"Sit down and keep quiet!"
"Well, really!" she complained, but sat heavily on the couch just the same. Green shifted his attention back to his prey.
"You warned Barnett that he was being spied on, didn't you? That she was working for me? How did you know that?"
"Elementary. Your juvenile hooligans talk too much."
"I see. Now tell me what message you carried to him from John Guard, and why, and what Guard has to do with this and with Barnett."
"Sorry," Solo murmured "Sudden attack of amnesia."
"Indeed!" Green flicked a glance around at his henchman. "Flanagan! No, Ponti, you're nearer. Make her scream, would you?"
"Si. A pleasure." The man addressed showed vivid white teeth in a grin.
"How dare you?" protested Miss Thompson. "Take your hands—" the words chopped off in a shriek that was as much outraged astonishment as pain. Solo stiffened, but Kuryakin's voice came, cold and chill.
"You won't gain anything like that. You intend to kill us all anyway, so why should we tell you anything?"
"Admirably put, Mr. Kuryakin, and impeccably logical. There's very little you can tell us, in any case, that we do not already know." His snake-like glance went to Miss Thompson again. "Come here. One silly move, gentlemen, and she dies first. Stand there, to one side."
She was an inch taller than he and stared at him in open dislike, clutching the diaphanous robe.
"You've ceased to be of any use to me, Louise. But you know far too much, and you talk too much. Your mouth will have to be stopped." There came the shock crack of his palm as he struck her across the face without any warning, sending her reeling backward. His glass cold eyes returned to the two men, the gun in his hand as steady as ever.
"Your disposal presents a pretty problem. I am an artistic man. I like things to be done with a flair. Design and attention to detail is the factor that marks the intelligent man from the moron. Strip them!"
Solo moved instinctively in rejection, and that pistol moved with him, its tunnel-like muzzle centered implacably on him. Over it Green's eyes were chill. Solo shrugged and permitted the rough hands of the seamen to wrench his clothing from him.
"That will do," Green decided, when both men were down to underpants. "Leave the clothes here. Later you will douse them with alcohol. For now, come, and pay close attention. You two, march!"
They marched, into the cool and hygienic kitchen, where white tiles and chrome made a background like an operating theater. They sat, still under orders, in two kitchen chairs, back to back. Donovan and Flanagan worked now while Ponti watched with grinning appreciation. They had found a plastic clothesline in a drawer. When they were done with it the two agents were roped and tied as securely as they had ever known in a lifetime of similar experiences. Green stood in the doorway, supervising.
"Now," he said, "pay attention. We are going to set the scene for the police to find, one they will be able to under stand. The story is this: that she telephoned them—which can be checked; that they were closeted together for some time; that they drank heavily and unwisely; they then quarreled violently, here, in that room, and in the bedroom— presumably over her. One or the other of them—it doesn't matter which—strangled her and left her on the bed…"
Miss Thompson gave a choked cry of utter unbelief and terror at this shocking statement. The two heard the sound of a blow, then a whimper.
"Keep her quiet. The rest is reasonably simple. Both men become enraged, struggle with each other, then collapse, utterly drunk. The police will find them there. Questions?"
"How we get them drunk?" Ponti demanded.
"Very simply. Whiskey. Please observe, there is a gas supply here. With the gas turned on and the door shut they will become unconscious. Later you will bring them out, untie them, pour drink over and into them, conceal the cord and flush the gas from the room. There is very little detectable difference between the stupefaction induced by gas, and intoxication. Anything else?"
"Green!" Solo kept his voice as level as possible. "You've got us, and we're in the habit of sticking out our necks, but do you have to drag her into this? Your dupe?"
"Dupe? Yes, I used her. But now she knows too much. Give me that bottle, Flanagan." Seconds later Solo felt the chill of fluid on his scalp and smelled the stink of whiskey as Green tipped the bottle over his head.
"That's a terrible waste of the hard stuff," Donovan objected.
"Don't be a fool, man, there's plenty more. Help yourself, after the job's done. See you do a good job of it, you've plenty of time. Break the place up. Play some loud music, just in case the neighbors get nosy. And just before you leave, dial 999 and then leave the receiver off the hook. Keep your gloves on at all times. Anything else?"
"About her," Ponti demanded. "Some fun first, eh?"
"Help yourself." Green said it in the same tone he had used about the drink. "It will make very little difference to the police." He emptied the rest of the bottle over Kuryakin's head, then handed it to Flanagan. "Not get it clear. Gas on and shut this door. Wreck the place thoroughly. It is now nine-forty-five. You have until eleven."
"We meet you at the usual place?"
"No. Take the car and ditch it. It's stolen in any case. Then disappear for a week. I'll be out of touch until then anyway. At the end of that time you will be able to reach me as usual. Ponti, turn on all those gas taps."
Solo strained his shoulders against the ropes as chill spirits ran down over his face and neck. He heard Green's steps tap away and then:
"Goodbye, Louise. You will not be going to the ball, after all. The chief will be disappointed when you do not arrive. If it were possible, I would warn him, but it doesn't matter all that much. He will be able to get someone else, I'm sure." The tapping steps came back to the door. "Goodbye, gentlemen. As I told you, when I arrange things, they do not fail." Then he shut the door after him, and the two men were in silence, broken only by the sibilant hiss of gas.
"This is a fine mess you've got me into," Kuryakin sighed. "You and your law abiding British!"
"Two Irishmen and an Italian?" Solo retorted, straining at the rope again. "Anyway, Illya, I know one thing. We don't have to worry how hard we hit those thugs."
"I don't suppose they are all that worried, either. If we don't do something fast, the only thing we're going to hit is the floor. The gas is thickening. Napoleon, do you ever think about Waterloo?"
"Not if I can help it. A pity we didn't ask Miss Perrell how to conjure up knives out of thin air; we could use one right now."
"Those sailors certainly know how to tie knots. And this plastic stuff doesn't give anyone a chance. Hear that?" The sounds of furniture being wrecked came from the next room. Solo got the pungency of coal gas up his nostrils on top of the whiskey, and a high-pitched whistle started in his ears. Sanity told him there was very little time to go and nothing to do. He launched into another desperate lunge against the ropes around his chest and heard a faint creak from the chair. The chair!