The shooting stopped as suddenly as it had started.
Mercer stood looking down at the two men on the pavement. Ferraby seemed to have collected a blast of shot in his legs. His trousers were black with blood, and his face was distorted by pain. Clark was unconscious. His right shoulder was a mess where the jacket was torn away. There were other, probably more serious, wounds lower down. The dragging along the pavement hadn’t done him a lot of good.
Mercer realised that he was the senior police officer on the spot, and that a lot of people were looking to him for orders.
He took a deep slow breath to steady himself, and said to Sergeant Harraway, “Get on the radio, Sergeant, and whistle up an ambulance. Then post men with rifles at both ends of this street. They can get to the other end quite safely if they circle round behind the office block. Next, do the same in the street at the back. There’s a private entrance there, which they’ll very likely try to use. I want it covered from both sides. If anyone does try to get out, don’t argue. Shoot!”
Sergeant Harraway said, “They won’t need telling.”
When he had detailed the men and sent them off, Mercer said, “Next thing, could you move up two spotlights. Put one at the end of each street, focused on the door, but not switched on. That’s in case it occurs to them to shoot out the street lights, and make a run for it in the dark.”
“Can do,” said Sergeant Harraway and disappeared.
“Now, could someone with a bit of local knowledge tell me where I can get hold of a ladder?”
One of the Slough policemen said, “There’s a window-cleaner’s not far from here. He’s got one of those metal expanding jobs on top of his van.”
“Knock him up,” said Mercer.
The ladder arrived at the same moment as the Chief Constable, who said, “Just put me in the picture, would you?” And when Mercer had finished, “You say there are men giving covering fire from the office block. We’d better clear them out first.”
“If we’ve got enough men to do it,” said Mercer. “It’s worth a try. But I doubt if they’re still there. These men aren’t heroes. They’re strictly smash and grab, shoot and scarper. The better plan would be to locate their getaway cars. They’ll be parked somewhere handy.”
“We’ve got plenty of men to cover both jobs. What next?”
“It’s only the ground-floor windows of this building that are barred. We can get in at any of these side windows at first- or second-floor level. If they’ve left any men on guard in the upper storeys of the safe deposit, we can flush them out easily enough. Mr. Jenner here can come with us. He knows the lie of the land.”
“And then?”
“If we don’t find anyone upstairs, we know exactly where they’ll be. In the sub-basement, busy cutting open Bull’s strong-room door. They’re the people we want.”
The Chief Constable considered the matter for a long minute. It was not the plan which he mistrusted. What was worrying him was the look on Mercer’s face.
He said, “Will they have heard the firing?”
“They wouldn’t hear it themselves. They’re two storeys down, underneath a three-foot concrete and steel floor. If they’ve left a link-man in the upper part of the building, he might have warned them. Unless he’s run away too. Like I said, they’re not heroes. In fact the only real cards they’ve got to play are Nevinson, Beale and Pike. When it comes to the pinch, they’ll try to use them as hostages.”
The Chief Constable considered the matter. He said, “Take it as far as you can. But no unnecessary heroics. Whilst you’re operating inside, we’ll clean up out here.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got some heavy stuff coming from Windsor. It should be here very shortly. Meanwhile, I’ll keep the top brass off your neck.”
Mercer looked round. There certainly seemed to be a lot more senior officers on the spot than there had been five minutes before.
The ladder was now in place. He went up it carefully.
Mercer had a poor head for heights, but a ledge under the first-floor window gave him something to put his knee on whilst he wrapped a scarf round his hand and broke the glass. Then he opened the catch, and slid forward into the darkness of the room. It was, as far as he could see, an office, and it was empty.
He tiptoed across, eased the door open, and peered out. A blue night-light showed a length of passage, also empty. There was no sound of any sort from inside the building. Then a black shape moved at the far end of the passage. Mercer’s grip on the door jamb tightened, and relaxed as the light was reflected from a pair of green eyes turned in his direction. He said, “Good hunting, puss.”
The room behind him was filling up steadily. Mercer gave his orders in a low voice. “Six of you go with Mr. Jenner. He’ll show you which rooms to search. No shooting if you can help. It’s the party below we’re after. And Jenner—let me impress on you that you’re a guide. Not the spearhead of a forlorn hope.”
Mr. Jenner said, “I can look after myself.” He sounded aggrieved.
“I don’t doubt it,” said Mercer, “but we don’t want civilian casualties. They come heavier on the rates than policemen. One of you stop here, as contact man to pass reports. Gwilliam and Prothero, come with me.”
He moved off down the passage, and located a flight of stairs which took him to the ground floor. Here the passage was close-carpeted. The manager’s office, he knew, was at the far end. There was an interior window giving onto the corridor at head height. A light was shining through it, diffused by the frosted glass. The three men stopped to listen. There was someone in the room. They could hear a curious muffled sound, halfway between a whine and a snuffle.
Mercer touched Gwilliam’s sleeve, and as the big Welshman bent forward, breathed in his ear, “See if you can find two tables and a lightish wooden chair. Should be something in one of the offices. Quick and quiet as you can.”
Whilst they were gone Mercer bent his head to listen. The noise inside the office worried him. It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t place it.
Gwilliam loomed up. He was carrying a typist’s desk. Mercer positioned it carefully opposite the right-hand side of the window, and about a foot away from it. When Prothero arrived with a second desk he put that opposite the left-hand side of the window, close up against the wall. By this time Gwilliam was back again. He had a wooden chair, a heavy affair with arms. It was bigger than Mercer had intended, but Gwilliam looked as if he could handle it. He whispered to him, “Get up on that table. Take the chair by the legs. When I give the signal, smash the window. I don’t mean knock out a pane of glass. I mean smash it. Frame and all.”
Gwilliam nodded to show that he understood. Mercer climbed onto the left-hand table, took the police automatic out of his shoulder-holster, and held it loosely in his right hand with his left hand raised and his eye on the window.
Then he brought his left hand down.
The chair flailed round in a semi-circle and the window dissolved inwards in a cascade of broken glass and fractured wood. And Mercer saw Jack Bull.
He had just come up the stairs from the basement, and was closing the door. He had his back to the room, and the crash made him jump round. For one frozen second they faced each other. Then, as Bull’s right hand moved up with a gun in it, Mercer shot him. The heavy bullet caught him in the face, just above the mouth. He spun round under the impact, and dropped. As he fell, the left sleeve of his jacket jerked out of his pocket and fell across the back of his head, as though he was trying to protect himself with an arm that was no longer there.
Mercer said, “Break down the door.” He had to shout above the reverberation of the shot which had deafened them.
Gwilliam jumped down, motioned Prothero to stand aside, and swung the sole of his foot, once, twice, three times against the door, below the handle. The door was a solid piece of wood, but the repeated drive was too much for the lock, which came away with a crack. The three men tumbled into the room.
The noise which had puzzled
them was explained. Mr. Nevinson had been lashed to a chair with electric flex. He was sobbing gently. His right ear was a mess of charred and bloodstained skin and flesh.
“For God’s sake,” said Mercer. “Get him untied and see if you can do something for him.” He moved across to the door in the panelling, stepping over Bull’s body as he did so. The door was ajar. Still holding his gun he edged it open with his foot, and looked in. The steel grille was open, too. There was no sign of it being forced. That made it certain they had Beale.
A sound from the passage made him jump round. It was the Chief Constable who came in, followed by a middle-aged man who looked like a soldier in plain clothes. They stared down at the body of Bull, sprawled on the carpet, and then at Gwilliam who was trying, unsuccessfully, to force some brandy from a flask down Mr. Nevinson’s throat. The room reeked of blood, exploded cordite, and the sickly smell of burned flesh.
The Chief Constable said, “We’ve found their cars. And we’ve cleaned up their supports. The ones that hadn’t had time to run away. I’m sorry about Superintendent Clark.”
Mercer said, “Is he—?”
“Yes. He’s dead.” He was looking steadily at Mercer when he spoke. “That makes one on each side, Inspector. I’d like it to stop there if possible.”
Mercer said, thickly, “It may not be possible.”
“What’s your plan now?”
“If they hadn’t got Beale and Constable Pike with them, I’d go straight down and rush them. If they’ve got their minds on the job they’re doing down there, we might jump them without too much trouble.”
“Won’t they have heard the shot?”
“I rather doubt it,” said Mercer. “There are two floors between us. And if they did hear it, they could have assumed it was their own side giving covering fire.”
The Chief Constable said, “What do you think, Colonel?”
The Colonel said, “I don’t think we’ve got any weapons which would be effective against the sort of construction there is in this building. Might the best plan be to cut off the electricity and rush them in the dark?”
“I’m afraid it might provoke just the sort of blood-bath I’m anxious to avoid. What do you think, Inspector?”
The scar on Mercer’s face showed like a red slash. He said, “I don’t think they’d put up much of a fight. I’m for trying it.”
“Starve them out or rush them,” said the Colonel. “I can’t see any other way.”
Sergeant Gwilliam said, “Excuse me, sir. But I think this gentleman has something he wants to say.”
They all turned to look at Mr. Nevinson. He was a pathetic parody of his important and orderly self, but a light was observable in his eyes. He said, speaking very slowly, “I told you, Inspector. You remember. In case of fire.”
“Of course,” said Mercer. “Where are they?”
“Cupboard in the corner.”
Mercer raced across and opened it. Inside were two heavy brass wheels, each with a metal tag attached. A chain through the spokes was padlocked. There was a key in a circular glass case inside the door. Mercer poked the barrel of his pistol through the glass, picked out the key, opened the padlock and slid off the chain.
Then he examined the tags. The left-hand one said ‘Shutters’. Mercer rotated it as far as it would go.
The Chief Constable said, “You seem to know what you’re doing. But perhaps you would explain.”
“This wheel shuts off the air-intake into the cellars. They are now sealed.”
“You think shortage of air will drive them out?”
“I expect it would,” said Mercer. “In time. But this will bring them up a damned sight quicker.” He indicated the second wheel. “This one opens the water-jacket. It’s a fire precaution. It will fill both cellars to the top in five minutes. I suggest we flood the bottom cellar first. We could then tell them that unless they came out, with their hostages intact, we propose to fill the top cellar too.”
“Do you know,” said the Chief Constable, “I think that’s an extremely sound idea. Start turning.”
One by one they came up. Constable Pike first, his face drained and white and the blood still welling from a bruise on his forehead, supported by Beale, unharmed and surprisingly cheerful; followed by six of the Crows, soaked, sullen, contemptuous, aggressive, impassive. Last of all came Mo Fenton. He had taken off his coat to work on the door of the strong-room, and lost it in the first inrush of the water. His shirtsleeves were rolled above his elbows, showing his great forearms covered with reddish-grey hair.
“I’ve special instructions from Commander Laidlaw about this man, sir,” said Mercer. “I’m to talk to him alone.”
“Better search him first,” said the Chief Constable. There was no weapon on him. Mercer led the way to a room opposite, turned on the light, and shut the door behind them.
“I know what you want,” said Mo. “You want Paul Crow. And I can give him to you. But first, I want to know what I get out of it?”
Mercer was standing beside him. His shoulders were slouched, he had his right hand in his jacket pocket and he looked relaxed and a bit tired.
“We’re not interested in Paul Crow any more,” he said. “After tonight, he’s a dead duck. He’s not only lost his best men, and most of his money—he’s lost his magic. People won’t believe in him any more. Very soon, someone will decide to take his crown away. They’ll take it with a sawn-off double-barrelled shot-gun at close range.”
“You could be right,” said Mo. “If you don’t want Paul, what do you want?”
“You,” said Mercer. His right hand came out of his pocket. Mo saw the glint of steel and ducked too late. The armoured knuckles caught him full in the middle of the face.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“I knocked out three teeth, split both lips, broke his nose and fractured his cheekbone in two places. And I’ve never felt happier about anything in my life.”
“You got into a lot of trouble over it,” said Venetia.
“Of course I did. They couldn’t possibly overlook it. That’s why I’m going back to the Middle East. Bahrain this time.” Mercer grinned reminiscently. “Defence counsel tried to make capital out of it on behalf of his poor, ill-treated client. When the jury heard that Mo had burned off Nevinson’s ear with a cigarette lighter, trying to extract from him a master key which didn’t exist, they somehow lost interest in his little troubles.”
“Keep out here,” said Venetia. “If you get too close to the bank you’ll lose your pole in the mud.”
She was sprawled on the cushions of the punt, trailing one brown hand in the water, and watching Mercer, who was punting with considerable skill and assurance.
“All the same,” she said, “it was silly to hit him. He was bound to get a long sentence, on account of the Superintendent being killed.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” said Mercer. He rubbed one finger down the scarred side of his face. “How do you think I got this?”
“I’ve often wondered.”
“Mo did it. Whilst two of his men held me. For various reasons there wasn’t much I could do about it at the time. But I couldn’t let him get away with it. It would have been bad for morale.”
“I don’t suppose his morale will be up to much for the next fourteen years.”
“I wasn’t thinking of his morale. I was thinking of mine. All the same, the biggest kick I got out of the whole trial was seeing Weatherman go down for seven years.”
“He wasn’t a very nice person,” agreed Venetia. “A good lawyer, though.”
“Will the firm survive?”
“I think so. Willoughby’s having to work really hard for the first time in his life.”
“It’ll do him a power of good.”
“They’ve lost a lot of clients, of course. But they’ve got quite a few new ones. People will always go to a solicitor if they think he can fiddle their taxes for them.”
They slid on in silence for a few minutes. It was ear
ly summer and there were no other boats on the river.
Mercer said, “I meant to congratulate you on Robert.”
“Thank you.”
“Just the right husband for you. Clean-living, upright and industrious.”
“Now you’re being beastly.”
“No. I mean it. Did you tell him about us?”
“Naturally. I didn’t want him to imagine I was entirely inexperienced.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Oh!’ “
Mercer laughed so much he nearly dropped the punt pole.
Venetia said, “I suppose, when you get to Bahrain you’ll turn Mohammedan, and have four wives.”
“It would be nice in some ways. But terribly expensive.”
“As I probably shan’t see you again, there’s one thing I wanted to ask you.” Having said this, Venetia was silent for so long that Mercer said, “I can’t bear the suspense. What is it?”
“It’s impertinent. And nothing to do with me. But why did you shoot Jack Bull?”
“He’d have shot me if I hadn’t.”
“Couldn’t you have disabled him?”
“It’s only in cowboy films that the sheriff shoots the gun out of the bad man’s hand.”
“I think you’re ducking the question.”
“Yes,” said Mercer. “I’m ducking the question.” He rested on the pole for a moment, holding the boat into the current, and staring back into the past; only six months gone, but already a world away. “I think,” he said, “that I shot him because I realised that prison would kill him, but it would take a lot longer to do it. You can’t think out elaborate reasons when you’ve only got a split second to make up your mind. But I think that’s why I shot him.”
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