He was bad all right, he thought. He remembered the last time he had been shot. It had been nothing to this. This time he was cooked. He must have bled like a pig. The great strength he had always relied on to see him through in a jam had deserted him: he couldn’t have pul ed the wings off a fly.
More cars squealed to a standstill; sirens died down, car doors opened and slammed. A murmur of voices came up from the street.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked. His voice was so weak he didn’t recognise it. It was almost as if some other person had spoken.
‘They’re searching the houses,’ she said, not moving from the window. ‘They are split ing into groups of five, and each group is taking a house.’
Baird snarled into the darkness.
‘Where’s my gun? Where’ve you put it?’
‘It’s on the bed by your side.’ She didn’t look in his direction, but continued to stare down into the street, as if what she saw there held her with an irresistible fascination.
Feverishly he groped over the crumpled coverlet. His fingers closed round the butt of the Colt. He managed to lift it, but the effort made him pant.
‘You’d better get out,’ he said. ‘Go and tel them I’m here if you want to. They won’t get me alive.’
This time she turned her head and looked in his direction, although he knew she couldn’t see him in the dark.
‘They may not come here,’ she said. ‘If they do, I can tel them I haven’t seen you. They wouldn’t force their way in here, would they?’
For a moment he couldn’t believe he had heard aright.
‘Of course they would. They won’t take your word. Besides, I left blood in the passage. They’l find that.’
‘I’ve cleaned it up,’ she said simply. ‘It didn’t take long.’
Again he had a feeling he was dreaming this, and he peered at her, trying to see through the darkness.
‘You cleaned it up?’ His voice revealed his suspicious surprise. ‘Why? What’s your game? Don’t you know you’l get into trouble if they find out?’
‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘I was sorry for you.’
He bit down on his lower lip. No one had ever said that to him before. Sorry for him! He didn’t like that. He didn’t want her damned pity!
‘You’d better get out,’ he said furiously. ‘There’l be shooting.’
She turned back to the window.
‘They may not come,’ she said.
Cautiously, Baird touched his wounded side. He wondered if he was still bleeding. His fingers moved over a wad, bound tightly against his side. He realised she must have taken off his coat and shirt. He touched the pad wonderingly.
‘Did you stop the bleeding?’ he asked.
‘Yes. You’d better not talk. You may be heard. The wal s are very thin.’
‘Is it bad?’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘It feels bad.’
‘It’s bad enough, but the bleeding’s stopped. You mustn’t move. It may start again.’
‘What are they doing now?’ he asked after a long pause.
The street was suspiciously silent.
‘They’re standing about,’ she said, watching intently. ‘One of them is looking up here. They seem to be waiting for something. Some of them have machine-guns.’
Baird grinned savagely. He remembered Chuck Fowler, who had been trapped in a house. He had been one of the crowd that time, watching the fun. He had seen the police shooting it out with Chuck. He remembered how they had sprayed the front of the house with their Thompsons. The stream of lead had smashed windows, broken window-frames, brought down plaster. It had been hell while it lasted. Then they had tossed in their tear-gas bombs and had gone in, shooting like madmen the whole time; wrecking the house, smashing down the front door, shooting their way up the stairs; and Chuck had been dead long before the final assault.
‘You’d better get out,’ Baird said. ‘I know what’s coming. They’l cut this room to ribbons.’
‘There’s nowhere for me to go,’ she began, then stopped, and he saw her stiffen, her hands going once more to her breasts.
‘What is it?’ he asked, knowing at once what it was.
‘I think they’re coming now,’ she said breathlessly.
Again he made the effort and raised himself on his elbow. This time he succeeded in getting both feet to the floor.
‘Help me up,’ he gasped. ‘I don’t stand a chance on the bed.’
‘You must stay there,’ she said, turning. ‘You must. You’l start the bleeding again.’
‘Help me up!’ he snarled. ‘Goddamn it! Do you want me to shoot you?’
She came over to him.
‘They’l hear you,’ she warned. ‘You must keep your voice down.’
He caught hold of her shoulder. His fingers felt the thinness of her. Her skin was tight over the bones.
He pulled himself upright and leaned heavily on her. He felt her wilt under his weight. She was only a tiny thing, he thought. Her head was just above his shoulder.
‘Get me against the wall near the door,’ he panted, ‘and then get out.’
A violent hammering sounded on the street door. A voice bawled, ‘Come on, open up!’
Baird felt a little trickle of sweat run down his face. Five minutes: no longer. Well, upright and on his feet, he wouldn’t go alone.
She helped him across the room and against the wall. The Colt hung heavily from his hand, too heavy to raise. He set his shoulders against the wall. The pain in his side made his breath hiss through his clenched teeth.
‘Get out!’ he said, giving her a feeble push. ‘Tel them I’m here. They won’t do anything to you if you tell them I’m here. Go on, get out.’
She went to the door, unlocked it and opened it. A shaft of light came in from the passage, and he saw her plainly for the first time.
He had only a quick glimpse of her. He saw the long, sensitive face, the wide, dark eyes and the firm, bitter mouth of a girl who was good-looking rather than beautifuclass="underline" a girl of about twenty-three or four, whose young-old face had a force of character that had come from a life of hardship, poverty and sorrow.
She was wearing a white slip that clung to her thin but beautifully proportioned body, no stockings, and her narrow, long feet were thrust into a shabby pair of heelless slippers.
He watched her go out on to the landing, leaving the door ajar. From where he stood he could see through the opening without being seen.
A buzz of voices drifted up from the ground floor: men’s voices, and a woman’s voice screaming hysterically.
More hammering sounded on the front door. Then a hard, loud voice bawled, ‘Okay, okay, break it up! Get back to your rooms and stay in them. Hey, you! Seen a big guy in a brown suit around? He’l be a stranger, and he’s wounded. Come on, now! Open up! The guy’s a kil er!’
Baird ached to lie down on the bed again. The pain in his side was torturing him, and his legs began to sag. He pulled himself together, pressing his shoulders against the wall, his lips coming off his teeth in a snarl.
He watched the girl lean over the banister rail.
‘Toni! Toni!’ she cal ed sharply. ‘What’s happening?’
Baird stiffened. What was she up to? Why didn’t she get down stairs? The cops wouldn’t bother about her if there was any shooting.
‘Some killer loose,’ a man’s voice cal ed up to her. ‘The cops think he might be hiding in this house.
You got him under your bed, Anita?’ He laughed excitedly as if he had made the best joke in the world.
‘You bet,’ the girl said, and laughed. ‘I’ve got him right here. Want to come up and see him, Toni?’