“Unless they surprised him in the house,” Simon argued, pessimistically, “then they’d use their torches on him and he’d be dazzled by the light, just as we were.”
“We must hope for the best, but let us look again at the hole in the roof.”
Simon flashed his torch on it. “I think I could reach it if you could bear my weight”
“Let us try.” De Richleau stooped, and Simon put his legs round the Duke’s neck, sitting on his shoulders. It was a difficult and unsteady proceeding in the dark, but once Simon managed to catch hold of a beam it was easier. He inspected the hole from a closer range with his torch.
“There is nothing above us,” he said in a whisper; “this must have been a sort of outbuilding — fire couldn’t have reached this wing either — the roof’s tarred felt.” He shifted the torch to the hand with which he was steadying himself, and began to work swiftly.
It was a slow process. He dared not make the least sound or the Mongolian would come in at once to see what was happening. He pulled away little bits of plaster and pushed them out through the hole, leaving for the moment the broken framework of the lath. That part was comparatively easy, but tearing away pieces of the thick tarred felt was another matter. They had to take frequent rests, for De Richleau could not bear his weight for very long at a time. When he had worked for an hour the hole was no more than a foot in diameter.
“We shall never do it,” said Simon, despondently; “it will have to be three times that size for us to get through.”
“Not a bit,” the Duke encouraged him in a quick whisper. “Where a man’s shoulders can pass, there his body can pass too; we shall be a little scratched, but what matter? Make your hole broader at each side now; another three inches will do it.”
Simon grunted; it did not look to him as if a cat could get through in comfort. He had torn his nails, and his finger-tips ached excruciatingly, but he continued to work away.
When they next rested De Richleau encouraged him again. “It is early yet, it cannot be more than ten o’clock; another hour and we shall be out of this. Listen! What was that?”
With straining ears they stood in the darkness; the noise did not come from the passage, but from above. Something heavy was moving on the roof. As they watched, a black form blotted out the stars that had, a moment before, been shining through Simon’s hole; something moved in the opening, and suddenly a bright light blinded them. It went out instantly, and they heard the welcome sound of Rex’s voice:
“Holy smoke! I’m glad it’s you!”
“Thank the Lord you’re safe,” whispered Simon; “there’s a guard outside the door, but if you can make the hole a bit bigger we’ll soon be out.” He mounted on the Duke’s shoulders again, and in feverish haste they worked away at the roofing.
“Did you hear the dust-up?” Rex whispered. “Two of those birds’ll never see Manhattan Island any more. I ran right in on ’em — thought they were you!”
“How did you find us?” Simon whispered back.
“The Snow Queen kid got rattled when you didn’t get back in the hour, so I came up to have a look-see. Ever since the dust-up I’ve been snooping round, mostly on the roof — or what’s left of it. Good thing I had that practice in the Rockies last fall. Then I spotted your light, and a hand throwing bits of roof out. Reckon you can get through now?”
Simon slid to the ground and they surveyed the hole with their torches. Rex’s big hands had made a lot of difference; De Richleau nodded. “That will do; up you go, Simon.”
“No, go on,” said Simon, “you first.”
The Duke’s answer was to pick his young friend up by the knees and hold him aloft. “You waste time,” he said, tersely.
Simon wasted no more, but thrust up his hands. “Don’t grip the roof, it may give,” whispered Rex. He gripped Simon’s wrists and hauled him up. There was a slithering noise, a slight scrape, and he was through.
The Duke looked apprehensively towards the door — surely the guard had heard. Two laths had cracked with a dry snap. He lost no time, but mounted the stone copper — Rex could not have reached him on the floor; by leaning forward his hands would be within a few inches of the hole.
“Make it snappy,” whispered Rex, thrusting his arms down from above. The Duke leaned forward and grasped them firmly, then he swung off the copper. As he did so there was a crash of falling masonry — the cement that held the top row of bricks round the copper had long perished — De Richleau’s boot had brought them rumbling to the floor.
Instantly the door swung open. Lantern in one hand, pistol in the other, the Mongolian rushed in. The Duke found himself hanging, suspended, looking right into that cruel, hare-lipped face. The man dived for him. The Duke kicked out, his boot took the soldier on the upper part of his right arm; the man staggered back, dropping his gun.
“Pull, Rex, pull!” shouted the Duke, but to his horror he found that Rex had let go one of his hands. He dangled by one arm, revolving slowly.
The Mongolian did not stop to find his pistol; he flung himself on the Duke. De Richleau found himself being dragged down, the bestial face was within an inch of his own.
Suddenly there was a blinding flash, and a terrific report within an inch of his ear that almost shattered the drum; the man sagged and slipped backwards with a horrible choking sound. Rex had shot him at close range through the upper mouth.
The next thing the Duke knew was that he was out in the cold air of the roof; Rex and Simon were on each side of him, dragging him from one level to another. There was the sound of running feet, and lanterns could be seen below. A sudden shout — a shot, a bullet whistled past his head, and then the shooting began in earnest.
XVII — The Fight on the Roof-tops
A hail of bullets spattered the brickwork against which they had been standing a moment before.
“Don’t shoot,” whispered Rex hoarsely, as they moved crouching along the gutter under the protection of a low wall. “The flash will show them where we are.”
“I have nothing to shoot with,” said the Duke, bitterly. “I deserve to be shot myself, at my age, for leaving my weapon behind.”
“Good Lord, I forgot.” Rex thrust the other pistol into his hand. “I found it after you’d gone. Look out!”
They had come to the end of the low wall on the front of the house. A series of roofs at different levels lay before them. They were those of the outhouses that had survived the fire.
“What do we do now?” asked Simon in a whisper.
“Back the way we came,” Rex answered promptly. “More cover in the ruin, and they’ll be round here directly.”
Even as he spoke they could hear voices below them; quick jerky questions and answers. A light flashed on to the roof of one of the outhouses. They crept stealthily back to the far end of their cover, Simon leading.
As he rounded the corner he ran full tilt into a crouching form. Luckily the man had no time to use his gun. Simon felt a hand clutch at his throat; they crashed to the roof together.
Simon kicked and struggled; each moment he thought they would roll over the edge and break their necks in the garden, twenty feet below. Suddenly he realized that he was on top. He struck blindly at the man’s face, but the fellow dodged his blows. The grip on his throat tightened, the darkness seemed to grow blacker before his eyes, there was a buzzing in his ears. Through it Rex’s voice came faintly to him. “Stick it, Simon, good boy; give him top place, and I’ll crack his skull!”