together by the front door, and the squat man said unhurriedly: âIâll take the front. You two go the back way. Meet in Putney â and hurry.â
âItâs about time,â grunted Mac.
He went through the flat, with the man who had the hold-all, to the fire escape which led from the kitchen.
Footsteps sounded in the street outside; the squat man paused, listening, and heard someone enter the house. There was no light up here. He hurried down the first flight of stairs as the sound of voices of the raiding police floated up. He reached the first floor landing, where there was a dim light, and hid in the shadows.
Tanker Tring and Bristow were the first among the police to reach the landing; two detective constables and two uniformed men came just behind them. They did not see the hiding man as they hurried upstairs â leaving one constable, who remained on the landing.
Bristow called out when he reached the top landing, and began to knock and ring at Manneringâs door. The policeman on guard stood at the head of the stairs, looking downwards.
The squat man crept forward.
He drew within striking distance of the policeman without being noticed, shot out his left hand and tipped the manâs helmet over his eyes. Then he brought the butt of his gun down on the nape of the policemanâs neck. His victim fell, heavily. The squat man squeezed past him and ran down the stairs. As he reached the front hall, a door opened on his right, and a beam of bright light shone out. A woman stood in the doorway, shouting:
âWhat is it? Whatâs the matter?â
A policeman stood in the street doorway. He turned quickly.
âItâs all right, maâam, you neednât worry. Itââ
Then both of them saw the man with the gun. The woman stepped back, screaming. The cry was ear-splitting, carrying its alarm to the top floor.
The policeman drew his truncheon, and watched the squat man warily.
âDonât use that gun,â he warned. âDonât be silly.â
The woman screamed again. Men moved, upstairs.
âDonât use that gun,â the policeman said, and drew a step nearer, holding his truncheon tightly. âIt wonât do you any good.â He came forward steadily, his big figure blocking the doorway, the truncheon swinging in his hand. There were footsteps on the top staircase.
âTake it easy, now,â said the policeman. He looked relieved, as if he thought the greatest danger was past. âWe donât wantââ
The squat man shot him twice.
The reports echoed about the front hall and the stairs, out into the street. The policeman dropped his truncheon and clutched at his stomach. The squat man dashed past him, into the street. A police car stood immediately in front of the house, and the gunman jumped towards it; no one else seemed near. The blast of a police whistle came shrilly, so the police were stationed at either end of the street. The man jumped into the empty police car and let in the clutch. A policeman, blowing his whistle, ran towards him, but the car moved off towards the Embankment. Another policeman stood there, watching the police car. He couldnât see who was at the wheel until it was too late to jump on the running-board; it passed him in a flash, and turned right at the end of the road, towards Fulham. A little way ahead a small car was cruising; in it were Mac and his companion.
The squat man drove close behind the small car, hearing the police whistles fading in the distance. The gun in his pocket was heavy against his hip. He drove on, the cars almost bumper to bumper. They reached New Kingâs Road and tinned up Harwood Road, through Walham Green. Near Lilley Road, the squat man put on speed and pulled up in front of the others. He stopped and jumped out, and climbed into the other while it was still moving.
No one spoke a word.
They reached Putney Bridge without being hailed. A little way along
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