“I’ll have a talk with her when she comes back,” Ames said, a snarl in his voice. “It’s time she had a lesson.” He slapped Corridon on his shoulder. “Well, you get off. I’ll be at Marble Arch gate at ten-thirty. Good hunting.”
Corridon got into the car beside MacAdams.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said. “Someone was under the mistaken impression I was carrying a gun.”
Kara didn’t look at him, but her face darkened. She engaged gear and shot the car down the drive.
Corridon offered MacAdams a cigarette. As MacAdams lit it, Corridon noticed his hand was very unsteady. In a way he felt sorry for him. It was probable Ritchie would have to kill him. He knew MacAdams hadn’t a chance against Ritchie’s superior shooting.
“It’ll soon be over,” he said. “It’s going to be a lot worse for Ritchie than you, you know.”
MacAdams flushed.
“Well, I hope so,” he said, and drew in a quick, hissing breath. “Kara says he can shoot.”
“Kara talks too much,” Corridon returned. “He was a good shot about ten years ago, but he’s getting old now.”
“I’ll nail him,” Chicho said. “Don’t worry, Mac. I’ll handle him all right. He won’t get a chance of pulling a gun.”
Corridon was glad it was Chicho he had to tackle. He would take pleasure in putting a slug into him.
“Don’t forget, no shooting until I give the signal,” he said sharply. “I don’t want you fellows getting excited and shooting the wrong man. When I lift the receiver off the phone, you’ll know it’s Ritchie.”
“The way you keep harping on that, you’d think we were deaf,” Chicho snarled.
“Not deaf,” Corridon said with a grin, “just dumb.”
“You won’t always be the boss,” Chicho said viciously. “I look forward to having a little talk with you one of these days.”
“Shut up!” Kara broke in. “Don’t you know he’s Ames’ pet? Do you want to get into trouble?”
Chicho grunted, but lapsed into silence. During the rest of the drive to the White City none of them spoke. Kara drove carefully. There was plenty of time. They reached Shepherd’s Bush at half-past nine.
“We’ll stop in the park and have a final check up,” Corridon said. “Then we’ll go straight to Stratford Road.”
Ten minutes of slow driving brought them to Knightsbridge Gate, and Corridon told Kara to stop. She pulled up a few yards from the traffic lights. Not once during the drive had she spoken to Corridon or even looked at him. She now lit a cigarette, staring through the windscreen, sullen and scowling.
“Give me your gun,” Corridon said to Chicho.
“What for?” Chicho demanded, twisting around in his seat.
“Your gun!” Corridon barked.
Chico pulled the gun from his shoulder holster, hesitated, then handed it over. It was a Colt .45, and Corridon checked the magazine, satisfied himself it was loaded and handed it back to Chicho. He checked MacAdams’ gun.
“All right,” he said, “you know what to do. As soon as he falls, Chicho is to go to him and shoot him through the head. Mac and I will run for the car. You, Chicho, follow as fast as you can, and away we go. Any questions?”
“For Pete’s sake, let’s get on with it,” Chicho snarled.
“If we run into the police,” MacAdams said, “I suppose we shoot our way out?”
“Only if you’re cornered,” Corridon said. “It’s asking for trouble to shoot a copper. If you have to shoot, wing him. If you kill him, it’s your funeral.”
“Well, no copper’s going to stop me,” Chicho said.
“Okay, Kara,” Corridon said. “Stratford Road now.”
Without looking at him, she started the engine and drove into Knightsbridge Road. A few minutes to a quarter to ten she pulled up at the corner of Stratford Road.
“I’ll go first,” Corridon said. “As soon as I’m inside the phone box, you come on, Mac. Then Chicho follows you. Keep your engine running, Kara.”
None of them said anything. Corridon got out of the car.
“Well, good hunting,” he said, and walked on down the road to the telephone box. He opened the door, entered, and with his back to the car, he put his hand under the shelf supporting the directories. He found the gun, jerked it from its clip and examined it. It was a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver; a nice weapon that balanced well in his hand. He checked to see it was loaded, slipped off the safety catch and dropped it into his pocket. Then he half-turned to look down the road. MacAdams was out of the car, and moving towards him. As he passed, Corridon saw his face was pale and tense. He went on, passing Ritchie’s house, and a few yards farther up the road, he paused under a tree.
A minute or so later, Chicho came down the road, walking like a cat, his round, pasty face set and his hard little eyes glittering. He took his position behind the pillar-box.
Corridon hoped no one would come out of any of the houses until the shooting was over. It was unlikely at this time for anyone to be about, but if someone did appear, his carefully arranged plan might easily be upset.
He glanced at his wrist-watch. Up to now the operation had gone to time. The minute hand was creeping up to ten o’clock. He glanced over his shoulder. He could make out the dim outline of the Buick, standing a hundred yards or so down the road, and wondered what Kara was doing. He hoped she was obeying orders and remaining in the car. He also wondered where the police cars were. They had the hardest job, he thought. Trying to stop Kara wasn’t going to be easy. He doubted if the police realized just what they were up against.
He looked across the road at Chicho who was now crouching behind the pillar-box. Corridon had a good view of his narrow back and head. He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the gun. In another minute Ritchie should appear. Gently he eased open the telephone box door. He looked over at MacAdams who half raised his hand, indicating he could see him and was ready. Corridon waved to him.
They waited. The minutes crawled by, and Corridon’s heart began to hammer against his ribs. He wondered how Ritchie was feeling, and thought a little sourly he was certain to be cool and unmoved. Corridon had never known him to get rattled, and they had been in many tight corners during the time they had worked together.
A taxi swung into Stratford Road from the Kensington Road end. It came down the road, past MacAdams, slowed down as it reached the pillar-box behind which Chicho was hiding. He hurriedly stood up when he saw its headlights.
Corridon cursed the taxi under his breath. He looked anxiously at Ritchie’s house, but there was no sign of him. He guessed Ritchie had also seen the taxi and was waiting for it to go before he showed himself.
The taxi stopped a few yards from Chicho, and a girl got out. She paid the driver and walked across the pavement to a house nearby. Something about her walk made Corridon stiffen. He looked again: the girl was Marian Howard. As she ran up the steps to the house and opened the front door, Corridon heard the click of a gate latch. He looked quickly towards Ritchie’s house, aware that the taxi was moving off towards the parked Buick. Then he realized this was part of Ritchie’s plan of defence. The taxi was to block Kara’s escape. Probably there were police officers crouching on the floor of the taxi, but Corridon had no time mentally to pat Ritchie on the back.
Ritchie had just come out of his house. He was wearing a light overcoat and a slouch hat, and his hands were deep in his coat pockets.
Chicho had dodged behind the pillar-box again, and Corridon saw he had drawn his gun. He didn’t trust Chicho to wait for his signal. Ritchie was looking towards MacAdams who was staring at Corridon, waiting for him to lift the telephone receiver.
Chicho had raised his gun and was aiming at Ritchie. Corridon levelled the .38 and fired at Chicho whose gun went off as he pitched forward on his face. He rolled over, dropped the gun, tried to crawl towards it, then stiffened out in the road.
Two shots rang out as MacAdams and Ritchie fired at each other. Ritc
hie’s shot was a shade ahead of MacAdams’. Corridon saw MacAdams drop his gun and clutch at his arm.
Ritchie ran over to him as MacAdams fell on his knees. Ritchie hit him with his gun-butt on his head, driving him flat.
All this happened in a few seconds. As Ritchie was crossing the road to MacAdams, Chicho struggled up and grabbed at his gun. Corridon shot him again, this time aiming at his head. Chicho flopped to the ground, rolled over and lay still.
Then, as Corridon pushed open the door of the telephone box, there came another crack of a gun, and a bullet grazed the side of his face, making him reel, and smashing a pane of glass in the booth. He dropped on hands and knees as another shot crashed out.
Looking through the glass he saw Kara standing in the road by the Buick, gun in hand. She swung the gun round and fired at Ritchie as he was bending over MacAdams. Corridon was horrified to see Ritchie stagger, drop his gun and collapse in the road.
Corridon came out of the booth, crouching low. As he raised his gun to fire at Kara, she fired first, and his hat flew off his head. Then the taxi door burst open and two men bundled out and ran towards her.
“Look out, you fools!” Corridon yelled. “Block the way!”
But it was too late. Firing from the hip, she brought both men down and jumped back into the Buick. The taxi-driver tried to swerve in front of her, but she was already on the move, and he missed the Buick by yards.
Corridon levelled his gun and fired. The rear window of the Buick smashed, but before he could fire again, it had turned the corner and was out of sight.
He looked back over his shoulder to see Marian come running down the steps of the house she had entered, followed by two plain-clothes detectives. She went to Ritchie, and Corridon was relieved to see Ritchie was on his feet again, holding his shoulder.
As Corridon made a move to join him, a police car whipped down the road and pulled up beside him.
“Hop in,” Rawlins said, opening the door. “We’ll catch her all right.”
Corridon scrambled into the car which drove off, taking the corner with a screech of tortured tyres.
“Catch her – hell!” he said furiously. “I warned Ritchie to watch her, and you let her get away.”
“Don’t get excited,” Rawlins said, his round, red face alight with a beaming smile. “She can’t get far. Every road’s blocked.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” Corridon said, holding his aching face in his hand. Blood trickled between his fingers. “She’ll be as difficult to stop as an express train.”
The police car turned into Kensington Road. There was a policeman standing on the corner. He waved to the right, and the driver of the police car went in the direction he indicated.
“We’ve men posted all along the route,” Rawlins said. “Hundreds of coppers at great public expense. Just relax, old boy. We’ll have her in a minute or so.”
“I hope you’re right,” Corridon said. He mopped his face with his handkerchief. “She’s spoilt my beauty – blast her!”
“Got to take the rough with the smooth, old boy,” Rawlins said. “Another quarter of an inch and you’d be with your ancestors.”
“Can’t this driver of yours go faster?” Corridon demanded.
This was unfair for the car was whipping down Knightsbridge Road at seventy miles an hour. A flashlight flickered on and off at the corner of Sloane Street, and the driver, cramming on his brakes, swung the car around the corner.
“All organized,” Rawlins said smugly. “I told you not to get excited. She can’t get away.”
“When she’s behind bars, I’ll believe you,” Corridon growled. “And not before.”
“The trouble with you,” Rawlins said, “is you’re a cynic.”
“There she goes, sir!” the driver said suddenly and snapped or his headlights.
II
The two long beams of light centred on the back of the Buick as it swept down Sloane Street.
“Take it easy,” Rawlins said to the driver. “There’s going to be a smash.”
“Not with her driving,” Corridon said sourly, and poked his head out of the window for a better view. He could see two police cars broadside on, blocking the road. The Buick showed no signs of slowing down. Kara had also turned on her headlights. Corridon could see four policemen with flashlights, signalling her to stop. They stood before their cars, confident she would stop, and Corridon wanted to yell to them to get out of the way, but he knew they wouldn’t hear him before it was too late.
The Buick swept down on them with the ruthlessness of a Juggernaut. When it was almost on them, it swerved, crashed up on the pavement and went through the gap like a streak of lightning.
“Didn’t I warn you she could drive?” Corridon said in disgust and flopped back into his seat.
The driver pulled up with a screech of tyres.
“Go on! Go on!” Rawlins bawled, losing his calm. “Get on after her!”
“A fat chance you’ve got of catching her now,” Corridon said as the police driver mounted the kerb, and edged past the rear end of the car blocking the road. Once clear, he increased his speed, but there was no sign of the Buick.
“Well, yes, she certainly can drive,” Rawlins said, shaking a cigarette out of a crumpled packet. “But she still won’t get away. I have this district sewn up tighter than Paddy O’Brien on a Saturday night.”
“If it’s as tight as that last barricade of yours, she’ll thrive on it,” Corridon said and helped himself from Rawlins’ packet. As he lit the cigarette, he saw more lights flashing as policemen from the kerb signalled which way the Buick had gone.
“She’s doubling back to the park,” Rawlins said as they swung into King’s Road. “Well, she can twist and turn all she likes, but she won’t get away.”
“I wished I shared your fatheaded confidence,” Corridon said. “I wouldn’t mind betting she does get away.”
“I’ll have a bob on that, old boy,” Rawlins said breezily. “But if she’s going to go on driving like that, she’ll kill herself.”
“She’ll take a few with her,” Corridon said uneasily. “She’s worse than any of them.” He went on, “I hope Ritchie isn’t badly hurt.”
“Got him in the shoulder,” Rawlins said. “To judge by his language, he’s all right. Do him good to have a bit of a rest.” He broke off as another flashlight flickered at the corner of Sydney Street. “Didn’t I tell you?” he went on, beaming as the police car swung into the dark, narrow street. “She’s doubling back to the park. We have a nice little trap for her in the Fulham Road.”
“I hope it won’t be as big a flop as the last one,” Corridon said.
“Buick ahead, sir,” the driver reported, and again flashed on his headlights.
The Buick was moving at a slower rate now, but as soon as the headlights of the police car hit it, it accelerated, taking the corner into Fulham Road at high speed.
The police car followed, and the two cars raced towards Brompton Road. Suddenly another police car appeared from a turning far ahead and drove straight at the Buick.
“Ramming tactics,” Rawlins said, leaning forward. “That’s Hillary at the wheel. No better man…”
He broke off with an oath as the Buick swerved. The police car, anticipating the move, also swerved. There was a grinding crash, and the police car rocked violently as the side of the Buick caught it a glancing blow. The Buick fled on, but the police car slewed across the road and thudded against a lamp standard.
“Just a title nudge,” Corridon said sarcastically. “You want to employ a heavy-weight against a car that size.”
Rawlins had lost his smile.
“I’ve only two more cars to block her off,” he said, suddenly uneasy. “If they can’t hold her…”
“You’ll lose your bob.”
Rawlins leaned over to the driver.
“We’ll have a go now, Jack. See if you can draw level and force her to the kerb.”
“This should be fun,” Corridon
said. “You wouldn’t care to stop and let me out before you kill yourself?”
“You dry up,” Rawlins said, now out of humour. “I gave Ritchie my word she wouldn’t get away.”
The police car surged forward, but fast as it went, it couldn’t pull level with the Buick that fled on at over eighty miles an hour. The two cars stormed up Brompton Road and into Knightsbridge Road.
“She’s got the legs of you,” Corridors said. “Better hang on and hope she makes a mistake.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when suddenly from out of a concealed turning a lorry leaded with bricks swept into the main road. Probably the driver was in a hurry and didn’t anticipate or didn’t care that there’d be traffic at this hour of the night. He shot into the main road, right in the path of the Buick.
“Well, she’s had it now!” Corridon gasped as the police driver slammed on his brakes.
The Buick swerved across the road, the tyres screeching, the off-wheels lifting. Corridon caught a glimpse of Kara fighting the wheel. The nose of the lorry caught the back bumpers of the Buick and threw it sideways. For a second Corridon thought the Buick was going over, but somehow Kara managed to right it. But it was moving at too great a speed to be entirely controlled. It mounted the pavement. He saw her pulling frantically on the wheel to correct the skid, then broadside on the car slammed into a plate-glass window of one of the big stores in Knightsbridge, cut its way through the wax dummies decorating the window, slammed through the wooden partition at back of the window and rammed its way into the department.
By this time the police car had stopped and both Rawlins and Corridon scrambled out.
“Get every available man on the job,” Rawlins told the driver. “I want this place surrounded. Jump to it!” He began running towards the wrecked window. Corridon joined him.
“Have you got a gun?” he asked as they approached the gaping black hole that was, but a moment before, an elegantly-dressed window.
“No. Have you?”
“You bet I have. I’ll go first. This woman’s dangerous.”
“Nonsense,” Rawlins said cheerfully. “We don’t want any shooting…”
Why Pick On ME? Page 17