“Please go away,” she said, white-faced but still calm. “I can find my way out without your help. Just please go away and leave me.”
“I will go,” he said earnestly, “but you must first listen to what I have to say. This man who is following us has been told to kill you. I don’t know why, but he will do it unless I stop him. They sent me a photograph of you so I should know you. Look, I’ll show it to you. Perhaps it will convince you I’m speaking the truth.”
Seeing her mounting panic, he hurriedly thrust his hand inside his coat for his billfold. He felt if he could only show her the photograph she must realize the danger she was in.
He jerked out the billfold, and as he did so his wrist-watch became entangled with the handle of the ice-pick, and the pick slid out of its sheath and fell on the path at his feet.
Frances looked down and saw the ice-pick. She stared at the murderously sharp blade in horror. Then she looked up and met Pete’s frightened, guilty eyes. A cold chill settled around her heart.
She didn’t hesitate. She was sure now he was a dangerous lunatic who had tricked her into this labyrinth of mirrors to do her harm, and she knew if it came to a struggle she would stand no chance against him. So she spun around and ran.
“Frankie! Please!”
His agonized cry only acted as a spur, and her long legs carried her down the straight, narrow path as fast as she could drive them.
As she ran she kept the fingers of her left hand against the wall of mirrors. It was only by feel that she found a turning, down which she sped. She took another turning, this time to the right, and she ran frantically down yet another nightmare path, her dark hair streaming behind her, her face white, her breath coming in laboured gasps.
She had no idea how long she ran, how often she twisted and turned. It was like running on a treadmill; every step she took brought her to the same place, or what appeared to be the same place.
Finally she could run no more, and she leaned against the mirrored wall, her hands pressing her breasts, her eyes closed as she struggled to regain her breath.
After a few moments she opened her eyes and stared at her reflection in the mirror opposite her. She was shocked to see how frightened she looked, how big her eyes were and how wild and disordered her usually sleek, neat hair had become.
She had no idea where she was. She might still be only a few yards from Pete or she might be in the centre of the maze.
She wondered if she should shout for help, but suppose Pete was close by and got to her before outside help could reach her? She decided it would be safer to try and get out by herself. She looked up and down the path that seemed in the reflection of the mirrors to have no ending and no beginning, and she felt a wave of panic sweep over her.
It was as if she were caught up in some ghastly nightmare. She wanted to sit on the ground and cry: to give up weakly, to hide her face in her hands and wait until someone found her. But suppose Pete found her first? She fought back her tears and made an effort to pull herself together. If she continued down this path, she told herself, and at every intersection she turned left, surely it would bring her to the exit?
She started off, walking slowly, her ears strained to catch the slightest suspicious sound that might come to her above the roar of the amusement park. She hadn’t gone more than a few yards when she had an irresistible urge to look behind her.
She stopped and turned.
At the far end of the path she saw something move, and her heart stopped beating, then began to race madly. She half turned to run, but stopped when she saw the figure behind her make a similar movement. She realized with a little sob of hysteria that she was watching her own distant reflection.
She went on.
At the end of the path, seeing herself grow larger as she approached the mirror facing her, she realized she had come up another cul-de-sac and once again she had to fight against a rising panic.
She turned around to retrace her steps; Her eyes caught a movement at the far end of the path. She wasn’t to be caught like that again, and she kept on. Then suddenly she felt a cold chill crawl up her spine. The figure ahead of her wasn’t moving as she was moving.
She stopped and peered down the path.
A squat, square-shouldered man in a black suit stood watching her. In his hand glittered a nickle-plated automatic.
It was Moe.
CHAPTER FIVE
I
CONRAD spent a feverish twenty minutes searching for the threeseater sports car in the various car parks that surrounded the amusement park. He was still at it, but realizing the hopelessness of the task, when he heard a police siren, and saw Bardin with a car full of prowl boys swing into the avenue leading to the main entrance of the amusement park.
Conrad ran out to meet the car, waving his hands.
The car pulled up and Bardin, looking hot and irritable, scowled out of the window.
“How are you getting on?” he demanded. “Found the car yet?”
“Shut that damned siren off!” Conrad snapped. “Do you want to scare those two hoods into action?”
Bardin got out of the car as the sergeant driver flicked off the siren.
“Well, come on. Did you find the car?”
“There’re about ten thousand blasted cars in here. Get your men spread out and searching. Any more coming?”
“A couple of wagons just behind. The Captain will raise hell when he hears I’ve pulled out the reserve.”
“If this girl gets killed, the D.A. will raise all the hell McCann will ever want! Get your men into action!”
“Hey! Wait a minute,” Bardin said, putting his hand on Conrad’s arm. “Look who’s coming,” and he jerked his thumb towards a tall young fellow with a crew hair-cut, who was wearing a red-patterned shirt outside his trousers. In his arms he held a collection of dolls, vases and boxes of candy. By his side walked a blonde girl in a white sports frock. “Think those are the two we’re looking for?”
“There must be ten thousand punks who’re wearing their shirts like that right in this park,” Conrad growled, “but I’ll ask him.” He strode up to Buster Walker. “You just come from Lennox Avenue?” he demanded, and felt a little shrill crawl up his spine at Buster’s look of blank astonishment.
“Why, sure,” Buster said. “How did you know?”
Conrad looked at Bunty.
“You Miss Boyd?”
“Yes,” Bunty said blankly.
Conrad signalled to Bardin, who joined them.
“These are the two. You’d better handle it, Sam.”
Bardin flashed his buzzer.
“I’m Lieutenant Bardin, City Police. Where’s Miss Coleman?”
“Frankie?” Buster gaped at him. “What do you want her for? What’s the idea?”
“Answer the question and snap it up!” Bardin barked. “Where is she?”
“We left her in the amusement park.”
“Alone?”
“No, she’s with Burt.”
“Burt — who?”
“Why, Burt Stevens, of course. What’s all this about?”
Bardin glanced at Conrad, who asked, “Has this Stevens guy got a birth-mark?”
“That’s right. A port-wine stain down the right side of his face.”
“Are you sure his name is Stevens?”
“He said it was. Is there something wrong, then?”
“But you don’t know for certain?”
“No, we don’t,” Bunty broke in. “I didn’t like the look of him when he came to the house. You see, we were all going to the beach: Frankie, Buster, Terry Lancing and myself. Terry phoned to say he couldn’t make it, and was sending his friend Burt to take his place. This boy turned up. He said he was Burt Stevens, but of course as I’ve never seen him before I don’t know for certain if he really is Burt Stevens.”