Chapter Nineteen

Hide-and-Seek

The sergeant nearest the stairs jumped forward as Roger glanced round at the man by the door and called: “Warn the men outside!”

The sergeant reached the top of the stairs as running footsteps sounded in the cellar, accompanied by raised voices – orders, Roger fancied. A door slammed. The sergeant slipped on the top step, and Roger grabbed him.

“There was a light,” said the sergeant.

It was pitch-dark now until Roger took out a pencil-torch, and its narrow beam moved about the space, showing the bottom step, the dust, the concrete floor. Another man switched on a more powerful torch. They could not see the walls, for this was a huge chamber – and they could not be sure that it was empty. The door, presumably that which had been slammed, was immediately opposite the foot of the stairs, about thirty feet away from them.

“Try to find a light-switch,” Roger said as he went quickly down the stone steps.

It struck cold.

Roger stood still, and the silence was broken by a sharp click of the switch. But no light came on.

From the ground-floor hallway, the superintendent called out in his deep voice: “All the roads covered outside. I’m coming down.”

When he arrived, Roger and a sergeant were examining the lock of the door, and another man was walking round the walls. The lock of the one door was modern, and it looked as if it had been recently fitted.

“Steel door, painted over,” said Roger. “Be quickest to get an oxyacetylene cutter.”

While two men went for the cutter and equipment, Roger and the Divisional man made a quick tour of the nearby streets and alleys.

Two of the Divisional men stood at every corner.

“Satisfied?” asked the superintendent, when they came within sight of the entrance to the derelict warehouse again.

Roger nodded.

“No one could have covered the place better.”

They entered the warehouse again and heard a hissing sound. From the top of the stairs they saw a goggled man on his knees in front of the door. The big cellar was filled with garish light, so bright that it dimmed the light from half a dozen oil-lamps which had been brought in and stood about the floor.

Already there were two straight cuts in the metal, near the lock, and the flame was cutting another line. Roger looked at it, sideways, keeping his eyes narrowed against the glare. Suddenly the flame swung away from the door and faded.

“Okay now,” said the man.

A policeman stepped forward and pulled at the door. It opened slowly.

Roger called: “Be careful. Keep behind the door, they may try shooting.”

But when the door stood open, nothing happened.

Roger stepped forward slowly, his gun raised.

The light behind him was enough to fill the entrance to the second room. There were no steps. The floor seemed polished. He knew that if anyone lurked inside, he would make a clear target, but someone had to go first. He passed through the doorway, with the superintendent and two others close behind him, and peered right and left. There were stacks of something which showed a pale, yellow blur on either side. He took another step forward …

His heel skidded, his feet shot up, he fell heavily on his back, exclaiming aloud as he fell. He lost his hold on his gun, and as he hit the floor, it slipped from his fingers and slithered along. The superintendent came to help – and also slipped. Two other men skidded and crashed down, unable to help themselves. In the doorway, detectives stood staring in astonishment.

Roger tried to get up, but his feet and hands slipped; he fell again, this time forward; his head, his knees, and his nose hitting the floor. He kept quite still for a few seconds, then slowly raised himself to his knees, but felt them slipping on the greasy floor. His hands were already covered in grease. He could see the others in the same plight, trying to get up, cautiously, tensely.

Torches shone into the room, and some of the lamps were pushed into the doorways, so that they could see every corner. Against the walls were stacks of cheese, bacon, boxes of canned food, and a few crates of butter, one of which had been broken open.

Roger tried to get up again, but couldn’t; he would have to crawl or slither away. The crooks had spread butter over the floor.

A new sound broke the scraping, slithering noises – something so unexpected that it made every man’s head jerk up and every eye turned towards the corner from which it came. A man coughed.

Roger got up on his hands and knees cautiously and then crawled, an inch at a time, towards the piles of provisions. He could see that the greased stretch of floor ran right across the room, but was only about four feet wide, and that he would be able to stand upright beyond it.

The superintendent stopped near him.

“I’ll teach ’em,” he muttered.

Two detectives still stood in the doorway, wary of the greasy floor. Others arrived with heaps of dirty sacking, put some down near the door, and then advanced slowly, covering the whole of the greased area. This led to another door, opposite the first, and Roger retrieved his gun and went to have a look at it. This door wasn’t steel.

“Need axes, do we?” asked the superintendent.

“Yes,” said Roger. He looked at the corner from which the cough had come and it came again. Piles of cheeses were there, all wrapped in muslin cheese-cloths.

“Get those cheeses cleared,” the superintendent said.

Men went gingerly towards the corner. Two came in with long-handled axes and began to smash at the door. Roger and the superintendent reached the cheeses.

It was easier to get a fair idea of the amount of foodstuffs stacked down here now. Certainly much more than the proceeds of the Perriman hold-ups – he estimated that there were twenty tons of bacon, several tons of cheese, thousands of cases of canned fruit and jam.

“I hope the Echo prints this,” said the superintendent sourly.

The cough came again, but it was farther away now. By then, most of the food had been cleared from the corner, and they could see a hatch with a broken glass top. There was only darkness beyond it – darkness and the fading coughing.

“I wish I knew where that leads to,” said the superintendent.

Roger stepped forward – and as he reached the hatch a flash showed up in the darkness beyond. He dodged instinctively as the report followed, and he heard the bullet smack into a cheese. The men darted to one side.

“We’ve got ’em,” the superintendent muttered.

Roger said slowly. “Maybe we’ve cornered them. We can’t raid ’em as we are. Better have tear-gas – how long will it take you to get some?”

“Quarter of an hour.” The superintendent gave the order in an undertone, and a man moved off.

“They can’t get away,” said the superintendent.

Roger said: “Let’s hope not. I’m going to try talking to them.” He raised his voice and called: “Ahoy, there!”

No answer came.

“Ahoy, there!”

Still no answer.

“You’re only wasting your time,” Roger called. “We’ll get you. And if you hurt anyone with that pop-gun, you’ll get ten years.”

He might have been talking to himself.

“Be careful, you’re getting too near,” the superintendent warned. “They’ll try—”

A flash and – crack!

Another bullet had buried itself in the cheese.

A new sound came, quietly at first but with increasing volume – the sound of running footsteps. Then there was a shot, nowhere near the hatch, not aimed at the policemen; they couldn’t even see the flash. Another shot, but the running footsteps came on. There was a man’s harsh voice.

“Get him – get him!”

Roger went forward, but no shot came. The footsteps were nearer, and the shouting was much clearer. He heard the bark of a shot, not aimed at him but at the running man. He flung one leg over the hatch, touched the floor on the far side, drew the other leg through …

Crack!

This time the flash was so near that it illuminated two things – the man who had fired and the figure of a man running towards Roger but still twenty or thirty yards away. He caught only that glimpse, had no idea who was running – but he heard other footsteps close behind. He glanced round, saw the superintendent outlined against the hatch, crouching low as if he were about to climb in, and then a man swore and another shot rang out.

“Watch that hatch!” roared a man inside this chamber. “Don’t let the dicks …”

His voice trailed off.

The running man had stopped, but Roger could hear his breathing. He could hear that of other men, too, on both sides of the hatch.

Did the crooks know that he, Roger, was here?

His hold on the gun tightened.

It was fairly light near the hatch, but the light soon faded and he could see only piles of boxes or crates, behind which all the crooks were hiding now.

He heard a stifled sneeze, followed at once by a flash which made everything seem bright, but caught only a glimpse of the man with the gun.

A man muttered: “They’ll be using weepy-gas in a minute, we’d better scram.”

The man they had first heard shouting said harshly: “We’re going to get that swine before we go.”

Footsteps sounded in the outer chamber; policemen were coming towards the hatch, probably with the tear-gas. Roger’s only task now was to prevent the crooks from killing the fugitive.

He raised his gun.

The man out of sight fired, and the shot seemed much louder. The flame was a vivid yellow, and in it Roger saw the fugitive.

It was Clayton of the Echo!

Clayton gasped and drew back. Roger fired at the man with the gun, and the bullet struck a box. There was an exclamation of surprised alarm, an oath.

“All right, Clayton,” Roger called softly. “Just hold on a few minutes.”

Clayton didn’t answer. “We got to scram,” a man hissed.

“We’re going to get Clayton,” said the man with the harsh voice. “He knows a lot too much.”

Something was tossed through the broken window and hit the floor, breaking with a little tinkling sound. The tear-gas. Roger grinned in his relief, then prepared to breathe in the gas.

There was a rustling movement behind him.

“That you, Clayton?” he asked softly.

There was no answer, but another phial of tear-gas broke and he could smell the acrid stuff. He took out his handkerchief and held it over his nose and mouth. A man began to cough, then others started, there was an end to silence. He heard shuffling footsteps; the crooks were getting out.

Something else came in at the hatch – and as it hit the floor it burst with a vivid, green flame, lighting up every part of this cellar – the dozens of packing-cases, the floor, the ceiling, Clayton who was crouching on his knees behind a case, three men who seemed to be a long way off, the clinging gas, billowing up now, the whiteness taking on a green tinge – Roger saw all that, but didn’t see the man behind him.

He felt a heavy, painful blow, and the blackness of unconsciousness.