“For God’s sake, tell him!” gasped Ken Noble, at his shoulder. There was sweat on his forehead and fear, not hatred, in his eyes.
“If she doesn’t, I’ll —”
“Yes,” Juanita made herself say. “I told them. I am a—”
“I ought to cut your tongue out.” Roche rasped, and he looked bestial enough to do exactly that. “My God, I will!”
He slashed at her lips, and she screamed. The blade cut, there was surging terror in her, yet her eyes were wide open and she saw all that happened. She saw the knife above her face, blood-dripping, then Ken Noble’s hand close over Roche’s wrist. Roche turned, as if astounded. Noble clenched his fist and drove it into Roche’s face, throwing him off-balance. At that same moment, there was a shout from the room beyond: “Look out! Police!”
And a police-whistle shrilled out; harsh, urgent.
Roche recovered his balance, but he was no longer looking at Juanita. He stood, knife in hand, in front of Ken Noble, who was shielding Juanita with his body as he gasped a near incoherent: “Roy — let’s get out! Let’s —”
Roche drove the knife into his chest.
One moment, Noble was speaking, his fear vivid on his face. The next, he was silent; staring as if stupidly at the man who had plunged the knife into him, leaving only the handle protruding. There was a moment of silence, an awful moment in which everything seemed to stand still, even the breath in Juanita’s body. Then police-whistles and the thumping of feet on stairs let sudden bedlam loose-while very slowly, Kenneth Noble crumpled to the floor in a lifeless heap.
Then, Roche turned to Juanita.
She was still fastened at the waist, but her arms were free. Thank God, her arms were free! And he had nothing in his hands now; his knife was deep in Noble’s body. It was impossible to judge what was passing through his mind: whether he realised that he had committed murder and that she had seen the killing. It was impossible to know, from those glittering eyes, whether he was even thinking of her. She was in stark terror, and aware not of pain, but the warmth of oozing blood.
Then, the door across the room behind Roche was flung back.
She did not see the policeman, but she heard his voice and was sure he was one.
“Come on, pack it in! You’ll only make more trouble for yourselves. Don’t —”
Then he stopped. He must have seen the body on the floor, even if he could not see her there, on the bed. And in that moment, Roche moved — from absolute stillness to galvanic action. But he moved, thank God, away from her. There was a gasp from the policeman as Roche crashed into him bodily. She could not see what happened next; but there was another thud followed by the pounding of footsteps.
Roche disappeared.
The policeman, his helmet dangling awry, was leaning against the door, looking away from her, obviously too dazed even to shout. But he turned his head at last towards the inner room and the man on the floor, and for the first time, saw Juanita and the blood which hid so much of her face.
Gideon was in the back of his own car, being driven by a middle-aged detective-sergeant, when a call came over the radio-telephone fixed beside the driver’s seat, so that it could be picked up quickly from front or back. The familiar: “Information calling Commander Gideon, Information calling Commander Gideon,” came clearly into the car. He picked it up-
‘This is Commander Gideon.”
“There’s a message from AB Division, sir.”
“I’m in the Division now,” Gideon replied.
‘ ”Superintendent Henry is in Highway Lane,” the Information speaker said. “He’ll be glad to see you there, sir-he won’t be at his office.”
Gideon thought, trouble, and hung up. “Highway Lane,” he ordered, and as the driver murmured acknowledgement, settled back in his seat.
Highway Lane, he knew, housed the headquarters of the Action Committee. Perhaps he had been too precipitate in thinking ‘trouble’ and perhaps Henry had caught the lot of them together, plotting. He saw the brick wall of Lords and as they passed, heard a flutter of applause. For a boundary? A catch? A wicket some other way?
As two uniformed policemen, talking together near one gate, noticed his car, recognised him, and promptly drew up almost to attention, Gideon hid a smile. He glanced around as they passed the masses of new apartment-blocks, some of them high-rise; and remembering the one which had collapsed a few months ago, reflected wryly that such disasters seldom seemed to overtake the luxury-blocks built for the very rich. They went through the narrow High Street of Hampstead itself, still called and in a way still in fact a village, and turned into narrow, winding Highway Lane.
He saw the white ambulance, the crowd, the dozen or more police — and the Black Maria, further along: back doors open, men being hustled in. He thought: Not that girl! Then saw the bearers coming out with the stretcher, and the girl on it. A sheet covered the lower half of her face like a yashmak, leaving her eyes and the top of her head free, and it was bloodstained about where her lips would be. Her eyes were open, but she did not look in any particular direction; just stared towards the clear sky. A youngish man in a smock came out as they pushed the stretcher into the ambulance, and immediately following him came Henry.
Gideon, by then, was getting out of his car. Henry saw him and raised his arms in a gesture of resignation which filled Gideon with alarm. The young doctor climbed into the ambulance; the stretcher-bearers went to the driving-cabin.
“How is she?” Gideon demanded.
“Scarred for life.” Henry almost choked.
“Scarred?”
Henry said: “Her face has been cut about. It’ll scar her for life, I tell you!”
“No other injury?” asked Gideon.
“No. That is —” Henry was obviously shaken; as obviously, he made an effort to pull himself together. “Cuts on the face and mouth, sir, but no body injuries.”
“So it could have been worse,” Gideon made himself say.
“I — I suppose so, sir. The man who slashed her seems to have killed a man. I don’t know the story, yet — probably only Constable Conception can tell it — but we know the name of the killer. And he attacked one of our chaps in his getaway.”
Gideon hesitated only a few seconds before asking: “Is a general call out?”
“Yes, with full description. The man we’re after is an Australian named Roche: Roy Roche, one of the ringleaders of the group. He’s twenty-two. Juanita — Detective-Constable Conception — always said he was the most likely to be dangerous. The dead man is another of the leaders — a Kenneth Noble.” Henry was getting back to normal, his voice becoming less strained. “The raid as a whole has been reasonably successful, sir. There were fifteen Committee members named and we’ve caught eleven. Roche we know about. The other three weren’t at home or at their places of business when our men called on them. The eleven we’ve got will be at the station in about fifteen minutes.”
“Can they all be considered accessories to the murder?” Gideon asked, heavily.
“It is possible, sir. Certainly any one of them might have been a witness.”
“And might help you to find Roche.” As he spoke, Gideon was trying to decide the best thing for him to do. The complexion of this case had changed instantly. It was first a murder investigation, only secondly a problem of preventing a violent demonstration.
He saw two men turn into Highway Lane and recognised them as from Fleet Street; and suddenly he was aware of the urgent need to decide what to tell the Press. Henry saw the men at the same moment, and swore under his breath.
“Chas, you handle this,” Gideon said. “Treat the men we’ve picked up as possible witnesses to the murder. Don’t work on the demonstration angle, yet. Tell the Press everything, though — why you rounded them up, all you can about the murder. Let them know about Constable Conception’s injuries. Just give them all the information, holding nothing back: let diem decide how to use it. Let them know this is going to be one of the biggest man-hunts ever, too.” The two men were now close, and he added: “No reason why I shouldn’t tell them that.”