Fear is the Key

I was leaning far forward now, my hands gripped tightly on the edge of the box. Every eye was on me but I had eyes only for the judge. There wasn't a sound to be heard in that stuffy court-room except the drowsy murmur of flies high up near the ceiling and the soft sighing of a big overhead fan.

"Talbot and Moran finally traced to riverside rubber warehouse." Judge Mollison was reading slowly now, almost haltingly, as if he had to take time to appreciate the significance of what he was saying. "Surrounded, ignored order to surrender. For two hours resisted all attempts by police armed with guns and tear-gas bombs to overcome them. Following explosion, entire warehouse swept by uncontrollable fire of great intensity. All exits guarded but no attempt at escape. Both men perished in fire. Twenty-four hours later firemen found no trace of Moran — believed to have been almost completely incinerated. Talbot's charred remains positively identified by ruby ring worn on left hand, brass buckles of shoes and German 4.25 automatic which he was known to carry habitually…"

The judge's voice trailed off and he sat in silence several moments. He looked at me, wonderingly, as if unable to credit what he saw, blinked, then slowly swivelled his gaze until he was looking at the little man in the cane chair.

"A 4.25 mm. gun, Sheriff? Have you any idea-?"

"I do." The sheriff's face was cold and mean and hard and his voice exactly matched his expression. "What we call a.21 automatic, and as far as I know there's only one of that kind made — a German ' Lilliput'."

"Which was what the prisoner was carrying when you arrested him," It was a statement, not a question. "And he's wearing a ruby ring on his left hand." The judge shook his head again, then looked at me for a long, long moment: you could see that disbelief was slowly giving way to inescapable conviction. "The leopard — the criminal leopard — never changes his spots. Wanted for murder — perhaps two murders: who knows what you did to your accomplice in that warehouse? It was his body they found, not yours?"

The court was hushed and shocked and still: a falling pin would have had the lot airborne.

"A cop-killer." The sheriff licked his lips, looked up at Mollison and repeated the words in a whisper. "A cop-killer. Hell swing for that in England, won't he, Judge?"

The judge was on balance again.

"It's not within the jurisdiction of this court to-"

"Water!" The voice was mine, and even to my own ears it sounded no more than a croak. I was bent far over the side of the box, swaying slightly, propped up by one hand while I mopped my face with a handkerchief held in the other. I'd had plenty of time to figure it out and I think I looked the way I think I ought to have looked. At least, I hoped I did. "I — I think I'm going to pass out. Is there — is there no water?"

"Water?" The judge sounded half-impatient, half-sympathetic. "I'm afraid there's no-"

"Over there," I gasped. I waved weakly to a spot on the other side of the officer who was guarding me. "Please!"

The policeman turned away — I'd have been astonished if he hadn't — and as he turned I pivoted on both toes and brought my left arm whipping across just below waist level — three inches higher and that studded and heavily brass-buckled belt he wore around his middle would have left me needing a new pair of knuckles. His explosive grunt of agony was still echoing through the shocked stillness of the court-room when I spun him round as he started to fall, snatched the heavy Colt from his holster and was waving it gently around the room even before the policeman had struck the side of the box and slid, coughing and gasping painfully for air, to the wooden floor.

I took in the whole scene with one swift sweeping glance. The man with the broken nose was staring at me with an expression as near amazement as his primitive features could register, his mouth fallen open, the mangled stub of his cigar clinging impossibly to the corner of his lower lip. The girl with the dark-blonde hair was bent forward, wide-eyed, her hand to her face, her thumb under her chin and her fore-finger crooked across her mouth. The judge was no longer a judge, he was a waxen effigy of himself, as motionless in his chair as if he had just come from the sculptor's hands. The clerk, the reporter, the door attendant were as rigid as the judge, while the group of school-girls and the elderly spinster in charge were as goggle-eyed as ever, but the curiosity had gone from their faces and fear stepped in to take its place: the teenager nearest me had her eyebrows arched high up into her forehead and her lips were trembling, she looked as if she were going to start weeping or screaming any moment. I hoped, vaguely, that it wasn't going to be screaming, then an instant later I realised that it didn't matter for there was likely going to be a great deal of noise in the very near future indeed. The sheriff hadn't been so unarmed as I had supposed: he was reaching for his gun.