She recognized the voice and sobbed with relief, as Jack the Knife continued, ‘Didn’t know the chance’d come this quickly, though.’
Then he switched off the passive exerciser and knelt down to cut her bonds. ‘You all right?’
‘Yes,’ she murmured, flexing the muscles of her arms and legs. Even after their short exposure to the motion of the machine, they felt strained and shaky. ‘Fine,’ she asserted. ‘Just fine. What on earth brought you here, though, Jack? Just a happy coincidence?’
‘Bit more than that,’ the surgeon replied. ‘Had a call from Truffler Mason just before he came down here with you. Said he was going to Brotherton Hall on what might turn out to be “pressing business”… if you know what that means…?’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘Truffler and Ank — and Stan the Stapler — are all imprisoned down in the cellars by Dr Potter and his heavies.’
‘Yes, I did a quick recce before I came along here. Brought it all back,’ he whispered excitedly, ‘what it was like working with your husband in the old days. Oh, it was great back then. He was a wonderful man, Mrs Pargeter. A real life-enhancer — he lit up everything he touched.’
She nodded fondly, but realized this wasn’t the moment for wistful elegies. ‘We’ve got to save the others!’ she hissed.
Jack the Knife nodded in the thin light and reached into his pocket. ‘One for each of us. Think we should be able to jump them all right.’
Mrs Pargeter felt the cool bulk of an automatic pistol pressed into her palm. As a rule, she didn’t like firearms — indeed, she didn’t favour violence of any kind — but these were exceptional circumstances.
They moved noiselessly out of the gym, along the corridor and down the stairs to the cellar entrance. Though presumably in his Harley Street practice he had little chance to practise them, Jack the Knife’s skills of stealth and subterfuge showed no signs of rustiness. He drew back the cellar door without a sound and beckoned Mrs Pargeter to follow him down.
‘When we get there, I’m going to shoot out the light and catch them off guard.’ He drew a large rubber-covered torch from his pocket. ‘Then switch this on. That should give us the advantage. I’ll deal with the two thugs. You keep Dr Potter covered.’
‘No problem,’ Mrs Pargeter breathed back.
‘And if he tries anything, just pull the trigger. Will you have any difficulty about doing that?’
‘No,’ she replied, with a certitude whose instinctiveness surprised her.
They moved silently downwards. With each step Mrs Pargeter felt the strain at the back of her knees, a chilling reminder that it really wouldn’t have taken long for the exerciser to exhaust her totally.
Along the passage some way ahead, light spilled from the room where their friends were held and, as they approached, they could hear the icy precision of Dr Potter’s voice outlining his plans for the prisoners.
‘… particularly convenient since the drugs require further testing — and on a more robust body than that of a young girl. Mr Mason here will be an ideal candidate for the treatment.’
‘But, Doctor,’ Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s voice protested, ‘those drugs have already killed one girl. Surely you don’t want Truffler Mason to-?’
‘Truffler Mason has caused me considerable inconvenience,’ Dr Potter snapped back. ‘He’s lucky I haven’t just killed him straight off. At least with what I’m proposing, he has a chance of survival.’
‘Not much of a chance.’
‘No, Mr Arkwright, not much of a chance,’ the doctor conceded with a hint of humour.
Mrs Pargeter wondered why Truffler was silent during this exchange, and concluded that he was probably still unconscious. As she and Jack the Knife edged closer, this conjecture was confirmed by the sight of Truffler’s body still stretched out on the cellar floor.
Ankle-Deep Arkwright maintained his protest. ‘I don’t think you should do it, Doctor. There’s been enough destruction here. I never wanted to be part of this in the first place. I-’
‘Mr Arkwright!’ Dr Potter interrupted malignantly. ‘You will do as you’re told. Either we get back to the arrangement we had before — that you run Brotherton Hall and do whatever I ask of you whenever I ask it — or I inform the police of your criminal past. And the same goes for you, Stan.’
‘But I can’t stand any more of this killing. First there’s the student kid, then Lindy Galton, and if you’ve done anything to Mrs Pargeter, there are people all over the world who worked with her husband and will avenge her, whatever-’
‘Mr Arkwright! If I cannot count on your co-operation, then I will put you on the same medical programme as Mr Mason. My product still needs a lot more testing, you know.’
There was a chill silence as the impact of these words sank in, and Jack the Knife seized his cue.
A gunshot sounded, shatteringly loud in the enclosed space. Then came the smashing of glass, followed by a muddle of curses in the blackness.
By the time Jack the Knife had switched his torch on, half the job was done. Ankle-Deep Arkwright and Stan the Stapler, well trained by the late Mr Pargeter, had taken advantage of the confusion to immobilize the two ambulance men, who found themselves looking down the barrel of Jack the Knife’s gun.
And in the spill of light from the torch, Dr Potter and Mrs Pargeter faced each other, machine-gun and automatic pistol trained.
‘I will have no hesitation in using this,’ he announced silkily.
‘Nor will I in using this.’
‘Do you know the rate at which this machine-gun pumps out bullets, Mrs Pargeter?’
‘No. And I’m not particularly interested. It’ll only take one bullet from my gun to blow you away, Dr Potter. I’m not going to miss from this range.’
There was a momentary impasse. Nobody moved, or seemed to breathe.
Then the doctor spoke again, his voice corroded with bitterness. ‘I haven’t come this far, I haven’t come through everything to get so close to recognition as a brilliant chemist, to be thwarted by you. You’re in my way, Mrs Pargeter, and when there’s someone in my way, I always succeed in getting them out of my way!’
He concluded the sentence as if it were a cue — presumably a cue to squeeze the trigger of his machine-gun and blow Mrs Pargeter out of his way.
But the cue was missed. There was a sudden movement from the floor. Truffler Mason, with surprising athleticism, arched his body and brought his legs up to send the machine-gun spinning. The impact hurled Dr Potter back against the wall, where his head slammed against a low pipe. He crumpled unconscious to the floor.
‘Brilliant, Truffler!’ Mrs Pargeter gazed fondly down at her protector, who sat on the floor lugubriously rubbing his head.
Jack the Knife looked across at the two ambulance men, dispirited in the unyielding embraces of Ankle-Deep Arkwright and Stan the Stapler. Any fight there had been in the thugs was gone. ‘Tie them up,’ he ordered.
Then the surgeon moved across to focus his torchbeam on Dr Potter. He noticed something behind the man’s ear and looked closer.
‘Good heavens!’ he murmured.
‘What is it?’ asked Mrs Pargeter.
‘These scars behind his ears.’
‘What about them?’
‘Just that I recognize them.’
‘Hm?’
‘A surgeon always recognizes his own handiwork, Mrs Pargeter.’ Jack the Knife pushed Dr Potter’s head sideways and peered closely at the network of lines around his eyes. ‘Good God! Do you know who this is?’
‘No.’
‘Julian Embridge.’