Reich gasped for breath and beat his knuckles together painfully. When the roaring in his ears subsided, he propelled himself toward the girl, trying to arrange his thoughts and make split second alterations in his plans. He had never counted on a witness. No one mentioned a daughter. God damn Tate! He would have to kill the girl. He—

She turned again and shot a terror-stricken glance over her shoulder. Again that lightning flash of yellow hair, dark eyes, dark brows, wild beauty. She leaped to her feet, darted out of his sodden grasp, ran to the jewelled door, flung it open and ran into the anteroom. As the door slowly closed, Reich had a glimpse of the guards still slumped on the bench and the girl running silently down the stairs with the gun in her hands… with Demolition in her hands.

Reich started. The clogged blood began pounding through his veins again. He reached the door in three strides, ran through and tore down the steps to the picture gallery. It was empty but the door to the overpass was just closing. And still no sound from her. Still no alarm. How long before she started screaming the house down?

He raced down the gallery and entered the overpass. It was still pitch dark. He blundered through, reached the head of the stairs that led down to the music room and paused again. Still no sound. No alarm.

He went down the steps. The dark silence was terrifying. Why didn’t she scream? Where was she? Reich crossed toward the west arch and knew he was at the edge of the main hall by the quiet splash of the fountains. Where was the girl? In all that black silence, where was she? And the gun! Christ! The tricked gun!

A hand touched his arm. Reich jerked in alarm. Tate whispered: “I’ve been standing by. It took you exactly—”

“You son of a bitch!” Reich burst out. “There was a daughter. Why didn’t you—”

“Be quiet,” Tate snapped. “Let me peep it.” After fifteen seconds of burning silence, he began to tremble. In a terrified voice he whined: “My God. Oh, my God…”

His terror was the catalyst. Reich’s control returned. He began thinking again. “Shut up,” he growled. “It isn’t Demolition yet.”

“You’ll have to kill her too, Reich. You’ll—”

“Shut up. Find her, first. Cover the house. You got her pattern from me. Locate her. I’ll be waiting at the fountain. Jet!”

He flung Tate from him and staggered to the fountain. At the jasper rim he bent and bathed his burning face. It was burgundy. Reich wiped his face and ignored the muffled sounds that came from the other side of the basin. Evidently some other person or persons unknown were bathing in wine.

He considered swiftly. The girl must be located and killed. If she still had the gun when Tate found her, the gun would be used. If she didn’t? What? Strangle her? No… The fountain. She was naked under that silk gown. It could be stripped off. She could be found drowned in the fountain… just another guest who had bathed in the wine too long. But it had to be soon… soon… soon… Before this damned Sardine game was ended. Where was Tate? Where was the girl?