Not even a detailed inspection of the brick wall, conducted under the fragile illumination provided by Kelly's cigarette lighter, turned up so much as a minute chink in the mortar. "Well, he didn't just vanish into thin air," Scotty concluded.

"I think if we find Mrs. Peel's mysteriously mobile mannequin, we'll have a pretty good idea who to ask," Kelly replied.

"That's hardly a cheery thought," Mrs. Peel observed as she joined them.

"Anything?" Kelly asked her.

"I discovered something about that missing exhibit," she reported. "The concierge told me it's been under repair. She can't remember how long, or when it's due back."

"So, what was it?"

She knit her brows slightly, just about the only expression of concern she seemed able to show. Her voice, as always, gave very little away. "A rack."

They wordlessly considered the implications. "I'd like to open the floor to suggestions," Kelly said at last.

"I'd like to offer some," Scott replied. "But I'm dry as a bone."

They were unaware that they were being watched.

00o00

Through the two-way mirror that was part of a tableau depicting the assassination of Jean-Paul Marat by Charlotte Corday, two pair of eyes studied the three agents with great interest. "And the other one?"

"His name is John Steed."

"That's all he told you?"

The younger man was reluctant to admit that not even that much had been gained through coercion; Steed had quite cheerfully given his name – and had been halfway through a moderately credible explanation of his theoretical business in Paris even before their associate, Remi, had begun to apply some truly unpleasant principles of physics to Steed's bone structure. "The rest was lies."

The three agents had no idea how close they were to their quarry. The young man himself had been the one to plunge the knife into Regina Spenser two nights earlier. Maurice LeFond was good at what he did. He took after his father.

00o00

"Mr. Steed."

The man was a little older and a little grayer than he had been in his last official file photograph, but Steed had no trouble recognizing him. "Well… Dr. LeFond, I presume. Forgive me for not getting up." Impossible, under the circumstances, since his hands and feet were currently being forced as far apart as they were ever going to get – he hoped.

"I'm sorry you had to come here and become involved in this."

"I couldn't agree more." Steed flexed his fingers slowly. A few minutes ago, he'd still had some feeling in them, but now the only way he could be sure they were moving was to glance at the small, heavily-draped window that afforded him a dim reflection of his predicament. It was fair to say he'd looked better. "I'm not entirely sure what it is I'm involved in."

"Business, Mr. Steed." The doctor seemed the quietly reasonable type, strangely enough – almost like a country gentleman who might take pleasure in dressing up as Saint Nicholas for the benefit of needy orphans.

"Is murder part of the business?"

"Regina Spenser…" LeFond shook his head. "Regrettable."

"I'm sure she'd agree."

"Unfortunately, she discovered our tidy little arrangement, and she was about to warn Robinson. It became necessary to silence her. There are certain people, Mr. Steed, who prefer that I remain in Europe. Some of these people are quite… influential, shall we say."

"A wild guess… some of these people also prefer to lengthen the odds in their own favor by eliminating some of the competition."

"Quite right. So the word goes out that I am receptive to negotiation, and I become something of a worm on a hook to use a conventional illustration." His eyes revealed an almost blissful state of mind. "And suddenly, there are rainbow trout everywhere."

"Bucolic analogy. So, by eliminating us…"

"… I gain substantial financial backing for further experiments. My sponsors, if you will, gain my expertise for their exclusive benefit. It is a most satisfactory relationship."

"From your vantage point, perhaps."

"Yes." Another slow, almost melancholic shake of his head. "I admit that your own prospects are very bleak indeed. I hope it will be over quickly."

"I rather hope not. I've always fancied the thought of advancing gracefully into my twilight years." Of course, that vision had never included being seven feet tall…

"I hope you will understand that I must insist you share certain information with me regarding your organization."

Remi increased the tension another notch, and Steed wondered fleetingly if wishbones themselves were allowed to make wishes. "Sorry…" he forced out in a remarkably cavalier tone – considering how difficult breathing had become. "Balance of trade… and all that…"

LeFond glanced at his watch. He was running out of time; Steed was holding out longer than expected. He gestured to his hooded companion to follow him, and Remi did so with a slight hesitation – apparently regretting the timing of their departure, with his work unfinished.

That left Steed alone. Considering the caliber of the hulking, faceless behemoth's company, not to mention the homicidal Dr. LeFond's propensity for cold-blooded murder, he reasoned he was ultimately better off that way.

He flexed his numbed fingers slowly as he considered his situation. In order to free himself, he had to reach the lever holding the wooden gear in place, and that was completely out of the question…

… or was it?

Steed realized the murky reflection that told him his fingers were moving also told him his umbrella was propped up against the head of the rack, only inches from those fingers. There was an outside chance he might be able to reach it.

Using the hazy mirror image as his only guide, he strained to maneuver his fingers to grasp the curved handle.

He couldn't feel anything at all, but he could hear the handle slip sideways an inch or two against the edge of the rack when he groped and missed. One more clumsy move like that, and it was almost certain the umbrella would clatter to the floor. He couldn't afford to lose it.

He tried again, more slowly this time, making sure he could see his hands in position before he started to close his grasp.