Tab’s brain was clearing now; he was taking a cold survey of the
position. Rex Lander was mad--up to a point. Mad as men of abnormal
vanity are mad. Vanity inspired the bravado which made him leave in the
deathroom a statement which would surely hang him when it was found.
Vanity and hurt pride led him to his present dreadful act, even as it
had led him to search amongst Tab’s papers at the flat for Ursula’s
non-existent love letters and to tear and mutilate the portrait of the
man who had won her love.
Rex was the burglar. Who else could have found his way unerringly in
the dark? And Carver had known!
Madness in relation to crime fascinated Tab. In his younger and more
confident days, he had written a monograph on the subject which, amidst
much profitless speculation had contained one gem of reasoning--the
demand for corroborative evidence of criminal insanity. “Not evidence
of a number of acts showing that an accused person is insanely cruel
or pursues some one, apparently mad, course; but proof that in other
relations he is abnormal. It is corroboration of homicidal tendencies,
that a man insists on wearing odd boots of a different colour, or that
he is in the habit of walking in the street without his trousers.”
By this standard Rex was sane.
So thought Tab with one half of his brain; the other half was taking
stock of his immediate hope of escape. He was handcuffed behind;
around his legs was a strap that was beyond the reach of his teeth.
Between the links of the handcuffs and the strap a cord had been
fastened and pulled tight so that his knees were doubled up without
hope of straightening, unless he could succeed in breaking the cord.
If that were possible, there was the key within reach. He made an
effort, pulling up his legs still further and then jerking out his
feet violently. The pain of it nearly made him faint, tough as he was.
It seemed as if both his shoulders were dislocated. He could feel the
cord; it was stout--perhaps with finger and nail he could pick it into
shreds, fibre by fibre, or cut it with his thumb nail.
After the wall was up his time would be very short unless the vault
contained some other ventilator which neither Carver nor he had
discovered. And yet even if the cord was broken he must wait until
Lander had completed his work. It would be fatal, handcuffed as he
was, to break out whilst Rex was on hand. His only chance was to free
himself of the trussing cord whilst the work outside was in progress,
get the key and by some contortion, unlock the door and employ his
great strength to push through the newly laid bricks. The time would be
short, but the cord was unbreakable.
He rolled over on one side and bracing his feet against the leg of the
table and his head against the wall, succeeded in getting on to his
knees. Bound as he was, his eyes were at the level of the table-top.
Shelves, steel shelves--perhaps there was a rough edge somewhere. He
hobbled along on his knees and saw a promising place.
Again he rolled over, this time on his back, raising his feet until,
by straining, he brought the cord against the shelf. And all the time
came the ring of the trowel and the crooning song of Rex Lander. He
knew at once that it was a hopeless proposition. The sharp edge was
beneath the shelf, he could only reach the upper surface. Crossing
his legs to get a better purchase, he felt the strap slip upward. By
pushing at the strap he brought it to below his knees and he could have
yelled his delight for now the cord was slack and he would, he thought,
at least be able to stand.
The sound of amateur brick-laying ceased suddenly and Rex came to the
grating.
“You’re wasting your time doing all those funny tricks,” he said
confidently. “I practised that tie all one evening and you’ll not get
away. If you come out you’ll be sorry!”
“Avaunt fat man!” snarled Tab. “Get to your flesh pots, gross feeder!”
Rex chuckled.
“Partial to tab lines, eh?”
“Get out of my sight,” said Tab, “you theatrical poseur! All the money
you have couldn’t make you a gentleman--”
He was interrupted by the torrent of rage which swept down upon him
from the impotent man outside.
“I wish I’d killed you,” he screamed. “My God, if I could get in--”
“But you can’t,” said Tab, “that is why the position is so remarkably
free from anxiety. Carver knows--don’t forget that. Carver will have
you on the trap--he has promised himself that treat, though I can’t see
how they’ll hang a crazy man,” he went on. Lander clawed at the steel
plate, sobbing in his rage.
“I’m not mad,” he screamed. “I’m sane! Nobody can put me away--I’m not
mad, Tab, you know I’m not.”
“You are just the maddest thing that ever lived,” said Tab inflexibly.
“Thank God I saved Ursula--” the words were out of his lips before he
regretted them.
He had turned the mind of the man at the door in the last direction he
wanted it to go.
“Ursula--mine! Do you hear, she’s mine now.”
Tab heard the clash of the trowel as it was thrown down and the sound
of hurrying feet, growing fainter.
Tab wriggled himself to his knees, threw back his weight and came to
his feet. It was a terrible strain to support himself, but he was
standing, doubled up grotesquely but free to move his feet a few inches
at a time. So he crept to the table and leaning over, pulled the key
toward him with his chin. He brought it carefully to the edge, then
gripped the handle in his teeth and shuffled to the door. But the
lock was set so close to the wall that he could not get his head into
position to insert the key. He tried twice, and then what he feared,
happened. The key dropped from his teeth with a clang to the floor.
He was on the point of kneeling when he heard somebody moving about,
Rex opened the door to the sitting-room and shouted something; what it
was, Tab could not hear, but there came to him a noise as if somebody
was breaking sticks. Crack, crack, crack! it went, and then he sniffed.
It was a faint smell of burning petrol he had detected, and he knew
that for him the worst had happened. Mayfield was on fire.