by Mark Walker
“Fred, Tex has the Blood Stars!”
They crossed back toward the other side of the stage, when a sudden sound from above broke the silence, and a huge stage light came crashing down, landing just a few feet from the detectives. From above, there was the sound of running footsteps against metal. The sound traveled across the stage. Then more silence. But then came the low whine of machinery and the slight swish of the fog machine, and the stage began to fill very slowly with fog.
Brendalynn and the children appeared.
“Stay here, children,” said Riggs, “and I mean it!”
This time the children obeyed, for in fact they were quite frightened. Others were beginning to enter the wings from the green room.
Riggs moved cautiously onto the set. The first platform he reached was raked at a steep angle, and momentarily in the half-light he was disoriented. Then there was a whisking sound from above the wings. Instinctively he ducked, and just in time. A weighted sandbag attached to a long rope swooped down, just missing Riggs, and thudded onto the stage. Again, silence. Then there were strange, creaking sounds from the rafters above. A couple of the detectives entered.
“Does anyone have a torch?” Riggs shouted. “Well, use them!”
The detectives shone their torches round the theatre, but to little effect in the dim light and thickening fog. Swinging his stick, Kelly Riggs moved in an arc down the central platform, his back to the work lights, his eyes scanning the angled shadows of the set. Meanwhile, Bellows scrambled to find a way to operate the small follow-spot set in the wings. Although the detectives were armed, it would be useless and far too dangerous to fire their weapons in the semi-darkness. But then Bellows turned on the spotlight and swung it toward the batons and cables for the flying scenery above.
With a wild cry, a “rebel yell,” Tex appeared above them, standing tall atop the highest part of the central castle wall of the set, looking for all the world like a cowboy star ready to make his grand entrance. He leapt for a rope and suddenly swung down, catching Riggs completely off-guard, sending him reeling. Only the Anti-Gravity forces kept him from being hit harder. As he landed, he skidded across the raked platform into the stage left wings, where Tex was searching for a weapon. He might as well go out in a blaze of glory.
chapter twenty-six
Col de Mort
KELLY RIGGS ROSE, SILHOUETTED by the work lights and the fog. He advanced menacingly on the cornered crook. Suddenly Tex dove for the nearby property area, where several fencing foils stood in a stand. He grabbed one of them up and spun in one fluid movement toward Riggs and the detectives.
“What,” said Riggs smoothly, “no six-shooter today?”
Tex glowered at him. He aimed his foil toward Riggs’s chest. The other detectives stood paralyzed, while from across the stage Bellows used the follow-spot to illuminate every move. Brendalynn and the children watched warily beyond him. They all gasped in amazement when Kelly Riggs deftly twisted the top of his walking stick, and out came a long sabre blade. He threw the sheath of the stick aside. Tex froze up short, put completely off his guard, but he managed to recover quickly.
“Oh, tricks, now is it? I’ll show you tricks,” laughed Tex gleefully. He whipped round, and Riggs saw a flash as the cowboy actor applied something to his épée. Kelly Riggs was a skilled fencer. He had studied, played, and won a number of sporting tournaments all over the British Isles from the time he was twelve through his days at Cambridge. And even now he kept in form by way of scheduled matches at his club every other month. But this was not a tournament. He had no mask, breastplate, or gloves, and he found himself fighting for his life with an expert swordsman. Tex meant business. He was a dangerous and formidable opponent, and a slick acrobat. Riggs had watched the stage combat in admiration, and if Tex was in charge, he obviously knew his business.
Now Riggs’s blood ran cold, for he saw and instantly recognized that the blunt tip of Tex’s foil had been replaced with the obscure but deadly French col de mort, the “collar of death.” Needle sharp like the tip of an ice pick, the collar uses three prongs to fit snugly around the end of the épée, designed to kill.
“You’ll do well to drop that weapon and come along quietly, Martin O’Bannion, alias Tex, of the Black and Blue Hand!” Tex winced, his eyes darkening. “You haven’t a chance and the theatre is surrounded!”
Even as muffled bells and sirens were pealing and heehawing in the distance, Tex blared, “Oh, you’ve not got me yet. No one has. Come on, copper—en garde!”
Not waiting for a reply, he saluted in a sweeping gesture that turned into a lunge and went after Riggs in a furious attack that took the inspector completely by surprise. He recovered quickly, and counter-attacked, taking Tex somewhat off balance. But not for long. Fully engaged, Tex gave a short laugh as he bounded to his right and proceeded with renewed vigor. The air whistled, and the deadly col de mort came within inches of curling the edge of the inspector’s moustache.
They moved into an arc out from the stage wings, darting back and forth across the strange set, their shadows, cast from the work lights shining up from the orchestra pit, collapsing in upon each other. Bellows tried frantically to keep the spotlight on them.
It was a desperate contest. And an unusual one. A sabre against an épée. The sabre, heavier, was a cutting, one-sided blade. The épée was a slightly slimmer, lighter blade meant specifically for stabbing rather than slicing. Their blades tinged and dinged as they fought through the swirling fog. One of the detectives was trying desperately to turn off the machine. Tex had been wise to start it up, for it created just the confusion he needed.
It was all Kelly Riggs could do to contain the sprightly, nimble, whirling dervish in the cowboy hat that now confronted him. Sweat was beading on his straining brow. Tex kept pressing on, continually attacking. Parry, thrust, parry, thrust … pressing forward, ever forward. Riggs found himself on the defensive, making far more parries than thrusts, moving ever backward, edging closer and closer to the dark abyss of the orchestra pit, a good eight foot drop.
The épée with its collar of death suddenly went clean through Riggs’s tuxedo jacket, just under the left arm. He heard the fabric tear as it was withdrawn. Another inch or two might have been fatal. It took all his power to recover. He just avoided another thrust, and this time was able to do some fancy footwork and reply with a parry-riposte. But once again, Tex’s col de mort found his sleeve, slicing a ragged tear, and Riggs suddenly realized he was losing the fight under the relentless onslaughts from his opponent.
Then, as if the heavens had opened up, his luck turned, and a hard thrust from Riggs’s sabre put a slice in Tex’s sleeve, and a flicker of white skin and red blood appeared there. He continued his patient attack, backing Tex up against the edge of two platforms that met at right angles, literally backing him into a corner. But Tex fought back furiously. Riggs just managed to duck under the deadly lance, a rush of air raking across his head.
He recovered, feinting to his left, leading right. Suddenly it was all over. Kelly Riggs made a series of lighting swishes and swashes, and cut Tex’s épée blade clean in half. The tip with the col de mort went flying through the air, embedding itself with a twang in the stage floor. Tex cut an almost ridiculous figure in his black cowboy hat and western outfit, holding the stump of a fencing foil.
Riggs stepped forward, but before he could speak, Tex did something most astonishing. With a loud cry he dropped to the floor, then leapt into the air like a frog and landed on top of one of the platforms. He ran down the length of the platform, kicking the chest of a startled constable who was coming to intercept him. Tex launched himself, using the stunned detective almost like stairs, and was up and over him. Like a trapeze artist, he grabbed hold of a pipe on the edge of the set and swung down onto another platform, knocking aside two more constables.
He rolled and came up running, dashing across the fog-drenched stage. As Riggs and the other detectives converged to intercept him, he grabb
ed a coil of rope and leaped over the orchestra pit. He landed in the aisle and charged for the front of the auditorium, coiling the rope as he went. The detectives pursued clumsily, storming up the steps toward the lobby. There were shouts.
“He’s done a runner!” cried a startled Sergeant Bellows.
Tex raced up and into the lobby, through the stragglers and theatre staff. He burst out the doors fronting Piccadilly Circus, only to find himself surrounded by a small gang of the remaining press photographers, who began snapping away at his theatrical cowboy get-up. Fans and bystanders began to crowd in on him. Then a police car pulled up. At first he was startled by the flashbulbs, and indecisive, but then Tex saw the mounted constable, and beneath him, the means of his own escape.
chapter twenty-seven
The Getaway
TEX WAS LAUGHING WITH GLEE as he launched himself at the startled officer, knocking him into a crowd of onlookers. With his hat and lariat, he was truly “Tex” now. He wobbled a bit in the saddle as he grasped the reins hard, slightly disoriented by the AG effects. He quickly regained himself, and though he hadn’t any spurs, he kicked hard and let loose another wild rebel yell, as the horse tore forward.
They all stood stunned. Kelly Riggs broke the silence. “Come on, Sergeant!” he roared. “Get on the radio and have an all-points issued for him. It can’t be too difficult to spot a cowboy on horseback in the middle of London!” He, Bellows, Brendalynn, and the children raced for the Dasher, as Blaney threw him his keys and called, “Good luck, sir!” Then they roared away.
Roadblocks were set up, but there was no way to cover every avenue of escape. With a horse, Tex could maneuver much better than his pursuers in their cars. The Flying Squad was on the prowl. Riggs set off in the Dasher along with the other patrol cars, spreading out, heading down Piccadilly in the general direction of Hyde Park, and keeping in constant radio contact. So far, all reports were negative.
It was quieter the farther away one got from Piccadilly Circus. It had been a rash act, certainly. Tex laughed to himself as he thought of the picture he must present! He took the back lanes from the theatre, briefly skirting the edge of St James’s Square. There was a secret way he knew of gaining entrance to Green Park at the Queen’s Walk, where he could cross west to Hyde Park Corner. There, he could enter Hyde Park at Apsley House and make his way to the Hand’s Zeppo docking station just north of the park. He knew they would have the East End completely locked up with roadblocks and patrols, so his only hope lay in heading west, working his way around in a large arc. But as he reached the Wellington Arch, he saw that Hyde Park Corner was swarming with police, including a mounted patrol just ahead. He ducked past the memorial, galloped across the green, and crossed the road, down into Knightsbridge, past Belgrave Square. At least he was a good mile away from Piccadilly Circus.
Tex kept to the back streets and alleyways, his dark eyes alert. The few pedestrians he encountered at that late hour stopped in their tracks, rubbing their eyes in disbelief. But as there were horse-drawn vehicles and mounted police to be seen in London, most people who saw him from a distance failed to pay him any heed. Besides, as the AG effects altered slightly, the heavy fog was beginning to settle, giving him cover. He reached Sloane Street and headed north toward Hyde Park, but a patrol car spotted him and he found himself dashing full out, southwest, down the broad Cromwell Road. He crossed the road and decided to get himself lost somewhere in the little twisted lanes and mews of South Kensington.
He had to make it to the Zeppo and get the Blood Stars back to the club by two. That was his only chance. He took in his surroundings. He would be sad to leave London, his home. He’d have to go away for a while, and certainly drop the Tex persona. It would be fun creating a new one. With any luck, Boss Stilton would take care of him when he made good. But to make good, he first had to get to the Zeppo. Through the soup of fog, he saw a barricade forming at the top of Exhibition Road. He had almost stumbled upon them. They must be using a wireless and radioing ahead. Well, he’d beat them yet. He turned up a quiet street, his dark, weasel eyes flicking under the wide-brimmed hat as he clip-clopped along, riding the London range.
The Dasher moved between major streets and lesser ones, through patches of fog so thick it was almost impossible to negotiate.
Suddenly a dark silhouette appeared in the cobweb of greenish fog, the street lamps shining dull and yellow behind. Faintly ridiculous but devilishly wicked, the figure on the horse was instantly recognizable. It was Tex, trotting slowly up the cobbled street toward Kensington Road.
Riggs, who had slowed the Dasher, murmured, “Ah, got you now, my friend! Sergeant, get out an all-cars!”
A grim smile tightened across Riggs’s lips, but Tex had slowed and cantered round. He had seen them. Suddenly he veered away, picking up speed, then turned left, straight into the dwindling traffic of Kensington Road.
Riggs muttered an oath and shouted, “Hang on tight, everybody! There are some leather belts located in your seats. I want you to strap them on.” Kelly Riggs was ahead of his time, having installed in the Dasher safety belts salvaged from an old fighter plane.
“You too, Sergeant!” He strapped himself in, rammed into first, and roared off after Tex. Sergeant Bellows was already on the radio. The antenna shot up and the red light began blinking. Brendalynn and the children grabbed hold of the leather hand straps and each other, as the Dasher went tearing round the corner into the major thoroughfare. Cries and squeals accompanied them from the back seat.
Tex was galloping west, between the few late-night taxis and cars, whipping furiously at the horse. Riggs turned on his flashing red lights and continually used the double klaxons to warn the traffic ahead. It appeared Tex wanted to cross the road and make for the park, but he was checked by the lights of other police cars closing in from ahead. Just past Palace Gate, Tex pulled up, cantering round indecisively, as a car screeched to a halt behind him. Horns blared.
Suddenly he veered left, back to the south, into DeVere Gardens. Riggs took the bait, but when they entered the tiny street, it was empty, save for a lone taxi parked in front of the Kensington Hotel. The damp fog seemed to close round the Dasher, engulfing them as they moved carefully down the lonely street. Oddly, the thought flashed across his brain that the poet Robert Browning had lived in one of the houses here during the last century.
Going quite slowly now, Sergeant Bellows trained the powerful spotlight toward the end of the short street. It penetrated the haze and revealed a jog where a side street led into a mews. The only sound was the soft, throaty burr of the Dasher. They moved steadily on.
Then suddenly from an open gate at the edge of the mews, a tall black figure emerged astride the great, snorting horse that reared with awesome fury. Tex gave a wild yell and galloped away from them down a tight, jagged street.
The double exhausts growled. The tires left rubber behind them. The great twin orbs of the Dasher came glaring round the corner, stabbing into the fog, searching for their prey.
chapter twenty-eight
Full Throttle
THE DASHER THUNDERED PAST cobbled mews and down several close, cramped streets. As they entered the long, broad expanse of Cornwall Gardens, it became strangely quiet, save for the low burr of the Dasher echoing softly between the trees on one side and the houses on the other. Riggs strained his ears, listening for the clip-clop of hooves. He switched to the fog lights and Bellows turned off the spotlight, which was almost useless in the thickening, swirling fog. They crept along the murky street, the ghostly shapes of trees and buildings looming over them.
Kelly Riggs slowed as he neared the end of the long road, putting the Dasher in neutral. At the end of the gardens, the ancient Dial House stood, its multi-diamond, leaded windows just catching the light. Next to it was an arch, and at right angles in the corner of the square, almost obscured by the fog, stood another. Cornwall Mews. Intuition told him Tex O’Bannion lay behind one of these two arches. He took a chance on the right-han
d arch, which dipped down slightly into a tiny courtyard. The fog had not penetrated that low yet, and Riggs’s hunch turned out to be correct.
There was a shadowy glimmer at the end of the court. Sergeant Bellows nailed the rider with the spotlight. Tex reared the horse and waved his hat, mocking them. Then he tore past them at full gallop. Riggs had to back the car gingerly out of the cramped mews, wasting precious moments. The fog was becoming thicker and heavier. For the moment, they had lost him.
There was a crackle of static from the radio. “This is Car 12B. We’ve just shut down Kensington Road at Palace Gate.” With Riggs in the Dasher coming up from behind, they had Tex effectively boxed in.
They played a cat-and-mouse game through the wet streets, but Riggs soon found his quarry again. At one point the Dasher thundered to within inches of the fleeing horseman, but just as they seemed to be gaining, Tex would whip the horse into a sudden burst of speed, cutting in and out around the occasional car, up on the sidewalks, and weaving in and out between posts, street lamps, and trees.
The Dasher was almost upon him, as two patrol cars threatened to cut him off from the southeast. Tex turned north. Ahead to the left, the dome of the Royal Albert Hall loomed black against the clouds.
Suddenly Tex made for the great set of steps leading up to the Hall. Riggs slewed the Dasher round as Bellows nailed him with the spotlight. Tex reared the horse giving them a wave, and the light caught the wicked glint in his eyes—a look the children would never forget. He bolted for the summit.
Riggs grimaced. He knew he could easily tear out the undercarriage of the Dasher or destroy the double independent suspension, but he had to chance it.