It was over, finished, and Peter knew they had made it. Even before the glass and window shade were back in place, and the Cabezuda had lurched away from the side of the bank to sway into the street, even before these last swift links were connected, Peter knew everything was going to be all right.
“Get started now,” he said to Francois, and moved the shade with his fingertip and looked into the street.
He heard the Frenchman’s running footsteps going towards the stairs, and he saw, in the street below him, the Cabezuda swaying and listing precariously; but Peter knew it wouldn’t fall, he knew there would be no ironical failure at this juncture the broken shoestring, the chance malfunction of a traffic signal, the innocent parade of Girl Scouts blocking escape no, nothing like that, no booby traps, no sneak punches now, they were home free, and all that remained was for Peter Churchman to pick up the cheque that would bankrupt him.
The police were steadying the Cabezuda. That was a delicious touch, he thought a bit sadly, a lovely grace note at the falling close of the song. Several of the policemen braced the swaying figure, steadied it, righted it, and, at last, sent it wandering along the streets with friendly slaps and shouts of encouragement.
And now it’s all over, Peter thought with weary satisfaction. He stayed at the window until he saw the Cabezuda disappear around a corner. Then he walked through a marine translucence to the vault and began to put away the drills and punches. There was no point in tidying things up, of course, but, on the other hand, there was no reason not to.
And suddenly Peter froze. But the warning scream of his senses had come too late. He turned and tried to duck, but he was too late, far too late, to escape the blow that whistled softly through the air towards his head. The butt of a gun struck his left temple and knocked him sprawling to the floor.
A splinter of thought pierced the darkness in his mind. The film... but his strength was gone, his powers usurped by pain.
He heard only one thing more, the faint sound of running footsteps.
Soon they too were gone... The marble floor was cold against his cheek, and his limbs were filled with a shuddering impotence. And the darkness fell about him like the wings of a great black dove... The Cabezuda lay on its side in the draughty shed by the river. The tip of its long splayed nose rested on the dusty floor. Its broken eyes stared at the wall with a suggestion of lugubrious anger.
Phillip had demolished the huge head methodically. He had kicked holes through its eyes and forehead, smashed the drum that hung from its neck, ripped off the tricorn hat, and pulled the splintered wood apart with his hands.
The gaping interior of the Cabezuda was empty.
“Where are they?” he asked Angela.
Phillip held her by one arm, as he would a child, and looked into her eyes. Despite his exertions, his voice was gentle and reasonable, but it was the gentleness and reasonableness of a man who had a firm grip on the levers that operated a rack; there was no need to shout or scream, that was the victim’s role. The look in his eyes sent a chill down Angela’s spine.
“I told you the truth,” she said. “Something went wrong. The window at the bank didn’t open.”
“Phillip struck her across the face. “You can make this as difficult as you like. But I want the truth.”
“Stop it, you pig!” She struggled fiercely against the grip of his hand, but she might as well have tried to tear her arm from a vice.
Phillip struck her again, with more authority this time, and Angela’s head snapped about on her shoulders like a flower in an erratic wind-storm.
“Stop it!” she cried. “I told you the truth.”
“Where is Francois?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
There was a sudden glimmer of understanding in Phillip’s eyes. “I should have kept in mind that swine’s talent for betrayal. You must have given him the diamonds on the way from the bank. While I was carting you through the streets and alleys.”
“I swear to God I didn’t Oh listen to me, you great stupid pig! Peter’s tricked us. Don’t you realise that?”
“No, you and Francois are the specialists in that area. So let’s see which you prefer: the diamonds or your pretty face.”
“No, stop it!”
After a while Phillip was forced to consider the possibility that she might be telling the truth. He released her arm, frowned at his watch, and went swiftly through the door, without another glance at Angela, who lay huddled on the dusty floor beside the smashed head of the Cabezuda.
A scream waked Peter. Or so it seemed, as he rolled on to his side and sat up, bracing his weight with a hand against the floor. The silence in the dim interior of the bank was troubled by echoes; it was like the trembling silence in a room in which a telephone has just stopped ringing.
The lump above his ear pulled his right eye into a squint. His head ached dreadfully. He got to his knees and looked through the tool kit, driven to this by the kind of pointless hope that impels a starving dog to return with futile persistence to an empty plate.
But of course it was gone; the can of film was gone. Dear sweet Christ, he thought wearily. That was why Francois hadn’t bothered to kill him. He hadn’t needed to. Peter got to his feet, and breathed slowly and deeply, summoning the last of his strength for what lay ahead of him.
He had been prepared to pick up the cheque, to make amends, to pay the bill with his freedom. But he couldn’t do that now. For when Angela sent the film to the police, the prison doors would swing shut on Bendell and the Irishman too.
It was ten-thirty. Francois had a long start on him. But there was still Phillip, the one last hope, the one threat Francois could have no way of anticipating... Peter lowered himself through the manhole, climbed down into the big drain which ran under the basement of the bank. The cold and dampness now seemed more intense; he could see his breath in the gleam of his flashlight, hazy and white on the heavy fetid air.
He ran along the tunnel until it began to narrow; then he went to his knees to cover the last half-dozen yards. He was quite weak, but his mind was functioning clearly. Nothing very subtle or complex had occurred to him however; find Francois and recover the can of film, those were his simple goals.
And for all practical purposes, Peter achieved both these ends by the unspectacular and unheroic act of pointing the beam of his flashlight down the narrow link between the two mains.
What he saw nearly made him retch. He snapped off the light, but there were still hotly glowing little eyes, and the scratch of claws on slimy stones, to remind him of what horrors had been revealed in the glare of his torch.
Francois had had a long start on him, to be sure, but this was as far as he had got; his body was lodged in the narrow connecting tube, and there it would stay until the fall floods swept it into the next main, and then on to the river.
Peter drew a deep breath and snapped on his light. He forced himself to look down the tube, and then he saw and understood what had happened to Francois: The can of film, tucked under his belt, had become wedged into a crack in the stone surfacing of the tube. One of its flanged rims had been driven deeply into the fissure, and Francois, with his arms thrust ahead of his body, and his weight pressing heavily on the can of film, had been unable to free himself; the confines of the tube had made it impossible for him to shift his weight or move his arms.
With his body slanting downward at a forty-five degree angle, the Frenchman’s cramped hands and feet had been totally impotent against the force of gravity. He couldn’t slide down to the big main ahead of him; and he couldn’t fight his way back up and out of the connecting tube.
All he could do was scream.