It was futile to struggle while he held her like this. Futile and a waste of precious time. She did the only thing possible.
She let herself go completely limp and Fresby, unable to hold her up, lost his balance. Together they sprawled on the floor.
Even then the grip did not loosen. Celie felt her mouth opening. Her tongue seemed to be swelling. Blood drummed in her ears.
Muttering to himself, Fresby sprawled across Celie’s body. His fingers ached with the pressure he was. exerting and he had a vague feeling of disappointment that she wasn’t attempting to struggle.
This wasn’t half so exciting as the other time. He couldn’t even see the fear in Celie’s eyes. All he could see was the back of her head and her slim, straight, motionless shoulders.
Then quite suddenly there was a violent explosion and cordite fumes rose in his face. The unexpected noise startled him. He had no idea what it was or where it came from. He released his grip and as he did so, Celie’s body suddenly came alive. She rolled over and struck at him with her fingers like claws. Her long nails gashed his face and once again he heard the extraordinary explosion.
Something hit him violently in the body and he grunted, thinking that she had kicked him.
Celie, still pinned down under his body, pulled the trigger again, but the gun jammed. Sobbing for breath she struggled to fire the gun while Fresby stared down at her with a stupid expression on his face.
Then he looked down, saw the gun and understood. He snatched it from her and holding it by the barrel, he struck at her. Celie jerked her head to one side, but the butt of the gun caught her a glancing blow. She felt her senses reeling and before she could protect her head, he had struck again. A thought flashed through her mind that she was being murdered. There was nothing now that she could do about it. She thought of Gilroy. She could see him quite clearly, looking at her with surprised eyes. Then behind him, peering over his shoulder, was Doc Martin. His face was alight with jeering laughter.
Fresby knew now that he had been shot. He could feel a hot, burning sensation in his belly and his heavy, woollen underwear felt damp. He struck at Celie again and the gun butt smashed the bone above her nose.
She ceased to straggle, but he continued to strike at her forehead with the butt of the gun. Then someone shouted and a hand seized his wrist and he felt himself pulled backwards: It was odd how tired and weak he felt. He couldn’t see anything. Blood from the wounds that Celie had torn in his face ran into his eyes. He rolled over and lay quiet. The pain in his belly kept him in a curled-up position.
It seemed a long time before hands touched him.
“Be careful,” he said irritably. “She’s shot me.”
Hands pulled him over on his back. A handkerchief wiped his eyes. He looked up into young, alarmed eyes, overshadowed by a policeman’s helmet.
“You’re a bit late,” he said, tasting blood in his mouth. “I tried to kill her, but she had a gun.”
“She’s dead,” the constable said briefly as he opened Fresby’s waistcoat and looked with distaste at the large bloodstain on his shirt.
“She did it,” Fresby whispered. “Get an ambulance. I’m not going to die, am I?”
The constable thought it was likely, but he didn’t say so. He satisfied himself that Fresby couldn’t move; then he stood up.
“I won’t be long,” he said.
“Tell ‘em to go to Whitby’s,” Fresby urged. He couldn’t bear to think that Rollo would succeed where he had failed.
“Three million pounds is a lot of money.”
The policeman glanced at Celie and felt a little sick. He pulled Celie’s skirt down. The coffee-coloured thighs seemed indecent to him.
Fresby closed his eyes. He was beginning to feel cold. “Hurry,” he said.
Detective Sergeant Adams watched Rollo climb the stairs with slow, cautious steps. Adams waited before he moved until Rollo had rounded the bend of the stairs.
He wasn’t overanxious to follow Rollo. He knew if Rollo took it into his head to become violent, he wouldn’t stand much chance against his brute strength. Still, there was no time to telephone for assistance. He would have to see it through on his own. He wished he was armed. If he had even a truncheon he would have felt easier, but he had nothing.
Against Rollo, his fists did not give him much confidence.
As he stepped to the foot of the stairs, he heard a sound that brought him up short. A woman had coughed. He listened. The cough came again and he judged it came from down the passage, away from the stairs.
It must be the Hedder girl, he thought. She couldn’t have gone upstairs after all. As she interested him more than Rollo, he turned away from the stairs and crept along the passage until he came to the door leading to the cellar.
As he was standing there, listening, he heard movements down the stairs and, at the same time, he heard Rollo’s heavy step overhead.
Cautiously he began to walk down the stairs. He could see that there was a light burning in the room below. He crept down, step by step, until he was able to peer into the cellar.
For several seconds, Adams stared round the sinister, rather terrifying room, too startled to move. At first glance it seemed to him that the room was full of strange, frightening people, but as he looked closer he realized that they were wax dummies.
Even at that, Adams felt spooked as he looked at the grim collection, their weird faces glistening in the shaded light.
Standing in the middle of the room was Susan Hedder. She was motionless, but Adams could see she was breathing rapidly and her eyes, although blank, moved uneasily.
A heavy, creaking step warned him that Rollo, not finding anything to interest him upstairs, was now coming down to the cellar.
Adams glanced round the room and then moved silently to one of the darkest comers where he joined three wax figures, taking his place just behind them. He pulled his hat low over his eyes, thrust his hands in his coat pockets and waited.
He was quite sure that unless Rollo turned his torch on him, which was unlikely, he would not know that he wasn’t just another effigy.
Susan began to move again. Very slowly, she crossed the room and approached a group of wax figures in the opposite corner away from where Adams was standing.
As she did so, Rollo came down the stairs and stood watching her. The room came as a shock to Rollo. Like Adams, he took some moments to realize that the figures that appeared to be staring at him were only dummies. He jerked his attention back to Susan.
She was standing before a figure of a little man who sat propped up in a chair. His wax face glistened pinkly in the shaded light and Rollo thought he looked more horrible than any of the other figures.
Susan lifted her hand and touched the little man’s arm. Then she suddenly started back and gave a wild scream. Both Adams and Rollo nearly jumped out of their skins. She turned, her eyes now alive, and saw Rollo.
“Oh no!” she screamed and backed away.” Go away! Let me out of here!”
Rollo moved swiftly towards her.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said, his great, moon-like face shining with sweat.
“It’s all right—”
She put her hands to her mouth, then her eyes rolled back and she slipped to the floor.
It was only with difficulty that Adams restrained himself from starting forward. But he knew it was too soon to show his hand. He had to see what Rollo was after.
Rollo, breathing heavily, knelt beside Susan and turned her over. A quick glance assured him that she had only fainted and with an impatient grant he rose to his feet. He looked at the little man in the chair with interested eyes.
Susan had definitely pointed him out. Could this be Cornelius? The wax on his face looked new. It was brighter in colour than those of the other wax effigies. Rollo moved forward and flashed his torch on the face. He was certain now.
He could tell by the eyes. There was something gruesome about this little figure and in spite of his iron nerves, Rollo felt a shiver run down his spine.