'Frankie?' Buster gaped at him. 'What do you want her for? What's the idea?'
'Answer the question and snap it up!' Bardin barked. 'Where is she?'
'We left her in the amusement park.'
'Alone?'
'No, she's with Burt.'
'Burt – who?'
'Why, Burt Stevens, of course. What's all this about?'
Bardin glanced at Conrad, who asked, 'Has this Stevens guy got a birth-mark ?'
'That's right. A port-wine stain down the right side of his face.'
'Are you sure his name is Stevens?'
'He said it was. Is there something wrong, then?'
'But you don't know for certain?'
'No, we don't,' Bunty broke in. 'I didn't like the look of him when he came to the house. You see, we were all going to the beach: Frankie, Buster, Terry Lancing and myself. Terry phoned to say he couldn't make it, and was sending his friend Burt to take his place. This boy turned up. He said he was Burt Stevens, but of course as I've never seen him before I don't know for certain if he really is Burt Stevens.'
'Where exactly did you leave Miss Coleman?'
'They were going into the maze,' Buster said.
'What maze?'
'The mirror maze. It's at the end of that avenue, next to the big tent. I wish you'd tell me what this is all about.'
'No time right now,' Conrad said curtly. 'Stay right here. We may need you again.' He turned to Bardin. 'Come on!' He didn't wait to see Bardin's reaction, but broke into a run, and began forcing his way through the crowds towards the big tent.
Bardin paused only long enough to give instructions to his sergeant.
'Get that maze surrounded. Don't let anyone out. You know who to look for. Watch out for Moe. He'll try to shoot his way out.'
He turned and ran after Conrad, leaving Buster and Bunty staring blankly after him.
II
The rays of the sun, striking obliquely into the maze, caught the nickel plate of the automatic and made the gun glitter in Moe's hand.
For a brief moment Frances stared at the pointing gun. Moe s appearance struck terror in her heart. His black suit, his hunched shoulders and his stillness sent a cold dull up her spine. She knew instinctively that he was a killer, and she realized he was about to shoot at her.
There was no retreat. She looked desperately along the row of mirrors and saw an opening about ten feet ahead of her. She braced herself and jumped forward. As she moved Moe shot at her.
The crash of gunfire, hemmed in by the confined space, sounded like a bomb exploding. Frances screamed wildly as a mirror right by her smashed into pieces. Fragments of glass flew like shrapnel. A splinter of glass sliced her frock missing her flesh by a hair's breadth.
She bolted down the turning, and ran as she had never run before. Ahead of her stretched an endless path of mirrors. Behind her she heard the soft padpad-pad of running feet, coming at a much faster speed than she was going. She flew over the ground, reached another turning and sped round it, cannoning into a mirror as she took the turning.
She tried desperately to regain her balance, then slid down on one knee. As she struggled up, the automatic cracked again and a bullet zipped past her face, smashed a mirror, ricocheted against another mirror and smashed that too.
The narrow path became full of flying fragments of glass. Covering her face with her arms, Frances blundered on down the path, running slower now, her breath coming in hard sobbing gasps.
Moe pulled up short as he reached the pile of broken glass. He knew time was running out. He had been told to kill this girl, and he knew if he failed his own life would be snuffed out. His small hard eyes looked along the path at the racing figure in the blue dress. He watched for a brief moment her slim flying legs and her black silky hair floating out behind her. He brought up the automatic and levelled the sight in the exact centre of her slim young shoulders. His finger curled around the trigger. He couldn't miss now. She was running as straight as a foot rule, and the sun made her pale blue frock a dazzling target.
Then he felt a violent blow against his shoulder, and gunfire crashed in his ears. His gun hand jerked up as his gun went off. He staggered back and looked up.
Standing on one of the walls was the figure of a man, gun in hand. Moe recognized him immediately: the Special Investigator to the District Attorney's office. He flung himself flat as Conrad shot at him again.
Blood was running down Moe's sleeve and down his fingers. He felt a dull burning pain in his right shoulder. He looked along the path, but the girl had now vanished, and he drew back his lips in a snarl of fury.
Conrad was about fifteen yards from where Moe crouched. Two paths divided him from the path in which Moe was. He couldn't see him now, but he knew he was still there. The wall was only six inches thick and it wasn't easy to stand on it, let alone jump the six feet to the next wall.
Already a dozen police were climbing up on to the top of the walls and were spreading out slowly to surround the maze.
