Murder Offstage by L. B. Hathaway Page B

the
sandwich hut.
    A black wrought-iron staircase led downwards, with an
old-fashioned gothic Victorian sign welded into an arch above:
    GENTLEMEN
     ‘It’s just a toilet!’ hissed Dolly, following her
friend’s gaze, peering down uncertainly. At the bottom of the dark, damp
concrete steps was an old wooden trapdoor covering a space no bigger than two
foot square. The trapdoor looked damp and rusty around the edges. The toilet
had obviously been boarded up years ago. At the top of the steps, near their
feet, was a length of metal chain and a broken padlock, kicked to one side in a
slushy pile of old sandwich wrappers and cigarette ends.
    ‘No. It’s a closed-up toilet,’ Posie said, ‘there’s a
huge difference.’
    Just then there was another BOOM, this time very close. They
felt the ground tremble just a little underneath their feet. Posie rushed
across and herded the group back towards the old toilet in a state of some
excitement:
    ‘It’s here! I’m certain of it.’
    Inspector Lovelace looked uncertain. ‘There’s no light
though, is there? I’d expect to see light coming up from the cracks…’ He was
studying the trapdoor from the top of the steps. Just then there was another
BOOM.
    ‘Yep. It’s here all right,’ nodded Len, looking pleased as
punch. Inspector Lovelace nodded too and snapped into action:
    ‘Rainbird, go and get back-up, urgently. Find a telephone
and call the Yard: we need armed men here in plainclothes. We also need lads
from the drugs squad, the liquor squad and our specialist in late-night
licences. I’m sure this lot are breaking every rule in the book. Everything
about this place is illegal, and I’m going to pin them for it.’
    ‘Are you calling for Inspector Oats to come too?’ asked
Posie, fearfully.
    ‘Nope,’ he shook his head. ‘This hasn’t got anything to do
with him. Not yet.’
    ‘Just one thing, Inspector,’ cut in a nervous-sounding
Rainbird, ‘ Where are we exactly, sir?’
    The Inspector looked uncertain too for a moment. ‘Radnor
Square,’ he said quickly to his Sergeant, his eyes alighting with relief on the
black and white enamelled plaque behind them.
    ‘I’d say we’re at the back of Hatton Garden,’ said Len,
trying to be helpful. Rainbird nodded and ran off into the darkness.
    ‘Hatton Garden, eh?’ muttered the Inspector. Posie caught a
gleam of interest flash across his face. But before she could ask him more, out
of the corner of her eye she saw cars drawing up, over on the far side of the
square.
    ‘We’d better hurry. More people are coming now. We’ll draw
attention to ourselves if we just stand here lurking around. Like we don’t know
the score.’
    ‘Well, they’d be right about that!’ said Len crossly.
    ‘Come on. I know what to do,’ Posie was bluffing, but she
knew they had to move fast. ‘Follow me, all of you.’
    The sound of the car doors slamming in the distance had
spurred her into action. She linked arms with Len and dragged him down the
steps. Before he could say anything she rapped sharply on the trapdoor four
times. She put her sunglasses on quickly.
    For a horribly long second nothing happened. She was aware
of Dolly pressed in close behind her, her face sweating with fear under her
thick greasepaint, despite the cold; Inspector Lovelace and Sergeant Binny were
pressed tightly on either side.
    Then the door moved.
    There was no creaking, no swing of rusted hinges. Instead,
it curved upwards and to the left smoothly. Posie saw at once that the old
wooden trapdoor was a mere decoration: thick shining metal casing and a rubber
seal ran around the underside. From the exposed square in the ground a smoky
greenish light emanated upwards. It looked like the entrance to a submarine.
    ‘What on earth?’ whistled Len beside her, and just then the
head of a big burly man popped up.
    ‘Password?’ he snapped impatiently. He appeared to be
balancing at the top of a staircase or a ladder. He was holding a list of