The Midnight Murders

. 4 .

Two days, three tense meetings with the police, and and a further two night-time phone calls had passed since George Knight's encounter in the maintenance room. The first (and only) lead that chief officer Raymond McCann had given George was a man who ran a dingy little bar in a back alley, though the lead had come from a note left at a crime scene by the killer, so George had been instructed to proceed with caution.

Looking both ways, George crossed the road, and continued at a brisk pace down the path, a note clutched in his hand and a revolver in his belt, pressed against his hip. The note had the address of the bar scrawled on it, and the revolver was fully loaded.

Turning down into a back street, George began to scan the tattered signs hanging from the walls, looking for the right place.

About halfway down the alley he found it, the golden key bar. George pushed the door open, a bell tinkling above him as he walked into the half light of the pub.

Squinting, he strode forward toward the counter, and leaned over to speak to the bartender.

"You know a Richard Blaike?" He asked quietly, glancing around.

"Who's asking?" Replied the bartender with a sneery tone.

"I am. On behalf of the New York Police Department." George said. "Now do you, or don't you?"

"Over there, table in the corner." The bartender said with a scowl, and shuffled off.

George stuck his hands in his pockets and made his way over to the table that the bartender had indicated, taking a seat opposite the worn and tired looking man that was already seated.

"Richard Blaike?" George asked, and the man nodded.

"And who are you?" Richard asked.

"Inspector George Knight, speaking on behalf of the New York Police Department." George said with authority.

"Now, Richard, I don't want to stay in here any longer than I have to, so I'll be straight to the point. I hear you have information on the recent killings, the night-time deaths, the midnight murders, as it were."

"Well I didn't know nothing about them 'till last night," Richard said. "I was jus' walkin' home from the pub, you know, late night out with friends, and I sees a murder. Horrible it was too. The the guy, the murderer, starts talkin' on the phone! Then he hangs up, and he notices me. He let's me go but he tells me there will be blood shed on the Brooklyn Bridge tonight! That's all I know, I ran after that, save my life."

"You mean to say the next murder will be on Brooklyn Bridge?" George asked, taking out a notebook.

"That was what he implied, yeah." Richard nodded.

"Can you describe this man to me?" George asked, turning a page.

"Well, he was average height. Brown hair, I think. It was pretty hard to tell in the dark. Oh he had a scar on his left cheek."

"Okay..." George said, noting it all down. "Well thank you, Mr Blaike, you've been most helpful, that is all. I have to go and report back to the police, so if you'll excuse me." George got up and turned to leave.

"You can't save them, George!" Richard called.

George turned around, frowning.

"We'll do our best, Richard." He replied.

"You'll never get out of here to inform the police, you can't save them!" Richard started sobbing into his beer.

"What do you mean by that?" George asked slowly.

"I'm sorry! It was the only way! He said the only way he'd let me live is if I drew in whoever was working on the case with a note, and got them killed! I'm sorry, I'm sorry...."

Richard tailed off, gulping and crying, head in his hands.

George quickly turned and scanned the pub, this guy didn't seem in the frame of mind to kill, so there must be someone else here... and sure enough, three burly men had stood up across the pub, and one of them was holding a gun.

George dived to the side as the one with a gun opened fire. He pushed Richard out of the way and upturned their table, using it as a shield and bullets thudded against it, a few ripping through, just missing George.

He jumped up, pulling the revolver from his belt and fired a shot across the room, hitting one of the men in the chest, before dodging to the side to hide behind a pillar.

Poking his head round the pillar to see what was happening, he saw that one of them had managed to set fire to a chair, and had it aimed at George's hiding place. Thinking quickly, George spotted the barrels of alcohol in a rack above their heads, and fired at them, causing them to split, alcohol pouring down onto the flames and sending them sky high, the roof rafters and surrounding furniture catching light.

The man with the gun yelled out as a table next to him caught fire, lunging out of the way, and then both the men ran at George, shots flying back and forth in the hazy now smoke filled room.

Sparks flew as bullets clanged against metal and splinters were sent flying as they ripped through wood, and for a moment all there was was a rain of bullets and debris flying everywhere, until both parties ran out of ammunition.

George grabbed a chair, snapped a leg off, and dived blindly into the smoke, bringing it slashing down on the armed thug, who carried it just in time with a 'please queue here' sign. By now, the few people who had been in the pub had either ran (if they were fortunate) or been killed by the blaze, several dead bodies were lay to one side, flames licking at their corpses.

Through a collapsed door, George saw into the back room, and saw barrel after barrel of alcohol stock. Knowing he only had one shot, George, (who had been grasped by the other thug and slammed against a wall) broke free, putting the thug off balance, and shoved him backwards.

Swinging the chair leg round with all the strength he could muster, he caught the armed thug off guard, and knocked him clean out, rounding on the un armed thug, who was regaining his balance.

George ran at him, head down, brushing the chair leg through the fire as he went, the tip catching fire like an oversized match.

He collided with the thug, sending him reeling back through the collapsed door into the storage room, planting the flaming chair leg in his hands as he did so. The thug fell backwards, as George turned and ran for the exit, the chair leg fall from the thugs hands, clattering to the floor, George turned as he reached the exit, to see the flame from the chair leg catch onto one of the wooden barrels of alcohol, then George Knight was gone, as the alcohol met the fire, and the whole pub disappeared in a whirling explosion of red.