For a moment neither moved, then French recovered himself. With a step forward he cried, “Stanley Pyke, I arrest you on a charge of—”
He stopped. Had he gone mad? Wasn’t the dead man Stanley Pyke? How could he be charged with murdering himself?
French felt his brain reel. But he grew more and more convinced that the man was indeed Stanley Pyke. Therefore the victim must have been—of course!—Berlyn. How the whole thing had happened French could not form an idea, but he saw that this could be straightened out later. For the moment his course was clear. He must arrest this man.
Though these thoughts flashed through French’s mind at lightning speed, in his extremity of surprise he remained for a moment speechless, his eyes fixed on the other’s face. Then a slight movement of the man’s right arm attracted his attention and he glanced downwards. Pyke had taken an automatic pistol from his coat pocket and was holding it steadily pointed at French’s heart.
“No, Mr. French,” he said, quietly, “I don’t think so. You’ve not got me, but I’ve got you. Put up your hands.”
As he slowly obeyed, French saw that he was in imminent danger of his life. Pyke’s features were set in an expression of ruthless determination and there was murder in his eyes. He went on speaking in quiet, grim tones.
“It’s true that I may not get away with it, but I’m going to have a try. You won’t, anyway. I suppose you have men posted below?”
“I’ve men coming up the stairs after me,” French lied.
“That so? They’re not hurrying. I shall have plenty of time before they get to the top. I’m going to shoot you now, Mr. Joseph French. The upper part of this building is deserted; no one across the way and only a couple of old women on the floor below. The rest are all out at work. I shall be across the roof and down the next stairs before your men are halfway up these. I may carry it off and I may not, but I’ll not be taken alive.”
“And Mrs. Berlyn?”
Pyke’s eyes flashed.
“They’ll not get her, either. I know where she is and I’ll pick her up. Say your prayers, Mr. French. You’ve only got seconds to live.”
He slowly raised the pistol from the level of his side pocket to that of his eyes, keeping it first directed to French’s heart and then to his head. In those few moments French tasted the bitterness of death. He knew instinctively that the man meant to carry out his threat and he was powerless to prevent him. Covered by Pyke’s steady gaze as well as by his pistol, no sudden spring would help him. They were only about five feet apart, but the man would fire before he could reach across half the distance. Carter and Harvey were at the bottom of a hundred feet of stairs. They wouldn’t even hear the shot. A numbing fear crept into French’s heart, while thoughts of his wife and visions of scenes in his past life floated before his mind’s eye. And all the time he was desperately, despairingly racking his brains to find a way of escape.
An instinctive urge that he must gain time at all costs took possession of him. Then, as he was trying to evolve some further bluff, an idea shot into his mind which suggested a glimmering of hope. It was a terribly faint glimmering; the chances were a thousand to one against him. Almost a forlorn hope, but it was all he could think of.
Neither man had moved during the interview. French had swung round from the cupboard and was still facing the door through which the other had entered. Pyke on his part had his back to the door and was facing the cupboard.
French instantly began to act a part. First he wished to show fear. Here he had not to act—the emotion was only too genuine. Indeed, had he let himself go he would have been paralysed with terror. Therefore, as he spoke his eyes were agonised, his features distorted, and his voice thick and trembling.
“Don’t be a fool, Pyke. You can do better than that. I’ve sense enough to know when I’m beaten. My life’s of more value to me than success in a case. You want your liberty and I want my life. I see a way in which we can each get what we want.”
Pyke did not relax his attitude.
“I believe you’re a damned liar,” he said, only with a stronger adjective. “However, shove ahead with your plan. And any tricks or movements and you’re a dead man.”
“If you were once clear of me,” French went on, evincing the most transparent evidences of terror, “you could walk out of the building past my men and they’d never suspect you. They’re here to look for a quite different man. And the mere fact that you walked quietly downstairs after I had gone up to look for Jefferson would show that you were not the man I was after. That all right so far?”
“Well?”
French allowed his eyes to roam over the room, but without making any change in his expression. After the briefest pause he went on:
“Now to get away from me is the difficulty, for while I should be willing to give you my oath not to interfere, I don’t suppose you would accept it. Well, this is my plan.”
Calling all his histrionic powers to his aid, French again glanced round the room, suddenly staying his gaze on the door. Then with the whole strength of his will he pretended to himself that he saw Carter entering. On this he fixed his mind, with the result that his eyes took on the appearance of definitely looking at
