"Oh no, Mr. Solo. Not this time. I confess I had not counted on catching both of you quite so soon. Or Miss Perrell, who has gone off in the car and will return eventually, eh? All of you. And this time there will be no escape. I am handling things myself. You have done me grievous harm, between you, and I must devise a fitting vengeance. Did you know that I was on the short list for a title? Not now, of course. You'll pay for that, I assure you. And I will have the power cube, eventually. Oh yes. You fools don't know what to do with it, you see. I do. I'll get it back. But you will never know. You won't be alive to see it."
The man was obviously raving. Solo wrenched at his bonds, but there was no hope there. Illya looked desperate too. And Nan was coming back. He strained again, until the blood hammered in his head, but there was no slack. Beeman had done his work well. Now the fat man pushed away his plate, took a bottle of milk and guzzled from it greedily, then slammed it down on the table. His huge paw took up a gun, a big bore monster like the one Green had used.
"We will wait," he said, "for Miss Perrell to return. The waiting will provide ample time for me to devise things. I imagine she would do almost anything to save your lives, eh? I shall suggest some things, and you shall watch while she does them. When your bodies are eventually found, there will be a lot for the authorities to speculate about. And you know the kind of thoughts they always think, don't you?"
With his head against the stone floor, Kuryakin felt rather than heard the steps outside. But Beeman was as acute as a fox. He stiffened, leveled the gun at the door, and waited.
Kuryakin heaved madly, trying to make a sound, any kind of sound, as warning, but it was futile. The door opened.
"Hello there!" She strode in. "Guess who—"
"Stop quite still, Miss Perrell! Ah—but this is truly an unexpected treat! Mr. Guard, isn't it? Come in, right in!"
John Guard stepped inside the door, pushed it shut with a casual hand and settled himself, feet slightly astride, alongside Nan Perrell. The tanned face was as bleak as ever, looking as if it had been planed out of teak, and the crisp brown hair lay flat back from a forehead and brow that always looked armor plated, somehow. Tiger yellow eyes bored into Beeman, looking right through him.
"Johnny," she said softly, "this is Henry Beeman. The man who had Mary Chantry destroyed."
"I'm glad," Guard said. Just that, but there was death in his words.
"Your pleasure is as nothing to mine, Guard. My misfortunes began here, in this room, when Green failed to kill you. I shall not fail. Miss Perrell, there is some cord left over there. Get it. Tie him up!"
"Stay still, Nan!" Guard kept his voice quiet, but there was power in it. "Take no notice of him at all."
"Dramatic, Mr. Guard, but I hold the gun, remember?"
"So?" Guard stared him down. Solo saw his left hand move very slightly, to touch hers just for a moment, and then fall to his side again. Then he saw something that took him back several years, as Guard seemed to settle into himself, like a spring winding up, and his head moved, just fractionally, from side to side. Guard began to talk, quietly and flatly, without emotion.
"Like so many other people, Beeman, you imagine you can point a gun at someone and make that person behave. In a book, perhaps, or on a screen, that will pass. But not in real life. That's just a gun. If you shoot me you will effectively stop me from doing anything, yes, but you can't make me, or anybody else, do anything." Unless you were watching for it, you would never notice, Solo thought, that Guard was easing himself gradually away from Nan Perrell. Beeman didn't notice it until there was quite a gap.
"Stand still, damn you!" he squealed, and the weapon in his hand began to swing from one target to the other.
"Two of us," Guard pointed out, still quietly. "And only one of you. And you know, don't you, that you may get one of us, but the other one will get you, absolutely and for sure."
Solo held his breath as the gun in Beeman's hand swung nervously to and fro and sweat broke out of the fat man's face. It was a moment that seemed to stretch out eternally. Time stood still. The gun swung from Guard. In that instant he leaped like a tiger, forward and down, arms out to grab. The gun jerked back, spoke deafeningly, and Solo saw the white splinters erupt from the corner of the table as Beeman lowered his aim.
In that same instant Nan Perrell crouched, swept with both hands at her hem, and two tiny weapons coughed in unison, two snap-cracks that slammed Beeman back and away and flat, solidly, on the floor. There was just one strangling cry, arid then the life ran out of him. Nan rushed forward.
"Johnny! Did he hit you?"
"I don't think so."
"What the hell were you trying to do, commit suicide?" Her voice shook as she touched him.
"You'll have to help me up," he muttered. "These damned bandages are like a straitjacket. Easy now, let me get a hand to the table. Right. I can manage." He levered erect, patted the corner of the table, and grinned thinly. "It worked out. Made a mess of my table, though."
"Damn the table!" She was still shaking. "You could have been killed!"
"A chance I had to take, Nan. You see, you had the weapons. I had nothing to hit him with. So I had to draw his fire. Show me those guns?"
She handed one of the tiny weapons to him, and he shook his head at it ruefully. "Since my time. You'll have to show me how to handle these."
She shivered, took back the gun, slapped both of them away with quick precision, and turned to the two captives.
"Excuse me not helping," said Guard. "I can't bend down very well, the way they have me strapped and bandaged. Thanks anyway for letting me in on the grand finale."
"I can't imagine anybody keeping you out," Solo said, tugging at the loosened cords and scrambling to his feet. "I think it really is all over this time. And I can't say I'm sorry."
"Nor me." Kuryakin came to offer a hand and grin. "You law abiding British take some keeping up with."
Guard frowned in bewilderment. Solo coughed. "That's a private joke, John. At least, I think it's meant to be a joke. Now, I suppose we have a disposal and clean up job to do again. If we have to scrub your floor many more times we'll apply for caretaker wages."
"Sorry about that."
"Don't be!" Nan took his arm protectively. "We are going to stay here awhile and look after you. Aren't we, boys?"
"We are?" Solo exclaimed. "Oh! I don't recall—"
"There's room," Guard put in. "And you're welcome. You know that."
"Hmm!" Kuryakin scratched his chin reflectively, looked at Solo and then at Nan. Then at Guard. "Room for one more? A lady who needs rest and recuperation?"
"I think so." Guard looked puzzled again.
"Louise?"
"That's right, Napoleon. She needs the fresh sea breezes and looking after." He eyed Nan Perrell. "And you need something to slow you down. With three men all to yourself you could get spoiled!"
[1] See Man From U.N.C.L.E. #8 The Monster Wheel Affair