Reich gasped for breath and beat his knuckles together painfully, fighting for control. When the roaring in his ears subsided, he propelled himself toward Barbara, trying to arrange his thoughts and make split-second alterations in his plans. He had never counted on a witness. God damn Powell. He would have to kill the girl. Could he arrange a double-murder in the — No. Not murder. Booby-trap. Damn Gus Tate. Wait. He wasn’t in Beaumont House. He was… in…

“Thirty-three Hudson Ramp,” Powell said from the front door.

Reich jerked around, crouched automatically and whipped the scrambler up under his left elbow as Quizzard’s killers had taught him.

Powell side-stepped. “Don’t try it,” he said sharply.

“You son of a bitch,” Reich shouted. He wheeled on Powell who had already crossed him up and again stepped out of the line of fire. “You god damned peeper! You lousy, sleazy, son of a—”

Powell faked to the left, reversed, closed with Reich and delivered a six-inch jab to the ulnar nerve complex. The scrambler fell to the floor. Reich clinched; punching, clawing, butting, swearing hysterically. Powell hit him with three lightning blows, nape, navel, and groin. The effect was that of a full spinal block. Reich crashed to the floor, retching, blood streaming from his nose.

“Brother, you think only you know how to gut fight,” Powell grunted. He went to Barbara D’Courtney, who still knelt on the floor, and raised her.

“All right, Barbara?” he said.

“Hello, Papa. I had a bad dream.”

“I know, baby. I had to give it to you. It was an experiment on that big oaf.”

“Gimme a kiss.”

He kissed her forehead. “You’re growing up fast,” he smiled. “You were just baby-talking yesterday.”

“I’m growing up because you promised to wait for me.”

“It’s a promise, Barbara. Can you go upstairs by yourself or do you have to be carried… like yesterday?”

“I can go all by my own self.”

“All right, baby. Go up to your room.”

She went to the stairs, took a firm hold on the bannister and climbed up. Just before she reached the top, she darted a glance at Reich and stuck her tongue out. Then she disappeared. Powell crossed to Mary Noyes, removed the gag, checked her pulse, then made her comfortable on the lounge.

“First notch, eh?” he murmured to Reich. “Painful but she’ll recover in an hour.” He went back to Reich and stared down at him, anger darkening his drawn face. “I ought to pay you back for Mary; but what’s the use? It wouldn’t teach you anything. You poor bastard… you’re just no damned good.”

“Kill me!” Reich groaned. “Kill me or let me up and by Christ I’ll kill you!”

Powell picked up the scrambler and cocked an eye at Reich. “Try flexing your muscles a little. Those blocks shouldn’t last more than a few seconds…” He sat down with the scrambler in his lap. “You had a tough break. I wasn’t out of the house five minutes when I realized Chooka’s story was a phoney. You put her up to it, of course.”