They ran as fast as they could to the end of the street, Freddy hustling Miss Flowers along and not stopping to look behind him. Fortunately, Miss Flowers was more nimble than one might have supposed, and got up quite a turn of speed without Freddy’s help. When they reached Bayswater Road they turned left and ran across the road into the park. Once among the crowds they stopped to catch their breath.

‘I do hope you’re not hurt,’ said Miss Flowers.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Freddy. ‘I’ve no time for it, anyway. We have to stop Peacock and Bishop. They’re going to kidnap Rowbotham and shoot him.’

‘Oh, dear me!’ said Miss Flowers in dismay. ‘Is that what they’re doing? I had no idea of it.’

‘They kept it very quiet, as you can imagine. But they’re going to do it soon, and I have to find a way to stop them.’

‘But how?’

‘I’m not sure. I shall think of something in a minute. Now, you’d better go and telephone Henry Jameson. After that, talk to the police. There are enough of them here to stop an army of assassins. In the meantime, I’ll try and warn old Rowbotham.’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ said the old woman.

‘When all this is over I shall kiss you, Miss F,’ said Freddy. ‘I had no idea you were working for Intelligence. It’s just lucky you turned up when you did.’

‘Not lucky at all,’ said Miss Flowers. ‘Mr. Jameson was looking for you all yesterday and had a watch kept on your flat as he suspected something had gone wrong. When the motor-car turned up he had it followed and sent me along to find out whether you were inside it. With any luck they’ll have arrested Mrs. Schuster by now.’

‘Good Lord!’ said Freddy, who had begun in recent days to doubt the competence of his masters. ‘Jolly good show, what?’

‘At any rate, there ought to be someone I can speak to hereabouts,’ she went on. ‘Mr. Jameson has a few men standing by, as he suspected there would be trouble—although as far as I know nobody expected anything like this. I only hope we can stop it.’

‘So do I,’ said Freddy grimly. He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s nearly four. Rowbotham’s due to speak about now, I think. There’s no time to wait until we’ve managed to find your chaps, as they might put the plan into action at any moment. I think I shall just have to risk going in there myself. At any rate, I might be able to waylay Rowbotham and stop him from falling into the trap.’

‘I shall find someone and return as quickly as I can,’ promised Miss Flowers.

She departed with celerity and Freddy looked across at the stage. There was no-one up there at that moment, but in front of the stage three circus performers dressed in yellow were keeping the crowd entertained with somersaults and feats of agility. St. John had mentioned that there was to be something of the kind, Freddy remembered. By the stage was the small tent in which Rowbotham was to be attacked. Were Peacock and Bishop waiting there even now? How did they intend to stop anybody else from entering? By their authority as Committee members of the East London Communist Alliance, he supposed—for nobody would expect official representatives of the rally’s organizing body to have any nefarious purpose in mind, and most people would be quite likely to do as instructed if turned away from the tent. Freddy was wondering how best to proceed when he noticed that a small group of men were now standing on the stage. One of them was heavy-set, with lugubrious features and a red nose. Freddy recognized him as Mr. Rowbotham himself. The union man conferred with the other two men, who appeared to be assistants or secretaries, then moved forward, to a smattering of cheers and applause, and began to speak. The crowd, including the circus performers, fell quiet and listened. Rowbotham was not a natural orator, but he had a simple, no-nonsense way of expressing himself which endeared him to his many supporters. Freddy had listened to his speeches often enough, and in any case had no time to listen, for there was not a second to lose. He began to push his way through the crowd towards the stage. Unfortunately, his attention was on his objective and he was not looking where he was going, and as he went he trod heavily on the foot of a man who was eating a pork pie, causing him to drop it on the ground.

‘Sorry, I’m in a terrible hurry,’ said Freddy, and attempted to push on. But the man was not in a mood to let the offence pass without redress, for he was tired, wet and hungry, and his corns were paining him, and this young fool had not only aggravated his existing affliction, but had also done him out of his dinner.

‘Oh, no you don’t,’ he said, moving to block Freddy’s way. ‘What d’you think you’re playing at? You can’t just run off and leave a man’s pie in the mud. What are you going to do about it?’

To judge from the smell of him, he had been drinking, and he was clearly in a bad temper. Ordinarily, Freddy would have bestowed his most ingratiating smile upon the man and pressed a few shillings into his hand, but he had no money on him—presumably his note-case had fallen out of his pocket at some point while he was unconscious on Thursday night—and so he had nothing to offer by way of recompense.

‘Why, I—er—’ he said. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry. I’d stump up if I could, but owing to certain unfortunate contingencies I’m afraid I’m a little embarrassed for the necessary at present.’

‘What?’ said the man suspiciously.

‘He means he’s got no money,’ said a sharp-looking fellow standing nearby.

‘Well, that ain’t good enough,’ said the offended party, and made a grab for Freddy’s collar. Freddy stepped back hurriedly, but in his haste slipped on a patch of mud and fell over. He struggled to his feet and prepared to flee. With the queer sort of sixth sense which often prevails in such cases, the people in the vicinity had begun to anticipate an entertainment, and a small crowd was now gathering. This drew the attention of two constables, who pushed their way through with a view to forestalling any disturbance.

‘What’s all this, then?’ said one of them, regarding Freddy as he attempted ineffectually to brush the dirt off his coat.

‘Trouble,’ said the sharp-looking fellow briefly.

‘Well, then, you two had better come along with us,’ said the policeman.

‘Oh, but I can’t,’ said Freddy in some dismay. ‘I must get to that tent over there. It’s dreadfully important.’

‘What’s so important?’ said the policeman.

Freddy lowered his voice, aware that many ears were listening.

‘I’m with Intelligence,’ he said. ‘There’s a plot to shoot Rowbotham, and I have to stop them.’

The two policemen eyed him—dishevelled, covered in mud, and still sporting the black eye he had received on Tuesday during the fight between Trevett and St. John—and quickly drew their own conclusions as to the extent of his grasp upon reality. Freddy saw that he was unlikely to win this argument, and decided not to waste time in pleading his case. He turned and made a dash for it, treading once again on the foot of the man he had bereft of his pie as he scrambled through the crowd towards the front. The two policemen followed, but by taking a turn to the left and doubling back on himself he succeeded in shaking them off. He hoped they would give up the search, but he could not spare the time to worry about them, for on the stage Rowbotham was showing signs of coming to the end of his speech. Freddy was about to head towards the steps at the side of the stage, when he heard a voice calling his name and he turned to see St. John and Mildred Starkweather coming towards him.

‘Hallo, old chap,’ said St. John. ‘Pretty-looking shiner you’ve got there. Not as good as mine, of course.’ Indeed, St. John’s face was a riot of colour, although he seemed cheerful enough. ‘Mildred put some stuff on my bruises and they’re clearing up nicely.’

Freddy reached a decision.

‘Never mind that,’ he said. ‘I need your help. It’s urgent.’

‘What’s up?’ said St. John in surprise.

Freddy explained as briefly as possible, to exclamations of astonishment.

‘Look here, you’re joking, aren’t you?’ said St. John at last.

‘I’m deadly serious. Peacock’s in there with a gun, and if we don’t hurry it’ll be too late.’

Freddy’s face was so grim that they had no choice but to believe him.

‘But what are you going to do?’ said St. John.

‘I’m going to try and stop them, but I need you to get Rowbotham out of the way. Go onto the stage and get him as far away as you can. I was going to do it myself, but he doesn’t know me, and he’ll be more likely to do as you say. I’m expecting reinforcements at any minute, but if we don’t do something soon it might be too late.’

‘You’ll do it, won’t you?’ said Mildred to St. John.

St. John looked at Mildred, then set his jaw.

‘Of course I will. Rowbotham’s a good chap. You can rely on me, Freddy.’

‘Splendid,’ said Freddy. ‘Just remember, whatever you do, don’t let him go into the tent.’

‘You wait here,’ said St. John to Mildred. ‘I won’t have you getting hurt.’

She nodded, wide-eyed, and watched as St. John and Freddy departed. Four policemen were standing near the tent, watching Rowbotham and scanning the crowd, looking out for trouble. At the door of the tent stood a stony-faced man whom Freddy recognized immediately as the one who had come in the car with them. His heart beat fast. The plan was going ahead, then. It looked as though Miss Flowers had been right when she said that Theresa Schuster was likely to have been arrested, for evidently she had not been able to get to her co-conspirators and warn them of the danger. But where were the Intelligence men? Where was Special Branch? They must surely arrive at any moment. Until then, Freddy would have to shift for himself or disaster might occur.

On the stage Rowbotham coughed and moved on to his concluding remarks, as his two assistants took notes. St. John stood by the steps and awaited his moment, while Freddy went around to the back of the tent. Here there was another flap, outside which a motor-van bearing the name of a bakery firm was parked, its engine running. A man was sitting in the van, smoking, sheltering from the drizzling rain. This must be the van into which the conspirators planned to bundle the unconscious Rowbotham, after which he would be shot dead. Then the van, with Rowbotham’s body in it, was to be abandoned, and the killers would drive away in the hired car. After that, they had planned to stage Freddy’s death and put it about that he was the assassin, acting on the orders of Intelligence. It looked as though the man in the motor-van was supposed to be keeping watch on the back of the tent, to ensure that nobody got in, although he was not exactly doing his job properly. Freddy decided to take the direct approach. He sauntered up to the van and knocked on the window. The man opened the door and regarded him suspiciously.

‘I say,’ said Freddy. ‘If I were you I’d make myself scarce nowish.’

‘What d’you mean?’ said the man.

‘Why, the game’s up,’ said Freddy. ‘The police will be here at any moment, and if they find you then you’re quite likely to find yourself on the receiving end of twenty years’ hard labour. That’s if they don’t hang you, of course. I haven’t read up on sentencing rules lately, but I seem to remember it doesn’t matter whether you fired the gun or not; if they think you had anything to do with it then they’ll send you to the gallows just as cheerfully as they will the murderer himself.’

The man regarded him blankly, confirming Freddy in his initial impression that the conspirators’ driver was not the most quick-thinking of men. He sighed and brought out the pistol he had taken from Mrs. Schuster.

‘I see you’re having a little trouble. Does this make things any clearer?’ he said, pointing the gun at the man’s chest. ‘To be perfectly honest with you, I have the most awful aim, but it ought to be easy enough from this distance, I should think.’

‘Gawd!’ exclaimed the man. ‘All right, there’s no need for that. I can take a hint.’

‘Hardly,’ said Freddy, watching as the man drove off. He turned back to the tent. ‘Now what?’ he said to himself. His original vague idea had been to intercept the men as they came out with Rowbotham, using Mrs. Schuster’s unloaded gun as a threat. It was hardly the best plan, but it was the only one he had. But since Rowbotham ought to be quite safe thanks to St. John, there seemed no sense in Freddy’s putting himself in danger. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to stand outside the tent, wait for Miss Flowers to arrive with help, and only bring out the pistol if necessary. He peered in through the flap cautiously. It was dark inside, but he could just make out Peacock standing by the front entrance with the stony-faced man. There was no sign of Bishop. Freddy withdrew his head and pondered what to do. He looked about him, and to his dismay saw the two constables from whom he had just run away heading in his direction. At any moment they would see him. There was nothing for it: he slipped silently inside the tent and stood in the shadows. Much to his relief, Peacock and the stony-faced man were looking the other way, out through the front flap, and did not hear him come in. He stole forward a foot or two and stared out through the front opening, which was a large one. He could just make out Rowbotham’s feet on the raised stage. St. John was there, watching intently and awaiting his moment. Freddy waited a minute, then sidled away quietly, intending to see whether the policemen had gone. He turned, and bumped straight into Sidney Bishop, who was just then coming in through the back entrance.

‘Here, what’s all this?’ said Bishop in astonishment. His eyebrows drew together in cold displeasure, as Freddy inwardly cursed his bad luck. ‘How did you get here? Peacock!’

Peacock turned, saw Freddy and brought out a revolver—presumably the one with which they were intending to kill Rowbotham. Freddy backed away, but stumbled against a pile of ropes which had been left on the floor. There was no chance of making his escape now.

‘Judson,’ snapped Bishop to the stony-faced man. ‘Stand by with the chloroform. Watch out for Rowbotham. You,’ he said to Freddy. ‘How did you get away? Where’s Theresa?’

‘Somewhere outside,’ lied Freddy. ‘She thought it wasn’t safe in the car so brought me out. I shook her off.’

‘And came here?’ said Peacock.

‘I thought I might be able to persuade you not to go ahead with it,’ said Freddy. He knew it was the thinnest of thin stories, but he did not want the men to get the idea that they had nothing to lose, for then they might start shooting.

‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ said Bishop. ‘What have you done with Theresa? Peacock, search him.’

Peacock grabbed hold of Freddy and patted his pockets. He brought out the derringer and handed it to Bishop. They both looked grim. Peacock placed his own gun against Freddy’s heart and pulled back the safety-catch.

‘Where is she?’ he said.

‘I left her in the car,’ said Freddy hurriedly. ‘Truly I did. Look, you can’t shoot that thing in here. It’ll make the most frightful noise and ruin your plan to pin the blame on me.’

‘Don’t shoot him yet,’ said Bishop. ‘He’s right. We need to get Rowbotham first. Don’t worry—Theresa can look after herself. She won’t say a word if she’s caught.’

Peacock threw a disgusted look at Freddy and lowered the revolver.

‘I’ll keep an eye on him,’ said Bishop, raising the derringer. ‘You go and help Judson.’

Peacock reluctantly put the revolver back into his pocket and returned to the tent entrance to watch. Now was Freddy’s moment to escape from Bishop, who was evidently unaware that the derringer was unloaded, but he did not do so, for just then there was a burst of applause outside as Rowbotham’s speech came to an end. Freddy watched, holding his breath, as Rowbotham turned and began to walk towards the steps which led down to the tent, in company with his two secretaries. At that moment, through the tent flap Freddy saw three pairs of legs clad in yellow jump onto the stage, brightly-coloured streamers waving and fluttering behind them. The three acrobats began to skip around the two secretaries, winding the streamers around them playfully. There was a ripple of laughter from the crowd. Rowbotham had not noticed, and continued towards the steps. Just then Freddy remembered something: the coded advertisements had referred to ‘tumblers.’ Could this be what they meant? Yes, of course! The acrobats had been employed to create the distraction and keep Rowbotham’s assistants on the stage, giving the conspirators a valuable few extra seconds in which to execute their plan. But where was St. John? Freddy watched anxiously, and breathed a silent sigh of relief as he saw his friend rush up to Rowbotham and accost him before he could begin to descend the steps. Peacock, standing by the front flap, shifted and clicked his tongue.

‘Damn!’ he said.

Freddy was just contemplating whether to seize the moment to make his escape when to his consternation he heard a booming voice ring out, and saw the familiar figure of Ivor Trevett ascend the steps to the stage two at a time.

‘Rowbotham, old chap,’ said Trevett familiarly, and clapped the union man on the shoulder. ‘Marvellous speech. Now, I want to speak to you. I’m on in a minute, but let’s get out of this filthy rain.’

Before St. John could say a word, Trevett turned and conducted Mr. Rowbotham down the steps, talking all the while. Rowbotham had completely forgotten St. John, who could do nothing but hurry after them. The three of them entered the tent at the same time. Freddy lifted his eyes to heaven in exasperation.

‘No time for that now,’ said Peacock smoothly, stepping forward. ‘Trevett, you’d better get back on the stage. They’re running late and you don’t want to keep them waiting. Bagshawe, what are you doing here? Get off with you. You know you’re not allowed in here.’

But St. John was unable to contain his indignation at Trevett’s unwitting destruction of the rescue plan.

‘You fathead!’ he said crossly to Trevett. ‘Don’t you know what’s going on?’ He turned to Rowbotham. ‘You’d better come outside, sir. It’s not safe here.’

‘What?’ said Rowbotham.

Trevett cast the briefest of contemptuous glances at St. John, and turned his back on his rival.

‘I don’t know who this fellow is,’ he said to Rowbotham. ‘Now—’

This was the moment in which the conspirators had intended to strike, but this unexpected intervention by Trevett and St. John had thrown the whole thing up into the air. Judson was taken aback, and was looking to Peacock for direction. Surely they would abandon the plan now? But Freddy had reckoned without Peacock’s audacity. He saw Peacock put his hand into his pocket, and instantly understood what he meant to do. He ran forward and threw himself at Peacock.

‘Oh, no you don’t,’ he said. ‘St. John, help me!’

St. John ran to assist. Trevett, still not understanding what was going on, and seeing his friend Peacock apparently being attacked two against one, strode forward and pulled St. John away, leaving Freddy to grapple with Peacock alone.

‘What the devil are you up to now?’ said Trevett to St. John.

‘You ass!’ exclaimed St. John, attempting to free himself from Trevett’s grasp, but Trevett held him firmly, and so St. John could do nothing but watch as Freddy and Peacock struggled together and Freddy did his best to prevent his opponent from shooting anybody. But Peacock was taller and stronger than Freddy, and at last succeeded in bringing the revolver out of his pocket. He levelled it at Rowbotham and pulled the trigger, just as Freddy seized his arm again. There was a ringing report which caused several people to cry out, and the shot went wide. The jolt caused Peacock and Freddy to overbalance, and they fell to the ground, Freddy still trying to get hold of the gun. Trevett in his shock had let go of St. John, who now ran forward to assist. Between them they managed to wrench the gun from Peacock’s hand. St. John gave a grunt of triumph, but they had reckoned without Bishop, who just then moved forward and fired the little derringer at Freddy. The trigger clicked harmlessly, and Bishop gave an exclamation of anger and instead cuffed Freddy across the head with it, knocking him sideways and causing him to drop Peacock’s revolver. Peacock had just made a dive for it when suddenly the tent was full of police and men with guns, who laid hands on Peacock, Bishop and Judson with great efficiency, disarmed them and placed them in handcuffs.

Freddy lay, dazed, on the ground, as the men swarmed around him, barking orders and asking questions.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ said a voice above him.

‘Bit of a headache,’ he managed. ‘You won’t mind if I don’t help clear up, will you? I’m rather comfortable down here.’

‘Concussion, by the looks of it,’ said someone else. ‘Better get him to a doctor.’

Freddy let them talk. He had no intention of moving. If they wanted a doctor to see him, then that was entirely their affair. Just then someone came and stood over him, and he squinted up and saw a pair of round spectacles. It was Henry Jameson.

‘Good work,’ said Henry. ‘But if you’re going to do this sort of thing in future, perhaps you’d better let me know first.’

Then he went away and began giving quiet orders, as Freddy lay on the cold ground and waited for the doctor to come.