further, he could hear the Australian swearing viciously below him.
Moments later, he had an upside-down picture of Roche, crouching in a corner, gun in hand.
He was glaring into the street, waiting for the next car; the last tiling he was expecting was threat from above.
Henry took out his own gun: a Smith and Wesson 44. He could have shot Roche in the head, right then — one shot fired without warning would be enough. Instead — while the cacophony in the street below seemed to get worse and Roche’s face twisted in wild-eyed fury, he waited for the next car to roar past.
It came, horn blaring; and this driver, too, flung a brick. Roche fired at the car. On that instant, with very careful aim, Henry fired at his gun-hand. He waited only long enough to see the revolver fly from Roche’s grasp, then “Right.!” he bellowed to the men above; and as the rope to his waist went slack, swung himself in through the .window with the aid of the men above.
The jagged glass caught a sleeve and the back of his hand as he went through, and he winced. But it did not stop him from scrambling to his feet and rushing at Roche, whose right hand was now resting on the counter, a useless, gory mess.
“Don’t move!” Henry warned him, his own gun levelled. “Don’t move, or believe me, I’ll —”
He had no need to say more . . .
Outside, cars screeched to a standstill and men came running. And as Roche stood staring almost stupidly at the window, blood oozed and then began steadily to drip from the cut in Henry’s hand.
“Commander Gideon?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Henry’s compliments, sir-and the man Roche has been caught and charged with murder.”
“Good!” Gideon said, with deep satisfaction. “Very good. I’ll see Mr. Henry in the morning.” He rang off; much more deeply pleased than he could say, and enormously relieved. Kate was getting out of her chair and as she saw his expression, her own lightened.
“Good news, dear?”
“Very good,” Gideon repeated. “All we need now is for Lem to get back tomorrow and clap the darbies on the man who killed Charlie Blake, and we’ll have had the best week we’ve had for a long time. I might even be able to take a weekend off!”
“Do be careful, dear,” Kate said. “You could give yourself a shock.”
He stared-and they both burst out laughing together. The whole mood had changed, and he could not fail to see how much lighter-hearted Kate was, now that she had come into the open with her fears. Really relaxing, now, he switched on the television to make sure of catching the B.B.C. news, while Kate took out some knitting: their eldest son’s wife was expecting her third child in the early Autumn. He yawned his way through the latest instalment in a mystery series which was wearing thin, then saw the opening of the news. The announcer, a man handsome enough to make even Kate look twice, said in his unflustered voice:
“We are able to show you some graphic scenes, filmed during the siege at Hampstead this evening, of a gunman wanted for questioning by the police. The scenes were recorded only half an hour ago and we must apologise if some of the clarity of the pictures has been lost due to conditions under which
the film . . .”
Gideon stopped listening to the words. He saw everything: the cars, the smashed window, Henry hanging upside down — and then, with a remarkable feat of acrobatics, swinging himself into the shop.
Kate, too, forgot her knitting and sat and stared, as fascinated as Gideon himself, until at last there were pictures of Henry alone, apparently unhurt. And Roche, dishevelled and wild-looking and with his right hand obviously shattered, leaving the shop and entering a police car.
“Good Lord!” Gideon marvelled, when it was over. “I didn’t think Henry had it in him!” He hoisted himself out of his chair. “Sorry, love, but I must go and see him. I can’t let — hey! How about coming for a drive?”
“Oh, I’d love to!” Kate said, and sprang up — and then suddenly cried out and dropped back into her chair, bringing all their fears crashing down on them again.
Penny came in soon afterwards. Kate seemed to have recovered, but Gideon didn’t take her with him. He drove alone to AB Division, saw Henry for a few minutes, and knew he had been right to come as he saw the glow of appreciation in his eyes. But he went straight home again; and by the shortest route.
Malcolm was back, when he got in, and all his family were grouped round the television set, watching the news. Kate seemed herself again. Twenty million people must have seen the film tonight. Gideon’s sense of satisfaction deepened as he watched with them. Henry had done more good for the public image of the police than any one officer had done in years. And in a different way, so had the Jamaican girl. He must make sure they both had some award.
Among those who saw the pictures were the three members of the Action Committee who had not yet been held by the police; and the American, Mario Donelli, who had arrived in England on the France, that day. He was a small, round-faced, round-headed man in his early twenties: a man who would have needed very little make-up to become a clown. He had a frizz of gingery hair round a big bald patch, a button of a nose, and big, full lips. But there was nothing of the clown about him as he switched off the set and said: “Look — like I told you: we just have to go ahead. Sure, Roy’s a devil — none of us ever was all that happy about him. But you have to admit,Tie was one mighty good organiser.”
“And he has money,” one of the others said.
“There’s no call to be cynical. Like I was saying: Roy’s a devil — but Ken Noble was a martyr. You can’t argue about that. He’d been to prison twice for his beliefs, now he’s died because of them. So O.K.; we go through with this demonstration at this Lords place — see? We couldn’t build a better memorial to him. We’ve got all the records safe; we know the plan. All we’ve got to do is just go right ahead.”
None of the others dissented. It was no longer a question of whether they should stick to their plan to disrupt the Test Match: it was simply a question of how to ensure that they did not fail.
