He looked round the room, He had a feeling that he was being watched. His eyes examined the still figures surrounding him. They were menacing and looked uncannily human. It was no good losing his nerve when he had got so far, he told himself angrily.
Pulling himself together he turned back to Cornelius and with a grimace of disgust, he hastily opened the little man’s coat.
Quite close to Rollo, hidden behind a group of effigies, stood Butch. He watched Rollo and from time to time, he glanced across the room to where Adams was standing. He had seen Adams come in and he knew where he was hiding.
He was sure that Adams hadn’t spotted him. It wasn’t going to be easy First, he would have to knock Rollo off and then rash across the room and close with Adams. It was his bad luck that Adams was close to the stairs. Butch would have to cross the room to escape; by that time Adams would be on him. The thing to do, he decided, was to shoot Rollo and then shoot out the light. It was unlikely that Adams was armed. These British coppers never carried arms, but he couldn’t afford to take chances. In the darkness and confusion he could slip across the room and if Adams tried to stop him he’d give it to him.
He looked again at Rollo.
Rollo was sweating. He hated handling Cornelius, only the thought of the money urged him on. He undid Cornelius’ waistcoat. There was the belt! It was a broad affair with two leather pockets and the pockets bulged.
With fingers that trembled, Rollo undid the buckle and tried to pull the belt clear. But it would not slide off Cornelius’ body. Cursing softly, Rollo gave it a savage jerk and brought Cornelius tumbling to the floor.
Rollo stepped back with a quick intake of breath. He looked round the room uneasily and then bent hurriedly over the fallen body and dragged the belt clear.
Butch, crushing down a tremor of superstitious fear, groped for his gun. He carefully eased it from his pocket and held it down by his side.
Rollo was holding the belt, his fat face alight with triumph. He feverishly opened one of the pockets. Weidmann hadn’t lied. The belt was stuffed with tightly-folded bonds. It was the greatest moment of Rollo’s life. Butch raised his gun.
Adams saw the movement. He was so startled that he could not even cry out.
It seemed to him that one of the wax figures had come to life and the shock was so great that he could only stare, feeling his heart skip a couple of beats.
Rollo also saw the movement and he dropped the belt and swung round, his breath rushing into his throat in his terror.
For one split second, Rollo and Butch looked at each other and Butch grinned. Then he squeezed the trigger and the crash of gunfire rolled round the still cellar. The slug hit Rollo in the middle of his great forehead— thwack.
Rollo closed his eyes, took one hesitating step towards Butch, and then folded up on the floor like a stricken elephant.
Butch did two things almost simultaneously. He snatched up the belt and fired at the electric light bulb. The cellar plunged into darkness. Adams was on the move. Although he was unarmed and his nerves seemed to poke out of his skin, he did not hesitate. He knew that Butch could only leave by the stairs and without counting the cost, he darted across the room to head Butch off. As he did so, he cannoned into a figure and for a second he thought it was Butch, then he realized it was only one of the wax effigies and he drew a sharp breath in relief.
Butch heard him cross the room and he snarled to himself.
“You’d better get out of the way, copper,” he called, crouching, his ears pricked. “You can’t stop me!”
“I’m going to have a good try,” Adams returned, sounding more confident than he felt. “You’re not the only one with a gun.”
Butch sneered. “You can’t kid me,” he said. “I know you flatties don’t pack a rod. I warn you. Get the hell outta the way or I’ll put the blast on you.”
Adams was groping in the darkness as Butch talked. His hands touched a figure and he drew it towards him. He hoped it was solid enough to stop a slug.
“You’d better give up, Butch,” he said. “I know you—you can’t get away.”
Butch raised his gun and fired.
Adams felt the slug thud into the wax figure and he nearly dropped it. That shooting was a little too good, he thought, and gently lowered himself to the floor.
He could hear Butch creeping towards him. Reaching up he caught hold of the effigy and gave it a hard push in Butch’s direction.
The effigy crashed down nearly on top of Butch, who sprang to his feet and started back with a wild oath. He fired blindly and the bullet brought down a trickle of plaster from the ceiling.
The flash of the gun gave his position away. He was quite close to Adams who sprang forward and grappled with him.
As soon as Butch felt the detective’s hands on him, he went mad. No one was going to stop him from getting out of this house and away with the money. He let go of the belt and clawed at Adams’ face with his fingernails.
Adams had been in several “free-for-alls”‘ during his career as a policeman and had learned what to expect from such men as Butch. The moment he felt Butch’s nails on his face, he rammed his face against Butch’s shirt front and then jerked up his head, catching Butch under his chin. The impact stunned both men for a few seconds and while they regained their senses, they gripped each other’s arms and rolled across the room.
Adams was the first to recover and he lashed out, catching Butch a glancing blow on his cheekbone. The blow aroused Butch who countered with two heavy punches to Adams’ body.
“Don’t be a fool,” Adams panted, catching and holding Butch’s wrists for a moment. “You can’t get away and you’re only making matters worse—”
Butch jerked free and exerting every ounce of strength twisted Adams on his back. He clutched at Adams’ throat and at the same time, rammed his knee in his chest. He heard Adams’ breath come out with a rush and grinning savagely, he tightened his grip.
Adams could no longer breathe. He kicked and squirmed, but he could not shift Butch’s grip. The black cellar suddenly exploded into a mass of tiny, brilliant lights. In a detached, tired way, he realized that his chances of survival were slight. He struggled feebly, gripping Butch’s wrists, but he was helpless to break the stranglehold round his throat.
“This is where you get yours, copper,” Butch gasped, squeezing Adams’ throat with all his strength.
Then suddenly he stiffened and relaxed his grip.
“Something’s going on down there,” a man’s voice called from the head of the stairs. “Got a light, Jim?”
Butch, releasing Adams’ throat, leapt to his feet as a powerful electric torch swept the cellar. He caught a glimpse of his gun, lying near his feet and he snatched it up, backing to the far wall.
As he did so, the beam of the torch fell fully on him and a voice called: “What’s going on here?”
He could see the outline of a policeman’s helmet and without thinking, he raised his gun and fired.
The torch immediately went out and by the scuffle of feet he judged the policeman had beaten a quick retreat.
If he didn’t get out fast he’d be trapped, he thought, feverishly. Where had he dropped the belt? He couldn’t leave without that. He cursed the darkness and, dropping on hands and knees, he began to grope about the floor.
“Hey, you, down there,” a voice shouted. “Drop that gun and come up with your hands in the air.”
Butch continued to crawl on, feeling sweat running down his face and cold panic in his heart. He had got to find the belt. What a fool he had been to have shot out the light!
His hands swept across the floor in wide, frenzied circles. He touched Adams’ face and jerked back with a startled oath.
He could not remember where he had been standing when Adams had attacked him.