‘As I was saying … I think it is time now for some real magic. Fortunately I have a little trick up my sleeve, as they say … Are you ready?’
Girardi’s smile now stretched to join his scar in a manic grin.
‘Viva Anarchy!’ he shouted, backing his way towards the wings, keeping the guns trained on the audience. ‘Viva the Wild Cat Brigade! … Alright, my friend—restart the clock!’
This last instruction was intended for Boyd, but when he turned to the wings Girardi was greeted with the sight of his huge partner slugging it out toe-to-toe with Solly Rosen. He looked to the clock above the stage … but the oversized hands remained resolutely fixed at the two minute mark.
Girardi raised his Beretta to aim at Rosen—just as Pearson let off a round from behind the curtain.
The Italian reeled as the bullet caught him in the shoulder, forcing him to his knees, the Tommy gun scattering across the stage. As quick as a cat, he was up again, leaping upon the terrified Gladys, pulling her in front of him to use as a human shield.
***
High above the audience Harley used the commotion on stage as cover to make his move. Now that Carstairs had been dealt with he was free to carefully climb over the railing of the catwalk and down onto the small jib from which the cage was suspended.
As he tentatively lowered himself down the metalwork groaned a little in protest. He held his breath and squatted in the dark, fixing his stare to the end of the jib, knowing that the further out he went the more chance there was of the additional weight bringing the whole structure crashing down on top of the audience. But, of course, there was no time for a plan B … He steeled himself and carried on.
At first he tried to negotiate the structure by sitting astride it and shuffling along; but this set the jib shaking violently and it was soon obvious that he was going to have to get back on top and edge over to the cage step by precarious step. The strut-work behind him creaked dangerously as he swung one leg up and hauled himself to a crouching position.
Within a few hesitant steps the cramp had begun to bite at his hamstring. He pushed on through the pain—if Girardi caught the slightest glimpse of movement from the stage whilst he was in such a vulnerable position there would only be one outcome; Harley knew from experience what a quick burst from a Thompson gun could do to flesh and bone. But soon the cramp became too much to endure, so he leant forward from his squatting position to propel himself along on all fours. Immediately he felt something cut into the meat of his palm—in the dark he’d placed his hand on a burred edge of steel, the razor sharp metal slicing deeply into the flesh.
Harley’s reflex reaction was to pull away and take his weight onto the other hand, but with his skin now slick with perspiration he lost his grasp on the jib and slipped forward.
He flailed for a moment with his upper body hanging over the edge, trying desperately to regain his balance; the only thing preventing him from plummeting to certain death was his foot which had lodged between the struts of the frame.
Time seemed to thicken … the shouts from the stage faded into a muffled drawl. Harley fought desperately against gravity, becoming quickly disorientated in the gloom … But somehow he managed to summon a reserve of strength and with one last colossal effort he grabbed hold of the jib and clambered his way back up to a sitting position. Blood was now streaming from his injured hand.
He yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and bound the wound, the adrenalin and the Benzedrine combining to pump his heart to a sickening frenzy. He felt nauseous with exhaustion and fear, and was concerned for a moment that he might pass out and topple over the edge.
Foolishly, Harley now closed his eyes and began to listen to a small voice in his head that was explaining how easy it would be to just sit there in the dark and wait … wait for the bomb … and for the big sleep … No more toiling … no more nightmares … no more yearning after his lost Cynthia. And who really knew? Maybe she would be up there, waiting for him?
‘Get a grip, you mug!’ he said to himself, opening his eyes and shaking his head to clear his thoughts. ‘That’s all just sodding fairy tales! If you don’t pull your socks up all those punters down there are gonna die and that cowson Saint Clair will just swan into power—that’s stone-ginger!’
He wiped the sweat from his brow, took a deep breath and pushed on—taking care now where he placed his hands on the metalwork.
Finally reaching the end of the jib he sat astride it to allow his muscles a moment to recover. Now came the most dangerous part of the plan—especially in his exhausted state: he was going to have to lower himself down off the end of the jib, wrap his legs around the taut steel cable and then slide down onto the top of the cage. All in the dark, and all without Girardi detecting his presence.
As Harley sat summoning the energy for this final manoeuvre, he heard another voice barking out commands below him:
‘Girardi! We know it’s you! Let the girl go and lay the gun down slowly at your feet!’
Harley recognized the unmistakeable commanding voice of Snip Taylor. So the cavalry had arrived. This welcoming revelation gave him the little extra boost he needed to continue. Calculating that the SIS agent would keep Girardi distracted for a while he lowered himself over the edge and began to shimmy down the cable to the cage suspended below him—which, as he was more than aware, contained a full case of unstable Russian dynamite rigged to a trigger in the control of a sadistic maniac.
***
Having finally discovered the correct location of the Royal Box, General Swales now hammered on the door to be let in.
‘Your Majesty! It’s Swales, sir. Would you please open the door? It really is most urgent!’
‘Godfrey-Faussett here, General—King’s Equerry,’ the voice was coming from the other side of the door, but down low, at floor level.
‘It’s reassuring to hear your voice, Sir Bryan,’ said Swales, getting down on his knees to placed an ear to the panel.
‘Some bugger’s locked the door, Swales … and I daren’t stand up to force it for fear of that damned anarchist putting a hole in my head!’
‘Understood, old man. We’ll have it open in a jiffy. Their Majesties are unhurt, I trust?’
‘As well as can be expected in the circumstances. But it’s imperative we remove them from harm’s way as soon as possible. Is there any sign of our guard detail out there?’
‘No—not a soul out here.’
‘Thought as much … I know it’s going to sound far-fetched, but I have my suspicions it was they who locked us in.’
‘Listen, Sir Bryan, I shan’t go into too much detail just now, but that madman on stage is no anarchist. We’re in the midst of an attempted coup d’état, and my guess is that the guard detail are in on it as well. Is there anyone else in there with you?’
‘No—it’s just the King, Queen Mary and myself.’
‘Good! Now, move away from the door—we’re going to force it.’
***
Down in the wings the Yiddish Thunderbolt had made his move. After a prolonged exchange of devastating blows Rosen now ducked under a flailing left hook, immediately bobbing up again to slam his elbow into Boyd’s cheek bone with a sickening crunch, splitting the flesh like a blood orange and sending him staggering back.
The old prize-fighter dipped his head and placed his hands on his knees, desperately fighting for breath. Smelling weakness, Rosen went in for the kill, grabbing Boyd’s bovine neck in a stranglehold. Boyd’s free hand began to blindly rummage in his jacket pocket, his battle-scarred fingers closing around the ivory handle of the flick knife in his final few seconds of consciousness.
Rosen howled in pain as the long blade plunged deep into his thigh. Boyd broke free and, spluttering to fill his lungs, stumbled his way over to the control board where he promptly flicked the switch to restart the clock.
‘Ludo!’ he shouted gruffly towards the stage, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve. ‘Two minutes! We gotta scarper
!’ He then began to lumber off towards the backstage area.
Although unable to stand on his injured leg Rosen had managed to manoeuvre himself into position on the floor for one last assault. As Billy Boyd now lurched past he kicked out with his good leg, sending the old prize-fighter tumbling headfirst through the curtain to the crossover … and into the hands of Pearson and O’Toole.
On stage Girardi was just about to make his own dramatic exit when—during a cursory check that the dynamite was still in place—he caught sight of Harley, balanced precariously on top of the cage, working away at the catch on the door.
Still clutching the distraught Gladys close to him the Italian moved forwards and fired up at the cage, the round ricocheting off the bars, briefly illuminating the gloom with a spray of sparks. Harley hunkered down, swore, and redoubled his efforts, finally forcing the catch and dropping through the small opening just as another bullet passed inches from his head.
The cage slewed as he dropped inside, the box of dynamite shifting a little to the left.
Now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness he could quite plainly make out the length of two-core cable running through a drilled hole in the side of the box of explosives and out through the cage, snaking away into the gloom. He turned to peer through the bars—and was dismayed to see the second hand of the oversized clock ticking past the three minute mark.
He quickly lay down and started to crawl towards the bomb, the cage listing dangerously to and fro.
Girardi now fired again; this time the bullet made it through the bars to clatter terrifyingly around the inside of the cage.
‘Smith! You still there?’ shouted Harley, feeling in his jacket for his penknife.
‘You betcha, guv!’ came a voice from the gloom.
‘Shine a spotlight down there on that cowson, would yer? Try and dazzle him for me. Make it sharpish, now! We’ve only got seconds before this bloody thing goes up.’
The stagehand moved stealthily to a follow-spot unit attached to the rigging nearby and threw the switch, swinging the intense beam of light around to pick out Girardi.
Down on stage the Italian turned away from the blinding light. He looked up at the clock just as it was ticking through the last five seconds of time. Realizing now that there was no chance he’d escape the blast he relaxed his grip on the magician’s assistant, calmly placed his arm across his face and held his breath …
Up in the cage George Harley also held his breath. He reached out with the opened knife in his trembling hand, mouthed a silent obscenity … and sliced through the trigger wire.
***
The Special Branch officer’s boot splintered the wood of the door on the second kick and Swales dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the Royal Box to find King George and Queen Mary sitting awkwardly on the plush carpeted floor.
‘Your Majesty!’
‘Ah! There you are, Swales,’ said the King. ‘Now would you care to tell me what the hell is going on down there? Most extraordinary—after all, these engagements are usually such dull affairs.’
‘It’s an attempted coup, sir. We believe Sir Pelham Saint Clair and the Fascists are behind it. It would appear that the plan was to poison the PM and assassinate Your Majesty.’
‘Good gracious! Is Mr. Ramsay MacDonald alright, Sir Frederic?’ asked Queen Mary.
‘Indeed, Ma’am. We managed to foil that particular part of the plot earlier this evening.’
Down on stage—realizing that Harley must have succeeded in sabotaging the bomb’s trigger mechanism—Girardi grabbed Gladys around the neck again and aimed his Beretta over her shoulder at the decorative coat of arms on the front of the Royal Box, sending a bullet screaming through the wood to thud into the wall just above Swales’ head.
‘I congratulate you on your success so far, General,’ said King George, brushing plaster dust from his shoulder. ‘But I’m curious to discover what progress has been made on foiling this second—and for those present, slightly more worrying—part of the plot … hmm?’
‘We have a full team of highly trained officers on site, sir; some of our best men, in fact. I’m confident the situation will be under control in no time at all. But the priority at this precise moment is to get you and Queen Mary to safety … Now, I, erm … I know it’s a little undignified, sir—but maybe you’d care to follow me out, adopting a similar technique to one I used to get in here?’
‘Good grief, Swales! I’m surprised at you, man! Do you really expect the King of England to skulk away from danger on his hands and knees? Do you realize the symbolism of such a gesture? No, sir—I’m damned if I will! We’ll walk out of here with our heads held high—or not at all!’
‘And Queen Mary, your Majesty?’ asked Godfrey-Faussett.
‘I’m afraid, Sir Bryan,’ said the Queen demurely. ‘That I shall be remaining here to accompany His Majesty in his vigil.’
‘Quite right, quite right!’ said the King, with a solemn, regal nod.
‘Very good, sir,’ said Swales, exchanging an astonished glance with Godfrey-Faussett. The Commissioner now drew his service revolver and struggled into a sitting position, unable to suppress a ripple of frustration from animating his voluminous moustache.
***
Knowing he had only one remaining round left in the Beretta—and little chance of being able to perform a swift magazine change with his injured left arm—Girardi now began to force Gladys into a slow backward shuffle towards the discarded Thompson gun. Peering through a gap in the backdrop Pearson had a clear view of the Italian’s movements and quickly guessed his intentions.
‘If he manages to get his hands on that Tommy gun it’ll be a bloodbath,’ he said to O’Toole. ‘He could take out dozens with just one spray at the audience.’
‘Can’t you have a pop at ’im yerself?’ asked the stagehand, stepping over the unconscious form of Billy Boyd, who lay gagged and handcuffed at their feet. He bent down beneath the policeman to take a look through the gap. ‘After all, we’ve taken his sidekick out of action.’
‘Not a clean shot, no—I’m scared the bullet will pass through him and into the girl.’
‘Well now—and don’t take this the wrong way—but ain’t it better to lose one magician’s assistant than a third of the audience, including the King and Queen of England?’
‘If you want to play God …’ said Pearson, offering the gun to O’Toole, ‘be my guest.’
‘Yes, alright—I see yer point. But we gotta do summit, right?’
Pearson gazed up at the ropes and flats suspended above their heads.
‘What if we dropped the safety curtain, or a backdrop, or something?’
‘Don’t see how we could do it quick enough, guv’—he’d just jump in front of it … But, ’old yer ’orses! Look where that Tommy gun’s lying—there! D’you see?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean look at the stage underneath it. See the outline? Come on—quick!’
Puzzled, Pearson followed O’Toole as he crept around to the wings and attempted to get Rosen’s attention.
‘Pssst!’
Rosen’s face appeared from behind the control panel podium; his skin was pale and waxy-looking, and he seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open.
‘Christ, Solly!’ hissed Pearson. ‘You alright?’
‘Lost a load of claret … managed a tourniquet, but … as long as that maniac don’t put a bullet through my ’ead, I s’pose I might make it.’
‘Listen, pal,’ said O’Toole. ‘D’you reckon you could reach the switches on that board?’
Rosen glanced up at the control panel above his head. ‘Yeah, I suppose so … But what gives? I’d figured that George had already managed to put the bomb out of action.’
‘He has,’ said Pearson. ‘But Girardi is making his way over to that Tommy gun—if he gets his hands on it there’ll be carnage.’
‘Alright,’ said Rosen, wincing as he tried to sit up a little. ‘What
d’you want me to do?’
‘On the bottom left of the panel there’s a red switch,’ said O’Toole, ‘under a little metal cover. When we give you the nod, lift the cover and flick the switch.’
‘What does it do?’ asked Rosen.
‘Trapdoor.’ mouthed the stagehand.
***
‘Give it up, Girardi!’ shouted Snip Taylor from behind a column on the balcony of the upper circle. ‘We’ve got you surrounded, man! There’s only two ways out of this for you: either you surrender—’
‘Or what, Signor poliziotto?’ said Girardi, pointing his pistol in the direction of the SIS agent’s voice, his face a grinning demonic mask in its smeared greasepaint. ‘You shoot the woman to get at me? I think not, my friend! After all—this is not so very British, is it?’ As he spoke he dragged the sobbing Gladys back one more step and then probed to the side with his foot, soon making contact with the submachine gun’s muzzle.
‘He’s gotta do it now, Albert!’ hissed O’Toole, peering through the gap in the backdrop.
‘Now, Solly!’ shouted Pearson, poised in the wings, ‘now!’
With a roar at the bolt of pain that shot through his injured leg, Rosen heaved his heavy frame high enough to grab at the control panel. His fingers—slippery from the congealing blood—fumbled for a second to get a purchase, but soon they found the bottom row of knobs and he tore the metal cover up to flick the switch.
The trapdoor sprung silently open, sending the Tommy gun clattering down into the black hole just as Girardi was reaching down to retrieve it. He froze in his crouching position, his usually keen brain stalling for an instant as it tried to process what had just happened. It was just a few seconds of hesitation—but that was all that Pearson needed to launch himself onto the stage and charge at the Italian. Quickly regaining his wits, Girardi now spun around and pushed Gladys out of the way to get a clear shot at the policeman.
The two bodies collided … a pistol discharged … and the audience gave a collective gasp as they watched Pearson and Girardi tumble into the open mouth of the trapdoor.
Mask of the Verdoy Page 56