Mask of the Verdoy (54 page)

‘I’m not sure I could shoot a man in the head, just like that. If he were to draw his weapon that’s another matter … but just standing there, in cold blood? Don’t think I could do that. Just wounding him’s different though.’

‘What about the fact that he may have just set the timer on that bomb, soon to blow us all sky-high? You, me, the punters … the King and Queen … Uncle Tom Cobley an’ all?’

‘But we don’t know that for sure, do we? It’s just one of Harley’s guesses.’

‘He was right about that Lady Euphemia, weren’t he? And let’s face it—he’s usually right about most things.’

‘Don’t think that’s good enough, Solly; not to shoot a man in the head in cold blood.’

‘Well, nobody’s gonna think any worse of yer for that, Albert … So that leaves us with only one way to go, don’t it?’

‘Which is?’

‘A lightning strike from the Yiddish Thunderbolt, of course. I rush him, barge him away from the desk and clip him a right hook on the jaw. Mind you, you’ve gotta look sharp after that, Albert—even a right hook from Solly the Smoke ain’t gonna put this little baby to bed. If I go toe-to-toe with him it’s gonna be a proper old-fashioned slugging match. So when I give him a dig that’s your cue to pop one in his thigh—once he’s away from those switches, that is.’

‘Harley wanted me to take out Girardi.’

‘Well, first thing’s first, eh Albert?’ said Rosen, limbering up a little, throwing punches into the air.

A few feet away in the orchestra pit the conductor watched as the ticking hand of the oversized clock counted down the remaining few seconds of the first minute, taking this as a signal for a key change, increasing the sense of urgency with the frenetic, striding music.

***

General Swales rushed into the small corridor with Commander Snip Taylor and his two officers in tow. He made a quick check that the escape route was still clear of danger and then rapped on the door.

‘Your Majesty? Are you in there, sir? It’s me, General Swales.’

There was no obvious reply from within.

‘Damn music!’ said the General, turning to Taylor. ‘Can’t bally well hear meself think!’

He knocked again, louder this time.

‘Your Majesty! I need to talk to you—
it’s most urgent, sir!
’

Taylor tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Sir Frederic—don’t you think it peculiar that there’s no one from the King’s Guard on duty here?’

Swales took another look down the corridor.

‘Not just peculiar, Taylor—downright fishy, I’d say. Where’s that damned manager gone?’

‘He ran off as soon as we got here, sir,’ said one of Taylor’s men.

‘You don’t think that …’ Swales walked back to the door and turned the handle. He threw the door wide open … to reveal a small store cupboard, packed with cleaning equipment.

‘God’s teeth!’ exclaimed Swales, fending off the handle of a mop that had launched itself out at him. ‘The little toad’s in on it, Commander! He’s led us up the bloody garden path!’

‘Alright, men!’ barked Taylor to the two SIS officers. ‘Get yourself into that auditorium and identify where the Royal Box is—come on, look lively, now!’

***

The clock above the stage ticked its way through the last few seconds of minute number two—halfway through the allotted time; but as the orchestra performed another key change the conductor glanced up from the score to see Girardi signalling to the wings for the clock to be stopped. Then, with a leering grin cutting through his black grease paint, the Italian strode purposefully downstage and held up his hand.

‘Stop the music!’ he yelled into the pit. ‘Stop the music!’

The conductor brought the orchestra to a clattering halt; the resulting effect was one of musicians stumbling down a flight of stairs.

An anxious silence settled on the auditorium. Surprised at this sudden turn of events the audience waited expectantly for an
explanation. A cough … a small flurry of whispers … and then Girardi addressed his audience.

‘Ladies and gentlemen! As you can see behind me we have stopped Medini’s clock … Why? … Well, my friends, it is simple—there is no longer anything to measure!’

Girardi now walked upstage to grab hold of the satin ribbon.

‘You see, The Great Medini … he is already dead!’

The curtain dropped to reveal the shackled and hooded corpse of the magician, floating in water now fogged with swirling clouds of blood.

For a moment the audience remained silent, not quite believing what they saw, expecting at any moment to see Medini appear from the wings, or fly down from the gods on a wire. But Gladys Chadwick was close enough to the tank to see that this was no stage illusion. She clasped her trembling hands to her face and gaped, dumbstruck at the sight of her dead husband suspended in the tank like a pickled specimen in a jar. And then she found her voice … and screamed.

Taking its lead from the newly-widowed assistant, the audience erupted into a shrieking panic. Wives and daughters shielded their eyes and shrunk into the defensive embrace of their loved ones. People began to leap up and clamber over their neighbours to get to the aisles—just a handful at first, but before long there were dozens scrambling over the seats to make good their escape.

But they all stopped dead in their tracks when Girardi fired the first shot.

‘Sit down!
All of you!
’ he shouted, firing the pistol again into a chandelier, showering the stalls with shards of glass. Now he had their complete attention.

‘That’s better … Thank you!’

With his Beretta trained on the audience, Girardi now bent down to retrieve a Thompson submachine gun that he’d secreted behind the podium. The sight of this movie gangster’s weapon held resonance with a certain proportion of the audience and a collective gasp rippled around the auditorium.

‘Look, my friends! Like Jimmy Cagney, eh?
Public Enemy
 … And we have plenty of bullets … enough for every one of you … Please remember this! … Now, aren’t we all growing a little bored with this stage magic? With the doves and the cards and the lovely assistant?’

He turned to the distraught Gladys and pointed with the muzzle of the Thompson gun, indicating he wanted her to sit down on the steps of the podium. ‘Personally, I would like to see some
real
magic. And so—’

Girardi’s speech was cut short by the tumbling figure of Hugo Carstairs, plummeting headlong from the catwalk above. His fall was arrested only a few feet above the heads of the audience by the jerking brake of the rope tied about his waist. The young man bellowed in agony and then began to painfully kick his legs to spin himself so that he faced the stage.

‘Get me down, Girardi! Oh God! … 
My ribs!
 … Cut me down, I tell you! Get that brute of yours to—’

Girardi calmly raised his pistol and put a bullet through Carstairs’ chest. ‘
Amatore …
’ he muttered, shaking his head and raising his eyebrows at Boyd in the wings.

In the stalls a portly grandmother attempted to stifle the shrieks of her grandson as he struggled to escape the slow drip of blood now escaping from the corpse swinging above his head.

‘Apologies for the interruption,’ said Girardi with a smile.

The audience hung on the Italian’s every word now; the auditorium silent apart from a soft chorus of weeping.

‘As I was saying … I think it is time now for some real magic. Fortunately I have a little trick up my sleeve, as they say … Are you ready?’

Girardi’s smile now stretched to join his scar in a manic grin.

‘
Viva Anarchy!
’ he shouted, backing his way towards the wings, keeping the guns trained on the audience. ‘
Viva the Wild Cat Brigade!
 … Alright, my friend—restart the clock!’

This last instruction was intended for Boyd, but when he turned to the wings Girardi was greeted with the sight of his huge partner slugging it out toe-to-toe with Solly Rosen. He looked to the clock above the stage … but the oversized hands remained resolutely fixed at the two minute mark.

Girardi raised his Beretta to aim at Rosen—just as Pearson let off a round from behind the curtain.

The Italian reeled as the bullet caught him in the shoulder, forcing him to his knees, the Tommy gun scattering across the stage. As quick as a cat, he was up again, leaping upon the terrified Gladys, pulling her in front of him to use as a human shield.

***

High above the audience Harley used the commotion on stage as cover to make his move. Now that Carstairs had been dealt with he was free to carefully climb over the railing of the catwalk and down onto the small jib from which the cage was suspended.

As he tentatively lowered himself down the metalwork groaned a little in protest. He held his breath and squatted in the dark, fixing his stare to the end of the jib, knowing that the further out he went the more chance there was of the additional weight bringing the whole structure crashing down on top of the audience. But, of course, there was no time for a plan B … He steeled himself and carried on.

At first he tried to negotiate the structure by sitting astride it and shuffling along; but this set the jib shaking violently and it was soon obvious that he was going to have to get back on top and edge over to the cage step by precarious step. The strut-work behind him creaked dangerously as he swung one leg up and hauled himself to a crouching position.

Within a few hesitant steps the cramp had begun to bite at his hamstring. He pushed on through the pain—if Girardi caught the slightest glimpse of movement from the stage whilst he was in such a vulnerable position there would only be one outcome; Harley knew from experience what a quick burst from a Thompson gun could do to flesh and bone. But soon the cramp became too much to endure, so he leant forward from his squatting position to propel himself along on all fours. Immediately he felt something cut into the meat of his palm—in the dark he’d placed his hand on a burred edge of steel, the razor sharp metal slicing deeply into the flesh.

Harley’s reflex reaction was to pull away and take his weight onto the other hand, but with his skin now slick with perspiration he lost his grasp on the jib and slipped forward.

He flailed for a moment with his upper body hanging over the edge, trying desperately to regain his balance; the only thing preventing him from plummeting to certain death was his foot which had lodged between the struts of the frame.

Time seemed to thicken … the shouts from the stage faded into a muffled drawl. Harley fought desperately against gravity, becoming quickly disorientated in the gloom … But somehow he managed to summon a reserve of strength and with one last colossal effort he grabbed hold of the jib and clambered his way back up to a sitting position. Blood was now streaming from his injured hand.

He yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and bound the wound, the adrenalin and the Benzedrine combining to pump his heart to a sickening frenzy. He felt nauseous with exhaustion and fear, and was concerned for a moment that he might pass out and topple over the edge.

Foolishly, Harley now closed his eyes and began to listen to a small voice in his head that was explaining how easy it would be to just sit there in the dark and wait … wait for the bomb … and for the big
sleep … No more toiling … no more nightmares … no more yearning after his lost Cynthia. And who really knew? Maybe she would be up there, waiting for him?

‘
Get a grip, you mug!
’ he said to himself, opening his eyes and shaking his head to clear his thoughts. ‘
That’s all just sodding fairy tales! If you don’t pull your socks up all those punters down there are gonna die and that cowson Saint Clair will just swan into power—that’s stone-ginger!
’

He wiped the sweat from his brow, took a deep breath and pushed on—taking care now where he placed his hands on the metalwork.

Finally reaching the end of the jib he sat astride it to allow his muscles a moment to recover. Now came the most dangerous part of the plan—especially in his exhausted state: he was going to have to lower himself down off the end of the jib, wrap his legs around the taut steel cable and then slide down onto the top of the cage. All in the dark, and all without Girardi detecting his presence.

As Harley sat summoning the energy for this final manoeuvre, he heard another voice barking out commands below him:

‘
Girardi!
We know it’s you! Let the girl go and lay the gun down slowly at your feet!’

Harley recognized the unmistakeable commanding voice of Snip Taylor.
So the cavalry had arrived
. This welcoming revelation gave him the little extra boost he needed to continue. Calculating that the SIS agent would keep Girardi distracted for a while he lowered himself over the edge and began to shimmy down the cable to the cage suspended below him—which, as he was more than aware, contained a full case of unstable Russian dynamite rigged to a trigger in the control of a sadistic maniac.

***

Having finally discovered the correct location of the Royal Box, General Swales now hammered on the door to be let in.

‘Your Majesty! It’s Swales, sir. Would you please open the door? It really is most urgent!’

‘Godfrey-Faussett here, General—King’s Equerry,’ the voice was coming from the other side of the door, but down low, at floor level.

‘It’s reassuring to hear your voice, Sir Bryan,’ said Swales, getting down on his knees to placed an ear to the panel.

‘Some bugger’s locked the door, Swales … and I daren’t stand up to force it for fear of that damned anarchist putting a hole in my head!’

‘Understood, old man. We’ll have it open in a jiffy. Their Majesties are unhurt, I trust?’

‘As well as can be expected in the circumstances. But it’s imperative
we remove them from harm’s way as soon as possible. Is there any sign of our guard detail out there?’

‘No—not a soul out here.’

‘Thought as much … I know it’s going to sound far-fetched, but I have my suspicions it was they who locked us in.’

‘Listen, Sir Bryan, I shan’t go into too much detail just now, but that madman on stage is no anarchist. We’re in the midst of an attempted coup d’état, and my guess is that the guard detail are in on it as well. Is there anyone else in there with you?’