The Avengers
A large stately hotel rose above the other buildings in London, England. A peculiar man donning
shades entered the hotel and hurried to one of the multipurpose great rooms located on the first
floor. Removing his sunglasses, he stepped up to an obese man in a wheelchair.
"Ah, Smyth you finally arrived," the fat man commented to him.
"I left my flat as soon as I got your message," Smyth replied to his companion almost
apologetically. "What seems to be the trouble?"
"As you know, a party is going to be taking place in this room later. Several people we haven't
seen in awhile will be present, including Emma Peel. She will naturally hover around Steed, and
the two will be inseparable the rest of the evening." He gazed at two photographs in his hands
before setting them down on a table.
One of the pictures was of a gorgeous woman with reddish brown hair and an impeccable smile.
The other photo was of a gentleman attired in a suit and matching bowler. He had a rather
puckish grin spread across his handsome face.
"We must make sure they don't discover the truth at the fete," the man in the wheelchair
continued, "understand?"
"All right, Mother; you know best," Smyth droned in an almost hypnotic tone. He snapped out of
his delirium and marched out of the room, determined to do his job right.
The other man, or "Mother," sighed dismally and shook his head. He wheeled out of the room
after Smyth, leaving his two photos behind.
Mother Knows Best
Emma Loses a Husband
Steed Gains a Wife
Cathy Shares a Memory
Tara Tries to Forget
First Night
The gathering was the usual affair for the year, 1969 to be exact. Fifty or so people were milling
around in an enormous open room, the women wearing their miniskirts and outrageous hairdos,
the men dressed formally and casually- no tuxedos, please! Some men, mostly the younger chaps
with more spunk, were dressed rather too casually for the party, and this was quite a crime for a
certain well-heeled gentleman.
He stood off to the right of the room, brandy glass in hand, discussing the inclement weather for
the time of year. Dressed in an expensive grey suit, he had the air of a man who knew his proper
place in society and wasn't ashamed to show it. His bowler hat and umbrella, two necessities for
traveling, were hanging on the hat rack near the entrance of the room and mostly likely would
still have been with him if it were decent for such a party.
His charming partner for the evening was adorned in a sleeveless, lime green dress complete with
a miniskirt. Unfortunately, this outfit did nothing for her figure or her beauty. It wasn't the
colour, mind you, but some people weren't made to wear those sexy dresses.
Despite this drawback in her clothes, the woman was looking rather nice. Her bobbed dark brown
hair had been left alone, thankfully, and her little lime purse was the perfect addition to her outfit.
As was mentioned before, the couple were immersed in the trivial subject of the weather. They
undoubtedly would have been discussing a much more important topic if it weren't for the fact
that a third party was present at the moment. This lady lacked the intellectual quality that had
made the other two quite partial to each other.
In fact, she had just remarked quite stupidly that she recognized every face in the room. This
could have been amazing if it wasn't for the fact that the party was for everybody who worked at
a certain company, an agency actually.
Yes, all the people at the party worked for an important Spy Agency. No one knew the name of
the Agency, except, of course, the people who worked there, so over the years, the spies became
known as the Avengers.
On this certain evening, the agents, retired and still enrolled, amateur and professional, were
gathered at a fancy room at a hotel, waiting for the host to show himself. You see it was a
mystery party. One of the guests was the host of the party and everyone had to guess who the
person was. If they guessed correctly, they would win a ridiculous chintzy prize that is customary
at social functions.
Now the woman who had been commenting so stupidly that she knew everybody was a Mrs.
Diana Parker. How she graduated from spy school was a mystery in itself, but being that all were
proper British folk, they never made a comment on it.
Suddenly Mrs. Parker asked her two polite but bored companions, "Who do you suppose is the
host?"
The other lady replied, "I really have no idea, Mrs. Parker." This was a lie, but the lady felt it was
the only decorous thing to say to an ignorant woman.
"Really, Tara!" cried the gentlemen. "I'm surprised that you don't even have a guess!" Tara gave
him a look, which he got immediately.
"Miss Tara King, I think you have something to do with this mystery!" exclaimed Mrs. Parker.
"And the same goes for you, Mr. Steed." Tara and Steed exchanged knowing glances again, for
they knew for certain that they were not involved in the mystery. "I must tell Mother of my
discovery!" Mrs. Parker walked over to a terribly obese man who was puffing a cigar and
drinking scotch as if it were water.
Yes, this man was Mother, the head of the agency. Why he chose the name "mother" was an
enigma to all agents and probably himself. It was most likely a name that popped into his head on
a whim and that seemed to stick. In any case, many of the agents had little idiosyncrasies like
that, and over time, it was just accepted.
"Now that we're alone, is it all right to speak openly about certain things, or do you think the
walls have ears?" asked Steed, smiling.
"Even if the walls did have ears, I'd have to tell all that is on my mind." Tara looked suspiciously
around before continuing. "Now, I really want to know who you think the mystery host is. I
believe it's Smyth; now don't laugh."
"Smyth?" Steed repeated with genuine astonishment in his voice.
"Yes," Tara began as enthusiastically as her British propriety could allow. "I heard from
Pemberly that Shuston said that Mitchell was the host. Now if this was so, Mitchell would not
have denied such accusations so earnestly and sworn it was Smyth. This is conclusive evidence
that Smyth must and is the host."
"No, Tara, it's not that simple," Steed argued ardently. "I believe it is Mother."
"But everyone expects the mystery host to be Mother!" Tara protested indignantly. "He's the
head of the agency, so everyone automatically assumes he'll be the head of the party."
"That is the key point." Steed gave his empty brandy glass to a passing waitress before
continuing, "Since everyone expects it to be Mother, their spy instincts will tell them that is too
simple, and Mother would not be the host and make the game so easy. Thus they must guess that
somebody else is the mystery host. Now knowing that everyone won't guess him, Mother can
host the party with ease and stump all those gullible agents. Do I make myself clear?"
Tara began to nod her head, but then slowly and shamefacedly shook it. "Oh, Steed I'll never be
as bright as you!" She stared at him adoringly then sighed. "Now that you've told me who the
mystery host is, I don't know if I should still stick to my first guess. After all, I wouldn't have
guessed correctly if you hadn't told me." She mulled over this for several moments until she
concluded, "When the time comes I'll say that Smyth is the Mystery host."
Steed was about to answer when the door opened and in stepped the breathtaking Mrs. Cathy
Gale. She was in a plain, sleeveless black dress, complete with a big white belt and a square
buckle. Her feet were adorned with black high heels, and underneath her skirt, hidden from view,
was a smart, black garter. Tucked neatly inside the garter was a small pistol. On any other person
this getup would have been utterly ridiculous, but on Mrs. Gale it seemed to personify her
outgoing yet, at the same time, restrained characteristics.
She walked composedly over to Steed, who smiled gregariously at his former partner in crime
fighting. "I hope I'm not intruding," she began earnestly.
"You are," returned Steed coyly. "But since you are a dear old friend, I shall forgive you."
"I hope I am not old, yet!" Mrs. Gale exclaimed, frowning slightly, but then she smiled briefly.
Tired of being ignored, Tara decided to start a conversation in which all could be involved. "How
is your husband, Mrs. Gale?"
Mrs. Gale's face clouded over for a moment, but quickly regained enough composure to reply,
"My husband has been dead these last eight years, Miss King."
"Yes," agreed Steed, somewhat annoyed to see that his current partner could be so inconsiderate.
After standing in an uncomfortable silence that seemed to have come over the two ladies in a
matter of seconds, Steed tried to make the situation light by adding, "I've often wondered why
you haven't remarried, Mrs. Gale. You are a very attractive, not to mention an incredibly smart
woman."
"There's no one I am remotely interested in." Cathy jostled her flowing, blond hair becomingly.
Steed smiled charmingly and glanced at the pretty waitress that had collected his brandy glass
earlier. "And there's no chance of me ever marrying you. I plan to be single all of my days."
"And, I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on earth," Mrs. Gale replied saucily. Steed
laughed nervously, something he did often when he had been insulted by the sharp Mrs. Gale.
"Isn't there anyone you would possibly marry?" Tara rather hopelessly asked Steed. Cathy Gale
realized what a pathetic state of infatuation Tara had for Steed, but she kept silent. If it was one
thing she had learned in the agency, it was to remain silent unless absolutely necessary.
Steed was about to reply to Tara, when he was interrupted again. This time the intruder was not
the Mrs. Gale, but Mrs. Parker, who had wandered back to Tara and Steed after she had been
rudely pushed aside by Mother. "Mr. Steed is rather funny to talk of being single."
"Why? I could marry anyone if I wanted to. I just never wanted to. Why have only one woman
for the rest of your life, when you can have them all?" Steed smiled at the three ladies clustered
around him.
"Oh, Steed you are such a cad!" Mrs. Parker cried joyously. "Of course, you can't marry
anybody! You already-"
"Mrs. Parker," Cathy began edgily, "Bimba La Trife." Mrs. Parker placed a hand over her mouth
and suppressed a giggle. Then she sauntered over to Mother again.
Tara and Steed stared at Cathy as if she had suddenly had a fit of insanity. Tara expressed this
thought to Mr. Steed, saying, "I think our poor Mrs. Gale has fallen victim to the bottle."
Steed refused to believe this of his sensible ex-partner in sleuthing. "I'm sure 'Bimba la Trife' is
just a code for something very confidential. I do recall learning a phrase similar to that when I
was in training. Now let me think . . ."
"Keep quiet," Mrs. Gale said abruptly.
Steed stopped in mid-sentence to exclaim, "Why, Mrs. Gale, you surprise me! I thought a lady
like you didn't behave so rudely, and to an old friend, too!"
"Sorry, Steed, but you misunderstood me. I was merely telling you that Bimba la Trife means 'be
quiet' in code." Cathy sexily placed her hands on her hips.
"You really didn't have to tell me, Mrs. Gale, for you know I would have figured it out
eventually."
"I just wanted to save you the time and trouble." Cathy smiled wryly and wandered over to the
buffet table. "I'll see later, all right Steed?" she called over her shoulder.
Steed gazed admiringly at Cathy before turning back to serious matters. "What do you think of
Mrs. Parker's dialogue?" he inquired of Tara. "Don't you find it unusual that she should say I
couldn't ever get married? And what about her last words before she was interrupted by Mrs.
Gale: 'You already-'"
Tara shrugged nonchalantly. "I think that she is drunk, and talking nonsensically."
"Then why would Mrs. Gale tell her to be quiet?" Steed scrunched his forehead in deep
contemplation, while Tara let his question sink into her mind.
Suddenly a slim woman entered the hotel room's front door, the air of a queen about her.
However, the regal mien did not last long, for as soon as she spotted Steed, she pounced at him
as a vivacious cat might pounce on a bird. Then she uttered a sentence that was so obvious that
from any other woman's lips it would have seemed ridiculous. "Steed, you're here!"
Mr. Steed's eyes seemed to light up at the beautiful woman's presence. "Mrs. Peel, how
wonderful to see you again!" He scanned her figure which was clad in a lavender dress. Tiny
straps were the only thing that kept it hanging on her body, and the low-cut front was not at all
decent for a married woman. Mrs. Peel had sensed this, so she had wrapped a lavender feather
boa around her neck, hiding everything that shouldn't be shown. "I declare you look lovelier
every time I see you."
"The same goes for you, Steed," Mrs. Peel replied properly and coquettishly. Only she could
make a normal sentence have two different accents at the same time.
"Has it really been almost two years since I've seen you last, Mrs. Peel?"
"Unfortunately, yes," she replied remorsefully. She glanced around the room, searching for the
bar. "Have you tried the champagne yet?"
"No, I've been too occupied to get away from this spot."
"How is it then that you found time to get a glass of brandy?" Tara asked nonchalantly, even
though jealousy was ripping though her veins. It seemed that every woman, excluding herself,
was receiving more attention from Steed. Why he had even talked to Mrs. Parker more!
Mr. Steed cleared his throat nervously, while Mrs. Peel raised an eyebrow. "It seems you have
been more busy than you realized," Mrs. Peel said dryly.
"The truth is I wasn't in the mood for champagne," Steed confessed.
Mrs. Peel made a noise of mock dismay, followed by several "Tsk, Tsk, Tsk." She cocked her
head slightly to the right, her reddish brown hair falling over her left eye. "Well since you're not
interested in the most marvelous invention to come out of France, I'll just go fetch a glass of
champagne for myself."
Steed didn't seem to hear her, for he was too captivated by her beauty. He wished she wouldn't
make herself so darn attractive, and wondered why the most beautiful women were married,
obviously forgetting about Tara, the widowed Cathy Gale, and any other single women in the
room.
Mrs. Peel sauntered over to the bar, leaving Tara and Mr. Steed once more alone. "Mrs. Emma
Peel doesn't seem quite as charming as when I last saw her," Tara proclaimed, venom in her
usually sweet voice.
"I find that her charisma has grown over the course of time," Mr. Steed argued gallantly. "I see
we have different opinions on Mrs. Peel, so I think it would be wise to leave her out of our
conversation."
Emma returned with her glass, sipping and making a horribly sour face. "This champagne is
ghastly! Here, try it for yourself and see what you think." She thrust her glass at Steed but
somehow managed not to spill a drop.
Steed tasted the champagne, shook his head, and sighed. "It really is dreadful. I wonder what
came over Mother when he purchased this vintage."
"Steed, you'll give the mystery host away!" Tara cried indignantly.
"Don't worry, Miss King, I had already figured it out before I came." Emma Peel directed her
attention back to Steed. "Somehow I don't believe Mother knew about the champagne. Hosts
don't usually cater their own party unless they want the absolute best in everything . . ."
"And Mother isn't a person who cares if his hors d'oeuvre are soggy and his champagne is too
sweet," Steed finished her sentence.
Mrs. Peel didn't seem to mind at his interruption. But this was understandable, since finishing
their sentences for each other was an old habit of theirs. She took the champagne glass back from
Steed and sipped it again. "What year do you think this is from?"
"Nineteen forty-three I dare say. Nineteen forty-three has a very poignant taste to it, very much
like this awful drink."
"Really; I was sure it was Nineteen forty-two!"
"It certainly is not; Nineteen forty-two is bearable, but a year earlier makes it very sweet, more
like soda than champagne! A perfect champagne must be mellow, but with a tinkling bite to it."
"You're right, Steed, as always."
"Oh, I must speak to Mother about this immediately. I don't care if it will give the secret host
away; this is intolerable! Excuse me ladies." Mr. Steed went in search of his boss and host for the
evening.
Mrs. Peel looked at the glass in her hand and offered it to Tara. Tara, too distracted watching
Steed, took the glass willingly. Automatically, she brought the glass to her lips, but stopped
herself from drinking it just in time. She beckoned to a passing waitress, who took the detested
glass away.
Tara addressed her rival, "Do you two often share champagne glasses, Emma? You don't mind if
I call you Emma do you?"
Emma didn't seem the least bit fazed at the inquiry. "Occasionally we do, but usually we have
separate straws. I really am not accustomed to being called 'Emma', so I would prefer you called
me Mrs. Peel like everyone else."
"Don't tell me your husband doesn't even call you 'Emma'?" After receiving no response, Tara
inferred that Emma was not familiar with her husband calling her by her first name. "I feel sorry
for you then, Mrs. Peel."
"Listen, let's not pretend you aren't jealous of me, Miss King," Emma Peel began composedly. "I
am quite aware of your infatuation with Steed. Most every girl fancies herself in love with him at
least once in her life; it would be unnatural if they didn't feel something for a respectable, smart,
dashing man like John Steed." Her complacency irked Tara even more than Mr. Steed's devout
attention to Emma.
"Have you ever been in love with him?"
This question put Emma off guard, but she quickly regained her calmness before she replied, "I
admit that I formed an attachment for Steed for a while, but after someone saves your life a
hundred times, it's quite natural to have affections for them, unless you're a totally insensitive
person. Now if you'll excuse me, Tara, I must find something to wash this horrid taste out of my
mouth." Mrs. Peel walked away, the air of a martyr about her.
Meanwhile, Steed was trying to tell Mother what was wrong with his champagne. "Mother, I
must speak to you about this champagne; it's dreadful." He glanced at the man in the
wheelchair, who was sitting behind a long table. Mrs. Parker and Mother's personal secretary
were standing next to him.
Mother looked up from his scotch. "Steed, I've been looking for you," he began grimly.
"Then you agree with me?" Steed perched himself on the edge of the table.
"What the devil are you going on about, Steed?" When Steed looked confusedly at him, he
continued with his dialogue. "Mrs. Parker tells me you've been talking about marriage and so
forth."
"Oh, Mrs. Parker that's a wonderful offer, but I'm afraid I must refuse you. Besides, unless I am
mistaken, you're married already."
"What are you talking about, Steed?" Mrs. Parker looked around in wonderment as if he might
be addressing another Parker in the room.
"Steed," Mother started, nails drumming impatiently on the table, "what did Mrs. Parker tell you
earlier?"
"Merely that I can't ever marry because I already-"
"What? What did she say to you?" Mother leaned forward in his wheelchair, his scotch sloshing
around in the glass.
"That's all; isn't that right, Mrs. Parker?" Steed glanced from Mrs. Parker to Mother, trying to
read their faces.
"Yes, that's what I told Mother, but he wouldn't believe me!" On the verge of crying, Diana
Parker sighed and tried to stop her trembling lip. "Then Cathy Gale appeared and told me to," she
paused and began to whisper, "'Bimba La Trife.'"
"That means 'be quiet,'" Steed unnecessarily informed Mother.
"Cathy Gale was present? Well that makes all the difference in the world! You are dismissed,
Steed and Mrs. Parker."
Steed was about to protest, but he changed his mind. The ordeal with the champagne would have
to wait until later. He walked over to Tara, and was surprised to find that Mrs. Peel was no longer
there. "Did you frighten off poor Mrs. Peel?"
"She left on her own free will, and I think it had to do with a terrible taste in her mouth." Tara
smiled beguilingly at Steed and linked her arm with his. "Well, since you are my escort for the
evening, don't you think it would be appropriate if we danced or something?"
"Not now, Tara," Steed replied distractedly, "I really must find Mrs. Peel and tell her of the most
extraordinary thing."
"Well, tell me instead, Steed," Tara yanked at his arm, trying to hold him back.
"Really, Tara, you're being very unfair to Mrs. Peel. I'll be able to talk to you tomorrow, while
Mrs. Peel I might never see again! I won't be long, dear, so don't worry. We'll still have time to
dance, eat, and drink champagne well we can't do that--" Mr. Steed hurried to find his friend,
leaving Tara in a miserable state of pouting.
It wasn't difficult to find her, for spotting the effervescent Mrs. Peel was like seeing a beacon of
light on a stormy night. She was standing by the record player, conversing with the D.J. Sensing
Steed's presence, she abruptly stopped her conversation and whirled around. "Steed!" she
exclaimed.
Mr. Steed wondered if it was a figment of his imagination, or if she really sounded delighted to
see him. "Hello, Mrs. Peel. I thought Tara had frightened you away, but she denied all
accusations." He grinned good-naturedly and ushered her away from the disc jockey. "I'm often
surprised at how few people hire real orchestras to perform at their parties any more."
"There has been a steady decline since the beginning of the decade," Mrs. Peel added casually.
When they were out of earshot of everyone, she asked, "What's the matter, Steed?"
Steed explained the strange ordeal with Mrs. Parker's insensible comments and Mother's angry
reactions. He concluded with the words, "I have no idea what this is all about, but I'm
determined to get to the bottom of it. It's really not like Mother to be so mysterious with me, or
any of the other agents for that matter."
"To me it sounds like Mrs. Parker was saying that you are married." The horrified look in Steed's
eyes was enough to show Emma Peel that he thought the idea outrageous and impossible. She
supposed that any man after being a bachelor for forty some years would find this news
upsetting. Emma smoothly changed the subject by saying, "Speaking of marriage, my husband
has been behaving in a peculiar manner ever since he came home two years ago."
"Being that I'm unmarried, I don't know how husbands are supposed to behave, so maybe you
shouldn't tell me about Mr. Peel's little quirks. For all I know, what one wife thinks is strange
behavior another woman finds perfectly normal."
"You don't call to be away on 'business' nine months out of twelve a common occurrence, do
you?"
"You must be joking, Mrs. Peel!"
"No, I wish I was. What's worse than that is when he does come home, he stays out all night."
"I don't want to jump to conclusions, but it seems to me that there might be another woman
involved." Steed cleared his throat and waited for her response.
"Steed, don't look so meek. I can assure you it is not a woman, which, I admit, surprised me, too.
You see, the three months that my husband was home, I bribed my neighbor, Mrs. Wadsworth, to
spy on him whenever I went out. Well every time I returned to my flat, I'd get the same story
from Mrs. Wadsworth: 'Your husband had a mysterious man over again. They talked for a while
and then left.' And I even hired one of our fellow agents to track my husband down when he was
gone for those long months. He has never been near another woman, the entire time. He's also
never been near an airplane."
"But he's a pilot for a living!" Steed exclaimed.
"I am quite aware of that." Emma sighed and continued, "Another peculiarity has come up which
might interest you. My husband claims his name is William, but I know it was Peter."
"His name wasn't William. He was Peter Peel, the pilot, who was lost on the Amazon, presumed
dead until he returned recently. Why would he say his name was William unless he had
amnesia?"
"And I know he doesn't have amnesia, for he remembers everything else perfectly. Furthermore,
Peter, or whatever you want to call him, doesn't behave like a gentleman at all." Emma thought
indignantly to herself, It's insulting to think he wears a bowler hat and those sharp suits like
Steed, considering how he isn't half the gentleman John, er Steed is.
Steed mused, I can't believe a wonderful woman like Emma Peel could be married to an
atrocious villain like Peter Peel! He said aloud, "I think I'll have a look into this mystery, Mrs.
Peel, if you don't mind."
"I was hoping you would; that's why I told you." Mrs. Peel smiled provocatively and gazed into
Steed's hazel eyes.
Suddenly, the lights turned off, and the sound of a gun was heard resounding through the hotel
room. Screams were emitted from the bravest of women, including Tara King. The men stumbled
in the darkness, trying to find the intruder. During this chaos, Mr. Steed, Mrs. Peel, and Mrs.
Gale all managed to find each other and began devising a plan. Unfortunately, before they could
finish, the lights snapped back on to reveal a man in a black mask standing one foot away from
them.
He brandished a revolver from his pocket and, grabbing Mrs. Peel around the neck, pointed the
gun at her head! "Not a move from anyone, or Mrs. Peel dies!" he threatened menacingly.
Another man, dressed similarly, chuckled evilly and fired his gun at the ceiling just to frighten
everyone.
Steed eyed the nearest object, a bottle of champagne, and wondered if he could grab it without
being noticed. Slowly he inched near the bottle, pausing every time one of the men turned to look
at them. He noticed the two men were pushing Mrs. Peel to the door, laughing wickedly all the
way. A little closer, he encouraged himself.
Meanwhile Cathy was thinking of her little pistol tucked away in her garter and wished she could
stoop to get it without being conspicuous. Somehow she didn't think they'd believe her if she
said her knee had suddenly given way. She licked her lips in anticipation and silently cheered
when she saw Steed reach for the champagne bottle.
Tara stood in the corner, ruing the fact she had been so frightened that she hadn't even tried to
find Steed. She hoped Mrs. Peel didn't think this was a deliberate action against her. Tara bit her
lip, trying to keep from sighing, or worse screaming.
Mrs. Peel was probably the most anxious of them all. She willingly let them push her toward the
door, feigning a calm air as if being kidnapped was an everyday occurrence. Inside, though, she
was quaking. She had had many close escapes from death before, but each time she was a little
more afraid. I've got to kick the gun out of this man's hands, she told herself. It's the only way to
get me out of this jam, unless Steed and Cathy can do something.
Steed snatched the bottle from the table and pretended to trip. The two men turned around,
dragging Mrs. Peel with them. Steed straightened up and smiled mischievously. "I thought you
two could use some champagne before you left." With that, he rolled the bottle down the floor
until it collided with one of the two men. He was sent sprawling to the floor, and fell
unconscious.
Unfortunately, it was not the man pointing the gun at Mrs. Peel's head, but Mrs. Peel had
expected that. When his partner fell to the ground, he turned his head to investigate. Mrs. Peel
chose this moment to knock the gun out of his hand, and the revolver sailed through the air,
landing by Steed.
Steed snatched the revolver from the ground before either of the men could make another move.
He pointed it directly at them both, of course not touching the trigger since Mrs. Peel was still in
the man's grasp. "Let Mrs. Peel go, immediately," he ordered gruffly. His command was
willingly obeyed, and Mrs. Peel hurriedly fled to Steed's side.
The man in the mask glanced askance at his unconscious partner and his revolver, which was
lying nearby. He made a dash for it, but Mrs. Gale had reached the spot first and, stepping on the
revolver, pointed her own little pistol at his head. She didn't say anything, but the look in her
eyes was enough for the criminal to shrink back in fear.
"You're outnumbered, Sir," Mrs. Peel announced cheekily to the criminal. The man hesitated for
a moment and then began wrestling with the unsuspecting Mrs. Gale!
Carefully aiming at the man and not Mrs. Gale, Steed pulled the trigger of the gun in his hands. It
made a clicking noise, but no bullets shot out. Steed tried again, while Mrs. Peel went to the aid
of Cathy. The gun produced the same clicking noise, and then nothing.
Emma and Cathy were able to push the man off with the help of several bystanders, but even
after being defeated two times, the criminal remained in the room. He walked over to Steed and
proclaimed evenly, "I would like my gun please."
"Well, I'm not quite finished with it." Steed pulled the trigger again, and stared in wonderment
when nothing happened.
"Let me see that, Steed," Cathy Gale said as she grabbed for the gun.
Impulsively, Steed pulled the trigger, and this time a loud bang rang through the hotel room as a
bullet ripped through the air. The criminal dodged the bullet, and grabbed the gun from the
astounded Steed. He dashed out of the hotel room, leaving his reviving partner behind him.
The remaining man in the black mask looked around him groggily, while a morbid Mother dialed
the police. The man quickly scampered to his feet and looking about him, spotted his gun under
Cathy's foot. He tripped her, grabbed the gun, and fled. Cathy sat on the floor, stupefied at her
assailant's quick maneuvers.
Smyth ran after the villains, but returned several minutes later. "I just missed them, and the
strangest part of it all was, they seemed to disappear into the night."
Steed hung up Mother's phone while he was in mid-sentence. "You won't need the police now,"
Steed grimly informed his indignant boss. Steed walked over to Cathy and helped her to her feet.
Then he approached the apologizing Tara.
"I'm so sorry, Steed, that I didn't help you, Mrs. Peel, or Mrs. Gale," she began anxiously. "I was
petrified, especially when it seemed the two criminals were going to defeat all three of you. I-"
Steed hugged her gently as he reassured her, "It's all right, for, as you see, nothing came of it
anyway. No one was injured, only shaken, like you."
Emma Peel approached the twosome silently. In fact, she startled them when she remarked, "I
see that I'm interrupting something. Steed, don't you find it strange that the two men took their
weapons with them? Though, I suppose that they didn't want to leave any evidence behind
them."
"Exactly," Steed replied agreeably, "and did you notice how the revolver wouldn't fire until I
pulled the trigger three times? I believe the gun either had a malfunction, or-"
"It was built that way," Emma finished thoughtfully. They both stood there, contemplation
written across their brows.
Tara crept away, searching for a person to share a sociable discourse with. She found this
companion in the indomitable Mrs. Cathy Gale, who conversed with her until the end of the
party. Mr. Steed and Mrs. Peel spent the rest of the party talking over the perplexing episode.
Neither of them realized that they were neglecting the rest of the guests, and they almost forgot
about the mystery host until Mother asked Steed, "So, Steed, you've outwitted the two intruders,
but can you outwit the rest of the guests? Everyone has taken a guess at who the mystery host is
except you and Mrs. Peel. So who do you think it is?" He chuckled merrily, thinking he had
stumped them all, but his laughter was short lived.
In their most complacent voices, Steed and Peel replied, "You're the mystery host, naturally."
Mother's face turned very solemn as he announced, "Mr. Steed and Mrs. Peel are correct." He
gesticulated to his secretary, who was holding two bottles of champagne. With a prominent air he
presented them with the prizes. "Here you are."
"Thank you, Mother, but I must refuse," Steed interjected politely, but with a twinkle in his eye.
"Bad vintage, you know." Ignoring Mother's grunts of surprise, he continued, "Now if you'll
excuse me, I must escort these three ladies home. Mrs. Peel, Tara, Mrs. Gale, shall we go?"
"By all means, Steed," Emma Peel responded in her most dignified tone. Tara and Cathy
sauntered over to their "escort," and all four of them exited the room.
"Humph," was all Mother said.
A large stately hotel rose above the other buildings in London, England. A peculiar man donning
shades entered the hotel and hurried to one of the multipurpose great rooms located on the first
floor. Removing his sunglasses, he stepped up to an obese man in a wheelchair.
"Ah, Smyth you finally arrived," the fat man commented to him.
"I left my flat as soon as I got your message," Smyth replied to his companion almost
apologetically. "What seems to be the trouble?"
"As you know, a party is going to be taking place in this room later. Several people we haven't
seen in awhile will be present, including Emma Peel. She will naturally hover around Steed, and
the two will be inseparable the rest of the evening." He gazed at two photographs in his hands
before setting them down on a table.
One of the pictures was of a gorgeous woman with reddish brown hair and an impeccable smile.
The other photo was of a gentleman attired in a suit and matching bowler. He had a rather
puckish grin spread across his handsome face.
"We must make sure they don't discover the truth at the fete," the man in the wheelchair
continued, "understand?"
"All right, Mother; you know best," Smyth droned in an almost hypnotic tone. He snapped out of
his delirium and marched out of the room, determined to do his job right.
The other man, or "Mother," sighed dismally and shook his head. He wheeled out of the room
after Smyth, leaving his two photos behind.
Mother Knows Best
Emma Loses a Husband
Steed Gains a Wife
Cathy Shares a Memory
Tara Tries to Forget
First Night
The gathering was the usual affair for the year, 1969 to be exact. Fifty or so people were milling
around in an enormous open room, the women wearing their miniskirts and outrageous hairdos,
the men dressed formally and casually- no tuxedos, please! Some men, mostly the younger chaps
with more spunk, were dressed rather too casually for the party, and this was quite a crime for a
certain well-heeled gentleman.
He stood off to the right of the room, brandy glass in hand, discussing the inclement weather for
the time of year. Dressed in an expensive grey suit, he had the air of a man who knew his proper
place in society and wasn't ashamed to show it. His bowler hat and umbrella, two necessities for
traveling, were hanging on the hat rack near the entrance of the room and mostly likely would
still have been with him if it were decent for such a party.
His charming partner for the evening was adorned in a sleeveless, lime green dress complete with
a miniskirt. Unfortunately, this outfit did nothing for her figure or her beauty. It wasn't the
colour, mind you, but some people weren't made to wear those sexy dresses.
Despite this drawback in her clothes, the woman was looking rather nice. Her bobbed dark brown
hair had been left alone, thankfully, and her little lime purse was the perfect addition to her outfit.
As was mentioned before, the couple were immersed in the trivial subject of the weather. They
undoubtedly would have been discussing a much more important topic if it weren't for the fact
that a third party was present at the moment. This lady lacked the intellectual quality that had
made the other two quite partial to each other.
In fact, she had just remarked quite stupidly that she recognized every face in the room. This
could have been amazing if it wasn't for the fact that the party was for everybody who worked at
a certain company, an agency actually.
Yes, all the people at the party worked for an important Spy Agency. No one knew the name of
the Agency, except, of course, the people who worked there, so over the years, the spies became
known as the Avengers.
On this certain evening, the agents, retired and still enrolled, amateur and professional, were
gathered at a fancy room at a hotel, waiting for the host to show himself. You see it was a
mystery party. One of the guests was the host of the party and everyone had to guess who the
person was. If they guessed correctly, they would win a ridiculous chintzy prize that is customary
at social functions.
Now the woman who had been commenting so stupidly that she knew everybody was a Mrs.
Diana Parker. How she graduated from spy school was a mystery in itself, but being that all were
proper British folk, they never made a comment on it.
Suddenly Mrs. Parker asked her two polite but bored companions, "Who do you suppose is the
host?"
The other lady replied, "I really have no idea, Mrs. Parker." This was a lie, but the lady felt it was
the only decorous thing to say to an ignorant woman.
"Really, Tara!" cried the gentlemen. "I'm surprised that you don't even have a guess!" Tara gave
him a look, which he got immediately.
"Miss Tara King, I think you have something to do with this mystery!" exclaimed Mrs. Parker.
"And the same goes for you, Mr. Steed." Tara and Steed exchanged knowing glances again, for
they knew for certain that they were not involved in the mystery. "I must tell Mother of my
discovery!" Mrs. Parker walked over to a terribly obese man who was puffing a cigar and
drinking scotch as if it were water.
Yes, this man was Mother, the head of the agency. Why he chose the name "mother" was an
enigma to all agents and probably himself. It was most likely a name that popped into his head on
a whim and that seemed to stick. In any case, many of the agents had little idiosyncrasies like
that, and over time, it was just accepted.
"Now that we're alone, is it all right to speak openly about certain things, or do you think the
walls have ears?" asked Steed, smiling.
"Even if the walls did have ears, I'd have to tell all that is on my mind." Tara looked suspiciously
around before continuing. "Now, I really want to know who you think the mystery host is. I
believe it's Smyth; now don't laugh."
"Smyth?" Steed repeated with genuine astonishment in his voice.
"Yes," Tara began as enthusiastically as her British propriety could allow. "I heard from
Pemberly that Shuston said that Mitchell was the host. Now if this was so, Mitchell would not
have denied such accusations so earnestly and sworn it was Smyth. This is conclusive evidence
that Smyth must and is the host."
"No, Tara, it's not that simple," Steed argued ardently. "I believe it is Mother."
"But everyone expects the mystery host to be Mother!" Tara protested indignantly. "He's the
head of the agency, so everyone automatically assumes he'll be the head of the party."
"That is the key point." Steed gave his empty brandy glass to a passing waitress before
continuing, "Since everyone expects it to be Mother, their spy instincts will tell them that is too
simple, and Mother would not be the host and make the game so easy. Thus they must guess that
somebody else is the mystery host. Now knowing that everyone won't guess him, Mother can
host the party with ease and stump all those gullible agents. Do I make myself clear?"
Tara began to nod her head, but then slowly and shamefacedly shook it. "Oh, Steed I'll never be
as bright as you!" She stared at him adoringly then sighed. "Now that you've told me who the
mystery host is, I don't know if I should still stick to my first guess. After all, I wouldn't have
guessed correctly if you hadn't told me." She mulled over this for several moments until she
concluded, "When the time comes I'll say that Smyth is the Mystery host."
Steed was about to answer when the door opened and in stepped the breathtaking Mrs. Cathy
Gale. She was in a plain, sleeveless black dress, complete with a big white belt and a square
buckle. Her feet were adorned with black high heels, and underneath her skirt, hidden from view,
was a smart, black garter. Tucked neatly inside the garter was a small pistol. On any other person
this getup would have been utterly ridiculous, but on Mrs. Gale it seemed to personify her
outgoing yet, at the same time, restrained characteristics.
She walked composedly over to Steed, who smiled gregariously at his former partner in crime
fighting. "I hope I'm not intruding," she began earnestly.
"You are," returned Steed coyly. "But since you are a dear old friend, I shall forgive you."
"I hope I am not old, yet!" Mrs. Gale exclaimed, frowning slightly, but then she smiled briefly.
Tired of being ignored, Tara decided to start a conversation in which all could be involved. "How
is your husband, Mrs. Gale?"
Mrs. Gale's face clouded over for a moment, but quickly regained enough composure to reply,
"My husband has been dead these last eight years, Miss King."
"Yes," agreed Steed, somewhat annoyed to see that his current partner could be so inconsiderate.
After standing in an uncomfortable silence that seemed to have come over the two ladies in a
matter of seconds, Steed tried to make the situation light by adding, "I've often wondered why
you haven't remarried, Mrs. Gale. You are a very attractive, not to mention an incredibly smart
woman."
"There's no one I am remotely interested in." Cathy jostled her flowing, blond hair becomingly.
Steed smiled charmingly and glanced at the pretty waitress that had collected his brandy glass
earlier. "And there's no chance of me ever marrying you. I plan to be single all of my days."
"And, I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on earth," Mrs. Gale replied saucily. Steed
laughed nervously, something he did often when he had been insulted by the sharp Mrs. Gale.
"Isn't there anyone you would possibly marry?" Tara rather hopelessly asked Steed. Cathy Gale
realized what a pathetic state of infatuation Tara had for Steed, but she kept silent. If it was one
thing she had learned in the agency, it was to remain silent unless absolutely necessary.
Steed was about to reply to Tara, when he was interrupted again. This time the intruder was not
the Mrs. Gale, but Mrs. Parker, who had wandered back to Tara and Steed after she had been
rudely pushed aside by Mother. "Mr. Steed is rather funny to talk of being single."
"Why? I could marry anyone if I wanted to. I just never wanted to. Why have only one woman
for the rest of your life, when you can have them all?" Steed smiled at the three ladies clustered
around him.
"Oh, Steed you are such a cad!" Mrs. Parker cried joyously. "Of course, you can't marry
anybody! You already-"
"Mrs. Parker," Cathy began edgily, "Bimba La Trife." Mrs. Parker placed a hand over her mouth
and suppressed a giggle. Then she sauntered over to Mother again.
Tara and Steed stared at Cathy as if she had suddenly had a fit of insanity. Tara expressed this
thought to Mr. Steed, saying, "I think our poor Mrs. Gale has fallen victim to the bottle."
Steed refused to believe this of his sensible ex-partner in sleuthing. "I'm sure 'Bimba la Trife' is
just a code for something very confidential. I do recall learning a phrase similar to that when I
was in training. Now let me think . . ."
"Keep quiet," Mrs. Gale said abruptly.
Steed stopped in mid-sentence to exclaim, "Why, Mrs. Gale, you surprise me! I thought a lady
like you didn't behave so rudely, and to an old friend, too!"
"Sorry, Steed, but you misunderstood me. I was merely telling you that Bimba la Trife means 'be
quiet' in code." Cathy sexily placed her hands on her hips.
"You really didn't have to tell me, Mrs. Gale, for you know I would have figured it out
eventually."
"I just wanted to save you the time and trouble." Cathy smiled wryly and wandered over to the
buffet table. "I'll see later, all right Steed?" she called over her shoulder.
Steed gazed admiringly at Cathy before turning back to serious matters. "What do you think of
Mrs. Parker's dialogue?" he inquired of Tara. "Don't you find it unusual that she should say I
couldn't ever get married? And what about her last words before she was interrupted by Mrs.
Gale: 'You already-'"
Tara shrugged nonchalantly. "I think that she is drunk, and talking nonsensically."
"Then why would Mrs. Gale tell her to be quiet?" Steed scrunched his forehead in deep
contemplation, while Tara let his question sink into her mind.
Suddenly a slim woman entered the hotel room's front door, the air of a queen about her.
However, the regal mien did not last long, for as soon as she spotted Steed, she pounced at him
as a vivacious cat might pounce on a bird. Then she uttered a sentence that was so obvious that
from any other woman's lips it would have seemed ridiculous. "Steed, you're here!"
Mr. Steed's eyes seemed to light up at the beautiful woman's presence. "Mrs. Peel, how
wonderful to see you again!" He scanned her figure which was clad in a lavender dress. Tiny
straps were the only thing that kept it hanging on her body, and the low-cut front was not at all
decent for a married woman. Mrs. Peel had sensed this, so she had wrapped a lavender feather
boa around her neck, hiding everything that shouldn't be shown. "I declare you look lovelier
every time I see you."
"The same goes for you, Steed," Mrs. Peel replied properly and coquettishly. Only she could
make a normal sentence have two different accents at the same time.
"Has it really been almost two years since I've seen you last, Mrs. Peel?"
"Unfortunately, yes," she replied remorsefully. She glanced around the room, searching for the
bar. "Have you tried the champagne yet?"
"No, I've been too occupied to get away from this spot."
"How is it then that you found time to get a glass of brandy?" Tara asked nonchalantly, even
though jealousy was ripping though her veins. It seemed that every woman, excluding herself,
was receiving more attention from Steed. Why he had even talked to Mrs. Parker more!
Mr. Steed cleared his throat nervously, while Mrs. Peel raised an eyebrow. "It seems you have
been more busy than you realized," Mrs. Peel said dryly.
"The truth is I wasn't in the mood for champagne," Steed confessed.
Mrs. Peel made a noise of mock dismay, followed by several "Tsk, Tsk, Tsk." She cocked her
head slightly to the right, her reddish brown hair falling over her left eye. "Well since you're not
interested in the most marvelous invention to come out of France, I'll just go fetch a glass of
champagne for myself."
Steed didn't seem to hear her, for he was too captivated by her beauty. He wished she wouldn't
make herself so darn attractive, and wondered why the most beautiful women were married,
obviously forgetting about Tara, the widowed Cathy Gale, and any other single women in the
room.
Mrs. Peel sauntered over to the bar, leaving Tara and Mr. Steed once more alone. "Mrs. Emma
Peel doesn't seem quite as charming as when I last saw her," Tara proclaimed, venom in her
usually sweet voice.
"I find that her charisma has grown over the course of time," Mr. Steed argued gallantly. "I see
we have different opinions on Mrs. Peel, so I think it would be wise to leave her out of our
conversation."
Emma returned with her glass, sipping and making a horribly sour face. "This champagne is
ghastly! Here, try it for yourself and see what you think." She thrust her glass at Steed but
somehow managed not to spill a drop.
Steed tasted the champagne, shook his head, and sighed. "It really is dreadful. I wonder what
came over Mother when he purchased this vintage."
"Steed, you'll give the mystery host away!" Tara cried indignantly.
"Don't worry, Miss King, I had already figured it out before I came." Emma Peel directed her
attention back to Steed. "Somehow I don't believe Mother knew about the champagne. Hosts
don't usually cater their own party unless they want the absolute best in everything . . ."
"And Mother isn't a person who cares if his hors d'oeuvre are soggy and his champagne is too
sweet," Steed finished her sentence.
Mrs. Peel didn't seem to mind at his interruption. But this was understandable, since finishing
their sentences for each other was an old habit of theirs. She took the champagne glass back from
Steed and sipped it again. "What year do you think this is from?"
"Nineteen forty-three I dare say. Nineteen forty-three has a very poignant taste to it, very much
like this awful drink."
"Really; I was sure it was Nineteen forty-two!"
"It certainly is not; Nineteen forty-two is bearable, but a year earlier makes it very sweet, more
like soda than champagne! A perfect champagne must be mellow, but with a tinkling bite to it."
"You're right, Steed, as always."
"Oh, I must speak to Mother about this immediately. I don't care if it will give the secret host
away; this is intolerable! Excuse me ladies." Mr. Steed went in search of his boss and host for the
evening.
Mrs. Peel looked at the glass in her hand and offered it to Tara. Tara, too distracted watching
Steed, took the glass willingly. Automatically, she brought the glass to her lips, but stopped
herself from drinking it just in time. She beckoned to a passing waitress, who took the detested
glass away.
Tara addressed her rival, "Do you two often share champagne glasses, Emma? You don't mind if
I call you Emma do you?"
Emma didn't seem the least bit fazed at the inquiry. "Occasionally we do, but usually we have
separate straws. I really am not accustomed to being called 'Emma', so I would prefer you called
me Mrs. Peel like everyone else."
"Don't tell me your husband doesn't even call you 'Emma'?" After receiving no response, Tara
inferred that Emma was not familiar with her husband calling her by her first name. "I feel sorry
for you then, Mrs. Peel."
"Listen, let's not pretend you aren't jealous of me, Miss King," Emma Peel began composedly. "I
am quite aware of your infatuation with Steed. Most every girl fancies herself in love with him at
least once in her life; it would be unnatural if they didn't feel something for a respectable, smart,
dashing man like John Steed." Her complacency irked Tara even more than Mr. Steed's devout
attention to Emma.
"Have you ever been in love with him?"
This question put Emma off guard, but she quickly regained her calmness before she replied, "I
admit that I formed an attachment for Steed for a while, but after someone saves your life a
hundred times, it's quite natural to have affections for them, unless you're a totally insensitive
person. Now if you'll excuse me, Tara, I must find something to wash this horrid taste out of my
mouth." Mrs. Peel walked away, the air of a martyr about her.
Meanwhile, Steed was trying to tell Mother what was wrong with his champagne. "Mother, I
must speak to you about this champagne; it's dreadful." He glanced at the man in the
wheelchair, who was sitting behind a long table. Mrs. Parker and Mother's personal secretary
were standing next to him.
Mother looked up from his scotch. "Steed, I've been looking for you," he began grimly.
"Then you agree with me?" Steed perched himself on the edge of the table.
"What the devil are you going on about, Steed?" When Steed looked confusedly at him, he
continued with his dialogue. "Mrs. Parker tells me you've been talking about marriage and so
forth."
"Oh, Mrs. Parker that's a wonderful offer, but I'm afraid I must refuse you. Besides, unless I am
mistaken, you're married already."
"What are you talking about, Steed?" Mrs. Parker looked around in wonderment as if he might
be addressing another Parker in the room.
"Steed," Mother started, nails drumming impatiently on the table, "what did Mrs. Parker tell you
earlier?"
"Merely that I can't ever marry because I already-"
"What? What did she say to you?" Mother leaned forward in his wheelchair, his scotch sloshing
around in the glass.
"That's all; isn't that right, Mrs. Parker?" Steed glanced from Mrs. Parker to Mother, trying to
read their faces.
"Yes, that's what I told Mother, but he wouldn't believe me!" On the verge of crying, Diana
Parker sighed and tried to stop her trembling lip. "Then Cathy Gale appeared and told me to," she
paused and began to whisper, "'Bimba La Trife.'"
"That means 'be quiet,'" Steed unnecessarily informed Mother.
"Cathy Gale was present? Well that makes all the difference in the world! You are dismissed,
Steed and Mrs. Parker."
Steed was about to protest, but he changed his mind. The ordeal with the champagne would have
to wait until later. He walked over to Tara, and was surprised to find that Mrs. Peel was no longer
there. "Did you frighten off poor Mrs. Peel?"
"She left on her own free will, and I think it had to do with a terrible taste in her mouth." Tara
smiled beguilingly at Steed and linked her arm with his. "Well, since you are my escort for the
evening, don't you think it would be appropriate if we danced or something?"
"Not now, Tara," Steed replied distractedly, "I really must find Mrs. Peel and tell her of the most
extraordinary thing."
"Well, tell me instead, Steed," Tara yanked at his arm, trying to hold him back.
"Really, Tara, you're being very unfair to Mrs. Peel. I'll be able to talk to you tomorrow, while
Mrs. Peel I might never see again! I won't be long, dear, so don't worry. We'll still have time to
dance, eat, and drink champagne well we can't do that--" Mr. Steed hurried to find his friend,
leaving Tara in a miserable state of pouting.
It wasn't difficult to find her, for spotting the effervescent Mrs. Peel was like seeing a beacon of
light on a stormy night. She was standing by the record player, conversing with the D.J. Sensing
Steed's presence, she abruptly stopped her conversation and whirled around. "Steed!" she
exclaimed.
Mr. Steed wondered if it was a figment of his imagination, or if she really sounded delighted to
see him. "Hello, Mrs. Peel. I thought Tara had frightened you away, but she denied all
accusations." He grinned good-naturedly and ushered her away from the disc jockey. "I'm often
surprised at how few people hire real orchestras to perform at their parties any more."
"There has been a steady decline since the beginning of the decade," Mrs. Peel added casually.
When they were out of earshot of everyone, she asked, "What's the matter, Steed?"
Steed explained the strange ordeal with Mrs. Parker's insensible comments and Mother's angry
reactions. He concluded with the words, "I have no idea what this is all about, but I'm
determined to get to the bottom of it. It's really not like Mother to be so mysterious with me, or
any of the other agents for that matter."
"To me it sounds like Mrs. Parker was saying that you are married." The horrified look in Steed's
eyes was enough to show Emma Peel that he thought the idea outrageous and impossible. She
supposed that any man after being a bachelor for forty some years would find this news
upsetting. Emma smoothly changed the subject by saying, "Speaking of marriage, my husband
has been behaving in a peculiar manner ever since he came home two years ago."
"Being that I'm unmarried, I don't know how husbands are supposed to behave, so maybe you
shouldn't tell me about Mr. Peel's little quirks. For all I know, what one wife thinks is strange
behavior another woman finds perfectly normal."
"You don't call to be away on 'business' nine months out of twelve a common occurrence, do
you?"
"You must be joking, Mrs. Peel!"
"No, I wish I was. What's worse than that is when he does come home, he stays out all night."
"I don't want to jump to conclusions, but it seems to me that there might be another woman
involved." Steed cleared his throat and waited for her response.
"Steed, don't look so meek. I can assure you it is not a woman, which, I admit, surprised me, too.
You see, the three months that my husband was home, I bribed my neighbor, Mrs. Wadsworth, to
spy on him whenever I went out. Well every time I returned to my flat, I'd get the same story
from Mrs. Wadsworth: 'Your husband had a mysterious man over again. They talked for a while
and then left.' And I even hired one of our fellow agents to track my husband down when he was
gone for those long months. He has never been near another woman, the entire time. He's also
never been near an airplane."
"But he's a pilot for a living!" Steed exclaimed.
"I am quite aware of that." Emma sighed and continued, "Another peculiarity has come up which
might interest you. My husband claims his name is William, but I know it was Peter."
"His name wasn't William. He was Peter Peel, the pilot, who was lost on the Amazon, presumed
dead until he returned recently. Why would he say his name was William unless he had
amnesia?"
"And I know he doesn't have amnesia, for he remembers everything else perfectly. Furthermore,
Peter, or whatever you want to call him, doesn't behave like a gentleman at all." Emma thought
indignantly to herself, It's insulting to think he wears a bowler hat and those sharp suits like
Steed, considering how he isn't half the gentleman John, er Steed is.
Steed mused, I can't believe a wonderful woman like Emma Peel could be married to an
atrocious villain like Peter Peel! He said aloud, "I think I'll have a look into this mystery, Mrs.
Peel, if you don't mind."
"I was hoping you would; that's why I told you." Mrs. Peel smiled provocatively and gazed into
Steed's hazel eyes.
Suddenly, the lights turned off, and the sound of a gun was heard resounding through the hotel
room. Screams were emitted from the bravest of women, including Tara King. The men stumbled
in the darkness, trying to find the intruder. During this chaos, Mr. Steed, Mrs. Peel, and Mrs.
Gale all managed to find each other and began devising a plan. Unfortunately, before they could
finish, the lights snapped back on to reveal a man in a black mask standing one foot away from
them.
He brandished a revolver from his pocket and, grabbing Mrs. Peel around the neck, pointed the
gun at her head! "Not a move from anyone, or Mrs. Peel dies!" he threatened menacingly.
Another man, dressed similarly, chuckled evilly and fired his gun at the ceiling just to frighten
everyone.
Steed eyed the nearest object, a bottle of champagne, and wondered if he could grab it without
being noticed. Slowly he inched near the bottle, pausing every time one of the men turned to look
at them. He noticed the two men were pushing Mrs. Peel to the door, laughing wickedly all the
way. A little closer, he encouraged himself.
Meanwhile Cathy was thinking of her little pistol tucked away in her garter and wished she could
stoop to get it without being conspicuous. Somehow she didn't think they'd believe her if she
said her knee had suddenly given way. She licked her lips in anticipation and silently cheered
when she saw Steed reach for the champagne bottle.
Tara stood in the corner, ruing the fact she had been so frightened that she hadn't even tried to
find Steed. She hoped Mrs. Peel didn't think this was a deliberate action against her. Tara bit her
lip, trying to keep from sighing, or worse screaming.
Mrs. Peel was probably the most anxious of them all. She willingly let them push her toward the
door, feigning a calm air as if being kidnapped was an everyday occurrence. Inside, though, she
was quaking. She had had many close escapes from death before, but each time she was a little
more afraid. I've got to kick the gun out of this man's hands, she told herself. It's the only way to
get me out of this jam, unless Steed and Cathy can do something.
Steed snatched the bottle from the table and pretended to trip. The two men turned around,
dragging Mrs. Peel with them. Steed straightened up and smiled mischievously. "I thought you
two could use some champagne before you left." With that, he rolled the bottle down the floor
until it collided with one of the two men. He was sent sprawling to the floor, and fell
unconscious.
Unfortunately, it was not the man pointing the gun at Mrs. Peel's head, but Mrs. Peel had
expected that. When his partner fell to the ground, he turned his head to investigate. Mrs. Peel
chose this moment to knock the gun out of his hand, and the revolver sailed through the air,
landing by Steed.
Steed snatched the revolver from the ground before either of the men could make another move.
He pointed it directly at them both, of course not touching the trigger since Mrs. Peel was still in
the man's grasp. "Let Mrs. Peel go, immediately," he ordered gruffly. His command was
willingly obeyed, and Mrs. Peel hurriedly fled to Steed's side.
The man in the mask glanced askance at his unconscious partner and his revolver, which was
lying nearby. He made a dash for it, but Mrs. Gale had reached the spot first and, stepping on the
revolver, pointed her own little pistol at his head. She didn't say anything, but the look in her
eyes was enough for the criminal to shrink back in fear.
"You're outnumbered, Sir," Mrs. Peel announced cheekily to the criminal. The man hesitated for
a moment and then began wrestling with the unsuspecting Mrs. Gale!
Carefully aiming at the man and not Mrs. Gale, Steed pulled the trigger of the gun in his hands. It
made a clicking noise, but no bullets shot out. Steed tried again, while Mrs. Peel went to the aid
of Cathy. The gun produced the same clicking noise, and then nothing.
Emma and Cathy were able to push the man off with the help of several bystanders, but even
after being defeated two times, the criminal remained in the room. He walked over to Steed and
proclaimed evenly, "I would like my gun please."
"Well, I'm not quite finished with it." Steed pulled the trigger again, and stared in wonderment
when nothing happened.
"Let me see that, Steed," Cathy Gale said as she grabbed for the gun.
Impulsively, Steed pulled the trigger, and this time a loud bang rang through the hotel room as a
bullet ripped through the air. The criminal dodged the bullet, and grabbed the gun from the
astounded Steed. He dashed out of the hotel room, leaving his reviving partner behind him.
The remaining man in the black mask looked around him groggily, while a morbid Mother dialed
the police. The man quickly scampered to his feet and looking about him, spotted his gun under
Cathy's foot. He tripped her, grabbed the gun, and fled. Cathy sat on the floor, stupefied at her
assailant's quick maneuvers.
Smyth ran after the villains, but returned several minutes later. "I just missed them, and the
strangest part of it all was, they seemed to disappear into the night."
Steed hung up Mother's phone while he was in mid-sentence. "You won't need the police now,"
Steed grimly informed his indignant boss. Steed walked over to Cathy and helped her to her feet.
Then he approached the apologizing Tara.
"I'm so sorry, Steed, that I didn't help you, Mrs. Peel, or Mrs. Gale," she began anxiously. "I was
petrified, especially when it seemed the two criminals were going to defeat all three of you. I-"
Steed hugged her gently as he reassured her, "It's all right, for, as you see, nothing came of it
anyway. No one was injured, only shaken, like you."
Emma Peel approached the twosome silently. In fact, she startled them when she remarked, "I
see that I'm interrupting something. Steed, don't you find it strange that the two men took their
weapons with them? Though, I suppose that they didn't want to leave any evidence behind
them."
"Exactly," Steed replied agreeably, "and did you notice how the revolver wouldn't fire until I
pulled the trigger three times? I believe the gun either had a malfunction, or-"
"It was built that way," Emma finished thoughtfully. They both stood there, contemplation
written across their brows.
Tara crept away, searching for a person to share a sociable discourse with. She found this
companion in the indomitable Mrs. Cathy Gale, who conversed with her until the end of the
party. Mr. Steed and Mrs. Peel spent the rest of the party talking over the perplexing episode.
Neither of them realized that they were neglecting the rest of the guests, and they almost forgot
about the mystery host until Mother asked Steed, "So, Steed, you've outwitted the two intruders,
but can you outwit the rest of the guests? Everyone has taken a guess at who the mystery host is
except you and Mrs. Peel. So who do you think it is?" He chuckled merrily, thinking he had
stumped them all, but his laughter was short lived.
In their most complacent voices, Steed and Peel replied, "You're the mystery host, naturally."
Mother's face turned very solemn as he announced, "Mr. Steed and Mrs. Peel are correct." He
gesticulated to his secretary, who was holding two bottles of champagne. With a prominent air he
presented them with the prizes. "Here you are."
"Thank you, Mother, but I must refuse," Steed interjected politely, but with a twinkle in his eye.
"Bad vintage, you know." Ignoring Mother's grunts of surprise, he continued, "Now if you'll
excuse me, I must escort these three ladies home. Mrs. Peel, Tara, Mrs. Gale, shall we go?"
"By all means, Steed," Emma Peel responded in her most dignified tone. Tara and Cathy
sauntered over to their "escort," and all four of them exited the room.
"Humph," was all Mother said.