The room seemed to get a fit of the jitters. He released his hold on the gun and it dropped.
Waleski let him go and grabbed at the gun.
Rollison kicked at it, caught the man’s wrist with his foot and head with his knee. Waleski lost his balance and backed away unsteadily— and Rollison, leaning against the wall, slid a small automatic out of his hip pocket.
“This makes a nasty hole, too, Waleski.”
His voice was unsteady and his head still whirled. Waleski’s face seemed to go round and round. But Waleski moved farther away, the impetus of his effort lost, fear back again. He was afraid not only of the gun but of the deadliness in Rollison’s eyes. Together these petrified the man.
The first gun lay on the floor near Rollison. Keeping Waleski covered, he bent down and picked it up, glancing swiftly towards the door. There was no sound from outside but the handle was turning. He looked at Waleski who was still held at bay. Waleski licked his lips and raised his hands a little, as if imploring Rollison not to shoot.
Rollison said softly: “Go into the kitchen.”
Waleski’s tongue shot out again and he took two steps backwards.
“Hurry, or—”
Waleski turned and disappeared into the kitchen. Rollison stepped swiftly after him and turned the key in the lock.
Now the flat door was opening slowly. Rollison moved to the wall alongside it. The door was open perhaps half an inch. This must be a friend of Waleski’s—a man as deadly and as dangerous and who was fresh for the fight. The moment for shooting had come. Rollison didn’t think of Judith, only of the man outside who must have heard the fight, forced the lock while it was going on and prepared for any violence. Rollison watched for a hand, a finger or a gun; but before anything appeared, a woman screamed.
The scream rasped through Rollison’s head.
He heard a growl and a flurry of movement, another scream which was cut short by a thud. By then he was at the door. He didn’t pull it open but peered round, gun in hand. He saw a small man, with his back to him, striking out at a woman whose hands were raised and who was toppling backwards down the stairs; all he saw of her was a flurry of a black dress and a coil of dark hair; then she fell and screamed again.
The little man swung round.
Rollison said: “If she breaks her neck, you’ll be hanged.”
He went forward, gun thrust out—and the little man turned and raced down the stairs.
If Rollison fired he might hit the woman who was still falling, her heavy body thudding from stair to stair.
The little man leapt over her to the landing and fled down the next flight. Rollison took two steps after him as the woman came to rest; and then he heard a sound from behind him.
It was Judith, getting slowly to her knees, one hand stretched out as if in supplication. In the gloom she looked deathly pale.
He said: “It’s all right, Judith. Take it easy.”
It was too late to stop the little man but he hurried down the stairs to the woman who lay inert, her legs doubled beneath her and one arm bent at an odd angle. Her black hair and clothes threw her pallor into greater relief. He knelt beside her and felt her pulse.
It was beating.
Judith stood at the top of the stairs.
“Where’s that telephone?” called Rollison.
“In her flat. The ground floor. Shall I—”
“You’d better come down with me,” said Rollison.
He straightened Mrs Tirrell’s legs and made sure that no bones were broken; but he didn’t touch her arm which obviously had a fracture. He felt her head and discovered a swelling on the back: she had caught her head on a stair and this had knocked her out.
Judith stood unnaturally still by his side.
“Just knocked out. She’ll be all right,” he assured her. He looked at the bleeding teeth-marks in his hand, wrapped a handkerchief round it and then took Judith’s arm. They went down the next flight of stairs and into the crowded parlour. “No one seems to have noticed the din, Judith. Are they used to rough-houses?”
“All the other tenants are out during the day.”
“Who’s the woman in black?”
“The landlady.”
Any husband about?”
“No, she’s a widow. She—
“She hasn’t broken her neck and her pulse is good and strong, so I really don’t think there’s much to worry about.” Rollison glanced at the brass clock and seemed to wince: it said twenty-five minutes past four. “Jolly should be here any minute. I’m going to leave you with him after I’ve telephoned the police. They’ll send a doctor along and look after the landlady and then they’ll ask you a lot of questions. Tell them the truth but don’t mention Asham Street. If they try to make it hot for you, leave them to Jolly. Don’t lie. If they ask a question you don’t want to answer, just keep quiet. I don’t think they’ll be difficult but there are awkward policemen.”
He smiled and squeezed her arm. Then he dialled Whitehall 1212—and as he held the receiver to his ear a taxi drew up outside.
