by John Creasey
“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 abo
ut 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.
Chapter Twenty
Alone
There was a bright, flickering light in front of Roger’s eyes, which caused a pain like the slash of a knife across his forehead. The back of his head was sore. He smoothed his forehead with the palm of his hand; the pain eased and the light grew steadier.
He opened his eyes wide for the first time, and looked about him. He was in a tiny compartment, with wooden walls, a dusty, concrete floor and a dirty ceiling. The light came from a naked electric lamp suspended above his head, and it was swaying slightly to and fro.
He was lying on the floor, on his side. He straightened up slowly, until he was sitting with his back to the wall with his legs stuck straight out in front of him. The effort of moving made the pain at the back of his head worse, and the sharp knife-like flashes across his forehead came more frequently.
His hands and feet weren’t tied, and the door of the little cubicle was ajar. Was he in the cellar of the warehouse?
He stood up slowly.
The blood thumped through his head, and he leaned against the wall with his eyes closed until the pain eased. Then he moved away from the wall and stepped towards the door; every movement brought the blood flooding to his head again. How long had he been here? He glanced at the wrist-watch on his left wrist, and thought for the first time of Janet, who had given him the watch. Janet would soon be told that he was missing. It was nearly nine o’clock. And the watch was ticking. He must get a move on; open the door. Oh – his gun! He tapped his pocket, but it was gone.
He pulled open the door and stepped through into a passage. It was dark out here, the only light came from the room. He stood on the threshold, peering right and left, and heard rats scurrying. He tapped the floor with his toe; it was hard and smooth; more concrete. And it was cold down here.
Then he caught sight of some electric switches near the door, moved quickly, and pressed one down. Light came on some distance away along the passage. Great cobwebs hung from the ceiling and the walls, and everything seemed dirty. One of the walls was cemented, but the other was of brick – rough brick-work, with the mortar showing between the bricks and places where it had fallen out. The passage was narrow – about three feet wide. He heard a new sound.
At first it scared him, but he listened intently. It was a distant tapping noise, interspersed now and again with a loud boom. Men were trying to break through a wall – of course, that was it!
He moved cautiously towards the tapping sound and towards the light. They ought to get a pneumatic drill to force a way through the wall, that would get him out in no time.
The wall—was it a wall?—was a long way off.
Why hadn’t the crooks killed him?
Silly question. Murder was seldom committed without a powerful motive; even these men would hesitate to kill for the sake of it. He had been knocked out to prevent him from helping Clayton, that was all.
This was a hell of a long passage.
He turned and looked over his shoulder, seeing the light coming from the cubicle at least fifty yards away.
The tapping was nearer. Perhaps he was—
There came something new – a fierce, wild roar, blasting the air with a stunning crash.
Explosion!
The ceiling and the floor moved darkly, as if they had been stirred up by a gigantic spade, and then he heard the roar of falling earth and bricks and stone – and felt the blast. It swept him off his feet and blew him yards along the passage. Not only him, but earth and bricks and dust, so that he was caught up in a fantastic maelstrom.
He was just aware of the tightness and difficulty of breathing, of being lifted off his feet. He was surrounded by dirt and dust, was struck a tattoo of blows on his back, his arms, and legs – he’d been turned round although he did not realise it.
He crashed down on to the floor and lay still. Debris fell about him, something cut his forehead. He couldn’t see, gulped for breath, then began to cough. It was dark again.
The spasm of coughing ended, leaving him limp, weak, dazed, and not fully aware of the fact that he was breathing more easily now. He lay there for a long time, until the throbbing in his ears grew fainter and he was able to move his arms and legs. He tried to get up, but a heavy weight pressed on his back and legs. He managed to press his hands against the floor, to try to lever himself up with his arms; but couldn’t manage it.
Something was pinning him down. His fingers went into something soft. It felt like pushing his fingers into the soil of the ground when he was planting in the garden.
The ceiling had come down and the earth above had been loosened. He was buried alive, and …
Then a second explosion came, something smashed on his head, he lost consciousness again.
Sir Guy Chatworth, big in sandy-coloured plus fours, wearing a bright-blue, pork-pie hat, stood by a hole which had been made in the wall of the warehouse cellar, nearly an hour before. There had been a small, steel door, with piles of rubble behind it, and making the hole had been easier than tackling the door. Sergeant Peel stood by his side, with the superintendent and half a dozen men who were resting on their spades and shovels. Beyond the hole men were working – shovels were striking bricks and stone as they made a narr
ow tunnel through the earth, but it was a slow business.
Peel was saying, “We were nearly through when we heard the explosion. The blast knocked half a dozen of us over, and it was some time before we were able to get working again.”
Chatworth grunted.
Peel moistened his lips.
“No way of telling how much earth we’ve got to move. We’ve had an engineer in from the docks. We’ll have to start carrying the rubble from the passage into here, so that there’s room to move, and shore up the roof. There isn’t room for more than one man at a time, with a shovel or spade – that’s part of the trouble. And the engineer says he can’t get a mechanical cutter into the confined space. We’ve got a team working and they’re bringing some buckets so that we can shift the rubble.”
Chatworth grunted again.
The superintendent said: “Can’t be sure West’s in there. Might have been taken out at the other exit.”
Chatworth looked at him balefully. “Know your district, superintendent?”
“Every inch of it, sir.”
“Then why can’t you tell us where the other end of this tunnel comes out?” Chatworth went forward and looked through the hole in the wall. The men, working by the light of hurricane lamps, were stripped to the waist.
He turned away.
“Got maps of the vicinity?” he asked.
“Oh yes, sir,” said the superintendent. “We’ve some at the station, but I’ve sent to the Town Hall to collect others from the surveyor’s department. It’s possible that this passage leads to another warehouse. Underground passages aren’t unusual round here – some old sewers were converted after the main sewers were laid deeper.”
Chatworth nodded and moved off, stepping gingerly over the sacking. He reached the door at the extreme end of the sacking, then suddenly turned round.
“Peel!” he called. “Peel!”
Peel went forward.
“Thought you were at Perriman’s factory,” said Chatworth.
“I am, by day, sir.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I telephoned to report to Mr West, and learned what had happened, so I came straight over.”
