Act Three, Part Three

Jim strained against the ropes which held him tied up in one corner of the small, brightly-lit room from which those two men had emerged, the one with the day-old scratches across his cheek, and the other…

"Dermot Parrish, chief of security," Jim named him. "And just what do you think you're doing?"

Parrish grinned at his captive, then dismissed the bulk of his men. "We'll take it from here, boys." With the air of a conquering king, Parrish perched himself on the edge of the desk that filled most of the room. "Why, Mr West," he said triumphantly, "we're doing exactly what we were hired to do: we're providing security for old Bracewell's treasures."

"By following my partner? By capturing me? By…" and here he nodded toward Parrish's one remaining minion in the room. "…by waylaying Miss Hippolyta so that she couldn't protect her father?"

Parrish glanced at his man. "There was a, er… certain party who wanted to speak with the old man alone. Regarding the final Apple, of course. She thought he had it. And when it turned out he didn't, well…"

"You had to get rid of the witness."

Parrish had the grace to cast his eyes down, obviously disturbed. "Look, it wasn't my idea to knock the old guy off. He wasn't supposed to find out who the lady was he was talking to. So when he did… well, it was his own dumb luck, that's all."

"Because he wasn't supposed to find out that Miss Atalanta was behind the thefts," Jim stated.

"Miss… Yeah, yeah, sure! He wasn't supposed to know that. You're pretty sharp, Mr West."

"Just a bit too sharp," the scarred man added.

"Yep, ain't that the truth!" Parrish agreed. "We been following you and your partner all day long hoping one of you would lead us to that last Apple, but since you didn't… Well, that's your dumb luck, I guess." He grinned and drew the gun from the holster at his hip.

"Who says I didn't?" said Jim quickly.

Parrish and his man paused and shared a startled glance. "You… you mean you do know where the last Apple is? Where?"

"Its location is a bit hard to describe. I'll need to take you to it."

Parrish's eyes narrowed. "Oh you will, will you? Y'know what? I don't think I trust you, Mr West. I think you'd better tell me where that Apple is — and tell me right now — or you won't be in much shape to talk to anyone ever again." And he lifted the gun to aim it steadily right at a point between Jim's eyes, then drew back the hammer.

"Kill me and you'll never find the third Apple," said Jim coolly. "Artie doesn't know where it is. Only I know."

"Only you, yeah," said Parrish. "You and that big ol' cursed bluestocking! We know she took it — she's the only one could have — but we're under orders…"

The man with the scratches reached out and thrust the barrel of Parrish's gun towards the ceiling. "Under orders not to touch that 'cursed bluestocking.' Remember? So if we kill him, we can't go after her. He's telling the truth, Boss: we kill him, we'll never find that Apple."

With a glower, Parrish uncocked the gun and put it away. "Dang it, you're right, Cass! I wish you weren't, but you are. Here." Now he pulled out a knife instead. "Cut him loose, but keep his hands tied together behind his back. West, I still don't trust you, but you're gonna lead us to that Apple. Get up and get moving!"

As soon as he'd cut away the rest of the ropes, the scarred man grabbed Jim's arm and hefted him to his feet, keeping his boss' knife in hand just in case he might need it. And the three set off, Jim leading the way.

…

Where was Jim? Artie sure hoped that when he'd told Miss Hippolyta that Jim was a bit tied up, it hadn't been the literal truth!

The Amazon, seated on the sofa across the dining table from Artie, leaned back into the cushions and rubbed at the bridge of her nose, dislodging her glasses in the process. "Oof! That's stronger wine than I expected. Going right to my head." She shot him a gimlet glare. "You aren't trying to get me drunk so you can have your way with me, are you?"

The sudden shock on Artie's face as he exclaimed, "Miss Hippolyta!" sent her off into a throaty cackle.

"Heh! Guess not. Pity — you're kinda cute, y'know," she slurred, then hiccupped. And that was followed by a puzzled frown. "I don't… feel quite right," she muttered.

No, surely she didn't! "What's wrong, Miss Hippolyta?" Artie asked solicitously.

"I… don't know." She yanked her blue lace hankie out of the cuff of her sleeve to mop at her face. "Woozy. Queasy. Something's… something's wrong…"

Abruptly her eyes flicked to her dinner on the table before her. "My food? Did someone… Mr Gordon, is there… is there… poison… in my food?"

Artie took up the plate and sniffed of it. "I don't think so, Miss Hippolyta."

Now her gaze fell on the wine glass. "What… what about that?"

Artie picked it up as well and took a sniff. When he said nothing more, the Amazon crammed her handkerchief over her mouth in horror. Moving it just enough to let the words out, she whispered, "There is! There's something in the glass, isn't there?"

Not looking at her, Artie gave a stiff nod. "Yes, Miss Hippolyta."

"Poison?"

Again he nodded. "Yes, Miss Hippolyta."

"But… but you had some also…"

And again he spoke the words: "Yes, Miss Hippolyta."

Her eyes, blinking rapidly, darted around the room. "This… this is Lana's doing. I know it is! Mr… Mr Gordon, you must help me!"

"Help… ah, help you?"

She leaned forward across the table. "I know you are the agent by which my dear sister has brought about this deadly turn of events. Nevertheless, I must ask your help; I have nowhere else to turn! Please…" Her voice faded and she fell back against the cushions, her breathing labored.

"What do you expect me to do?" said Artie.

She rallied, pushing herself upright on her seat again. "She has tricked you into tricking me, Mr Gordon. You are merely the weapon in her hand. I implore you now: do not let her win! She wants me dead to get me out of her way so that the Apples will be hers and hers alone. But she doesn't know where the third one is! I…" She faded again, rallied again. "I took it," she whispered. "I took it myself to keep it from her grasp."

Artie came around the table to kneel by her sofa. "You took it? You've had it all this time?"

She grasped his hand and nodded. "Yes! And I implore you to keep it from her. Don't let her get it! Please, Mr Gordon!"

Again her voice faded. Her eyes closed as she fought the hardest battle of her life.

"But how can I keep it from her if I don't know where it is?" asked Artie softly.

"I have it," she replied. "I've had it all along. It's hidden…" She broke off again, concentrating on breathing.

"Hidden where?" Artie prompted.

"Hidden…" she panted, face ashen. "…in my… in my… bust…"

Her hand loosened from Artie's as she drooped over sideways across the sofa, eyes closing, muscles relaxing. There she lay, silent, still, as Artie scrambled to his feet, backing away from his handiwork.

From just behind him came an eager voice: "Is she dead?"

…

Jim didn't fail to notice that, as he led Parrish and his buddy Cass through the large room and into the hallway beyond, a half-dozen men fell in behind them. Well, as Artie would put it, the more the merrier, right?

Up the stairs he led his entourage, unerringly retracing the path he'd taken while tailing the original minion. Before long they ran out of the behind-the-scenes areas and reached the public part of the hotel. And Jim continued on…

"Hold it right there!" hissed Parrish, grabbing Jim's arm before he could pass through the final door. He spun the agent to face him. "We can't go out there with you tied up!"

"Then untie me."

"You nuts?" Parrish glowered, shoving his face close to his captive's. "There's no way I'm letting you free! Now, wherever you're taking us, we gotta get there some other way, 'cause we can't let anyone see you tied up." He glanced through the doorway, leery that someone might have already taken notice. "Now where is it you're heading for?"

Up until that moment Jim hadn't made up his mind. Now inspiration struck. "The hotel's back garden, of course."

"Back gard…!" Parrish gawped, then snapped his mouth shut. He knew as well as West did that there was no way to reach that garden from here except by going right through the public hallways. For a long moment the chief of security glowered at the calmly waiting West, well aware that the agent had him over a barrel. "Fine!" he snarled at last. "Cass, you untie him. The rest of you, if West here makes the least little false move, start shooting! Shoot anybody in sight, you hear me?"

The men stared at him, stunned. "But, Boss!" one of them ventured. "Out in the open like that? We'll get caught for sure — and hanged for murder!"

Parrish whirled on him. "You were every one of you ready to perforate West just minutes ago down in the basement; all I had to do then was give the word!"

"Yeah, but that was in secret! No one woulda ever found out. But here!" The recalcitrant minion shook his head, and most of the rest were doing the same.

"Oh, poor little scaredy-cat — lost your nerve, did you?" Parrish sneered. The next second there came the whack! of fist connecting with flesh, followed by the slam! of body connecting with floor. As the unhappy spokesman lay sprawled at his feet groaning, Parrish shook his fist at the rest and hissed, "Now you listen to me and you listen good, all you yellowbellies! When I say 'Jump,' you jump! You got that? I say 'Shoot,' you're gonna shoot. And that's the end of it! Now, let's go!" With a growl Parrish kicked the man on the floor, then stepped over him and led the way on into the public area. And when the others stood hesitating a moment longer, Parrish turned back and hissed, "Now!"

"Y-yes sir," someone spoke up, and they all followed him through the door, Cass last of all having cut Jim loose from his bonds. Parrish snagged Jim's arm and pushed him forward. "Move!" he muttered through gritted teeth.

Jim moved. Parrish was getting rattled, and that was just what Jim wanted. He had no intention of causing a scene out in public amongst all those innocent scientists. Once he had this bunch alone in the back garden though — well, that would be a different matter, wouldn't it?

…

At the question of "Is she dead?" Artie turned around to find Atalanta behind him. Atalanta, whom he had left in his own locked suite, and who wasn't supposed to have either of the keys to this one. Atalanta, whose face and voice bore an almost unholy joy as she gazed down at her sister sprawled on the sofa.

"Dead?" he echoed her question, then nodded. "Of course she's dead. That's what you wanted, wasn't it? The thing you couldn't ask me to do for you?"

She dimpled at him. "It was indeed. And now that she's dead, I don't have to worry about her ever again. And for that matter…" From the reticule dangling from her wrist she produced a small but efficient derringer. "…I have no further use for you either, darling Artemus!" And without so much as batting her luscious eyelashes, she shot him right in the chest.

End of Act Three