He was an excellent marksman, and I realized there could be only one result for me if I continued exposed in flank. So I tore a lantern from its hook and flung it on the floor. The burning oil vomited forth a cloud of thick black smoke, and under cover of this, I changed my position, gaining the protection of another pillar. Here I was safe from Sandra; but her brother knew where I was and our duel continued. It was no steady stream of bullets, but a pot-shot whenever one of us thought he saw an opportunity. All around us others were doing the same thing, and the vaulted roof rang to the reports, while the acrid fumes of the powder and the smoke from broken lamps stung the eyes. And outside the thunder was pealing and the lightning splitting the heavens and Nikka's men and Tokalji's Gypsies were trying their feeble best to rival nature's forces.
Suddenly, I sensed that our opponents were bracing for a combined effort. There was a rapid-fire exchange of exclamations in the thieves' French and Tzigane dialect they used for confidential communication. I heard an empty cartridge-clip jingle on the floor. But in the shifting light and smoke it was impossible now to tell real men from the shadows. I stuck my head around a pillar, crouched and slipped aside. Then, while I was unprotected, the rush came.
"Go!" called Hilyer's voice.
The shadows were pricked with pistol-flashes. Serge Vassilievich leaped for the pillar behind which I had stood, his gun blazing, knife in hand. He did not see me, on my knees, four feet to the right, and I put my first bullet in his thigh. He stopped as if a giant's hand had been shoved against his breast, tottered and fell backward. As he fell, one of the burning oil-pools ignited a bundle of blankets, and the rising flames sketched us both clearly against the darkness that shrouded the far end of the room.
There was a scream. I recognized Sandra's voice, but I could not see her. Instead, I saw Hilmi Bey sneaking on Watkins, who was holding back Toutou. I drove the Levantine away with my first shot. Then the hammer clicked, and I knew the magazine was empty. I dropped to my knee again, thinking I was concealed by a patch of shadow, and fumbled for a fresh clip. But the treacherous light flared upward, the shadow disappeared and I was left defenseless. I saw a raging figure, hair flying, pistol raised, running at me. I saw the pistol flash, felt a numbing blow on my left shoulder and tumbled in a heap.
For a second my eyes misted, the room danced before me. Then I heard a chatter of Russian and Watkins, mildly disapproving.
"None of that 'ere, miss. If you please, now! I don't want to 'urt you, but—"
I looked up. Sandra, her face contorted with demoniac rage, her empty pistol shaking in her hand, was backing away before Watty's menacing crowbar.
A woman screamed again, horribly, so that it rasped your heart-strings. It was Maude Hilyer. She stood, with hands clutching her cheeks, her gaze fixed on the center of the room where Montey staggered against a pillar, the blood from a punctured lung gurgling in his throat, bravely trying for the last time to raise the smoking muzzle of his automatic.
Hugh, relieved of the Englishman's attack, was taking pot-shots at Toutou and Hilmi. I saw Tokalji slip through the door into the rain, and as Vernon King ran up the stairs from the atrium Hilmi followed the Tzigane and Toutou jumped through a window, squawling like the big cat he was. Behind me Watkins was scientifically roping Sandra, hand and foot, regardless of the curses she spat in three languages. Vassilievich had fainted from the pain of his wound. Maude Hilyer sat on the dirty floor, under the single wobbling lantern that remained intact, and cradled the head of her dying husband. We had swept the House of the Married.