Blood poured, spattered down over the girl, the crimson on the black, spreading over her breasts, running on to the dead-white of the cloth. The angry weal on her forearm stood out sharply until it too was covered in the sacrificial blood.
The ceremony itself had ended abruptly after that rite had been performed and it appeared that no one else was going to be initiated. There was a low murmur of talk but Shaw, as before, was quite unable to catch what it was about. From what he could see, it appeared that the meeting was about to break up.
There was nothing he could do here; one man against that mob wouldn’t get very far, and he had to be free to tell of what he had seen. In any case, it would be useless to try to hold them here at gun-point if he had no way of getting a message through to the Outfit. He had to get away fast and ring Latymer, get him to send a couple of men along to tail that big African and the white man.
He reached sideways, feeling for the other window-sill, and started to swing away from the horrible room inside. He was groping for that next-door ledge with one foot when he slipped. There was one awful moment when he felt that he must fall and then he managed to retain a precarious balance. He sweated, moved a leg tentatively.
As he did so his left knee struck hard against the window-pane.
He heard the startled shout from inside, and then, as he tried desperately to scramble across the narrow gap to safety, he heard the snap of an authoritative voice — a European voice, he fancied, “Away you go — everybody out!”
There was a hurried scrape of chairs, the sound of feet furiously on the move. A moment later the curtains were ripped aside. The albino and another man, the white man whom he had seen before, stood there framed in the light streaming out, illuminating Shaw. Both men had revolvers in their hands. As the albino started to fling the bottom window up, Shaw kicked out hard, drove his shoe through the glass, viciously. The window broke inward in a shower of jagged ends; the white man cursed, dabbed at a nasty cut on his cheek, and then fired blindly through the smashed window. There was an explosion in the room and a bullet whistled between Shaw’s legs, and went off into the night, zinged against some guttering on the roof at the back of the club; the sudden crash had made Shaw move instinctively, only a little but enough to send him right off balance this time. His arms went up and he fell backward, the lighted room rushing past him as a yellow blur. He was just conscious of his body striking flat into what felt like a hedge and then something caught his head and he went out.
As he did so a police whistle shrilled in the street in rear of the club.
Shaw came round to find a man in blue bending over him, while another man, with a stethoscope hung around his neck, dabbed at his head with a lint pad.
He heard this man say confidently, “He’s coming round, Inspector. No real damage.”
He closed his eyes again as the room swung round him in circles, then some minutes later he opened them again and asked weakly, “Where am I — what happened?”
A voice said sourly, “You’re in the nick.”
“The nick… but — how did I get here?”
“As if you didn’t know!” The voice went on, beating into Shaw’s aching head. “Soon as you’re fit, you’ll be charged with attempting to break into and enter the Ship’s Biscuit Club, in Corner—”
“Oh, will I.” Shaw sat up, winced, put a hand to his head. His mouth felt dry and it had a nasty taste in it.
The Inspector said, “That’s right.”
“But I can explain! Look… somebody fired at me, and—”
He saw the Inspector look away above his head as though catching the eye of somebody behind him. Another uniformed man moved forward and cleared his throat, then began reading out a charge and caution. When this man had finished the Inspector said, “If you’ve got anything to say which’ll help, I’ll listen. But I may as well tell you, no one in that club admits firing that shot and every one can account for his or her movements. We found a Webley .38 on you, admittedly unfired. But — we found no other firearm on the premises.”
Shaw said witheringly, “No, I bet you didn’t. And I don’t suppose you got even a smell of the people I was watching through that window either. Now look — just get on the phone, fast as you can. Ring the Admiralty, ask for a Mr Latymer. And for God’s sake, man—hurry!"
The Inspector’s face was extremely red a few minutes later. Handing the telephone to Shaw, he said, “Mr Latymer wants a word with you, sir. And I hope you’ll accept my apologies.”
Shaw took the receiver. Latymer’s voice came through, metallic, cold and distant.
“Ah — Shaw. Don’t let’s waste time. I’ve squared things with that Station Inspector without having to go into too many details — you know what I mean. Now I want the whole story from you.”
“Right, sir.” Shaw told him everything as briefly as he could, and when he had finished Latymer thought for a moment, grunted, and then said.
“We’ll have to leave the club to the police now, but I’ll talk to the Inspector again and try to persuade him to haul that albino in for questioning — he can fake up a charge, I’ve no doubt. The rest of ’em will be clear away now, of course. Apart from the albino, all we seem to have is the description of the white man at the ceremony, and the African who was in charge of the proceedings. Right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s not much to go on, but I’ll get Carberry to check
through the Rogue’s Gallery on the off-chance and see if we can pick up any leads. I’ll let you know in the morning if we get anything out of the albino. How’re you feeling, Shaw?”
“All right now, sir. I’ll manage.”
Latymer said irritably, “I think you’ve managed enough for one night. Clumsy ass. If you can’t keep your balance you’d better stay on the ground in future. Go home to bed.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I—”
“Yes, yes, yes, I’m not blaming you really, my boy. Just bad luck. But I’ve given you an order. Go home to bed. There’s nothing more you can do to-night. Give me that Inspector again.”
Shaw handed the receiver over, waited on a hard chair in the bare, functional room while the Inspector spoke. He’d muffed it all right to-night… whatever Latymer had said about not blaming him, the Old Man hadn’t been pleased. And no wonder.
The Inspector finished his talk with Latymer and rang off, looking embarrassed and sorry for himself still. He said, “I’ll see that a car’s put at your disposal, sir.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather not.” Shaw grinned. “Can’t afford to draw attention to myself by having a police car outside my flat! But I’d be glad if one of your chaps would find me a taxi…”
Three minutes later they told him a taxi was waiting, and, with his revolver restored to him, he went outside into a blustery night with fast clouds scudding across a clear, windy sky. He looked up, just as a brilliant ball of light came up majestically from the northern horizon, seemed to hang poised for a moment, and then sailed on across London, spinning through space.
Bluebolt One, southbound towards Africa on one more orbit, one more circumnavigation.
Sitting back in the taxi as he was driven to West Kensington, Shaw wondered how much longer that satellite would sail on, free, untroubled, aloof above the world’s heads.