This was as near the language of the Lowland country as he would ever get.
“Brumm! Brumm!� choked the guard through the gag. “Brumm! Brumm! Brumm!�
“All right, old fellow,� said Fay, “if that’s the way you feel about the matter. I’ll leave you right here and go on. Cheaters have been cheated before. I’m going to take a lone hand.�
Fay reached toward his pocket, drew out the American automatic and pressed the cold muzzle against the guard’s purpling neck. He backed away, crawled around the obstruction and started toward the flight of steps at the front of the basement. He heard a slight movement above him. Plaster or dust fell to the floor.
The craftsman took stock of the situation. He now could see every corner of the room. The yellow light from the window aided his cell-strengthened eyes. The five years at Dartmoor had made his sight keen as a hawk’s.
He touched the first step with his hand, rested his weight on his palm, and grasping the automatic, started upward toward the ground floor of the building. He took his time and worked on the edge of the steps. Here he knew the least sound would be made by a prowler. It was a little trick stolen from the old days.
Coming to the next but the last step, he pressed his body against a side wall, moved back the cocking mechanism of the automatic and advanced its barrel, inch by inch.
There were certain sounds in that vast room which told him that the safe was being ripped apart. Metal rasped against metal. Rivets were being drawn.
Asbestos or plaster of Paris fell to the floor. Also, there was the squeaky swinging of a great door.
Fay peered around the corner and studied the view with dry smiling. It was as if someone else was doing the work cut out for him. Forms moved in the faint light. Oaths in German rolled from out the vault. A tool clinked against another.