Solo decided there was no point in struggling. It might do some good to have the men think he was still out. He lay still and took a quick squint through his eyelashes.
Handsome had gone back to the typewriter and Ole was relaxing in one of the chairs. It warmed Solo’s heart to note that he had mussed him up more than a little. The gray flannel had lost its chic and the lavender shirt was a ruin.
Per was jittering in the middle of the floor. Solo reckoned his nails would last out maybe half an hour, with care.
A new man had joined the party, a man with the kind of face lady novelists usually mean by saturnine. He could not have been there long, because he was still wearing a duffel coat. He was sitting on the table, talking to Rabbit Face.
Per took his fingers out of his mouth long enough to ask, “How’s the time going, Eiler?”
Handsome glanced at a wristwatch. “Nearly eleven.”
He went on clacking the keys and Solo wished he would stop. His head was splitting.
Per munched some more, flicking suspicious glances from Rabbit Face to the new boy, then back to the big fellow. Suddenly he burst out, “Where the hell’s the Boss? He said he’d be here around nine.”
Ole grinned cynically. “Probably caught up with a new chick.”
“Chick be damned!” Per Hung himself into the other chair, lit a cigarette after two attempts. “He said he’d be here at nine and he ought to do what he says. I don’t like it. Something’s gone wrong.”
Ole said, “Don’t be a fool. Something’s held him up. He won’t be long.”
Eiler stopped pounding the typewriter; he rested his hands on the table and said quietly, “Control yourself, Per, or I’ll give you something to moan about. Nothing’s going wrong.”
The clacking started again and every thump of the keys seemed to drive a red-hot hammer into Solo’s brain. Involuntarily he groaned.
The man in the coat said, “Your friend there is coming round.”
Per jumped to his feet again, his voice quavering like a soprano at a village charity concert.
“Okay, okay,” he squealed. “Everything’s fine. So what’s he snooping around for?”
Eiler kicked his chair back. He crossed the room and swung a right to Per’s jaw with all his two hundred pounds behind it.
Per folded. His worries were over for awhile.
“Just the same,” Rabbit Face said thoughtfully, “he’s got something there. Perhaps—”
The coated man broke in: “Listen!”
Somewhere in the recesses of the house a buzzer was purring.
Rabbit Face said, “I’ll go.” He opened the door. Solo heard him descending the stairs.
Eiler picked up Solo’s Mauser, which had been lying on the table. The safety catch snicked as it went up. Despite his poker face Eiler was worried.
The dark man’s hand slipped inside his duffel coat and came out holding a black snub-nosed Walther. Both men were watching the open door like a pair of cats at a mousehole.
There were voices below and then a confused shuffle of feet as several men ascended the staircase.
The footsteps reached the landing. The dark man raised the level of the Walther an inch. His face was taut, set-lipped.
Rabbit Face came in, looking serious. Behind him walked Garbridge and his lovable henchman Charles.
As far as Solo was concerned that was all that was required to round off a nice friendly evening. The jig, he felt, was definitely up.
The major nodded briefly to Eiler and the duffel-coated man, raised his eyebrows at the display of artillery, glanced around the room with the air of an officer inspecting dirty barracks. Lying there trussed like Tutankhamen’s mummy, Solo could not be missed.
The amber eyes narrowed. Solo managed a sickly grin.
“A-a-ah!” said Garbridge. “You have company.”
Eiler said impatiently, “We’ll deal with him. Are the ’copters fixed for Horsens?”
The major said, “We should take off in an hour. Meanwhile, this man is a complication.”
“You know him?” Eiler asked.
The major looked surprised. “Yes, indeed. And so would you if you did your homework. Napoleon Solo is the inquisitive young man who has already disrupted several of Thrush’s projects. Now, since he has been good enough to put himself into our hands, no doubt we’ll be able to persuade him to tell us quite a few things that will be useful.”
Eiler laughed unpleasantly. “He’ll talk, all right.” He went toward the sofa, bunching his fist. Solo braced himself to take it, though he felt in no shape for playing rough games.
Garbridge put a hand out. “Not yet. We have things to discuss. We can deal with Solo at the other place. He’s a stubborn fool and breaking him down may be a long job.”
“You can say that again,” Solo grinned, hoping it sounded more confident than he felt. He had an idea these boys would not draw the line at rubber truncheons. Thrush operatives had something of a reputation as torture aficionados.
Eiler thought for a minute, then turned to Rabbit Face.
“Get him out of here. Bjorn will give you a hand. Take him down to the cellar.”
Neither of them looked as if they wanted the job, but Charles pushed forward eagerly. “All right. I’ll ’andle ’im.”
His gorilla arms coiled around Solo, hoisting him as easily as a child picks up a kitten. Solo tried to butt him, but a short-arm jab dampened his enthusiasm. It rattled his teeth but it didn’t put him out. After that he quit struggling. He was not going to provide any more fun for these thugs if he could help it.
Rabbit Face went ahead with a flashlight, and Charles was not too careful how he followed. Solo’s head hit the banisters every second step.
At the foot Rabbit Face opened a door under the staircase. His flashlight beam showed a flight of stone steps.
Charles shifted Solo so that he was tucked under one arm. He extended the other arm for the flashlight.
“All right, chum,” he said. “You go on up to the meeting. I can manage by meself.”
Rabbit Face grinned. “Don’t mess him up too much. I want a crack at him later.”
Charles stood listening until he heard the other man reach the upstairs room and close the door. Then he carried Solo slowly down the steps and dumped him quite gently on the concrete floor.
“All right, chum?”
“Never felt better,” Solo said dryly.
Charles chuckled.
“Blimey! You ain’t ’alf mucked it,” he said cryptically. The beam of his flashlight went in front of him up the steps. Solo was left in darkness that smelled wet and cold.
For a few minutes he just lay still and relaxed as much as the ropes around his wrists and legs would let him. Waves of pain were pulsing through his skull, and his ear, where Peter Rabbit’s heel had caught it, was throbbing horribly. The rest of it wasn’t so bad, because there was no feeling left in his hands and the ache in his arms was so continuous that he hardly noticed it.
With his cheek resting on the chilly concrete, which seemed to help a little, he lay there and thought. If Charles had left the cellar door unlocked there was more than an even chance of making a getaway. Given a certain amount of time and no interference, getting out of a few ropes is no particular trick—provided the man who does the tying neglects to put a couple of inches of gut or silk around the thumbs. That little bit extra would immobilize Houdini himself.
Solo gave himself a minute or two more, then squirmed around until he found the bottom of the steps. As he started to move, his knees hit some small, hard object that clattered metallically as it shifted, but Solo was too busy to wonder what it was.
Finding the steps in the pitch blackness was not too easy. When he finally made it he had to take time out to recover again. Eventually, using the steps as a fulcrum, he succeeded in getting to his feet.