Dead Man Walking

by J F Straker

  “So did we.”

  “And with good reason. Johnny’s was probably better, which is why he had to go missing.” Sherrey was not given to swearing, but he swore now. “Just give me one sound lead, and I’ll have that bastard if it’s the last thing I do — Duffy or no Duffy.”

  Nicodemus too was concerned for Johnny’s safety, although he did not share the superintendent’s personal regard for his missing colleague. There were aspects of Johnny Inch that he liked; there were others he did not. He said consolingly, “Johnny’s tough, sir. He’ll make it.”

  “He’d better.”

  They were back in the winding lanes, the headlights of the car ahead a glow behind the tall hedges. Sherrey said, “Where did you get to the last half-hour?”

  “There’s a wood borders the farm to the west. One of the men thought he saw a light there.”

  “Thought he saw?”

  “Well, actually he was fairly positive. A torch, he thought it was.”

  “Did you investigate?”

  “Yes. Clean as a whistle. Anyway, the wood’s not on Gislap’s land. It’s part of the Bollender estate. They’re neighbours.”

  Sherrey grunted. “Serves them both right. How far is this wood from the farmhouse?”

  “Forty, fifty yards. And it’s not exactly a wood. A small copse, really. Just a few trees and bushes, and an old bomb-shelter that’s falling to pieces.”

  “Any other buildings near?”

  “None that we could see.”

  They had travelled less than another half-mile when the superintendent leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.

  “Stop at the next road junction,” he said. “We’re going back.”

  3

  Perhaps because of his police training, Johnny was the first to move. As he struck at Cooper’s arm the gun went off, and he heard the bullet ricochet off the floor and smack into a wall. He struck again, and the gun fell from Cooper’s hand and slithered away across the floor. Johnny did not wait to pick it up. The sliding door was beginning to close, and as Cooper reached for him he hit him solidly in the stomach, felt his fist sink into the soft flesh as Cooper gasped in agony, and made for the gap.

  The tunnel in which he found himself was dimly lit and led slightly uphill. Buttressed with stone, and with a wide band of shells along the centre of each wall, it curved to his right, so that he could see only a few yards ahead; but since the woman had come that way there must be an exit, and he ran on hopefully, spurred by the sound of pursuing footsteps. Cooper would have waited to pick up the gun, but he could not be far behind. And at the back of Johnny’s mind was the grim thought that if the exit were barred to him by some secret mechanism, Cooper would have him at his mercy.

  And then the lights went out.

  The sudden and total darkness threw him off balance. He flung out his arms to stop from falling, scraped his fingers against a projecting shell, and stumbled to a halt. His pursuer halted too. Then a glow filtered down the tunnel from behind, and he realized that Cooper had a torch.

  He hurried on. The glow was sufficient faintly to illumine the floor at his feet but not to see ahead, so that he came on the roughly cut steps without warning. He stumbled up them hopefully. But there was no night sky to greet him, no shadowy room. Once more the way was barred by a solid sheet of steel; and although he groped feverishly for a handle, he knew there would be none.

  The pursuing footsteps hurried round the bend, the door and the steps were bathed in light. Johnny turned, shielding his eyes, an easy target for Cooper’s gun.

  “All right, Cooper,” he shouted. “You win.”

  The light wavered, the footsteps halted. “It’s not Cooper,” a woman’s voice said breathlessly. “It’s me. Beryl Sinclair.”

  His relief was so great that he felt suddenly weak, drained of all energy. He pulled himself together and stumbled down the steps.

  “God, but you had me scared!” he said. “I was dead sure you were Cooper.”

  She leaned against the wall, breathing hard. The torch beam lit her feet, and he saw that they were large. With her flat heels and man-like stride it was no wonder he had mistaken her for Cooper.

  “All right?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “I was scared, too,” she gasped. “Horribly scared. That dreadful well!” She shuddered, and came away from the wall. Her fingers dug into his arm as she gripped it. “They’ll be coming after us. Can we get out? Can we?”

  Her voice had risen, but she was not hysterical. He was thankful for that.

  “We’ll try,” he said. “Come on.”

  He laid the torch on the steps with the beam pointing upward. For the final yards of the tunnel the walls were of brick, not earth, and they searched feverishly for some device which might control the movement of the door. There had to be a control. The guardroom had been deserted when Mrs Bollender arrived, so she must have operated the mechanism herself; and if it could be operated from without it must also be possible to operate it from within. The control would undoubtedly be disguised, but it had to be there.

  She was too agitated to talk coherently, but he gathered that she had managed to escape while her guard was momentarily distracted by Mrs Bollender’s surprise arrival. Feeling his grip relax, she had jerked herself free and run. The woman had tried to bar her progress, but she had swept her easily aside, to scramble through the slowly closing gap after Johnny. She had no idea how she came by the torch. Johnny suspected she had grabbed it from Mrs Bollender in an instinctive urge for a weapon, to provide protection rather than light.

  “How about your husband?” he asked. “Didn’t he try to run too?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t look to see.”

  She showed as little interest in her husband’s fate as she did in Mrs Bollender’s identity when Johnny enlightened her. Survival was all that concerned her now. Johnny appreciated that; he felt the same way. But at the back of his mind was bewilderment that a woman with Lucinda Bollender’s background could be involved with Gislap and his gang. If I ever get out of this, he thought, there’s going to be one hell of a stink in the county.

  They were on their knees, scrabbling at the base of the walls, when the lights came on. Beryl Sinclair gave a startled scream, and looked at Johnny.

  “Oh, God!” she wailed. “They’re coming!”

  “Quiet!” he snapped.

  She sniffed twice, and was quiet. From down the tunnel came the sound of footsteps: slow, measured, and no doubt deliberately loud. Cooper was in no hurry. They could not escape, and it would amuse him to heighten the tension, to build up their fear.

  The footsteps ceased.

  “You there, Inch? Can you hear me?”

  The words grew in volume as they reverberated down the tunnel. It was Cooper’s voice, distorted into a mocking echo. Johnny’s hand was on the woman’s shoulder, and he felt her shudder.

  He gripped tighter. “Steady,” he whispered. “Don’t panic.”

  “You shouldn’t have done this, Inch,” Cooper shouted. “I dislike being made to look foolish. Particularly in front of a woman. Disposing of you was just a job of work before. Now it’s personal. I’m going to enjoy it.”

  “It wasn’t me made you foolish,” Johnny called back. Appeasement would not pay now, and venting his feelings boosted his morale. “You’re just naturally that way, you fat slob. You were born foolish. And, in case you’re interested, it’s personal with me too.”

  The footsteps began again. Only one man, Johnny thought. Well, that figured. It would feed Cooper’s vanity and his desire for revenge to handle this alone, and he had the gun to help him. Only this time he would need to use it. With the well as an alternative it was empty as a threat.

  “Oh, God!” Mrs Sinclair moaned.

  Johnny picked up the torch. Encased in rubber, with a metal ring at the handle end, it made a reasonable weapon, either as missile or cudgel. Yet even as he weighed it in his hand he knew he would not be giv
en a chance to use it. Cooper would not risk a close encounter. This time he would keep his distance. Gun distance.

  If only it were dark, he thought. If only he could switch off the damned lights. If only ...

  The torch assumed a new significance. He switched it to his right hand, gripping it round the lens. If the light over the steps were broken that end of the tunnel would be at least partially obscured. Not enough to hide them completely, but enough to make Cooper’s aim less sure.

  He reached up and smashed the light. The woman screamed, startled by the noise and the sudden dark. Johnny too was startled. Not one, but all, the lights had gone, throwing the tunnel into total darkness. As the sound of the blow and the tinkle of glass died, he realized that the footsteps had halted.

  “Very clever.” Cooper’s voice boomed out of the darkness. It sounded unpleasantly close. “But it only delays the inevitable. Now we just wait for the others. I said to give me ten minutes, and they’ll do that.”

  Johnny had no intention of waiting. This was his opportunity. Shielding the torch, he made sure that it still worked. Then he bent to whisper to the woman, who was still crouched on the steps.

  “Over against the wall,” he said, and gave her a push. “Lie down, flat as you can. And stay down.”

  She was not so consumed by fear that she could not understand. She moved at once. Satisfied that she was as safe from a stray bullet as the tunnel permitted, he crept slowly towards the waiting Cooper, torch in hand. Every few yards he paused to listen. He must not go too far, and there was no sound to guide him.

  “Cooper?” He kept his voice low, hoping to feign distance. “How about a deal? On your own terms?”

  Cooper’s answer was to fire blindly. Johnny heard the bullet smack into the wall some distance behind him. Surprisingly, there was no sound from the woman.

  “That’s the only kind of deal you’re getting,” Cooper shouted.

  Almost near enough now, Johnny decided. He crossed to the other wall, crept a few feet until he came to a buttress, and placed the torch on top of it. Keeping a finger on the switch, he moved sideways as far as his outstretched arm permitted.

  As he pressed the switch and light flooded the tunnel he saw Cooper. The man was some six yards ahead. By chance the beam was directed at his face, and he put up a hand and fired at the torch. The shot missed. Before he could fire again Johnny was on him.

  He hit him where he had hit him before: a solid punch to the pit of the stomach, with all his weight and impetus behind it. Cooper gasped and folded, dropping the gun. Johnny hit him again, felt the jolt sweep up his arm as he connected with the sagging chin, and grunted in satisfaction as Cooper dropped.

  He picked up the gun. It felt like gold in his hand. He retrieved the torch, walked back a few paces, and swung the beam towards the steps. Beryl Sinclair still lay against the wall. But now her head was up, her eyes narrowed against the light.

  “Okay,” he said. “Come on down.”

  Cautiously she obeyed. “Not dead, is he?” she asked, bending over the still form.

  “Hell, no! I’m not that tough.”

  “A pity.” She kicked Cooper viciously in the side. He groaned and twitched. “What do we do now? The others’ll be here soon.”

  There was no hint of gratitude in her voice.

  “Wake him up. We need him.”

  He handed her the torch and stirred Cooper with his foot. Cooper merely groaned. Impatient, Johnny kicked him hard on the buttocks. Cooper groaned again, and opened his eyes.

  “Get up,” Johnny said.

  He sat up slowly and felt his chin.

  “Bloody copper!” He glared at Johnny, ignoring the woman. “Killing you will be a real pleasure.”

  “Get up,” Johnny said again. “There’ll be no killing. Not if you behave yourself. You’re going to show us the way out.”

  “Think again, copper. You’re staying put. And you can stop waving that gun. You can’t shoot your way out of this.”

  He relaxed on to his elbows and stared at them defiantly. Johnny hesitated. Possession of the gun had relieved some of the tension in him, so that even the imminent arrival of the two guards became less compelling. If they could not escape, at least they should be able to stay alive until the Boozer finally clicked. Had Cooper shown fight he would readily have beaten the daylight out of him to make him submit. But he was reluctant to rough up a man who offered only passive resistance.

  Beryl Sinclair shared neither his reluctance nor his comparative calm. She had been too close to death, and in her opinion was still too close.

  “You brute!” She spat the words at Cooper, and followed with a kick on the ankle. Cooper swore, and drew up his legs.

  “I’ve got news for you, woman,” he said evenly. “You’re for the well. Definitely. You’ve got nasty habits.”

  Fear, anger, hatred engulfed her. She hurled the torch at his head, grazing the scalp, and threw herself on him. Her knee landed in his groin, and his body contracted in pain as he jerked his head aside to avoid a blow at his face. He tried to fight her off; but she was strong, and desperation added to her strength. Her hands gripped his throat, lifting his head to bang it down on the floor; her knee was boring into his groin, sending stabs of pain through his body. With an effort he grabbed her wrists and tried to tear her hands from his throat.

  Incredibly, the torch still shone, its beam directed at the struggling pair. For a brief moment Johnny watched them, fascinated. Then he pocketed the gun, and with an effort yanked the woman to her feet. Swearing profanely, Cooper got up, massaging his throat. Johnny grabbed his arm, and Cooper, now thoroughly roused, swung at him wildly. It was all Johnny needed. Dodging the blow with practised skill, he hit Cooper on the side of the jaw and, as the other stumbled, gripped his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. The twist tightened, and Cooper cried out in agony, bending backward in an effort to reduce the pressure.

  “On your way,” Johnny said. Cooper grunted, arching his back still further, and Johnny brought his knee up sharply into the man’s buttocks. “Move, you fat slob.”

  Cooper moved. Johnny marched him up the steps to the steel door, the woman lighting their way with the torch. She was calmer now, but fear still possessed her. It did not matter that her blouse had been wrenched open in the struggle, that she was bruised and unkempt. The ten minutes’ grace that Cooper had predicted seemed to have stretched well beyond that limit, and she kept flashing the torch behind her to ensure that the men were not already there.

  “Now open it,” Johnny said, as they halted. Cooper tried to twist away from him, and Johnny caught the back of his head and banged his face against the door. “Open it, damn you!”

  Cooper drew in his breath with a loud hiss, but he made no move to obey. Blood was seeping from his nose, and he lifted his free hand to wipe it away.

  “Use the gun, man!” The woman’s voice was shrilly imperative. “They’ll be here any minute.”

  Johnny too had wondered at the delay. But he would not be panicked into ill-considered action.

  “Get a grip on his hair,” he told her. Both hands on Cooper’s wrist, he intensified the twist. “Right. Now, start banging his nut against the door. Not too hard; he’s no use to us unconscious. Just keep on banging until he decides he’s had enough.”

  Despite his warning, her performance was more vigorous than he considered prudent. Cooper’s cries of pain spurred her to still more vigour, and she took no heed when he yelled for them to stop. Her grasp on her victim’s hair was so tenacious that when Johnny pulled her hand away it brought with it a straggling ginger tuft. Cooper screamed in fresh agony.

  “Open the door,” Johnny said, still twisting. He hated what they were doing, but he could see no alternative. “And be quick, damn you! We’re in a hurry.”

  “Over there,” Cooper mumbled, pointing with his free hand. Johnny spoke to the woman, and she swung the torch in the direction indicated. “There’s a small slot in the mortar. When you
insert a piece of cardboard it breaks the circuit holding the door.”

  Johnny released the man’s arm and took the gun from his pocket.

  “Get on with it, then,” he said. “And no tricks.”

  The sight of Cooper’s face as he turned made Johnny feel sick. It was a mess of blood and tears. But Beryl Sinclair showed no emotion. As Cooper took a cigarette carton from his pocket and tore off a strip with trembling fingers, she moved closer to the wall, playing the torchlight slowly over the brickwork.

  “He’s lying,” she said shrilly. “I can’t see any slot.” Cooper shuffled to join her. His injuries were more superficial than serious, but he looked a broken man.

  “There,” he said, and prodded the wall.

  His hand trembled so badly that he had difficulty in inserting the cardboard strip. It kept buckling as he missed the slot, and presently he dropped it.

  “Wha — what’ll happen to me?” he asked, stooping.

  “Who cares?” Johnny said. “Get on with it.”

  The woman said hoarsely. “Look, Sergeant!”

  Johnny looked. A glow of light showed down the tunnel, slowly increasing in brilliance. From behind it came the sound of men moving warily.

  “They’re coming,” she whispered. “Oh, God!”

  Johnny grabbed Cooper and pushed him forward, using him as a shield for himself and the woman. “Find that strip of cardboard and shove it in the slot,” he told her. “And hurry.”

  He saw the circle of light around his feet and knew she was trying to obey. And if she succeeded? Was there more safety outside the tunnel than in? Cooper had had more than his allotted ten minutes. By now the men must suspect that he had lost out, that Johnny was in command. It would be an elementary precaution to watch the exit.