As if by Magic
Page 28
Chapter Fifteen
Supporting himself against the wall, Jack watched Maguire’s face freeze in horror as Rackham’s men poured into the room. The blast of the police whistle was like a bomb going off in the dimly lit room. The shrieks of women mixed with the shouts of men and, through it all, Rackham was yelling at the top of his voice.
‘Everyone stay where you are! This is a police raid! Stay where you are!’ He looked over his shoulder to where Maguire was still standing, surrounded by the waiters, looking on in utter disbelief. ‘Make sure you’ve got him secure,’ he called. He raised his voice to a shout once more. ‘All the doors are locked and there’s no way out!’
Maguire tensed as a policeman approached. Jack, still regaining his breath, watched him intently. He saw his face harden and the gleam of metal as he drew a pistol from his pocket.
‘Look out!’ shouted Jack and launched himself at Maguire. The crack of the shot bit through the screams, followed by a grunt from the policeman as the bullet tore through his arm. The pistol went skittering across the floor. Maguire hit out blindly, catching Jack on the side of the head before wriggling away, out of his grasp. Blinking, Jack tried to grab him once more and failed. Maguire kicked out, got to his feet and ran for it. Jack rolled away from the flailing feet and, hauling himself up, chased after him.
Maguire dodged round the stage, heading for the back of the room. He leapt on to the bar, sending glasses, trays and bottles flying.
Scrambling after him, Jack saw him fling open a door at the back of the bar. ‘There’s another door!’ he yelled to the policeman thudding after him. ‘Lock the damn thing!’ Then he was down the staircase, hurtling after Maguire.
The staircase came out in the cloakroom in the lobby across from the doorway to the Continental. Jack saw the white, startled face of the cloakroom attendant as first Maguire, then Jack, pushed their way into the room. Maguire vaulted over the counter, evidently heading for the street, swerving as he saw the police blocking the door.
Jack followed him over the counter in time to see him disappear into the Continental. Women screamed and men shouted as Maguire raced through the dancers on the floor, thrusting them out of his way, heedless of overturned tables and crashing glass. With the part of his mind that never switched off, Jack registered how peculiar it was that the band continued to play as the breathy crescendo of the saxophone was nearly swamped by screams.
Maguire barged his way through a door at the back of the restaurant into the kitchens. A trolley laden with food went over in a smash of lobster claws, cutlery and glass. Maguire ducked round the kitchen table, skidding past bewildered waiters and a white-clad chef holding a pan. Jack saw him reach out in passing and grab a kitchen knife from the table.
He was heading for Dainty Alley. ‘Stop!’ roared Jack. ‘Maguire, you can’t escape!’ Once Maguire got into Dainty Alley the chase was over, for that entrance was blocked too, but Maguire was armed and Jack feared for the police on the other side of the gate. Jack saw a brief flash of white as Maguire glanced over his shoulder, then the chef loomed up between them, still holding the pan.
Jack thrust the man out of his way in time to see Maguire disappear through the door on to the bottom of the stairwell, the stairs which led up to the attic. There was a creak, a crash as if something had been dropped, followed by an odd, hollow bang, but when Jack reached the stairs Maguire had vanished.
It suddenly seemed very quiet. From behind him the restaurant was pulsating with noise but here on the stairs was silence. Ignoring the chef who had followed him out, Jack cupped his mouth in his hands, shouting up the stairs to the policemen he knew were at the top. ‘You up there!’
From the top storey, a policeman looked over the banister rails. He recognized Jack. ‘Sir?’
‘Come down, quickly. Leave a man on guard. Maguire’s escaped.’
The policeman ran down. It only took a moment but Jack was alive with impatience. ‘There’s no one on the stairs, sir,’ said the man when he arrived. ‘There’s a couple of doors on the way. I suppose he could have gone through one of them.’
Jack shook his head impatiently. ‘That doesn’t seem right,’ he muttered. ‘I heard a noise. I can’t place it.’ He walked into the tiny back yard. The light from the kitchen shining through the stairwell door funnelled on to the flags, making a wedge of sharp-edged shadows. He borrowed the policeman’s lantern and shone it round the yard. Nothing. He looked at the high wall and barred gate. There were men in Dainty Alley. ‘Hello!’ he called. ‘This is Major Haldean. Has anyone escaped?’
‘Not this way, sir,’ came the reply.
Jack swore with impatience and turned back to the stairwell entrance. Then he saw it. There was large square of coconut matting on the floor of the stairwell and it had been moved out of place. He lifted up the mat and there, set into the ground, was a trap door. ‘Got him!’ he said with deep satisfaction.
He hauled up the trap door, his lips curving in a smile as he recognized the creak. He shone the light down on to a mass of dark water about ten feet below. He put the lantern inside his waistcoat and sat on the edge.
‘Leave this open,’ he said to the policeman and then, without further ado, swung himself into the water.
He touched bottom briefly, falling against the wall of the tunnel, then the current picked him up and bore him away. Struggling to the surface and spluttering for breath, he struck out, half swimming, half carried away. It was numbingly cold and utterly dark. This was far more than a sewer, it was a river. The icy water knocked the air from his lungs, and he felt a quiver of fear as he realized he was going to end up in the Thames. Echoing up the tunnel, from far ahead, over the cold rush of waters, he could hear a faint splash. Maguire!
Light, dim reflected light, appeared ahead: he was coming out into the Thames. Then he was out of the tunnel mouth, beached and helpless on the river bank, the water flowing round him as he lay in the mud. The main force of the water thundered over his head as he lay under the lip of the tunnel, but in front of him was the black, light-streaked mass of the Thames.
He didn’t know how long he lay there, feeling his chest heave as he took in great gulps of air, but for a few minutes he was unable to move. Then, dragging his way through the mud, he crawled rather than walked to the side of the stream, leaned against the slime-covered stone blocks of the river wall and took in his surroundings.
Thank God the tide was on the ebb. When the river was full the tunnel entrance would be submerged and he would have been carried out into the Thames. With a start of surprise he recognized where he was. He was between Waterloo and Blackfriars Bridge and the Pegasus, close up to the temporary jetty, was riding gently on the river. The jetty was only forty feet or so away, stretching from the shore to the plane.
Then he noticed something else. On the bank of the river, black against the light, a man was sitting, shoulders hunched over in exhaustion. Maguire!
Jack dragged himself to his feet, steadied himself against the wall, then, as quietly as he could, walked to where Maguire was sitting. It was useless, of course. His feet slipped in the mud and shale and Maguire, looking round, caught sight of him.
Unbelievably, he got to his feet and ran. It wasn’t a fast run, but it was a run, and Jack, weighed down by his wet clothes with his breath coming in desperate gulps, ran after him. Even in these circumstances, Maguire kept his head. He wasn’t running blindly but making for the wall, where an iron ladder led up to the Embankment.
As Jack hauled himself up the ladder, he saw Maguire on the jetty. Maguire ran on to the Pegasus, making for the mooring ropes. He cast off and the seaplane started to drift into mid-stream. As Jack got to the end of the jetty, Maguire scrambled into the cockpit. The door to the pontoon opened and George Lassiter came out on to the little landing stage.
Jack, on the edge of the jetty, put all his strength into a shout. ‘George! Help!’ He saw George look at him, the surprise clear on his face. Jack took a deep breath and dived into
the river.
This time he hardly noticed the cold. He struck out, making for the drifting plane. On the landing stage of the pontoon, George coiled a rope in his hand and threw it. The rope smacked across the water in front of him. Jack grasped it, winding the rope round his hands as George pulled.
As the rope tightened, Jack heard the engines of the seaplane burst into life. He felt the vibrations down the rope as the plane gathered speed, threatening to shake him loose as he battled the current and the backwash, before he thumped against the curving, convex pontoon. George took the strain and Jack heaved himself up, feet scrabbling on the polished wood. He passed the port-holes, glimpsing white tables in the deserted dining room, then he was on the flat-roofed deck, with George’s strong hand grasping his coat between his shoulder blades, pulling him on board.
For a few seconds, no more, he lay exhausted. George was asking questions but he couldn’t make out what they were. He raised himself to his hands and knees and, with George’s help, staggered to his feet. ‘Maguire, George! We’ve got to stop Maguire.’
The ladder up to the rear of the cockpit was across the deck. They half ran, half slid to it and started to climb, grasping feverishly on to the rungs as the plane tilted. The plane lurched back and hit the water with a shuddering crash. As they reached the cockpit, they saw Nigel Lassiter and Maguire fighting over the controls. Maguire spun round, saw them, and lunged for the joy-stick.
‘Take her up! Take her up!’
With a scream from the engines, the vast plane lifted, then smacked down again. Nigel, face working in fury, struck out viciously as Maguire reached forward again. Maguire, flung to one side, shook his head as if to clear it, then sprang. Nigel, one hand on the joy-stick, lifted his arm to keep Maguire away from the controls, and was dragged to one side. His foot slipped on the rudder bar and the plane spun round, out of control.
Jack saw the arches of Waterloo Bridge loom before he dragged George to the floor, flinging an arm over him as the seaplane smashed against the central pier. For a few moments the world was full of rending, crashing metal and splintering wood, followed by an odd interval of near-silence while the engines continued to pulse.
Nigel stood up like a man in a daze. ‘The plane’s wrecked. The plane’s wrecked.’ He turned to Maguire. ‘You wrecked my plane.’ He reached out and, taking him by the lapels, shook him like a terrier with a rat. ‘You . . . wrecked . . . my . . . plane.’
Maguire, forced back over the side of the cockpit, raised his fists and started to hit back but he might as well have tried to fight through a brick wall. Heedless of blows, Nigel slammed punches into him.
‘Leave them!’ cried Jack as George, with a yell, ran to try and pull the two men apart. George ignored him, grabbing hold of Nigel. Nigel paused, looked at George blankly, before saying, his face as calm and his voice as steady as if he were making after-dinner conversation in the drawing room, ‘He wrecked my plane.’ Then, as casually as if he were swatting a fly, he flung off George and fastened his hands round Maguire’s neck.
Maguire’s eyes bulged. His knee came up convulsively, catching Nigel in the groin. Nigel grunted, slackened his grip and Maguire struck out. Nigel, caught off balance, fell back, taking Maguire with him.
There was a series of thumps, followed by a single high-pitched, seemingly endless scream. The engine note changed and a slushing, grinding noise filled the air. The engines faltered, coughed, and roared into full life again.
Jack dived for the controls and shut off the engines. They closed down with a roar and the noise of the propellers separated into single notes before they beat to a standstill, leaving only the sound of the river lapping against the sides of the pontoons.
‘Jack,’ said George, his voice horribly unsteady. ‘They fell into the propellers.’
Jack leaned his head back on the seat. ‘I know,’ he managed to say. ‘I heard them. I know.’
How long they were there he couldn’t tell. Afterwards he wondered if sheer exhaustion and over-stretched nerves had taken their toll for the next thing he was really aware of was George, standing up in the wreckage of the cockpit, shouting to someone on the bridge. Then George put an arm under his shoulders, helping him to his feet. ‘Come on, old man. Rackham’s got a boat here for us, but we’ve got to climb down to it.’
Jack blinked himself fully awake and, thankful for George’s support, hauled himself to his feet. Every muscle in his body ached and his ribs, where Maguire had kicked him, yelled a protest. He saw the worried expression on George’s face and summoned up a smile. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Of course you are,’ said George with a relieved grin. ‘Let’s get off this aircraft.’
They picked their way through the smashed cockpit over the deck and down what remained of the tangled ladder to the boat where Rackham was sitting with two officers from the River Police.
‘It’s a relief to see you again,’ said Rackham as the police steered the boat the short distance to the shore. ‘I didn’t have a clue where you’d got to until we got a call from the river men.’ He paused. ‘I gather Maguire bought it.’
Jack stepped on to the bank. ‘You could say that. Nigel too.’
‘Did he?’ Rackham winced. ‘That wasn’t supposed to happen.’ He was silent for a few moments. ‘Well, it can’t be helped, I suppose. Do you think you can manage the walk back to Saffron Place? We’re still clearing everyone out of the club. The AC’s directing operations but we can take you home from there – or to hospital,’ he added doubtfully, looking at Jack’s filthy, torn clothing and mud-covered face. ‘My word, you look a sight. I hardly recognized you under all the mud.’
Jack managed another smile. ‘You’ll eat a peck of dirt before you die,’ he said with an attempt at humour and was rewarded by a laugh from Rackham. He felt his ribs gingerly. ‘Despite how I feel, I don’t think there’s anything broken. Where the devil were you, by the way, when that bugger Maguire was giving me the third degree?’
‘A waiter came along, saw the office door was ajar, shut it, and stood against the wall. I couldn’t open the door without giving the alarm so I decided to wait a few minutes unless you blew the whistle in the meantime.’ He looked at Jack. ‘So he collared you, did he?’
‘Absolutely he did. It was a nasty moment. As I said, a plan never survives the first encounter with the enemy.’
‘Jack,’ said George soberly as they walked back to Saffron Place, ‘how on earth are we going to break the news about Nigel to my grandfather? Coming on top of what’s happened to David, this’ll kill him.’
‘David?’ It took Jack an effort to realize that George didn’t know the truth. ‘David’s all right.’
‘But he’s in prison.’
‘Not for long. He should be released soon.’
George looked at him in bewilderment. ‘But what about Culverton? He confessed to killing Culverton. I heard him, Jack. I was there when he said it.’
‘He’s all right,’ Jack repeated wearily. ‘I’ll tell you the whole story later but David didn’t kill anyone. He’ll be fine.’
They walked up Tilford Lane where a single police wagon still stood outside the Continental, rimmed by a party of police. Sir Douglas Lynton, the Assistant Commissioner, broke off from the group. ‘Inspector Rackham! This has been a stunning night’s work.’ He looked dubiously at Jack, then started. ‘Good God, Major, I hardly recognized you. I can scarcely congratulate you enough on what you’ve done.’
‘Thanks, sir,’ said Jack. He was so tired that it was a real effort to speak and he couldn’t get that slushing, grinding noise out of his mind. He didn’t want to be congratulated.
‘There’s one more body to be brought out,’ said Sir Douglas to Rackham. ‘Three people committed suicide rather than be arrested.’ He looked up as two policemen came down the steps carrying a covered stretcher. ‘This is the last of them. Who is it?’ he asked the leading stretcher-bearer.
The stretcher-bearer shook his head. ‘We don’t kno
w, sir. It’s a woman, that’s all I can say. We found her in one of the bedrooms. She’d shot herself.’
Sir Douglas stepped forward and drew back the cover on the stretcher. Jack felt rather than heard the agonized cry that George gave as they looked into the dead, distorted face of Stella Aldryn. It was over.
Chapter Sixteen
Only, of course, it wasn’t over. The next day, Rackham, Haldean and Dr Kincraig saw David Lassiter before he was formally released. The records from the club had to be gone through and Rackham, with occasional bursts of inspiration from Jack, started on the task of putting the information he had gathered into a formal report.
It was the following week when the letter arrived. It was from Anne.
. . . I know there’s far more to it all than either David or George can tell me. Please, Major Haldean, will you explain what happened? Grandfather and Peggy keep asking me questions and I simply can’t answer them.
Jack tossed the letter across the breakfast table to George. ‘How come you haven’t spoken to Anne? You were at Eden Street yesterday.’
George read the letter, crunching his way through toast and marmalade. He looked, thought Jack, remarkably embarrassed. ‘The trouble is,’ said George, fiddling with the butter knife, ‘it’s not so blinking easy. I feel such an idiot, being taken in by Stella, that I’d rather not talk about it, especially to Anne, and, of course, I don’t know how she feels about that swine, Maguire. I mean, it’s not very savoury, is it? Then again, I know Grandfather is relieved to have David back but Nigel was his son, too, and I don’t want to make it any worse for him. Besides that, Mrs Culverton was there yesterday and I can hardly talk about her husband in front of her. To be honest, I’ve kept my head down.’
‘Hmm, yes,’ said Jack. ‘I can see it’s difficult.’