Chapter 37 A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling of Westing's wine cellars.

They were dry and clean, not at all like the dungeons they were now meant to be,

but the rat-faced Gunzel still shivered as he waited.

He looked around him.

Nine other gunmen stood crowded into the small space,

each well-armed, all watching the single door that was the only point of entry to the cellars.

The odds that an enemy could survive a direct assault were less than zero, yet the man with a thin rat-like face knew that every one of his confederate's hearts was as full of cold dread as his own was.

For a dozen minutes only silence hung between them,

locked behind the door at the other end of the narrow passageway

were three men bound hand and foot.

The gunmen did not know who they were

or why the masked do-goers should be concerned with their fate,

but he knew that was part of Aege Shah's plan.

Ten men, waiting in one place the Red Pander was certain to come.

It was nuts.

I don't like this, he said at last.

There was no reply from the other men, but several of them exchanged glances.

He wasn't the only one.

Encouraged, he spoke up again.

Look at us. Crammed in here like sardines. And for what? He said, lighting a cigarette with a long,

wooden match. Quiet, dummy. You want the man in the mask to hear you? A voice in the rear piped up.

Ratface shook his head. You're not hiding, stupid. You're standing in the one place in this whole blasted city where the Red Pant is sure to come.

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