Norman cast a glance at the exquisitely landscaped roof gardens atop the warehouse next door. The gap appeared wider than it had from the street. Furthermore, the top of the warehouse was much lower, a wall surrounding the garden having given it the appearance of being the same height as the slave barracks.
An ominous mutter like the sound of a disturbed hornet's nest ascended the stair well. Norman cast caution to the wind, sprinted across the flat roof, launched himself into space.
He cleared the top of the wall by inches, glanced downward. A man lay sunning himself directly beneath. The man had on trunks. He lay on his back and his dark sun glasses gave him a goggle-eyed appearance. He started to yell and sit up.
Norman landed with both feet in the pit of the man's stomach. There was an explosive ooof as Norman sprawled forward on the roof. Then the Duchess sailed over the wall, lit full on the sun-bather, tumbled head over heels, arms and legs flying.
Norman got to his hands and knees, surveyed their victim in consternation. The man was unconscious.
"I hope he's not dead."
"You better hope he is," said the Duchess, sitting up.
He felt the man's pulse. It throbbed feebly.
"What'll we do with him?"