It was no good; he had to have a light. In a few minutes the cops would be here. They wouldn’t be the ordinary flatties, but the flying squad with guns.
“Okay, copper,” he called. “I quit. Lemme have a light—I can’t see how to get to the stairs.”
“Throw your gun away,” the policeman shouted back, without showing himself. “Right across the room and I want to hear it go.”
Butch pulled out his heavy cigarette case and tossed it into the darkness. It fell with a clatter and a moment later the electric torch lit up the cellar again.
Feverishly, Butch looked round. Adams was lying near him. Susan, curled up, her head on one arm, lay several yards away. Near her was the belt.
It had taken Butch a split second to spot all this. He dived towards the belt, snatched it up, spun on his heel and raced for the stairs. The beam of the electric torch hit him between the eyes.
“Drop that gun!” the policeman shouted, alarm in his voice.
Butch fired point blank and the torch fell out of the policeman’s hand as he slumped to the floor.
Butch kicked him out of the way and reached the head of the staircase. He stood for a moment glaring along the narrow passage towards the front door. As he hesitated, the door flew open and two policemen in flat caps sprang into the passage. Guns glittered in their hands.
Before Butch could jerk up his gun, one of the policemen fired at him. Butch felt the slug smash into the woodwork of the staircase, a few inches from his arm. He jumped back, tripped over the wounded policeman and fell backwards down the stairs.
“Look out, Harry,” one of the policemen shouted. “It’s Mike Egan.”
“I’ll look out,” Harry returned sourly and moved cautiously to the head of the stairs. “He’s got Jim, the rat.”
“Well, he can’t get away,” the other policeman returned. “You watch the stairs while I get Jim out of it.”
Butch, badly shaken, was crawling to his feet. He heard scuffling at the head of the stairs and he snapped up his gun and fired. Gunfire crashed back and two bullets thudded into the wall above his head. He dropped flat, sweating. These punks could shoot!
He listened, his mouth twisted in fear and rage, his gun pushed forward. He was trapped all right. Rollo had always said these damn British cops were dynamite. He gripped the belt—three million pounds and he wasn’t going to get a nickel of it! Well, he’d give ‘em a run before they got him and they wouldn’t get him alive.
Opening his coat, he buckled the belt round his waist. Okay, he was ready.
He might still get a break. A lucky shot might clear the way for escape, although he guessed, by now, the house had been surrounded. Well, it was no use staying here. He was going up those stairs with his gun blazing. If they killed him—well, it was better than a six weeks wait for the rope.
Suddenly a light flickered up and then a large ball of blazing newspaper was tossed into the cellar. The flickering flames lit up the darkness and gunfire crashed from the head of the stairs.
Butch felt a violent blow against his shoulder and reeling back, he dropped his gun. He fell forward on his hand and knees, cursing.
“Don’t move, Egan!” a voice called. “Or I’ll blast you to hell!”
Where was the gun?
Butch gathered himself together for a spring into the shadows. Then he jerked back.
Facing him, his gun in her hand, stood Susan Hedder, white-faced and wide-eyed with terror.
“Don’t move!” she cried hysterically, “or I’ll shoot!”
Butch flung up his hand. “Don’t point that at me!” he quavered, backing away. “You little fool! It’ll go off!”
“Hold everything,” a voice called from above and a moment later the cellar seemed full of policemen.
Detective Sergeant Adams’ office was small, sparsely furnished and without comfort. The primrose-coloured walls gave the little room a cold, forbidding look and
Susan Hedder, sitting on the edge of a hard chair, thought it was almost like a prison cell.
The door opened and Adams came in.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Hedder,” he said with a friendly smile.
“Not much of a place to receive a lady visitor, is it?”
He sat down behind his battered desk and offered her a cigarette.
Susan nervously refused.
“It’s all right,” Adams said, grinning at her. “You don’t have to be frightened. Of course, you’ve been a little foolish, but if it hadn’t been for you, we should have had a long and expensive investigation on our hands. Luckily Butch came clean about Crawford, so I haven’t told my boss that you’ve been concealing a murder. That wasn’t too bright of you, you know.”
Susan twisted her hands in her lap and didn’t say anything.
“What in the world made you mix yourself up in such a business?” Adams went on after a pause.
Susan avoided his eyes. “I don’t know,” she said. “It was Joe really. I felt sorry for him and he did want to help Mr. Weidmann. I—I was really—I couldn’t help myself.”
“Well, we’ve been trying to get our hands on Rollo for some time,” Adams went on. “But he was far too cute for us. Thanks to you, the gang’s been broken up.”
Susan shook her head. “It was really nothing to do with me,” she protested.
“Indirectly it was,” Adams returned. “Anyway, I’m grateful. If I hadn’t followed you, an awful lot of money would have changed hands.”
“I still can’t make out why I went there.”
“That’s something I don’t understand,” Adams said, frowning. “It was as if you were walking in your sleep. Butch said Gilroy was practising voodoo, but I can’t believe a yam like that. Anyway, when we called on Gilroy we found he had gone. He slipped over to France and we’ve just heard that he’s now on his way to the West Indies. We can’t do anything about him as he doesn’t seem to be connected with the case.”
Susan fidgeted. “What’s happened to Mr. Weidmann?” she asked, at last.
“That’s why I’ve asked you to call. He wants to see you.”
“Wants to see me? Why?”
Adams shook his head. “I don’t know. Anyway, I’ve got a car. If you want to see him, we can go now.”
Susan hesitated. “Where is he?”
“Well, he isn’t well, you know. We’ve had him taken care of. He’s in a home.”
“Joe said that would happen to him.”
“Yes. There’s nothing to worry about. He’s happy enough. I don’t think he cared much for the way Rollo treated him and I think he’s glad to have someone to look after him. We couldn’t let him roam around without some kind of supervision. He hasn’t any relatives and he has a fantastic fortune. His bank has taken over his affairs and he seems to have settled down.” Adams stood up. “Well, shall we go?”
“I can’t think what he wants with me,” Susan replied, getting to her feet. “But I suppose I can’t very well refuse to see him—it wouldn’t be polite, would it?”
Adams looked at her and smiled. He liked her. He liked her young, candid face, her hair and her rather frightened, bewildered eyes. “There’s nothing to be scared about. I’ll be there—if you want me.”
Susan smiled. “After what I’ve been through, it does seem silly to be nervous of a poor old man like that, doesn’t it?” she said. “But I am.” She pulled on her gloves. “All right, I’m ready.”
As they drove rapidly through the London streets in the dark blue police car, Adams tried to put Susan at her ease.
“Now that all the excitement is over,” he said, “what are you going to do with yourself?”
Susan shook her head. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “Find a job, I suppose. It’ll seem pretty flat after this.”
Adams laughed. “Well, you mustn’t think this sort of thing happens often. Why I’ve been in the police force for more than five years and this is my first murder case.”