His right hand jumped to his hip pocket. It was there that he always carried his little automatic. His adrenalin glands suddenly began to function overtime, and beads of sweat started out on his forehead. The pocket was empty. While he had been changing, his thoughts had been so full of Sabine that he had forgotten to transfer the pistol from his day clothes. If either Grauber or Cochefert was carrying a weapon he was now at their mercy.
Grauber was not. At Gregory's swift gesture a flicker of fear had shown in his eyes. Then he caught Gregory's expression of dismay and saw his hand come away from his hip empty. With a cry of triumph, he thrust the astonished Cochefert aside and hurled himself forward.
There was not much room to manoeuvre. To get past Cochefert the Gruppenführer had had to step up on to the raised strip of floor on which stood the line of half dozen white porcelain pissoirs. Doing so threw him slightly off his balance. Seizing on this advantage, Gregory rushed in, ducked beneath the long arm thrust out to grab him and landed a blow on his enemy's body. With a howl of fury Grauber went over sideways, striking his head against one of the pissoirs and collapsing into it.
Barely ten seconds had elapsed since Gregory walked in through the door. The clash had occurred so swiftly that Cochefert had had no chance to speculate upon the reason for it. He still believed that Gregory was Obersturmbannführer Einholtz of the Gestapo, so was taken completely by surprise when he and Grauber rushed upon one another. But Grauber was unquestionably the senior. As he went over sideways and crashed into the porcelain gutter, discipline decided the Frenchman that he must side with him. Stepping a pace back from Gregory, which brought him up against the opposite wall, he pulled a small revolver from his pocket.
Gregory had already swung round towards him. Lifting his right foot he gave Cochefert a swift kick on the shin. The Frenchman's reaction was to lift his injured leg with a gasp of pain and, as his stomach contracted, the upper part of his body jerked forward. Instantly Gregory chopped with the fiat of his hand at the forearm of the hand that held the gun. With a second gasp Cochefert dropped the little weapon. It clattered on the tiled floor.
Both stooped to make a grab for it. Their heads came together with a crack. They staggered back; but Cochefert was quick enough to give it a swift sideways kick. It slithered away out of Gregory's reach before he could make another dive at it.
Meanwhile, with a spate of blasphemous curses, Grauber had picked himself up and was now yelling, 'Seize him! Seize him! Call the police! He must not escape!'
But there was no exit to the room other than the one Gregory was blocking; so the attendant could not get out to' call anyone. He was entirely unaware of the implications of the fray, and was naturally anxious to keep out of it. His only contribution was to snatch up the gun, which slid to a halt at his feet and, with laudable eagerness to prevent its being used, throw it into the dirty towel basket.
As Gregory was still at the door end of the room he could, at any moment, have swung round, wrenched it open and fled. But unless he could prevent Cochefert and Grauber dashing out on his heels, he knew that he would never reach Sabine's car. With shouts of 'Murder!' and 'Stop thief!' they would secure the aid of the Club door porter and various other people, one of whom would be certain to catch hold of, or trip, him. In another attempt to render them hors de combat, so that he could get at least a flying start, he first feinted at Cochefert then landed a terrific blow on the Frenchman's thin curved beak. Swinging round on Grauber, he tried the same tactics, but the more skilful German ducked the blow and closed with him.
Half blinded by the pain, and with blood dripping from his nose, Cochefert staggered aside. The other two went down in a heap with Gregory on top. Both of them knew every dirty trick worth knowing and neither had the slightest scruple about using them.
The German got one hand on Gregory's throat and with the thumb of the other attempted to jab out his nearest eye. Gregory tried to knee his antagonist in the groin, but failed in that. Then striving with one hand to break Grauber's grip on his throat, he struck savagely with the other, using the hard side of the palm, down on his adversary's Adam's apple.
They strove for mastery with gritted teeth, straining their muscles to the utmost and jerking from side to side as they fought. Grauber managed to keep a firm grip on Gregory's windpipe. Only by keeping his chin well down could he save himself from complete strangulation, and his breath was now coming in short, sobbing gasps. Yet he knew that his vicious chops at the German's Adam's apple must be causing him exquisite agony, and he could see that his one eye was growing misty. A few more strokes and pain must render him unconscious.
But there was still Cochefert. For a moment or two the Frenchman stood swaying drunkenly as the result of the terrible blow which had broken the bone in his nose. Then, lurching to the row of washbasins, he snatched up a large bottle of hair oil, turned, raised it aloft and brought it down on the top of Gregory's head. The bottle smashed; the scented oil streamed down over his face. With stars and circles flashing in sudden blackness before his eyes, it was he who then slid into unconsciousness, falling sideways across the body of his groaning enemy.
He was not out for long. By the time they had carried him to a car and thrown him on to its back seat he was again aware of his surroundings, if only vaguely. For a good two minutes he lay slumped in his corner wondering why he had such a pain in his head, how he had got where he was, and where he was being taken. Then his having run slap into Grauber in the men's toilet room at the Arizona suddenly came back to him.
Instantly everything else connected. His heart seemed to contract as the full knowledge of his position flooded in upon him. If Sabine had proved adamant, that would have been bad enough. But before she could have had him arrested he would anyhow have had a flying start; and if he had had the ill luck to be caught there would still have been a chance that, with the help of his Hungarian friends, he might have got away again. There would be no chance of that now that he had fallen into Grauber's hands. The Gruppenführer was not the man to let a prisoner communicate with anyone, or leave him the smallest loophole for even a forlorn hope of escape. Still more shattering thought, Grauber's bitter personal hatred of him would undoubtedly lead to his being treated with the utmost brutality.
As he opened his eyes a new wave of pain shot through his head. In front of him a man in a chauffeur's cap was at the wheel; so it looked as if they were in a civilian car. Next to the driver sat a bareheaded man wearing a white jacket. Peering at him in the dim light, Gregory wondered who he could be; suddenly it flashed upon him that it was the washroom attendant.
Turning his head very slightly, in order not to give away that he had come to, he looked sideways at the man beside him. The man's kepi showed that he was a Hungarian policeman. Beyond the policeman there was another figure, occupying the other corner of the back seat. After a few moments Gregory got a glimpse of him that confirmed his worst fears. It was Grauber.
The distance between the Arizona and the Police Station was quite short, and the still dazed Gregory had hardly catalogued his fellow passengers before the car pulled up. He now had his senses about him sufficiently to feel dismay. Had the drive been twice the distance he might at its end have been recovered enough to attempt making a bolt for it as they got out, but he was still terribly shaky.