‘What are those doors neither on the stage nor off it?’ asked Wyatt. Although he whispered, his voice seemed to echo.
The proscenium doors,’ Palfrey said. ‘Interesting survival, I’m told.’ He smiled, ‘Nothing very sinister, is there? But I have heard it said that there are passages leading to other buildings. We’ll see.’
There was a narrow doorway and a flight of narrow wooden steps. Palfrey found a light switch, and they walked down, pausing for a moment to look at the complicated wooden machinery under the stage. There was no one there.
‘Well,’ said Palfrey, ‘that leaves only the gallery.’
They were on the stairs. His arm was outstretched to push the door wider open. He had heard a movement, perhaps a footfall; and then the door pushed against his hand. Someone was trying to close it from the wings. He stiffened his arm, moved the other to support. Someone gasped on the other side of the door. The pressure grew greater, and Wyatt squeezed up to help him. They pushed until at last the door gave way. It banged back and they lost their balance. Footsteps sounded on the stage, echoing noisily. One of the proscenium doors slammed.
‘After him!’ snapped Wyatt.
This way!’ called Palfrey. He ran across the stage, pushing the furniture out of the way, and saw the figure of a little man running up the side passage of the auditorium.
Then the lights dimmed.
Palfrey thought he saw the man reach the central doors and rush out. A door slammed and there was silence. Palfrey measured the distance between the stage and the floor of the auditorium; it was a long one, over the orchestra pit. He drew back, ran and leapt, making it with only an inch to spare. Actually his heel scraped against the curtain of the pit.
He raced up the side, hearing Wyatt scrambling into the stage box of the circle. He could hear footsteps now on the stone floor outside. He went into the cold passage but could see no one. He thought he heard movements above him, as if someone was going up the stairs.
Wyatt came hurrying after him. ‘Oughtn’t we to fetch the others?’ he whispered.
‘Not yet. Let the beggar think we’re on our own,’ said Palfrey. ‘The gallery, I think.’
The gallery steps were narrow, and made a hollow noise as they walked up, approaching each corner cautiously. They reached a little bar which smelt of beer. Together they went out into the gallery and looked down into the dim auditorium. Wooden seats, which looked centuries old, were on either side of them.
‘Supposing we do find these beggars, what can we do on our own?’
Palfrey said: ‘If they think we’re on our own, they’re more likely to get reckless. We want them reckless.’ He withdrew to the narrow wooden staircase of drab light brown. There was still no sound save their own breathing. There were several doors and one more flight of steps, much narrower than the others. He went up them, and found himself in a tiny loft.
Wyatt cried: ‘Palfrey! Pal –’
And then his voice broke, and there was a gurgling sound. Palfrey swung round, dropping his hand to his gun. As he touched it, a shot rang out, echoing and re-echoing through the theatre. He backed down the stairs, fearful of being shot in the back, but nothing happened. He saw Wyatt leaning against the wall, gun in hand and blood streaming from a cut in his cheek. Wyatt was pointing down the stairs.
A man said: ‘You won’t find it so easy to get down, Palfrey.’
Wyatt straightened up, without speaking. He walked to another door, just behind Palfrey. It was little more than a hatch, standing about as high as his waist and fastened by an ordinary catch – a cupboard, probably. As Wyatt bent down, blood dropped from his cheek, and he padded his handkerchief and held it against the wound while he explored. Palfrey went to Wyatt’s side.
‘Anything in there?’ he whispered.
‘An empty cupboard,’ muttered Wyatt.
There’s another on the other side,’ said Palfrey. ‘I think we might find them useful.’ He was whispering, and the man on the stairs certainly could not hear them. ‘Can you squeeze in there and sit down for ten minutes. Then he’ll probably come up to find out why we’re quiet.’
Wyatt squatted down and Palfrey helped him to squeeze into the cupboard. It was dusty, but fairly clean. The door closed on him.
Palfrey crept towards the cupboard opposite Wyatt’s. It was about the same size. The door faced the head of the stairs; and, if he crouched inside, he would be able to watch the stairs and cover them with his automatic.
He did not think he had a great deal of chance to outwit his opponent. They were above the gallery; that was the worst of it. At gallery level they would have had a chance to climb over, drop to the balcony, and then into the stalls.
‘Palfrey!’
‘Hallo,’ said Palfrey. ‘Are you still there? I’m just patching up my friend.’
‘You’ll want patching up before long.’
‘Oh! Threats!’ said Palfrey, disparagingly.
He was puzzled by the hidden man. What kind of man would talk like that? What manner of man would use those brave threats, threats uttered almost as if he were intent only on keeping up his own spirits? Not a particularly clever or resourceful one, thought Palfrey.
‘Yes,
threats.’
It was getting absurd.
‘Well, good-bye,’ said Palfrey. ‘Come on, Bill, let’s get out. Mind your head!’
Palfrey squatted inside the cupboard. It was more difficult for him than for Wyatt, who was so much shorter, but he managed it and looked out over the top of the door. He had his automatic in one hand and Wyatt’s in the other. He could see the head of the stairs; and after a few tense seconds he saw a hat, a trilby hat, moving upwards. Then he saw the man’s eyes, narrowed, and darting to and fro. Was the man entirely alone? It seemed like it.
He came further up the stairs until Palfrey could see his head and shoulders. He was peering across the tiny room and looking straight at Palfrey, who did not move. The man took another step upwards.
Palfrey shot him through the shoulder.
The noise of the shot was deafening inside the cupboard. The smell was pungent. Palfrey choked as he flung open the door. The man on the stairs had toppled backwards, but was trying to hold on to the hand-rail. He fell as Palfrey reached the head of the stairs. The crash reverberated about the landing, but as it died away there was no other sound except a call from Wyatt.
‘All right, Sap?’
‘Yes. Come out,’ called Palfrey.
The man on the floor was staring at him in bewilderment. His face was blank and nondescript – the face of a man with little intelligence. Why had he been left here alone? What had he been doing? He was so thunderstruck that he did not speak nor utter a protest as Palfrey ran through his pockets and took out a knife and an automatic; the knife was stained with Wyatt’s blood.
There was no time to look at the wound on his shoulder.
Palfrey lifted him and carried him up the stairs, took off his tie and knotted it about his wrists, with his hands behind him. Then he bundled him into the cupboard from which Wyatt had come. The man endured all this without protest.
Wyatt was trying to smile. ‘Not bad,’ he said.
‘Not good yet,’ said Palfrey. ‘Can you manage to get down the stairs on your own?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘We’ll have the others in,’ said Palfrey. Palfrey watched Wyatt going unsteadily down the stairs. He himself went on to the gallery, looking about him. He thought he heard a sound of movement, but could not be sure.
Suddenly he saw the proscenium door open!
It opened slowly, and Palfrey stood tense, well in the shadows, to avoid being seen. A man appeared – someone whom he had never seen before. The man peered about him, then turned and beckoned.
A second stranger appeared.
They stole across the stage towards the door leading to the under-stage machine room, and then disappeared. Palfrey peered over the gallery rail, wondering what were his chances of climbing down. He might easily fall, but he desperately wanted to follow these men, and if he went down by the staircase he would have little chance of catching them,
He swung himself over.
He hung at full length, his feet a little way above the balcony of the circle. He was close to one of the reeded pillars; with one arm about it, he slid down. For a moment he thought he would topple over, but he regained his balance and stood on the balcony, with his back to the auditorium, breathing deeply.
There was a sharp crack;
someone was firing at him!
He did not look round, but moved forward, reaching the circle floor, and dropped out of sight. Two more shots were fired, but neither touched him. He crawled along a few yards and then peered over the balcony. The man who had fired at him was standing by the side of the curtains, looking towards him, a gun in his hand. He was a short, dark, sturdy man; from a distance he looked rather like Markham.
Palfrey crawled further along, towards the next pillar. Then he stood up, for the pillar hid him from the stage. He might have a chance of winging the fellow down there. As he began to take aim, there were footsteps, and the sound of voices downstairs. The man on the stage started and moved back. Palfrey fired and missed. The man disappeared, while the door leading to the auditorium burst open.
The police had come in strength.
So, too, had a tall man, well dressed and very angry.
‘I don’t care whether all the police in Bristol are here; you shouldn’t have come in without my permission’ He glared at Palfrey. ‘Who the devil are
you?’
‘Mine the responsibility for breaking in,’ said Palfrey. ‘Sorry. Urgent job of work. Are you the manager?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, it’s Mr. Wells, sir,’ said one of the policemen.
‘Then you can help us,’ said Palfrey. ‘Two or three gunmen have gone to earth beneath the stage, I think.’
‘Gunmen!’
‘I did say it was urgent, didn’t I?’ said Palfrey. ‘Do you mind telling me whether there is any secret passage leading from the machine-room down there?’
‘There used to be a tunnel, but it’s blocked up. The theatre is full of hidden passages, you know. Well, full’s an exaggeration, but it’s so old that –’
‘In short, a good hiding-place for rogues and vagabonds,’ declared Palfrey. He offered cigarettes, and Wells took one. ‘The rest of the force is near the stage,’ Palfrey went on, ‘trying to get below, I expect. Is there another way to the machinery down there?’
Wells said: There is. Yes.’
‘You couldn’t have timed your arrival better!’ marvelled Palfrey.
Wells laughed. ‘You’ve got a nerve,’ he said.
Three men were trying to open the door which led below. Perry looked round with a one-sided grin, and said: They’ve fired at us three times, Sap.’
‘Yes. Desperate men. But we’ve a friend in need in Mr. Wells here, the manager. He knows another way in.’
Wells led them out by the opposite wing, through the proscenium door and across the theatre. He turned into a small room where three doors led off, and went immediately to the middle door.
‘I’ll go first,’ said Palfrey.
‘You won’t,’ declared Wells.
He opened the door and walked into a small passage, where another door was ajar. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, and led the way again.
At the top of a flight of stairs he motioned them to stop. The stairs were in darkness, but the room below was lighted, and Palfrey saw two armed men leaning against a wooden bench. The thump, thump, thump of the police who were hammering at the other door filled the air.
The men below obviously had no idea they were being watched.
Wells whispered: ‘When are you going to do something?’
‘Wait Just a moment,’ said Palfrey.
He had hardly finished speaking before another man appeared; and for the first time Palfrey thought that he was looking at the leader of the gang. This man was well dressed, good-looking in a swarthy fashion, and very sure of himself. He appeared as if from nowhere, and Wells whispered: ‘The old tunnel entrance was near there.’
The swarthy man said clearly: ‘How much longer can you hold out?’
‘We’re all right,’ said one of the others,
‘Can you stay for half an hour?’
‘We can try.’
‘You’d better make it,’ said the swarthy man. ‘It’ll be good for your health.’
And what will be good for yours?’ asked Palfrey.
All three men below spun round. One raised his gun, but Palfrey fired and sent the gun spinning out of his hand. ‘I shouldn’t move, if I were you,’ said Palfrey, and he stepped forward, into the light. By then, the other door was open, and the police were crowding down the stairs.
The swarthy man moved like a flash. Palfrey fired after him and missed. The swarthy man disappeared. One of the others also started to move, but two policemen jumped at him and they went down in a struggling heap. Palfrey, Wells and Perry followed the swarthy man, and saw a door slam.
‘That’s it!’ cried Wells. ‘The old tunnel!’
He was the first at the door, trying to find a handle by which to pull it open, but the handle was on the other side and the door looked a part of the wall.
‘Do you know this exit?’ asked Palfrey, sharply.
‘It leads down to the docks,’ said Wells.
The Bristol police inspector had joined them and caught the last words. ‘The docks, does it?’ he said. ‘Do you know just where?’
‘Yes,’ said Wells.
‘We’d better hurry,’ said the inspector,
It was all so quick, so confused, Palfrey had to concentrate to get his thoughts in order. A tunnel leading from this room towards the docks, perhaps to the river mouth. Probably these men were making for a ship. That explosion had taken place out at sea. If they could catch these men and find the ship they might find the key to the mystery. But wasn’t it better to leave that search to the police and Wells, and concentrate on this door?
‘Coming, Dr. Palfrey?’ asked the inspector.
‘You carry on,’ said Palfrey. ‘Leave a couple of men, will you?’
‘Half a dozen will stay,’ said the inspector. He hurried off with the eager Wells, leaving Palfrey, Perry and one uniformed policeman in that under-stage room; the other policemen were presumably somewhere upstairs.