“George,” Kate looked alarmed. “You can’t ask him!”
“Of course I’m not going to ask him! But if he does know and if he still feels about her as he says he does —” Gideon broke off, with a bark of a laugh, and moved across to her. “Today,” he said, “I really believe it is us middle-aged people who are the babes and sucklings — the innocents! Youth has the wisdom. I was thinking . . .” He stepped behind her chair and placed his hands on her shoulders: “Penny is probably twisting us all round her little finger. But I’ve never seen her happier — or any of the children happier than she seems to be. Have you?”
Kate looked up at him, and for a few moments they were silent. Before she could answer, the spell was broken by the sudden shrilling of the telephone. That was the first time his thoughts really switched: to the murderer who was holed-up somewhere in Hampstead. He put Penny out of his mind.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Hero
For the tenth time, which seemed like the hundredth, a voice boomed out on the loud-speaker. This time it was Henry himself, although sometimes, to rest his voice, he let one of his colleagues call.
“Roche! You’re only wasting time. You are completely surrounded! Come out with your hands above your head.”
There was no answer.
At the end of the street, at attic windows and on roof-tops, there were groups of policemen, including some from neighbouring divisions. There were clusters of newspapermen and photographer, and two television crews were stationed in positions of vantage: every time the loud-speaker crackled, the cameras whirred. Already, viewers in their homes had been given a vivid glimpse of the real-life drama: they had seen Charles Henry calling his ultimatum, seen him and his men dodging into doorways and taking cover behind cars near the disused cafe. Now, as several policemen dived in different directions, the cameras took a perfectly timed picture of flying chippings as a bullet struck a wall near the Superintendent’s head.
There had been three other shots; just three. So far, no one had been hurt; but everyone knew that at any moment one of the policemen could be killed.
Now, much more help was needed. From the Fire Brigade, for one. And perhaps an armoured car. Henry knew this; knew that unless he could break through the resistance, he would have to chalk this case up as an utter failure. Normally, that would not have worried him, but this would be failure piled on failure and he wanted, above all, to avenge Juanita.
He called the nearest detective-inspector, who came promptly.
“Keep hailing him — call every two minutes,” he ordered.
“Right, sir!” The man took over at the microphone and Henry crossed the street and strode along on the same side as the old cafe; completely safe, there. Only four doors from the cafe, the police had taken over a dry-cleaning premises, and he went in past his men and up the stairs, then up a loft ladder until finally he hauled himself through a skylight, on to the roof. Four policemen were there and had a rope already firmly secured to a chimney-stack, both ends free to allow for easy manoeuvring by two men at once, using it as a safety line.
It was a beautiful evening; crisp and cool.
The disembodied voice came very clearly: “Give yourself up, Roche! You wont be hurt. Give yourself up!”
Henry wasn’t even sure that the cornered man could hear. From the roof, he himself seemed to be not only above the crowd but remote from all that was happening. He glanced around him and saw axes, tear-gas pistols: all the paraphernalia of a raid. He picked up one of the lengths of rope and secured it about his waist.
The youthful sergeant in charge of the group gaped.
“Sir-!”
“Yes, sergeant?”
“Are you — er — going down?”
“Yes,” Henry said. “I’ll want you chaps to take the strain, in a moment.” And as the sergeant still looked shocked, he added abruptly: “If we let this siege drag on, we’ll be here all night.”
“Roche! Can you hear me? Give yourself up!”
The voice seemed utterly remote from the situation, from the roof which was so near the sky.
Roche was perfectly situated. From where he sat, he could cover the front of the cafe and the street, and be reasonably sure that he could not be attacked from the back, unless;the police used dynamite to break their way through the barricade he had built in front of the door. He nursed a Luger pistol — a heavy, deadly weapon; and every now and then, he smoothed the barrel. In a box at his side was spare ammunition, by him a tin of biscuits and bottles of beer. When he heard the loud-speaker summons, he gave a snort of a laugh.
“I can hold out here for a week, you bloody fool!” he said aloud. “Anyone who comes near me, will get a bullet in his guts!”
But he did not fire wastefully. Let them think I’m short of ammunition, he thought. They’ll bloody soon find out how wrong they are!
“Ready?” Henry asked.
“Yes, sir. But sir — !”
“Let me use your radio.” Henry took it and called his man below: “Have cars driven right past the window, in quick succession — and get them all blaring their horns. Make a pandemonium — a really deafening row! Cot that?”
“Yes, sir!” the man below said.
“Sir-you know it’s very dangerous!” persisted the sergeant.
“It would be a lot more dangerous to let him get away,” growled Henry.
The loud-speaker blared again. A car engine started up; another; and another. Horns began to honk, and Henry moved towards the edge of the roof, his back towards the street.
“Now they’re up to something!” Roche said, and held the Luger more firmly. “The bloody fools! Do they want to die?”
The hooting and honking was getting worse; deafening.
A car roared past the shop, and he fired. But as the car disappeared, another engine roared, another car flashed by-its horn blasting. Then another, and another; and all the time, the noise grew louder and more deafening. Wild-eyed, Roche muttered: “They’re going to bloody drive a bloody car right
up — that’s what they’re playing at! I’ll kill the bastards — I’ll kill them!——”
And his eyes were glittering as he licked his lips . . .
Even up here, on the roof, the noise was so great that one couldn’t hear oneself speak, but Henry had said his last word. He was going down the second length of rope, head-first and very, very cautiously. It did not swing very much, and he only needed one hand to steady himself. The cafe window itself was now only two feet below him and squinting down he could see a gaping hole to one side, where the glass had been smashed out.
Another car came by, and the man next to the driver hurled a brick right through the hole. There was a roar of a shot, followed by a clang as the bullet struck the back of the car, and as he lowered himself a few inches further, he could hear the Australian swearing viciously below him.
Moments later, he had an upside-down picture of Roche, crouching in a corner, gun in hand.
He was glaring into the street, waiting for the next car; the last tiling he was expecting was threat from above.
Henry took out his own gun: a Smith and Wesson 44. He could have shot Roche in the head, right then — one shot fired without warning would be enough. Instead — while the cacophony in the street below seemed to get worse and Roche’s face twisted in wild-eyed fury, he waited for the next car to roar past.
It came, horn blaring; and this driver, too, flung a brick. Roche fired at the car. On that instant, with very careful aim, Henry fired at his gun-hand. He waited only long enough to see the revolver fly from Roche’s grasp, then “Right.!” he bellowed to the men above; and as the rope to his waist went slack, swung himself in through the .window with the aid of the men above.
The jagged glass caught a sleeve and the back of his hand as he went through, and he winced. But it did not stop him from scrambling to his feet and rushing at Roche, whose right hand was now resting on the counter, a useless, gory mess.