The communicator went away with a practiced move that drew his pistol on the return. He started for the door, then halted as there came a soft tapping. Crouching a little, he called, "Who is it?"
The door swung open and the Countess stood there a moment then came in, her eyes widening at sight of his weapon.
"Why?" she whispered. "You will not need that!"
"Stop right there. I don't trust you any closer than you are right now. Back up and turn round. You and I are taking a little walk."
"So unnecessary," she pouted, then turned obediently, but not to go out of the door again. Instead she caught it, pushed it shut, then set her back to it, facing him. "You have nothing to fear," she said, and smiled. "See, I am unarmed." And she did something rapidly to the rear of her dress, spread her arms wide, and the rustling white material fell to the floor.
She was definitely unarmed, unless one could count the volcanic beauty of her unclad curves. Solo froze for a moment that was his undoing. A large hand swung down and across from his right side, numbing his wrist, to send the pistol skidding across the floor. He ducked and sprang away from the movement, and found himself face to face with Adam.
Over that muscular shoulder he saw a gaping hole where the dressing-table had swung away from the wail. He caught a glimpse of the Countess as she swooped nakedly to snatch up his gun. Then he went cat-like forward to meet the impassive servant. Adam showed no more expression than a shop-window figure, but waited silently, arms down and out, ready.
Solo feinted a left, leaped and chopped down with all his strength and weight in a right-hand neck-breaker. Adam, with perfect anticipation, leaned and tensed his muscles—and the chop bounced, shocking Solo's arm right up to his elbow. Surging in the opposite direction, the statuesque servant swung a haymaking right-hander, low down, that contacted Solo's ribs and bombed him bodily backwards, smashing all the wind out of him. If there was science in this, it was none that Solo had ever met before.
With that kind of strength, who needed science?
Fighting off the instinct to curl up, wheezing for breath, he shambled forward again. It was no time for delicacy. He poised himself, then leaned and launched a kick where it would do maximum damage. But Adam had speed out of all reason in a man of his bulk. An arm like a beam swept down and across, smashed into Solo's shin as it came up, knocked it aside so that he spun and almost fell, cringing as his weight came on that leg. It felt broken. Then Adam moved in, taking the offensive. Again that bombing right hand to the body.
Solo reeled away, slammed into the wall, staggered forward and right into a left fist that came down like a hammer on the top of his head.
The room grew a big black hole and he fell into it head first. The Countess came to stand and stare down at the ruin.
"A valiant one. Clever, too. I can use one such." She turned to her servant, who was not even out of breath, and smiled, pointing down. "Bring him!" She moved away to gather up her discarded dress and looped it carelessly over one arm, then she preceded her servant through the secret door and into the passage there. Adam crouched, picked up Solo like a sack, hung him over one shoulder, and followed her, drawing the dressing-table flush to the wall as he went.
In the tower-room at the other end of the passage, Katherine Winter put down her pen, lit a cigarette and leaned back to let her mind have its own way with the vexing problem of Mr. Nathan Summers. She was in the middle of her weekly letter to Uncle Otto, a rambling and inane epistle, mostly gossip and trivia, but which contained full descriptive details of everyone who had visited the Argyr Palace that week. It was her report, and Uncle Otto was no relative at all, but an elderly, ruddy-faced military gentleman who would skip all the banalities, but who would be very careful to list all the personalities and arrange to have them investigated. So she had been told.
The gentleman had approached her immediately after she had secured the job with the Countess. He had been very polite and laden with official documents to prove his authority. She believed he was C.I.A. but had not enquired too deeply about this. On his advice, it was better for her to know as little possible, thus making it impossible for her to give anything away, even by accident. All he wanted, and he was careful to stress this, was the name, nationality and time of arrival and departure of any guests. She was to supply these in the weekly letter. And do nothing more. At all.
From which facts Kate had gathered that she was involved in something very dangerous. She had been unwilling to help, but was at last persuaded because of the thrills involved. And the extra income.
But thrills had not come. Instead, the chore had grown dull. Guests came, usually by sea. They were odd, often. Usually they stayed overnight. Always they departed secretly, and she never saw them go. But that was all. And when Madame was in Paris, which could have been a bit more lively, the letter wasn't needed. Seemingly, Uncle Otto had other eyes for that period.
So the task had become dull, until now, with the extraordinary appearance of Mr. Summers, who wasn't a bit like the rest. Kate sighed, reached for her pen again. Mr. Summers was different and, for a while, she had hoped something might come of it. Corfu was a pleasant place, better if you could share it with the right kind of company. But Madame had flaunted her figure, flashed her eyes, turned on the charm, and that was the end of any hope Kate might have of getting to know Mr. Summers any better. Honestly, these French women! No delicacy at all! She sighed again, and began laboriously to write out the details.
Napoleon Solo struggled back to consciousness under the impression that his head was loose. He shook it to make sure, and the instant agony that came made him decide, firmly, not to do anything like that again for a long time. Levering his eyes open and focusing them against a strong glare, he saw he was looking along the top of a polished table littered with glasses and bottles. Beyond them, gradually hardening into outline and detail, he saw Countess Anne-Marie Louise de St. Denis. She watched him in calm appraisal, almost approval.
Easing back gingerly, he realized he was sitting in those stall chairs again, but this one had improvements in the shape of a pair of chrome-steel bands that folded out from the armrests to pinion his wrists. He tried to stir his feet and assured himself there were more fetters on his ankles. He was caught. Moving his head carefully, he saw that Thrush was in full attendance, four pairs of eyes being steadily fixed on him.
He forced his face into a thin smile, looked back to the Countess, and revised his opinion of her. She was still beautiful, but now he saw her beauty as the coiled deadliness of a lethal snake.
"Welcome, M. Solo," she said, with crisp assurance. The use of his name served to shock some of the fog from his mind.