DAREDEVIL

BY LESLIE CHARTERIS

The day that Captain
Arden put on his steel
waistcoat the menace
of the Alpha Triangle
was forever quelled.

COPYRIGHT, 1929
BY LESLIE CHARTERIS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES

TO
JERRY DOWMAN

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTION TO STORM

Probably Susan Hawthorne got a lot of her courage and independence from her father, old Smiler Hawthorne, who in his time had been nearly everything and nearly everywhere—a tall, grizzled man who was generally broke but always unbeatable. Anyway, wherever she got it from, she needed it all; for old Hawthorne crossed the Divide one night with the same reckless optimism as he had gone through life. He left her his name and thirty pounds, the rest of his fortune having disappeared only a week before, together with the promoter of a company whose sole asset was a diamond field wherein no diamonds were.

And Susan Hawthorne faced a blank future with a smile that was reminiscent of old Smiler's cheeriest effort, which you only saw when things were very black and the proposition to be tackled was exceeding tough. He was that sort of man, and she was his daughter.

She felt very much alone in the world. She had lost touch with her own friends in the accompanying of her father in his happy-go-lucky aimless globe-trotting; and most of the friends he had picked up himself—and they were legion—were scattered in odd corners of the earth. In any case, she was not one to look for charity. Wherefore she went to Lord Hannassay, because he seemed to be the only friend of her father's who was in England.

She went with some trepidation, and was not unpleasantly surprised, and more than a little nervous, when she found that he was not so inaccessible as his name and position seemed to indicate.

"I remember you—sixteen, weren't you?—queer kid—all eyes and legs. And your father?"

He had a curiously disjointed manner of speaking, conveying the impression that his thoughts moved faster than his mouth could frame them.

"My father died a month ago," she said.

His grim face softened for a moment.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Your father was one of the few men I have ever really liked."

After a while she broached the subject of her visit. It was not a task she relished, for she was desperately afraid he would misunderstand.

His face remained inscrutable, but the blue eyes searched her face.

The fingers of his right hand drummed on the table. She learnt afterwards that this was a trick of his when he was embarrassed.

"What can you do?" he asked. "Shorthand—book-keeping—type-writing—anything?"

"Nothing, I'm afraid." She had realised all along the hopeless inadequacy of her qualifications, and felt unnecessarily small and foolish. "But I could learn."

"There are hundreds of girls who have learnt—still looking for jobs," he said. His finger-tips played an intricate tattoo. "Listen—you're afraid I'll offer you money. Feel insulted if I do—probably walk out in a rage. Still, I wish you'd let me. I've got heaps. I like money—I'd like more—and I don't often give it away. But you're different. I'd have done it for your father, any day—why not for you?"

Strangely enough, she was not annoyed. His nervousness was so amusing. He was obviously as scared of making a faux pas as she was of his making one, and he didn't know how to do it without seeming to.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm looking for work, not outdoor relief."

"I know all about that," he said peevishly. "You wouldn't have minded taking it from your father."

"That's different," she said, and he was not foolish enough to attempt to argue the point further.

He turned over some papers, picked up a pencil, and played with it. There was an unusual quality about these little mannerisms of his: they were never jerky and inconsequent, like the fidgeting of a different kind of man. He seemed to employ material objects to assist his thoughts.

"I want a typist," he said at length. "You can get reasonably proficient in a fortnight if you work hard. No need for much speed, anyhow—no dictation. Copying letters, etcetera. You can have the job if you'll be my guest here while you're learning. That's not charity—you'd accept an invitation like that even if you weren't broke. Use the house how you like—I'm going to Geneva. League of Nations conferences—all rot. However ... housekeeper's always here. Your reputation's all right. But while I'm away—no wild parties, mind!"

He issued the order with such a comical seriousness that she all but laughed aloud.

"I'll try to reform," she promised gravely.

The time passed quickly for her. The work was easy and interesting, the hours short. Once or twice it occurred to her that her job was simply a disguise for the charity she dreaded, but her hint of this suspicion was received with such pained surprise that, not unwillingly, she banished the idea. Hannassay came and went, always courteous and correct. She grew to like him, for he thought she detected the sentimentalist masquerading in self-defence as the tyrant.

After a month she began to consider herself an authority on affairs of State, for Lord Hannassay held a high post in the Home Office. It took her nearly three months more to realise that she knew practically nothing.

She was returning from the Home Office one afternoon after delivering some papers when she discovered that she was not as friendless as she had thought, and the discovery was a cheerful surprise. She was walking back along Piccadilly when she nearly collided with a tall young man in a grey flannel suit.

He raised his hat absently, apologised, and was about to pass on when suddenly they stopped dead and stared at one another.

"Je-rusalem!" exclaimed the young man.

He linked his arm in hers in the most natural way in the world, and steered her out of the press towards the portals of the Leroy.

"It's just four," he remarked, "and therefore tea-time. I've not seen you for years, Susan—millions of years!"

They found a table and sat down on either side of it, inspecting one another. Then they both smiled.

"Christopher Arden," she said, "you'll do!"

"And you, by Jeremy! Susan, what do you mean by it? I've written you regularly for the last three years, and you haven't answered a line."

"I might have," she answered demurely, "if you'd put your address on your letters."

His jaw dropped.

"Didn't I?" he demanded.

"Oh, yes!" She smiled. "You put 'Morocco' and 'South Pacific' and 'Nassau' and that sort of thing. Only I didn't think you were notorious enough for that alone to find you."

He grinned.

"Sorry!" he apologised. "Tell me all about this and that."

She told him, and his brown hand went across the table and touched her fingers lightly.

He said nothing—that wouldn't have been Kit Arden, known as Storm wherever soldiers of fortune were gathered together. He hadn't altered. He had always had a manner which mocked the expression of words; and yet his unspoken sympathy meant more to the girl than any amount of fluent condolences. She found his old irresistible spell, that had captured her imagination even when he was a dashing youngster of twenty-four and she a girl of seventeen, as potent as it had always been.

Physically he was the same as ever, save that his fair hair had oddly greyed a little at the temples—a curious contrast to the unlined boyishness of his face. But that was the keynote of his appearance, those contrasts. His slim yet broad-shouldered figure, the forceful mouth that could smile with such an infectious gaiety, the square jaw and the artist's hands, the Saxon hair and gun-metal grey eyes. Storm, who was Storm—so perfectly did the name fit him that it was impossible to think of him as anything else—Storm, the reckless, daredevil trouble-hunter with the heart of a crusader....

"And where've you been?"

"Oh, here and there," he said. "I put in a bit of time with the Riffi—they made me a Kaid or a Pasha or whatever a Riff makes you when he loves you like a brother. Then that blew over, so I beat it to the Pacific and went pearling. Had a merry scrap with a Jap patrol, fishing on forbidden ground. That was nearly the end of my career! Then that got dull, so I toddled over to the Bahamas and set up as a bootlegger. Respectability's tame! A short life and a beery one—that's me! And then you can bury me under the foundation-stone of a brewery. Stevenson's verse 'll do for my epitaph—fine! You know it?

"Here he lies where he longed to be,
Home is the bootlegger, home from the sea,
    And the moonshiner home from the still..."

"You haven't changed a bit," she laughed

"Nor you—you're just as lovely as ever—more so! Your eyes, now. I love brown eyes——"

She stopped him with a solemnly upraised hand.

"What are you doing now?" she asked.

"Divers things, and, on the whole, nothing much," he said vaguely. "London's paralytic! I'm just wondering whether it'd be worth while going back to Paluna—you remember, I ran a one-man revolution there and made myself President about three years back. Being President of a South American Republic is some game, believe uncle!"

He was, as a matter of fact, doing rather more than divers things. When he left he returned to Scotland Yard and made his way to the office of the Assistant Commissioner.

"You can take it from me, Bill," he informed that gentleman, "that Hannassay's new typist's all right. I've known her for years—-her father took me out of the workhouse and educated me. Incidentally, he started me on my adventurous career. I tell you, anyone who was brought up by Smiler Hawthorne and after that went in for stockbroking or market gardening or anything else respectable and dull would have been a blistering Robot!"

"I'm glad to hear it," said Bill Kennedy drily. "I'd already gathered that you weren't a Robot, laddie, from the fact that you took an hour and a half to find out about her when you'd known her for years. Now you can push off, because I work sometimes. See you later."

Storm went to his own room, and shortly after Inspector Teal arrived to make his report. "Well, Teal?" he prompted briskly.

"Nothing," said Mr. Teal sleepily. "The process of reformation continues. I looked up Lew Mecklen and Gat Morini this morning, and they greeted me like a long-lost brother—which isn't like Lew and the gentle Gat. They've been over for a month now, and they haven't made a joke yet. Birdie Sands has been out six weeks, and we haven't had a thing on him. And Prester John hasn't cracked a crib for two months—and I know he was hard up two months ago. Mr. Arden, when a lot of old lags all start reforming at once my nose itches!"

"Uh-huh," said Storm thoughtfully. "And they're only a few."

"With more coming into the fold every day," supplemented Mr. Teal.

He was a big slow-moving man, red-faced and sleepy-eyed, beginning to pay the price of his youthful robustness as muscle turned to fat and easy living irresistibly increased his circumference. He was invariably tired and invariably bored—it was an affectation of his of which he was intensely proud.

Storm stared out of the window.

"When I got into this job," he said, "I had ideas. I thought Special Branch dealt with active crooks—not the boys who'd turned good. This is more subtle than I'd like it to be."

Inspector Teal said nothing.

Rousing himself slightly with what seemed a terrific effort, he reached into a pocket and extracted a small packet therefrom. From this packet he removed a smaller packet, and from the smaller packet he detached the pink wrapper.

"If it wasn't so absurd," said Storm, "I'd tell you the only explanation I can see that fits."

Mr. Teal conveyed a wafer of chewing gum to his mouth and champed meditatively.

"Mr. Arden," he murmured drowsily, "if I hadn't heard things that make me want to offer that same theory, I'd say it was absurd. But I stood Prester John a drink this afternoon, and I picked his pocket. I ought to have been a criminal really—people wouldn't suspect me, because I look so innocent. Anyway, I found something interesting. Look at this."

From his waistcoat pocket he took something that glittered and laid it on Storm's desk.

It was a little silver triangle. In the centre a similar triangle was picked out in black enamel, and in the centre of this a silver alpha had been picked out in the enamel.

Storm looked at it closely, turned it over and inspected the back, and laid it down.

"What's this got to do with anything—if anything?" he demanded, and Mr. Teal shook his head. "That's what I want to know."

The bell under Storm's desk rang discordantly, and he picked up the receiver.

"Hullo... Speaking."

He listened for a moment, and then spoke insistently.

"Struth! No, I don't know anything about it—yet. Look here, Mr. Blaythwayt, will you wrap that letter up exactly as it came, envelope and all, and send it round at once by special messenger? ... Yes, New Scotland Yard.... Right-thanks!"

"I know that man Blaythwayt," said Mr. Teal, as Storm replaced the receiver. "He's manager—"

"Shut up!" snarled Storm. "I'm thinking."

He swung over to the window and stood looking down for some moments. Then, abruptly, he came back to his desk and pressed a bell.

To the man who answered the summons he gave the trinket that Teal had brought him.

"Go down to Records," he commanded, "and ask 'em for anything they've got in which anything like this figured."

It was only ten minutes before the man returned, bearing with him a small bundle of papers. Storm lighted a cigarette and went through them carefully, and at the end he looked steadily across at Inspector Teal.

"Listen," he said. "Just over three months ago a man was found dead by the railway between Priory and Kearsney—that's on the Dover-London line. There were no marks of violence, and since he had a ticket from Dover to Victoria it was supposed that he'd simply fallen out of the train. He was identified as Henri Francois Joubert, a Frenchman domiciled in England, who'd made his fortune on the Stock Exchange—jobbing, you know—about thirty years ago. There'd be no records of the case if it hadn't been for one curious thing. In one of his pockets was this!"

He tapped a photograph with his forefinger, and Mr. Teal peered at it with his habitual indifference.

It was a picture of a visiting card. In the centre had been sketched a design similar to that on the silver triangle of Prester John, and underneath was roughly scrawled, "February, 1899."

"Mr. Blaythwayt," said Storm, "has just received through the post a similar card, and all that's written under the triangle is Harchester. What do you know about Harchester, Teal?"

"One of the biggest and best public schools," said Mr. Teal. "Joe Blaythwayt was educated there."

Storm leaned back in his chair and exhaled a thin streamer of smoke. Then he looked at Inspector Teal and smiled. Storm's smile was the most attractive thing about him. It flickered about his lips for a moment as though he didn't want to give it a chance, and then it broke out—irrepressibly boyish. It bubbled over with mischief.

Head back and a little to one side, eyes dancing, Storm smiled.

"Absurd be catlicked!" Storm said. "Teal, this is going to be Big!"

CHAPTER II

TITTLE-TATTLE OF MR. TEAL

Inspector Teal was that unusual type of man who literally takes both pride and pleasure in his employment. Mr. Teal loved talking shop, and would do so for hours on end if he found a listener on whom his enthusiasm was not wasted.

He was never off duty. His leisure hours would always find him sauntering round the preserves of other divisions, listening to gossip in public houses and at coffee stalls, entering queer and unregistered "clubs," and paying friendly calls on eccentric gentlemen not unknown to the Records Office. Criminals, to him, were a race of children—interesting, amusing, and completely human, but occasionally in need of sharp correction. And when necessity demanded that they be chastised, he haled them to their punishment without resentment.

It was his boast that he knew every bad man in London, and he was probably right.

The morning following his discovery of the Alpha Triangle (already, with that queer instinct for the dramatic which few would have suspected beneath his prosaic exterior, he spelt it with capital letters) Inspector Teal flowed—there is no other word for his peculiar method of locomotion—in the direction of Kensington, for on the left-hand side of Church Street, behind a door over which hung three golden orbs, lived Mr. Eddie—more commonly known as "Snooper"—Brome.

He was a big, florid, shock-headed man with an alarming taste in fancy waistcoats. Also the reputation of being a receiver of stolen goods.

Mr. Teal considered himself lucky to find him in residence, for Snooper was a man of erratic habits and rarely attended to his business in person.

"Good morning, Snooper," said Mr. Teal affably. "How's trade?"

"Not too bad," said Snooper—trade, with him, was always either "not too bad" or "not too good"—"Have a cigar?"

The sample he offered was undoubtedly a weed of great price, and Mr. Teal sniffed at it suspiciously.

"Who gave you this?" he asked, and Snooper shook his head.

"I cannot," he said unhappily, "get rid of the idea that you suspect me of being a receiver."

"You might have made a worse guess," said Mr. Teal. "Quite easily. How are the crooks? Or is 'clients' the correct term? Comrades Lew and Gat are heading for trouble, you know."

"Don't know 'em," said Eddie.

"Interesting people, very," said Mr. Teal. "Especially the educated Gat. He has the most cherubic blue eyes. You'd love him." He stirred in his chair sluggishly. "By the way, Snooper, there's a friend of mine I'd like to bring along to meet you one day, if you'll let me know when you're at home. He's interested in criminals."

Mr. Brome shrugged.

"I'm afraid my acquaintance with the criminal fraternity won't help him. Still," he admitted, "like all pawn—er—financial agents, I have had stolen property offered to me. Naturally, I immediately notified the police."

"On two occasions," supplemented Mr. Teal. "And the total value of the stuff was exactly two pounds five shillings and ten pence."

"I can't help that. I wish it had been more," said Eddie piously.

"I believe you," said Mr. Teal.

He glanced round the room, his heavy-lidded eyes taking in afresh every familiar detail of unostentatious comfort—even luxury. There was no suggestion of wealth, but more than a hint of solid well-being. Looking merely at Snooper's waistcoats, one would never have suspected their inhabitant of possessing so artistically furnished a room.

"You do rather well out of pawn—er—financial agenting," remarked Teal absently, and went off at an abrupt angle. "Are you the philanthropist who's financing Birdie Sands?"

"Birdie's hands?" inquired the puzzled Mr. Brome.

"Birdie Sands," Mr. Teal enunciated clearly and distinctly. "Strange as it may seem, I was once educated."

"I have met a Mister Sands. Who's this 'Birdie' Sands?"

"A gentleman," said Mr. Teal, "who used to be on the whizz."

"On what?" demanded the startled Snooper.

"A pickpocket," explained Mr. Teal patiently. "Do you know him?"

If Mr. Brome did not squawk derisively, his elevated archidiaconal eyebrows rendered such a lamentable exhibition unnecessary.

"A low criminal?" he protested. "Now, I ask you, Mr. Teal, is it likely?"

"Taking things all round, I should say it is. Birdie Sands," went on the detective, apparently for his own benefit, "is, or was, the best whizzer operating in London. He was inside up—to about six weeks ago—that's about twice the time you've been financial agenting, isn't it, by the way? Since then we've had nothing on him, and he seems to have all the money in the world."

"He may be going straight," suggested Eddie.

"Go straight?" jeered Teal drowsily. "It's a physical impossibility. That man's a human corkscrew with all the twists case-hardened. He's a born crook—his mother was a crook and all his fathers were crooks, and Birdie was brought up as a crook, Borstal trained. Why, if you shot him out of a gun he'd tie knots in the barrel."

"What happened to the gun you were shot out of when you got that face?" inquired Mr. Brome vulgarly, but Inspector Teal failed to bite.

He heaved himself laboriously from his chair.

"I'm interested," he said, "because when a born-an'-bred crook earns a lot of honest money, it just ain't natural. I've got a nose for dirty work, and that same nose is worrying me now. When shall I bring my friend along?"

"Shall we say Sunday?" invited Mr. Brome. "At eight? Suit you? Splendid. Good-bye."

But he stopped Teal at the door.

"I hope you won't put any ideas into his head," he said anxiously.

Mr. Teal regarded him thoughtfully.

"What I'm afraid of," he replied, "is that he'll put ideas into yours."

With that his projected programme was exhausted, but he was destined to have an interesting morning.

On his way back to the Yard he dropped in at Walton Street police station, near the Brompton Road, for a chat with the divisional-inspector. While he was there a lank, saturnine man entered jauntily.

"James Mattock—convict on licence. I've come to report."

Inspector Teal surged across (as I have said, one has to use extraordinary words to convey his ponderous mode of progression).

"Hullo, Mattock," he said. "When did you come out?"

"A fortnight ago."

Mattock's manner did not encourage further conversation, but it took a lot to put off Mr. Teal.

"What are you doing now?"

The man's thin lips twisted.

"Working. Do you want to get me the sack by telling them my past record?" he sneered. "Because if so, you're too late. I thought I'd get in with it before you busies got a chance."

"I suppose you picked up that word in Wandsworth," said Teal. "Getting the slang already—a pity. Who are 'them'?"

"Raegenssen's. I'm head clerk and in practice semi-manager. They haven't got much of a staff."

"That's a pity, too," murmured Mr. Teal. "Temptation never did anybody any good; and you weren't built for a crook, Mattock."

"I'm glad of that," said Mattock, surveying Mr. Teal's girth pointedly.

Teal fingered his chin, his eyes on the other man's face. It was a refined face, lined bitterly. The man was educated—Teal knew that, for he himself had arrested Mattock for his first and only crime. Teal also knew what the court that sentenced Mattock for forgery never knew—why the crime was committed.

"Let's see," mused Teal. "Hannassay put you away."

"That's true."

"A cheque—you were his private secretary, weren't you? And he saw to it you got the full stretch—not even a first offender's chance. That's right, isn't it?"

"It is."

Mr. Teal's contemplative fingering of his chin continued. He would have been better pleased if Mattock had been stung to a storm of abuse and threats, for the only dangerous criminal is the one who hugs his grievances.

"You don't love him much, do you?"

"Would you?" countered the other.

"Possibly not," admitted Mr. Teal. "Did they ever recover the money you drew on that cheque? Six thousand, wasn't it? You must have a tidy bit put away—why go clerking? Or did Joan throw you over?"

"That's my business," said Mattock icily. "What exactly are you trying to do, Teal—rub in my disgrace, or persuade me to commit another crime so that you can make me a thorough old lag?"

Mr. Teal shrugged. His sleepy eyes were nearly closed.

"I'm sorry you're such a fool, Mattock," he drawled. "What I'm trying to do is to save you from making an utter mess of the rest of your life."

"Thanks," said Mattock curtly. "And now do you mind going and preaching to someone else?"

"I will," promised Mr. Teal. "Come along and have lunch, Mattock, and let's talk things over."

He rolled in to report progress to Storm later, and told of an unsatisfactory conversation.

"He thawed after a bit, but since he was liquid air to start with he wasn't much better than an iceberg even then. A card—he was a gentleman all right, once, and still talks like one. One of the Somerset Mattocks—they had pots of money once, and then went bust. Mattock fell in with Joan Sands, Birdie's sister. She got very ill. The docs. said the only way to save her life was to operate and then send her to the south of France for a long rest. Mattock couldn't pay, and Birdie was in stir and never had much money anyway. He was defiant and insolent in court, otherwise he might have got off a bit lighter, in spite of all the fuss Hannassay kicked up at the time about making examples and so on. He's the hottest man in the country on crooks, and they all hate him like a pussyfoot hates beer. My own idea is that Mattock begged Hannassay to help him out and was turned down. Hannassay's as hard as tungsten, in any case."

"What about Snooper?" asked Storm.

Teal flicked his chewing gum through the window and replaced it with a fresh slab.

"The flavour doesn't last," he remarked with irrelevant irritation. "Oh, Snooper. We don't know much about him—he's a success so far. We don't even know where he lives. We had him shadowed once, to find out, and he spotted the tail and came storming in here swearing he'd bring a suit against us if it happened again. He'd have won his case, too—we can't tail people unless we've got anything definite to justify it. He's only been in business for about three months, and as far as anyone can prove he's as innocent as the day. What I know 's another matter—and that is that in three months he's become the first fence in London."

Storm nodded and pulled out a drawer, from which he took an envelope.

"Some more souvenirs have come in," he said.

One by one he spread out three small white caras on the desk. Each bore the same symbol in the centre, but the inscriptions differed.

One said simply, "Harchester."

"That's your pal Blaythwayt's."

On the second was written, "March 23rd, 1897."

"That was received this morning by the Home Secretary, Sir John Marker," said Storm.

The third similarly bore a date: "December 2nd, 1899."

"That one went to John Cardan, editor of the Record." Storm's faint smile played about his lips. "What do you make of it, Teal?"

Inspector Teal shook his head.

"Give me time, sir," he murmured. "A French-English stock-jobber, a bank manager, a Cabinet Minister, and a newspaper editor. And just dates, except one which has the name of a place. Where were they posted?"

"In different parts of London. There's not even a threat, you notice. Just dates and places, which obviously mean something to the man who sent 'em, and may mean something to the men who got 'em. I want you to push off on that trail for the moment, Teal. It mayn't lead anywhere, but it may. Find out what happened to Marker on March 23rd, 1897, anything important that happened to Blaythwayt at Harchester, and anything Cardan can remember about December 2nd, 1899."

Inspector Teal sighed.

"That sounds like a lifer to me," he groaned, and picked up his hat wearily.

He concluded an unproductive round of investigations by spending the evening at a house in the Finchley Road, where dwelt Joe Blaythwayt, manager of the Lombard Street branch of the City and Continental Bank.

Joe Blaythwayt was nearly as rotund as himself, but shorter by six inches. And, whereas Mr. Teal's eyes always seemed to be struggling with an overpowering desire for sleep, Blaythwayt's were always alert and twinkling.

These evenings, during which they played piquet and discussed crime and criminals, detectives and detection (these are four different subjects) were among the relaxations of Mr. Teal's life. Joe Blaythwayt had a crimson taste in fiction, and absorbed Mr. Teal's practical knowledge eagerly.

It is, of course, unusual for a policeman to be the especial friend of a bank manager; but then, Inspector Teal's friends were a queerly mixed crowd.

Blaythwayt was reading a novel with a distinctly intriguing cover, but he put it away on Teal's arrival.

"That book," he said, jerking a disgusted thumb in the direction of the offending volume, "that book is supposed to deal with the exploits of a master criminal, and already he's made four mistakes which even a policeman couldn't miss."

Teal grinned languidly and took his usual chair.

"You'd better write a book yourself and show 'em how to do it."

"I've started!" announced Joe. "Two minds, etcetera. It'll be the greatest detective story ever written. Everyone will buy it."

"Will anybody publish it?" inquired the practical Mr. Teal.

"How do you get a book published?" asked Blaythwayt.

"Send it to a publisher and enclose enough stamps to pay for him sending it back," pronounced the detective, and Joe's round face lengthened as he visualised the sordid difficulties of a literary career.

But he soon brightened up.

"It'll be great," he enthused. "I'm writing it in the first person, and I shall commit impossible crimes. I shall never be caught."

"Let's hope not," grunted Teal. "I'd hate having to arrest you. Besides, crooks are only romantic characters in fiction."

"It'll be in the form of a diary, and——"

"Where are the cards?" asked Mr. Teal slumbrously.

During the intervals of the game, he recounted his experiences of the day, for Blaythwayt was a great student of contemporary crime. Also, he delighted his friend by telling him that a real live criminal had consented to be at home when they called.

"I think you must peeve Snooper," said Blaythwayt. "You do try the magazine detective stunt—trying to make people think you know everything."

"Nearly everything," corrected Teal modestly.

"If you know everything you know nearly everything," said Joe sententiously, and Mr. Teal stared at him.

"You've been going to one of these modern plays," he accused.

"I've been studying the stage with a view to dramatising my book. That sort of thing goes well. Look at Raffles."

"You didn't write Raffles," said Mr. Teal crushingly.

They played out two more hands in silence, and then Blaythwayt looked up brightly.

"At least," he said, "I can stump you."

"Carry on," suggested Teal.

"Who is Christopher Arden?"

"My chief, pro tem. He got into Special Branch through the Assistant Commissioner, and he's all right—you can take that from me. He's one of these tough young soldiers of fortune. He'll never settle down. He joined up in the ranks at sixteen, and came out at the end of the war a captain. Ever met him?"

"No."

"You'd like him. He's big, and strong as they're made. He talks like a quick-firing gun, and he's got a nerve that'd make a refrigerator look like a quiet corner in hell. He's one of these cool, casual devils who could get on to a bus politely during the rush hour—and get on first!"

"That's off the point," said Blaythwayt, "I know all that. You've told me about him once before. I didn't ask what he is, but who he is."

"Christopher Arden," said Mr. Teal.

Blaythwayt smiled triumphantly.

"That stumped you! I came across it quite by accident, and if you hadn't mentioned the name I shouldn't have done anything about it. I scented a coincidence and I got one. Someone took him out of a workhouse at the age of two, but who put him in?"

"I'll buy it," said Teal.

"He's got a good bit of money, too, hasn't he? Well, he may have picked up a bit on his travels—according to you, he's tackled a few risky and paying jobs—but you can't go pearling or bootlegging or running revolutions without capital."

"I know that one," murmured the somnambulous Teal. "An uncle died and left him ten thousand. The solicitors traced him somehow."

"What was the name of the uncle?"

"I don't know, and it isn't my business," said Teal bluntly. "If Kennedy says a man's all right, he is all right. What are you getting at, Joe?"

"You ought to play about a bit in Somerset House," said Blaythwayt.

Mr. Teal blinked. It was the only evidence he gave that he was interested.

On his way home to his modest lodging near Victoria he dropped in at the Albany to report his discoveries, such as they were. He found Storm arrayed in a suit of wonderfully jazzed silk pyjamas and a staggering silk dressing-gown, seated in a comfortable armchair in front of the open window, his bare feet propped up on the sill and a slim volume of Kipling on his knees.

"What news, Teal?"

Mr. Teal pulled up a chair and accepted the proffered cigarette.

"Very little," he confessed. "Joe Blaythwayt says he never made an enemy at Harchester—in fact, he was very popular. Harchester's a great Rugger school, and Joe used to be a star three-quarter before he put on weight. Cardan can't remember a thing. Marker's the only man who could remember anything at all, and all he knew was that in March, 1897—he can't swear to the exact date—he got into Parliament at the Clayston bye-election, and got married a week later on the strength of it."

"It isn't much to go on," Storm admitted ruefully. "I'll talk to Marker to-morrow. I suppose we can look up who opposed him at Clayston, though I don't suppose there's much in that. Now look here."

He reached out for an envelope that lay on the table beside him, and from it he drew a card which he laid in Teal's hand.

"That came round from the Yard after dinner. Raegenssen brought it in—got it this afternoon."

The card and the sketch were by this time familiar to Mr. Teal. Underneath was the legend, "April 1st, 1928."

Inspector Teal shook his head.

"There's been a mistake," he said. "That one ought to have come to me. April the First is my birthday!"

CHAPTER III

ADVANTAGES OF RESPECTABILITY

Snooper Brome was not a man who was noted for his love of fresh air and exercise. In fact, none of his clients had ever seen him except in the small, comfortable room in Church Street, where he transacted business with the favoured few who were privileged to deal with him personally. He came and went secretly, and discouraged interest in his movements.

On this particular day, however, there was no furtiveness about him. He sauntered slowly through Kensington Gardens, an exceptionally brilliant waistcoat proclaiming his approach several hundred yards in advance of his person, emerged into Exhibition Road, and strolled on down that wide, barren thoroughfare. At least one man followed his progress, and Snooper permitted himself to smile faintly.

On your right-hand side as you walk down from the Park is a tube subway which leads to South Kensington Station. Into this wandered Mr. Brome, continued about fifty yards, and stopped to light a cigar—a process which took him some time.

Satisfied at last that anyone who was interested in his destination had hurried onto the station by the overground route to pick him up again as he left the tunnel, Mr. Brome turned about, left the subway where he had entered it, buttoned his coat over his fancy waistcoat, and made his way briskly into Queen's Gate. Just before he reached the entrance of a block of flats he stopped to relight his cigar, and took the opportunity of glancing keenly up and down the road.

Joan Sands was curled up on a sofa reading when he rang the bell, and she was not pleased when she saw who her visitor was.

"I don't remember inviting you," she said. "I happen to be alone, so you'd better go."

He pushed her aside without offence, and led the way into the sitting-room.

"This isn't much of a place," he remarked, glancing around him disparagingly. "Couldn't you and Jimmy have done better than this on six thousand?"

"You might leave Jimmy out of it, if you don't mind," she told him briefly. "Also, as I've already said, you weren't asked to come, so if you don't like it you know what to do."

"What's Jimmy doing now?" he pursued.

"Working."

"And what are you doing?"

She frowned at him contemptuously, and he laughed.

"No need to get annoyed, Joan. I've got some good news for you. There's a nice flat in Cornwall House waiting for someone to live in. It's big—there's a huge panelled dining-room, a sitting-room you could lose yourself in that cost six hundred pounds to furnish, and two bedrooms that'd make a queen happy. And the Apex is paying for it and offering you an allowance of two thousand a year for overhead expenses. How does that appeal to you, Joan?"

She nodded.

"I know. And he has a key and drops in any night he feels like it. No, thank you, Snooper!"

He was almost pathetically shocked at her frankness.

"No, no—not that—Good Lord, Joan! Wouldn't have dreamed of suggesting it—don't know what made you imagine such a thing."

"Brought up the way I was, you get that sort of imagination," she informed him coolly. "If it isn't that, what's the game? Don't tell me there's a philanthropist behind it, because I shall shriek with laughter."

He fidgeted while she sat down and lighted a cigarette. It was a side of him she had never seen before, and she would have mocked at the idea of a fence being so sensitive if his distress had not been so palpably sincere.

"It's the Triangle," he said presently. "We've got to have several places in different parts of London, and that flat'll be one of them. All you have to do is to live there and spend your allowance any way you like. In return, any member must be able to come and go as he pleases. The place is really two small flats knocked into one, so there are two entrances. If you like, you can lock yourself in half of it at night, and you can have both the keys of one entrance. I'll have a special lock put on the communicating doors, too, if that'll make you feel more comfortable. The only thing is to have some solid tenant—when big expensive flats aren't occupied the splits are liable to be a little curious, and we can't afford to take risks. Won't you think it over again, Joan?"

She looked at him through a wreath of smoke.

"Who is the Apex—who are the Triangle, for that matter?" she asked him directly, and his agitation froze into a menacing stillness.

"That doesn't matter to you," he said. "All you need to know is that you're part of it, Joan, and you do as you're told."

She stood up and set the long cigarette-holder carefully between her white teeth. Hands thrust down into the pockets of her boyish coat, she stared him straight in the eyes.

"My name happens to be Sands, with a Miss in front of it," she said steadily. "All this Joaning is getting on my nerves. And as for the Triangle—I don't suppose I shall ever go to heaven, but I certainly don't intend to go to Aylesbury! I'll do my gold-digging where I don't have to trust a lot of other crooks with my safety. I'll take on your job, Snooper, but listen to this: I came into this Triangle of yours on the understanding that the crooked side of it didn't touch me, and I meant it. If you'll have those locks fixed, you can billet your crooks on me, because I want big money, and I want it bad. I'll take a chance of the busies getting on to me, but they'll never get me inside even as an accessory. When do I move?"

"This afternoon," said Snooper shortly. "And you can drop the high-and-mighty tone, Miss Sands. It cuts no ice. You're a crook, even if they don't know you on the Embankment—your brother's hardly ever out of stir, and the pair of you come straight from a family of crooks."

She opened the door and waved her hand towards the tiny hall.

"I don't intend to breed a family of Triangles, anyway," she remarked, and closed the door in his face.

James Mattock, returning that evening, was informed that "Mrs. Mattock" had left, and read the note that was waiting for him uneasily. He found her already installed in the flat in Cornwall House, and looked around at the palatial furnishing perplexedly.

"What's this, Joan?" he asked.

"Oh, a matchbox on stilts," she said sarcastically. "What did you think it was—a tram?"

She was stretched out in a deep-cushioned chair, her kimono lightly sashed about her, her little bare feet pillowed in the deep pile of the carpet. Her fluffy golden hair was elaborately untidy. She was arrestingly pretty and attractive.

"Who are you waiting for?" Mattock demanded roughly, but she shook her head and held out a silk-sheathed arm.

"Only you, Jimmy. I'm sorry I was snappy just now. I've had rather a trying day."

"Poor kid!" He knelt down beside her and laid an arm about her shoulders. "But, Joan, who's paying for this? We can't afford anything like this—it must cost thousands!"

"No—it's bringing us thousands," she said. "Two thousand a year, and we need it. And all it means is letting a few men come in and out. I'll tell you——"

He stood up suddenly and clutched her wrists fiercely.

"Joan! Joan!" His voice was tense with agony. "Oh, my darling, what have you done this for? I've got a job. Good—good God, Joan——"

"No—no—listen, Jimmy! You've got it all wrong. Yes, it is crooked, in a way," she went on desperately. "It's some silly gang. I don't know what they're after, but I'm not in it. Only they want a place to—to come to, sometimes, and there must be somebody always living there, and as I'm one of them, they got me."

"But——"

"Oh, yes, I know! I said I'd given it up, but I couldn't. They've got a hold on me that I can't break—that you can't break. The only way to break it is expensive, and I've got to have that money. Look—doesn't that mean anything to you?"

She drew back the sleeve and showed him her forearm, holding it up close to his eyes. It showed the faint marks of several small punctures, but Mattock only shook his head.

"I don't know what it is," he said dully. "But, of course, I'm a fool anyway...."

He sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. She went on her knees beside him and pressed herself close to him.

"Jimmy——"

"Oh, yes ... Joan ..."

He took her hand and fondled it, and then he pressed it to his lips.

It was a very long time before he spoke again.

"I'm sorry. I'm making a fool of myself. But I was afraid."

The words fell from his lips in a painful monotone.

"I'll go out for a walk. I'll feel better then."

Storm, following Susan into the Leroy that night, saw the hatless figure striding madly down Piccadilly and was puzzled.

"You are doing something," Susan accused him. "I saw you this morning with a detective—Mr. Teal."

"I was being arrested," he said solemnly. "The charge was barratry, champerty, and attempted gum-boils, with complications. I explained that I was a Quaker and had never eaten tripe, so after ringing up Carter Paterson's to verify my alibi they let me go."

"I know he was a detective, because he's been in to see Lord Hannassay. Have you become a detective?"

"Not yet," he assured her, "though I hope to rise to that later. At present I'm looking for a job. I suppose you couldn't get me a master carpenter's ticket or a wood-repairer's diploma, could you?"

"What on earth do you want that for?" she asked, and Storm laughed.

"I'm interested in a saw-mill," he said gravely, "and I want to get inside it. Unfortunately the owner discourages visitors—and I'm curious! I want to rubber round that saw-mill! Why have a saw-mill in Billingsgate? Why not in Tottenham Court Road or Bloomsbury? They're just as aristocratic."

That faint smile of his flickered on his lips provocatively, and she knew him too well to question him further.

"A man's been following me about all day," she told him later. "I don't know what he wants, but he worries me. He hasn't tried to speak to me or anything like that—just trails round behind me wherever I go."

"I'm being followed too," he said with a lightness he didn't feel. "And my man isn't a detective, either! I'll tell you—we're beautiful, and he's an artist. We shall be on the walls of Burlington House next year. Or have you been married secretly and are we going to be compromised?"

"Stop fooling, Storm," she commanded.

He grinned.

"My dear soul, what else can one do? I'll push your little playmate's face in if you like, but you'll only have another man in his place to-morrow. Everybody's being followed—it must be a new game! Raegenssen's being followed, and Sir John Marker's being followed, and Joe Blaythwayt's being followed, and John Cardan's being followed, and Sir John Marker's private secretary's being followed, and I'm being followed, and Inspector Teal's being followed, and——"

"Don't you know what's at the back of it?"

"I know what, but I'd perjure my soul to know who!" said Storm. "And I take back what I said the other day. Respectability's exciting! It's the fiercest sport in the whole wide world bar haggis-shooting! Everyone's turning respectable now, even the crooks, just for the fun of the thing. Just look over to your right—that little cherub at the next table but one. See him? He's my little pet! My name's Mary, and he's a scorching lamb. We're inseparable, like Castor and Pollux or Swan and Edgar."

He waved a friendly hand to the small neatly dressed man at the adjoining table, and grinned when his salutation was coldly ignored. The girl was mystified.

"Who's that?" she asked. "He looks the most respectable man in the place."

"Oh, yes, he's respectable!" said Storm caustically. "He's only killed eleven men! That, old thing, is Comrade 'Gat' Morini, and for exactly four years all the policemen in New York and Chicago have been aching to put him in a hard chair and run two thousand volts through his spine. He's a professional gun artist, and I'll say he guns well! I ran into him in Chicago about two years back, and we exchanged compliments. His compliment missed my heart by just over two inches, and mine missed his by exactly one inch, so I always tell people I won on points. He loves me all right—you can stake your socks on uncle!"

The gaiety of his smile was entirely unforced, and in spite of herself Susan shivered, although the steel showed behind his careless self-confidence. Even so, she was afraid, for she knew his cheerful recklessness too well.

"Can't you do anything about it?" she suggested.

"What?" he demanded promptly. "There isn't a word against him. If I printed what I've just told you there'd be a libel action within the week, and young Storm wouldn't win it! He's committed eleven murders, he's been arrested eleven times, and he's been released just that number. It isn't a crime to follow anyone about."

Morini rose a moment after they did, and Storm was amused to see him greet a loiterer outside with every appearance of astonishment. As Storm handed Susan into a taxi the two reunited friends also decided to charter a taxi, and Storm grinned again.

Lord Hannassay's house was in Hamilton Place, and Storm felt that his luck was in when he caught sight of the massive figure of Oscar Raegenssen coming down the steps, for Raegenssen was a man he particularly wanted to see.

As they alighted, another taxi crawled past and stopped in Park Lane.

He watched Susan let herself in, and then hurried after the Swede.

"Excuse me," he said. "I'm Captain Arden, attached to the Special Branch at Scotland Yard."

"Well? Please be prief! I hof an appointment for supper."

He was in evening dress, with a foreign-looking cloak over his shoulders, and his Viking beard overflowed the white expanse of his shirt-front.

"That card you received—does the date mean anything to you? Did anything important happen to you on April the first, or did you do anything important?"

"I know nothing!" said Raegenssen curtly. "It is my pusiness. I hof entrosted t'bolicemans wit rezearch. April first is day of all the fools. Thot is all I know."

There was nothing to be done. Storm shrugged, raised his hat, said good-night, and strolled on.

In his flat he found the patient Mr. Teal consoling himself for a long wait with one of his host's best cigars.

"Mecklen is my shadow," said Teal, yawning. "He's outside now."

"I saw him," said Storm. "He's got company—Morini trailed me home. For sheer plodding industry, give me the Yankee gunman!"

He threw his hat and gloves into a chair and walked over to the side table on which a decanter and syphon stood.

"Been helping yourself to a drink, Teal?" he murmured.

"I don't drink," said Mr. Teal piously. "It's bad for my heart. Fat men didn't ought to touch alcohol."

Storm carried the decanter to the light, held it up, and inspected the level of the liquid carefully. Then he called to Teal, and that stout abstainer came lethargically.

"See that little scratch in the glass?" said Storm. "That's the level I always keep the whisky up to. And now there's about a quarter of an inch more than there was when I went out. Some little pal of mine's been kind by stealth. I love these subterranean chariteers!"

He moistened the tip of one finger with the spirit and dabbed it on his tongue. Then he went hastily to the bathroom and rinsed his mouth out thoroughly.

"Aconite, I think," he remarked pleasantly when he returned. "Still, we'll send a peg round to the Home Office Analyst in the morning to make sure."

He sat down on the table, forearms resting on his knees, the cigarette that he was never without pointed optimistically skywards between his compressed lips. He grinned at Mr. Teal, and Mr. Teal's mouth widened half an inch momentarily, which was about the nearest Mr. Teal ever came to smiling.

"They seem to think you're important," drawled the detective callously, and Storm nodded.

"I was about due for it. I saw Raegenssen to-night coming out of Hannassay's—didn't know they were friends! Dear old Olaf the Seabird was quite rude. All these people seem to hate having to try and remember their pasts. What can you remember about yourself thirty years ago, Teal?"

"I daren't tell you, Captain Arden," said Inspector Teal.

They were talking seriously about fifteen minutes later when the telephone buzzed a warning, and Storm picked up the instrument.

"Hullo... yes... Susan!... Yes?"

He listened impatiently for a few moments, and then hung up the receiver violently.

"Let's go to a moonlight picnic, Teal!" he crisped, and picked up his hat as he sprang past the languid detective.

He led the way at a breakneck speed down the covered alley towards the courtyard which opens on to Piccadilly, but Inspector Teal, showing an agility which one would not have suspected, kept pace with him fairly comfortably. Just level with the porter's lodge, Storm stopped for a moment and thumbed down the safety catch of his automatic.

"I'll bet it's Lew," he said, and stepped calmly out of cover.

They had just reached the foot of the steps when a spurt of flame leapt out of the darkness of Albany Court Yard, and something sang viciously past his head.

"Rotten bad shooting, comrade," he remarked mildly.

Mr. Teal, however, missed the last part of that observation, for as he spoke Storm fired. There was a scream of pain, and a police whistle sounded shrilly. The next instant Inspector Teal was deafened by the roar of an open exhaust. Storm was already at the wheel of his long silver Hirondel, and Mr. Teal climbed in beside him briskly, A crowd had already gathered in the yard, and Storm made his Klaxon howl urgently.

A uniformed man signalled them to stop, but stepped aside when he recognized the detective.

"Arrest that man!" shouted Teal, as they went past.

The Hirondel skidded hectically into Piccadilly, swinging straight across the nose of an omnibus. There was a screech of grinding brakes, a chorus of angry yells, and the silver car lurched across the road and headed west, gathering speed with powerful ease.

They sailed down the slight gradient towards Hyde Park Corner, cutting in and out of the stream of traffic with a daring that made Inspector Teal grip the side of the car hard and temporarily suspend mastication of his chewing gum.

"Something funny happening at Hannassay's," Storm explained, raising his voice to make himself heard. "Secretary rang me up—two men trying to get in the back door, and Hannassay in his bedroom, locked in, and can't be woken. I heard a shot, and then the line went dead. Respectability—huh!"

CHAPTER IV

TALKING OF TRIANGLES

Susan Hawthorne saw the door of the library opening slowly, and her heart stood still.

The man outside was Morini—she saw his baby blue eyes above the white silk muffler that was bound about the lower part of his face. She saw something else that was blue, also, but by no means baby like, something that came up like the head of a striking snake....

The electric light switch was close to her hand, and she clicked it down and ducked swiftly. Even as she did so the sudden darkness was split by a streak of orange fire, and a deafening explosion battered on her ear-drums and left them buzzing painfully. The next instant she had smashed the heavy telephone twice against the delicate lever of the switch and efficiently mangled the mechanism.

She moved silently away along the wall, and the terrible hunt began. The girl was helped by her knowledge of the room, but Morini crept after her with an uncanny accuracy in spite of the impenetrable blackness. Her chest was heaving so that it seemed as if every breath she took must betray her whereabouts as surely as a siren. The door was a little ajar, and the lights in the hall were on. There was no escape that way, for he would see her as she was silhouetted against the glare, and she had already had enough evidence of the grimness of his purpose. Once she saw him step cat-wise across the pencil of light that the hall bulbs smudged across the room, and with difficulty choked back the cry that would have been fatal. Once he fired again, at random, and she only just had time to drop behind a couch out of the way of the more accurate shot that followed instantly on the echo of the first when the brief flash had given him his bearings.

From outside came a swelling drone that grew in volume with startling speed and then died into a breathless purr coincident with the muffled squeal of rubber tearing on asphalt. Hardly two seconds later the bell at the back of the house rang stridently, and someone pounded on the front door.

Through the half-open window came Storm's voice:

"Stand clear of the lift gates, please! This is where I damage architecture!"

She saw Morini slip through the door and out into the corridor, and then with a dreadful premonition she rushed to the window and flung up the lower sash. Storm and Inspector Teal were on the step, and Storm already had his automatic crammed against the Yale lock and his finger was on the trigger.

"Storm! Stop!" she cried, and he looked round. "Morini's in the hall and the back door's broken in—he'll get you as you come in and escape easily!"

He only hesitated for a second. Then—

"That be bullraced for a yarn!" he sang out recklessly. "All aboard for hell!"

She heard the explosion as she dashed across the room and opened the door wide. The two men crashed into the hall, but she did not look at them. She was straining her eyes into the shadows at the end of the passage which led to the servants' quarters, and, used as she was to the darkness, she saw Morini a space of time before they did ... saw his gun leap up ... and hurled the priceless vase she carried....

Three automatics detonated almost as one.

Morini was hit by the vase as he pressed the trigger, and his shot went high, splintering the transom above the front door. As Storm fired back he raced towards the servants' entrance.

Mr. Teal laid an unexpectedly gentle arm about the girl's shoulders and led her into the library.

"There's another light," she said, trying to keep her voice level. "I smashed the big switch. A reading lamp, on the table—it's lucky Morini didn't find it."

Teal, groping round, located the lamp and turned it on. A moment later Storm returned. He had rolled back his sleeve and was endeavouring to tie his handkerchief round his wrist, and to her surprise and disgust she said the conventional thing.

"You're hurt."

"Not a bit of it," he assured her. "Only a graze—dear old Gat's going off, and I think I must be, too. It's time some of us old soldiers retired—Gat and I wouldn't have missed each other in Chicago!"

"He got away?" said Teal.

Storm nodded.

"That's the day's safety bet—clean! He got through into Park Lane, and there was a fast car waiting for him. All lights out, so I missed the number. It was Morini, of course, but we couldn't get a conviction—the defence'd produce half a dozen small men with washed-out blue eyes that you couldn't distinguish from Morini if they were all dressed alike and had scarves spliced on their dials." He looked at Teal, and his gunmetal grey eyes were alight with challenge. "And this is only the opening chorus. You wait till the balloon goes up!"

Inspector Teal stroked his bowler.

"Where's Hannassay?" he asked prosaically.

"Je-rusalem! I'd forgotten him. The fireworks ought to have woken him if nothing else will."