"Which brings us right back to the real Caillou. Where is he? Is he still alive? Dead?"
"That's not fair. You've got all the questions and I don't have any answers."
"We've got to find the real Caillou, haven't we? Before the ringer can really take his place?"
"There you go with the questions again."
"We can't sit around here, can we? How are we going to get out of here?"
"I told you! Try with some answers already."
"Are you nuts? If I had answers, I wouldn't have to stand around here yakking like this."
A knocking at the door rasped across his words. Solo and Illya exchanged glances. The knock was repeated, frantic now.
Illya pounced across the room like a lynx. He pressed his face against the door facing. "Who's there?"
"I. Yvonne. Please. Let me in. Hurry!"
"Wonder what your grandmother would say in this situation?" Illya said. He slapped off the locks, opened the door.
His eyes widened.
Two men bore down on Caillou's terrified secretary from both ways along the corridor. Their guns were drawn. As they reached out for her, Illya grasped her extended arm and yanked her through the opening.
She went stumbling across the room, trying to catch her balance.
"Solo!" Illya whispered.
Solo leaped to his aid. He struck the door with his shoulder as the men outside landed against it. During the next fraction of a second, which seemed an hour, the door trembled, neither closed, nor open.
Then the lock clicked into place. Illya slapped the second lock into place, and he and Solo sagged against the door, sighing.
They stared at the secretary, who finally had straightened and stood facing them, her eyes wide, swimming with fright.
"I hope you don't mind," Illya said to Yvonne, "if I ask you a few questions."
"He's a bear for questions," Solo said. "Not much for answers, but wild with questions."
Illya stared at Yvonne. "How did you get in here?"
She stared at him, her full lips parted. "You helped me in! Those men—"
"Those men just let you walk up to the door?"
"Yes. Then they came running toward me—"
"All right. We'll let that go for now. How did you know where to find us?"
She frowned. "Why, I knew all along. We got a telegram from the director of the World Bank saying you and Mr. Solo would be at this hotel, that you would visit Mr. Caillou, and we were to offer you every assistance."
"You mind my saying I don't believe you?" Illya said.
"Another question," Solo interposed.
Yvonne straightened angrily. She looked even more intriguing with her shoulders back. "If you doubt me, then I will leave," she said. "I will not stay where I am not trusted."
She turned and strode across the room to the window.
Sole sprinted from the door. She wheeled around, gazing at him in terror as he raced toward her. He thrust her away from the window as a bu1let splatted into its sill.
She toppled this time, landing hard on the carpeting. She stared up at them, her lips quivering.
"We're only trying to make you feel at home," Illya said.
"I want to get out of here," Yvonne sobbed.
Illya shrugged. "We share your sentiments. But at the moment we're not sure just how to work it."
"What he means is," Solo said, "we don't have an idea in the world."
Solo helped Yvonne to her feet and led her to a couch. He sat down with her, dabbing at her eyes with his handkerchief.
"How come you take all the best assignments?" Illya said.
Solo put his arm about Yvonne. She was on the brink of hysterics.
"Why did you come here, Yvonne"
Her lips trembled. "I need help. My employer, Monsieur Caillou, needs help. Something is wrong. I never saw him act like he did today."
"There was something wrong with him today, all right," Illya agreed.
She looked up, troubled. "Oh, did you notice it, too?"
"In what ways did he seem strange to you?" Solo prompted.
"In the calls he made. In the people who came to visit him—people I have never seen before. He didn't know where anything was. His temper, so short—Monsieur Caillou is one of the most patient of men."
"This was one of his off days," Illya told her.
"Something is very wrong," Yvonne persisted. "As soon as Monsieur Caillou left the office today, I came looking for you. I hoped you could help him."
"At the moment I'm afraid we could use a spot of help ourselves," Illya said.
Solo said, "Where did Caillou go when he finally left his office, Yvonne?"
"I don't know. To his chateau, I suppose."
"Do you know where it is'?"
"Yes, of course."
Solo sighed heavily. "Suppose we were some way able to get out of this room, Yvonne. Would you take us to Caillou's chateau?"
"But of course."
Solo grinned. "Well, that part was easy." He stared at Yvonne a moment, and then at Illya. "Suppose you start, Yvonne, by giving Illya your dress."
"What?" Yvonne stared at him.
"I echo that," Illya said. "I don't even want her dress. It'll never fit me."
But Yvonne was already loosening zippers, pulling the dress up over her head.
Her hair mussed, her face flushed, Yvonne handed her dress to Solo. He gazed a moment, admiring her in a black lace slip, then tossed the dress to Illya.
"Put it on," he told Kuryakin. "Give Yvonne your clothes."
"I'll just go in the bathroom to change," Illya said. "After all, I'm not wearing a black lace slip." He took a step toward the bath, paused. "You mind saying why I'm doing this?"
"That dress is your color," Solo told him. "It will do magic things for your eyes. Besides, if you can get out in the hall, make the guards out there think you're Yvonne until they get close enough, you can explode a gas pill. That'll give us time to clear out of here."
Illya shook his head. "With me looking like a female impersonator."
"This is Paris," Solo told him. "Don't fight. Switch."
As Illya turned toward the bath room again, there was a knock on the door. He hesitated, tautly, glanced across his shoulder. "I had no idea we were so popular."
Solo crossed the room. He stood
"Bellboy, M'sieur. I have a message."
"Push it under the door."
There was a pause. Then, "I'm afraid I can't do that, sir."
Solo and Illya exchanged knowing glances.
"Here we go again," Solo said. He spoke toward the door again. "Just a moment."
Illya tossed the dress to Yvonne. "Put it back on. We've just abandoned Plan One. Alternate Plan Ten."
"Plan Ten?" Yvonne stared at him, puzzled. "What on earth is Plan Ten?"
"Pray a little," Illya told her.
They waited for Yvonne to pull on her dress, straighten it. She was still yanking at zippers, patting at her hair, when Solo caught her arm and pulled her close against the wall behind him at the doorway.
"Monsieur?" the bellboy said in his calmest, most polite tone.
Yvonne was trembling, her teeth chattering.
Solo gave her a pen-sized aluminum vial with a plastic cone at its top.
"Oxygen," he told her. "What ever you do, don't take that nose cone from your face until we're out of here."