There were ropes around Morland’s arms already, and the two men deftly rearranged them so that his arm were spread out along the fence and bound down by the wrists, his body bent slightly forwards to conform with the height. The headlamps of the station wagon, which had been left on, illuminated the scene. He twisted his head around and looked up at the Saint with a grey hopelessness that was incapable of even properly rendering surprise.
Simon was aware that Julius had left his side for a moment, but he was back now. He had a three-foot whip in his soft hands, running its supple length affectionately through his fingers.
“I’m not anxious to be too unkind to Miss Morland,” he said syrupily. “But it is necessary for Mr Morland to receive a little extra discipline. To be exact, his sentence is ten lashes. I am going to ask you to administer them.”
‘What the hell,” asked the Saint, involuntarily and incredulously, “do you think I am?”
Julius had so obviously been expecting such an answer that he scarcely paused for it. “There is, of course, an alternative,” he admitted. “Miss Morland herself may need some... er... psychological conditioning. I was hoping that this would be sufficient. But if you object, it can be applied to her direct. She can be brought out here, and stripped. And then she can be beaten by Neumann. Neumann is quite an expert — he was a guard in Dachau for a time. She would have to receive one hundred lashes: ten for every one which you refused to give her father. The choice is entirely up to you.”
Simon stared at him.
Julius held out the quirt.
“You mustn’t keep us waiting too long, Mr Templar.”
His voice was wheedling, succulent, with a kind of obscene eagerness in it.
Mechanically Simon took the whip. He looked at Julius, at the distant lighted window with the girl’s silhouette in it, at Don Morland. He had a sense of frightful unreality contending with inescapable belief, much as an intelligent savage might have had on first listening to a radio. It was impossible, but it could not be denied. Julius was absolutely capable of making good his threat. There was no answer to it. And the gun in Eberhardt’s hand prodded him in the back again.