“I’m going to have a good try,” Adams returned, sounding more confident than he felt. “You’re not the only one with a gun.”
Butch sneered. “You can’t kid me,” he said. “I know you flatties don’t pack a rod. I warn you. Get the hell outta the way or I’ll put the blast on you.”
Adams was groping in the darkness as Butch talked. His hands touched a figure and he drew it towards him. He hoped it was solid enough to stop a slug.
“You’d better give up, Butch,” he said. “I know you—you can’t get away.”
Butch raised his gun and fired.
Adams felt the slug thud into the wax figure and he nearly dropped it. That shooting was a little too good, he thought, and gently lowered himself to the floor.
He could hear Butch creeping towards him. Reaching up he caught hold of the effigy and gave it a hard push in Butch’s direction.
The effigy crashed down nearly on top of Butch, who sprang to his feet and started back with a wild oath. He fired blindly and the bullet brought down a trickle of plaster from the ceiling.
The flash of the gun gave his position away. He was quite close to Adams who sprang forward and grappled with him.
As soon as Butch felt the detective’s hands on him, he went mad. No one was going to stop him from getting out of this house and away with the money. He let go of the belt and clawed at Adams’ face with his fingernails.
Adams had been in several “free-for-alls”‘ during his career as a policeman and had learned what to expect from such men as Butch. The moment he felt Butch’s nails on his face, he rammed his face against Butch’s shirt front and then jerked up his head, catching Butch under his chin. The impact stunned both men for a few seconds and while they regained their senses, they gripped each other’s arms and rolled across the room.
Adams was the first to recover and he lashed out, catching Butch a glancing blow on his cheekbone. The blow aroused Butch who countered with two heavy punches to Adams’ body.
“Don’t be a fool,” Adams panted, catching and holding Butch’s wrists for a moment. “You can’t get away and you’re only making matters worse—”
Butch jerked free and exerting every ounce of strength twisted Adams on his back. He clutched at Adams’ throat and at the same time, rammed his knee in his chest. He heard Adams’ breath come out with a rush and grinning savagely, he tightened his grip.
Adams could no longer breathe. He kicked and squirmed, but he could not shift Butch’s grip. The black cellar suddenly exploded into a mass of tiny, brilliant lights. In a detached, tired way, he realized that his chances of survival were slight. He struggled feebly, gripping Butch’s wrists, but he was helpless to break the stranglehold round his throat.
“This is where you get yours, copper,” Butch gasped, squeezing Adams’ throat with all his strength.
Then suddenly he stiffened and relaxed his grip.
“Something’s going on down there,” a man’s voice called from the head of the stairs. “Got a light, Jim?”
Butch, releasing Adams’ throat, leapt to his feet as a powerful electric torch swept the cellar. He caught a glimpse of his gun, lying near his feet and he snatched it up, backing to the far wall.
As he did so, the beam of the torch fell fully on him and a voice called: “What’s going on here?”
He could see the outline of a policeman’s helmet and without thinking, he raised his gun and fired.
The torch immediately went out and by the scuffle of feet he judged the policeman had beaten a quick retreat.
If he didn’t get out fast he’d be trapped, he thought, feverishly. Where had he dropped the belt? He couldn’t leave without that. He cursed the darkness and, dropping on hands and knees, he began to grope about the floor.
“Hey, you, down there,” a voice shouted. “Drop that gun and come up with your hands in the air.”
Butch continued to crawl on, feeling sweat running down his face and cold panic in his heart. He had got to find the belt. What a fool he had been to have shot out the light!
His hands swept across the floor in wide, frenzied circles. He touched Adams’ face and jerked back with a startled oath.
He could not remember where he had been standing when Adams had attacked him.
It was no good; he had to have a light. In a few minutes the cops would be here. They wouldn’t be the ordinary flatties, but the flying squad with guns.
“Okay, copper,” he called. “I quit. Lemme have a light—I can’t see how to get to the stairs.”
“Throw your gun away,” the policeman shouted back, without showing himself. “Right across the room and I want to hear it go.”
Butch pulled out his heavy cigarette case and tossed it into the darkness. It fell with a clatter and a moment later the electric torch lit up the cellar again.
Feverishly, Butch looked round. Adams was lying near him. Susan, curled up, her head on one arm, lay several yards away. Near her was the belt.
It had taken Butch a split second to spot all this. He dived towards the belt, snatched it up, spun on his heel and raced for the stairs. The beam of the electric torch hit him between the eyes.
“Drop that gun!” the policeman shouted, alarm in his voice.
Butch fired point blank and the torch fell out of the policeman’s hand as he slumped to the floor.
Butch kicked him out of the way and reached the head of the staircase. He stood for a moment glaring along the narrow passage towards the front door. As he hesitated, the door flew open and two policemen in flat caps sprang into the passage. Guns glittered in their hands.
Before Butch could jerk up his gun, one of the policemen fired at him. Butch felt the slug smash into the woodwork of the staircase, a few inches from his arm. He jumped back, tripped over the wounded policeman and fell backwards down the stairs.
“Look out, Harry,” one of the policemen shouted. “It’s Mike Egan.”
“I’ll look out,” Harry returned sourly and moved cautiously to the head of the stairs. “He’s got Jim, the rat.”
“Well, he can’t get away,” the other policeman returned. “You watch the stairs while I get Jim out of it.”
Butch, badly shaken, was crawling to his feet. He heard scuffling at the head of the stairs and he snapped up his gun and fired. Gunfire crashed back and two bullets thudded into the wall above his head. He dropped flat, sweating. These punks could shoot!
He listened, his mouth twisted in fear and rage, his gun pushed forward. He was trapped all right. Rollo had always said these damn British cops were dynamite. He gripped the belt—three million pounds and he wasn’t going to get a nickel of it! Well, he’d give ‘em a run before they got him and they wouldn’t get him alive.
Opening his coat, he buckled the belt round his waist. Okay, he was ready.
He might still get a break. A lucky shot might clear the way for escape, although he guessed, by now, the house had been surrounded. Well, it was no use staying here. He was going up those stairs with his gun blazing. If they killed him—well, it was better than a six weeks wait for the rope.
Suddenly a light flickered up and then a large ball of blazing newspaper was tossed into the cellar. The flickering flames lit up the darkness and gunfire crashed from the head of the stairs.
Butch felt a violent blow against his shoulder and reeling back, he dropped his gun. He fell forward on his hand and knees, cursing.
“Don’t move, Egan!” a voice called. “Or I’ll blast you to hell!”
Where was the gun?
Butch gathered himself together for a spring into the shadows. Then he jerked back.
Facing him, his gun in her hand, stood Susan Hedder, white-faced and wide-eyed with terror.
“Don’t move!” she cried hysterically, “or I’ll shoot!”
Butch flung up his hand. “Don’t point that at me!” he quavered, backing away. “You little fool! It’ll go off!”