ACT 3 Well, he'd got the Bentley going. That was all very well and proper but now where the hell was he supposed to drive to? Steed's apartment didn't exist except on a sound stage...where did he live anyway....3 Stable Mews he seemed to remember....they had written it out once in the show's 'Bible'...and he'd better be able to find it or else Mrs. Peel would begin to think that he was an impostor after all. As he drove, Patrick began to give serious thought to the fact that he was going insane. For he seemed to know exactly where he was going - what turns to take, even downshifting in advance of the turns as if knowing when they were coming up. But more than that, what was he to do. In the script, he and Emma Peel drove up to his apartment, where they were spotted by bad Basil and arrested by Tulip and brought to Major Bs office, thus leaving the field free for bad Basil and lethal Lola to kill about thirteen men in cold blood. Surely if he used a bit more circumspection in approaching the house they could get in, catch the villains by surprise, and end it before any of that massacre took place. But what if that was the wrong thing to do? What if he had to play this entire script out, do everything just like it was in the script so that at the end of it he'd regain his mind? That was probably the more likely scenario. He hoped. But what if he was wrong? What if they did everything as had happened in the script? This time it wasn't a stuntman doing his work for him, or even a real trained agent doing the work. It was him. An actor. Whew. An actor playing the role of his life. Patrick swallowed hard. He wished he could stop the Bentley so that he could throw up, but instead kept on driving to the rear of the building which he somehow knew housed his apartment. He pulled on the emergency brake. Facing Emma, knowing that eyes above were looking at them, he said, "They could be at my place.'' "How will you find out?'' she asked. What a silly question that was. Who'd written that inane line? "Soon check up. There's a callbox round the corner.'' Patrick got out of the Bentley, trotted round the corner, and lo and behold there was a call box. He fished some coins out of his pocket and shoved them into the slot. Now, what was his phone number? Slowly he closed his eyes and lowered his head against the call-box wall..once, twice....the numbers popped into his head and he dialed them. He let the phone ring several times. When he returned to the Bentley Mrs. Peel had gotten out and was looking up and down the street. ''No answer,'' he told her. ''Let's go in.'' The back door to the building was locked, and he had no key of course, but he punched in the security code which let them in. He could feel Mrs. Peel relax still more beside him - only he....that was to say, John Steed, would know that security code. They took the stairs up to the fifth floor, slowly. Patrick opened the door, peered out. My, my, and his apartment occupied this entire floor? He went to the door of his apartment and cocked his head. What was he listening for, he wondered? He could hear nothing. Feeling like a traitor, he told Mrs. Peel, "All clear." He reached up to press the button on the top of the door, and it swung open. Feeling like even more of a traitor, he gestured for Emma to enter. What if this is where the script changed? What if they had already decided to take up permanent residence and started firing on sight? But they came in quietly, all the way into the apartment, and just as quietly bad Basil and lethal Lola came up behind them. Basil was holding a gun. "We have trespassers.'' he said coldly. ''Burglars.'' agreed the woman in Mrs. Peel's body. ''And its the Englishman's inviolable right to defend his home.'' Patrick forced himself to speak steadily. ''You know, you won't use that.'' ''Oh?'' said Basil with exaggerated surprise. ''And fill yourself full of holes?'' Before Basil could answer Tulip kicked in the door. Why did he have to kick it down, some small part of Patrick's psyche wanted to know. But Tulip entered followed by four men in white trenchcoats. "All right, get them.'' barked Tulip, gesturing towards the unfamiliar agents. ''You all right, Steed." Patrick started to answer automatically, "Well, I'm...'' but stopped when Basil shot him a dirty look. "I'm fine.'' said Basil, glaring at Patrick. Then he turned back to Tulip. '' Thanks.'' ''We'll take care of them.'' assured Tulip. Mrs. Peel, ever poised, lifted up her arm, and Patrick followed suit. He flinched only slightly as the cold metal of the handcuff ratcheted around his wrist. Oh, for quick cuts in real life, Patrick thought to himself as he and Mrs. Peel were driven toward HQ. This interminable waiting in the car as they drove along, stared at with impassive faces by four men wearing trench coats, it was enough to drive him mad if he weren't mad already. And it would make horrible viewing for the watchers at home. Would they be watching this scene, he wondered? Or would they get impatient and start changing channels? The car ride finished, they were brought up in an elevator to the office of Major B, and shoved down onto a rather comfortable white leather sofa. Major B entered. He stared at them. Oh, for quick cuts, Patrick yearned again. None of this dialog had been written....what was he supposed to say? Well, he'd sit quiet. Mrs. Peel was the professional - let her deal with him! ''What are your names?'' Major B asked. Patrick blinked. ''John Steed.'' ''Emma Peel.'' Major B barked with laughter. ''What the hell are you playing at?'' ''It's really us, Major,'' said Emma Peel. ''The Russians.....it must have been the Russians - have perfected a thought transfer device. They've used it on us. Swapped our psyches. Ask us any questions you like - we can prove who we are.'' "For the last time, what are your names? The truth, now.'' Patrick rubbed his cheek. ''John Steed.'' Emma responded in her own imitable style. God Patricia had Diana's shtick down well. Except...it wasn't a shtick. ''Mrs. Peel. Emma Peel.'' ''Sir, madam.�� Major B seemed to have reached the end of his patience very quickly. ��As enemy agents I respect your reticence in disclosing your identities. But what can be the purpose of this ridiculous charade? Oh, come along now, be reasonable. All this nonsense about swapping psyches, really. I know Steed. Played cricket with him, at Lords.'' ''The last match, you dropped two easy catches.'' Patrick pointed out. Major B looked disconcerted. What a good actor Campbeill Singer was. ''Well, you've got it all at your fingertips. Every minute detail. And I expect you, madam, could tell me the name of my barber.'' ''I might, except you're wearing a toupee. Campbell flushed and brought a hand up to his head very briefly. ''Yes, they've got you briefed, haven't they? Very well briefed. What a cunning lot you are. Well, it won't help you. I'm head of intelligence. Do you take me for a perfect idiot?'' ''No one's perfect.'' Patrick had to bite his lip. God, Patricia had Diana's delivery spot on. Or the real Emma Peel had Diana's delivery spot on. Or something. Major B pressed a button on his desk, and then walked toward the door. Tulip opened it briskly. ''Major.'' ''We'll talk outside.'' said Major B, and the two men exited the room. Patrick sighed. ''One thing is certain. They don't believe us.'' Still less would anyone believe that he wasn't Basil or John Steed but just a poor unfortunate actor who apparently was having a nervous breakdown. Patrick got up, pulling Emma with him. ''Well, let's be fair.'' Emma said, fairly. ''Would you?'' ''Well, unless we can get rid of these, and quick,'' and he held up their handcuffed arms, ''our floral network will end as a barren garden.'' He used to have a solid gold toothpick. At least Steed had had one. What episode had that been in? Not that that would do any good. In the script it had worked but in real life solid gold was too soft and a toothpick would bend like butter. Patrick followed as Emma led the way to the windows and they looked down at the streets below. ''No other way out.'' Emma said. But Freddie and Patricia had escaped, Patrick remembered. How had they done it? Oh, of course. ''I know, this might help.'' Patrick said. He hurried to B's desk and pressed a button and a drawer slid open. So much nicer than the recalcitrant prop in the real desk on the set. Patrick picked up the gun and twirled it...and to his surprise twirled it expertly. ''Standard equipment.'' he told Emma. ''For an emergency.'' ''And this is definitely an emergency.'' The door suddenly opened and Major B, foolish man, stood half inside the door looking out at Tulip. ''Alright Tulip, the moment you hear from Poppy let me know.'' Emma and Patrick hurried up behind him as he closed the door and turned to see the white leather couch empty of its occupants. Before he could react Patrick had hit him over the head with the butt of the gun. Patrick stared down at his victim, appalled. He hadn't killed the poor man, had he? But Emma had no such qualms and had already pulled him down and began hunting for the key in Major B's coat pocket. Soon they had themselves unlocked and were walking calmly through the deserted corridors of Headquarters, into the lift and down to the ground floor. Once out on the street Mrs. Peel calmly hailed a taxi and gave the driver his address. As the taxi driver drove towards 3 Stable Mews in the unsettling way of cabbies everywhere, Patrick closed his eyes and tried to get a grip. But all he could see were images of him and Diana, playing the scenes that had been written for them. Not the killing scenes but the love scenes....the kisses....the fondling....the other scenes that the audience were supposed to have believed were going on in the bedroom and probably were in this strange reality. Scenes that he had been looking forward to all week and which he was not getting to enjoy. Patrick raised a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose and could not subdue a soft moan of anguish. ''Steed,'' asked Emma, concernedly. ''Are you alright?'' Patrick turned to look at her. Even staring out of Patricia Haines' face he saw the concern of Diana...of Emma Peel. He forced a smile. ''Of course.'' I wonder, Patrick thought as he sat back, his shoulder warm against hers, their knees but a couple of inches apart, what Steed and Mrs. Peel's relationship is really like? Does it follow the plot of all of our stories.... ''We're here.'' Emma interrupted his musings. Patrick paid the driver and then they headed round to the back of the building, and in very carefully, very quietly, through the back door of his apartment. He knew what he was going to find, of course, and he knew the reaction Freddie was supposed to give. He walked in and plucked the horrid striped towel off the bar and looked at it...moved further into the room and saw real bottles of wine nestling together on one of his overstuffed chairs. Incredibly, he felt actual anger at the mess the two impostor agents had made of his pristine home. ''Been having a ball.'' said Emma behind him. Patrick moved over to the chair and picked up one of the bottles. ''The last of my '47. And not even chilled.'' He tossed the bottle back on the chair. ''Now Steed, don't get irate.'' ''Irate?!'' Patrick turned to her, and surprisingly he felt irate. His eye caught the prop box of cigars and he moved over to them and the ashtray beside it. ''My cigars. Been smoking my cigars! And he's bitten...bitten the end off.'' He held out one of the stubs to Emma. ''Bitten.'' Emma was having a hard time containing her amusement, and Patrick thought that that was a joy to see. Even coming out of the wrong face it was a joy to see. ''Now, calm down.'' she told him soothingly. ''What ...what sort of a fiend are we dealing with?'' Patrick asked her. ''The man who would bite the end off a cigar is capable of anything.'' Oh, and then there was that other comedy relief. Best go through with it. He brushed past her, saying, ''My best bowler's still here. That's one thing.'' He brushed off the bowler, placed it on his head, and tapped it. It slipped down over his eyes. He heard a soft giggle from Emma. Feigning irritation, Patrick stalked away. Emma moved over to the side of the room, and saw a small metal container half full of flowers. She picked it up and turned towards him, her face ashen. ''Steed.'' Patrick had gone toward his utility room, and he had seen what was in there, and when he turned to look at Mrs. Peel his face was just as ashen as hers and he felt sick to his stomach. How many dead men were in there? Dead men - not actors playing corpses but real, dead men. Men whose last sight had been of a man and woman they'd trusted implicitly pointing a gun at them. He had to swallow down the bile in his throat. His voice was very tight as he said, "I know.'' and nodded toward the carnage. This was his fault. Their deaths were on his head. He should have done something about this earlier - caught Basil and Lola earlier, driven them out to Krelmar's house and ended this lunacy once and for all. But it hadn't been in the script...but then, he'd never really followed the script, did he? Ad libbing all the time, playing off Diana....and producers - they never followed scripts - if they did Hamlet would always be fat, the fat prince of Denmark....but...the show must go on. "They've got half the network.'' Patrick choked. ''Call the major," Emma said decisvely. Patrick swallowed down more bile. ''Useless, he knows my voice. He wouldn't believe...me.'' ''Then we've got to locate Krelmar.'' ''And ourselves.'' Patrick added. ''I've a shrewd idea where 'they' are.'' Emma commented. She picked up the phone and dialed. It rang twice, and then over the receiver Patrick thrilled to hear Diana's voice as she said, ''Emma Peel.'' "It's me." Emma whispered at him. Patrick knew that. He could hear Diana's voice, with the common accent of Lola saying, ''Hello. Hullooo?'' and then she hung up. Emma stared at the flowers in the silver arranging bowl. ''Who is next on their list?'' How in hell was he supposed to know that? Was there some kind of arcane herbological lore he was supposed to know at this point? But he said, ''I'd say, Bluebell.'' ''Can you reach him?'' ''I doubt if he'll listen, but I can try.'' Patrick took up the phone. He had no idea what number to dial, and no thoughts came to him. He dialed his own number, the number of his flat, and it rang busily. Suddenly he thought in horror...what if someone who calls himself Patrick Macnee answers the phone? What if he sounds exactly like me. I�ll go screaming up the walls. Fortunately, the phone rang and rang. ''No reply.'' He put the phone down and said, ''We'd better head for your apartment. Come on.'' He held the front door open for her and Mrs. Peel went out into the corridor and stopped dead, and Patrick stopped beside her. Tulip was standing in the hallway. How could he have forgotten that Tulip would be there? ''Tulip, old plant,'' he said, feebly. And Tulip started reaching for a gun and Patrick remembered that now Tulip had orders to shoot to kill. Acting faster than he would have believed possible Patrick grabbed Mrs. Peel and flung her back into the safety of the apartment, locking the door behind him. Mrs. Peel rebounded off the strategically placed chair in front of the door and looked at Patrick with an expression of unspoken thanks on her face. ''Slight misunderstanding.'' he told her. ''Come on!'' As they ran out the back way, they heard shots - Tulip shooting out the lock on the door. They jolted to a halt as they found that someone had locked the security door that led to the outside. It was not Patrick but Emma who automatically raised her foot and kicked the door open. They rounded the corner of the building and incredibly Tulip was behind them. They clambered into the Bentley and roared off and Emma told Patrick that Tulip had climbed in to his car and was gaining fast. Once again Patrick seemed to know, subconsciously, what he was doing. And the beautiful old Bentley that never had to do more than roll into and out of shots was purring like a muted lion and rocketing down the road like nobody�s business. Patrick put the pedal to the medal and turned down road after road, with Tulip�s car getting increasingly far behind. Until finally he turned off into a culvert and Tulip�s car roared past without hesitation. Although they hadn�t been doing anything more than riding in the car, both Patrick and Emma let out their breaths and felt as if they�d been running a marathon. ''Lost him.'' Emma commented. Go to Who's Who 4

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