Chapter VII

SIRENS IN THE NIGHT
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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.