THE WHODUNIT COLLECTION: British Murder Mysteries (15 Novels in One Volume). Charles Norris Williamson

the darkness and a bullet smashed against the wall. Jimmie's pistol was levelled and almost in the same instant his shot answered. There was a groan, immediately stifled, and then a short laugh.

      "Bull's-eye five," said Ling in the monotonous chant of the ranges. "That's one I owe to you, Master Hallett. You've smashed my wrist. Good shooting in this tricky light."

      The place was filled with a vague vision of crawling forms, all of those who were not too far under the influence of the drug being anxious to get out of the way of the bullets. Jimmie's muzzle was full on the dark figure of Ling.

      "Drop your gun drop it, I say," he ordered peremptorily.

      Ling laughed again. "All right, sonny, I know when I've got enough. Don't I tell you you've smashed my wrist. I aren't worth a cent at left-handed shooting. Say, your friend Menzies seems to have got his medicine."

      The chief inspector had collapsed at the first shot, and though Jimmie was too wary to take his eyes off the master crook he had an impression of his great bulk lying motionless at the other side of the room.

      "Stand up," commanded Jimmie. "Put your hands up. My God, Ling, I'm only looking for a good excuse to plug you." He remembered Peggy and all she had suffered at this man's hands and his blood boiled.

      "Tut, tut! Let not your angry passions arise." Ling might have been remonstrating with a petulant child, but he stood up nevertheless. "I told you I'd got a bullet in my wrist, didn't I? How can I put my hands up? I'll put one up if that'll suit you. You're a smart boy, Hallett, but if you'd been alone I could have handled you."

      "Shut up!" said Jimmie. "I want to think."

      It was a position not without its difficulties. There would have been a dozen solutions of the problem had Menzies not been laid out. That had been a piece of most execrable luck which had made all the difference. So long as he held his back to the door and his weapon on Ling Jimmie was in command. To remain like that was, however, impossible. Something had to be done, but what, it was hard to decide. For all that he knew the place might be teeming with friends of Ling only waiting for that steady muzzle to waver a second before rushing him. At the best he was confident that five out of every six of those present were crooks and blackguards who would stick at little if it came to the point.

      Ling crystallised his dilemma with a sneer. "Say, bo, you've got hold of a tiger's tail, haven't you? Don't know whether to keep hold or let go. You take my advice and run home to your mummy."

      Jimmie never answered. His lips were firm-pressed and his dogged chin jutted out. Even if he had been able to rush Ling out at the point of the revolver until he found a police officer, he could not leave Menzies. Moreover he had an idea that in any case Ling would not calmly submit to such a programme. He lowered the pistol muzzle a trifle and his finger hovered indecisively over the trigger. An easy, simple way would be to maim him so that he could not get away. A bullet in the leg would do it.

      Yet, when it came to the point, Jimmie could not press the trigger. It was too cold-blooded to shoot down an unarmed man. He wished Ling was not so cool that he could give him an excuse for an attempt at violence. Otherwise it seemed a stale mate.

      Of course there was Royal. Sooner or later he would be back or would send aid of some sort. But then Royal had his hands full for the time and he might believe that they were capable of coping with the situation without assistance. It might be hours before relief was to be looked for from that quarter.

      "Well, what are you going to do about it, sonny?" asked Ling coolly. "Seems to me that you'll have to do a heap of thinking before you take me. Meanwhile, if you don't mind my saying so, my arm's getting tired."

      "You'll keep as you are if you're wise. I can keep my tiger one way if he puts temptation in front of me."

      "Right you are," acquiesced Ling cheerfully. "I'll try to endure it, only I just hate to hear your brains creak under the strain."

      Jimmie could have sworn he had come nearer, yet he had not noticed him move. He strained his eyes and what he saw made him tighten up. The one hand held by the crook above his head had the two middle fingers and the thumb closed. The first and little finger were extended right out. To a man not aware of the trick it might have seemed insignificant. But Jimmie had seen it before seen it carried out. Ling was manoeuvring to get within reach of him. Then these two fingers could be used with deadly effect in a leap one in each eye, and in his blinding, agonising pain he would be at his opponent's mercy.

      "Go back," he said crisply, "back three paces. I like you better at a distance."

      As Ling obeyed Jimmie turned his eyes for the fraction of a second to the place where he had seen Menzies fall. There was nothing there. Forgetful in his surprise of the importance of watching Ling he stared blankly, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks with him. Menzies had certainly gone.

      His distraction was only momentary, but it was the chance for which the other had been waiting. Swiftly and noiselessly as the tiger with which he had compared himself Ling moved. Jimmie fired wildly and knew instinctively that he had missed. Yet Ling had crashed forward headlong and was cursing as he squirmed on the boarded floor, struggling to free himself from someone who had gripped him as he fell.

      Then Jimmie understood. Menzies had not been hit at all. He must have foreseen Ling's purpose and dropped just the fraction of a second before the bullet sped over his head. Then he must have wormed his way silently across the floor towards the crook, his progress unnoticed among the recumbent forms in the half light.

      After his first vitriolic outburst Ling fought in grim silence. Jimmie dared not leave his post by the door to go to Menzies' assistance and he watched breathlessly, wondering if he dared risk a second shot. He could hear the harsh breathing of the two men, their shuffling on the floor as they manoeuvred for the top position, and now and then the thud of a blow. It ought, he thought, to be a fairly easy thing for Menzies if Ling's right wrist had really been smashed. Then he remembered that the detective also had a left hand injured. In that respect the struggle was nearly equal.

      Once there was a gasp that was almost a groan; once a fierce epithet punctuated the laboured breathing. Though he strained his eyes Jimmie could not make out in whose favour the struggle was proceeding he could only see a bundle of twisted, straining forms with first one man on top and then the other. They rolled over one of the drugged smokers and he paid no more attention than if he had been a corpse. Then, silhouetted against the gas flame for a tithe of a second was an upraised hand and below it the fantastic reflection of light on steel.

      Jimmie focused his weapon, but before he could draw a sight another hand grasped the wrist and wrenched it down. The knife dropped with a little musical tinkle and the two forms became obscure again. Then he became aware of a man's head slowly rising into the dim light and he saw that it was Menzies. The vision was like a badly focused cinema picture. Menzies' hand was at the other's throat and he dragged him slowly, relentlessly upwards and then suddenly flung all his force downwards. There was a crash as Ling's skull touched the boards and the chief inspector got shakily to his feet. He passed a dazed hand over his forehead and laughed a trifle shakily.

      "I'm getting a bit too fat for this sort of work," he said.

      He spoke as though he had been engaged in a football match rather than a life-and-death struggle. Hallett laughed too, the overstrained laugh of relief. "Bully for you," he agreed. "I thought you were down and out."

      "A close thing," admitted the chief inspector, mopping his brow with a big handkerchief. "He had the pull of us. His eyes were used to the light. I just caught him pulling the gun in time and dropped. I concluded in the circumstances I'd let you play the hand until I got a chance to chip in."

      "How about him?" asked Jimmie.

      "Him! Oh, he's all right. I've not killed him. Only a little tap on the head to knock some of the deviltry out of him. You keep on holding up this room full of toughs. I'll be back in a minute. Don't let anyone in or out."

      He slipped by Hallett into the passage. Presently Jimmie heard from without the shrill series of long and short whistles which in the Metropolitan