The Time Mirror Part 12

"I didn't dream I could have this much luck! To see that s.l.u.t Elaine dead--that was the height of my ambition. But now--to have you sent to the penitentiary for burglary--"

The words ended in a roar of laughter. It died, and Vance went on, his tone grim and deadly:

"It's time you dropped that picture, Carter. Drop it--and put your hands up!"

The picture! The one link between 1942 and 1780!

"Drop it!"

Slowly, Mark's hands relaxed. He let the picture fall to the floor.

"Now--raise your hands and walk over to the corner. Stand with your face to the wall!"

Mark moved like one paralyzed. His hands came up as if they were weighted with lead. His brown eyes were fixed on the shadowy finger back of the flashlight, and impotent rage and hatred seethed within them.

Yet what could he do? Jump Vance? Try to wrest the inevitable gun from the antiquarian's hand?

Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head. No. It was impossible. His slug-riddled body would pitch lifeless to the floor before he could take two steps forward.

Nor was it mere fear of death that made him halt. That he would have faced, and gladly.

But what actually held him back was that such a suicidal attempt would avail him nothing. It would bring him no nearer his real goal than before: Elaine still would meet that awful doom which history had recorded as her fate!

"Turn around, d.a.m.n you! Get over to the corner! Put your face to the wall!"

Ever so slowly, Mark turned. His brain was pounding with frantic effort as he strove to find some flaw in the awful wall of circ.u.mstance that rose about him.

And then he saw the curtain!

It was just an ordinary curtain, buff-colored and a trifle stiff with starch.

But it hung in front of the window he had opened as an emergency exit when he came in. At the moment, it swayed ever so slightly in the ripple of draft.

Most important of all, that window was set in the wall against which Adrian Vance had directed that he stand. The corner Vance had indicated was a step to the right of where Mark now stood; the window, a step to the left. And a grand piano half-sheltered it from the antiquarian's line of fire!

"Hurry up! Get into that corner!"

Instinctively, the captive tensed to leap.

But the picture! What about it? He must have it! Without that painting, the time mirror Professor Duchard was constructing would be useless!

Then, suddenly, a grim smile played across Mark's lips. There was an angle! There was one wild chance by which he might escape alive and take Jerbette's masterpiece with him!

"Hurry up, or I'll shoot!"

Like a stone from a sling, Mark hurled himself toward the window in a headlong dive. The blackness of the outer night engulfed him.

In the room behind, Vance's Magnum roared a cannonade of death.

Copper-jacketed slugs splintered the sill at the fleeing man's heels.

Mark landed on one shoulder in a somersaulting roll. The next instant he was on his feet and sprinting for the shadows at the corner of the house.

Flashlight in hand, Vance sprang to the open window.

On Mark ran, and on. Around the house as fast as he could go. Then the smooth plateau of the terrace loomed before him, with its wide-open French window.

He slowed, silenced his pounding footsteps.

On the other side of the big room, still peering out the window through which Mark had hurled himself, stood Vance. His sleek form was silhouetted behind the flashlight's beam.

Like a wraith in the night, the other slipped inside. He crossed the room on tiptoe. His hand darted down to s.n.a.t.c.h the rolled picture from where it still lay on the floor.

And then Vance turned. His flashlight caught Mark.

But this time it was the antiquarian who was surprised. He jerked back.

Already his adversary was leaping for the cover of a heavy mahogany table. Vance snapped a shot at him. Tried again to place him with the light.

Mark's hand came down on a porcelain vase. He hurled it at Vance with all his might.

Vainly, his enemy tried to dodge. But too late. The vase _thunk'd_ home against his left shoulder. The flashlight fell to the floor.

Like a thunderbolt, Elaine's fiance lunged forward. His left hand slashed down; pinioned the arm that held the Magnum. His right fist came up with express-train speed. Smashed home on the point of Vance's jaw.

The antiquarian's body jerked spasmodically. Went limp. Sagged to the floor.

But now the sound of harsh voices and running feet came to Mark's ears.

Clutching the Jerbette painting in one hand, he ducked back out the window. Even in the gloom he could see black figures converging on the house. A sedan stood in the driveway, its spotlight sweeping the house.

"The police!"

Cold sweat stood out on Mark's forehead as he gasped the exclamation.

But he did not hesitate. Keeping to the shadows, he headed for the still-open gate through which the car had come.

The iron fence loomed close. He ran along it in a half-crouch.

"Hey, you! Stick 'em up or we shoot!"

For the barest fraction of a second Mark halted in mid-stride. The spotlight was swinging toward him.

But the gate was only a dozen yards away. He made for it in a mad rush.

Bullets sang about him. Slugs ricocheted from the iron spikes. But on he went. Lunged through the opening and into the shadowy fastnesses across the street.

The return to Professor Duchard's laboratory was a nightmare of mad dashes and narrow escapes. Squad cars seemed everywhere. Police always on his heels.