Реймонд Маршалл - The Paw in the Bottle

‘All right,’ she said bleakly. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

Harry was now so jittery he nearly struck her again. He had been in the flat for over ten minutes and the safe wasn’t opened yet.

‘Get on with it,’ he said frantically. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

She went to the head of the bed, moving like an automaton, and turned off the alarm. Then she went into the bathroom and turned off the second alarm. As she came out of the bathroom he again implored her to hurry.

Without quite knowing what she was doing she opened the safe. Harry gaped at the row of fur coats when the steel doors slid back. As soon as she had turned off the light that operated the photo-electric cell, he jumped forward, scooped up an armful of the furs and rushed from the room. She heard him push up the panel covering the service lift in the kitchen. Suddenly she felt she was going to faint and clutched hold of a chair to steady herself.

Harry came in, grabbed another armful of furs and rushed out again. He worked like lightning, not paying her any attention. There was nothing she could do now, she thought, gripping the back of the chair. In a moment or so the police would burst in and that would be the end of Harry.

Then something happened that rooted her to the floor and sent blood from her heart.

There was a sudden shrill scream that echoed through the flat, immediately followed by the crash of gunfire.

Julie found herself at the door, peering fearfully into the passage.

Harry was standing a yard or so from the front door, which stood open. He was staring down at something at his feet, something his body blocked from Julie’s view. Nearby lay an automatic pistol; smoke drifted lazily from its muzzle.

‘Harry!’ Julie cried, and Harry, suddenly galvanized into life, slammed and bolted the front door. As he moved, Julie caught sight of a little doll-like figure lying on the floor. It was Blanche.

Julie screamed as she saw blood running down the side of Blanche’s face, forming a crimson halo round her fair hair.

There came a tremendous crash on the front door, which bulged, creaked, but held.

Harry sprang back, turned and came rushing down the passage towards Julie. His eyes were bolting from his head; his colourless face dreadful to look at.

Julie shrank away from him.

‘You shot her!’ she gasped, throwing out her hands to keep him off. ‘Harry! keep away!’

‘You know I didn’t!’ Harry gasped, grabbing hold of her. ‘I was in the kitchen. I’ve never carried a gun in my life. Julie! You’ve got to tell them. I... I didn’t do it!’

Then the front door burst open and three police officers came charging down the passage.

Harry flung Julie out of his way, darted into the kitchen, but he hadn’t taken a step or two before he was pulled down, his frantic struggles smothered by many hands.

Julie heard him yell, ‘I didn’t do it! I swear I didn’t do it. It’s not my gun!’ and then everything went dark and she seemed to be falling into a bottomless pit.

Theo was hauling himself up in the service lift when he heard the shot and he immediately jammed on the flimsy brake, stopping the lift. He was only a few feet below the service hatch that Harry had left open. The light from the kitchen reflected down the shaft, and by peering through the opening between the shaft and the lift, he could see part of the kitchen ceiling.

He heard Julie’s wild scream and the crash as the front door of the flat was forced open, and he cursed, knowing that something had gone badly wrong.

The lift was operated by pulling on a rope from below. It was also possible, but not easy, to operate the lift by pulling on the rope that ran inside the lift. Theo had found it hard work hoisting himself up by hand, but he had kept at it, sweating and swearing, because he knew it was vital to silence Julia. And now this must happen just when he was within a few feet of his destination.

He suddenly heard the sounds of a violent struggle, then Harry’s voice, strident with panic, yell: ‘I didn’t do it! I swear I didn’t do it! It’s not my gun!’

Theo’s face set.

‘Someone’s got shot,’ he thought. ‘This is where I get the hell out of here!’

Over-anxious to get away before anyone spotted him, he released the brake before getting a grip on the rope. Instantly the lift fell like a stone between the floors. Theo made a desperate grab at the brake and slammed it on, but the impetus of the lift was too much for it and it snapped.

Theo gave a howl of terror as the lift plunged down; a howl that was heard by the two plain-clothes detectives who were in the alley.

They saw the lift come down out of the darkness and smash to pieces against its steel bed. They saw a body hurtle out and thud on the damp concrete.

They ran forward, bent over Theo. One of them shone a torch on to his ghastly face. When he touched Theo, Theo screamed, startling both men. They drew back, staring at him.

‘All right, son,’ the taller of the two said. ‘Just take it easy. We’ll get an ambulance for you.’ He could see by the way Theo was lying that he had broken his back, and turning to his companion, he went on in a lower tone: ‘Nip up and get the inspector, George. He’s had it.’

Sweat ran down Theo’s face.

‘Where’s he gone?’ he gasped, seeing the other detective run off down the dark passage.

‘Gone to get Dawson and the ambulance,’ he was told.

‘Bet old Dawson will raise a cheer,’ Theo said, his face twisting with pain. ‘He never liked me.’ He panted for a moment, trying to get his breath. ‘Blasted back’s broken. Don’t touch me. It’s all right so long as you don’t touch me.’

‘You take it easy, kid,’ the detective said, and squatted on his heels beside Theo. ‘We’ll fix you up.’

Theo sneered.

‘Going to get into the papers at last,’ he said. ‘I got a photo of myself in my wallet. Give it to the Press, chum. My old man’ll get a kick seeing me in the papers. It’ll be front-page stuff, won’t it?’

‘That’s right,’ the detective said, grimacing.

‘Get it now and keep it by you,’ Theo insisted. ‘They’ll give you a couple of nicker for it. If you don’t have it, Dawson will. You know what he’s like.’

To humour him, the detective took the wallet and found the photograph.

‘This it?’ he asked.

Theo peered forward.

‘That’s it. You give it to the Press.’ He lay for a minute not saying anything, then he went on: ‘What was that shooting just now?’

‘I don’t know,’ the detective returned. ‘Gleb wasn’t carrying a gun, was he?’

Theo didn’t say anything. If he was going to die, and he thought that was what was going to happen to him, he wasn’t going to let Harry get away with it. Harry had hit him, and no one hit Theo without paying for it. But Theo wanted to know more about the shooting before he talked.

‘I’m not saying anything until Dawson comes,’ he said. ‘He’d better hurry. I’m going to croak.’

‘Not you,’ the detective said cheerfully. ‘You’ll live to do your ten years.’

‘They wouldn’t give me ten,’ Theo said. ‘I’d be unlucky to get three.’

Detective Inspector Dawson materialized out of the darkness and knelt by Theo’s side.

‘Hello,’ he said, staring down at the white, pain-lined face. ‘Got yourself into a proper mess this time, haven’t you?’

Theo opened his eyes.

‘I’m all right so long as you don’t move me,’ he said. ‘That ambulance coming?’

‘Yes,’ Dawson returned. ‘Seen this gun before, Theo?’ He dangled an automatic pistol before Theo’s eyes, turned the beam of his torch on to it.