"Into that clothes-press!" whispered Ilse, pointing along the hallway
where a door swung open.
"Help me lift him!" motioned Neeland.
Together they got him clear of the shaky barricade and, lugging him
between them, deposited him on the floor of the clothes-press and
locked the door.
So silent had they been that, listening, they heard no movement from
the watcher on the floor above, who stood guard at the attic stairs.
And it was evident he had heard nothing to make him suspicious.
The Russian girl, dreadfully pale, leaned against the wall as though
her limbs scarcely supported her. Neeland passed his arm under hers,
nodded to Ilse Dumont, and started cautiously down the carpeted
stairs, his automatic pistol in one hand, and the revolver taken from
the imprisoned secret agent clutched tightly in the other.
Down the stairs they crept, straight toward the frightful tumult still
raging below--down past the wrecked club rooms; past a dead man
sprawling on the landing across the blood-soaked carpet--down into the
depths of the dusky building toward the lighted café floor whence came
the uproar of excited men, while, from the street outside, rose the
frantic yelling of the mob mingled with the crash of glass and the
clanging dissonance of iron grilles and shutters which were being
battered into fragments.
"It's my chance, now!" whispered Ilse Dumont, slipping past him like a
shadow.
For a moment he saw her silhouetted against the yellow electric glare
on the stairs below, then, half carrying the almost helpless Russian
girl, he stumbled down the last flight of stairs and pushed his way
through a hurrying group of men who seemed to be searching for
something, for they were tearing open cupboards and buffets, dragging
out table drawers and tumbling linen, crockery, and glassware all over
the black and white marble floor.
The whole place was ankle deep in shattered glass and broken bottles,
and the place reeked with smoke and the odour of wine and spirits.
Neeland forced his way forward into the café, looked around for
Sengoun, and saw him almost immediately.
The young Russian, flushed, infuriated, his collar gone and his coat
in tatters, was struggling with some men who held both his arms but
did not offer to strike him.
Behind him, crowded back into a corner near the cashier's
steel-grilled desk, stood Ilse Dumont, calm, disdainful, confronted by
Brandes, whose swollen, greenish eyes, injected with blood, glared
redly at her. Stull had hold of him and was trying to drag him away: "For God's sake, Eddie, shut your mouth," he pleaded in English. "You
can't do that to her, whatever she done to you!"
But Brandes, disengaging himself with a jerk, pushed his way past
Sengoun to where Ilse stood.
"I've got the goods on you!" he said in a ferocious voice that
neither Stull nor Curfoot recognised. "You know what you did to me,
don't you! You took my wife from me! Yes, my wife! She was my
wife! She is my wife!--For all you did, you lying, treacherous
slut!--For all you've done to break me, double-cross me, ruin me,
drive me out of every place I went! And now I've got you! I've sold
you out! Get that? And you know what they'll do to you, don't you?
Well, you'll see when----"