Anita’s dark eyes were scared, but she didn’t flinch from Olin’s hard gaze.
‘You know Verne Baird?’ he snapped.
‘I’ve met him,’ Anita said.
‘Yeah? Didn’t he hole up in your room about a month ago?’ Olin demanded aggressively. ‘You’d better not lie. I’ve got a witness.’
She looked quickly away from him, and her eyes took in the stretcher. The intern was dropping a blanket across Hater’s dead face. She had a glimpse of the swollen, grotesque mask before the blanket hid it.
Her hands went to her breasts, and the colour drained out of her face. She looked appealingly at O’Brien, claiming his at ention because he was a familiar stranger among unfamiliar ones.
‘Who — who is it?’ she asked.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ Olin barked. ‘I asked you…’
‘Who is that, please?’ she repeated, looking at O’Brien, and pointed at the still figure on the stretcher.
‘A guy named Hater,’ O’Brien told her. ‘But answer the Lieutenant’s question.’
‘Hater? Is he dead?’
There was something about the way she was holding herself and the sudden horror in her eyes that stopped Olin from grabbing and shaking her. He glanced at O’Brien and nodded.
‘Yes, he’s dead. You don’t have to worry about him,’ O’Brien said. ‘Tel the Lieutenant about Baird.’
Slowly, as if she was sleep-walking, Anita walked over to the stretcher.
The intern, a young, red-faced fellow, looked up impatiently.
‘Can I see him, please?’ she asked.
Surprised, he looked across at Olin, who signalled to him.
‘He’s not pretty,’ the intern said grudgingly, as if he were jealous of sharing his world of horrors with any outsider.
He lifted the blanket.
Anita looked for a long moment at the dead, swollen face. She seemed to go suddenly limp, and O’Brien went quickly to her side, taking her arm. He turned her away, so her back was to the body on the stretcher.
‘What happened to him?’ she asked, her fingers digging into O’Brien’s wrist. ‘He had only two more years to serve. He wouldn’t have run away.’
‘What is this?’ Olin said, exasperated.
As he made a move to go to her, Dallas pulled him back.
‘Let me talk to her,’ he said urgently, and before Olin could stop him, he was at Anita’s side.
‘He was kidnapped from prison,’ he told her. ‘They wanted to find out where he had hidden the Chittabad collection. Baird was paid to get him out of jail. It was Baird who killed him.’
She stiffened and pushed away from O’Brien.
‘Baird did that?’
‘That’s right. Do you know Hater?’
She jerked up her head and looked defiantly at Dallas.
‘Of course I know him. He was my father.’
Before Dallas could collect his startled wits, a patrolman with an elderly woman came quickly across the street towards Olin.
‘Lieutenant,’ the patrolman said, ‘this woman says she’s seen Baird.’
‘Where?’ Olin demanded, turning to the woman.
‘He was going to the top floor of my house,’ the woman said excitedly. ‘A big man; he seemed ill, and he was carrying a gun.’
‘Where’s your house?’
‘No. 30. That’s it over there,’ and she pointed.
‘You say he had a gun: what kind of a gun?’
‘I don’t know: a sort of machine-gun.’
‘Okay,’ Olin said, he waved the patrolman and woman away. ‘Come on, boys, let’s get him.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Dallas said, catching hold of Olin’s arm. ‘You don’t think you’ll take him alive?’
‘I don’t care if he’s alive or dead,’ Olin said.
‘Maybe he knows where the collection is. You’ve got to get him alive.’
Olin stared at him,
‘I don’t give a damn about the collection. I’m getting him dead or alive.’
‘Can I quote you?’ Dal as said. ‘The insurance companies will love to know the name of the officer who gypped them out of four million.’
Olin threw his cigar butt in the street.
‘Will you get out of my way! I’ve had about enough of you!’
‘Without the gun you could take him alive,’ Dallas said, speaking quickly. ‘Let me go up there and try and get the gun. I can tell him I’m from Miss Jackson. He might listen to me.’
Anita touched Olin’s arm.
‘I’ll get his gun,’ she said quietly. ‘He won’t hurt me. Then you can come up and take him.’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying. This guy’s dangerous,’ Olin said, exasperated. ‘Will you two get out of my hair?’
‘Let her do it,’ Dallas said. ‘You can be right behind her. If he starts blasting with that gun, he could kill half your men before you got him.’
‘I tell you she’s not going up there…!’ Olin began.
Anita turned suddenly and began to run across the street towards the house.
As Olin opened his mouth to shout after her, Dallas stumbled against him, knocking him off balance.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Olin snarled, recovering himself. ‘Come on, you guys, get after that girl!’
IV
Baird, lying on his side, his head on his arm, his back against the wall, was suddenly galvanised from his coma by the sound of a police siren.
He lifted his head, listening. The wailing note of the siren floated up the stairs like the vanguard of death. With an effort that made him feel faint and sick, he dragged himself to a sitting position. His right hand went out and pulled the Thompson gun towards him. He rested the butt against his chest, the barrel covering the stairs.
How had they found him? he wondered. He had a vague idea that he had come in a car, but his mind was too dazed and sick with fever to remember what he had done with the car. Surely he couldn’t have been so crazy as to have left it outside the house?
He looked over his shoulder along the passage. He could see the faint light of the moon coming through the skylight. If he remained in the passage, they would take him in the rear. Some of them would come up the stairs, the others would come through the skylight.
Slowly he dragged himself to Anita’s door. He reached up and turned the handle, but the door was locked. The effort sent him into a half-conscious stupor, and he lay on his side, against the door, fighting off the feeling that he was about to slip off the edge of the world.
More sirens brought him alert again. He caught hold of the door handle and dragged himself to his feet. He set his back against the door. From this position he could watch both the skylight and the stairs.
He got the Thompson under his arm with the butt against the door, his finger curled around the trigger. It wouldn’t last long, he told himself, but he’d take some of them with him. He remembered with startling clearness the same thing had happened to him in this very passage some five weeks ago. Then he had given himself up for lost, but she had saved him. It was still possible she might save him again.
Time hung in space. He waited with the patience of a wounded and trapped animal. Every now and then his head dropped to his chest, and his legs sagged, but each time he made the effort and stopped himself from sliding to the floor.
It was a long time before he heard footsteps on the stairs. He raised the gun, and waited.
Then he saw her. She was coming up the stairs, her hand on the banister rail, a red and blue scarf on her head, and her shabby overcoat dark with rain. She looked at him, white-faced, and her eyes big and frightened.
‘Hel o,’ he said huskily. ‘This is where we came in, isn’t it?’
She didn’t say anything. He saw her eyes shift from him to the gun. He realised he was still pointing it at her, and he hurriedly lowered the barrel.