As if by Magic (36 page)

Jack had no intention of waiting until reinforcements arrived. Without giving any hint of his intentions he drove his fist into the waiter's ribs, a short, effective punch. The waiter doubled up with a groan and Jack ran for it, back towards the comparative safety of the office. Two more waiters loomed up in front of him, blocking his way, fists at the ready. He tried to duck past them when a third clipped him on the jaw. His head jerked back and his legs were kicked from under him. Sprawling on the floor, he heard the drum stop beating, a woman's scream and the anxious, questioning voices of men. He attempted to get to his feet when a voice stopped him.

‘What the hell . . .?' A rough hand grabbed his collar, hauling him to his feet. His arms were pinned to his sides and the mask ripped from his face.

He heard the quick intake of breath from the man looking at him and saw the eyes narrow behind the mask. ‘Major Haldean?'

The voice was unmistakable. It was Roger Maguire.

Jack felt a thrill of satisfaction surge through him. He had guessed who was behind the Continental, and he was right.

‘Take off the fancy dress, Maguire, old man,' said Jack evenly, looking into the masked face. ‘You're finished. I know exactly who you are and what you've done.'

Maguire started back, his mouth working in fury. He turned to address the crowd behind him. ‘It's all right,' he called over the noise of the club. ‘Nothing to worry about. Please, gentlemen, resume your seats. This is just a little matter I have to clear up.' He turned back to Jack and his captors. ‘Take him downstairs,' he said to the waiters. ‘We'll use the red room. Major Haldean needs to answer a few questions. A few painful questions,' he added viciously.

That was no good. He had to get his arms free but he was firmly held. ‘It's no use, Maguire,' he said. ‘I know all about you.' For God's sake, couldn't Bill Rackham see what was happening? Out of the corner of his eye Jack risked a glance towards the office. A waiter was standing outside the door, blocking the entrance. Bloody
hell
!

‘Take him away,' spat out Maguire.

Jack laughed. He had to win more time and he wasn't going to be taken out of Paris for anyone. ‘Do drop it, Maguire. What do you think you look like, dressed up as Zorro? It's over.'

Maguire snarled and, stepping forward, struck Jack hard across the face with the flat of his hand. ‘How did you get in here?'

Jack, temporarily blinded by the blow, didn't answer.

Maguire hit him again. ‘How did you get in here?'

Jack, his face throbbing with pain, shrank back defensively. ‘I didn't mean any harm!' He was desperate to get his arms free, to make Maguire believe he was really scared. Where the devil was Bill?

Maguire smiled at the terror in his voice. ‘Hit him again,' he said to one of the waiters.

Jack struggled, twisting to ward them off. Another blow went home and he sank to his knees. The two waiters holding him dragged him round to face Maguire once more.

Maguire threw his cigarette on the floor and, stepping forward, launched a kick into Jack's ribs. Torn away from the waiters' restraining hands by the impact, Jack rolled away with a grunt. There were dancing lights in his head but with an explosion of triumph he knew his arms were free at last.

He fumbled in his pocket, found the police whistle he was looking for and, with as much strength as he could muster, blew an ear-splitting blast. ‘Bad luck, old chap,' he gasped, scrambling to his feet. ‘The party's over.'

Supporting himself against the wall, Jack watched Maguire's face freeze in horror as Rackham's men poured into the room. The blast of the police whistle was like a bomb going off in the dimly lit room. The shrieks of women mixed with the shouts of men and, through it all, Rackham was yelling at the top of his voice.

‘Everyone stay where you are! This is a police raid! Stay where you are!' He looked over his shoulder to where Maguire was still standing, surrounded by the waiters, looking on in utter disbelief. ‘Make sure you've got him secure,' he called. He raised his voice to a shout once more. ‘All the doors are locked and there's no way out!'

Maguire tensed as a policeman approached. Jack, still regaining his breath, watched him intently. He saw his face harden and the gleam of metal as he drew a pistol from his pocket.

‘Look out!' shouted Jack and launched himself at Maguire. The crack of the shot bit through the screams, followed by a grunt from the policeman as the bullet tore through his arm. The pistol went skittering across the floor. Maguire hit out blindly, catching Jack on the side of the head before wriggling away, out of his grasp. Blinking, Jack tried to grab him once more and failed. Maguire kicked out, got to his feet and ran for it. Jack rolled away from the flailing feet and, hauling himself up, chased after him.

Maguire dodged round the stage, heading for the back of the room. He leapt on to the bar, sending glasses, trays and bottles flying.

Scrambling after him, Jack saw him fling open a door at the back of the bar. ‘There's another door!' he yelled to the policeman thudding after him. ‘Lock the damn thing!' Then he was down the staircase, hurtling after Maguire.

The staircase came out in the cloakroom in the lobby across from the doorway to the Continental. Jack saw the white, startled face of the cloakroom attendant as first Maguire, then Jack, pushed their way into the room. Maguire vaulted over the counter, evidently heading for the street, swerving as he saw the police blocking the door.

Jack followed him over the counter in time to see him disappear into the Continental. Women screamed and men shouted as Maguire raced through the dancers on the floor, thrusting them out of his way, heedless of overturned tables and crashing glass. With the part of his mind that never switched off, Jack registered how peculiar it was that the band continued to play as the breathy crescendo of the saxophone was nearly swamped by screams.

Maguire barged his way through a door at the back of the restaurant into the kitchens. A trolley laden with food went over in a smash of lobster claws, cutlery and glass. Maguire ducked round the kitchen table, skidding past bewildered waiters and a white-clad chef holding a pan. Jack saw him reach out in passing and grab a kitchen knife from the table.

He was heading for Dainty Alley. ‘Stop!' roared Jack. ‘Maguire, you can't escape!' Once Maguire got into Dainty Alley the chase was over, for that entrance was blocked too, but Maguire was armed and Jack feared for the police on the other side of the gate. Jack saw a brief flash of white as Maguire glanced over his shoulder, then the chef loomed up between them, still holding the pan.

Jack thrust the man out of his way in time to see Maguire disappear through the door on to the bottom of the stairwell, the stairs which led up to the attic. There was a creak, a crash as if something had been dropped, followed by an odd, hollow bang, but when Jack reached the stairs Maguire had vanished.

It suddenly seemed very quiet. From behind him the restaurant was pulsating with noise but here on the stairs was silence. Ignoring the chef who had followed him out, Jack cupped his mouth in his hands, shouting up the stairs to the policemen he knew were at the top. ‘You up there!'

From the top storey, a policeman looked over the banister rails. He recognized Jack. ‘Sir?'

‘Come down, quickly. Leave a man on guard. Maguire's escaped.'

The policeman ran down. It only took a moment but Jack was alive with impatience. ‘There's no one on the stairs, sir,' said the man when he arrived. ‘There's a couple of doors on the way. I suppose he could have gone through one of them.'

Jack shook his head impatiently. ‘That doesn't seem right,' he muttered. ‘I heard a noise. I can't place it.' He walked into the tiny back yard. The light from the kitchen shining through the stairwell door funnelled on to the flags, making a wedge of sharp-edged shadows. He borrowed the policeman's lantern and shone it round the yard. Nothing. He looked at the high wall and barred gate. There were men in Dainty Alley. ‘Hello!' he called. ‘This is Major Haldean. Has anyone escaped?'

‘Not this way, sir,' came the reply.

Jack swore with impatience and turned back to the stairwell entrance. Then he saw it. There was large square of coconut matting on the floor of the stairwell and it had been moved out of place. He lifted up the mat and there, set into the ground, was a trap door. ‘Got him!' he said with deep satisfaction.

He hauled up the trap door, his lips curving in a smile as he recognized the creak. He shone the light down on to a mass of dark water about ten feet below. He put the lantern inside his waistcoat and sat on the edge.

‘Leave this open,' he said to the policeman and then, without further ado, swung himself into the water.

He touched bottom briefly, falling against the wall of the tunnel, then the current picked him up and bore him away. Struggling to the surface and spluttering for breath, he struck out, half swimming, half carried away. It was numbingly cold and utterly dark. This was far more than a sewer, it was a river. The icy water knocked the air from his lungs, and he felt a quiver of fear as he realized he was going to end up in the Thames. Echoing up the tunnel, from far ahead, over the cold rush of waters, he could hear a faint splash. Maguire!

Light, dim reflected light, appeared ahead: he was coming out into the Thames. Then he was out of the tunnel mouth, beached and helpless on the river bank, the water flowing round him as he lay in the mud. The main force of the water thundered over his head as he lay under the lip of the tunnel, but in front of him was the black, light-streaked mass of the Thames.

He didn't know how long he lay there, feeling his chest heave as he took in great gulps of air, but for a few minutes he was unable to move. Then, dragging his way through the mud, he crawled rather than walked to the side of the stream, leaned against the slime-covered stone blocks of the river wall and took in his surroundings.

Thank God the tide was on the ebb. When the river was full the tunnel entrance would be submerged and he would have been carried out into the Thames. With a start of surprise he recognized where he was. He was between Waterloo and Blackfriars Bridge and the Pegasus, close up to the temporary jetty, was riding gently on the river. The jetty was only forty feet or so away, stretching from the shore to the plane.

Then he noticed something else. On the bank of the river, black against the light, a man was sitting, shoulders hunched over in exhaustion. Maguire!

Jack dragged himself to his feet, steadied himself against the wall, then, as quietly as he could, walked to where Maguire was sitting. It was useless, of course. His feet slipped in the mud and shale and Maguire, looking round, caught sight of him.

Unbelievably, he got to his feet and ran. It wasn't a fast run, but it was a run, and Jack, weighed down by his wet clothes with his breath coming in desperate gulps, ran after him. Even in these circumstances, Maguire kept his head. He wasn't running blindly but making for the wall, where an iron ladder led up to the Embankment.

As Jack hauled himself up the ladder, he saw Maguire on the jetty. Maguire ran on to the Pegasus, making for the mooring ropes. He cast off and the seaplane started to drift into mid-stream. As Jack got to the end of the jetty, Maguire scrambled into the cockpit. The door to the pontoon opened and George Lassiter came out on to the little landing stage.

Jack, on the edge of the jetty, put all his strength into a shout. ‘George! Help!' He saw George look at him, the surprise clear on his face. Jack took a deep breath and dived into the river.

This time he hardly noticed the cold. He struck out, making for the drifting plane. On the landing stage of the pontoon, George coiled a rope in his hand and threw it. The rope smacked across the water in front of him. Jack grasped it, winding the rope round his hands as George pulled.

As the rope tightened, Jack heard the engines of the seaplane burst into life. He felt the vibrations down the rope as the plane gathered speed, threatening to shake him loose as he battled the current and the backwash, before he thumped against the curving, convex pontoon. George took the strain and Jack heaved himself up, feet scrabbling on the polished wood. He passed the port-holes, glimpsing white tables in the deserted dining room, then he was on the flat-roofed deck, with George's strong hand grasping his coat between his shoulder blades, pulling him on board.

For a few seconds, no more, he lay exhausted. George was asking questions but he couldn't make out what they were. He raised himself to his hands and knees and, with George's help, staggered to his feet. ‘Maguire, George! We've got to stop Maguire.'

The ladder up to the rear of the cockpit was across the deck. They half ran, half slid to it and started to climb, grasping feverishly on to the rungs as the plane tilted. The plane lurched back and hit the water with a shuddering crash. As they reached the cockpit, they saw Nigel Lassiter and Maguire fighting over the controls. Maguire spun round, saw them, and lunged for the joy-stick.

‘Take her up! Take her up!'

With a scream from the engines, the vast plane lifted, then smacked down again. Nigel, face working in fury, struck out viciously as Maguire reached forward again. Maguire, flung to one side, shook his head as if to clear it, then sprang. Nigel, one hand on the joy-stick, lifted his arm to keep Maguire away from the controls, and was dragged to one side. His foot slipped on the rudder bar and the plane spun round, out of control.

Jack saw the arches of Waterloo Bridge loom before he dragged George to the floor, flinging an arm over him as the seaplane smashed against the central pier. For a few moments the world was full of rending, crashing metal and splintering wood, followed by an odd interval of near-silence while the engines continued to pulse.

Nigel stood up like a man in a daze. ‘The plane's wrecked.
The plane's wrecked
.' He turned to Maguire. ‘You wrecked my plane.' He reached out and, taking him by the lapels, shook him like a terrier with a rat. ‘
You . . . wrecked . . . my . . . plane
.'