One of them permitted himself a flickering expression of surprise, and both looked at Peter. He in turn looked closely at Napoleon. "How did you know that?"
Napoleon covered his surprise with a little shrug and a smug smile. "Oh, after all," he said, "U.N.C.L.E. isn't entirely without resources." He looked up the stairs consideringly. "What do you think had happened to your scout?" He threw a glance out of the corner of his eye at Peter, whose eyes narrowed.
"Franz," he called. "Do you find him?"
There was no answer. Peter looked around, and then said, "Come. We cannot stand on the stairs forever. Klaus—Fritz—have your weapons at ready."
They started cautiously up the last few steps. As Napoleon's head came above the level of the floor he looked down the long hall that stretched off into darkness ahead of them. There was a single light at the top of the stairs, and no other.
A moment later the seven of them stood in a little group in a pool of light, surrounded by two stone walls and darkness. Peter was distinctly nervous by this time. "There must have been a power failure," he said. "This light is on the emergency circuit. But with that wolf prowling around somewhere..."
Somewhere ahead of them came a low, menacing growl. Peter looked quickly around, saw the flashlight clipped to Zoltan's belt, and seized it. Its beam flickered around the corridor. A few crates were stacked there, and a few statues. There was nothing living in sight. But the growl sounded again.
Peter spun about, and flashed the light back down the stairs they had just ascended. And as he did so, Hans gave a little sigh as his gun clattered from his limp hand to the floor. With a rustle of uniform and a loose-limbed thump, he fell to join it.
The Thrush leader looked down at his guard, an expression of fear growing in his eyes. Fritz let go of Napoleon and was standing a few feet back, gripping his sidearm tensely and eyeing the U.N.C.L.E. agent suspiciously. Peter looked at him too.
"What have you done, my friend?" he asked in a voice that was edged with danger. "Have you killed him?"
Napoleon radiated innocence. "You were watching me every minute," he said. "I never even looked mean at him."
Klaus knelt beside his fallen comrade and turned him over. "He's not bleeding, sir," he said. "His pulse seems all right." Then he lowered his head as if to look for something. His head kept right on lowering as his body collapsed across the other.
Peter swung the flash up the corridor instantly, where there was still nothing in sight. But out of the distance, echoing down the corridor, came a sound of a gloating evil chuckle that lasted until every head was looking along the pale golden beam of the failing flashlight.
With scarcely a glance at her, Peter took the one from Hilda's belt, thumbed the button, and added its fresher white light to the yellow one. And still nothing unusual could be distinguished.
He looked at Fritz, whose gun wavered uncertainly among the three prisoners. "You take care you do not fall over like your fellows. Walk behind us, and guard carefully." He looked coldly at the U.N.C.L.E. agent. "If this is your doing, you may not be released alive after all," he said. "You and the girl walk in front as we go down the corridor."
They started off, leaving the two bodies in the pool of illumination behind them. As they walked, the spot of light from the flash Peter held danced along the floor in front of them, sweeping back and forth, throwing long swaying shadows, dodging behind piled boxes, swinging over statues.
They were halfway down the corridor when the searching beam ducked behind a crate and stopped as Peter gasped. Huddled in the light was the body of a man in Thrush uniform. Peter reached forward and pulled him out. His head lolled limply; his eyes were closed. It was Franz. As they looked down at him, Fritz sighed deeply and fell over.
Peter whirled around as his pistol hit the stone floor, and his flash glanced out. And again there was nothing. And again that gloating triumphant chuckle floated out of the distances of the corridor at them. Then finally his nerve broke.
He ran from them down the corridor to the foot of the next flight of stairs and fumbled frantically for something in the wall. Then he yammered, "Alert! Alert! Corridor Twenty-One. There's something wrong down here. It's struck down four guards without a sound. I have the U.N.C.L.E. people here—I think it's a trick of theirs. Send a troop quickly." He waited for an acknowledgment and then put the handset back.
Turning to face Napoleon, Zoltan and Hilda, he once again seemed master of the situation. "There will be a force here in two minutes," he said jerkily. "Let's see if your invisible power can evade them."
Napoleon smiled. "Or if they can evade him. You see, Peter, U.N.C.L.E. is not without its tricks too. Perhaps it would be better if you just surrendered quietly and let us take you away to a nice safe comfortable cell...."
Peter's gun centered on Napoleon's midriff. "No!" he said shrilly. "You will pay for this. You will..."
"You will die before he does!" A deep distorted voice echoed out of the tunnel behind them. Napoleon turned and saw, silhouetted against the distant light, a figure which cast a shadow the whole length of the tunnel. It was one of the statues come to life—a figure in Roman armor, short sword raised high and a shield covering its chest. The flashlight beam stabbed down the corridor and picked out the sturdy figure, the blond hair under the crested helmet, the gleaming iron of the sword and buckler.
Peter made an inarticulate noise in his throat and fired blindly at the apparition. The echoes of the shots rumbled away and were drowned in ghastly laughter. "We can only die once," said the voice as the figure took a stride towards them. "And you have disturbed our rest. Now you must join us."
The thunder of the automatic shook the walls as Peter emptied the rest of the magazine at the inexorably advancing figure and then fled for the stairs. Napoleon caught Hilda as she slipped to the floor in a dead faint, and Zoltan stepped forward to meet the figure. He raised an arm and commanded, "I am Zoltan Stobolzny-Dracula. Leave my friends in peace."
The figure lowered its sword and snorted. "Oh, come on, Zoltan," it said. "Don't be melodramatic."
Illya pushed back the legionnaire's helmet that hid most of his blond hair and propped his sword against a case. "Was I really that good?" he asked, looking down at Hilda.
"You laid 'em in the aisles," said Napoleon. "I thought it was you when I heard the imitation wolf-howl. But why did you only use the sleep-darts on the guards?"
"I wanted Peter to sweat a little. I think we owed him some. Besides, I found this set of armor that was just my size, and wondered how I would look in it."
Hilda opened her eyes. Then she opened them even wider than usual. "Illya!" she said. "How on Earth..."
He held up his U.N.C.L.E. Special and pointed to the fat cylinder screwed to the end. "Knock-out darts, and a new design of silencer. If I hadn't felt the hammer fall, I wouldn't have known when I'd fired."
"But he was shooting at you!"
"I had a shield which was good enough to deflect a glancing shot. It wouldn't stop a direct hit, but I expected him to be too frightened to shoot straight. I was almost right," he said, exhibiting a streak of blood along one forearm. "A near miss. Do you happen to have a band-aid?"