Another idea came tapping at Susan's brain. She could not quite place it—it was something which hammered at the doors of her conscious mind and yet just missed gaining ingress. A cold wind seemed suddenly to lap her spine, sending a shiver up her back to the nape of her neck. She had a numbing sensation of being on the verge of a bottomless precipice, of being on the threshold of some terrible realisation. There was something enormously significant attached to that name, and yet it was only a superficial association. It wasn't the name itself, but ... but ... but the way it was said—Raegenssen's voice!
For a space the fog that had thwarted her memory rolled back and blotted out understanding in a maddeningly, impenetrable vapour of obscurity; and then, through the mist, dawned a slow nimbus of realisation. Raegenssen's voice! Never in her life, she would have sworn, had she spoken to a man named Raegenssen, and yet the remembered timbre of his incoherent mutter "Sylvia ... Sylvia ..." struck a responsive chord which vibrated through her consciousness with ever-increasing assurance.
Conviction came against her will, fighting for expression against all the massed forces of logic and reasoning. It was ridiculous, smacking of hallucination, incredible—and yet, pluck that awakened chord ever so distrustfully, it rang true every time. Millimetre by millimetre, battling doggedly against the overwhelming odds, common sense gave ground before the onslaught of primeval instinct. She was sound of mind and body, had never had cause to doubt the stability of her senses; therefore, insane as the idea might seem, it must be granted due audience. And so, with every breathless second, that clear, single note of belief sang in greater and greater volume. She knew she was right, knew she could rely on the combined depositions of hearing and memory ...
She knew Raegenssen's voice, and it was the voice of a man who had spoken to her recently!
The full light of understanding blinded her, and her hands came down suddenly to grip the arms of her chair. Now that all darkness had been swept away by that last swift incandescence of knowledge, she was amazed that she had never seen and gripped that stark fact before. Perhaps it was because she had not thought to place sufficient importance on the incident, and therefore had not turned it over in her mind and inspected it from every angle. Certainly, circumstances had allied to lull her into accepting the salient, startling truth as a thing of no account. Of course, one may always find a full-grown African rhinoceros in a soap factory, but the possibility falls short of the commonly endorsed probabilities of normal life, so that anyone seeking African rhinoceros heads automatically for Africa instead of taking his chance in an expedition to Port Sunlight. In exactly the same way, her subconscious mind had so scoffed at the idea of Oscar Raegenssen being no more than the Mr. Hyde of somebody else's Dr. Jekyll, that the censor on guard between conscious and subconscious had barred out the suggestion. Nevertheless—and, now, she would have sworn to it—Raegenssen was somebody else. Or, conversely, somebody else was Raegenssen. In dress, deportment, face and figure there was only the most far-fetched possible similarity; in the ordinary way, that difference was likely to extend to voice also; all the same, there remained one dogmatic heads-I-win-tails-you-lose certainty by way of bed-rock on which to start rebuilding every theory about the Alpha Triangle. And that that certainly had some very intimate relation to the Triangle was an assumption which brooked no question.
Her head was spinning like a high-pressure dynamo; the glimpse of infinite leagues of the Unknown which her new-found wisdom gave her was appalling. She had a grip on one salient fact, and she was sure that attached to that fact was the thread which, properly trailed, would lead to the centre of the labyrinth. Whose, then, was that momentous Voice? She racked her brain for inspiration; but having obliged so far, memory baulked at that last fence. She realised the difficulty of divorcing voice from all association of appearance and demeanour. Storm might have the various compartments of his reminiscence more efficiently docketed and cross-indexed than hers were—but how could one describe a voice? It seemed hopeless unless one happened to be an expert imitator, and that ability was not among her talents. Still she thought she should get in touch with him: even while he was on his way she might succeed in remembering the owner of the Voice. She had a ludicrous vision of herself seated in the Chief Commissioner's room at New Scotland Yard, her head swathed in ice compresses, what time the heads of the Criminal Investigation Department hovered and tiptoed around her, waiting in anxious silence for a clue to fall from her lips ...
She smiled to herself, but the impulse to ring up Storm persisted. Where would he be at that hour? Most probably at his flat, she decided promptly.
She was on the point of getting up from her chair to fetch the telephone, when——
BOOM! ... —oom! ... —oom! ...
The muffled thunder of a distant explosion came echoing and reëchoing through the ether. And not so very distant either, for the thud of it was louder than anything she had ever heard—it shook the earth and rattled the windows in their frames. She sat up with a jump, and saw that Ann had dropped her work and was staring about in amazement. Even Terry looked up with a surprised expression; and then he leaned heavily on the table.
"Concentration!" he breathed reverently. "What absorption! What industry! I hope you're all takin' a lesson from me. I'm goin' to register a Deed Poll changing my name to Rip Van Winkle. When I started this pestilential job it was June, and now they're already lettin' off fireworks and burning the image of Mr. Fawkes. Still, I suppose to anyone of my vast intelligence——
"Shut up!" commanded his wife rudely. "Susan, whatever was it?"
"Fireworks, I tell you," said Terry. "This is the Fifth, and they're celebratin' Brock's Benefit."
And then, stealing through the open windows, from the east, came the dull roar of a hubbub which swelled with every minute. Came, ever so thin and faint, a horrible, sobbing cry.... The racket grew ... not so very far away they heard shouts, a screaming babel of police whistles, and the patter of running feet...
Terry moved over to the window and peered out over their shoulders, but they could see nothing.
"Not an air-raid, surely? Don't say I've slept all through the Great War, daddy," he murmured, but there was not much jesting in his manner.
They listened. Windows were being flung open and people were coming out into the streets. The shouting had come nearer—men were spreading the news to everyone within range of voices, but as yet it was impossible to make out what was being yelled. Until, gradually, to the three of them, came a glimmer of comprehension. The Triangle. That ruthless organisation had been abroad again that night, spreading death and disaster in some terrific fashion at which for the nonce they could only guess.
On the pavement outside the two detectives who guarded the house were staring into the darkness, speculating about the cause of the disturbance.
"What was it?" Terry called through the window, and one of them looked up and shook his head.
"Can't say, sir. The Triangle threatened to blow up some places, and Piccadilly Circus was first on the list—the noise seemed to come from that direction, but I couldn't swear to it."
Storm's flat was near Piccadilly. A little pang ripped into Susan's heart, and she caught her breath. But it wasn't likely that he'd be in the damage, she reassured herself doubtfully. The Albany was some way from Piccadilly Circus, and London was so big that, even if he were out that night, it was umpteen thousand to one against his having been near the explosion. And, anyhow, it wasn't certain that Piccadilly Circus had been mined, although logic was inclined to support that hypothesis....
Still they listened, and while they did so a handful of men and women ran past, laughing, dashing off to "see the fun." And then, through the night air, came an ominous silence, a murmuring stillness which was perplexing until they realised that it was caused by a sudden stoppage of all the traffic running on the near south and east. And through that hush came a new sound, approaching rapidly. It increased, until it could be recognised as the splutter of a high-powered car tearing through the streets towards them. As it sped nearer, it could all but be identified, and the suspicion it roused made Susan clutch the window sill in unaccountable terror. That loud, rising and falling snort and purr was the voice of a Hirondel—Storm's car. Was Storm himself driving? The fear that It might be carrying his maimed or lifeless body filled her with a shuddering dread.
Was it the Hirondel? The car broke into sight now, rocking down the road with its twin headlights ablaze. It drew almost abreast of them, and then swerved across the road and jerked to a standstill before the door with all its brakes screaming in protest at the rough handling.
One of the detectives ran to open the door, and Susan watched, striving not to flinch, to see who should descend.
It was not Storm—-it was a uniformed policeman. The man spoke a curt word to the detective, and then ran up the steps.
Susan had the door open for him before he could ring.
"What is it?" she cried. "Quick! Tell me—is he—is Captain Arden hurt?"
The man twiddled a button.
"Yes, miss—er—well, not much." The constable was confused. "He's—er—he wants to see you ... and..."
"Yes, yes!" The girl stamped her foot impatiently. "Go on. Tell me the worst—I shan't faint or do anything silly. Is he—seriously injured?"
"Well, miss, you never know," said the policeman huskily. "The doctors say—
"Where is he?"
"St. George's Hospital—on his way there, anyhow. He sent me to fetch you. That's his car."
"I'll come right away," she said pantingly. "Hurry!"
She could not understand his hesitation, until she turned and saw Terry and Ann standing behind her. Terry was looking grave.
"Shall I go with you?" he asked gently, but she shook her head.
"I'll go alone—I'd rather," she said.
He nodded understandingly, and she rushed down the steps and climbed into the car. The policeman followed. In an instant the subdued mutter of the engine had risen to a deafening roar, and, as the man let in the clutch, the Hirondel leapt off like an unleashed greyhound, They swung into the Park at Grosvenor Gate, and as they emerged at Hyde Park Corner they saw that, diminished as the traffic was at that hour, the wreckage of Piccadilly Circus had caused a block which was already spreading nearly to Park Lane. It was with some difficulty that they threaded their way through the press.
To the girl's inquiries the driver answered only in gruff monosyllables, and she was reduced to picturing to herself what might have befallen Storm. It was anguishing to think of—Storm, the debonair and strong and athletic—now, perhaps, only a crushed, mutilated travesty of life. A quiver of fear touched her lips, and then with a conscious gesture she tossed her head erect and sat stiffly motionless. Courage! ... She must have courage.... He had always so despised cowardice, been so scathingly contemptuous of people who trembled and shook at the knees and whined whenever they came up against the toughness and ugliness of the world.
She had hardly noticed their man[oe]uvring through the gyratory system at the triangular junction of Piccadilly, Knightsbridge and Grosvenor Place; but the lurch of the car turning suddenly recalled her to her surroundings. And with a shock she realised that they had diverged to the left and were racing down Constitution Hill with the Hirondel's cut-out closed down until the engine made no more than a whispering drone which attracted no attention.
She caught at the arm of the uniformed man beside her.
"What's the idea?" she demanded sharply. "You said St. George's Hospital——"
For answer, his left hand came off the steering-wheel and his arm whipped behind her shoulders. His hand came under her chin, and she felt his thick fingers close upon her throat.
"Never yew worry what I said," hissed Lew Mecklen in her ear; and, now that he made no attempt to disguise his voice, his nasal twang shrieked a heart-stopping menace at her. "Yew're comin' whar I want yuh, an' ef yew scream I'll throttle yuh!"
CHAPTER XXI
FOUND DEAD
Storm got to his feet somehow, shaking his head like a dog that has been for a swim. He felt sick and giddy, and the blood was buzzing through his head with the whirr of a dentist's drill. The shock had been terrific. Years ago, in Flanders, he had gone through the appalling mill of artillery barrages, intensive bomb-dropping, and the earthshaking fulguration of tons of H.E. sparked off in land mines; but he had never even in a nightmare gauged the possibility of such a stupendous cataclysm as had just taken place within a quarter of a mile of him. Comparatively great as the distance was between himself and the explosion, its force even at that range had been so daunting that it seemed miraculous to have survived it.
He looked around for the other two, doubtfully, as though in his bemused condition he hardly expected to find that the phenomenon had been repeated. But they, too, seemed to be unhurt. Inspector Teal had already regained his feet and was swaying to and fro with one hand clasped to his head, muttering white-hot profanities; and Joe Blaythwayt was sitting up gazing from side to side, his mouth open and his whole face smudged into one incredulous gape. And even while Storm tried to convince himself that the whole thing wasn't a delusion, Teal staggered over to the bank manager and held out a hand to help him rise.
Approximately at this time, John Cardan, editor of the Daily Record, left the offices of that enterprising newspaper. He turned into Fleet Street and walked briskly down towards the Strand, for it was his habit to utilise the space between Record House and Charing Cross Station, where he took a late train for his suburban home, to get the necessary exercise his sedentary occupation denied to him. And, as he walked, humming a little song, he was blissfully unaware of the skulking figure that slunk along behind him...
Birdie was more than a trifle scared. He did not fully understand what he was about to do—he could not possibly have had the foggiest inkling of the volcanic power that had been compressed into the few drachms of viscous yellow liquid which swilled about in the tiny phial on which his fingers rested. He had about as much chance of appreciating anything so vast as he had of comprehending the metaphysical conception of infinity. All he knew was that he was carrying a very small quantity of the most powerful explosive known to science—whatever that might mean. Thanks to his weedy frame, he had not had the experience of high explosives which was presented gratis to some millions of men between the years of 1914 and 1918. All he knew about explosives was that they went off with a bang, and that they couldn't be so very terrible. Thinking things over, he was at a loss to account for the fear he had when his hand first touched that precautionary calorimeter. No; what scared Birdie now was the knowledge that he was about to commit a bigger crime than any in his petty, sneaking career. What he thought was that his boss had a grudge against Cardan, and that the mucid amber in the phial would simply injure the editor enough to make him sorry for whatever he had done to the Apex. Birdie hadn't any idea what size crime that might be, or how long a stretch he would get for it if he was caught, but he was sure that it would be something pretty nasty.
Like a furtive shadow he began to quicken his steps so as to catch up with Cardan. One hand, resting in his pocket, held the copper ice-box steady, while his finger and thumb grasped the slim neck of the phial. It must be a quick job, and a quick getaway to follow—be the explosion ever so small, he was too well known to the splits to risk being seen loafing anywhere around when the bang happened. His fingers shook a little, and he strove to hold them still. It would be fatal to bungle during the couple of seconds the bottle would take to flash from the calorimeter to John Cardan's waistcoat pocket. By an effort of will he got his hand back to rock-like firmness and throttled down the twitching of his nerves, but he could not control the chilly perspiration which broke out on his palms.
Nearer and nearer he drew, his shifty eyes on the alert for exactly the right combination of circumstances for the fatal movement. It came when they had nearly reached the law Courts—in the shape of three men who were approaching abreast. Birdie came level with Cardan at precisely the right moment, so that for a moment the five of them were in line, so close together that their shoulders brushed....
It was all over in the twinkling of an eye, with just one lightning flicker of Birdie's slim, trained fingers. And then Birdie had ducked down a dark side street and was running for dear life, gasping painfully with the reaction from tension. The copper vessel in his pocket held nothing more dangerous than some clinking chips of ice. With a cry that was rather like a strangled sob, he dragged it out and flung it far from him, and ran on.
And the tiny tube of death reposed in John Cardan's pocket, the warmth of his body slowly thawing out the oily fluid to the temperature at which it would detonate....
Birdie found himself abruptly faced by a solid brick wall. He stopped in horror, and looked around him. He had taken the wrong turning—fear had deadened his judgment—he, who in the pursuit of his craft had long ago familiarised himself with all the back streets which would provide a sound prospect of shaking off his pursuers if he were ever spotted and forced to cut and run. There was nothing for it; he must retrace his steps, go back to the vicinity of the Thing! He hurried through the darkness, stumbling, panting with apprehension.
Birdie had run fast; as he reëntered Fleet Street, he looked in the direction of the Strand and saw that Cardan had not gone more than fifty paces. And while Birdie looked, the last essential fraction of a degree centigrade percolated through the thin glass to the charge of nitrogen trichloride....
Five ghastly seconds later he was racing up Fleet Street, careless of who saw his headlong flight, reckless of the inquisitive glance of any busies who might be prowling the neighbourhood. His breath came in harsh wheezing groans; his eyes were dilated with unspeakable terror; in his face was the ashen pallor of death. He didn't mind where he went—he scarcely knew where his feet were taking him. All that mattered was the placing of leagues and leagues between himself and the awful thing he had seen; for every devil and fury from the Pit was shrieking at his heels....
"They've done it! Blast 'em—they've done it!" said Teal muzzily.
Already people were rushing up towards Piccadilly Circus, and from Piccadilly Circus itself others were fleeing in all directions as though expecting a second explosion. High and shrill above the tumult of shouting came the scream of a man in mortal agony....
Storm set off at a run, Teal lumbered along close behind him, and Blaythwayt tagged short-windedly in the rear. Storm covered that quarter-mile in something close to record time, and Teal was not very far behind when he fetched up almost on the rim of the huge crater which had been blown into the heart of the Circus.
Ezra Surcon had had a good return from his property in Great Windmill Street.
It was an amazing cavern. The charge must have been placed below the deepest Tube cuttings, and experts calculated that to blast a hole of that size must have taken nearly five gallons of NCl3. The crater measured roughly fifty yards across, and in its depths was laid bare the whole warren of subways that had taken years to construct—there were even scraps of twisted wreckage from the higher level lines tangled up among the debris of escalators and elevators. Also, the Tube had been open at the time.... People had been in those subways, had been walking upon the ground that had been blown away, and omnibuses and cars had been driving over it.... There were things in that trough which had once been human, living, sensate.... In it, too, and around it, were things which had once been living and were not yet dead....
"My God!" muttered Teal hoarsely. "Why can't they die?"
His ruddy face had blenched, and Storm himself had gone grey under the tan. The only man who seemed unaffected was Blaythwayt, who stood a little to one side, staring about him in wide-eyed curiosity.
Already ambulances were careering through the streets with their right-of-way bells clanging, and constables were pouring on to the scene to attend to the injured and hold back the crowd of morbid, pale-faced sightseers. Storm and Teal went through the cordon and did what they could for the sufferers. It was a horrible and often hopeless task, but both had had their baptism of blood, and had learned to steel themselves against sights and sounds which would have made many men helpless with nausea.
Doctors were soon on the scene to help both voluntary and official workers, and the first two of these that Storm saw he sent hastening back to fetch hypodermic syringes and—morphia. These he commandeered, and then constituted a panel of himself and their owners. And when they saw what he proposed to do, they said nothing.
"I shall ask you to give me your opinions on the less certain cases," he said steadily. "There are some which you don't have to be a doc. to diagnose. I shall give the shot myself, and I take full responsibility..."
It was an hour before all the human scath which could ever hope to live had been removed in the ambulances, and the dead decently laid out.
Storm was weary of body and soul by that time, and when he found Inspector Teal he saw that, husky as the detective was, he was in no better case.
"I've killed seven men to-night," said Storm heavily. "It was God's blessing to 'em. But I'm—sick! This is worse than war."
Teal was silent. Then:
"What do we do now, Chief?" he asked.
"Go home, I suppose. We can't do any more here. Where's Joe?"
"Somewhere round—I saw him lending a hand with the best of 'em, soon as he'd got over rubbering. He's taken it better than either of us. He must have nerves of ice!"
Blaythwayt came up at that moment, wiping his hands on a stained handkerchief. He was still round-eyed with interest; but otherwise, except for an excusable excitement, he was remarkably self-possessed.
"An Extraordinary Experience!" he said. "Of course, one's very sorry for all those poor wretches; but still..."
He broke off with a shrug, as though to imply that the scientific mind transcended such mundane considerations.
"I ought to drop in at the Yard," Teal said with a sigh. "You've got an advantage over me, Captain Arden—you're not a regular and you don't have to bother so much about routine." He yawned. "Lordy! I seem to average about ten minutes' sleep per night these days," he complained somewhat paradoxically.
"You'll average less for the next seventy hours or so!" Storm told him. "I'll come with you—I might find the Commissioner in."
Joe Blaythwayt was skipping eagerly in front of them.
"D'you think I could come too?" he pleaded wistfully. "I've never had a chance to see inside Scotland Yard, and after what's happened to-night it seems as if my Luck Is In—I don't mean to be callous," he excused himself incoherently. "I'm sorry, as I said, but——"
Teal shook an admonishing finger at him.
"Joe, you go home to bed," he commanded sternly. "You're a bloodthirsty little man, and I think you've had all the horrors that's good for you to-night."
"Oh, let him come," Storm interrupted wearily. "What the devil does it matter, anyway?"
They found a taxi in Trafalgar Square and piled in. Joe Blaythwayt, still clasping his umbrella, which somehow he had managed to retain throughout the proceedings, was all agog with anticipation. Decidedly, one would have thought, he regarded it as His Evening.
Storm was less cheerful.
"The hell of it is that I feel responsible," he explained bitterly. "I deliberately let the Triangle get away, and now he's made to-night's mess. Selfishness—or quixoticism, if you like—I don't know. Listen, Teal, and I'll tell you something! I've known the Triangle for days, but I wasn't going to show him up in the usual way, as I told the Inquiry, for the reason you know."
"You know the Triangle?" broke in Teal incredulously. "I thought that was a bluff you put up for the Board."
"Yes, I know him. I'll tell you what my idea was. I'm a fool, maybe, but because he's my father I didn't want any publicity. And by the same token, I couldn't very well kill him myself. So what I intended to do was collect so much evidence that I could go to him and lay it before him so definitely he'd see the only alternative to hanging was—suicide. I know what his choice'd have been."
"Have you got that evidence now?"
"No," said Storm bitterly, and was silent all the rest of the way to Cannon Row.
They left Blaythwayt in charge of the reserve sergeant and went up to the Commissioner's room. Smethurst was away, but they had not been there five minutes before Bill Kennedy came in for first-hand news of the Piccadilly Circus explosion. Storm left Teal to give the account, and himself went over to the window and sat down on the sill, smoking a cigarette.
Storm's face was chiselled out into grim lines, but behind its inscrutability and actuating the leisurely precision of his movements was a hurtling mill of mental concentration. What was the next move to be? He strove to grapple with the problem, but his over-tired brain refused to function with the methodical accuracy he demanded of it. Teal had complained of the curtailment of the hours of slumber, but Storm himself had had little sleep that last week, and mind is not tireless like machinery. Yet he kept on, keying his already taut faculties almost up to snapping pitch, calling up all his reserves of energy, and struggling with their aid to outline a practical plan.
Teal had just finished his account when the telephone rang. Storm, who was nearest, took the call.
It was the City Commissioner speaking.
"You've had a blow-up in Piccadilly Circus, haven't you?"
"Oh—er—yes! I believe we have!" said Storm ironically, and the Commissioner snorted in disgust.
"Well, we've had a smaller one in Fleet Street. Just one man—blown to crumbs. There's no hope of identifying him. I just thought you might be interested. Sands, a pickpocket belonging to the Walton Street manor, was seen haring away from the scene as if he'd a big scare, so you might put out a call for him."
"I will. Fleet Street, I think you said?"
"Yes."
"Uh-huh. The dead man is John Cardan, editor of the Daily Record," said Storm calmly, and hung up the receiver.
After what had happened that night, such minor details as solo murders seemed things of no account. Storm had reached the stage where he was beyond the reach of agitation.
He gave the Assistant Commissioner a brief account of the conversation, and he was still speaking when the telephone bell shrilled again. This time it was the Thames Police depot on Victoria Embankment.
When Storm put down the instrument a queer flush had come into his face.
"A body's been taken out of the river," he said slowly. "Head smashed to pulp with an axe. The tailor's tab in the breast pocket, and some papers in the clothes, say that it's Oscar. I guess this is the end of the world!"
Storm and Teal went off to view the corpse, and the detective was surprised to see that Storm hailed a taxi in Cannon Row instead of setting out to walk the short distance along the Embankment. Mr. Teal, however, was too well trained to make any demur, and he had just got in when Blaythwayt came rushing up.
The bank manager climbed in as the taxi started off, and sat down beaming. The other two let him stay—it was amazing what a fixture that plump little man had become that night. In normal times he would probably have been unceremoniously ejected, but both Storm and Teal were too tired and too occupied with other matters to take the trouble of arguing him home.
The taxi drove to a house in Harley Street, and Storm had to ring for some time before he could get an answer. At length a dishevelled butler swathed in a grey flannel dressing-gown over lamentably striped pyjamas opened the door. When he had heard Kit's business, he began to shut the door again, but Storm kicked it wide and entered the hall. A moment later the Home Office pathologist, himself awakened by the noise, appeared at the head of the stairs and inquired sleepily but with some mastery of expletive, what it all meant.
Storm presented his credentials.
"I'm sorry to turn you out at this ungodly hour, but it's very important. I may not need you at all, but there's a big possibility that I may, and if I want you I shall want you at once!"
"All right," said the doctor peevishly. "I suppose it's all in the night's work. The butler'll give you a drink while I'm dressing."
He was down in an astonishingly short time, and the four of them entered the taxi. The pathologist seemed surprised to see Blaythwayt, and Teal was in a quandary until an idea seized him.
"Mr. Blaythwayt is Raegenssen's banker," he explained. "He's going to identify the body."
Joe stood by while the sheet that shrouded the dead man was removed, and then peered interestedly into the battered face.
"I couldn't swear to it," he said at last. "But I think it's he—that yellow beard of his is so distinctive."
"That's half the trouble," remarked Storm cryptically.
Blaythwayt was then shown the clothes that had been worn by the body, and these he declared without hesitation to be Raegenssen's. Apparently the Swede had possessed only one lounge suit, for Blaythwayt said that the garments were those which Raegenssen had been wearing whenever his banker had seen him.
Storm turned to the pathologist.
"Set up the gadgets!" he ordered curtly, and the doctor, after a glance of surprise, began to unpack the large black bag he had brought with him at Storm's request.
In the small room, besides Teal and Blaythwayt, was also a sergeant of the Thames Police, and to these three Storm addressed his next command.
"There's to be no dispute about this," he said, "so to make everything trebly sure you'll all do your bit. I want each of you to take two hairs from Raegenssen's beard, and lay them on the sheet of paper Dr. Malleson has laid out for them."
Wondering, they obeyed.
"Now stand by while Dr. Malleson makes his tests."
The pathologist bent to his work, while they waited in a mystified silence. It was half-an-hour before he straightened his back with a sigh and indicated that he was satisfied.
"Well?" asked Storm, and Malleson looked at him curiously.
"Peroxide," he replied. "The hair was originally black, and I should say that it was the hair of one of the more southern races—several Spaniards and Portuguese are diluted with Moorish blood. What made you suspect bleaching?"
But this was a question that Storm was not for the moment disposed to answer. As a matter of fact, all that he had suspected was that the body was not Raegenssen's, and the rarity of beards of that Nordic hue was great enough to arouse the suspicion that a black-bearded man would have had to be found and disguised in order to provide a substitute.
He led the way into the office, and a combined deposition was made out and signed. It was an interesting document.
We, the undersigned, do hereby attest and swear that at 1.30 a.m. this morning we did, in the presence of each other and of the undersigned Dr. Malleson, pathologist to the Home Office, and Captain Arden, temporarily attached to the Special Branch of the Criminal Investigation Department, remove from the beard of a cadaver taken from the Thames last night and so far presumed to be that of Oscar Raegenssen, agent, of Cockspur Street, S.W.1, each of us two hairs; and, further, that the said Dr. Malleson made the examination of these hairs, which is the subject of his appended affidavit in our presence.
(Signed)
C. E. TEAL, Inspector, C.I.D.
J. CLAVER, Sergeant, T.P.
J. BLAYTHWAYT.
And I, Soames Malleson, pathologist to the Home Office, do hereby attest and swear that in the presence of the above-named witnesses I did examine the said beard hairs, and did find that they were the hairs of a dark-complexioned man which had been bleached with peroxide of hydrogen to give a similitude of fairness. I further add that, from an inspection of other body hairs of the deceased, and from such cranial characteristics as can be observed, my sworn opinion is that the deceased was not Scandinavian, but of the Latin type, and probably of Moorish extraction.
(Signed)
SOAMES MALLESON, M.D.
And I, Christopher Arden, of Albany, W.1, having been present during the operations specified above, do hereby affirm and support the statements of the above-named witnesses.
(Signed)
CHRISTOPHER ARDEN, Capt.
"That's simply for the official record," Storm said as he blotted his signature. "I want a copy for my own use, also signed by all of you."
When the facsimile had been made out and witnessed, he went back to make a fresh inspection of the clothes that had been taken from Raegenssen's body. This time he made an interesting discovery, for a more careful search of the coat revealed that there were some papers sewn into the lining. Storm slit the silk with his penknife and drew them out—four photographs.
For a while he stared at them, standing as if he were carven out of granite. Every face that was there he knew, and the realisation that he had stumbled upon the last secret of the Alpha Triangle thundered through his head like the roar of a cataract.
"Je-rusalem!" he breathed.
At one stroke all the handicaps that had been piling up ever since the disappearance of Raegenssen, and that had culminated in the Piccadilly explosion that night, were swept away. Just by that one slip. The body which lay stiffly stretched out on the stone slab was not Raegenssen—was not even the man who had impersonated Raegenssen—but it was simply the corpse of an unknown man of similar height and build, and similarly bearded, with his hair and beard bleached to the likeness of Raegenssen's Viking crop and Raegenssen's clothes upon him to assist the identification which the terrible mutilation of the features prevented. And, in putting his clothes upon his substitute corpse, Raegenssen must have overlooked those photographs stitched for safety into the lining. For the third photograph was the face of a man whom Storm knew well by sight, and had also known to be associated with the Triangle—but never had he dreamed that that man was none other than the Triangle himself! The other two—and Raegenssen was one of them—were mere effigies, shadows, puppets that danced to the bidding of the Apex and served to screen his own importance; but the third man was the Apex, the keystone upon which the whole edifice depended....
Storm became aware that someone was breathing down his neck, and swung round sharply. It was Joe Blaythwayt, his cherubic pink face gone livid, his baby blue eyes almost popping out of his head.
Storm stepped pointedly away from the banker, and a crestfallen Joe resumed the nibbling of his umbrella handle. Kit put the three photographs together and buttoned them into the safety pocket on the inside of his waistcoat; and as he did so the fourth fell from his hand.
Teal picked it up and glanced at it before restoring it to his chief. It was the picture of a girl of about twenty, and even the hideous Victorian high-necked, leg-o'-mutton-sleeved blouse she wore and the ugly, old-fashioned arrangement of her fair hair could not disguise her striking loveliness. Even the impassive detective drew in his breath with a quick hiss of admiration. And then Storm gently took the print from him and put it away in his wallet.
"Who was that?" asked Teal.
Kit looked him straight in the eyes.
"That," he said evenly, "was Sylvia Mattock—my mother!"
CHAPTER XXII
STORM GOES GUNNING
It was not until they were about to leave the Thames Police Station that the absence of Blaythwayt was noticed. The little man, after being detected in the act of prying over Storm's shoulder, had faded self-consciously into the background; and, from that obscure retirement, he seemed to have sunk through the floor or dissipated into air. Certainly he had subsided completely out of the tableau, and Teal scratched his head in perplexity; for it was not to be expected that Joe, having at last succeeded in getting his nose on to an official scent, would make for home and a comfortable bed with a feeling of sensatory repletion. There is no bloodhound so hot and indefatigable on a trail as your enthusiastic amateur, whether he be a collector of postage-stamps or particularly gory murders, and the evanescence of Uncle Joe in those circumstances was provocative of thought.
"I only hope the little goop hasn't gone off to try and pinch the Apex himself," said Teal gloomily; but, knowing the sensational leanings of his friend, he was none too easy in his mind on that score.
No one was to know that, even as Teal voiced his prayer, an asthmatic and flustered Joe Blaythwayt was panting out instructions to a taxi-driver and scrambling into the cab to be driven swiftly westwards....
"Never mind Uncle Joe," advised Storm. "I guess he'll keep—and he's old enough to be loosed off without a chaperon."
They saw Malleson off in a taxi, and then hailed a second cab for themselves. Storm, nearly worn out, was making for the Albany and a long overdue rest; and Teal, beguiled by the promise of a strong nightcap, accompanied him. They hardly spoke on the drive back, for each was busy with his own thoughts. Teal's, it may be said, mostly ended in question marks, but nevertheless the detective had acquired a number of facts that night which opened up a maze of speculations and startling possibilities. As for Storm, he was wondering vaguely if he would get any sleep at all from then on until the Triangle had ceased to be—so far-reaching were the results of his investigations over the last two hours. His head still throbbed painfully from the concussion of the Piccadilly Circus explosion, but his mind had taken unto itself a new lease of energy. Everything had clarified suddenly, partly through the stimulus of those four photographs, partly because excessive weariness was already entering upon a reaction—that reaction which takes one to a quality approaching brilliance, when the whole body has become so tired that there are no restraints whatever upon the heights which may be attained by the feverishly soaring brain; a reaction which is very short and transitory, and which is followed by a long period of even greater lassitude than that which led up to it.
The taxi stopped in Piccadilly outside Albany Court Yard, and they got out. Storm paid off the driver, and, as the cab drove off, went after Teal, who had gone on ahead.
Teal was at the foot of the Albany steps, and Storm was well inside the Court, before either of them noticed an extraordinary thing. It was very dark, for the electric light mains had been wrecked by the land mine, and one almost had to grope one's way along, foot by foot. And then the moon came out from behind a bank of cloud and drenched everything under its eye in a flood of nebulous silver light, and Storm yelled a warning to Teal which made that slothful man spin round with the agility of an antelope.
The deep shadows cast by the three walls of the Court were alive with men!
Teal took in the situation at a glance. In a fraction of a second he had leapt up the steps, obeying Storm's shouted command, and as he sprang he jerked his automatic from his pocket. In those days, Storm did not rely upon one gun—he carried two, and both of them were in his hands now.
The promise of action had driven the last vestige of sluggishness from Arden's brain, and almost without conscious thought he had remembered the words of the Era advertisement and the orders of the Apex given over the loud-speaking telephone that night. Teal was to be killed, and he, Storm, was merely to be captured. Therefore Storm had roared to Teal to make for cover and not stop to give battle; and Teal, being a law-enforcing machine whose first instinct was obedience, had obeyed automatically before he even grasped the significance of the order.
Crack!... Crack!...
The enemy fired the first shots, and the din double-echoed resonantly in the confined space. Storm retaliated with one gun at each of the two flashes he saw, and a yelp of pain told him that at least one of his bullets had found asylum. Teal had halted at the top of the steps, and his gun blazed back at a third flash which barked in the echo of Storm's twin reprisal. By then, the detective's intelligence had made itself heard above the commands of discipline, and Teal was not the man to run away from a fight to save his precious skin and leave another man to face the music.
Teal's stance was simply asking for trouble. He stood exactly in the right place for the moonshine to pick him out as a beautifully illuminated target. Storm saw the danger and yelled another order as he raced across to join the detective. But the smell of battle and the sight of those sinister shadows closing in upon his chief had made Teal go pig-headed, and he stood his ground obstinately.
In Piccadilly a police whistle screamed.
Teal fired again into the murky shapes which rushed upon Storm from all directions. And then one of the shapes turned its course and shot back twice at the detective. Storm saw Teal stagger and go down.
An instant later Storm himself had other things to think of.
There must have been fully thirty men lying in ambush along those treacherous patches of blackness. The odds were hopeless. When he started running, Storm had been making for the Albany entrance; but there had been men hidden in the darkness on either side of the steps, and now these barred his way and their fellows hemmed his retreat via Albany Court Yard. There was only one horse to back. The fact that all the shooting had been aimed at Teal seemed to indicate that the order not to kill Kit still applied. Storm's only chance, then, was to bank on the men obeying orders and try to put the fear of God into them with merciless gunning from his own quarter. Storm took that chance. His two automatics rattled like machine-gun fire, and he saw one after another of the men in front of him go down before that leaden scythe until he had cut a lane through the blockade. Others were already closing in to fill the places of the fallen, but, running like a sprint champion, there might be a thin hope of breaking through before they could take up position.
What Storm hadn't—couldn't have—allowed for was the fact that there must always be men behind him. Therefore he didn't see the arms of the two men behind him swing up, didn't see the two skilfully-thrown sandbags hurtle through the air—only felt the dull, sickening impact of something heavy and yet yielding upon the back of his neck, before he crashed to the ground and everything vanished in a whirling infinity of blackness....
He came to on a sofa, with his head throbbing horribly, and his first surprise was to find that he was in his own flat. The second was the presence of a man he knew, who was binding up an ugly wound in Teal's shoulder.
"Terry!" called Storm. "How did you get here?"
Terry Mannering looked up and smiled, but the haggardness of that ordinarily cheerful young man made the grin unconvincing.
"That's all right, brother. You sit tight for a bit and get the bump off your cranium. Havin' a solid ivory skull, you're still livin' when by all rights you ought to be dead—in a large experience of sandbaggin' and divers kindred sports, I may say I've never——"
"Cut out the bedside manner, Terry, for the love of Mud!" snarled Storm weakly. "What's happened?"
He tried to sit up, and had to make several attempts before he could overcome the sick giddiness that the effort caused. Terry went on bandaging Teal, and tried to infuse flippancy into his tone as he gave the account.
"Havin' missed our tame policeman," he said, "the Triangle coves had rather come a mucker. Far as we can make out, the idea was to pip Teal first bang an' then grab you in the same bar, so to speak. Unfortunately, you two warriors put up such a scrap an' made such a row about it that half the Roberts in London were chargin' on to the field before you'd been downed and outed as per invoice. Therefore, realisin' that dispersion is occasionally the better part of valour, your adorin' playmates legged it through the Albany an' out the other side, where the Roberts ceased from troublin' an' the policemen were at rest. They got away, leavin' your bodies on the plain an' a number of short-winded bobbies pantin' in their wake. Really, you know, you want to enlist a few Olympic runners in your comic copper battalions, if you want to catch young Pegasi (or is it Pegasuses?) like our friends——"
"Oh, cut it out!" snapped Storm. "What brought you here?"
Terry gave the finishing touches to Teal's bandages, and then left the detective to put on his coat and himself lighted a long cigar and puffed thoughtfully.
"I suppose you'll have to know," he murmured at length. "Though, as a qualified physician whose disgustin' wealth has stopped him from practising I'll warn you that if you go dashin' off doin' anythin' silly you'll be knocked up for weeks. Well, to put it briefly, at home we thought you'd been knocked out in the firework display. An' Susan thought so too. You were on your way to St. George's Hospital, and had very kindly sent your 'bus round to bring the chief mourners to your deathbed. A uniformed Robert was drivin', so everything in the garden looked lovely—barrin', of course, your own impendin' demise..." Terry studied the end of his cigar intently. "D'you get me, little one?"
Storm sat still for some seconds. He might have been graven in bronze for all the emotion he displayed; and yet, behind that mechanical masquerade, he was suffering the tortures of the damned.... Susan, his Susan ... in the Power of the Dog.... "Kill H..." At that moment, for the first time in his life, he knew the meaning of utter hopelessness. Nothing mattered in the whole world, nothing existed but that hideous fact. The Triangle might blast London off the face of the earth, might blow to atoms a thousand more John Cardans—it wouldn't count a lonely Continental cuss. Susan was gone.... The only ray of hope came from the implied assertion that she'd been kidnapped instead of murdered on the spot, and even that knowledge was fraught with fears too horrible to contemplate....
Put into the balance in Storm's favour that in the last seventy-two hours he had had less than seven hours' sleep, and perhaps you will understand and forgive him for plumbing such abysses of despair. And that spineless despondency was only momentary. Before it could consolidate the position it had gained, Storm hurled up every supporting mote of fighting weight that was in him to hold the breach. With a clinched effort of will which racked and locked his nerves in positive physical anguish he focused all his strength upon the one object of getting his mind and body back to par. His face remained inscrutable and all his muscles were relaxed, but the sweat broke out in glistening gouts on his forehead. And, gradually, inch by painful inch, he scourged himself into cool, calm reason. Watching him, few would have known that in the fleeting of those few seconds he had gone down into Inferno and dragged himself back again into the world.
Storm raised his eyes. His hand went slowly to his pocket and drew out his cigarette-case. With leisured care he selected a cigarette, tapped it on his thumb-nail, and put it between his lips. Still with the same Alpine steadiness, he took a box of matches from his pocket, struck a light, and held it to the cigarette. He extinguished the match with one flourishing sweep of his hand and broke it into little tiny splinters, dropping them one by one on to the carpet. And then, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his hands cupped boyishly under his chin, he took the cigarette from his mouth and blew out a long blue trail of smoke.
"Yes?" he prompted, and his voice was as coldly level as a frozen tarn.
Terry fastidiously preserved the cone of ash that was accumulating on his cigar.
"Well, I offered to go with Susan, but she wanted to go alone. Still, I'd gathered from the Robert's not very snappy backchat that you were more or less lyin' on the banks of the Styx waitin' for the ferry; so, for the sake of old times, after allowin' Susan half an hour's start to get through the last fond farewell"—Terry grinned wryly—"I tottered along myself. Had the jolly old Sisters of Mercy heard of Captain Arden? They had not. Had the worthy chirurgeons? Non plus. I combed every ward myself, and when we hadn't located you I remembered the Triangle's interest in Susan and began to get a whiff of Mus decumanus, or the common rat. Toddlin' round to Scotland Yard, I was told you'd just left on a morgue tour along the Embankment. So I came toolin' on here to wait for you. Et voila!"
"I see," said Storm. "Can you get me some real eighty-over-proof dope? Snow for preference. I'm about done in, and my acquaintance with rest cures looks like being not yet."
Terry looked at him for a moment, and then nodded.
"I'll knock up a chemist myself," he promised. "But you'll try to get some sleep, won't you? Tumblin' into the arms of Morpheus, and so forth?"
Kit nodded.
"I can't do anything to-night, but God knows what I'll feel like to-morrow. I won't use the stuff if I can help it, but I want it for a stand-by. Push off now like a good fellow, and get Teal home right afterwards, will you?"
Terry went, and then Storm crossed to the telephone and called Scotland Yard. He was lucky enough to find the Assistant Commissioner still there.
"I want Prester John," said Storm. "Get him to my flat by nine to-morrow if it's humanly possible. And Birdie, if they can find him. Have men out after the two of 'em all night, and hogshave all search warrants! Also Snooper Brome—add him to the list. Got me?"
Then Storm went wearily to his bedroom. He wound his alarm clock and set the bell at 8.30; and then, only removing his coat, collar and tie, he fell into bed and was almost instantly asleep.
The buzzer awakened him after an all too short rest, and his first impulse was to shut the darn thing off, turn over, and sink back into the delicious Nirvana from which its clarion call had roused him. And then he remembered everything.... With a sigh he flung off the sheet and got up. His head ached appallingly, and for some unknown reason he was stiff in every limb. He undressed and made for the bathroom, and under the invigorating chill of a cold needle spray a good deal of the muzziness cleared away. A brisk rub down restored him still more; and, so great were the recuperative powers of his robust health, he finished dressing again with the feeling of being little the worse for the strain he had been through. A slight thickheadedness and a heaviness in the eyelids—that was all.
He burst into the sitting-room to be greeted by the yawning visage of Mr. Teal.
"Je-rusalem!" he said. "What're you about so early for?"
"I haven't been away," replied Teal, stretching his sound arm. "Your sofa's pretty comfortable, and I don't like being sent behind the lines when there's anything doing on the front."
Storm turned to his manservant, who was laying the table for breakfast.
"We'll start with a double Colonial breakfast," he said briskly. "And make your coffee black and strong!"
He was gulping a Horse's Neck into whose composition very little ginger ale had entered when the Assistant Commissioner arrived.
Bill Kennedy was alone, and the scowl which invariably disfigured his face before breakfast was more worried than usual.
"I haven't got either of your men," he confessed bluntly. "Prester John's left the country to make a new start in Canada, and Brome's vanished. We never knew much about Snooper, anyhow, and the lag who runs his fencing store in Kensington when Eddie's away hasn't seen him for days. What's the particular hurry?"
Storm told him in four words, and then—
"Did Mr. Mannering turn in that dope, Teal?" he asked.
For answer, Teal pointed to the cellarette, and Storm went over and opened the small parcel which lay there. He took a glance at the hypodermic syringe it contained, and the two phials packed into the metal syringe-case, and slipped the box into his pocket.
He carried writing materials over to the breakfast table and wrote while he made his meal. When he had finished there were five closely written pages which he checked over carefully and then sealed into an envelope, scribbling his initials on the flap.
He gave the package to Bill Kennedy.
"I put you on your honour not to open this unless I fail to report at the Yard by midnight," he said. "It gives you the identity of the Triangle and a string of substantial evidence against him—enough to hang an army! If I don't turn up you'll know what to do. Secondly, I'll bet you've had men put on to guard me after last night?"
"Yes." Bill nodded.
"Take 'em off right now! Bill, I guarantee that if I see anyone that looks like a nursemaid in trousers tailing me around when I leave here I'll wring his neck! I want the Triangle to catch me—that's the only chance I've got left of cleaning up this mess outside of the Old Bailey. You put that right up inside the big bone you wear under your hat, and let it dig itself in!"
Even as he spoke Storm was stripping off his coat and shirt, and they had a chance to view his magnificent torso. The muscle just lay on him in slabs, writhing and cording under the satiny skin with every movement he made. He was ribbed out and sinewed up like a thoroughbred racehorse—he might have served as a model for a statue of Apollo, with his perfectly proportioned, splendidly supple and yet immensely powerful development. Storm was always trained to a hair; and, at that moment, as he stretched and limbered up, he looked fit to fight for a kingdom ... whereas he was going to fight for something which, to him, meant more than all the cities of the world and their glory——
He disappeared into his bedroom and returned a minute later with a heavy bundle in his arms.
Against each bicep, by means of straps fastened above and below the muscle, he fixed neat leather holsters which carried compact small-calibre automatics. Against his right calf he laid a small thin razor-sharp poignard which was held in place by his sock and sock suspender. Thus secretly armed, he pulled over his head a jerkin of pliant deerskin which laced up to the collar-bone; and over this he put on a singlet of the finest steel mesh.
Kennedy and Teal observed all these accoutrements with unconcealed interest, and Storm smiled.
"Courage gets medals," he remarked as he resumed his shirt, "but people who sail into typhoons without taking in canvas, battening all hatches, and rigging life-lines, just get what they deserve—and that's Hell!"
He completed his reclothing, slipped another automatic—to be found if and when he was searched—into his hip-pocket, lighted a cigarette, and picked up his hat.
"So far I've been the world's premier boob," he said—"the most paralytic fall-guy that ever wore pants. And I'm going to get even or bust!"
He was in high spirits. In spite of the ever-present fear for Susan which haunted the back of his mind, he was totally unable to repress his cheerfulness. The scent of battle always got him that way; and it was a trait of his which caused him great annoyance, for, when sparring and waiting about turned the corner into the straight run home of action, breathless and perilous, he seemed incapable of seeing things in their true values. But this callousness was only superficial. The real fact was that a high incentive whetted and honed the edge of his deep-rooted fighting instinct, making it seem predominant.
"Where're you going?" asked Bill Kennedy.
Storm paused at the door, and a reckless smile, reminiscent of the Viking warrior whose idea of heaven was a Valhalla where daily warfare provided eternal bliss, touched his lips.
"Looking for trouble!" he said grimly. "And I think it's coming good and fast!"
CHAPTER XXIII
PANIC OF BIRDIE
Susan sat quite still. The tension of Mecklen's fingers about her throat and the ferocious look on his face left her in no doubt but that he would carry out his threat if she gave him the ghost of an excuse. Besides, Susan wasn't the sort to go into hysterics when yammering for help didn't offer any reasonable hope of help being forthcoming. There were a few pedestrians about and not another car in sight—anyway, even if she did shout, and were heard, her would-be rescuers would have about as much chance of stopping that flying Hirondel as they would have of hopping over the Woolworth Building.
"You needn't get excited," she said coldly. "I haven't screamed since they took me out of long clothes."
Mecklen said nothing. Still retaining that menacing grip on her windpipe, he was hunched up over the steering wheel with his eyes glued to the road in front, pushing the car along as fast as he dared.
"You can take your hands off," Susan added. "Someone might see us, and"—she groped about in her vocabulary of American for a phrase the Bowery boy might understand—"I don't want to be mistaken for the Sheba of a roughneck like you. I promise not to yell."
Lew hesitated, and then withdrew his arm—not because her gibe cut any ice with him, but because he'd remembered his uniform and didn't want to make himself conspicuous if anyone should happen to see them. Tough-looking policemen don't as a rule drive round in expensive cars with their arms round the necks of fashionably dressed girls; and Mecklen realised that he'd left enough tracks behind him already that night without adding to the number.
"Yew'd better not squawk," he assured her, to make it plain that he released her for his own reasons and not because of her command.
They swung round the Victoria Memorial and entered Buckingham Gate. The car ran down the deserted thoroughfare and tacked down a side street on the left and left again into a dark mews.
Mecklen stopped the car and took Susan's arm in a vise-like grasp.
"Git outa here," he ordered. "An' jest yew see yew don't fergit wot I told yuh. One yap, an' yew git yores."
She got down from the car, and he followed her. In the darkness he shifted his clutch to her left arm, and she felt something prick her breast, and saw the dull shimmer of steel.
"Jest a reeminder," he said. "Move!"
He unlocked a garage door and pulled her inside. She heard two bolts clang into place behind them, and then a switch clicked down and the place was dimly illuminated. She saw that what had seemed to be one solitary lock-up was in reality a huge garage which ran the whole length of that side of the mews behind the other dummy doors. Stored in it was a wonderful collection of motors—two aluminium-finished racing cars, four Rossleigh trucks, a Navarre limousine, a Carillon cabriolet, and one black closed-in van which she could not identify although something about it was vaguely familiar. And the noticeable fact about the collection was that none of them carried number plates; she saw the reason a moment later, in the shape of a stack of detached plates of different numbers from all counties, ranged along the wall.
Mecklen dragged her across to what looked like a big tire cupboard. This he opened, revealing it to be empty, and fumbled with a bracket at the back. In a few seconds the false back slid sideways, laying bare a faintly lighted passage. Lew extinguished the garage light and made the girl precede him into the tunnel, while he shut the cupboard doors and slid home the inside panel.
There were only a dozen feet to go, and they emerged into a spacious cellar. Here Mecklen paused, rubbing his scrubby chin as though wondering where to go next. At length he went over to a door which led off the vault in which they stood, and he seemed surprised to find it empty. He came back and seized her arm again.
"In hyar," he rasped, and almost flung her inside.
The door closed again, and she heard a bar thump into its socket on the outside.
An electric bulb glowed in the ceiling, and she was thankful for it. She took stock of her position as calmly as she could. The room was more like a cupboard than a cellar—it could have measured no more than eight feet by six. It had held a great deal of earth recently; the stone floor was half an inch deep in it still, and small clods of damp soil adhered to the walls. There was no window—no outlet of any sort except the door through which Lew had pushed her—but the door itself fitted loosely in its frame, so that there was no lack of air. She went to the door and ran her fingers under it. Despite its clumsiness, it was fashioned of three-inch oak. It might have been three-inch boiler steel for all the hope of escape it offered her; and, shoving her hardest, she couldn't make it budge against the heavy outside bar that held it shut.
Leaning against the wall, she thought out the circumstances methodically. For armoury she had the pin of a small brooch and her two hands. Expectations—what? The story about Storm being injured might or might not be true, although now she was inclined to regard it as nothing more than a cock-and-bull yarn invented to decoy her. Strangely enough, her first emotion was of exasperation; she, old stager that she was, to have been caught on the hop with an antediluvian parlour trick like that! Well, how long would it be before she was missed? Terry, being an old friend of Storm's, might go down to the hospital himself later on, and then the fraud would be exposed. Or, if he didn't do that, and Storm was safe and sound, Kit'd be sure to ring her up in the morning; and, once he'd absorbed the news of her abduction, he wouldn't be likely to let grass grow under his feet. Extraordinarily comforting was that thought. Within a few hours—she looked at her watch—within eight hours at the very limit Storm would know all about it, would be out scouring the metropolis for her. The last feebly rising bubble of panic collapsed. She was sure, now, that Storm hadn't been smashed up. He'd be On The Job, moving heaven and earth to find her, and every Triangle in Christendom massed up in one big wad all round her, with barbed wire in front and a company of field artillery behind, wouldn't stop him....
Her day-dreaming was interrupted by the return of Mecklen, laden with a rough straw-filled mattress and a couple of coarse blankets. He dumped them on the floor and went out again. For a fraction of a second she had meditated attacking him from behind when his hands were full and his head turned, but the thought had died as quickly as it was born. She was strong and supple as a young mermaid, but she knew that against his rugged bulk such crude methods would be wasted. She might have got him in a ju-jitsu grip—she knew one or two——
He came back again that minute, carrying a small table on which was an enamel mug of water, a loaf of bread, some fried bacon congealing on a cracked plate, and a hunk of butter wrapped in a scrap of newspaper. Her chance of springing on him unawares was gone now, for he kept the table between them all the time.
"Make yoreself at home," he invited. "Sorry I cain't stay an' wait on yuh jest naow, but yew're supposed ter be dead. The boss might think et kind o' queer ef I stayed grubbin' 'round these hyar cellars, an' it don't pay ter git the boss's goat. But I'll see yuh later—don't yew worry!"
His foul leer struck a qualm of terror into her heart, but she faced him boldly.
"I don't worry," she said acidly. "What's your name?"
"Mecklen—but yew kin call me Lew, honey."
"Well, Mecklen, I've heard of you. You've killed a good many people in your time—have you ever wondered what it's like to die?"
He lounged against the wall, grinning.
"Huh—yew li'l' cougar! So yew're gonna make ole Lew pass in his cheques, air yew? Gee, baby, I'll say yew got sand!"
"Oh, no, I'm not going to kill you," said Susan. "But I'll tell you the name of someone who will. Ever met Captain Arden, the man they call Storm? He's out hunting you by this time, Mecklen, and d'you know what he'll do to you when he gets you? He did it to a man outside Valparaiso once—a man rather like you, Mecklen—staked him out and flogged him to death with a stock-whip! How does that appeal to you? And he'll get you, Mecklen—there's no hole and corner on God's earth you can hide in where he won't find you one day. Storm never gives up! Think it over."
There was no idle threat or bravado in her tone. She stated the facts simply and cold-bloodedly, so that the smooth venom behind them would have stabbed horror into the soul of most men. But Mecklen's imagination was that of the untamed brute—he had to feel the lash before he could flinch from a sight of it.
"Storm!" he scoffed. "I'll tell yuh something. That sheik o' yores'll eat his breakfast right in this hyar shack. Now think thet over!"
And then with a cat-like spring he rounded the table and caught her in his arms in a bear's hug. His fetid breath stung her nostrils, and, before she could move, her lips had tasted the gross contact of his mouth.
He jumped back, breathing heavily, one fist stuck out in front of him.
"Keep off," he warned. "Thet war jest something ter go 'long wit. I'll kiss yuh—properly—later. See yuh again soon, honey. Yew'll larn ter like ole Lew—he ain't no amachoor!"
The door bumped shut behind him, and she was alone again.... But now there was a new fear to face—something that she'd never thought would come into her own life, often as it occurred in the pages of the novelist. The tightest corner she'd ever been in.... She tried to stay the involuntary quivering of her lips. The hot defilement of Mecklen's embrace seemed to sully them still, and she got out her handkerchief and rubbed them with it. Death itself she could have met with a proud contempt, but that.... She sank on to the mattress he had brought and buried her face in her hands. She was ... desperately ... afraid....
Lew went stumbling up the cellar stairs with a burning exaltation skipping about like a lump of molten lead in his rotten heart. He passed through the stairs into the back hall, and was confronted by a small man whose ferrety face was drawn and haggard.
"Lew!" The little man grabbed Mecklen's sleeve convulsively. "Lew—I—I saw yer go dahn wiv a bundle 'f beddin' an' then yer went agayne wiv a table 'n' grub. I was on the front stairs, an' I saw yer!"
Mecklen rested his hands on his hips.
"So li'l' Birdie sore ole Lew," he grated. "Did yew!"
"Yes. Wot's it mean—wot's it mean?"
Birdie seemed almost frantic. His normally sallow complexion was ashen, and he was shaking horribly, like a man with ague, and an ugly look came into the gunman's eyes.
"Air thet enny perticlar concern o' yores?" he drawled, leaning forward so that his out-thrust jaw almost touched Birdie's nose.
"Yes—I don't understand! Lew! Why're yer lookin' at me like that? My Gawd...." A shifting light of madness was coming into Birdie's staring eyes. "Lew! 'Oo's dahn there? ..."
"Yew li'l' four-flushin' piker!" snarled Mecklen.
His huge hands were clawing out for Birdie's throat. They found their hold and, crushing the pickpocket's scraggy neck in that boa-constrictor twist, Mecklen shook him as a Great Dane might shake a poodle.