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He slipped from under the sheets on his side of the bed. “Sorry, but I got to see a man about—”

“Wait,” said the woman sharply. “Wait!”

It was too late. Nick’s bare feet touched the floor and all hell broke loose. Gongs clanged all around the room and in the arches of the ceiling. The AXEman stared, showing more surprise than he felt, as Gerda von Rothe slipped her hand beneath the bed and threw an invisible switch. The harsh clangor ceased. The woman frowned at Nick for a moment, then, with a rare good humor, she smiled. “You can close your mouth now, Jamie. It was only the alarm. When it’s on no one can approach the bed or leave it without setting off the gongs. The floor is wired.” Her smile faded to petulance. “But of course it will bring Erma, damn it!”

“Who’s Erma?” Nick was still putting on the bewildered act. Secretly he was very pleased. It was good to know about the alarm; not so good to know that you couldn’t get out of bed with it turned on. That was going to cut down on his own personal and private prowling — unless he could find a way to trick the alarm.

The huge double doors of the bedroom were flung open with a crash. Nick saw who Erma was. She was Miss Five by Five of 1966. She could have played fullback for the Green Bay Packers. Her hair was yellow, streaked with gray, and coiled around her head in a massive coronet. She wore a man’s sport shirt, with the tail outside her pants. Not slacks, but regular men’s trousers. Her biceps, displayed by the short sleeves, were nearly as big as Nick’s own, and looked as hard. Her face was red and blobby and Nick could have sworn she had cauliflower ears. Just at the moment he was more interested in the Luger she clutched in one square hand. It looked a bit like his own 9-mm. that he had not been permitted to bring, but this weapon had not been stripped and appeared brand new. It was sighted dead on his naked belly.

Nick decided to play it for laughs. He wanted The Bitch to continue thinking of him as a cool customer, if a little dumb. He said, as he slowly put up his hands, “Don’t shoot — don’t shoot! I wasn’t doing nothing, really. It’s all a mistake.” And he winked at Gerda.

Erma looked from Nick to her mistress. The Luger did not deviate from its unwinking scrutiny of Nick’s belly button. Erma had yellow eyes, yellow like a cat’s.

“It’s all right,” Gerda von Rothe said. “It was a mistake, Erma. He didn’t know about the alarm and I forgot to turn it off. You may go.”

Erma looked at Nick. Her yellow gaze started at his feet and moved very slowly upward. Her eyes lingered for a long time taking in every inch of his body before her big wet mouth twisted in disgust. Nor was there any mistaking the blaze of hatred in the yellow eyes when at last she looked the AXEman full in the face.

Erma swung around and marched out of the room. The big doors crashed shut. She had not spoken a word.

Nick looked at The Bitch. “That woman don’t like me,” he said.

She laughed. “No. She hates all men. She’s in love with me — and something of a nuisance at times. But she has her good points. For one, she is an excellent bodyguard. She used to be a wrestler in Germany. I would not advise even you to take liberties with Erma, my Jamie.” The Bitch patted back a yawn. “But Erma is not a bad sort — every now and then, when I am on the point of death from boredom, I let her make love to me. It keeps her happy for months.”

Killmaster played it dumb. He was supposed to be an unsophisticated jerk. “I don’t get it,” he said. “She’s a woman!

“And you’re a big handsome ape,” said the woman almost fondly. “With an ape’s brain. Go on to the bathroom if you must, then hurry back. I find myself in need of you again.”

She pointed an imperious finger at Nick. “You were good last night, I admit, but I am sure you are better when you are sober. Now hurry.” It was an order.

The bathroom, Nick reckoned, was only about a quarter the size of the bedroom. All the fixtures were of solid gold. There were magnificent Turkish rugs scattered on the mosaic floor. There was a small swimming pool instead of a tub, a dozen huge mirrors, and the sanitation facilities were Oriental. A glittering tile slit trench with a chromium bar for squatting. Much more conducive to good health than the Western style.

Both heating and lighting were indirect. There was no way out of the bathroom except the door. This he had needed to know.

Nick sank into a bath chair by the pool and pondered for a moment. The Bitch was going to give him the run of the castle, so he could learn the terrain, as it were, and plan the killings. He would be watched constantly. He would bet on that! But he would cross that bridge when he got to it.

Nick glanced at his wrist watch. He saw the hour hand twitch and spin as the DF went to work. That hidden transmitter was sending again!

The AXEman faced the bathroom door, studying the watch, trying to get a fix in relation to the bedroom. He visualized the room and remembered the tall mullioned windows. They would be to his left as he went out. And now the hour hand was pointing in that direction, quivering slightly. He must see what lay outside those windows.

“Jamie!” It was a bellow.

“Coming,” Nick muttered under his breath, “coming, Oh noble Bitch. Thy good and faithful servant obeys. Spare me the lash, Oh Bitch of Bitches!”

His grin, just before he opened the bathroom door, was hard and more than a little cruel. He found himself wishing El Tigre all the luck in the world with his project of rape. Thinking of El Tigre made him glance at his watch again. The DF was still working, but the minute hand was at five of something. Noon, hadn’t it been? El Tigre and his men were due at dusk. That should be about nine in this season. El Tigre was trusting Nick to clear the way for his attack.

As he made his way back to the swan bed he shot a covert glance at the tall windows. The DF was still reacting, pointing in that direction; it was a long transmission, then. Much longer than usual. Maybe the CIA could get a better fix. Maybe even the boys in Homer could get a fix. Yeah, maybe. A lot of things could happen before any possible help could get to him. Help? Foolish boy! This was a solo job — so he had undertaken it and so it must be. He either won or lost it all alone. Except for El Tigre. Nick had no illusions about El Tigre.

Gerda von Rothe was waiting impatiently, a full-blown golden Venus on the swan bed. Her hard plump legs were parted and Nick saw then what he had not seen before — the little swatch was as silver, as glimmering and iridescent, as the mane above. By God — could she possibly really be seventy years old!

The Bitch was an immediate person who did not believe in foreplay. She seized the AXE agent with an. amazingly strong grasp and thrust him beneath her. “You underneath,” she said curtly.