“Okay, okay.” The policeman unbuttoned the breast pocket of his tunic, and looked up and down the passage.
No one else was in sight. He drew out what looked like a white pencil, and the warder watched the waiter.
“Now,” said the policeman.
“Shut up,” said the warder, and turned his head.
The policeman broke the white “pencil” across the other’s chin and drove a terrific punch into his stomach. The warder gasped and doubled up; and tear gas, billowing up in a whitish cloud, stung his mouth, nose and eyes. As he staggered back, the waiter snatched a gas-mask from his pocket and tossed it to Delaney.
“Put that on—quick!”
Delaney gaped.
“Put it on.” The waiter slipped a mask over his own face, the constable did the same with swift, practised movements. The waiter helped Delaney with his. The policeman bent over the warder and struck him on the nape of the neck with a length of rubber; the man stopped spluttering and struggling, but wheezed badly.
The waiter said in a muffled voice: “Get your top clothes off,” and tugged at Delaney’s coat sleeve.
Delaney jumped to it then.
* * * *
Roger felt Delaney’s hands and body shaking.
“Take it easy,” he said.
They were in the fast car, half a mile from Brixton and no alarm had been raised. The waiter and the girl were now in the muddy grey Morris, which was still parked along the road. This car, a Buick, leapt along.
“You’ll be all right. Your wife has fixed this. There’s an aeroplane waiting to take you out of the country. Everything’s fixed—just sit back.”
There was little traffic on a Sunday night, and no need to go through the West End. Roger kept strictly down to the speed limit of thirty miles an hour while he was in the built-up area. Policemen, people, cars, and buses passed them, cinema lights glowed; but soon they were in the suburbs and on the main arterial road. Roger opened out. Delaney, who hadn’t uttered a word, said at last: “Who —who are you?”
“Never mind.”
“Where are we going?”
“Airfield, near Watford.”
“Are you sure——”
“There’s a whisky flask in the dashboard pocket. Have a good nip. You’ll be out of the country in two hours, and your wife will be with you.”
Delaney kept the bottle to his lips long enough to drain the flask. Roger watched the telegraph wires and poles flashing by. He’d altered his original plans in only one way; he’d driven along this road the previous night, so as to become familiar with it, and didn’t need a passenger for a guide. The lights of Watford stretched out in front of them, tiny glims in the darkness. They reached the airfield, where two aeroplanes, both small, were warming up. A flare glowed like a torch of liberty.
Beneath a tiny hangar, Mrs. Delaney waited. The pilot of their aircraft called : “You ready?” Two or three other people watched from the surrounding darkness, Roger felt their gaze. Was Kennedy here ? Or Percy ? He felt the keen wind as he opened the door. Delaney got out the other side, and his wife rushed towards him.
“Save it!” snapped Roger. “Get in.”
She turned towards him, and there was just enough light to show her beauty and the glow in her eyes. She thrust a thick packet into his hands.
He watched them climb in; saw the mechanic take the chocks away from the wheels, and stood by the side of the car as the aircraft taxied along the even grassland and then took off. Roger didn’t wait any longer, but got back into the car and drove as far as the gates. There, a smaller car was parked with the headlights on.
A man stood by it: Percy.
“Not bad,” Percy said. It was the nearest thing to a friendly word that he had uttered.
“Change the number plates of that Buick before you go anywhere,” Roger said. “And don’t go back along the main road. Risk a late night.”
“Think you were followed?”
“I know I wasn’t followed. I also know the fantastic coincidences that can catch crooks.”
“Okay, okay,” said Percy. “Your night out.”
No one was in Lyme Street, no one watched from the shadowy doorways. Roger walked briskly from the Strand, and turned into his doorway. As he unlocked the front door he glanced right and left. Now that he was back and it was over, his heart beat like a trip-hammer. He stepped inside and closed the door, then wiped off the perspiration on his forehead. So often he had waited, at just such a place as this, to catch a crook who believed that he’d been completely successful. He switched on a landing-light, which had another control switch upstairs. The building was silent. He reached his own door—the flat—unlocked it and went inside. It was Harry’s night out, and the flat was in darkness. He went from room to room, switching on the lights. He mixed himself a drink, looked at the dish of sandwiches and the plate of smoked salmon left for him by Harry, and laughed. He lit a cigarette. Then he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He showed signs of strain.
He took the packet which Mrs. Delaney had given him from beneath his coat. It was of brown paper, heavily sealed. He opened it. There were packs of one-pound notes inside, some new, most of them old, all tightly held
