The Old Vengeful

thought of that before, but now it was too late.

So ... better to get it over with. Because even if she could spin out the agony until Dr Mitchell came knocking on the door, she didn't fancy his chances against the gorilla who had grabbed her.

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'There's . . . there's money in a box upstairs—a wooden box under my bed.' There was no point in directing them to the silver in the dining room and the sitting room, they would have seen that at once and would have got it already.

'Under the bed? Tut-tut! How very bourgeois and careless!'

The voice hissed the double-s at her contemptuously.

'A lot of money—more than two thousand pounds.' The contempt stung her. 'Just take it and go, can't you? There's nothing else worth taking—except the silver.'

'Nothing else?' No sound penetrated the hood except the voice. 'You're sure of that?'

Fear returned, instantly dissolving the contempt. 'I—I promise you that there isn't—you can see for yourself... I haven't got any jewellery.' It was hot inside the hood, she could feel her cheeks burning.

'Nothing else?' That hateful hiss again.

She shook the hood. 'I swear it. Honestly— please!'

For a moment she thought he had accepted the plain truth.

Then, without warning, her hands were seized from her lap and held on the arms of the chair. Something sharp bit into each wrist in turn, and then into each ankle.

Nightmare! She couldn't see and she couldn't move! She couldn't even rock the chair—something, or someone, was holding it steady, and the very effort of trying to rock it stung her wrists.

'Don't struggle, Miss Loftus. You'll only hurt yourself.'

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Elizabeth sat rigid. 'Please—I've told you—'

'Shut up—and listen! I don't intend to waste a lot of time, Miss Loftus, so just listen . . . We don't want your silver, and we don't want your money—we'll take it, but we don't want it

—do you understand? You know what we want. So just tell us what we want to know, and then we'll go.'

Elizabeth heard herself sob.

'Don't be silly, Miss Loftus. Crying won't help you—and saying 'please' won't help you either. Because there's only you and me, and I'm not a kind-hearted man—quite the opposite, in fact. Do you understand?'

With an enormous effort Elizabeth brought herself under control. 'W-what do you w-want to know?'

'That's better.' He sounded curiously disappointed. 'But just remember now . . . two things: I never give anyone a second chance . . . and I'm very good at hurting people. Do you understand?'

Elizabeth nodded dumbly. Whatever it was that he wanted to know, she would tell him.

'Good. Then tell me all about the Vengeful, and those trips your father made to France.'

The Vengeful? Those trips—? The questions simultaneously took her by surprise and also horrified her.

'Come on, Miss Loftus. I have his notes, and there's nothing in them. What I want is inside your head.'

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It wasn't the safe deposits at all— it wasn't the safe deposits at all! And there was nothing inside her head except blind panic now.

'But I don't know what you mean—'

'Ah! Now there—I told you, didn't I?' Suddenly he sounded brisker, almost happier. 'You can't sssay I didn't tell you!'

'But I don't!' wailed Elizabeth. 'He did research—he did research—I didn't go with him—I don't understand —'

'Of course you don't! You don't remember anything—of course you don't!' The snake-voice paused. 'Your memory has suddenly deserted you entirely. Hold her!'

Hands clamped down on Elizabeth's shoulders from behind, pressing her back against the chair.

'W-what are you doing?' She began to struggle instinctively, but the pressure on her shoulders merely increased. 'Please!'

'Please!' The snake-voice mocked her. 'Thi ss is a little problem I often encounter, you know. But I'm very good at ssolving it ... I'm going to help you get your memory back, Misss Loftu sss. That's all!'

Something hooked into the neckline of Elizabeth's dress, pulling her forward against the pressure from behind. The thin summer dress strained for an instant, then tore apart as the material ripped and the buttons gave way.

Elizabeth tried to struggle again, more wildly but just as uselessly, the wires cutting into her wrists. Then she went rigid as she felt something hook into her brassiere between dummy3

her breasts: the brassiere stretched for a second, then seemed to fall apart as though it had been cut—

Oh God! Oh God.'