A sheet of flame flashed in front of his eyes, and he felt a furious burning in his shoulder. But the gun was clattering to the floor, the gunman was staggering back bewildered, and Mannering’s fist was thudding into his face again. Mannering was hitting regularly, almost automatically. One part of his mind was concentrated on the struggle; the other was working on the next problem — how to escape.
That revolver-shot must have been heard outside. If the place was surrounded, if curious residents or a passing policeman heard it, the odds were heavily against him. In any case speed was the essential factor. He hadn’t a moment to lose.
The man was fighting back doggedly all the time. His fist caught Mannering in the stomach. Mannering gasped, and staggered away, guarding himself as best he could. He recovered after a moment, and fought back a fierce rush from his enraged opponent; and then he saw his opportunity. The man had thrown caution to the winds, and for a moment his chin was bare . . .
Mannering put every ounce of his strength into the blow. His fist caught the other’s chin, and the man reared upward, then sagged downward with a little moan. Mannering’s knuckles were torn; the pain in his shoulder was almost unbearable. But the man was unconscious, and the chance had been won.
Mannering looked round quickly, and the pencil of light from his torch stabbed through the gloom. He made sure that he had dropped nothing during the scuffle, refastened his blue mask, and then made for the door.
From outside the house came the thudding of footsteps. As he raced down the stairs noiselessly he saw the glare of a bull’s-eye lantern through the window-panel of the front door. Beyond, very vaguely, he could see the helmet of a policeman. The front-door knocker banged, reverberating through the hall. Mannering swore under his breath. The only outlet was the back way now, and he had no idea of the lay-out of the house. Once again he had not made sufficient preparations.
He took a chance, racing along a passage by the stairs, flinging open a door that led through a room lined with books, through another short passage and into a kitchen. He rushed to the door of the room, and as he did so he could hear the banging at the front of the house and the echo of angry voices.
The back-door was fast. Mannering drew the bolts, almost feverish with anxiety, and there was sweat on his forehead now. He pulled it open at last. . . .
And then, for a moment, he stopped dead-still, and he told himself that the end had come.
A policeman was climbing over the wall at the back of the house, and already the helmet of a second constable was poking above the brick-work. He had been out-manoeuvred; he had not even thought of this. God, what a fool he was!
But his mind worked quickly. Faced with this new problem, he grew very cool and collected. He waited in the shadows of the kitchen, and slipped his hand into his pocket, round the butt of the gas-pistol he always carried. There was no time for half-measures.
The policeman dropped to the ground, stumbled, picked himself up, and hurried towards the door. The second man followed him quickly. Mannering waited until the first was within two yards of him, and then he stepped out of the shadows.
The policeman’s gasp of surprise came clearly, but as quick as a flash he lifted his truncheon. Mannering could see him clearly.
“Better take it quiet,” he warned.
Mannering’s answer was to level his gun. The man’s eyes widened; he dropped back a pace, and his obvious fear made Mannering chuckle to himself. There was a soft hiss of escaping gas, and the policeman uttered a single, strangled cry as the ether took effect, and he slumped down. But the advantage was a brief one, and the second man leaped forward. Mannering had no time to use the gas this time. He clenched his left fist and smashed it into the other’s face.
The policeman reeled backward, his hands to his nose.
Mannering waited for nothing more. He raced to the end of the garden, grunting as he saw the garden-seat which rested against the wall, jumped on it, and swung over the top. The drop to the other side was a nasty one, but he managed to keep his feet as he landed, although the jolt to his wounded shoulder was agonising.
He looked both ways quickly.
To the left he could see two men hurrying towards him, and his lips tightened. To the right there was no one in the small alleyway; that avenue of escape was open.
Mannering swung round, with the men from the left swinging after him. The pain in his shoulder was worse now, and his knuckles were sore, but there was desperation in his mind, and one thought only — he must get away, he must.
He almost sobbed with relief as he reached the end of the alleyway and found himself in a wide thoroughfare. A taxi was crawling along it near him; he jumped forward, heedless of the man’s startled expression, knowing that he cut a strange figure, and that the men behind him were in sight, shouting at the tops of their voices. But their words were indistinguishable, and Mannering still had a chance.
The taxi stopped.
Mannering knew only one way of making sure that there was no hesitation, no loss of time.
“For heaven’s sake,” he gasped, “get me to Scotland Yard!”
The magic name of Police Headquarters proved effective. As Mannering swung into the back of the cab the driver let in his clutch, and the taxi swung along the road.
Mannering, breathing hard, looked through the rear-window. He could just see the two men — ordinary passers-by, he assumed, racing towards the cab, but their effort was useless, and a smile curved his lips as he realised it.
Then, as his heart steadied, he looked at his watch. The exhilaration of the chase and the escape dropped away, and a new and equally urgent problem presented itself.
It was ten to twelve. In ten minutes the masks would be off at the Ramon Ball, and he had to be there in time, whatever happened.
He straightened his hair, stuffed his mask into his pocket, dabbed his lacerated knuckles with his handkerchief, and then looked out of the window. The cab would be passing the New Arts Hall in a few moments; he saw that there was just one chance of getting there without alarming the driver.
Mannering chuckled grimly.
Then, forcing himself to use his right arm, despite the pain of the wound, he opened the off-side door of the cab and climbed on to the running-board. It was touch-and-go now. If the driver happened to look round he would raise an alarm, but they were in a side-street, and no one was passing. Mannering took his gas-pistol from his pocket and tapped the driver’s shoulder gently. The man swung round, gaping, and a cry came from his lips, but Mannering touched the trigger before it was repeated. The gas hissed out, a familiar, friendly sound to Mannering, and the driver slumped forward across the wheel. The taxi, out of control, swerved across the road.
Mannering clung on to the cab with his left hand and reached for the brake with his right. He pulled it up with a jolt almost in the centre of the road, blessing his stars that no other car was in sight.
He left it quickly. Its lights were on, and there was no danger of an accident, he knew. Breathing hard, he hurried through a side-street towards a side-entrance of the New Arts Hall. As he entered the building he held his breath, half-running as he went, but luck was with him. The only attendant who saw him was smoking a surreptitious cigarette, and, fearful of discovery, was more concerned with dousing it than with making inquiries.
Mannering’s heart was in his mouth as he hurried towards the cloakroom. He dared not throw off his coat, for the blood from the wound in his shoulder would show up plainly against the harlequin costume he had on underneath, but by keeping his head bent he evaded recognition. With a sigh of relief he entered his private cubicle.
Then he looked at his watch again and groaned. Three minutes to twelve. Three minutes!