"It will be a really big fish this time," he said, smiling again. "And there will be others caught in the same net. Well, I've warned them."
"Don't do it," I said. "Let us contact our superiors and we'll set things straight about the money. I'm sure it's only a misunderstanding."
"Misunderstanding, yes," he said. "Of Elmo Jupiter. When I promise to kill, Mr. Carter, I kill. I never make empty threats." He paused to offer that psychotic grin. "Perhaps it will give you something to think about, Mr. Carter, to know that I propose to kill you. Very slowly."
I shrugged with an elaborate unconcern I did not feel. "If that's the way you want it. But why not ease off on Heather in the meantime? Look at her hands."
Jupiter's sparkling eyes turned from me to Heather. He nodded to the man with the gun.
Heather's cuffs came off. She rubbed her wrists to get the circulation going.
"Now put the cuffs on her only not so tightly," Jupiter said. He wasn't taking any chances. "Are Mr. Carter's cuffs tight?" he asked. The flunky checked them and nodded. "Good," Jupiter said. "Leave them that way."
He gave us a parting grin, then he and his man were gone.
When we could no longer hear them on the stairs, I turned to Heather. "Who do you think Jupiter has marked off now?"
"The Prime Minister, I'm afraid," she said. "But surely he can't get past the massive security!"
"He's done it twice before, not counting Wellsey," I said. "Damn, we have to get out of this place. It's obvious this isn't listed in Jupiter's name or Brutus would have been here by now."
"We're off toward Oxford somewhere," Heather said. "I could tell that much from watching where they drove," she said. "Maybe around Beaconsfield. There are a number of large estates in the area."
I moved over closer to her and looked at her hands. The metal cuffs were no longer cutting into her flesh but her hands were swollen. "Knead your hands," I said. "Rub them together."
"They're very sore, Nick."
"I know. But if we can get the swelling down, we'll try working on my belt buckle again. With your fingers functioning properly, you may be able to unsnap the clasp."
"All right," she said obediently. "I'll knead."
The hours passed. Soon the light through the small opening in the oak door exceeded the feeble sunlight coming through the barred window. It was almost dark outside.
The swelling had gradually gone down; Heather's hands were almost back to normal.
"Do you want to try the buckle again now?" I asked. "Or wait?"
Heather rubbed her hands behind her. "They feel fairly good, Nick. But I can't promise anything."
"I know," I said. "But let's try."
She backed up to me and found my belt. "Yes, higher," I told her. "Now pull the buckle toward you. Right. I can see the damned catch despite this lousy light. Now, move your index finger to your left."
"That's it, isn't it?"
"Right. Now it has to be pushed to your right."
"I remember. But the bloody thing is stuck somehow, Nick. Or else I'm doing it all wrong."
"Keep trying. Try depressing the button slightly before pushing it to the right."
I heard her grunt as she manipulated her hands awkwardly behind her. Suddenly, miraculously, there was a tiny clicking noise and I felt the belt loosen. I looked down and Heather turned her head questioningly.
"You did it!" I told her.
Heather took hold of the buckle and pulled the belt off. She turned back to me, holding the belt behind her. "Now what?"
"Now we turn back to back again and I open the back of the buckle, hopefully, using the same catch but this time moving it downward. We can use the blowgun for a lock pick, if I can get at it. The trouble will be avoiding the small dart. If I break the plastic wrapper on the tip accidentally and prick myself, the ball game will be over — it's poisoned."
My back to Heather's, I reached out for the buckle. I found the catch and, after some difficulty, moved it in the right direction. The back of the buckle popped off. I felt around inside gingerly, touched the dart and shied away from it. Then my fumbling fingers touched the larger-diametered half of the tiny two-part blowgun. Carefully I removed the other, narrower part from the buckle and twisted awkwardly to look at it.
"Okay," I told Heather. "Drop the belt and hold your cuffs close to my hands."
I touched the handcuffs and fumbled for the lock. With great difficulty I managed to insert the slender metal tube I was holding into the lock.
"This is going to be tricky," I said. "Hold as still as possible."
Working behind yourself and upside down, in a twisted, uncomfortable position, is not the easiest way to pick a lock. Just trying to keep in mind in what direction to move the pick against the tumbler was a challenge. But after fifteen minutes of it, the lock clicked and Heather's cuffs were loose. I sighed a heavy sigh of relief as she moved away and pulled her hands from the cuffs.
"Now you have to do it for me," I told her.
She moved around in back of me.
For her it was an easier job. Her hands were free and she could see what she was doing. In a few minutes she had my cuffs unlocked.
I dropped them to the floor.
Working quickly, in almost complete darkness now, I ripped the belt open. It was lined with explosives in plastic form, like putty. There was also a short fuse and a match. I wadded the plastic into a ball and stuck the fuse into it. Then I assembled the four-inch blowgun and unwrapped the tiny dart.
"Well," I said "We're ready, I guess. We have nothing to pick the door lock with so well have to blow it."
"But there's no place to get away from the explosion," Heather pointed out.
"I know. Lie down against the wall near the door, opposite the lock." I moved to the door and jammed the plastic against the lock; it stuck there, the fuse extending out of it toward me. "Cover your ears and head," I told Heather, "and open your mouth."
I took the match out "Well, this is it," I said. I struck the match and touched it to the fuse. I saw it start, then dived onto Heather, covering my head.
The explosion was not a loud one as explosions go, but it seemed thunderous in that small room. Our ears rang and our heads hurt and I was hit in the back with a sharp piece of flying wood. We staggered to our feet while the smoke was still clearing. The door stood open.
"That will bring anyone who's downstairs," I said.
And it did. They came rushing up the stairs. Heather stood on one side of the door and I stood on the other. There were two of them. Heather had the blowgun and was ready to use it. The first man to appear in the dim light of the landing was the thin gunman we had met before. He hesitated a second, then moved into the room.
I took him; I struck viciously at his gunhand, knocking the gun loose. Then I grabbed his arm, jerking him off his feet into the room. I met him in the middle of the floor as he struggled up, smashed a hard right into his face. The bone snapped in his nose and he spun heavily against the opposite wall.
The second man, the Rolls driver, was at the door now, aiming his gun at me. Heather raised the blowgun and sent the dart on its way. It struck him in the neck, buried half of its shaft. Startled, he forgot about shooting me. He plucked the dart out, looked at it, and suddenly his eyes rolled and he fell flat on his face in the doorway.
I delivered a karate chop to the thin man's larynx. He made a gurgling sound and collapsed.
"Let's get out of here!" I grabbed Heather by the elbow.
We dived down the circular staircase. We met no one else coming up and as we made our way along the ground floor toward the front door, the house appeared to be empty. We searched the rooms we passed quickly. No one. But I did find our guns and Hugo in a desk in the library.
There was a car in the drive but the keys weren't in it. I reached under the dash, crossed wires to start it. We slammed the doors shut and roared off.