knees.
It headed directly toward the steel grilles. There was a brief sigh of relief from the clerical staff. The bars were four inches apart. Plenty of room for it to pass through. It caught one of its wings as it did so, and tumbled to the concrete floor on the other side, stunned.
"Jesus!" someone breathed.
They heard footsteps and voices echoing down the corridor. Baxterdale was coming with the key holders to release them from this vault of death.
"It's there, sir!" Don Lucas called out shrilly, pointing to the inert bat as Baxterdale reached the grille door.
"What?" Baxterdale stopped abruptly, the two men at his heels bumping into him. "Where?"
"There!"
As Baxterdale, a plump, bald-headed man, finally saw the bat, it stirred, shuffled forward, and took off again—back through the bars and into the Credit House.
Screams and confusion came from within the enclosed area. There was no logic in the creature's behaviour. It flew madly back and forth, this time seeming impervious to the obstacles which it struck, hitting the bars again but not passing between them.
"Let us out! For Christ's sake let us out!" someone yelled.
But Baxterdale and his companions were retreating back up the corridor, glancing over their shoulders as they ran.
"Bloody well unlock the doors!"
Baxterdale reached his office, and his flabby hand was trembling as he picked up the receiver and dialed the Area Inspector's number. The line was engaged. He dropped the telephone back on to its cradle.
"Hadn't . . . hadn't we ought to go back down there?" one of the keyholders asked.
"No." the Treasury Chief shook his head. "You know the instructions issued to the public regarding these bats as well as I do. The stairway door is closed. The bat can't get beyond the lower-basement level. As soon as we can get hold of the Area Inspector he'll report it to the police."
"Can't . . . can't we ring the police?" the second key holder gulped.
"The Bank's rules," Baxterdale reminded him, glowering. "The police are never to be involved without consulting the Area Inspector first. You know that."
Baxterdale tried the number again. It was still engaged. Somewhere, far away and muffled, they could hear the screams of the trapped clerks.
It was the rush hour. People were hurrying, bustling, jostling each other, standing on packed buses while traffic waited at a standstill for longer periods than it moved. The newspaper vendors had all sold out in the city center by five o'clock and were packing up their stands and kiosks. The evening edition of the Mail was a total sell out, just as the midday one had been. There was no fresh news of the bats, but the previous accounts, rewritten with a diversity of opinions, were still commanding front page space.
The sirens of ambulances and police cars, and their flashing blue lights, were a commonplace sight. Seldom did the worker on his way home spare either a second glance. However, this evening there seemed to be an atmosphere of extra urgency about the two white cars and the ambulance which forced their way through the lanes of jammed traffic, a motorcycle patrol doing its best to clear the way ahead for them.
"Must be another bomb scare," a passenger on an outer-circle bus commented for the benefit of his fellow travellers. "That'll make three this week."
Within minutes crowds were gathering on the pavement by the ramp entrance which led down into the bowels of the Treasury. The grille was already raised in anticipation, two uniformed messengers and Baxterdale waiting by it in a state of acute agitation.
The ambulance was backed up, and stood in readiness with its engine running. Three constables emerged from the cars, carrying with them some kind of white plastic protective clothing.
"Looks like bleedin' riot-gear," a youth remarked to his companion on the opposite side of the road. "What the 'ell's goin' on down there?"
The grille gate was lowered behind the policemen.
"Your Area Inspector phoned us," a
It headed directly toward the steel grilles. There was a brief sigh of relief from the clerical staff. The bars were four inches apart. Plenty of room for it to pass through. It caught one of its wings as it did so, and tumbled to the concrete floor on the other side, stunned.
"Jesus!" someone breathed.
They heard footsteps and voices echoing down the corridor. Baxterdale was coming with the key holders to release them from this vault of death.
"It's there, sir!" Don Lucas called out shrilly, pointing to the inert bat as Baxterdale reached the grille door.
"What?" Baxterdale stopped abruptly, the two men at his heels bumping into him. "Where?"
"There!"
As Baxterdale, a plump, bald-headed man, finally saw the bat, it stirred, shuffled forward, and took off again—back through the bars and into the Credit House.
Screams and confusion came from within the enclosed area. There was no logic in the creature's behaviour. It flew madly back and forth, this time seeming impervious to the obstacles which it struck, hitting the bars again but not passing between them.
"Let us out! For Christ's sake let us out!" someone yelled.
But Baxterdale and his companions were retreating back up the corridor, glancing over their shoulders as they ran.
"Bloody well unlock the doors!"
Baxterdale reached his office, and his flabby hand was trembling as he picked up the receiver and dialed the Area Inspector's number. The line was engaged. He dropped the telephone back on to its cradle.
"Hadn't . . . hadn't we ought to go back down there?" one of the keyholders asked.
"No." the Treasury Chief shook his head. "You know the instructions issued to the public regarding these bats as well as I do. The stairway door is closed. The bat can't get beyond the lower-basement level. As soon as we can get hold of the Area Inspector he'll report it to the police."
"Can't . . . can't we ring the police?" the second key holder gulped.
"The Bank's rules," Baxterdale reminded him, glowering. "The police are never to be involved without consulting the Area Inspector first. You know that."
Baxterdale tried the number again. It was still engaged. Somewhere, far away and muffled, they could hear the screams of the trapped clerks.
It was the rush hour. People were hurrying, bustling, jostling each other, standing on packed buses while traffic waited at a standstill for longer periods than it moved. The newspaper vendors had all sold out in the city center by five o'clock and were packing up their stands and kiosks. The evening edition of the Mail was a total sell out, just as the midday one had been. There was no fresh news of the bats, but the previous accounts, rewritten with a diversity of opinions, were still commanding front page space.
The sirens of ambulances and police cars, and their flashing blue lights, were a commonplace sight. Seldom did the worker on his way home spare either a second glance. However, this evening there seemed to be an atmosphere of extra urgency about the two white cars and the ambulance which forced their way through the lanes of jammed traffic, a motorcycle patrol doing its best to clear the way ahead for them.
"Must be another bomb scare," a passenger on an outer-circle bus commented for the benefit of his fellow travellers. "That'll make three this week."
Within minutes crowds were gathering on the pavement by the ramp entrance which led down into the bowels of the Treasury. The grille was already raised in anticipation, two uniformed messengers and Baxterdale waiting by it in a state of acute agitation.
The ambulance was backed up, and stood in readiness with its engine running. Three constables emerged from the cars, carrying with them some kind of white plastic protective clothing.
"Looks like bleedin' riot-gear," a youth remarked to his companion on the opposite side of the road. "What the 'ell's goin' on down there?"
The grille gate was lowered behind the policemen.
"Your Area Inspector phoned us," a
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