Cry of the Hunter - Jack Higgins [37]
There was no time to waste. He walked forward, arms outstretched, until he touched the wall, then he moved along until his fingers encountered a light switch. He was in another private room. Blankets were piled neatly in a squared tier on the bed and the room was obviously unoccupied. The door opened at a touch and he sighed with relief and looked out on to a deserted corridor. He closed the door and began to make a rapid search of the room. In the wardrobe he found a faded blue hospital dressing gown and he pulled it on. He turned out the light and left the room.
He walked slowly along the corridor, his senses alert for danger. What his next move was to be he did not know. He preferred to leave it to chance. He felt calm and fatalistic now because, in some queer way, he knew that he was going to get away with it. As he came to the end of the corridor he heard voices talking quietly. He peered round the corner. A few feet away from him two police constables leaned against the banisters at the stairhead. They were both armed with automatic rifles.
Stuart was obviously taking no chances. Fallon retraced his steps. When he reached the opposite end of the corridor he drew back hastily. A police constable was standing with his back to him only four or five feet away.
Fallon considered the situation for a moment. The fact that the corridors and stairs were so heavily guarded meant that all entrances and exits must be heavily guarded as well. Sweat was oozing from his forehead in bright drops. He brushed it away with his hand. At any moment someone might appear in the corridor and there was his improvised rope of sheets still hanging out of the window. It only needed a passer-by to glance upwards. As he paused, his brain racing, he noticed a small door about three feet square, set in the opposite wall of the corridor, rather like a window. He moved across quickly and opened it. He looked down into the depths of a lift shaft.
He began to heave on the ropes feverishly and within a few seconds the lift appeared. In it there was a wicker basket full of dirty sheets and towels. He dragged out the basket hastily and scrambled into the lift. It was a tight squeeze and he was doubled over so that his face almost rested on his knees. The strain on his wound was almost unbearable and it felt as though the bandages were cutting into his flesh. He closed the door and pulling quickly on the ropes, dropped jerkily down into the darkness.
He passed through several rays of light which found their way through lower entrances into the lift shaft. He kept on going down without stopping, until he bumped against the concrete base of the shaft. He opened the small door cautiously and scrambled out. He was in a large basement room that was brightly lit by three naked electric bulbs. The room was filled with piles of dirty sheets and blankets tied together in bundles. There seemed to be no one about. He moved across to the far door and opened it.
He found himself in a long, whitewashed corridor. He began to walk quickly along it, checking the rooms as he did so. He heard voices coming from a door at the far end. It was slightly open and he peered in. Two men in overalls were standing by several large boilers, leaning on their shovels and laughing over some joke. He passed on and turned the corner into a smaller corridor in which there were just two doors. He opened the first