Policeman's Progress by Bernard Knight Page B

shoulders and hustled her towards the doors, slightly ahead of the general stampede. ‘Get out – get a taxi home.’ He gave her a shove in the back and then ran to a red fire extinguisher hanging on the wall.
    Herbert Lumley, the only other with any presence of mind, dashed in from the foyer with another and within seconds the two men were dousing the floor and tables with jets of fizzing soda-acid foam. The next to take action was Thor Hansen, though Laura noticed that he deliberately waited a few seconds before moving to get an extinguisher.
    In spite of the terrifying initial fireball, the flames died quickly. The bomb was a beer flagon filled with paraffin, a length of colliery fuse stuck in the neck. It had been deliberately designed to create fear and disturbance rather than to burn down the Rising Sun. If it had been filled with petrol, the result might have been different.
    The three jets of foam soon isolated and then extinguished the flames but, inside two minutes, the room was a smoky, smut-filled shambles. A heaving mass was now jostling to get through the foyer to the stairs, and Herbert had to leave his fire-fighting to attend to his besieged cloakroom counter.
    In the middle of this pandemonium, Jackie Stott raced downstairs from the gaming room and stood raving in the centre of the main club. The arrival of the fire brigade a moment later made the confusion more devastating, as uniformed men battled up the narrow staircase against the down-going tide of outraged ex-patrons.
    The fire Section Officer advanced on the fuming club owner. ‘Good work on the part of your men, sir – nothing much left for us to do, except investigate the cause and call the police.’
    Jackie stopped short in the middle of his apoplectic tirade. ‘Police! What the hell do we want the police for? … it’s just a fire. Keep the coppers out of this!’
    The fire officer smiled indulgently. ‘Now, sir, be reasonable. This was no ordinary fire – somebody threw a bomb through your window – the person who rang up with the alarm said so, and the stink of paraffin and that broken window confirms it … here it is, what’s left of it.’
    A helmeted fireman handed him the broken neck of a brown bottle, a piece of hollow fuse still held in position with putty.
    Alec Bolam had padded up behind them. ‘Who wants the police? We’re already here – were here even before it happened!’
    Jackie Stott almost foamed at the mouth. ‘Bombs! Firemen! … And now damn police walking all over me! Haven’t I got enough trouble with all this?’
    He swept a hand around the rapidly emptying room but, at that very moment, three uniformed policemen battled their way into the club. One was a sergeant from the local beat, the other two were from a motor patrol that followed the fire tender.
    The sergeant advanced on them, picking his way through the overturned chairs. He saw Bolam and touched his blue and white banded cap. ‘What’s happened, sir?’
    â€˜Somebody “arson” about, sergeant,’ punned Bolam with grim humour. ‘No casualties, thank goodness. You’d better catch some of those clients and try to get a few statements, though half of ’em have shoved off by now. And I can’t say I blame them!’
    He gave the infuriated Stott a mirthless smile.
    â€˜Better close up, Jackie – you’ll do no more business tonight. I’ll bet all your mugs upstairs have slung their hook by now – they may be afraid that your wop friends may come back with an H-bomb next time!’
    Rage faded to astonishment on the ex-boxer’s face. How the hell did Bolam know about the visit of Papagos and Casella so quickly ?
    Bolam turned back to the uniformed sergeant. ‘I’d better run this for the time being – call up the station on your joy-box there and tell them what’s happened. Ask them to rout out Jimmy