“I’m going to count three,” he said. “If those pistols aren’t on the floor by then I shoot. One—two—”
A weapon clattered to the ground and a second followed.
“Any more?” he asked.
A third pistol followed the others and, although he was convinced of the probability that there were still more weapons on some of the men, there was no way of making sure. He had to take a chance.
“I’m going to take you people back to Mope’s Bottom,” he said. “You will keep well in front of me and if anyone looks back he will be turned into something deader than a pillar of salt. Now march.”
“What about Jim?” asked one of the prisoners, indicating the motionless form of the man who had been shot.
Labar reflected. For all he knew time might be precious. If Tom or Larry or Billy returned, as they might at any moment, he could hope for nothing better than a fight to the death. He shook his head.
“I’ll see that he’s looked after later,” he said. “Come. Get a move on.”
He marshalled them into the dark tunnel, and with a stern order that they were not to pass beyond the rays of his torch carried them to the interior steel door. There they came to a halt.
Two of the men fiddled with the catch meeting with some apparent difficulty. “It won’t open,” one of them declared. “Only Larry and Tom know the secret.”
Here was a predicament. It flashed across Labar’s mind that these men were scarcely likely to have submitted to be shut in the tunnel during the absence of those who held the key to their release and at the risk of accident unless they themselves knew the secret. He switched his light off and fired at the floor of the tunnel.
“That will be unlucky for you,” he declared ominously. “If that door isn’t opened in a matter of seconds I’ll shoot my way through it—and you.”
Adèle Gertstein who had never ceased her subdued wailing now gave a sharp cry of terror. And then the door creaked back.
There was no further attempt to evade the instructions of Labar. He had convinced them, for the time, that he would stand at nothing, and in that confined space even a bad shot could not fail to wreck deadly execution. Yet until he had reached the open he felt far from secure. There was a thrill down his spine, and once or twice he felt tempted to look round. He had an uneasy feeling that he was being stalked from behind. It would be the simplest thing in the world to follow along that narrow passage and shoot him in the back.
So they came to the entrance to Larry’s private room. At a touch the panel slid aside and daylight illumined the opening. From the other side came a sharp cry of surprise and a quick order. Bill Malone had his wits about him.
“Reach for the ceiling, you.”
One by one with their hands above their heads the prisoners filed into the room. Labar stepped in behind them. At the far side of the room stood Bill Malone and Detective Inspector Moreland with revolvers in their hands.
“Criminy, if it ain’t the guv’nor,” ejaculated Bill.
XXVII
Explanations were deferred till such time as the prisoners could be dealt with. Half a dozen stalwart constables, each armed with a shot gun, took charge of the captives who were subjected to a swift search. There was one, who as Labar had suspected, had still a pistol about him. If he had really intended to use it he had failed to find an opportunity, or his courage had failed. The gang were escorted into another room for the time and Moreland cocked an eye at Labar.
“Nice fellow you are. Call out the whole lot of us, horse, foot and artillery and then try to do the job on your little own. Where’s Larry?”
The other made a gesture towards the open mouth of the tunnel. “That’s his bolthole, but I doubt that he’s still in there. How long you folk been here?”
“Perhaps ten minutes,” said Malone. “We had to wait for some of our people.”
“Any chance of men slipping through out there?” He swept a hand vaguely to the marsh.
“A rat might do it. The place is alive with our men.”
“But half an hour ago? If you’ve only just got here—” He left the sentence uncompleted.
“There might have been some sort of an opportunity then,” admitted Malone.
“What are you driving at?” asked Moreland.
“Larry. That tunnel leads somewhere out towards the coast. It’s a full half hour or more since he slipped out there. If—”
They stared at each other, in something like consternation. The retired military officer who was the head of the Kent County Constabulary entered in haste.
“What’s this I hear? You’ve rounded them up? Are you Mr. Labar?”
“I’m Labar. Not altogether. We haven’t got our fingers on the man we really want yet. Do you know whether the men from Lydd have got to this part of the coast yet?”
“They should have linked up before now, but I don’t know. It’s a long way and rough going.”
“Where are your lads?” demanded Labar turning to Moreland.
“Two or three of them still searching the house. The rest are outside knocking around.”
“Send some of them with a guide down to the shore. You and I and Bill, with a couple more will slip along the tunnel in case they’ve doubled back. I’d be grateful to you, sir”—he addressed the Chief Constable—“if you would go down to the shore, too. If any of our birds have been met there will be a fight going on about now.”
He slipped the automatic into his pocket and borrowed a shot gun from one of the
