Stoker was out beside him. There was just a breath of wind, clammy, cold, and the fog moved sluggishly.
“Keep the cabbie!” Pitt ordered.
“He’ll wait,” Stoker assured him. “Haven’t paid him yet.”
Pitt held his hand over the gun in his pocket and moved forward, his feet silent on the rough cobbles. He strained to listen, but he could hear nothing except the faint drip of water from the eaves. The man in the doorway stirred and lifted his head. He was a stranger.
Where was Tellman? Would they find only bodies, injured or dead, in the alley? No, that was absurd. The man would hardly be sleeping in the doorway if there had been a battle. Perhaps he wasn’t asleep, just drunk?
Were they too late? Or wrong. It was all misinformation. Pitt half turned to look at Stoker.
Stoker glanced up at the sign, now behind them, and then before Pitt could stop him, he went round the corner. He swiveled and strode back in barely two seconds.
“Wrong place,” he said, his voice tight. “There’s no one there!”
He broke into a run, reaching the cab and grasping the driver’s coattails to demand his attention. “Is there another Tailor’s Alley?” he asked as Pitt and Jack reached the cab and climbed back in.
“Tailor’s Row a mile away,” the cabbie replied.
“Then get to it!” Stoker ordered him. “Fast as you can!”
Grumbling, the cabbie obeyed. They jolted forward again and followed back alleys, avoiding the main traffic. Pitt was totally lost. They lurched and slithered like a drunken eel through one shortcut after another until they pulled up again, and this time there was no mistake. The sound of gunfire was clear even before their feet touched the cobbles.
Stoker threw a few coins to the cabbie, then followed after Pitt and Jack.
Another gunshot rang out, then a crack and a whine as the bullet hit stone, ricocheted and was lost.
The fog closed over them, muffling sounds. From what Pitt had heard, the shots were coming from the other end of the alley, fired toward them. Now the silence was heavy. He strained his ears, and heard brief, slithering footsteps, a voice, and then nothing.
Jack was beside him, gun in his hand. Stoker was a few yards away, on the other side of the alley and moving toward the corner, where he would be able to look into the other alley and see what was happening.
“Tellman!” Pitt called out, then immediately moved a few yards.
A shot rang out, ricocheting off the stone wall where Pitt had been.
There was a shout from ahead, then silence.
The fog drifted, constantly changing the shape of things.
Suddenly there was another shout, and a thudding of feet. Someone swore and there were more shots, then a cry as if at least one bullet had found flesh. More shouting. Voices Pitt did not know.
Stoker was out of sight, already around the corner.
Pitt inched forward. He could see a figure flattened against a doorway opposite him, bent over a little as if to protect one arm. His other held a gun. The man was average height, and thin, like Tellman, but his face was turned away so in the meager light Pitt could not be sure.
In the deeper shadow ahead of Pitt someone raised an arm, then as he fired toward the figure near Pitt, another man ducked and ran closer, holding his fire until he was almost to the doorway. He was thick, heavyset.
From the other side of the alley, Stoker fired at the heavyset man and he went down immediately.
The fog cleared for a moment. Four figures appeared at the far end of the alley and there were several more shots fired. A bullet struck the wall next to Pitt and sent up fragments that stung his cheek.
Pitt shot back. He was now almost certain that it was Tellman in the doorway, standing awkwardly as if he had been hit.
The men at the far end of the alley were inching forward. There was no cover except the alcove of doorways, no more than six or eight inches deep.
Stoker fired two more shots, which were answered immediately.
Four men. Was that all? Could there be a fifth, or even a sixth, moving around behind them?
“Watch your back!” Pitt called out to warn Jack and Stoker. “May be more behind us.”
Jack swore, his voice a little high as if his throat were closing up, but he turned sideways to look. He was just in time. He knocked into Pitt’s shoulder to send him sharply to the right, almost losing his balance, as another volley of shots rang out, all close around them. One actually tore the sleeve of Pitt’s coat.
Jack let out a sharp cry, muffled instantly. His breathing became rapid, turned to gasps for a moment, then steadied again.
“You hit?” Pitt asked, his heart pounding.
“Not badly,” Jack replied. “Just my arm.” He raised his own gun and shot back, three times. There was a cry as the man behind them staggered and fell.
Ahead there was a shout of rage and three men at the far end charged forward.
Pitt fired at them until his gun was empty. Tellman crumpled and slid down the doorpost into a huddle on the ground.
Pitt reloaded and went forward, shooting at the men ahead. He aimed for their bodies; there was no choice. All he could think of was Tellman, wounded, perhaps bleeding to death. Between all three of them they probably had only a few rounds left. Every shot must count.
One of the men coming toward them floundered and fell facedown on the cobbles, his gun clattering over the stones.
Stoker and Jack were both firing.
Another man fell. For an instant his police uniform was clearly visible. What the hell had they come to that they were killing one another in a fog-bound alley?
Then another thought forced its way into Pitt’s understanding. If anyone had heard the gunfire and called the police, they would see Pitt, Stoker, and Jack-three men in civilian clothes-firing on police in uniform! Tellman would be in uniform, but who was to say they had not shot him too! Not Tellman if he were dead! Was this what had happened to Lezant? Who was to say what had happened and who had shot whom? Only the survivors!
Pitt raised his gun and shot straight at the man ahead of him. It was as if he were a boy again, on the estate, shooting pheasants. You aimed for a clean kill. He squeezed the trigger. Handguns had little aim, not like a rifle. But they were close to each other, just a few yards.
The man went down.
One of the men shouted, “Don’t shoot! I give up!” And the next moment his gun clattered on the stones.
The other man hesitated. A shot from Stoker crackled a yard from him.
“I give up!” he shouted, a high-pitched sound in the dark and the fog. Then his gun too fell to the ground.
Jack stood holding his gun in his good hand while Stoker ran forward and cuffed both men with their own manacles.
Pitt hurried over to Tellman. He was crumpled up, but definitely still breathing, although his face was creased with pain and there seemed to be a lot of blood on his arms and chest.
“Hang on,” Pitt said as gently as his own ragged breath would allow. “Let me see.”
Tellman relaxed a little, allowing Pitt to look at his wounds, but the fear did not leave his face.
There was shouting behind them now, and a clatter of horses’ shod feet on the stones.
Stoker was yelling but Pitt could not make out the words.
Someone came up behind him.
“Let me see,” he said firmly. “Need to get him to a hospital.” He put his hand on Pitt’s shoulder. “You’ve done all you can. I’m a doctor. Let me see!”
Then there were more people, other police from somewhere. The gunshots had been heard and help sent for.
Jack was beside Pitt. In the lamplight his face looked pale. There was blood on his sleeve and his coat was ruined, but he looked relieved, almost happy.
Two men were lifting Tellman. Pitt followed them to a cab, then turned to help Stoker explain to the sergeant who seemed to be in charge.
“Special Branch,” he said simply. “Sorry about this. It’s about the Lancaster Gate bombing…”