I sneaked across the yard, keeping in the shadows, on the lookout for a window. I found one at the rear of the building within easy reach and fastened only by an inside slip catch. I levered the catch back, forced the blade of my knife between the sill and the frame and raised the window. It went up without noise. I took my time, pushing it up inch by inch until I had space enough to crawl through. I flicked on my flashlight to see where I was going. The round, bright beam lit up an unfurnished room, its floor covered with wood shavings and sawdust. I swung my leg over the sill and climbed quietly into the room.
A door by the window gave on to a passage, and at the end of the passage was a flight of stairs, and facing the stairs was another door. I took all this in with one brief glance and a flash or two of my light.
Before I moved out of the shelter of the room I was in I turned off my flashlight and stood listening. The shop and the apartment above was as quiet and as dark as a coal mine on a Sunday. I crept down the passage; using the light only when I had to, pushed open the door facing the stairs and peered into what seemed a big room, the far side of it stacked high with coffins. The first thing I noticed was the sweet sharp smell of formaldehyde, the stuff you pickle corpses in.
I slid into the room, closed the door and swung the beam of my light around the walls. There were about three dozen coffins stacked against the wall facing me: cheap, pinewood jobs that looked as if they had been knocked together in a hurry. Along the wall on my right were three better class ones: one a real humdinger in black ebony with silver handles. In the centre of the room was another even more gaudy effort in walnut with gold handles. In another corner of the room was a long marble slab with a deep sink close by where I guessed Betillo tidied up his corpses.
I poked around, lifting coffin lids, peering here and there, and feeling spooked, not knowing what I was looking for, but hoping I’d strike something. Eventually I did.
I had got around to the stack of coffins against the far walclass="underline" the cheap, pine jobs. The second of the three I looked into contained Anita Cerf.
I was half expecting to find her somewhere in the room, and had tensed my nerves for the shock of seeing that blood-framed face again. But in the hard, bright light of the torch she looked even more horrible than I had imagined. Betillo had embalmed her just as she was: he hadn’t attempted to tidy her up or fill in the hole in her forehead or even wash the blood from her face. The sight gave me a turn, and before I could control my jumping nerves, I dropped the coffin lid with a crash that sounded like a thunderclap in my ears.
I stood listening, my heart hammering and my mouth dry. Nothing happened. I was suddenly aware that I hadn’t a gun, and if I were caught here it would be easy enough for Betillo to stick a knife into me and sling me into the harbour, or if he didn’t want my body to be found, he could embalm me and keep me in one of his boxes for the next twenty years. The thought made me sweat, and I decided to get out quick and watch the joint from the alley until Kerman arrived with his gun.
As soon as I made this decision I couldn’t get out of the place fast enough. I tiptoed to the door. As I put my hand on the doorknob I felt it turn in my grasp. That sent my blood pressure up and my heart into my mouth. Someone out in the passage was coming in!
I snapped off my light, took three quick, silent steps back, away from the door, and waited. The room was now pitch dark, and the close, suffocating smell of the formaldehyde bothered me. I listened, holding my breath, peering into the darkness, waiting for something to happen.
There was a long, ghastly silence. The only sound I could hear was the dull thumping of my heart and the faint whisper of my controlled breathing. Then a board creaked close to me. Whoever it was who had come into the room must have had eyes like a cat. He was coming straight at me as if he could see me. The first warning I had of his nearness was a sudden increase of darkness as his form loomed up, and then before I could dodge, a pair of cold, hard hands shot out of the darkness and grabbed at my throat.
For a second or so I stood motionless, unable to do anything; fear, panic, cold feet, whatever you like to call it, paralysing me. Fingers dug into my neck, two thumbs sank into my windpipe. It was a savage, murderous grip that cut the air from my lungs and the blood from my head.
I controlled the instinctive urge to grab at my assailant’s wrists. From his grip he had wrists like steel, and I should be wasting precious time trying to break his hold, and I hadn’t a lot of time to waste. Already my head was feeling woozy and my lungs were yelling for air. I reached out and touched his chest gently, measuring the distance, then slammed in a right with everything I had. My fist sank into the arch of his ribs; his breath came out with a gurgling rush. The grip loosened on my throat, but before he could back away I uncorked another right to his body that sent him reeling into the darkness.
I touched the button on my flashlight. The beam hit Betillo as he came in a staggering rush towards me. His broad, flattish face was vicious with pain and animal fury. I ducked under a right swing that would have taken my head off if it had landed, dropped the flashlight and hit him on the side of his neck with a thump that sounded like a meat axe cutting into a side of beef. He lost balance and fell. I didn’t give him a chance to recover, and jumped him, landing with both feet on his chest, driving the wind out of him and crushing him flat. I sprawled on the floor beside him but he was fixed all right. I shoved away from him and got to my feet, snatching up the flashlight to look at him. He lay flat on his back, his body and legs squirming and thrashing as he tried to drag air into his flattened chest.
Leaning over him I grabbed hold of his long, oily hair and slammed his head on the floor. The thump shook the room. His eyes rolled back and he went limp.
The whole affair had taken about a half a minute of anima, furious fighting. Panting, I bent over him, making sure he was out. From the look of him he wouldn’t come round for hours, if he ever came round at all. I pulled open his coat, hoping to find a gun on him, but he wasn’t carrying one. I straightened, picked up my flashlight, wondering why Thayler hadn’t appeared on the scene. We had made enough noise to awaken the dead.
I went to the door, opened it and looked out into darkness. As I stepped into the passage the silence was suddenly broken by the choked bang of a gun. I ducked down, thinking someone was firing at me. Then three more shots went off, crashing through the house, deafening me Whoever it was shooting wasn’t firing at me. There was no gun-flash although the noise sounded close.
I crouched close to the wall, sweating and listening. I heard a door slam. Footsteps ran along a passage upstairs and another door slammed. Then silence.
II
I wasn’t anxious to go up the stairs. I had no idea what I was going to run into, and without a gun, I felt as defenceless as a snail without its shell. But it did occur to me that someone up there was getting killed, and maybe I should see if I could do anything about it; making a mental note to get my head examined when and if I got out of this jam.
I went up the stairs on hands and knees. Halfway up a cloud of gunsmoke drifted down to meet me. I kept on, making no noise, being as quick as I could without being reckless.
At the head of the stairs I took a chance and turned on my flashlight. I faced a short passage. Near where I crouched a door stood open, and in the light of the flash, gun-smoke drifted lazily into the passage.
No one took a pot shot at me, and I began to hope the guy who had done the shooting had vamoosed. But I still wasn’t taking any chances, and I listened, remaining on hands and knees, and after a moment or so I got used, to the sound of my heartbeats and the blood pounding in my ears and picked up another sound: the sound of breathing coming from the room where the shooting had been. At least I thought it was breathing, although it sounded more like a pair of bellows with a hole in them trying to operate, and then another sound came to me that sent a cold chill up my spine: the steady drip-drip-drip of water or something falling on the floor.