Peter paused, listening.
In the darkness he could hear the intruder a flight or two below, breathing softly, and trying no doubt, to conceal that telltale sound. The man was likely disoriented. The passage was confusing, even when you knew where all the ways of egress lay.
For a moment the darkness seemed to press in on him. Reason struggled with panic. The dark was simply an absence of light; it had no texture, no weight. He could breathe as easily at night as in the daylight.
He hated these old passageways. They were useful, of course, but the walls were so close, built to last forever, of thick cold stone. You could yell your bloody head off inside here and no one would ever hear…
Impatiently, he shook off these thoughts. He couldn’t afford to get careless. He had already been careless in trusting that no one else knew of the outside entrance. Criminally careless. He must be getting old.
So which of them was it, skulking there in the shadows beneath him? Sid Hall or Charlie Ames? Or Mutt and Jeff? Was it only one of them or some combination? But Grace had said “a man,” which seemed to indicate she hadn’t recognized their intruder. Was that because she hadn’t seen him clearly or because she didn’t know him? Was there another player? Were they about to meet “The Man”?
Peter heard the furtive scrape of shoe on stone at the bottom of this flight of stairs. That was good. That gave him something else to think about besides the narrow confines of the passageway. He could focus again.
The intruder was taking the turn toward the stockroom entrance. Peter was good at judging sounds in darkness. He could risk jumping the bloke, but caution stayed him. Sid or Charlie would be armed and Peter didn’t want to risk a gunshot in these close quarters.
And then from above came the sound of charging rhinoceroses. Peter wheeled but the herd was upon him. He went down hard against the wall, but caught himself, twisting his knee in the process. The herd went on over the precipice. Only it turned out to be just one rhino, Monica’s don, the bonnie Scotsman, taking a header down the staircase.
Peter’s hand shot out, locking in Calum’s thick sweater, yanking him back. Calum’s roar cut off midbellow and he landed awkwardly on his hands and knees. Some colorful and erudite language followed in decibels that rang off the rock, but Peter didn’t stay to listen. He could hear his quarry, the rasp of leather soles on stone, fast withdrawing.
As Peter vaulted over Calum’s fallen form his knee twinged painfully, but he ignored it and sped on. He knew this passage well, but was careful even in his haste.
A flashlight flicked on ahead of him, a little circle of light bouncing down the stairs. The intruder was abandoning stealth for speed. The light searched out the treacherous accordion of steps winding down to the ground floor of Rogue’s Gallery.
Peter’s interest was piqued. Did the intruder know the trick to opening the secret door from the inside? Or had he taken this route by accident?
They were nearly to the bottom of the passage now. Peter slowed and then stopped, watching the circle of light slide along the walls of the hidden chamber. Yes, the other was searching for the catch. Peter could just make out the bulky form, blacker than the surrounding murk. A big man, tall and heavy.
The flashlight beam swung back his way, and Peter stepped aside lightly. But the other man had to sense Peter’s presence as easily as Peter had felt his. The intruder moved more frantically in the gloom. Apparently he didn’t know where the catch was, but he knew where it should be. Interesting…
Sure enough, a moment later the door to the stockroom slid open.
And there stood Grace, emblazoned in the outside light like some prim Valkyrie, sensible shoes planted firmly on the ground, a two-handed Viking sword upraised over her head.
“Oh no you don’t,” she said grimly. She made a motion like a housewife about to squash a bug with a broom. The weight of the sword nearly overbalanced her.
Peter wasn’t surprised when the intruder turned to collide into him. Peter didn’t like fighting, so he did his best to keep these kinds of encounters to a minimum. He used his right leg to sweep the other’s own right leg out from under him, and at the same time whammed the guy across the throat with his arm. The man went down like a shot bear, a snarling heavy thud.
The overhead light blazed on. Grace stood there with her hand on the switch, sword in hand.
Peter spared her a quick, “You couldn’t find anything smaller?” The sword was nearly as tall as she. He dropped to his good knee and pulled the intruder’s left arm back at a painful angle. “Stow it mate.” The intruder, who was dressed from head to toe in black leather, stopped flailing.
Grace stared down at the fallen man. “Who’s he?”
The man lifted a pain-seamed face. It was not the most comely of faces at the best of times, but it was a face known to Peter.
“Meet Roy Blade, the village librarian,” Peter said.
High Rhymes and Misdemeanors Page 41