"What directors?" he asked.

"The directors of the museum. It is they who arranged all this, though I must say we didn't expect the fireworks at Dover." The girl was moving away from him, toward a door at the far side of the room. "The bar is over there," she called back, pointing it out with a flourish. "Please be comfortable."

Bolan felt not at all comfortable. He removed the false hair and beard and changed back into his own jacket. Then he went to the bar, poured some tonic into a glass, and tasted it before he went to try the door through which the girl had gone but his suspicions were confirmed, it was locked. He retraced his steps across the room and tried the other door. It, too, was locked.

Uneasily and with a growing sense of alarm, Bolan returned to the bar. He lit a cigarette and caught a flash of something reflecting off the opposite wall as he extinguished the flame of his lighter. Closer investigation revealed a wide-angle camera lens set flush into the paneling. He glared at it for a moment, then placed a hand over the lens and called out, "Okay, end of game. What's going on here?"

A cultured and crisply British voice responded immediately through a speaker concealed somewhere overhead. "You are quite perceptive, Mr. Bolan. Welcome to England. We hope you'll like us here. Dreadfully sorry for all that bother at Dover, you know. Please understand that we had nothing at all to do with that."

Bolan let his hand fall away from the wall and he stepped back to gaze coldly into the lens. "Shades of James Bond," he said drily. "Locked room, closed circuit television, the whole bit. What's it all about?"

A short, barking laugh preceded, "Surely you will understand our caution, Mr. Bolan. Your reputation is ah, legendary to say the least. We think it best that—"

Bolan angrily interrupted with, "No way, friend. Either those doors come open in twenty seconds or I'm blasting out."

A brief pause, then: "Please don't be boorish, Mr. Bolan. Nor imprudent. As soon as Miss Franklin completes her report then we'll see what can be done."

"Boorish, hell," Bolan said. He sprung the Beretta and put a bullet through the camera lens. The report of the gun, magnified, reverberated in the tightly closed room.

"Really, Mr. Bolan…" the voice spluttered.

Calmly Bolan asked, "Can you still see me?"

"Of course not, sir. You have just sent a shot directly into the camera."

"So now we're even," Bolan replied. "You have about ten more seconds to get those doors open."

"That's impossible," was the angry retort. "Be reasonable, man. We can't just—"

Bolan snapped, "Time's up." He went to the door through which the girl had disappeared and shot the lock off, then pushed into a small cell-like room and on through into a larger area with oriental rugs and tapestries. There were no windows. Low couches and harem pillows were scattered about. The aromatic sweetness of some exotic incense hung lightly in the atmosphere. A large arched doorway at the far side of the room drew Bolan's attention. It was framed by a huge woodcarving of shapely buttocks, through which could be viewed unmistakable cherrywood labia standing taller than Bolan and serving as the actual doorway.

"Some museum," Bolan muttered, and stepped cautiously through the parted labia. He found himself on a narrow, darkened stairway which led steeply to an upper floor. Slowly he ascended, the Beretta ready, and exited into another cell-like room. It had an unvarnished wooden floor and was bare except for a small desk and several folding chairs. Suspended from a peg on the wall was an ancient iron chastity belt, of the type used by knights of the crusades to keep their ladies securely chaste during their extended absences during the holy wars.

Bolan sniffed and went on through to another cubicle, this one dimly lighted by a bare bulb in the ceiling. It contained nothing but a narrow wooden cot, obviously very old. The head and foot boards were actually stocks for imprisoning the hands and feet in a widespread position.

A trickling chill of revulsion traversed Bolan's spine. He was beginning to understand just what sort of museum this was. The next cubicle confirmed his suspicions. It was totally bare except for a pair of wrist-irons set high into the wall. On the floor beneath the irons was a small barrel with a narrow board placed across it. The use was obvious. The "victim" would be forced to balance on the unstable platform or else suffer his entire weight dangling from the harsh irons at his wrists.

A large black whip was coiled about a peg on the opposite wall. Bolan found himself visualizing some miserable wretch trying to maintain a foothold on the barrel with that cat o' nine flaying into his naked flesh. The museum's name tied, in neatly then. Bolan was not overly sophisticated in matters of kinky sex but he knew of the Marquis de Sade, one of the most famous writers of forbidden literature and the man from whose name the term sadismwas coined.

Bolan shivered and moved on out of there and through a succession of similar cubicles containing various of the diabolical torture devices. He was beginning to feel as though he were trapped in a maze when he finally got to another stairway and ascended to still another floor and found a neat duplicate of the clubroom below. Ann Franklin was standing near a small desk. She stared at him over the mouthpiece of a telephone. He told her, "Hang up."

She did so without argument, looking at the pistol in his hand. "You're behaving badly," she said, calmly. "We are only trying to help."

"Maybe you're trying too hard," he told her, moving around the room to study it. "I'm not here to play games. Where's the guy?"

"Which guy?" she asked quietly.

"The guy with the brigadier's voice and a peeping Tom's manners. Where was he talking from?"

"Oh… so you discovered that."

"Sure I discovered it." Bolan had completed his reconnaisance of the room and ended his search at the girl's side. The Beretta went back into the sideleather and he told her, "Wei, I appreciate the ride into town. Is there a quicker way out of here other than through the chamber of horrors?"

"But you can't leave now," she protested weakly.

"The hell I can't." His voice softened as he added, "Look, you did a gutsy thing down there at Dover, and I'm indebted to you. But I didn't invite you in, you know, and gratitude can stretch just so far. For openers, it won't cover being locked up in a house of sick sex and watched with a hidden camera."

The girl's eyes fell. She said, "Sorry about the security. It isnecessary, you know. I mean, don't imagine that we installed all that expressly for your benefit. If you're wondering about Charles, he's in the cellar, the security station. But don't please go down there bothering him. He's a nice old love who wouldn't harm a flea."

Bolan said, "This is more than just a museum, isn't it?"

"Of course." Her eyes met his, almost defiantly he thought. "Every one has a right to sex, even if their outlets are… limited. We provide that outlet here, at de Sade."

"With whips and racks," he observed drily.

"Oh, those are just props. Psychological, you know. Our members are not psychotics. Their need is for… stimulative fantasy. It's rather like pornography."

"I see," Bolan said. "A trip through the maze of horrors and they're ready to swing, eh? Come on now, that doesn't even make sense."

"We have… a paid staff," she explained in a small voice. "Certain… stimulating services… may be purchased."

Bolan decided the girl was trying to delay him, to keep him there. Until what? He told her, "Well, that's none of my business. Who are we expecting?"

"What?"

"You're trying to keep me here until someone else arrives. Who?"

She said, "I told you earlier that I had to ring up the directors."