James Chase - This Way for a Shroud

She had no idea where she was. She might still be only a few yards from Pete or she might be in the centre of the maze.

She wondered if she should shout for help, but suppose Pete was close by and got to her before outside help could reach her? She decided it would be safer to try and get out by herself. She looked up and down the path that seemed in the reflection of the mirrors to have no ending and no beginning, and she felt a wave of panic sweep over her.

It was as if she were caught up in some ghastly nightmare. She wanted to sit on the ground and cry: to give up weakly, to hide her face in her hands and wait until someone found her. But suppose Pete found her first? She fought back her tears and made an effort to pull herself together. If she continued down this path, she told herself, and at every intersection she turned left, surely it would bring her to the exit?

She started off, walking slowly, her ears strained to catch the slightest suspicious sound that might come to her above the roar of the amusement park. She hadn’t gone more than a few yards when she had an irresistible urge to look behind her.

She stopped and turned.

At the far end of the path she saw something move, and her heart stopped beating, then began to race madly. She half turned to run, but stopped when she saw the figure behind her make a similar movement. She realized with a little sob of hysteria that she was watching her own distant reflection.

She went on.

At the end of the path, seeing herself grow larger as she approached the mirror facing her, she realized she had come up another cul-de-sac and once again she had to fight against a rising panic.

She turned around to retrace her steps; Her eyes caught a movement at the far end of the path. She wasn’t to be caught like that again, and she kept on. Then suddenly she felt a cold chill crawl up her spine. The figure ahead of her wasn’t moving as she was moving.

She stopped and peered down the path.

A squat, square-shouldered man in a black suit stood watching her. In his hand glittered a nickle-plated automatic.

It was Moe.

CONRAD spent a feverish twenty minutes searching for the threeseater sports car in the various car parks that surrounded the amusement park. He was still at it, but realizing the hopelessness of the task, when he heard a police siren, and saw Bardin with a car full of prowl boys swing into the avenue leading to the main entrance of the amusement park.

Conrad ran out to meet the car, waving his hands.

The car pulled up and Bardin, looking hot and irritable, scowled out of the window.

“How are you getting on?” he demanded. “Found the car yet?”

“Shut that damned siren off!” Conrad snapped. “Do you want to scare those two hoods into action?”

Bardin got out of the car as the sergeant driver flicked off the siren.

“Well, come on. Did you find the car?”

“There’re about ten thousand blasted cars in here. Get your men spread out and searching. Any more coming?”

“A couple of wagons just behind. The Captain will raise hell when he hears I’ve pulled out the reserve.”

“If this girl gets killed, the D.A. will raise all the hell McCann will ever want! Get your men into action!”

“Hey! Wait a minute,” Bardin said, putting his hand on Conrad’s arm. “Look who’s coming,” and he jerked his thumb towards a tall young fellow with a crew hair-cut, who was wearing a red-patterned shirt outside his trousers. In his arms he held a collection of dolls, vases and boxes of candy. By his side walked a blonde girl in a white sports frock. “Think those are the two we’re looking for?”

“There must be ten thousand punks who’re wearing their shirts like that right in this park,” Conrad growled, “but I’ll ask him.” He strode up to Buster Walker. “You just come from Lennox Avenue?” he demanded, and felt a little shrill crawl up his spine at Buster’s look of blank astonishment.

“Why, sure,” Buster said. “How did you know?”

Conrad looked at Bunty.

“You Miss Boyd?”

“Yes,” Bunty said blankly.

Conrad signalled to Bardin, who joined them.

“These are the two. You’d better handle it, Sam.”

Bardin flashed his buzzer.

“I’m Lieutenant Bardin, City Police. Where’s Miss Coleman?”

“Frankie?” Buster gaped at him. “What do you want her for? What’s the idea?”

“Answer the question and snap it up!” Bardin barked. “Where is she?”

“We left her in the amusement park.”

“Alone?”

“No, she’s with Burt.”

“Burt — who?”

“Why, Burt Stevens, of course. What’s all this about?”

Bardin glanced at Conrad, who asked, “Has this Stevens guy got a birth-mark?”

“That’s right. A port-wine stain down the right side of his face.”

“Are you sure his name is Stevens?”

“He said it was. Is there something wrong, then?”

“But you don’t know for certain?”

“No, we don’t,” Bunty broke in. “I didn’t like the look of him when he came to the house. You see, we were all going to the beach: Frankie, Buster, Terry Lancing and myself. Terry phoned to say he couldn’t make it, and was sending his friend Burt to take his place. This boy turned up. He said he was Burt Stevens, but of course as I’ve never seen him before I don’t know for certain if he really is Burt Stevens.”

“Where exactly did you leave Miss Coleman?”

“They were going into the maze,” Buster said.

“What maze?”

“The mirror maze. It’s at the end of that avenue, next to the big tent. I wish you’d tell me what this is all about.”

“No time right now,” Conrad said curtly. “Stay right here. We may need you again.” He turned to Bardin. “Come on!” He didn’t wait to see Bardin’s reaction, but broke into a run, and began forcing his way through the crowds towards the big tent.

Bardin paused only long enough to give instructions to his sergeant.

“Get that maze surrounded. Don’t let anyone out. You know who to look for. Watch out for Moe. He’ll try to shoot his way out.”

He turned and ran after Conrad, leaving Buster and Bunty staring blankly after him.

The rays of the sun, striking obliquely into the maze, caught the nickel plate of the automatic and made the gun glitter in Moe’s hand.

For a brief moment Frances stared at the pointing gun. Moe s appearance struck terror in her heart. His black suit, his hunched shoulders and his stillness sent a cold dull up her spine. She knew instinctively that he was a killer, and she realized he was about to shoot at her.

There was no retreat. She looked desperately along the row of mirrors and saw an opening about ten feet ahead of her. She braced herself and jumped forward. As she moved Moe shot at her.

The crash of gunfire, hemmed in by the confined space, sounded like a bomb exploding. Frances screamed wildly as a mirror right by her smashed into pieces. Fragments of glass flew like shrapnel. A splinter of glass sliced her frock missing her flesh by a hair’s breadth.

She bolted down the turning, and ran as she had never run before. Ahead of her stretched an endless path of mirrors. Behind her she heard the soft padpad-pad of running feet, coming at a much faster speed than she was going. She flew over the ground, reached another turning and sped round it, cannoning into a mirror as she took the turning.

She tried desperately to regain her balance, then slid down on one knee. As she struggled up, the automatic cracked again and a bullet zipped past her face, smashed a mirror, ricocheted against another mirror and smashed that too.