He took an identification card from his wallet—it was one of several, this one certifying that he was one Arthur Connell, an authorized buyer for an expensive-sounding New York jeweler—and tried to thrust it between door and wall. The card did not pass through the slit. Something was preventing it from finding an entry; it was as if a sheet of metal had passed over the outer doorway. A sliding, scratching sound, as of something traveling with mechanical ease into a slotted groove, made his head swing toward the big windows.
Incredibly, he saw the bright lights of Paris wink out as a partition of metal moved quickly across his line of vision and snapped shut with a click of sound like the closing of a cigarette case.
A moment later, another sheet of metal closed off the window on the other side of the room, gliding smoothly into its metallic bed. Whirling, he saw the open doorway into the bedroom closed off and sealed by a final metal slab.
Suddenly the room was like a soundless vacuum. Denise lay unconscious on the lounge, and Solo stood frozen for the moment. The short hairs at the nape of his neck tingled. There was no mistaking this new threat now.
Unless he was badly mistaken, the room had suddenly become an air-tight vault. There could be no other reason for the complete sealing of both the doors and windows. Locks would have been enough to trap him inside—but Thrush didn’t want him simply as a prisoner. They wanted him dead.
He was trapped in a sealed room in which the supply of usable, life-giving oxygen would diminish into nothingness.
Then the silence of the room was broken by a subtle soughing sound—the sound of air whispering through an opening somewhere. Solo’s hand jerked around, following the sound, and then he saw it. A wave of relief flooded over him. Of course—the air-conditioning system! Even though they had sealed the immediately obvious sources of air, the members of Thrush had forgotten that all the rooms in the hotel had completely up-to-date air-conditioning.
He smiled as he stepped toward the vent. Such a simple mistake…but of course the simple things were the most easy to forget.
He put his hand up to the vent—and the smile disappeared from his face.
Thrush hadn’t forgotten the air-conditioning at all. Instead, they were using it themselves. For there was no air coming into the room—instead, it was steadily being sucked out.
THE DEATH ROOM
FOR ONE wild second, a sense of doom fought to dominate him. Thrush had bottled him up like a mouse in a Mason jar and no amount of banging away at the lid was going to help. There was no time to lose now. No reason to stop and wonder just how long a man can live without oxygen or how long it would take for the vent to pump out every bit of good air left in the room. Time enough for post-mortems later.
Getting out of the room was the first order of the day. He considered the possible means of escape. There was, of course, the telephone—but when he picked it up he found the line was dead. He wasn’t surprised. It would also be useless to use his machine pistol. No amount of bullets could blow that door—nor any of the windows. He silently cursed the lack of any explosive equipment in his suitcase. This was one time he had none of the jelly compounds that could blow a bank vault wall to smithereens. He hadn’t expected to have to enter any bank vaults this week—much less that he’d find himself trapped inside one.
There was only one chance.
The very one that Thrush itself had given him.
Solo hurried to Denise Fairmount where she lay on the lounge. Her head lolled as he pulled her to a standing position. He brought his open hand sharply against her face, slapping her quickly on both sides of her nose. She moaned and he dragged her to the coffee table, scooping up the bottle of wine. He held it to her lips, forcing the contents into her mouth. The wine sloshed over her face, ran down the front of her gown. Solo paid little heed. He wanted this woman awake, sitting up and taking notice—
Already, he could sense the change in the atmosphere of the room. There was a sudden giddiness in his head—a light, airy feeling as though he had had too much of the same wine he was pouring over the woman. She stirred, and coughed as the wine went down her throat.
“Come on, Denise,” he snapped. “Wake up, wake up!”
“What—what—” She sputtered, her eyes opening wide, blanching when she saw him, trying to pull away.
He gripped her wrists tightly, keeping his voice steady.
“Listen. I’m not going to hurt you. Are you awake? Nod your head so that I know you understand me. Nod, I said!” He jerked her savagely to him. Her eyes popped but she nodded, her tongue licking at the droplets of wine on her mouth.
“Your playmates have walled us up in this room. With steel doors and windows and everything. You understand? There’ll be no air to speak of in here in a very little while they’re also sucking the air out through the air-conditioning vent. I know of a way we can get out—but you’ve got to help. Listen to me, Denise. We will slowly suffocate to death without oxygen. You won’t look pretty to the undertaker with your tongue sticking out. Now tell me—where is that transistor for the master device? I must know—or we’re both going to die.”
“You’re trying to trick me—” she gasped. “You hit me—”
“Nod, I said. Don’t waste air with talking. Breathe. Can’t you tell? Come on, Denise. Where is it?”
She read his eyes and she read the warning there. She nodded and her own gaze swung back to the coffee table. Not on top of it. Under it. The candles had already begun to gutter warningly. Solo released the woman and darted to the table. He explored its bottom quickly until his hands found a square metal box, no bigger than the motor of a tiny music box. Denise Fairmount had fallen to the lounge, breathing in short, shallow gasps. Solo ignored her and ripped open his traveling bag. He knew what he had to do. A risk he had to take. There was no estimating the effect of the maser device when let loose—but he knew what it could do.
He scooped his neatly piled clothes to one side and uncovered the short-wave radio set hidden there. He had short-circuited the suite’s electrical outlet, but the radio set had its own powerful batteries. He hoped they would be strong enough for what he had in mind.
He placed the maser device at the very center of the front door, between the sealed slit and the bottom of the barrier. Then he adjusted the short-wave set, turned it on and manipulated the frequency button. He pushed it to its fullest power. Then he yelled on last warning at Denise Fairmount: “Put your fingers in your ears! This is going to be rough!”
Almost immediately, the wildly throbbing humming sound of generated sound rose in the stuffy room. Solo held his ears tightly, his eyes never leaving the door. He remained by his suitcase. If it didn’t work, at least he could turn the sound off before that killed them first. A small difference in terrible ways to die—
But the maser device was trained directly on the door; the sound which buffeted him and Denise was only that which bounced off and spread around the room.
He watched the door. He felt the room tremble. He could see the objects of furniture in the room start that weird vibrating dance again as the sound waves reached them. He bit his lip, beads of perspiration popping on his brow. It was a million to one shot—could the heightening of electrical current into sound force open a steel barrier?
Denise Fairmount was again writhing in pain on the lounge, her eyes two beacons of shining terror. But she did not cry out or protest—she knew what was at stake.
Solo waited—