Steven spent the night with Conan. At half-past six, the two friends came out of the house and got into Callan's father's car. Conan put on a long raincoat before that and slid a wide brimmed hat on his eyes. Steven was dressed in sweatpants and a leather jacket, with a knitted hat on his head. In the dark, both could easily be held up as adult men. Steven opened the gate and unlocked the car door. Conan stepped in and sat back comfortably in his seat.
"A gangster," one of the observers drawled contemptuously. "Doesn't matter, today he's going to sit in a different place for us than his mind imagines now."
"It wouldn't be wise to leave him alive," the other objected. "He can buy a good lawyer and get out. We won't get any prises about it, but if we get them, we'll get an extra bonus."
"You're right," the former agreed. "So we don't use the phone."
"We don't."
"Okay, I'll let the other team know."
Steven drove the car through the gate. Both cars followed them.
"Where to now?" Conan's driver inquired. "And what are you going to do at all?"
"To the lake. Then we'll see."
Steven drove out of the big city and cut into a forest road. Both cars, hiding rather clumsily, followed them.
"Stop!" Conan commanded as they approached the lake. "Lean over the steering wheel and play dead."
"But you?"
"I'll deal with them. Trust me."
Steven obediently slumped over the steering wheel, artfully placed his flabby arms and unnaturally bent his shoulders. Conan hid behind some wider tree. The pursuers drove by. All four got out, pulled out their weapons, and rushed to the car with the apparent corpse. Two of them were caught almost simultaneously by knives thrown by Conan, right in the free space between the bottom edge of the hat and the collar of the coat. The other two groaned, staggered toward the side from which the murderous weapons were fired, saw traces in the snow, and, holding the pistols in firing readiness, cautiously moved towards Conan's hiding place.
"Should be besieged," one suggested.
They approached the tree each on their own side. When they were almost there, Conan, performing one of the most famous methods of fighting the McLaughlins, made a stumble, using a stiletto and a sword at the same time. The victims fall into the snow without a sound. Conan wiped the weapons in the coats of the killed enemies and placed the arms in their scabbards.
Steven jumped out of the car in fear. "You killed them! Oh, God, they're dead!" he cried horrified. "What have you done, Callan!"
"I don't understand what you're worried about, of course I couldn't leave them alive, then they would have killed us." Conan dragged the two corpses closer to the lake as he spoke.
"Go, better, cut the ice-hole. I'm going to find some bigger rocks, then we've got to burn the cars and we'll be able to drive home, I'm starting to get cold."
When they returned, a radiant Ms Alder came forward, resting on the broker's elbow. "Everything is alright, Callan," she smiled at Conan. "Only I got to pay a thousand for deceiving the police and so on."
"Then other times try not to be deceiving," the broker suggested and pinched the lady in the butt. She giggled and the happy couple went away.
"Steven needs a drink," Conan declared as soon as he had crossed the threshold.
"Oh, God!" murmured poor Steven, leaning flabby on Conan's shoulder.
"Is it done?" Callan's father asked worriedly.