The man outside crowed, “That’s my baby!”
“Peel, peeler.” Maisie played on the word again, obviously pleased with her joke. “It’s not so difficult. I know a lot of men who would jump at the chance of getting in bed with me.” When Roger didn’t even begin to move, she went on in a sharper voice, “Do what I tell you!”
Roger stood up, slowly. He felt as if he were a character in a film or television series; not quite real. The situation was as bizarre as any he had experienced; and in its way, as deadly. So was Maisie Dunster. From the way she handled the pistol he felt even more sure that she was used to it, and from the set of her lips he felt nearly sure that she would shoot unless he obeyed. But he couldn’t possibly obey. He couldn’t in any circumstances allow himself to be photographed, naked, in bed with this woman. Nothing would ever explain it away. His reputation would be smashed. Coppell would have to suspend him from duty and at the very best he would have to resign.
For the first time he recalled the luncheon date with Benjamin Artemeus, and he almost grinned.
“Take that grin off your face and get a move on,” she ordered; and she touched the trigger.
The report of the shot was very sharp, making Roger start. He heard the bullet smack into the wall behind him; it could not have missed his face by more than an inch. After the thud of sound there was utter silence for several seconds, and during them Roger found a hundred thoughts flashing through his mind, none of them pleasant.
There wasn’t an iota of doubt left about Maisie’s seriousness. If he started to undress, she might relax, but it wasn’t likely; she had a very wary glint in her eyes.
If by some miracle he got out of this room, then there were the men on the landing to stop him.
“Handsome,” she said, levelling the gun at his middle, “I’m not going to tell you again. Strip!”
He unbuttoned his jacket, took it off slowly, and draped it over the arm of the big chair. He unbuttoned his waistcoat with slow deliberation, and did the same with that. He put his hand to the knot of his tie and as he undid it took a step towards the bed. His side still hurt, but not so much. He let the ends of the tie dangle loose, and then spoke for the first time.
“You’re crazy to do this.”
“So I’m crazy.”
“It couldn’t be worth it for a thousand pounds, let alone a hundred.”
“You ought to look in my handbag,” she said. “Hurry.”
“Maisie,” the man from outside called. “How about opening the door so that we can help you?”
“He’ll open the door when he’s ready,” Maisie called back. “I don’t trust you any more than I trust him.”
“Maisie,” Roger said, “you’ll have every policeman at the Yard after you.”
“And you’ll have every policeman at the Yard laughing at you,” Maisie jeered. “Those photographs will be worth a fortune. I can sell my life story to any Sunday newspaper! Hurry.”
He sprang at her from a standing start.
He knew that she had time to squeeze the trigger, that at point blank range she couldn’t miss. He could be killed; badly wounded; blinded. But there was no time to find out. He heard the bark of the shot, felt burning on his cheek, then closed with her, gripping her right wrist and thrusting it sideways, flinging his right arm round her and hugging her close. Her body, except at the breasts, was very firm, and he felt her arms tighten as big muscles flexed. As she began to struggle he realised that unless he finished this quickly, he could be in deepest trouble. There was a momentary reluctance to fight as if she were a man, until he felt her knee driving against his thigh; an inch or two to the right and he would be in agony.
So he chopped the side of his right hand down on to the back of her neck. Locks of hair took some of the force of the blow but it nearly knocked her out, and she sagged away from him. He let her fall back. She wasn’t faking, she was almost out. Dragging her down towards the foot of the bed, he rolled her up in the bedclothes, leaving only her head and face and her feet showing.
The man outside called, “Maisie!” in an urgent voice.
Roger raised his voice in a gasping falsetto.
“Coming!” he called.
He bent down and picked up the pistol, went to the door, which had a Yale lock and, when slammed, was self-locking and could only be opened from the outside with the key. He turned the knob slowly, then jerked the door open. He saw one man disappearing down the stairs. He fired a shot over the man’s head, bringing him to a shocked standstill, his thin face turning towards Roger.
The other was halfway down the second flight of stairs, still moving. Roger fired a shot which struck the stairs just ahead of him, and he also came to a standstill, slipped on a stair and nearly fell. He grabbed the banister rail to save himself. He didn’t turn round but there was a familiar look about him.
“Stay there,” Roger ordered. He started down, pushed past the small man who now cowered against the wall. The other was pressing against the wall, too, his gaze on Roger’s gun.
That was the moment when Roger recognised him: he was the pastry-cook from Bethnal Green—Hamish Campbell!
Roger, gun in hand, pushed past him. As he did so a door downstairs opened and a Jamaican girl came out, brightly dressed and attractive. She glanced up in surprise at the sight of Roger.
He smiled broadly, reassuringly, and asked, “Will you call the police, please? Dial 999 and ask for the police service and ask them to send a car here at once. Give them the number of the street, will you?”
“Why, surely,” she gasped. “Of course I will.” She hurried to the pre payment telephone in the hall and glanced round, opening her bag. She kept her head very well and there was only the faintest of quivers in her voice.
It was while she was talking that Roger felt wave after wave of relief surge over him.
