnap.» McGarrity made it sound as if he'd made the discovery all by himself.
«Can you put a block on all escape routes? They haven't taken the girls' passports, so that rules out international flights. I hardly think the kidnapers would have taken any commercial domestic flight. Can you see Lord Worth's daughters going through any airline terminal without being recognized? I'd put a stop order and guard at every private airfield and helicopter pad in the southern part of the state. And likewise at every port, big and small, in the same area.»