While a scissors-hold is a convenient way of immobilizing an opponent, it also renders oneself relatively immobile. It was with a surge of relief that Napoleon saw his second attacker suddenly fold over himself and spread his unlovely features on the inoffensive cement. Illya was standing behind him, someone's crowbar in his hand, looking down disapprovingly.

"Shall I clip the other one for you, or are you having fun?"

"You seem to wear out your playmates fast; you can have him if you like," said Solo from the ground.

Admittedly there wasn't much left for Illya to do; he took careful aim and tapped the last of the four on the side of the head with the rounded end of the bar. Napoleon unwound his legs and got unsteadily to his feet.

He was almost there when something came sailing through space at Illya. Solo's free arm - his right - swung around to catch his partner behind the knees, and Illya dropped like an acrobat as another iron rod whipped through the space his head had occupied. Napoleon could hardly control a groan as pain lanced through his wrist again.

Illya was on his feet in an instant, taking off from a sprinter's crouch in the direction of the main fight. The small force of police appeared outnumbered and several uniformed figures were stretched senseless on the pavement. In the distance, whistles and the distinctive two tone sirens could be heard heralding reinforcements, still a vital minute or two away.

Napoleon was hardly in a condition to rejoin the fight, but a momentary investigation of his right wrist revealed that it was in fact not quite broken after all. It also revealed that he could hold nothing heavy in his right hand. He picked up one of the opposition's crowbars in his left and waded back into the melee.

Illya, plunging into the thick of the struggle, found more targets than he expected. Oddly enough, he seemed to attract more attention than the uniformed officers, and within thirty seconds he found himself forced into strategic retreat in the face of overwhelming force. He fell back until the rough brick of a building front pressed against his spine, and then, as the semicircle of men appeared to close about him, he feinted right, then left, then ducked suddenly and decisively to his right, leaving another of the apparently inexhaustible army of bad guys gasping on the pavement.

Napoleon, regretfully, did not get nearly as far. Accepting the limitation of his injured arm, he would have felt satisfied to remain on the fringes of the battle, denting any skulls that came within his range. And, in fact, he left perhaps half a dozen heads so dented. There was the beginning of a respectable pile of victims growing around his feet when he became the focus of interest for several of the gang who seemed to have nothing better to do, having filled their individual quotas of incapacitated policemen.

They circled warily in front of him as he retired slowly, a step at a time, to make sure the solid side of the van was behind him. With a wall at his back and almost three feet of steel in his fist, he could stand them off for the seconds that remained before the fresh force of police would arrive and restore order. He heard the approaching sounds and took heart; not quite the U.S. Cavalry, but certainly the next best thing to relieve a beleaguered and outnumbered force.

The sound of sirens covered the soft shuffle of booted feet on the pavement behind him. As a result, it came as something of a surprise when the back of his head exploded with pain and a flash of colorless light, and he fell forward into blackness.

At the same time, Illya, untouched but harried along, found a narrow alleyway opening behind him. He rejected the obvious trap, and continued following the shop fronts. The moment he had a few feet to spare, he broke to the freedom of the street and began a dash backwards the center of the fighting.

Even as he did so, the engine of the large van could be heard to rev up, and a quick tattoo of the horn apparently summoned the small army of toughs to return to their transport.

Just as the horn sounded, a flung crowbar caught Illya across the heels as he ran, and he sprawled face down towards the pavement. He rolled as he hit, feet together, ready to catch the first attacker as the four of them charged him.

Then one of them stumbled and fell, scrabbling helplessly. Another turned and yelled wordlessly to his companions as he saw a figure in the shadows of the alley. A second later his cry died in a gurgle as he staggered backward, clutching frantically at the slender hilt of a knife which had appeared suddenly springing from his chest.

Illya was on his feet again before the second man hit the ground. As he blocked the kick of one of the survivors, the figure detached itself from the shadows and drifted lazily forward towards the other one.

In five seconds of block and swing, block, kick and chop, Illya's opponent was out for the count. Breathing heavily, he turned around.

His rescuer was leaning over two of the bodies, extracting a matched pair of beautifully delicate throwing knives, one from a chest, one from a back. Carefully he wiped each blade clean on the clothing of its victim, and with a flick of each wrist the knives seemed to vanish - probably into forearm sheaths, Illya decided.

He was tall and elegantly slim, as well as impeccably dressed. It almost seemed as if he must have passed by on pure chance, on his way home from the theater. The third thug resting on the pavement bore witness to his ability at hand-to-hand combat, but not a strand of his perfectly parted hair appeared to have been disturbed. As he straightened, he glanced at Illya with an almost foolishly innocent smile.

Then a suddenly rising roar of engines and screech of brakes announced the arrival of the rest of the police force. As Illya looked in doubt at his impeccable rescuer, the latter spoke, and his voice was a regretful drawl. "So much for the evening's entertainment. And it was just promising to become interesting, too." He flashed a dazzling smile at Illya. "I hope you don't mind my cutting into your fight, but I was beginning to feel rather left out of things, and I hate the thought of being a wallflower."

He glanced down the street, to where half a dozen police cars were disgorging the reinforcements. "I see the groundskeepers have arrived. They will doubtless want to tidy up now, so there won't be much left for us to do. Of course you will accept a ride back to your hotel. My car is just around the corner."

Before he knew quite what was happening Illya found himself following a friendly pressure on his elbow away from the approaching police and down the alley. He cast a final look around the street, and observed that somehow the truck had disappeared with those of the gang who were still able to navigate. He took a quiet pleasure in the knowledge that several of the remainder were awaiting the cleanup squad through his own personal courtesies. As for Solo, he could always take care of himself, and this gentleman had several questions to answer.

The questions were still unformed when Illya found himself sitting in the lefthand seat of a long sleek Hirondel, of a design that had practically disappeared from the highways of Europe more than twenty years ago. The engine purred to life at the touch of its master, and the great car moved silently off through the streets of London.

Illya glanced sideways at the keen profile of the driver. A cigarette was canted carelessly between his lips, and the regular flash of streetlights cast his face into sharp outline. The Russian cleared his throat and started to ask the identity of his chauffeur.

Before he spoke, he was anticipated. "Actually," the other said, "I can't tell you very much. You're after Johnnie Rainbow, of course. By this time, practically everyone knows that much. So am I. He must have an awful lot of loot stowed away from his unholy labors, and as an ardent Socialist I feel it should be redistributed. The most beautiful bundle of boodle in the civilized world is waiting to be put to charitable purposes, and I am heeding its call," he added simply.