The next move was to bend forward, working his arms down over his hips until his hands were behind his knees. It hurt plenty, and so did the concrete floor as he levered down into a sitting position.
Solo rested again and then went to work on the hard part, which was bringing his knees up to his chin and working his feet between his arms. He did it at last, and with his hands in front of him again the rest was easy. Rabbit Face or whoever it was had used only simple knots on the wrist tie and Solo had excellent teeth.
When the blood had pounded into his hands sufficiently to make them usable Solo got the lashings off his legs and ankles.
His pencil flashlight was still in his pocket. He sent the thin beam over the floor, looking for the metal thing he had hit with his knees. He hoped it might be a sizeable bolt or some other blunt instrument that would help on the way out if he met with opposition.
It wasn’t. It was a squat black automatic pistol. And, as Solo could see by the marks in the dust, it was lying within inches of where the major’s plug-ugly had dumped him.
Solo went over and picked it up, examining it carefully. The steel gleamed dully and there was the thinnest film of oil on its surface. The butt was clean and polished. It had not been on that filthy floor long.
There was only one answer. Charles must have left it there.
Solo pressed the button in the heel of the butt and slipped out the magazine. It was fully loaded with 9mm shells.
Ramming the clip home again, Solo began to wonder about Charles. There was that rap on the jaw he had administered. It had jolted Solo more than a little, but even a half-hearted tap from that hamlike fist should have put him to sleep for a week.
Why had he been so anxious to lug Solo down to the cellar himself? And what had he meant by the cryptic crack about “mucking” it?
On the other hand, if he were anxious enough for Solo’s welfare to leave him a gun, why hadn’t he completed the job by cutting him loose?
Solo gave up. Brooding on problems like that, he figured, was what brought good men into the psychiatric wards. Besides, he had more urgent things to think about. Instinct was telling him forcibly to get out while the going was good, and his flashlight, in sympathy, was ranging the cellar walls for a second exit. Pigheadedness was urging him no less strongly to get upstairs and listen in to the conference on the off-chance of hearing something useful.
The thought of getting into the clutches of the gang up there was not inviting. He had been battered around enough for one evening. He was paid for just that sort of thing—but there was no law that said he had to enjoy it.
Then, for no reason at all, he thought of Norah Bland. He sighed and started up the steps.
The cellar door swung open when he twisted the handle and he stepped cautiously into the hall. This time he got to the landing undetected, though there was a bad moment when a rickety tread creaked beneath his weight. Keeping close to the wall, he edged along to the room where the meeting was in session.
The major’s voice came clearly through the door. He was speaking very slowly, repeating his sentences.
“Come in, Hades…Come in, Hades…”
Something came in, all right. There was a gigantic, shuddering blast that sent Solo staggering, and then he was in the middle of a shower of plaster and dust. Judging by the rumble that followed, the entire front of the house was caving in.
Inside the room, the boys had lost their calm. Solo heard Eiler yell, “Put on the light, why can’t you? Switch it on!”
Someone else snarled, “How the hell can I? The fuses have blown!”
The door of the room was wrenched open and the glare of a flashlight blinded Solo. He didn’t know who was behind it and he didn’t wait to find out. He dropped and fired in one movement. As he squeezed the bigger Rabbit Face shouted, “Solo!”
Then the light went out. A body slumped to the floor. Solo flattened against the wall near the door. Stabs of flame came out of the blackness. Bullets smacked the opposite wall and ricocheted with a zinging whine. Then there was silence.
It looked like stalemate. Solo couldn’t get in and they couldn’t get out. Neither side felt like risking a light that would draw a shot.
The lull could not have lasted more than a few seconds, but it seemed like hours. It was broken by a crash of glass and the major’s shout: “The window!”
Guns of different calibers chattered briefly. Then, with a rush, men piled through the door. Solo emptied his gun in the direction of the stairway, never having been trained not to shoot at running birds.
From below came three shots. Then silence again.
Solo lay where he was, pressed against the wall. It was not heroic—but an empty gun makes for prudence.
Footsteps sounded inside the room. The beam of a flashlight danced toward the doorway. It swung around the plaster-carpeted landing, and came to rest on Solo as he got set for a flying tackle.
Illya Kuryakin’s voice said mildly, “Mousing?”
CHAPTER SIX
SOLO COULD SEE him only as a shadowy figure, but something seemed to tell him that Illya would be just as calm and well-brushed as ever. With his hair full of plaster, his face battered and his clothes ripe for the junkman, Solo felt at a social disadvantage.
“Let’s take it up later,” he said. “Right now I’m in no shape for an argument. How did you get in here, anyway?”
“Ladder. We’ve had the place cordoned off for the past twenty minutes. If you hadn’t started a shooting match we’d have roped in the bunch of them. Now the Lord knows what Mr. Waverly is going to say. You know how he hates untidiness.”
Solo said bitterly, “Untidiness!”
Illya turned his flash back into the room. “See for yourself.”
It certainly was not a scene of domestic bliss. Rabbit Face was sprawling near the door with half his head shot away. Eiler, center stage, grinned vacantly at the shattered ceiling with a blue hole between his eyes. A huddle of duffel coat in a pool of blood represented all that was left of the saturnine Bjorn.
The fake bookcase was swung open, revealing the transmitter on which the major had been broadcasting when the explosion had cramped his technique. The major himself, together with Charles and Per, had apparently made a getaway. For some reason Solo felt quite pleased about Per, who hadn’t been his idea of a conspirator.
Illya began collecting the fruits of Eiler’s typing labors from the table. He said regretfully, “No, Mr. Waverly won’t be at all pleased. What on earth were you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question. I thought you were still in New York.”
“More of the old man’s duplicity,” Illya said. “I came in on the flight after yours to work with Karen. She got a lead on this place early this afternoon.”
“A pity you didn’t come earlier,” Solo said. “You could have saved me a lot of grief.”
Mr. Jorgensen came plodding up the stairs. He wore a dark gray fedora square on his head and a shabby brown raincoat. He could have been a minor bank official—only bank clerks don’t normally carry sub-machine guns. He said to Solo, “There’s another one down in the hall. I doubt if he will last until the ambulance gets here but he is still conscious. He asks for you.”
“Did you get the others?”
“One. A small man. A petty crime type, I think.”
That would be Per, thought Solo. Unlucky to the last. He said, “All right. We’ll come.”
At the foot of the stairs handlamps made a pool of light in which a couple of Danes were working on a third man. Hallway down Solo knew it was Charles.,
His ugly face was white and glistening with sweat but he managed a grin when he saw Solo.
“’Ullo, ’Oudini,” he wheezed. “I wouldn’…be in your shoes…w’en the Boss gets…’old of you.”