Pellegar was crawling across the floor, making gasping noises. Still dazed by all this violence and with a pain in his side as if his ribs had been staved in, Matthew watched as Julian walked over to pick up the fallen wig. Something about Julian’s face had changed; it had gone gaunt, hollow-cheeked and severe, but there was no wildness in the eyes and that was what frightened Matthew the most. The bad man—one of Fell’s killers—was in the room with him, and from this point on it was all cold-hearted business.

Julian kicked Pellegar in the side to throw the man over on his back. Then Julian straddled his chest, crushed the wig down upon the count’s head, and holding the wig firmly with one hand he began to beat the mound of Pellegar’s face with the butt of his pistol … once … twice … again … again … on and on as red bloomed up on the wig and Julian’s face gleamed with sweat.

“Julian! Don’t!” Matthew called, his own voice a croak, but the bad man was beyond hearing.

Pellegar’s legs still twitched on, and methodically Julian beat him to death with the pistol butt though it was hard to say if the man perished by beating or being smothered. When the legs stopped moving, Julian lifted the wig to look at the misshapen face, his own expression utterly impassive. Then he covered it over and beat the dead man some more, as if now content to hammer a spirit until it fled from the room to the better climate of Hell.

At last Julian stood up, and as he approached Matthew the New York problem-solver shrank back from him because there was yet death on his face. Julian pulled the tapestry off the moaning Baron Brux and knelt down to give him the same treatment as the count had gotten, but he stopped and rubbed the tortured shoulder that did not want to lift any more heavy pistols.

Julian looked into Matthew’s eyes and said, “Take out your dagger and kill him.”

“I … can’t … murder anyone …”

“Worthless,” said Julian. He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Then give me the dagger and I’ll kill him.”

“Julian … no, I can’t—”

“Oh, shit!” Julian answered in disgust. His eyes had found something he could handle. He reached into the rubble of the harpsichord and with a quick yank brought out a thinner wire suitable for a strangulation. Then he sat down behind the semi-conscious Brux, locked his legs around the man’s midsection and in so doing trapped Brux’s arms at his sides. He wrapped the wire around the white throat and began to pull the ends against the middle.