The Trail of Fear (9 page)

They whizzed through the crossing, people scattering to right and left, and narrowly missed another collision with a private car. The chauffeur and the policeman on point duty both shouted at them to stop as they flashed past.

“He's taking the number,” chuckled Sam. “If that's all they can do, they have my permission to go right ahead.”

The traffic problem became more complicated as they sped on westward. Though the streets were not crowded, there were quite enough vehicles and pedestrians about to make fast driving really difficult, if not at times almost impossible. Rezaire saw that his only chance was to get as far ahead of his pursuers as possible. By so doing he was outdistancing the hue and cry, and would not be held up, since the various policemen on point duty he was passing did not realize that he was a fugitive from justice till after he had passed. Also, he was bound to be caught in a traffic block sooner or later and the more distance he could gain before then the better chance would they have of escaping in the crowd. The traffic became thicker as they approached Trafalgar Square, and they were forced to slow down. The taxi from behind, which Sam could pick out because of a policeman standing on the step, began to gain slightly.

“They're coming up a bit,” he said.

“How far are they?”

“A good way still… Curse! I believe some of them have got another car—a private one. Yes, there's a 'tec in it. They're coming up fast.”

In a few seconds a powerful two-seater car was at their heels, driven by a young man in an opera hat. At his side, door held open, ready to jump out, was, as Sam had said, two detectives, who had evidently commandeered the car from somewhere outside the Savoy. The car hung behind them a moment, then seizing its opportunity, dashed forward, overtook them, cut in, and applied all brakes just in front.

Rezaire's brain, however, had not been idle. He had guessed that, if overtaken, this would be the means adopted to bring them to a standstill. As the car cut in, he also applied both brakes and swung the wheel over to the right. Their near front mudguard scraped past the rear mudguard of the two-seater, and then they had shot across the road to the right even as the detectives sprang to the ground. Rezaire passed at a good speed just in front of a bus coming in the opposite direction, and shot up a side turning on the north side of the Strand. Before the detectives had time to look round, the Rover was out of the street going northward.

“Gee!” muttered Sam. “You certainly are a wonder. That was quick work.” He looked back over his shoulder. “They haven't even turned again yet… Ah! There comes the taxi! They're waving it up here.”

But Rezaire did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead. He was wondering what would be best to do when they had to abandon the car. For though he had turned aside from Trafalgar Square, all the crowded thoroughfares of St. Martin's Lane, and Charing Cross Road, lay ahead of him.

He swept on past St. Martin's Lane and managed to turn into Cranbourn Street without mishap just before the policeman's hand went up.

“Just through in time,” muttered Sam with satisfaction. “He's holding up the traffic now. There comes the taxi. Damn! Of course, they've got through on the nod…”

At that moment a bus in front of them signaled and slowed down rapidly. There was a block at the turn of Charing Cross Road. Rezaire applied his brakes, but they had been going too fast. At a considerable speed they charged into the end of the bus, buckling up the front of the car. A woman who was about to get out screamed and fainted. They saw the conductor for a brief instant, mouth open in angry remonstration. A man on the pavement shouted something indistinguishable as the Rover came to an abrupt standstill. They were caught at last.

Without hesitation they both leaped from the car and began to run. Some little way behind them the pursuing taxi drew up with a grinding of brakes and discharged its load of policemen and detectives.

CHAPTER IX

AT THE PICTURES

They were in the crowd and dodging in and out before anyone had quite realized what had happened. The natural instinct of the onlookers was to surge round the actual scene of the accident, so that Rezaire and Sam were ten yards away before anyone who had not definitely seen the crash connected them with it.

Then the ubiquitous small boy piped up: “There they go!” and another: “Wot they runnin' away for?” and in less than a minute two or three men were running after them and calling out to them to stop.

Rezaire ran on swiftly without looking behind him. He did not know whether Sam was with him and he did not really care. In fact he hoped he was not; for Sam with his conspicuous cut across his face which their pursuers must have seen, was now more of a handicap than ever. By now their description must have been flashed to every police station in London, but, while that of Sam would be fairly accurate, there was every chance that he himself was still described as James Robinson. It would really be very much to his advantage to lose touch with Sam now, and his mind reiterated his decision to get rid of him, if only he could do it in such a way that he would be safely caught and unable to execute his threats of vengeance. For that was the one big hitch to trying to get rid of Sam,—the chance that he might escape and come after him with his knife.

He swung round a corner almost knocking over a girl. Behind him he heard the clatter of hurried footsteps, but did not know whether it was Sam or his pursuers. He knocked into someone else. Despite the fact that the theaters had not emptied themselves yet, the street seemed very crowded. He was looking for some place where it would be darker and where he would have some chance of hiding and throwing his pursuers definitely off his track.

He reached another corner and as he turned it cast a swift glance behind him. The man close at his heels was Sam after all. Trust Sam to stick to him when he alone had the secret of their destination. About twenty yards further behind he glimpsed the short man with the square cut moustache leading the chase, and noticed with a shiver the bright gleam of a revolver in his hand. Even while his head was turned, a young man standing in the corner doorway of a tobacconist, quicker witted than the rest, put out a hand to grasp him. He dodged it easily and heard a sharp cry and the clatter of a stick as Sam following up hit out at their adversary.

He ran on down the street not quite knowing where he was. In that wild swerving rush amongst the crowds, he had rather lost his bearings. He knew that he must get away from the more crowded thoroughfares, for even without the hue and cry at his heels he realized that he and Sam must be very conspicuous without hats, and with hands and faces dirty and clothing torn from the scramble over the roofs, apart from the cut across Sam's face. Already a considerable number of people were following them, judging by the sound, though this must have been more of a hindrance to the police in keeping the quarry in sight than a help.

They ran to the next corner and stopped abruptly. Not looking where they were going they had run right into another part of the first street again. As they paused, already people were looking curiously at them. Behind them the chase was coming up. The situation was critical. As soon as those who were now regarding them with amused or interested eyes realized that they were escaping from justice, then capture would be a matter of seconds.

Rezaire twitched Sam suddenly by the sleeve and with as unconcerned an appearance as possible, so as to disarm the growing suspicion of the passers-by, walked straight into the entrance hall of a cinema which stood just round the corner.

“Here, where the hell…” began Sam, but Rezaire silenced him at once.

“It's our only chance,” he returned in a fierce undertone. “I know it's not good, but…”

With a furtive glance over his shoulder he went further into the shelter of the hall. He could still be seen from outside; for the place was brilliantly lighted. Would he have been observed to have gone in? Yes, almost certainly; they had been for a moment the center of attraction and people were still staring after them; still, there was just the chance that all those who had seen them enter would have passed on by the tune the police arrived.

The Commissionaire was at his elbow, his eyes on the cut on Sam's face, slightly dubious of their ability to buy a seat.

Rezaire made his mind up instantly, before the official could speak. Quickly he went to the box office and hearing again Sam's smothered protest as he did so, ordered two seats, paid for them without waiting for change, and the next moment was at the dark entrance to the theater itself, with Sam slinking at his heels. It was rather like walking into a trap, but it was the only possible thing to do that he could think of. As the curtains, held open by an attendant, dropped behind him, he heard the girl in the box office make some amused remark to the Commissionaire. He had staved off capture—but, he feared, only for a short while.

The roar of the hostile street outside was cut off, to be replaced by the notes of a piano and violins. He stood still for a moment in the friendly darkness and drew two or three deep breaths. The strain of trying to appear normal, when in reality his lungs were bursting for air after the chase through the streets, had been very great. The gloom of the cinema, lit vaguely at the exits by red lamps and by the flickering screen at the end, enveloped them in protecting fashion. Even Sam felt the sense of sudden change from danger to comparative though momentary safety, for he whispered nervously: “Seems a better idea than I thought. Do you think they'll find us in here?…”

“This way, please,” interrupted the attendant, flashing a torch at their tickets. “Follow me, please.”

“Couldn't say,” answered Rezaire as they stumbled along after her. “The ‘busy's' won't know we've gone in here, but the trouble is that someone may tell them. We were so blamed conspicuous without hats, and looking like a pair of scarecrows. But we can't do anything else now, and there's a chance we haven't been seen.”

Their seats were indicated, and they sank thankfully into them, every bone aching and sore. It was the first minute's rest they had had since Rezaire had led the way out of Carlyle's room. For several moments they reveled in the luxury that even a cinema seat could bring to strained and bruised limbs. Then Rezaire sat upright and looked round; finally he bent down and appeared to grope under the seat.

“What's up?” muttered Sam, but the other did not answer for a moment. At length he suddenly got to his feet, saying in an undertone that could be overheard by the people next them: “There are some better seats over there. Come along!”

Sam surprised, but obedient, got up and followed him out of the row again, across the gangway, and into two seats some distance away.

“What's the point?” asked Sam in astonishment. “Why did you change about—making yourself conspicuous like that?”

“We weren't conspicuous,” retorted Rezaire sharply. “They may have noticed us leave those seats, but I bet they didn't notice us come to these. The point is that now that girl who showed us to the seats doesn't know
where
we are.”

“I don't see what good that…”

“No, but perhaps you will,” snapped the other, exasperated at Sam's slow wit.

“Now look here,” began Sam in an angry whisper, but Rezaire not giving him a chance, cut in: “And instead of criticizing so much what I do, you might do something yourself. You might have thought of providing yourself with a hat, like I have.” He displayed a felt hat upon his knee. “And for Heaven's sake wipe that blood off your face.”

Sam stared at the hat in surprise, looked round for a moment as if he were about to make an angry reply, and then subsided, furtively mopping his face which was still bleeding. Rezaire, the leader by virtue of his brains, was on his own ground once more, and, as in the past five months, Sam had to follow his lead.

“Where did you get it?” he said meekly at last.

“Under the seat of the man next me when we were over there. You'd better get one from here. None of 'em'll notice.”

Then quickly he nudged Sam for silence. Already one or two people were looking round at the noise of their whispering and they sat very quiet for several minutes. Rezaire looked at the pictures on the screen and after a little while discovered with satisfaction that they were somewhere in the first half of a six reel picture, which meant that the show had still some time to run.

Then he began to consider his present situation. His next line of action depended a lot on the course that his opponents took and that in turn depended on whether they received reliable information, if any at all, as to their presence in the cinema, and also upon whether they were considered desperate criminals. Of course, Sam might not have hit anyone when he had fired, but he rather feared…

“Sam,” he whispered quietly, his head very close to the other's. “You fired when in the empty house, didn't you?”

Sam nodded.

“Hit anyone?”

“Two, I think; and I knifed one. I couldn't help it,” he added. “I shouldn't have got away at all. One of their bullets nearly got me too. And someone slashed my face.”

Rezaire sucked in his breath. “It's a hanging job then,” he said at last, “—for you.”

“Yes,” muttered Sam fiercely, “and I'll see that it stays one. I'm not going to be taken like a rabbit.”

Rezaire sat back in his chair. The old repulsion that he had for Sam swept over him. His terror was now pulling him two ways. His fear of being dragged into another fight with the police, of being even associated with Sam who was now a murderer, was urging him to give him the slip; his fear of what Sam would do to him, if he did betray him, impelled him the other way. Unless, again the thought insinuated itself into his brain, unless he could betray him in such fashion that he could not escape at all, could not exact the vengeance he had sworn. He turned the matter over and over in his brain. It was typical of his self-reliance and confidence in his own wits that, despite the present position, he still envisaged ultimate escape for himself, if only he could rid himself of his companion.

As he weighed the pros and cons of the affair, his mind, always on the
qui vive
, became aware of a slight disturbance at the back of the theater. People in front of him were looking back over their shoulder. He touched Sam to attract his attention and warily looked round.

At the curtained entrance by which they had come, framed against the lighted hall outside, he saw a policeman in uniform and a plain-clothes man with him. One was peering into the darkness, the other was talking to the attendant and evidently asking questions. They had found out. Further behind still, Rezaire saw the short man with the square-cut moustache. The light fell upon his face, and it was set and stern. No wonder, too, if Sam had killed one of the policemen. He wondered whether they would say what they had come for; whether they would stop the performance.

He turned his head slowly back to the screen.

Sam was whispering to him, almost breathing the words in his ears, so anxious was he to avoid being overheard.

“Cops are at the front. Why not step out at one of those exits down there by the orchestra?”

Rezaire nodded. He felt he ought to have thought of it before. He should have done that, the moment he came into the cinema. They could have slipped out while the police were at the front. Then he remembered that the reason he had not carried this plan out at the time was that he was at the back of his mind hoping against hope that the police would not find out they were inside, and that it would have been foolish to reappear conspicuously in the street within a minute of their disappearance. A futile hope he saw now, with all those people about outside to tell them where they had gone. He and Sam hatless and disheveled, running round a corner, breaking into a sudden walk and diving into a picture palace, could not have appeared anything but unusual.

He half rose in his chair, looking toward the exit which Sam had pointed out. If they got up and went quickly now while the police were still at the entrance hall, they could do it. Then he sank back suddenly into his seat once more. He realized that the police were not quite such fools as he was going to take them for.

At the very moment he had looked toward the exit, two girls had been going out. Beyond them, as they drew the curtain aside, under the rays of the red exit lamp, he caught a glimpse of another obviously waiting figure. He had been stupid to think that the detectives, knowing that the men they were after had gone into the cinema, would come in by one entrance only, without immediately posting men at the others.

Sam had also seen the man and was sitting back in his seat. Despite the darkness, they both felt that the eyes of the detectives stationed at the different exits were upon them.

A rustle spread slowly over the audience. Its attention was gradually being distracted from the screen. Something was on foot. Heads were turned and inquiring whispers arose. The center of interest appeared to be somewhere just behind and to the right.

Sunk in the comparative security of their seats Sam and Rezaire turned their heads slightly and peered out of the corners of their eyes. Down the gangway along which they had just been conducted, a little procession was coming, headed by the attendant with the electric torch. The rest was made up by a policeman in uniform and two plain-clothes men. The girl when questioned had obviously remembered Sam and Rezaire and was now leading the police toward the seats into which she had shown them.

The excitement round about grew greater. All the rear part of the audience was now watching the uniformed figures. This was a thrill equal, if not superior, to those depicted on the screen. The murmur of excited whispering rose almost above the noise of the small orchestra down at the lower end. Questions were passed from row to row. Those at the end nearest the gangway, where the invading newcomers were, leaped almost at once into the light of publicity. They were the favored ones; they were of the inner circle, so close that they might almost ask the policeman what he was after. One of them in fact did, a little man with spectacles that glinted in the half light, but apparently received no answer. The police were taking no chances, were not going to let their attention be distracted when they were dealing with armed and desperate criminals, even in a crowded cinema. Under cover of the general perturbation Rezaire could not help whispering to Sam: “Do you see now why I changed seats? No one knows where we are now, and that attendant only remembers where she originally showed us.”