"What did they actually do, sir?"
"Fixed up a neat little device. There was a small canister of gas lodged underneath, but out of range of, the lens of the monitor camera. The door controls were cut—and when Solo, suspecting nothing, pulled on the hanger, he actuated a plunger which pierced the nozzle of the gas cylinder and released the stuff. Finish."
"Finish? You don't mean it was...?"
"No, no. According to our lab boys it was only one of the instantaneous nerve gases—something similar to the stuff we use on our sleep darts. It would knock him out for an hour or so, that's all."
"Thank goodness far that!" Kuryakin looked relieved. "There's something I can't understand though: even if the canister was out of TV range, why didn't the girl in Reception see them fixing it? They must have been in shot the whole time, surely?"
"That's something we are looking into right now," Waverly said grimly.
There was a knock on the door. A soft-bodied blonde with her hair gathered on the nape of her neck by a large black bow undulated into the room. She was followed by a stockily built man with a crew cut and large shoes. "Lieutenant Trevitt," she announced. She smiled once and left.
Waverly shook hands and introduced the plainclothes man to Kuryakin. "Tell us what you've found out, Lieutenant," he said. "This is a blow to us—almost as much to our pride as to our affections. The sooner we have Mr. Solo back with us the better."
The policeman looked at the floor. "Tell you the truth, sir," he said, "not very much really. Your security chief seems to have it doped out right. Decoy call. Attack on the old man. Substitution of two members of the gang. Then they rush your man to the getaway car after he has himself pulled the handle to release the gas that knocked him out. Very smart."
"Quite. Any leads, Lieutenant?"
"Not too many. Four people carried your man to the car, according to an eyewitness. Must have been another couple of them hanging around outside the shop, I guess."
"Eyewitnesses? How many of them?"
"Just the one, I'm afraid—so far as the actual snatch is concerned. Middle-aged woman bringing a suit of her husband's to be altered. At least, she's the only one who's come forward. Must have been others, a sunny day near lunch time, but we haven't located them yet."
"She got a good view of them?—the kidnappers?"
"Yes, but the descriptions aren't worth a dime. Blonde girl in a white overall. Silver-haired guy in his shirtsleeves. City gentleman dressed to kill. And a bum. Could be thousands answering those descriptions in this precinct alone."
Waverly sighed. The lines on his grey face seemed to have etched themselves in more deeply still. "I suppose you're right. What about the car? Did she notice that?"
"Not to say notice. She thought there were two men—two other men, that is—in the front seat. But that's all she could say. We do have another witness to the auto itself, though—from the other side of the street."
"Who? Did they notice the kidnapping as well as the car?"
The Lieutenant pulled a folded paper from his breast pocket, opened it, and flicked his eyes briefly over the pencilled notes with which it was covered. "Zimmermann. Sol Zimmerman. Guy about fifty, runs the newsstand right across the street. Didn't see anything of the snatch, but he noticed the car because it was hovering about, trying to decide whether or not to park by a fire plug... and he knew the patrolman was due at any moment."
"The patrolman notice the car?"
"Yes, sir, he did. And his description tallies with Zimmermann's—so far as it goes. But he was too far away to see much. He was hurrying up to slap a ticket on them when they pulled away."
"What make of car was it?"
Trevitt spread his arms helplessly and shrugged. "One of the family ones you don't notice. A Plymouth or a Chevy. Maybe even a Dodge. A pale color: light blue, grey, biscuit. Might have been a silver that'd got very dusty, Zimmerman thought. But what's the point? You've lost that sort of car the moment it's past the first intersection. Hopeless. Mind you, we'll try, of course. But... " He shrugged again as his voice tailed away.
"Did either of those witnesses notice whether all four of the kidnappers joined the two men in the car?" Illya Kuryakin asked suddenly.
"Funny you should say that. The man from across the road didn't see. But the woman thought only a couple of them got in. She reckoned two of the men crossed the road—but then again she's not certain."
"I see. No leads yet on the canister, the wires, anything like that?"
"Not yet. The decoy phone call was made from a public booth in a saloon up in the East Forties—but that's about all we've turned up so far."
"Never mind," said Mr. Waverly. "We'll see what our chief of security has to say." He thumbed the button on his desk again. "Miss Riefenstahl? Has Mr. McGrath arrived yet?"
"Yes, with Miss Marsh."
"Good. Have them come in at once."
The blonde with the black hair ribbon tapped lightly on the door and ushered in a frail-looking redhead who had obviously been crying. With her was Jim McGrath, the 40-year-old ex-FBI man responsible for the internal security of the building. Behind rimless glasses, his eyes were angry.
"I don't know what to say, sir," he began. "I... it's unbelievable! Right on our doorstep! Practically inside the place! Marsh here was on Reception. How she failed to give the alarm earlier, I cannot imagine."
Waverly looked expectantly at the girl.
"I didn't know," she burst out. "I was watching the monitor, honest. I saw Mr. Solo come in and reach for the handle. Then he seemed to... well, sort of stagger. I thought he'd been taken ill—kind of like a faint or something. Then Mr. Del Florio came in... at least I thought it was Mr. Del Florio... with a girl in a white overall."
"Well?"
The redhead hesitated. She stared at the edge of Waverly's desk and sniffed. "Gee, it's the last thing, the very last thing that I'd want... but I thought... I thought it was a nurse, you see. I'd of reported it but I never thought of sounding the alarm. They took him back into the shop and... and it was then that I remembered: nurses aren't there already when a person's taken ill. You have to send for them. So I sounded the alarm, but of course by then it was too late." The girl was weeping again, the tears coursing silently down her cheeks and floating off the mascara beneath her eyes.
"That is perhaps understandable—if not forgivable," Waverly said severely. "What we want to know more about is the previous shambles."
"The previous...?"
"Miss Marsh," he glared, "a device was fixed up in that booth. It was intended to render Mr. Solo unconscious. It succeeded. But it must have taken several minutes to put in place. During that time the person or persons engaged on the operation must have been in full view of the monitor camera. You were watching it. What explanation have you to offer for failing to take action on that?"