Get a Load of This

     “You're telling me,” Morecombre said, wiping the sweat from his face. He dropped the rifle with a clatter, and pulled a police .38 special from his hip pocket. They got down the next flight of stairs into the lobby of the hotel before three soldiers and a sergeant appeared from out of a side room. Two of the soldiers fired point-blank at them. Quentin felt the wind for a bullet against his face, and he fired with Morecombre. Two of the soldiers pitched forward, and the sergeant was shot through the arm. He turned and ran back into the room, shouting at the top of his voice.

     Morecombre said: “Go down to the cellar—you won't get out any other way. They can't get you there... I've seen it.” He swayed on his feet.

     Quentin ran to him. “Are you hurt?” he asked, taking his arm.

     Morecombre's legs folded up under him and Quentin had to lower him to the floor. “What is it?” he asked, bending over him.

     “Go on—go on, you nut,” Morecombre said faintly, “don't worry about me. Get the girl away.” He pressed his hands to his chest and Quentin could see blood oozing through his fingers.

     “Keep your hair on,” he said gently. “We'll go together. Put your arm round my neck.”

     “For Christ's sake leave me alone,” Morecombre said, his voice breaking into a sob. “Clear off—they can't do anything to me... Get the girl....”

     “Damn the girl!” Quentin said savagely. “I'm not going to leave you.” He stooped, and with a tremendous effort lifted Morecombre and took two staggering steps towards the back of the elevator which screened the service stairs. “Get down quick ... go first,” he gasped to Myra.

     She snatched up Morecombre's gun which had fallen on the floor and stood watching the door through which the soldier had disappeared. Quentin staggered on. He knew it would only waste time if he argued. Morecombre suddenly stiffened in his arms and then went limp, upsetting Quentin's balance and bringing him to his knees. One look at Morecombre's face was sufficient. Quentin laid him on the floor gently, and then, rising, ran back to Myra. “He's gone,” he said. “Come on, for God's sake.”

     Together they ran down the dark stairs into the basement. As they reached the bottom of the stairs they heard a heavy pounding of feet overhead. Taking Myra's arm, Quentin hustled her along the stone corridor, down another flight of stone steps into the cellar. The entrance to the cellar was low and narrow. Only one person could enter at a time. It was an ideal place for a siege.

     “We'll be all right here for a time,” Quentin said, producing a small flashlight and examining the low-roofed vault. It was very large and full of wine barrels. “Doesn't look as if we'll go thirsty, either,” he added with a crooked grin.

     He found the switch of the pilot light and a dim glow appeared in the ceiling when he turned down the switch. “If we can shift a couple of these barrels over to the door we can hold this place until the cows come home.”

     Myra helped him get the barrels into position and then she sat down limply on the stone floor. Quentin was too occupied to bother with her for the moment. He made certain that there was no other exit and then took up a position by the door. He could hear movements going on upstairs, and then a sudden clicking of heels. He heard Fuentes say, “Where are they?”

     There was a murmured reply which Quentin could not hear, then Fuentes said: “We can pick them up later. Put two men at the head of the stairs. Tell them to shoot at sight.”

     Quentin made a little face. “He's got us there,” he said. “They can't get in, but we can't get out. We'll have to wait until someone comes along and chases these guys away.”

     Myra said: “If it wasn't for me, this would never have happened.”

     “Forget it. What's the use of talking like that? If we get out of it, I've got a grand story to write. If we don't, some other guy's got the story—so what?”

     “Your friend lost his life because of me.”

     Quentin's face hardened. “This ain't the time for that kind of talk. It won't get you anywhere. Bill was unlucky. If you hadn't been here, you don't think we would have let the General push Anita around as he did, do you?” He shook his head. “No, I guess we were mugs to come to this joint. We wanted to be in at the death, now it looks like we're going to attend the wrong funeral.”

     Myra sat limply, her hands folded in her lap and her long legs tucked under her. Morecombre's death had shocked her badly.

     He got to his feet and went over to the wine-bins. After careful scrutiny he selected a couple of bottles and drew the corks with the corkscrew on his knife. “Have you ever tried drinking a nice light wine from the bottle?” he asked her. “I want you to have some of this stuff. It'll do you good.”