The Trail of Fear (13 page)

“Come back into the hall,” he whispered at last and in the darkness they began to move back. Keeping strict silence, Rezaire let Sam lead. Halfway he himself stopped and noiselessly returned to the kitchen. Working swiftly, before Sam should discover his absence, he opened the window and began to haul up the lift. It worked very easily, there being a counterweight, but every now and then the pulley above squeaked loudly, echoing in the darkness between the high walls of the block of flats.

He pulled downward on one cable, while the other with the lift slowly moved up. It seemed ages before he could make out the lift, a darker mass just below the window-sill. He had just made it fast, when he heard a noise behind him. Sam had returned. Quick as thought he whipped away from the window into the shadow, moving swiftly and silently round till he stood close to the dark form at the door. Sam had paused without a sound on the threshold, and was peering in evidently hoping to catch him. He had only been just in time, he thought, as he formulated a story in his mind which would deceive his companion.

“Hallo, Sam,” he whispered easily at last. “Did you hear…”

There was a sudden startled exclamation and then the light was switched on. Facing him at only a few feet was the surprised face of the valet.

CHAPTER XVIII

EXIT SAM

Rezaire had barely time to realize that the valet, awakened by some sound, had arrived to take a hand in the game, when the light was switched off again, and a loud shout of “Police” echoed through the silence of the flat. At the same time the newcomer, fear dispelled by the presence of a tangible foe and evidently reassured by the fact that he was not a big one, grappled him with vigor. They swayed this way and that for a moment, then Rezaire's leg was hooked from under him and he was swung off his feet. The next moment they had fallen heavily through the kitchen doorway and were struggling on the floor of the passage outside.

In a very few minutes Rezaire realized that his opponent was much stronger than he was. His arms had been pinioned to his side in the first onslaught; now, however, the grip slackened and then abruptly changed. Two hands gripped his throat; two thumbs began to squeeze his windpipe. He threw his own up and pulled at them with all his force, but the man was too powerful for him. It was like pulling at an iron clamp. The cruel thumbs pressed into his throat, and stars began to swim in front of his eyes. A sickly tickling sensation settled in his gorge; the blood started to throb in his ears and behind his eyeballs. He realized in a sudden flash that this was more serious than a mere struggle. He was being choked to death. The mad fear of physical pain and death that was the guiding influence in his life settled on him. He thought wildly for a moment of Viv, wished he had behaved better to her. He tore ferociously at the fingers that were choking him; but without avail. The revolver that was in his pocket he could not get at, for it was right underneath his body.

Relentlessly the thumbs constricted his throat, squeezing the very life out of his body. In an excess of terror he kicked out at his opponent, at anything. Something crashed heavily at his side and broke to pieces. Surging in his ears came the reiterated shouting of the valet for the police and a loud hammering on the door of the flat.

Then someone fell heavily over both of them. It was Sam at last, come to his help. For a moment or two the three of them struggled together, then suddenly disintegrated. The cruel hands were gone from his windpipe and he took several gasping breaths, while his head swam madly in a whirl of sickness. At his side he heard Sam's voice: “Quick! Quick! Stop his opening the door to them.”

Then Sam was off and he heard him stumbling in pursuit.

He got unsteadily to hands and knees. The flat was full of noise, the valet's shouts, Sam's curses, the hammering on the door. There was still a loud drumming in his ears, a retching in his gorge. He crawled weakly into the kitchen and collapsed, thoroughly frightened, sick with fear and pain, feeling half dead. Out in the hall he could hear the sounds of Sam and the valet fighting, the one to open the front door, the other to prevent him. Everything seemed to him at the moment unreal, something which did not really interest or concern him.

There came a crash of glass outside, then a bang, and the voices of the police suddenly closer. A sharp cry followed, then two shots, and the sound of running feet. The next moment someone had rushed into the kitchen.

A door banged; a key turned in the lock. The light was switched on revealing Sam, disheveled and bleeding again from his old cut, standing to one side of the locked kitchen door. One hand was on the light switch; the other held a revolver.

Looking round Sam saw Rezaire.

“Oh, there you are,” he snapped in hurried sentences. “Why didn't you come and help me? Stand clear of the door in case they fire through it. I've done your friend in for you, but not till after he'd let them in. They'll shoot me on sight—if they get a chance.”

Rezaire did not move, but with closed eyes sat tenderly fingering his throat, and Sam picked him up and dumped him in a corner, still only semiconscious. A paper had fallen from a pocket torn in the struggle and Sam unobserved picked it up. For a moment he held it in his hand; then he smiled, for he recognized what it was. It was the all-important letter, the secret of Rezaire's launch, and of his way of escape. Hurriedly he slipped it out of the envelope and took possession of it, a grin of triumph on his lips; then with a flash of cunning he returned the empty envelope to Rezaire's pocket while he still sprawled in the corner in dazed fashion. The next moment a voice was heard outside telling them that they were caught and might as well give themselves up, and a heavy battering began on the door of the kitchen.

“Hell!” muttered Sam. “What'll we do now?” He waited a moment and then fired suddenly through the door. There was a shout outside and the hammering stopped for a few moments. An answering shot crashed in and through the room, shattering a plate on the dresser. Sam, sheltered by the wall, laughed aloud. Rezaire, still cowering in his corner, stared at him in amazement tinged with repulsion. Sam, face streaming with blood, revolver in hand, actually seemed to be enjoying this. He looked at that moment every inch a fighter. He appeared capable almost of fighting his way out single-handed.

The hammering at the door recommenced and continued despite Sam's shots. Evidently they were working at it sideways from cover. Judging by the splintering sound also they were using some sort of axe or chopper.

“Come on,” said Sam suddenly to Rezaire. “Get your gun and join in. This is our last stand. We can't get out, so we'll have to make a good end. I'm—if I let them take me off to jug and the rope. Don't know that I shan't jump out of the window.” He looked across the room in that direction.

Rezaire, slowly pulling himself together, went quite white at the last words. He must keep Sam away from the window. If Sam saw that lift waiting ready just below the sill, he would take it and Rezaire would not have a look in. Sam would have a chance of getting away and he would be left, whereas he intended that it should be the other way round.

“Wonder if it's a big drop,” mused Sam.

“Look out!” warned Rezaire quickly to distract his attention. “There's a panel giving.”

Sam, waiting, revolver in hand for the first sign of their adversaries, let the matter of the window slide and watched the door.

Rezaire got to his feet in the corner and licking his dry lips nerved himself for what he knew he must do. He must make a rush for the lift without letting Sam see. He dared not try and hold Sam up, for Sam was dangerous. He knew that he would be shot like a dog if he were caught in his attempted treachery.

One side of his brain kept saying: “Now! Now, before it is too late!”; the other: “Wait! Wait, till it is certain he will be captured.” He dared not risk Sam's escaping, impossible as that event now seemed. He dared not risk the chance of Sam's vengeance. And Sam was capable enough and brave enough in his way to escape in spite of the terrible odds. He crouched there, torn between fear of Sam and fear of the bullets, an abject figure, very different from the cool resourceful leader and shaper of plans of a few hours before.

With a sudden crash a panel fell inward and Sam's revolver came to the ready. But the police were cautious. Nothing showed. Instead, the onslaught was shifted to another panel.

“Come on,” snarled Sam to Rezaire. “Get your gun out. You've got to fight for it. Your brain's no good now.”

Trembling with fear, Rezaire produced his revolver. His brain, that Sam now despised, was busy even at that moment with schemes for outwitting him. A new thought flashed into his mind. Dared he shoot Sam suddenly before he made his dash? It would be safest. Almost immediately he recoiled at the thought. He was not brave enough; he had not yet shot a man; and besides he might miss and then Sam's wild vengeful fury…

Then three things suddenly happened at once. Another panel fell inward with a crash, Sam threw his revolver up and fired twice, and Rezaire, nerving himself up to the pitch of action, ran for the open window.

Half across the sill he saw Sam turn suddenly, heard his exclamation: “You blasted little rat! By God, I'll get you for this!” He saw the little round mouth of Sam's revolver jump up to cover him, saw it disappear in a little red spurt, felt a bullet whistle past his ear.

With a sharp cry of absolute terror, he flung the revolver he was clutching straight at Sam's face, working with maniacal fury, and leaped from the sill on to the outside lift, flinging his arms, as he did so, round the other cable. The weapon, wildly flung, missed Sam, and struck the electric light globe. There was a sharp report and the place was flung into sudden darkness, on the background of which another spurt of red flame from Sam's gun again stood out for an instant as the lift suddenly began to descend.

Crouched on the lift, Rezaire plunged downward at an increasing speed; and the dark room with its echoing report of revolvers, its smell of powder, and, above all, Sam's face, the eyes blazing hatred and vengeance, suddenly seemed miles away. Sick with terror, he was yet conscious enough to tighten the grasp of his arm round the upward flying cable, and heard the whirr of the pulley far above drop to a slow creaking as his speed was reduced. The cable running between his arm and chest began to burn like a rod of hot iron through his clothes, but he tightened his grip still further until he had his motion under control.

There was a slight bump, which shook him off the lift; then he found himself standing on earth once more. Around him the tall blocks of flats soared up to the night sky. Somewhere above, where the quivering pulley-ropes reached upward, he heard the sound of shots, and realized that Sam was still making a fight for it. Lights were snapping up in several windows round about.

He drew a deep breath. Incredible as it seemed he was out of it all. His life was no longer in danger; he was free at last of Sam, and if Sam was taken, as he assuredly must be, he need fear him no more. The last ten minutes began to seem to him like some impossible dream, and his old daring and resource, refreshed by the sleep he had had not so long ago, began to come back to him.

He shook himself, and adjusting his clothing, began quickly to move away. As he did so, he heard the sound of footsteps, and shrank suddenly into the dark shadow. Two figures came up, passing close by him—policemen. They stood for a moment a few paces away looking up at the window. As he had anticipated, the flats had been surrounded, but this he did not mind, for he was not cornered now; he had all the deserted streets of night London before him.

He edged along the shadow till he found the entrance to the courtyard, where he slipped out. But as luck would have it, just as he rounded the corner, one of the policemen turned and saw his furtive movements under the light of a street lamp.

There was a shout, a whistle, and the next minute he was again running through the streets, though even as he ran, he thanked his stars that this time he had not Sam with him.

He ran a few paces up the street and found himself in Jermyn Street once more, where he turned. With any luck he should be able to shake off his pursuers quite easily in the streets. There were only two or three policemen after him at most, for the rest and the detectives were up in the flat where Sam was making his stand.

A small paved alley way presented itself at his side, leading up northward past a church into Piccadilly. He took it and for a moment was out of sight. As they came into the place behind him he emerged into Piccadilly at the far end.

He ran straight across Piccadilly, looking neither to right nor left. The street stretched away on either side of him, deserted in his vicinity, save for two people returning from a dance, and a taxicab. In another moment he had plunged into a similar passage, called Piccadilly Place, on the far side and slightly to the left. Running to the end of this—it was only a short distance—he gave another swift glance backward and saw that he was again out of sight for the moment. He turned sharp to the right and stopped dead in amazement.

It was a cul-de-sac. He should have turned to the left. He turned about and then suddenly realized that he had already lost ground and that his best plan was now to hide in a doorway and let them go past. They had not seen him turn and emerging into this street, they would never think that he had taken the cul-de-sac end.

He went on a few paces, and concealed himself in a deep shadowed doorway, panting heavily. The sound of running drew nearer, came to the end of the passage, paused a moment, and then resumed to the left. They had not thought it worthwhile to look in the cul-de-sac. He peeped cautiously out. There were three of them. He realized suddenly that the street he was in was Vine Street and that exactly opposite him was the famous police station. He could not help chuckling at the fact that he had actually dodged them within a few yards of a police station. But he must be quick, for when they had traversed the other street and saw no sign of him, they might turn back.

He stepped out, intending to turn down Piccadilly Place once more while his pursuers were in Sackville Street.

But as he reached the corner he ran bang into a figure coming the opposite way—a figure in blue uniform—a policeman.

Both were surprised at the impact, but Rezaire, the quicker, realized two things. First, that this constable, from his manner and walk, did not know him, or even of him, being apparently one of the ordinary night duty men returning from his beat. Secondly, that, in spite of this, his suspicion had already been to a certain extent aroused by his strange behavior, which suspicion he must quell at once. In addition, he had not much time to do this, for the others might at any minute be back. A brilliant inspiration came to him in a flash, one after his own heart, which had been given birth by the strange and irrelevant picture, coming suddenly unbidden into his mind, of the young fool Challoner lying drunk on his bed.

With an air of portentous solemnity and unsteady gait Rezaire advanced a forefinger and poked the constable hard in the region of the middle button.

“Tag! You're it! Now you cash me, ol' fren,” he announced, and zigzagged back again across Vine Street.