He rolled over on one side and bracing his feet against the leg of the table and his head against the wall, succeeded in getting on to his knees. Bound as he was, his eyes were at the level of the tabletop. Shelves, steel shelves—perhaps there was a rough edge somewhere. He hobbled along on his knees and saw a promising place.
Again he rolled over, this time on his back, raising his feet until, by straining, he brought the cord against the shelf. And all the time came the ring of the trowel and the crooning song of Rex Lander. He knew at once that it was a hopeless proposition. The sharp edge was beneath the shelf, he could only reach the upper surface. Crossing his legs to get a better purchase, he felt the strap slip upward. By pushing at the strap he brought it to below his knees and he could have yelled his delight for now the cord was slack and he would, he thought, at least be able to stand.
The sound of amateur bricklaying ceased suddenly and Rex came to the grating.
“You’re wasting your time doing all those funny tricks,” he said confidently. “I practised that tie all one evening and you’ll not get away. If you come out you’ll be sorry!”
“Avaunt fat man!” snarled Tab. “Get to your fleshpots, gross feeder!”
Rex chuckled.
“Partial to tab lines, eh?”
“Get out of my sight,” said Tab, “you theatrical poseur! All the money you have couldn’t make you a gentleman—”
He was interrupted by the torrent of rage which swept down upon him from the impotent man outside.
“I wish I’d killed you,” he screamed. “My God, if I could get in—”
“But you can’t,” said Tab, “that is why the position is so remarkably free from anxiety. Carver knows—don’t forget that. Carver will have you on the trap—he has promised himself that treat, though I can’t see how they’ll hang a crazy man,” he went on. Lander clawed at the steel plate, sobbing in his rage.
“I’m not mad,” he screamed. “I’m sane! Nobody can put me away—I’m not mad, Tab, you know I’m not.”
“You are just the maddest thing that ever lived,” said Tab inflexibly. “Thank God I saved Ursula—” the words were out of his lips before he regretted them.
He had turned the mind of the man at the door in the last direction he wanted it to go.
“Ursula—mine! Do you hear, she’s mine now.”
Tab heard the clash of the trowel as it was thrown down and the sound of hurrying feet, growing fainter.
Tab wriggled himself to his knees, threw back his weight and came to his feet. It was a terrible strain to support himself, but he was standing, doubled up grotesquely but free to move his feet a few inches at a time. So he crept to the table and leaning over, pulled the key toward him with his chin. He brought it carefully to the edge, then gripped the handle in his teeth and shuffled to the door. But the lock was set so close to the wall that he could not get his head into position to insert the key. He tried twice, and then what he feared, happened. The key dropped from his teeth with a clang to the floor.
He was on the point of kneeling when he heard somebody moving about, Rex opened the door to the sitting-room and shouted something; what it was, Tab could not hear, but there came to him a noise as if somebody was breaking sticks. Crack, crack, crack! it went, and then he sniffed. It was a faint smell of burning petrol he had detected, and he knew that for him the worst had happened. Mayfield was on fire.
XXXIV
“No answer,” said Exchange.
Mr. Carver rubbed his nose irritably and glanced up at the clock. Then he lifted the instrument again.
“Give me Hertford 906,” he said.
In five minutes the call was signalled.
“Miss Ardfern—Carver speaking, I’m very, very sorry—got you out of bed, did I—so sorry! What time did Tab leave—half-past eight—you don’t say so? Oh yes, he’s all right—gone to the office—oh yes, he does some Saturday nights. Don’t worry—not at all. Only he promised to call—can’t trust love-smitten young men, eh—certainly I’d call you if there was anything wrong.”
He put the instrument back and looked up at the clock. Then he pressed a bell. The sergeant who answered was dressed as if he expected to go out into the storm at any moment.
“Men ready—good. Pitts Hotel; two men to each entrance, one to the upper floor in case he breaks that way. Four good men for his room—men sharp enough to dodge his quick firing batteries—he’ll shoot.”
“Who is the man, sir?”
“Mr. Rex Lander. I want him for murder and forgery; attempted murder and burglary. If he’s not at home it will be easy. We’ll take him as he comes into the hotel. One of the night porters is probably being well paid by him. He was the fellow who stalled me last night and gave Lander a chance to get to his room and use the telephone. So we’d better get there before the room clerk goes off duty. And don’t forget to impress upon the men that Lander will shoot! If the night porter is on duty we’ll take him. He’s not to get to the telephone. Beat his head off if he tries. I’ll be with you in five minutes.”
He made another attempt to get in touch with Tab but was no more successful. Then a thought struck him. He remembered that Tab had told him the name of the sporting tenant who occupied the flat below. But Tab had also told him that this gentleman was seldom at home. Still, there was a chance.
He waited, the receiver at his ear.
“Is that Mr. Cowling? Why, I am sorry to disturb you. I’m Inspector Carver, a friend
