The command rolled through the brilliant silence of the laboratory like distant thunder.
"Valmon Dain... wake up."
The man at the desk did not stir.
His head remained buried upon folded arms, his breathing slow and measured, as though he had drifted into the heavy sleep of complete exhaustion.
For several long seconds Willard Lyall watched him.
Then, with deliberate care, he extended the barrel of the revolver and nudged Dain sharply in the ribs.
"Wake up."
A faint murmur escaped Dain's lips.
He shifted uneasily, frowned in his sleep, then slowly lifted his head. His eyelids fluttered. He blinked several times beneath the fierce white glare flooding the laboratory and looked around with the bewilderment of a man dragged unwillingly from deep slumber.
His gaze settled upon Lyall.
The confusion on his face deepened.
Then recognition dawned.
"Oh..."
A sheepish smile spread across his face.
"It's you."
He rubbed his eyes.
"Good heavens, you gave me quite a fright. How on earth did you get in?"
"Through the scullery window."
Lyall's voice was devoid of emotion. It was flat, cold, almost mechanical. There was no anger in it, no excitement, only the chilling certainty of a man who believed he had already pronounced sentence.
Dain frowned.
"The scullery window?"
He looked genuinely puzzled.
"But... what an extraordinary way to call on someone."
"Extraordinary?"
A thin smile crept across Lyall's lips.
"Keep your hands where I can see them, Mr. Dain, unless you'd like your ideas rearranged rather suddenly."
He lifted the revolver a fraction.
Only then did Dain appear to notice it.
His eyes fixed upon the weapon.
The muzzle was aimed squarely at his heart.
His expression altered.
"What is the meaning of this?"
His voice carried just enough uncertainty to satisfy any observer.
"You haven't taken leave of your senses, surely?"
Lyall gave an impatient click of the tongue.
"Drop the performance."
His voice hardened.
"Your little game is finished."
He took a measured step closer.
"The fool has been me. I should have seen through you weeks ago."
The revolver never wavered.
"I came here tonight for one purpose."
He spoke each word slowly.
"I'm going to kill you."
Silence settled over the laboratory.
The dazzling lights seemed almost oppressive.
One man remained seated.
The other stood with death in his hand.
"One of us leaves this room feet first," Lyall continued quietly.
"And it won't be me."
Dain leaned back slightly in his chair.
"No."
His voice was remarkably calm.
"I don't suppose there's much room left for bluff."
For several seconds neither man moved.
They studied one another with the stillness of two chess masters contemplating the final moves of a championship game.
Then Dain spoke again.
"There is one exception."
Lyall's eyebrows narrowed.
"You'll need to consider every movement you make in this room very carefully."
He smiled faintly.
"I've never built my life upon bluff."
"Oh?"
Lyall sneered.
"You're surprisingly candid."
"Why shouldn't I be?"
Dain folded his hands upon the desk.
"I expected you tonight."
The words landed like a stone.
Lyall's expression barely changed, but something flickered behind his eyes.
"You expected me?"
"Certainly."
"I knew precisely what you told Tansy."
"I knew the instant he recognised me on the Underground that sooner or later this visit would follow."
A shadow crossed his face.
"I confess I made one mistake."
He smiled at himself.
"I never imagined someone would study my handwriting while hanging onto a railway strap."
Lyall stared without speaking.
Finally he nodded.
"I'll admit one thing."
"What is that?"
"You've got nerve."
Dain shook his head.
"No."
"Not nerve."
"Preparation."
"And confidence."
He leaned forward slightly.
"I'm asking you to put the revolver down and walk away."
Lyall laughed once.
It contained no humour.
"I don't think you're in much position to give advice."
"I disagree."
Dain's voice never rose.
"You haven't one chance in a hundred thousand of killing me."
He paused.
"In fact..."
"I'll go further."
"It is impossible."
The word echoed strangely through the vast laboratory.
Lyall's jaw tightened.
"Impossible?"
"Yes."
"You've entered a workshop designed by a man who has spent years anticipating exactly this sort of visit."
Without taking his eyes from Lyall, Dain brushed aside the papers lying on the desk.
A small instrument appeared beneath them.
Two circular glass discs stared upward.
One glowed white.
The other remained dark.
"You recognise that?"
"No."
"It's called a contactometer."
Dain spoke almost conversationally.
"It informed me the moment your hand touched my laboratory door."
He pointed casually toward the entrance.
"The outer surface isn't timber."
"It's laminated steel."
"A single switch beneath this desk energises it."
He rested one finger lightly on the edge of the table.
"Had I pressed it while you stood outside..."
He shrugged.
"The current would have passed through your body before you realised the door was anything unusual."
"You'd have died without ever entering the room."
The silence deepened.
Lyall's eyes drifted instinctively toward the door.
Then back to Dain.
"You expect me to believe that?"
"I don't particularly care."
Dain smiled.
"It happens to be true."
Lyall's voice became harsh.
"Keep your hands where they are."
"I've questions that require answers."
"You'll answer them."
"If you refuse..."
He raised the revolver another inch.
"I'll shoot."
Dain ignored the threat completely.
"Let's examine your original plan instead."
Lyall frowned.
"You intended to use Z.H.9."
The name hung heavily in the air.
"The German anaesthetic gas."
"You brought several capsules with you."
"They were to render me unconscious."
"Then you intended to strike my skull with some convenient implement from this workshop."
He nodded toward the benches.
"The police would assume an interrupted burglary."
"A frightened intruder."
"A panicked blow."
"No premeditation."
"No murder."
"Quite ingenious."
Lyall said nothing.
His silence was answer enough.
Dain continued.
"But the moment you looked through that window..."
He glanced toward it.
"...your plan changed."
"When I appeared asleep, you abandoned the gas."
"You opened the window."
"You intended to escape that way after firing the revolver."
"Am I correct?"
A muscle twitched in Lyall's cheek.
"I thought so."
Dain looked almost sympathetic.
"Unfortunately..."
"You selected the only exit in this house that would certainly have killed you."
Lyall's eyes flashed toward the window.
"It looks harmless."
"It isn't."
"I designed it."
"You may raise it."
"You may leave it open."
"But the instant a man's full weight rests upon that sill..."
He allowed the sentence to hang.
"...the hydraulic lock releases."
"The frame descends."
"Very slowly."
"Very powerfully."
"It cannot be stopped by human strength."
His voice remained perfectly matter of fact.
"It would cut through a man's body exactly as a hydraulic press cuts sheet steel."
He looked directly into Lyall's eyes.
"It usually requires about five minutes."
"I wouldn't recommend the experience."
For the first time since entering the laboratory, colour began draining from Lyall's face.
The revolver remained steady.
His confidence did not.
"What game are you playing?" he demanded.
"No game."
"I'm trying to save your life."
"My life?"
"Yes."
"You still seem unable to appreciate your position."
Dain rose slowly from the chair.
Not hurriedly.
Not aggressively.
Simply with the quiet assurance of a man who feared nothing.
"Since beginning my campaign against organised crime, I've surrounded myself with safeguards."
He spread one hand around the laboratory.
"They aren't decorations."
"They're necessities."
"If you attempt to leave this house after midnight..."
He smiled faintly.
"...every exit triggers alarms."
"Thirty six bells."
"Eight of them outside."
"There is almost always a constable somewhere within hearing distance."
"You entered before midnight."
"That was fortunate."
"You will not leave so easily."
Lyall's lower lip twitched.
His breathing had become noticeably quicker.
"You think you're frightening me."
"No."
"I think I'm informing you."
"The choice remains yours."
"Shoot."
"The revolver works perfectly."
"I know."
"It's my revolver."
The words struck Lyall harder than any blow.
Dain's eyes remained fixed upon him.
"I merely ask you one question."
"Is murder really worth the gallows?"
"No!"
Lyall barked.
"You'll answer me first."
"You've got one minute left to live."
Dain regarded him with detached curiosity, like a scientist observing an experiment approaching its inevitable conclusion.
Then he sighed.
"Mr. Lyall..."
There was genuine disappointment in his voice now.
"I gave you credit for possessing intelligence."
"It appears I overestimated you."
Lyall's finger tightened imperceptibly upon the trigger.
"I can kill you simply by pulling this."
"No."
Dain shook his head slowly.
"You can fire it."
"You cannot kill me."
"And even if you could..."
His eyes drifted toward the door.
"...you would never leave this house alive."
He paused.
"I find it astonishing."
"A cultivated man."
"A man of education."
"A man capable of appreciating music, literature and science."
"And yet..."
"You've chosen to become nothing more than an executioner."
His voice softened.
"That, Mr. Lyall..."
"...is the greatest tragedy of all."