"I believe you."
"I shall not hesitate to do exactly as I threaten. You must convince them of that."
"You've convinced me," I said. "I can't speak for the others. I'll try."
"You had better succeed," he said evenly.
I succeeded. After a few minutes twiddling and dial-twisting I managed to get through on the police wave-length. There was a further delay while the call was relayed and rerouted by phone and then I heard Superintendent Hardanger's voice.
"Cavell here," I said. "I'm in a helicopter with—"
"Helicopter!" He swore. "I can hear the damn thing. Almost directly above. 'What in God's name—"
"Listen! I'm here with Mary and a pilot of the Inter-City Lines, a Lieutenant—" I glanced at the man beside me.
"Buckley," he said harshly.
"Lieutenant Buckley. Scarlatti has the drop on us all. He's got a message for you, for the General."
"So you fouled things up, Cavell," Hardanger said savagely. "God above, I warned you—"
"Shut up," I said wearily. "This is his message. You'd better listen." I told them what I'd been told to say and after a pause the General's voice came through on the earphones. No reproaches, no time-wasting.
He said, "What chance that he's bluffing?"
"Not one in the world. He's in deadly earnest. He'll wipe out half the city sooner than fail. What's all the banknotes and bullion in the world compared to a million lives?"
"You sound as though you were afraid," the General's voice came softly.
"I'm afraid, sir. Not just for myself."
"I understand. I'll call back in a few minutes."
I removed the earphones. I said, "A few minutes. He has to consult."
"That is understandable." He was leaning back negligently now, one shoulder against the doorway, but the guns as steady as ever. He hadn't the shadow of a doubt about the outcome now. "I hold all the cards, Cavell."
He wasn't exaggerating any. He held all the cards all right, they couldn't afford not to let him win. But far back in my mind was the first stirrings of hope that he might yet lose the last trick of all. A despairing one in a million hope, but then I was a man in the extremes of despair and willing to gamble on a one in a million chance. And it would all depend upon so many imponderable factors. Scarlatti's state of mind, the confidence and fractional lowering of relaxation that might — just might — come with the knowledge that the day was finally his: Lieutenant Buckley's acuteness, intelligence and co-operation: and my speed of reaction. The last was the biggest "if" of alclass="underline" the way I felt, if Scarlatti could cope with an ailing nonagenarian, then he shouldn't have much trouble with me.
The earphones crackled. I slipped them on and the General's voice came through. He said without preamble, "Tell Scarlatti we agree."
"Yes, sir. I'm most desperately sorry about it all."
"You did what you could. That's over. Our first concern now must be to save the innocent, not to punish the guilty."
One of the earphones was knocked forward, none too gently, and Scarlatti said, "Well? Well?"
"He agrees," I said wearily.
"Good. I'd expected nothing else. Find out how long the release of my men and money will take, when the police would expect to be clear of the area."
I asked and told him the answer. "Half an hour."
"Again excellent. Switch off that radio. We shall cruise around for that length of time and then descend." He leaned back comfortably against the doorway and, for the first time, permitted himself to smile. "A small hold-up in the execution of my plans, Cavell, but the ultimate results will be the same. I cannot tell you how much I look forward to seeing tomorrow's headlines in all the American newspapers which so contemptuously wrote me off as a nonentity and washed-up has-been when I was deported two years ago. It will be interesting to see how they set about eating their words."
I swore at him without enthusiasm, and he smiled again. The more he smiled, the better for me. I hoped. I slumped down in my seat, huddled in bitter dejection, and said sullenly, "Any objection if I smoke?"
"None at all." He put one pistol in his pocket and handed me cigarettes and matches. "With my compliments, Cavell."
"I don't carry exploding cigars around with me," I growled.
"I don't suppose you do." He smiled again, he was really going to town to-night. "You know, Cavell, bringing this off gives me an immense satisfaction. But almost as much I get from outwitting an opponent like yourself. You have given me more trouble and more nearly caused my downfall than any man I have ever met."
"Except the Income Tax Inspectors of America," I said. "Go to hell, Scarlatti."
He laughed. I drew heavily on my cigarette and at that moment the helicopter shuddered slightly as it lifted over some rising current of warmer air. This was my opening. I twisted in my seat and said to Scarlatti, half-peevishly, half-nervously, "I wish to God you'd sit down or hang on to something. If this chopper hits an air-pocket you might be thrown back on top of those damn toxins."
"Relax, friend," he said comfortably. He leaned his back against the doorway and crossed his legs. "You don't get air-pockets in weather like this."
But I wasn't really listening to him. And I certainly wasn't looking at him. I was looking at Buckley — and then I saw Buckley looking at me. Not a movement of the head, just a sideways shift of the eyes that Scarlatti, behind him, couldn't see. He lowered one eyelid in a low wink, no question, the big Irishman caught on fast. He dropped one hand negligently from the controls and laid it on his leg. He rubbed his hand down his thigh till the fingers stretched out horizontally over his knee-cap. And then his fingers dipped sharply into a vertical position.
I nodded twice, slowly, staring out the windscreen so as not to give any significance to the action. It wouldn't have meant anything to even the most suspicious and by now Scarlatti was too confident and content to go looking for signs of trouble where none existed. He wouldn't be the first man who relaxed too much when the game seemed overwhelmingly as good as won — and finished up at the losing end when the final whistle blew. I glanced at Buckley and saw his lips frame the word "Now." I nodded a third time and braced myself.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Scarlatti shift his position slightly as Buckley eased the helicopter a fraction upwards. His legs were still crossed. Suddenly Buckley thrust the cyclic pitch right forward, at the same time banking heavily, and Scarlatti, completely off-balance, pitched headlong forwards almost directly on top of me.
I'd twisted and half-risen to my feet as he came lurching towards me. My roundhouse right caught him a fraction too high, just on the breast-bone, and his guns went flying wildly to clatter against instrument panel and windscreen.
Scarlatti went berserk. Not viciously fighting mad but completely berserk. Knees, feet, teeth, fists, head, elbows, he used the lot on me, smashing me back in my seat and utterly ignoring the blows rained on him in return. He growled and screamed alternately like some wounded animal, battering at me with frightening power and speed and with everything he could bring to bear. I was twenty years younger and twenty pounds heavier but I couldn't even begin to hold him. I felt the blood begin to hiss dangerously in my ears, my chest felt as if a giant vice were crushing it in half, and then, seconds before I knew I was going to pass out, the insensate battering suddenly stopped and he was gone.