Box-Hartley's scream died away, like a siren had just been killed.
She tried to stand up but I gestured to her with the dagger. "Sit on the floor and don't move," I said.
Box-Hartley pushed herself upwards and rested her back against the wall.
I said: "You planned to use this knife on me so don't for one minute imagine that I won't use it on you."
"I'm saying nothing," she said.
"You don't have to," I said. "I've worked it out. I should have done earlier. But I've done it now."
"Tough. You'll be too late to stop it."
In the background, the Light Programme radio announcer was telling listeners that Five to Ten - "a story, a hymn and a prayer" - was about to start. I wasn't going to have time for any of them.
When I'd been in the cop shop loo the day before I'd overheard Tomkins tell Ted: "Don't forget the VIP arrives sharp at eleven o'clock. He's never late."
I had sixty-five minutes to warn the cops. I picked the telephone off the floor and listened to the handset. No dialling tone. The thing was bust.
I had to stop this happening. But I couldn't leave Box-Hartley. She'd do her best to warn her co-conspirators.
I looked desperately around the room. On the far wall there was a door. A sign on it read: "WC". I gave a grim little smile. The initials didn't stand for Winston Churchill.
I said to Box-Hartley: "On your feet."
She didn't move so I walked across to her, grabbed an arm and hauled her up. She turned and spat at my face.
"And I mistook you for a lady," I said.
I marched her across the room, opened the lavvy door, and pushed her inside. I scanned the room. No window. A loo and washbasin and nothing else. Nothing Box-Hartley could use to escape.
She turned and tried to push past me, but I shoved her backwards and she sat involuntarily on the seat.
I reached smartly for the key and took it out of the inside lock. I slammed the door and locked it from the outside.
Box-Hartley hammered on the door and screamed: "Let me out."
"At least you're being detained at your own convenience," I said.
I could hear Box-Hartley still thumping the door as I ran from the building.
Albert Einstein said: "Imagination is more important than knowledge."
This thought popped into my mind as I floored the accelerator and sped the MGB out of the industrial estate into Carden Avenue.
What the old brainbox meant was that you can stuff your mind with facts but they won't mean much unless you can work out how they all relate to one another.
I'd been slow. I had all the facts, but I hadn't joined them together. I should have used my imagination.
I started to use it now as the speedo on the car climbed past sixty.
I saw the fact which should have triggered my imagination in Potter's job book, the night I'd searched his van. He'd had a painting job at 29 to 30 Brunswick Road in Hove. It was the building that housed the school Churchill had attended for a couple of years as a boy. I'd even told Shirley about it that night we'd had dinner at Antoine's Sussex Grill. Perhaps now he was retiring from Parliament he was making a sentimental journey back to the haunts of his youth.
I let my imagination rip. What do you do when you're having guests round? You spruce the place up a bit. It would be natural if you were about to host Churchill, to make sure the building was looking good. At least, the front he'd see when he arrived and the rooms he'd visit while he was there.
And if you had to get the job done quickly, what more natural than to call in a painter who just happened to be working in an apartment across the road?
When I'd overhead Tomkins in the cop shop loo, he'd said the visit was top secret. But the owners of the house would have to know in advance otherwise they couldn't prepare. They'd be sworn to secrecy, too, but it would be easy for something to slip out. Perhaps Potter picked up the reason for the rush job and passed it on to friends in the British Patriot Party. Perhaps Blunt. He'd have told Maundsley, who nurtured a deep hatred for everything Churchill stood for.
I jumped the lights at the bottom of Carden Avenue and powered the car towards Hove. I passed a telephone box and briefly wondered whether I should stop and call the cops. But would they take me seriously? As soon as Tomkins heard the tip-off had come from me, he'd dismiss it as a journalist's stunt. So I sped on.
I put my imagination to work some more. Potter struck me as being a lowly member of Maundsley's party. But after he'd provided the intelligence about Churchill's visit, he would have risen in the leader's opinion. Perhaps that was why he'd been given the job of picking up the waxwork figures after the theft from Louis Tussaud's.
And now I knew why Maundsley wanted the waxwork of Churchill. He had an assassin, perhaps a former Nazi with wartime experience as a sniper, to shoot Churchill. But if the sniper hadn't worked his craft for years, he'd need some target practice. What better than to try his skills on a life-sized model of his prospective victim? And of the people I'd encountered in this saga, there was only one person who fitted the bill as the assassin.
Conrad Montez.
The tango teacher with two left feet.
He would have been paid a bonus for bumping off Potter. Because Maundsley knew that Potter was a loner - and loners can be dangerous. But for Montez it would have been a useful dress rehearsal.
Maundsley had been clever. He'd distanced himself from the assassination plot by using Blunt to liaise with Montez. It was the Widow Gribble who'd first alerted me to the fact Blunt was a visitor at the Tango Academy. I imagined that if Maundsley used Blunt to liaise with Montez, he used the same ploy when dealing with Potter. Which underlined just what a ruthless bastard Maundsley was. Prepared to work with someone one day, kill them the next. For all his high-falutin' talk about a legacy for the future, the man was just a thug.
I avoided a milk-float by inches as I sped across Seven Dials. The milkman leaned out of his cab and shook a fist at me. I accelerated into Goldsmith Road wondering whether I was too late.
And whether I could do anything to stop the killing even if I wasn't.
The MGB's tyres squealed as I jammed on my foot brake and pulled the car into the kerb.
I was in York Avenue, just north of the junction with Lansdowne Road. Churchill's former school was around the corner.
I scrambled out of the car and hurried to the corner. I looked west along Lansdowne Road to the junction with Brunswick Road. An estate car, a Morris Minor, and a builder's van drove by. Nothing unusual there.
I was surprised there were few pedestrians in the street. But if the visit had been kept secret, there'd be no reason for people to congregate. A couple of uniformed coppers patrolled up and down outside the old school, about fifty yards along the street from where I was standing.
It looked as though the cops' aim was to keep the event low-key. It made sense. Keep the crowds away and the visit is simpler to manage. Besides, if this was a private visit, the low-key approach probably matched Churchill's wishes.
There was no sign of Tomkins. No doubt he'd wheedled his way into the official party. He'd be travelling in one of the back-up cars with Churchill's staff.
I'd decided what to do during my madcap race across Brighton. I'd warn the cops on duty that a sniper was planning to shoot Churchill. His car could be diverted to a safe place while cops were drafted in to search the area.
I sprinted up the street towards the two plods. I didn't recognise them. One was tall with a beaky nose. The other was fat with a double chin.
I said: "I'm Colin Crampton from the Evening Chronicle."
Beaky Nose said: "We know who you are. Trouble. Buzz off."
I said: "I know that Winston Churchill is due to arrive here in…" - I glanced at my watch - "…eight minutes."
Beaky Nose shot Double Chin a worried look.
Beaky Nose said: "How do you know that?"
Double Chin said: "It's secret."
I said: "Not to the
people who plan to shoot Churchill when he arrives."
Beaky Nose laughed. "Yeah, and then Martians will land in a space ship and cart his body off to a distant planet."
I said: "This is no joking matter. I've uncovered a plot to assassinate Churchill. I haven't got time to explain it all now. But we must stop him arriving and then search the surrounding buildings."
I grabbed Beaky's arm to emphasise the urgency.
Beaky brushed my hand away. "Assaulting a police officer in the execution of his duty. I can arrest you for that."
"We've got handcuffs," Double Chin piped up.
"And we'll put them on you unless you bugger off," Beaky added.
I was getting nowhere with these two.
I turned my back on them and walked away. I crossed the road thinking hard. If Montez was, as I suspected, the assassin, where would he hide out?
The building that had been Churchill's old school was on the west side of Brunswick Road. It occupied a site at the junction with Lansdowne Road. Montez would have two thoughts in his mind. First, he'd want a spot where he could get a clear shot across the junction as Churchill stepped out of his car. Second, he'd want a simple exit so that he could make a getaway before the cops had worked out where the shot had come from.
I had a quick look round. The east side of Brunswick Road had a row of four-storey terraced houses. If Montez could get into one, he'd have that clear shot across the junction.
Potter, I remembered, had been painting one of the apartments in the road. According to his job book, that was why he'd landed the school job. The owners had seen his board in the street. But there was no board there now.
I looked at the fronts of the houses. They'd once been grand residences. But now they'd been converted into apartments. It was easy to tell because the curtains were different on each floor. Except for the first house on the east side of the road. The house with the best view of the junction. The top apartment had no curtains. Perhaps that had been where Potter was redecorating.
I glanced around. Beaky and Double Chin had disappeared around the corner into Lansdowne Road. Probably on a look-out for Churchill's car.
I hurried up to the front door. There was a row of four bells, one for each storey. Three had names against them. The top one was blank. The apartment must be empty. That would be why Potter had been painting it.
The front door was locked. But that wouldn't have troubled Montez. When Potter was painting the apartment, he'd have had a key. Even if he'd had to hand back the original, he could have had a copy cut for Montez.
The lack of a key was a trouble for me. I couldn't ring bells and announce there was a dangerous gunman in the top apartment. If there were, it would put the other residents in harm's way as they rushed out to see what was happening. If there weren't, I'd be in even more trouble with the cops.
I was wondering whether to ring one of the bells and blag my way in when the door opened. An old bloke with white hair and a walrus moustache stood there. He was holding two empty milk bottles in his left hand.
I glanced at the bell nameplates and said: "Thanks. Just come to visit Sarah Wainwright on the second floor."
He said: "She's at her sister's this morning."
I said: "No, her sister called to say she had a cold."
"How come I saw Sarah leave in her overcoat and that horrible brown felt hat not half an hour ago? And who are you anyway?"
Behind me a car horn blared. I glanced round. A Rolls Royce turned into the street followed by a police car.
I pointed. "Who's that in the big car?" I said.
The bloke stepped out to take a look. I nipped round him into the house and slammed the door behind me.
I could hear him hammering on the door and shouting as I powered up the stairs.
On each landing, there was a window out on to the street.
I glanced out of the window on the first floor as I raced by. The Rolls Royce had stopped.
I was panting by the second floor. The chauffeur had climbed out and opened the Rolls's rear door. A plume of cigar smoke blew into the street.
I was retching for every mouthful of air at the third. Churchill was out of the car and shaking hands with a little knot of people who'd come out of the house.
I staggered towards the door of the apartment. I was wobbly on my legs, like I'd spent a night on the tiles. My breathing was coming in gulps.
And then I heard a loud crack.
And my breathing stopped.
My first thought was: too late.
But perhaps not. The crack came from outside. I glanced out of the window. A police motorcycle had ridden into the street. It backfired again. The same crack.
My legs felt firmer. My breathing had steadied.
The door to the apartment was ajar. I charged towards it and barged through.
I was in a room filled with the acrid tang of new paint. The colour was deep red. So was the smell.
Montez was kneeling by the window. The leather bag I'd first seen at the Tango Academy was beside him. He'd raised the sash window - must only just have done it - and a rifle rested on the sill. It was like a short-barrelled hunting rifle I'd once seen as evidence in a court case about a bank robbery. Ideal for carrying discreetly in a leather bag. The rifle had a silencer fitted. Just as it must have had for Potter's slaying.
Montez looked my way as I stumbled into the room. His eyes were part surprise and part determination. I'd added the surprise. The determination was already there.
And the determination was winning over the surprise.
But for a decimal point of a second he was confused. His brain gave him two orders at the same time. But one contradicted the other.
The first said: shoot Winston Churchill.
The second said: shoot the man who's just blundered into the room.
There was a pause - barely as long as one beat of a butterfly's wings - before his brain told him which voice to obey.
He had to shoot Churchill. It was why he'd risked his liberty to travel to England. Why he'd sacrificed his dignity to masquerade as a tango dancer. How he'd regain his pride after a lifetime living as a fugitive.
He clamped his eye over the rifle's telescopic sight, adjusted the direction of the barrel, and fired.
But before he'd viewed his target, I'd spring-heeled off the floor.
Before he'd adjusted the barrel I'd taken three leaps towards him.
And before another beat of a butterfly's wings, I'd crashed into his prone body.
He cannoned sideways. The rifle barrel swung into the air as it blasted off. Somewhere in the street I heard glass breaking.
Montez retained his grip on the rifle. But he'd had to withdraw it from the window. He scrambled to his feet and stepped back. He wanted to get enough distance between us so that he could aim the rifle and shoot me.
His mouth twisted into a snarl that would have looked great in the Kiss of Fire. But his eyes burnt with a fiery rage that suggested a kiss was the last thing on his mind.
He stepped backwards and swung the rifle in an arc. I moved towards him. Tried to kick him in the balls. A sneaky trick I learnt on the rugby field rather than the dance floor.
But Montez saw my kick coming and sidestepped it.
He nearly had the rifle on me now. I rushed forward, pushed the barrel away, and tried to crush him in a bear-hug. It would have been easier to try it on a real live grizzly.
But Montez couldn't push me away easily without letting go of the rifle. Somehow I found the strength to cling on to him. We shoved back and forth around the room, like we were dancing.
Montez tried to break free but I pushed in again. Back and forth we went, watching our footwork so we didn't over-balance. We both knew the first man down would die. Would have to die.
Only one of us would walk away from this.
We moved towards the corner near the door. I shoved to push Montez against the door, but he shifted to one side. I slipped and Montez snapped free from my grip an
d stepped away. He moved his hands along the rifle like a man who treated it better than a woman. He had his hand on the trigger before I could rush him.
I closed and gripped him hard.
The rifle pivoted upwards between our bodies. Its barrel pointed at the ceiling. I crushed in harder and grabbed for Montez's throat. His hand let go the rifle and he shoved hard on my arm to stop me throttling him.
The rifle slipped between our bodies. I caught a flash of fear in Montez's eyes. He knew that if he lost the rifle, he'd be finished. He pivoted back from me and reached for the rifle. But it had slipped towards the floor. I could feel the stock resting on my knee.
Montez snatched at the rifle and I felt its length twist towards us. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead as he grappled with the gun. It was pointing upwards at my head. I felt the sinews in Montez's arm stiffen as he grasped the trigger. I pushed back hard.
And then the rifle fired.
An explosion filled the room. So much for the silencer. I'd be asking for my money back. My ears popped and the rest of the world sounded a million miles away.
And then I realised the left side of my face was covered in blood.
It ran freely across my cheek and dripped off my chin. My left eye was sticky and my hair matted. And still more blood poured down my cheek.
I gripped Montez like he was a stair rail and there was a thousand feet drop below. But Montez was gripping me.
More blood flowed across my face. It seeped down my neck, inside my shirt.
And then we fell.
We lay on the floor, entwined in a death embrace, as the blood continued to flow.
Chapter 24
I was breathing like there were only two gulps of air left on earth and I had to have them.
My vision had faded. It was like a gauze blind had been drawn down over my eyes.
A heavy weight was pressing on my stomach. I realised that Montez was lying on top of me. I reached out and found the rifle had fallen to one side of us.
The blood had stopped pulsing over my cheek. But it was still sticky to touch.
The Tango School Mystery Page 20
