by John Creasey
He heard a fire engine roaring, and it rang its bell, apparently for his benefit, clattered past him and then swung round a corner and went the way he was going. It soon disappeared from sight, although he was doing fifty. When he reached Earl’s Court, he saw a crowd already gathering, and a policeman obviously on the lookout for him.
“It’s a little complicated to find the place, sir, but you turn right here, and then …”
“Get in, and guide me.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Anything developed?” Gideon asked as the man sat down, and he knew that this constable, like most who knew him only as a name, was surprised that he talked like a human being.
“Nothing new as far as I know, sir, but I haven’t been at the scene myself.”
“Hmm. See that fire engine?”
“Mr. Wragg sent for it, sir.”
“Ah,” said Gideon.
The route was complicated all right, but the journey only took a few minutes. He pulled up near the cul-de-sac. On the other side was a small park, with a single lamp burning in the middle of it. Two policemen were on duty there. Then Gideon reached a corner, with the constable by his side, and saw at least twenty men, six cars and the fire engine; the firemen were already running the turntable up toward the window of a house, but it didn’t seem to be the house where the Prowler had been trapped. Wragg was on the lookout, and came hurrying, tall and supple and fresh looking although he’d been on duty just as long as Gideon; that was the difference ten years made.
Yet Gideon was desperately anxious.
“Anything new?”
“No, been waiting for you.”
“See any more of him?”
“We use the blower every two or three minutes and tell him we won’t hurt him if he comes down, but that’s all. We’ve got men upstairs outside the girl’s flatlet, but I don’t want to force a way in that way. There are two doors and the Prowler’s almost certainly got them both locked. While we were getting both doors down he could strangle her.”
“Hmm,” said Gideon. “What do you propose to do?”
“I think we ought to try to get in from the roof,” said Wragg, and pointed. “That’s the house - one with the white paint.” Two mobile searchlights had been rigged up, and were shining toward the window from which the Prowler had shouted. “See the way the eaves hang? If we could get a nimble chap up there, with someone to hold onto his feet, he could hang over the edge upside down, and see inside. If he had tear gas - I’ve sent for some bombs and masks - he could fill the room with the stuff, and give time for the fire escape and some ladders to be run up to the window.”
That was all sound enough.
“He might hear the noise on the roof,” Gideon objected.
“We’ve got to take some chance,” argued Wragg. “If you ask me, he won’t let himself be captured if he can help it. Behaves as if he knows he’s finished, and he might as well make it worth while. We can get up to the roof from the back. I’ve already had some ladders rigged up. Care to see?”
“Yes. If we go straight ahead with the fire escape turntable, you think he’ll realize it in time to do more damage?”
“Sure he will,” said Wragg. “Look at the position of that window. He can see nearly everything that’s going on, and with a man on top of a swaying turntable, you can’t judge the position to the inch quickly. Once we reach that window, it’s got to be quick.”
“Yes,” Gideon agreed again.
As he spoke, the man who used the blower called out again, and down here his voice was deep and almost too vibrant. There was no response this time, and no sign of movement at the window. Wragg had given orders, and ladders were being placed near the wall, so close that they couldn’t be seen unless the Prowler leaned right out. Once the police gained a few minutes to work in, the ladders would be run up to the window and the turntable moved into position.
“Let’s go round the back,” said Gideon.
Wragg led the way, and a man brought him two teargas pistols, rather larger than army revolvers but much lighter. Just round the corner there was a narrow service alley, with a cement path which led to a small back garden of the house. Police were in strength here, too, and neighbours were watching from lighted windows and back doors.
“All for one man,” Wragg said, almost bitterly.” Twenty or thirty to one, and we still can’t be sure of stopping him doing any harm. I’ll have the pants off Cobley, the copper who …”
“Probably feels a damned sight worse than you do,” said Gideon. “Tell me about the girl up there.”
“All we know is what we got from the people on the ground floor - the owners of the house. They had it turned into one-room flatlets, and let them to businessgirls. The girl’s named Hayling, Marjorie Hayling. Aged twenty-nine. Been here eighteen months. Her boyfriend lives a few streets away; we’ll probably have him on our rump when he gets to hear of it. The flatlet itself is reached by the top landing. It’s a kind of attic room, the only one on that floor. There’s a landing door and a tiny hall, bathroom on the right, bed-sitter straight-ahead. I’ve seen a similar entrance downstairs, and the double door makes it the easiest place in the world to barricade. We wouldn’t have time to stop the Prowler killing her. I’ve got the stairs lined with men; if he should try to get out we’ll have him,” Wragg added. “Trouble is that you can’t be sure which way he’ll jump. He’s crazy.”
“He knows what he’s doing,” Gideon said grimly. “He’s frightened.”
They reached the back of the house and the ladders which had been run up to the roof. A man in plainclothes was halfway up the ladder, and climbing down. He was a little out of breath when he reached the ground.
“What’s it like up there?” asked Wragg.
“Not too bad,” the detective officer said. “There’s a chimney stack we could fasten a rope round, then we could rope one man to it and he could hold the chap who was going to break the window. Shouldn’t cause too much trouble, but it’s a long way to fall.”
“Have a fire sheet hanging out,” said Wragg.
“Tell the Prowler what we’re up to,” Gideon objected.
There was a pause before Wragg looked toward the service alley, where two men were approaching, one wearing a helmet, one bareheaded; there was sufficient light from the nearby houses to show that obviously he recognized the man, and he scowled.
“That’s the copper who let him go. All right, all right, the one who spotted him, too! George-“
“Hmm?”
“We could promise the Prowler that we’d let him go; it might work,” said Wragg. “We could withdraw the nearby men, and have the whole area sealed off.”
“Yes,” agreed Gideon ponderously, “we could. But we couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t kill the girl before he left. I know we can’t be sure she’s alive either, but …” He broke off as the two newcomers drew up, the constable drawing himself rigidly to attention. He was obviously a youngster, and one of those who had barely scraped into’ the Force by the five feet eight inches height regulation. The light was just good enough to show his tension.
Wragg said to the plain clothes man with him. “Well?”
“Cobley would like to speak to you, sir.”
“He’s got a tongue, hasn’t he?” Wragg said nastily. “What is it?”
Bad, thought Gideon, very bad. It wasn’t until they had authority that the best and the worst came out in a man, and for Wragg to talk to anyone like this in front of the others, especially in front of the Commander, was a clear indication that he had a lot to learn about handling men. Pity. This could so easily break this Cobley.
Cobley said abruptly:
“I would like to volunteer for the roof job, sir. I’ve had training in the army. I’m sure I could do it.”
Wragg stared.
Gideon felt helpless. He wanted to whisper. “Don’t turn him down, Wragg, don’t kill everything he’s got.” The silence seemed to drag unbearably, but in fact it wasn’t yet ten min
utes since Gideon had arrived, not more than three since the report had come from the roof.
“What boots you wearing?” asked Wragg abruptly.
Ah!
“Regulation, sir, but I could take them off.”
“All right,” said Wragg. He wasn’t gracious, but that didn’t matter; obviously he’d seen the folly of smacking Cobley down too hard. “Where’s that tear-gas bomb?” Another plain-clothes man handed it to him. “You say you’ve used these, Cobley.”
“Yes, sir, during my army training.”
“Do you know what we want to do?”
“Break the window and fill the room with gas before he can do any harm to the girl, and give the others time to get in.”
“That’s right,” said Wragg. “If you make a noise on the roof, or do anything wrong, you might make him turn on her. And if you fall you’ll break your neck.”
“I think I can do it, sir.”
“Right,” said Wragg and turned to Gideon “I’m going up to hold his legs. Feel like coming?” He didn’t add that he thought Gideon was too heavy for the roof, just looked as if he hoped that Gideon would realize it himself.
“No,” said Gideon. “I’m going round to the front and I’m going to talk to the Prowler while the ladders are put ready and you’re on the go. Good luck, Cobley.”
“Thank you, sir,” Cobley was still very taut.
Gideon hurried round to the cul-de-sac.
In that room the Prowler was standing by the window, now peering out, now turning round to look at Marjorie Hayling. She was sitting bolt upright, and the fluffy jacket was loose round her shoulders. There were red, puffy marks at her throat. Several bruises were already discolouring, and her eyes still held the brightness of her tears, but she had won control of herself, and talked rationally and quietly to him.
A different voice boomed over the blower.
“Hello, Prowler! This is Gideon of New Scotland Yard. I want to talk to you. Open the window.”
The Prowler didn’t move.
“I want to talk to you; open the window,” Gideon called. His voice was deeper than that of the first speaker, but it wasn’t so vibrant.
The Prowler flattened himself against the wall as he looked down into the street, at the strangely distorted-looking people there, the cars, the fire escape with the turntable some distance from the window. He could not see close to the wall below, could not see the ladders being carried stealthily, almost flush with the wall. His hands were raised in front of him, the fingers clenching and unclenching.
“Open the window; I want to talk to you,” came the deep voice.
“Why - don’t you see what he has to say?” the girl asked huskily. “He can’t hurt you from down there. Why don’t you open the window and speak to him?”
The Prowler did not move or answer, but his eyes swivelled round toward her.
“We’ve got all the time in the world,” Gideon called. “Just open the window so that we can talk.”
“Why don’t you?” the girl pleaded, and she did not stop even when the Prowler glared at her. “I don’t know what you’ve done, but I’m sure they won’t hurt you. You’d be wise to give yourself up.”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Why don’t you …” the girl began.
“Shut up!” the Prowler spat at her, and suddenly he pulled at the window with his fingers, straining and heaving to get it open; and he opened it an inch and put his face close to the opening and called, “If you don’t go away and let me go I’ll choke the life out of her!”
Then he slammed the window, and turned to face the girl, and she knew that he meant exactly what he said. Yet she did not flinch, just moistened her lips and said:
“It won’t help you if you hurt me, will it? If you kill me, you won’t have any chance at all, and they’ll hate you. But if you give yourself up …”
Gideon heard the shrill note of hopeless defiance in the Prowler’s voice, and he had a fair idea of what was going on inside the man’s head. For a long time he had got used to having everything his own way, and for a long time he had lived with only one fear: of the police. Now all those pent up fears were bursting out and he could not think beyond the burning desire to get away. Fear and tension bore at him. He had preyed on helpless girls for a long, long time, and now one was helpless in that room with him, and the only weapon he could think of was his power over her.
He was used to using such power.
He had used it murderously tonight.
He might again.
Gideon switched off the blower and spoke to a man standing by him, in a quiet voice which hardly carried.
“Tell that chap over there to start his engine.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have him drive to the corner, and keep the engine going,” said Gideon, “and tell two other drivers to start up, too.”
“Right, sir.”
The man went off, and a car engine broke the quiet. Now three extending ladders were in position, two men standing by each, ready to run the ladders right up to the window.
Dozens of people were staring up at the window, which was in the spotlight; many on their way to the station paused to look. There was a rumbling sound, of an underground train in the distance. The engines of several cars made more noise than there had been in the cul-de-sac all the time, but it seemed normal enough - as if several of the police cars were going away.
The noise would reach the Prowler, and would muffle any sounds made on the roof.
Then, Gideon saw the head of P.C. Cobley, edging over the guttering: and he saw the way his hands gripped the gutter. Gideon had passed the word that no one was to exclaim or point or draw attention to the roof, for fear the Prowler would notice what they were doing, and he had to guard himself, watching covertly, his heart sick with apprehension.
Cobley was much further over, his head and shoulders showing now. One hand disappeared; then he brought it into view again, holding a bomb. He wriggled forward inch by inch, and it seemed to take an age. The car engines were still warming up, and there was no sign of movement at the window of the room.
Now, Cobley was leaning right over, bent double at the waist. He was just above the window. A little further over, and he would be able to see into the room. Now the light shone on his fair head, and on the bomb, which looked almost black. Gideon could imagine the pain at his thighs as he put all his weight on them.
“For gossake get a move on!” muttered a man by Gideon’s side.
He was clenching his hands and gritting his teeth.
17 One Job Over
Everyone in the cul-de-sac was watching tensely, even though there was a risk that the Prowler would realize what was happening. There was no sign of movement inside the room, no shadow, nothing at all. Gideon moved toward the blower again, switched it on, and added to the almost screaming tension by saying quietly.
“You had time to think it over, now, so what about it? We won’t hurt you; come out and give yourself up.”
Silence.
Cobley edged still further on. He could not control the aim of the bomb yet; he needed another inch or two. The blood must have rushed to his head a long time ago. He might not be able to keep there much longer, might black out. Wragg would be stretched to his limit, too.
“Open the window and talk to me,” Gideon called, “Don’t be a fool. I might be able to strike a bargain with you.”
Silence.
“If you’re worried about the girl in Brixton, you needn’t be,” said Gideon. “She isn’t dead. We want to help you, but-we can’t if you won’t come and listen.”
Still silence.
Cobley was edging himself toward his left side now. In a moment or two his head would be below the top of the window, and the important thing was to distract the Prowler’s attention. There was no way of being sure that they could; a slight shadowy movement, even a rustle of sound, might be noticed.
Then the Prowler came close to the window.
<
br /> “Let’s be reasonable about it,” Gideon said, and he kept his voice quite steady. “Let’s talk it over.”
He could see the Prowler standing there, as he had a few minutes before when he had opened the window and shouted defiance. Now he hesitated. Cobley was lowering his right hand, and he was also being lowered slowly; it would be only a moment before he could act.
The Prowler opened the window.
“If you don’t let me go I’ll kill …”
Then there was a swift flurry of movement, the savage thrust of Cobley’s fist at the window, the crash of breaking glass. Cobley hurled the bomb as the Prowler backed into the room. Already the ladders were being run up, the fire engine and turntable were on the way; the little street seemed in turmoil as masked men stood ready to hurl themselves at the ladders.
Then a woman screamed.
Cobley was falling.
Two men rushed forward to try to break his fall.
And inside the room there was the cloud of gas, near the window, the girl on the bed, quite helpless.
“No!” she gasped. “No!”
She saw the way the Prowler swung toward her, and knew that if he could he would kill her. On he came and she screamed as gas bit at her eyes and nose and throat. He looked crazed as he reached her. She felt the grip of his hands, and did not think that she would ever breathe again.
Then a man came hurtling in at the window.
She felt the Prowler release her, saw him turn round, and saw the other man, blood streaming from a gash in his hand, leap bodily toward him. Other men followed, all masked and grotesque and moving swiftly.
The sharp pain at her eyes and nose was getting worse; she could hardly breathe; but there was no danger from the thin-faced man, no more danger from the Prowler.
“How’s Cobley?” asked Gideon gruffly.
“Broken right leg, cracked ribs, concussion,” Wragg said. “It’ll keep him away for a month or so! Not much doubt that the Prowler would have killed her if he’d had a little more time. Well, the Prowler won’t give the newspapers any more Roman holidays. The Hayling girl will be all right. There was hardly any need to send her to the hospital, but better to play safe.” He was talking a little too quickly, almost garrulously. “That’s the lot, I think.”
