appeared at a window. The only thing that puzzled him was that no one had fired back. He'd have welcomed an exchange of shots. But none had come and he was trying to work out what this meant when a sound outside gave him the answer. Something had just bumped against the wall of the Chateau and he heard voices. So the bastards had managed to get round behind him and were preparing to attack him from the rear. Cunning. He'd soon put a stop to that.
Checking that the courtyard was still empty he crossed to the tiny window that gave onto the drive. As he watched, a figure appeared with a suitcase. They were going to blast him out with a bomb. Peregrine aimed the revolver through the window and then hesitated. It was a woman, and he hadn't been trained to shoot women. All the same, he was taking no chances. Slipping out to the gates he gently unlocked them. A man was out there too. He could hear him whisper. He'd strike now. Shoving the gate open with his foot he aimed the revolver with both hands. 'OK, freeze,' he shouted, now identifying with the heroes of every American thriller he'd read. 'Get your hands on your heads and don't move.'
But the woman had already done so. She was off down the drive running as fast as she could. For a second Peregrine was tempted but Bulldog Drummond prevailed. At least he'd got the man and he wasn't giving any trouble. He was wheezing and gasping but his hands were up.
'For God's sake don't shoot,' he whimpered. Peregrine recognized the voice.
'Gloddie,' he said, 'Is that you?'
'Of course it's me,' said Glodstone with a moan and sat down on the suitcase. 'Oh my God!'
'Are you all right?'
Glodstone felt his heart and thought not.
'So who's the frail?' asked Peregrine, reverting to Mickey Spillane.
'I am,' said Glodstone.
'I mean the woman.'
'That happened to be the Countess.'
'And we've rescued her. That's terrific.' Glodstone didn't reply. To his way of thinking the adjective was wholly inappropriate.
'Then we can go,' said Peregrine, 'or do you want me to finish the swine off?'
Glodstone tried to get up and promptly trod on the bottom of his trousers and fell over. 'I don't want you to do another thing,' he said savagely as Peregrine helped him to his feet, 'except see if my clothes are in an office in there and bring them out. And hurry. There's murder going on.'
'Oh I don't know,' said Peregrine, 'They're '
'Well, I fucking do,' said Glodstone.
'Oh, all right,' said Peregrine sulkily. 'Just when it was getting to be fun.'
All the same he went into the office and presently returned wan a brown paper parcel. 'Just one more thing to do,' he said and before Glodstone could protest that even one more thing would be too much for his heart he was gone. Glodstone flapped off down the drive with his clothes. If what he expected occurred he wanted to be behind a walnut tree when it did. For a few minutes everything was quiet and then a volley of shots rang out and Peregrine ran from the Chateau.
'That should keep them quite while we make our getaway,' he said. 'I've dumped that rope ladder and locked the gates.'
'And shot someone too, I suppose.'
'Nobody to shoot.'
'Well, get that bloody suitcase,' said Glodstone, hobbling along. He couldn't wait to put as much distance between himself and the Chateau as was humanly possible. The place had nothing romantic about it now.
In the grand salon the delegates crouched in the darkness surrounded by broken glass. Their concern for the future of mankind had assumed a personal and more interested dimension, but they were still at odds with one another. Dr Abnekov particularly objected to Sir Arnold Brymay's
