Poole dashed to his own window, forced back the catch, threw up the sash and had got one leg across the sill before he realized that there was no staircase outside it. A laugh came from the darkness and Wraile’s mocking voice:
“Sorry, Poole; I misled you about the fire-escape. This is the only window that has it. You must try the stairs!”
The detective flashed a torch to the sound of the voice and followed its beam with the pistol in his other hand, but, though he made out a dim movement below him, the twisting flights of stairs made shooting impossible, even had it been advisable. Thrusting his body out as far as it would go he bellowed with all the force of his lungs:
“Hold them, Fallows! Hold them!”
There came an answering shout from below, a moment’s pause, and then a terrible cry of fear, followed, a moment later, by the sickening thud of a heavy body striking the hard ground.
Poole sprang back from the window, thrust the knife into Ryland’s free hand, and darted down the passage into the clerks’ room. The outer door on to the staircase was locked, the key nowhere to be seen. It was useless to return to the Board room; that would mean certainly one, and probably two locked doors. Placing the muzzle of his pistol against the keyhole Poole fired twice, then, drawing back, crashed his heel twice above the shattered lock. The door, of course, was made to open inwards and so could not be forced out, but after two more shots the detective was able to tear his way out on to the landing. Dashing down the stairs, three steps at a time, Poole rushed out into the street and up an alley on the right of Ald House. In a small yard at the back, he came upon Detective Fallows seated on the ground, propped against the wall, his face white and a bleeding cut on his forehead. A few yards away lay a huddled form. Poole strode up to it and flashed his torch upon the face. What seemed to be a black wig had been forced over one ear, a broken dental plate protruded from the gaping mouth, but, in the bright beam of light, there was no mistaking the dead face of Leopold Hessel.
CHAPTER XXVI.
. . . May Be Blind
Poole turned back towards his unfortunate subordinate.
“What happened?” he asked curtly. “Where’s that constable?”
“Revolver, sir, I think,” replied Fallows weakly “—hit me with it—on the head. Munt ran to the body—when it fell. I waited—below stairs—there’s a drop. Chap jumped—hit at me as he came down—knocked me out. Don’t know—where—Munt is.”