Labar started to lead the way when with an exclamation he came to an abrupt halt.
“Lord! I nearly forgot.”
“Forgot what?” asked Moreland.
“There’s a man I shot laying along in here somewhere. He may be dead for all that I know. Just as well to have a couple of constables along to fetch him out.”
“Losing your memory I should say,” commented the irrepressible Moreland. “A little matter like a dead man and you all but forgot him!”
“And I reckon we’ll take along one of the gang as a matter of precaution,” said Labar. “There’s every modern convenience in this tunnel, including steel doors which may be awkward to open.”
A man was selected from the prisoners and the little band of armed police officers started on their tour of exploration. Bill Malone elected to take the prisoner in his own charge and poking him with the muzzle of a pistol gave expression to prophesies of sudden and horrid calamity in the event of any monkey business.
As they arrived at the first barrier Labar swung his torch and a sharp oath slipped from between his lips. That door he was confident had been left open. Now it was closed.
The white-faced prisoner under the persuasion of a dig in the ribs from Malone’s pistol point was called upon to open it. But it resisted all his efforts.
“No good, sir,” he said. “It’s locked on the inside.”
“Here’s a nice game,” observed Malone.
“Looks as if Larry had come back,” said Moreland.
“Or Tom and his pal,” said Labar. “We may have to do some digging out.” He put his face close to the metal and raised his voice. “You inside there. Can you hear me? Be good boys now and come out. You’ll do yourselves no good by this foolishness.”
There was no answer. Labar turned to the prisoner. “Show me how this is supposed to work,” he ordered.
With docility the man indicated an unobtrusive knob at the side of the wall. “Push it in and then turn it first to the right and then to the left.”
The detective obeyed, but still the blank sheet of steel remained unmoved. He fiddled impatiently with the knob and suddenly the slab glided back. In an instant the officers had crouched back to the side of the wall with weapons ready and their torches searching the darkness, half expecting a shower of bullets from the interior.
For a space they waited thus. Then Labar stirred and reaching over to the prisoner gripped his shoulder so that he squirmed. “Trying to put something over on us,” he said sternly. “Just one more break of that kind and I’ll find a way that will make you squeal. We’re bad men to play with just now.”
“It was an accident, guv’nor,” pleaded the man. “You must have handled it wrong.”
“Another accident like that may be fatal to you, my boy,” said Malone ferociously.
“All the same it’s funny about that door,” said Labar. “That has been closed since I was here. Let’s get on.”
Cautiously they pushed forward. They came to the place in which the man who had been shot had lain. The oil lamp still burned and the detectives cast their torches about. There was a crimson stain on the floor but otherwise no sign of a man either wounded or dead.
“What do you know about that?” demanded Moreland.
“Don’t ask conundrums,” retorted Labar. “Either he’s pulled himself together or someone has moved him.”
Certain now that there was someone of the gang in the tunnel they advanced with weapons poised. The outer door was also shut but with a little manipulation that also was dealt with. The narrowing of the tunnel warned them that if they were approaching an ambush here was where it might be looked for. Only one man could advance at a time, and a determined opponent could hold any number at bay indefinitely. Labar crawled first followed by Moreland and the two Flying Squad men. Then came Malone. The prisoner was for the time left behind in charge of the two constables.
Seemingly from a great distance there came the sound of a muffled report. Labar stiffened as a wedge of daylight showed some thirty or forty yards in front of him. Another report, this time louder, came to his ears and the wedge of light broadened. The head and shoulders of a man crawling towards him showed in the passage. Labar levelled his gun and saw Moreland thrust a pistol forward. For a moment they faced each other thus and the jaw of the man dropped in a consternation that would have been ludicrous at any other time.
“Back you go,” ordered Labar.
“Don’t shoot for the love of heaven,” cried the man. “I can’t go back. There are others behind me.”
Labar felt his heart quicken a beat. Was it possible that after all, Larry had been rounded up into a trap?
“How many of you are there?” he demanded.
It was the voice of Tom the valet speaking from behind the leading man that answered. “There are three of us, Mr. Labar. We can’t go back. The police are outside and they would shoot us down as we went out. We daren’t go back.”
With a little disappointment Labar recognised that Larry was not there. The three would be Tom, and his companion, and the man he had shot. He had, too, an idea of the dilemma in which they were placed. Clearly there had been some sort of an encounter with the police outside, and excited men were not likely to be too nice if a head showed itself outside the tunnel. He had no wish to cause needless bloodshed.
“We’ll give you three minutes,” he said. “They’ll have cooled down a little by then.” He pushed his way nearer to them along the corridor.
“We’ve a wounded man here,” protested the first figure. “It will be
