SIRENS IN THE NIGHT
★
As the echoes of the shot died in the room, Bob realized that he had been
foolish in throwing the inkwell. It had unduly alarmed the other man and
placed his own life in jeopardy. The slug from the gun had come much
closer than Bob wanted it to.
There was only one consolation. The shot should attract the attention of
the guards on duty in the building and within a minute they should be at
the door, battering their way in. Against superior numbers Bob felt that
the intruder would not put up a resistance with gun play.
Bob stared at the windows. The head and shoulders of the unknown had
disappeared and the distant noises of the street were clearer now,
drifting in through the broken window.
Merritt Hughes should arrive at almost any minute and Bob felt that the
wise and sensible thing now was to play as safe as possible and await the
arrival of help.
Crouched down between the desks, he was in a position to watch the file
with the radio documents and he knew that if they were molested he would
fight with all his strength to protect them.
As the seconds passed into minutes Bob felt his muscles tensing and his
nerves becoming tighter.
There was no sound in the room; there had been no sound since the echoes
of the shot had died away. Had his missile disabled the other man; had
the shot been fired involuntarily? They were questions he couldn’t
answer.
Why didn’t a night guard appear in the corridor outside? Bob believed
that he would have risked a call for help if anyone passed. But strain as
he might, he could hear no one outside the door.
Then Bob broke into a cold sweat. The man who had fired the shot was
almost beside him.
Bob had been so intent upon listening for some sound in the corridor that
he had failed to hear the unknown crawling toward his own hiding place.
Bob sensed, rather than saw, what was happening. He could hear the steady
breathing of the other and he held his own breath. Would the man crawl on
down the room toward the doorway or would he turn in between the desks
where Bob had sought shelter?
The dark blob that was the other’s head and shoulders appeared between
the desks and Bob waited for an agonizing interval. Then the figure moved
on and Bob could breathe once more.
That had been a close call.
Then came another sound that brought Bob back to the alert. There was the
faint shrilling of a siren.
Was it a fire alarm? Bob listened intently. No, it was sharper, more
penetrating. A police car. That was it!
It was evident that the other man had also heard the night alarm for Bob
heard a muffled exclamation. He doubted if it was an alarm turned in by
his uncle for his protection, but at least it was enough to alarm the
marauder and Bob’s muscles snapped back to steelly tension. He had gone
so far now that he had no intention of allowing the other to escape at
the last minute.
The steady wail of the siren drew nearer as down on the avenue the
speeding machine dashed through traffic lights and skidded past other
machines which were pulling over to give it the right of way.
The siren rose to a crescendo and then died to a wail as the police car
swayed to a stop somewhere below and Bob knew then that rescue was near.
His uncle, feeling the need for quick re-enforcements, had evidently
called on the Washington police and commandeered a cruising radio car.
From somewhere out of the darkness came a low, deadly voice.
“Listen, kid, this spot is getting tough. Give me the key to this door or
I’m going to turn this gun loose and it will be just too bad if I get
you. I’ve got plenty of extra clips and I’m going out of here on my feet.
Give me that key!”
Bob knew there was no time to lose for there was a ring of panic in the
other’s voice and you never could tell what a panic-stricken man would
do.
The desks afforded little protection from a barrage of bullets and Bob
quickly edged his way out from behind them and in between two steel
filing cases. While these were not intended to be bullet proof, at least
they were much better than oak desks.
“Did you hear me?” called the voice from near the doorway. “Give me that
key.”
Bob slipped his hands into his pockets, and pulled out a key ring. The
key to his own room was somewhat similar to the one that fitted the door
of this office. He quickly detached this and tossed it toward the door.
He couldn’t afford to cry out now for he knew the man near the door would
shoot. The key fell on the floor and he could hear the frantic efforts of
the other to locate it. Then came a gasp of relief from the unknown and
Bob heard him fumbling at the keyhole, trying to insert the key and turn
it in the lock.
There was a sharp cry from the man at the door.
“You’ve tricked me. Give me the right key. Give it to me!” The voice was
nearing a hysterical pitch and Bob smiled grimly.
The man couldn’t stand the dark and the certain knowledge that outside
men were speeding toward that very room, men who would shoot first and
ask questions afterward.
Bob wondered whether tossing another key would again trick the man at the
door.
Before he could decide there was a stab of flame in the blackness and a
bullet crashed through the desks where he had been hiding.
“Come on; give me that key!” The voice was hysterical now, a scream that
cut through the room and echoed out the shattered window.
Down below another police siren was ebbing as a second car pulled up at
the curb and disgorged its load of armed men, who rushed into the
building to follow the lead of the first detail.
Bob faintly heard elevator doors clang open. It would be only seconds now
until they were at the door, beating their way in.
By this time Bob’s eyes were well accustomed to the darkness and he could
distinguish the shadow of the man crouched near the door, listening now
to the pounding of the police as they charged up the long corridor.
“Bob, Bob! Where are you?”
It was Merritt Hughes and Bob thrilled at the voice of his uncle. Then
dismay filled him for he knew what would happen if they broke down the
door and charged into the room for a trapped man is always dangerous.
Fists beat against the door and two ribbons of flame streaked from the
gun, the bullets crashing through the door and out into the corridor.
Bob couldn’t help shouting a warning.
“Keep away; he’s desperate!”
The answer to that was another shot into the desks where he had been
hiding and Bob knew that the man felt sure he was still hiding there.
There was a sudden silence in the corridor and Bob knew that his uncle
and the police were conferring on the best way to break into the room. As
he listened he saw the man near the door moving, backing down into the
room where Bob was hiding and if he kept on coming he would pass within a
foot or less of Bob.
Bob felt his muscles tightening and he breathed deeply. If he could only
disable the unknown, it would solve what promised to become a highly
dangerous situation.
The man was coming noiselessly, in his stocking feet, his head cocked
toward the door where he listened for some further move.
A yard, two feet and now only inches separated them. Bob was ready. His
hands shot out and caught the other man in a steelly grasp that choked an
involuntary cry from him. At the same time Bob kicked with all of his
strength. The blow caught the other man behind the knees and Bob could
feel him crumpling.
The gun, which he had feared the most, clattered to the floor and they
were on equal terms, ready now to fight hand to hand.
As they fell the other man twisted about and Bob knew that his adversary
was no weakling. He could feel the muscles of the other man’s arms
tightening and a short, sickening blow that started at the floor caught
him on the chin.
Bob was weak all over for a moment, an interval just long enough to give
the other a chance to collect his wits. Then Bob was at him again, his
arms held in close, his fists raining blows like a trip hammer. They were
hard, fierce jabs that would have rocked an ordinary man to sleep in less
than ten seconds. He heard the other gasp as a right caught him in the
midriff, but he came back for more.
Fighting in the dark was dangerous business. A wild blow might send his
hand crashing into a steel case or against a desk and his knuckles might
be broken but it was a chance Bob had to take and he slammed away with a
will.
Suddenly the man went limp. Bob caught him, fearing a ruse, and shot home
one more hard right. Then he knew that the other was out—out cold, and he
suddenly went weak himself.
Fists were beating against the door.
“Open up, open up!” It was Merritt Hughes’ voice.
Bob managed a reply.
“Coming,” he called. “Just a minute.”
“You all right?” demanded the federal agent, but Bob was too weak and
tired to reply.
Somehow he managed to dig the key out of his pocket and with trembling
fingers he found the keyhole, inserted the key and turned the lock. The
door burst open to reveal Bob standing on wavering legs, and Merritt
Hughes caught him just as he collapsed.