"The car's in Cannon Row," said Storm, and led the way down the stone stairs.
Just before they came into view from the street he stopped in the corridor, fished out his cigarette case, and selected a slender cylinder with elaborate care.
"I think I'm considered the most important, Teal," he remarked. "So you'll stand in the doorway while I go down to the car--and you'll shoot first!"
Mr. Teal nodded, and Storm lighted his cigarette as calmly as though he was about to stroll out of a theatre during the interval. Then, with a gay wave of his hand to the grim detective, he stepped out into the bright sunlight and began to walk towards the Hirondel.
He fully expected that an attempt would be made on his life, but the manner of it came as a complete surprise. He had covered half the distance when he heard a warning yell from Teal, which, even in those circumstances, was unlike that placid gentleman; for Inspector Teal was accounted the best revolver shot in the Force. An instinct that had lain dormant since 1918 made him fling himself to the ground, and as he did so Teal's gun cracked viciously. Practically on the instant, there came a detonation that surged staggeringly, and clanged with savage force back from the stone walls of the building. Deafened and half-stunned, he sensed dimly a chorus of shouts and one shrill scream, and something hummed menacingly over his body.
Then he stumbled to his feet, mechanically brushing the dust from his clothes.
In the roadway was a Thing which, presumably, had once been a man. Inspector Teal was coming imperturbably towards him, pocketing his revolver with an air of duty well done. Further from the Thing were a couple of moaning figures, around which a crowd was rapidly collecting....
"A Mills bomb," said Teal unemotionally.
Two men who had been passing at the time were terribly injured, and an elderly lady was leaning against a convenient lamp-post having hysterics. Storm saw the ambulance arrive and superintended the removal of the wounded men, and then he made an inspection of the car. It had been between himself and the bursting bomb, and undoubtedly it had saved his life. The coachwork on one side was battered and torn in great gaping holes, but, miraculously, the tires and the engine had escaped.
He climbed in, lighted a fresh cigarette to replace the one he had lost, and Teal followed him.
"Like to insure my life, Teal?" Storm murmured lightly. "You might make enough to retire on in a few days."
"I'll go first next time, sir," said the sporting Mr. Teal, and the two men solemnly shook hands.
Storm drove the car to Moraine's and affected a sublime indifference to the curious glances which followed the progress of the damaged relic of what had once been a glorious shining Hirondel.
All the world knows Moraine's, the inconspicuous house where priceless art treasures change hands, and the bidding rises in thousands of pounds. To Moraine's come the wealthy connoisseurs and their resplendent wives, with a small sprinkling of gaping sightseers, awing themselves with the sight of so much concentrated wealth, and a few optimistic ladies and gentlemen of irregular notions anent the laws of property, whose dream it is that one day they will arrange a coup on the premises. That they do not is due to the foresight of the architect who designed the showroom--a lofty hall of glass and marble, roughly square in shape, and set in the centre of the building, with no windows for the cruder criminals to attempt to smash, too severely furnished for the more nimble to find cover in at closing time, too solidly built for the violent to break into with high explosive. It is a room of fearful silences, where every whisper rings out like a clarion, and the intruder moves delicately on the unpurchasable crimson carpet that hides most of the tiled floor--for fear of offending the giant flunkeys who stand statuesquely, one on each side of each of the three portals (it would be sacrilege to describe these masterpieces as "doors") in all the glory of their gold and scarlet livery.
But Storm and Teal had small leisure to absorb all this vision of magnificence. Outside they had seen little knots of variously dressed stalwart men standing chatting, men who scarcely spared them a glance; or, if they did, gave no sign of recognition. Inside, grouped about the doors, were similar men; and yet more moved unostentatiously about the room, peering idly at the glittering gems displayed in the long glass case that ran down the centre of the hall.
"Four hundred thousand pounds," said Storm. "Teal, wouldn't you sell your soul for the brains of the Triangle!"
Among the crowd Mr. Teal caught sight of an old friend, and flowed irresistibly towards him. The friend so recognised suddenly remembered an urgent appointment elsewhere, but the vast form of the detective effectively barred his path.
"Hullo, Birdie," he drawled. "How's trade?"
"You're making a mistake, Mr. Teal," said the little man with dignity. "I'm an honest man. Them jools"--he jerked a contemptuous thumb in the direction of the showcase--"them jools are beautiful, but my interest is solely that of the connosewer."
Birdie Sands was playing his "gentleman act," a device he adopted automatically when accused of anything. Mr. Teal, however, remained unimpressed.
"Oh, no, Birdie, you naughty, wicked man!" he said genially, "I won't believe you've degenerated that much. Not when you see as much of Snooper as you do. What does the Good Book say? 'Snooper finds some mischief still for Birdie Sands to do.' Birdie, go home!"
"As a lore-abiding citizen an' a man of edjucation," Birdie began haughtily--but Teal was in no mood for wasting time.
He signed to one of the "connosewers" who was loafing near by, and a protesting Birdie was taken gently but firmly by the arm and conducted towards the open air. Following which Teal, with intent to continue his clean-up, looked around him for a fresh victim.
He never accomplished his ambition.
Startlingly loud above the hushed whispering of the crowd a voice rang out in a curt command:
"Everybody will now stand perfectly still and keep silence!"
Teal swung round, his hand moving instinctively to his hip. It stayed abruptly, for he saw the means there were for enforcing the order. At one end of the room stood six men, in line, their right hands held high above their heads. And in every one of those hands was something round and black and shining.
"Shades of Mills!" breathed Teal.
The leader spoke again:
"These are Mills bombs. The pins are out, and at the first sign of resistance they will be thrown. Also, if any one of us is shot, his bomb will, of course, explode when he falls. Please be sensible. We do not wish to shed blood unnecessarily."
The detectives, uncertain, looked to Storm for their cue. He only hesitated for a second, and then he gave them their instructions in a clear voice.
"You will all obey that order. Carry on, Gat!"
Three of the men handed their bombs to their companions and moved towards the glass cases. The other three, now holding a bomb in each hand, stood motionless.
"Everybody will now move down to the far end of the room," said Gat Morini. "The officers of the law, except Mr. Teal and Captain Arden, will be at the back of the crowd. If a bomb has to be thrown, I should dislike having to hurt any policemen or any of my assistants."
Storm, standing well to the front, was coolly lighting a cigarette. That amazing young man was smiling, and the hand that held the match was coldly steady as an iceberg. He looked at Teal, and found that the detective was flushed and shaking with rage. Teal's vanity was an unsuspected tender spot, and there was no doubt that the barefaced effrontery of the gang in so holding up a squad of detectives was likely to strike him with apoplexy.
"Can't anything be done, sir?" he pleaded unsteadily. "There's about thirty armed men behind us, and we're helpless!"
"And there's about sixty civilians, male and female," Storm told him, "who'll get where the bottle got the cork if we start any funny stuff and bombs go flying about! And they will throw 'em--you can invest your hosiery in that!"
Teal shook his head despondently.
"This'll be the end of both of us," he said. "What in hell's happened to those dear friends outside?"
He did not say "dear friends."
Storm shrugged. A bag had been produced, and the three men in the centre of the room were gathering up the jewels and packing them quickly and carefully away. One by one they emptied the cases, and the bag grew heavy and bulging. They were working on the last case when an interruption occurred. One of the guards from the street came to the entrance.
The whole thing was perfectly planned. The three unarmed men hardly looked up from their task. One of those who held bombs turned with one arm threateningly drawn back as the detective, swiftly comprehending the scene, made a swift movement of his right hand. The other two continued to menace the crowd huddled together at the far end of the room.
"Don't shoot!" rapped Storm, and the man's hand fell to his side.
He was passed back to his comrades behind the crowd of frightened men and women, and the despoiling of the last case went on without a break. The Triangle had allowed for all contingencies, and every counter-move had been designed and rehearsed to perfection, so that the complete performance should move as cleanly and slickly as an exhibition by a perfectly trained corps de ballet.
It was all carried out with incredible speed and efficiency. Barely five minutes elapsed between the first intimation of the attack and the collection of every gem in the place in the bag the three operatives carried.
In the forefront of the crowd a keen-faced young man was writing swiftly in a notebook. His astounding unconcern stamped him immediately as a member of the only profession which would be detachedly interested in the end of the world.
Snooper Brome replaced the pins in the bombs he held, and one of his assistants did the same. The third man still held up his hands with their load of concentrated death. The three who had rifled the cases left first, strolling out one by one and conversing casually of what they had seen. Morini, carrying the bag, paused to deliver a mocking farewell.
"We shall meet again, Captain Arden," he said.
"In the Old Bailey," brisked Storm cheerfully. "So long, Gat."
He had no fear of being attacked then, for obviously the gang would be unwilling to alarm the people outside if it could be avoided. The whole thing was staked on the handicap of the crowd of people who would be involved in the fight if the police made a move. It was the most consummately daring bluff in the history of crime, and, granted police officers who felt responsibility for the safety of the general public, it was a bluff that could not be called....
Now only the last man was left, and he stood like a graven image while the hands of the big clock on the wall over his head moved slowly. A silence had fallen on the crowd, and the only sound was the restless movements of their feet. The reporter was still writing dispassionately.
And then, without the quiver of a nerve, Storm performed an act of reckless heroism that drew a great gasp from the crowd. He threw away the butt of his cigarette, and reached boredly to his pocket. Those who were near him saw something hard and blue-black leap out with his hand....
He fired, and as he fired he hurled himself forward, The man with the bombs sagged and crumpled with a little choking cry. Storm was upon him even before he fell, had wrenched the bombs from the spastic clutch of the dead hands, and was racing towards the door. Beyond that door was a long marble corridor which led to the vaults wherein the treasures offered for sale at Moraine's were stored at night. With a grunt he flung the two bombs far from him and jerked himself back into the room.
They detonated in mid-air, and he was only just in time to avoid the fragments of metal that came whizzing back on the earth-shaking reverberation. The tense effort left him gasping weakly, and the screams of panicking men and women came to him through a red haze. But it was only for a moment.
"Attaboy!" His cheery voice rose above the pandemonium. "Three shies a penny--after 'em, you hounds of Hell!"
The detectives, led by Teal, poured out of the other door which led to the street, and were met by the inrush of the outside guards who had heard the explosion. Storm watched them go, and then went towards the fighting, stampeding mass of people who were striving to follow them. At a glance he saw that the flying splinters of the bombs had done no physical damage, and he let his parade-ground voice go like a whip crack. He cursed and insulted them into silence, and barked them back into the room.
"You poor henripped sheep!" he snapped when he had cowed them into some sort of order. "There'll be no more fireworks. Form single rank, all ladies to the right, and go out quietly--not like a lot of milling white rabbits!"
He marched them out like a string of beaten dogs. Only one protested at this assumption of command, and he was a man whom Storm had marked down in the stampede--a gross, expensively dressed bounder, white and shaking with terror, who had striven to claw his way to safety through a mob of frightened women.
"I'll have the coat off your back, sir!" he fumed, his voice shrill with the reaction from fear. "You--you--you insolent young puppy, swearing at us as if we were the scum of the earth! I'll report you to your chief! I'll have you kicked out of the Force! You're a disgrace to the police, sir--a disgrace! You--you endanger our lives, and then you have the--the impertinence--the impertinence--I demand to know your name, sir! I shall go straight to Scotland Yard!"
"I am Captain Arden," said Storm coldly, and his lip curled. "Ask for Mr. Kennedy, who is my chief. And put a cushion in the seat of your trousers before you go, because he will quite certainly kick you down the stairs."
"I'll write to the papers about this outrage!" stormed the man. "I'll have you pilloried in the Press! I'll--I'll----"
"I'll tie you in three knots and push you under an omnibus if you aren't outside in five seconds," said Storm quietly, and there was such concentrated scorn in his voice that the man shrank away as though he expected a blow.
Storm was boiling with suppressed rage beneath his calm exterior, for the events of the past minutes had frayed his nerves more than he would ever have admitted. The reporter had watched the scramble with half-closed, amused eyes, and had gracefully taken his place at the end of the queue when peace was restored. He was the last to leave, and he held out his hand as he came to the door.
"I won't ask for an interview," he said, "because I don't want my head bitten off before I've written up this scoop. Here's my card. I'll see you through if that cow in trousers makes a fuss."
Storm's acid stare dissolved into a smile in response to the youngster's grin, and he shook hands heartily. They went out into the street together, and shouldered their way through the mass of excited people who had assembled. A uniformed man answered Storm's query.
"Your men are after them, sir, but I don't think they've much chance. I saw them all go, and they looked too innocent to be wrong; besides, there'd been no alarm."
Storm started up the Hirondel and the journalist, without invitation, joined him. Storm drove him back to Fleet Street and returned to Scotland Yard. He was feeling annoyed, for he had risked everything to allow the detectives to give chase with the least possible delay, and yet he knew the futility of attempting to allow even two minutes' start in London to a fast car whose number was unknown; and he did not doubt for one moment that the gang had provided themselves with every possible means of ensuring a good getaway.
Newsboys were rushing about with sensational posters in their hands, yelling indistinguishable captions, but he hardly noticed them. He had occasion to remember them, however, when he reached his room, for a letter was awaiting him and it was marked URGENT. He tore it open, and found a sheet of thin foolscap covered with neat writing. At the head of it was drawn the symbol of the Alpha Triangle, and just below this was a note:
A copy of this Manifesto has been sent to all the London newspapers, and all News Agencies.
Then came the lines of writing headed in a way that was more audacious than any criminal proclamation--of which a few are issued from time to time, but of which nobody takes any notice--he had ever read. And the subject-matter of the manifesto would only a week ago have excited his derision.
FIRST MANIFESTO
by the Lord of the Alpha Triangle, in Council, to the Parliament and People of the United Kingdom.
WHEREBY it is announced as follows:
The Society at present known as the Alpha Triangle is the most powerful and the most highly-organised Institution of its kind the world has ever known. The Society is composed of those who, recognising the fact that Force is the law of Nature, and that the principles obtaining in International Politics are those which should have currency in Social Politics, have arranged to extract from the World the wealth which they desire by such means as they think fit to employ. Recognising, also, that they are declaring a War upon the Laws of the World, the Alpha Triangle wish it to be understood that no human life will be sacred to them during the duration of such a War.
IN ORDER, therefore, that much needless sacrifice of life may be saved, the Alpha Triangle takes this opportunity of announcing that it will declare an End of this War on receiving official Intimation of the acceptance by His Majesty's Government of the following Terms of Peace:
(1) THAT the Government above cited shall, within two months of the date hereof, pay to the Alpha Triangle the sum of £15,000,000 (Fifteen million pounds).
(2) THAT the Government above cited shall, upon making this payment, utter a proclamation freely pardoning the several members of the Alpha Triangle and fully indemnifying them from the results of any civil or criminal proceedings in connection with any felonies, misdemeanours or torts committed by the said members of the Alpha Triangle, up to and including the day upon which this payment is made.
(3) THAT the Government above cited shall make this payment in gold ingots, in a manner to be described upon our receipt of the notification of the said Government that they accept these Terms without any reservation or alteration whatsoever.
AND WHEREAS it is expedient that these Terms shall be complied with without delay, we further announce that until the aforesaid notification of acceptance shall be received by us through the medium of the Daily Press, we shall at intervals of three days inclusive assassinate the undermentioned members of the Cabinet:--
Sir John Marker (Home Secretary).
Hugh Anderby Neilson (Chancellor of the Exchequer).
Paul Hesketh (Foreign Secretary).
Lester Hume Smith (Secretary for War)
Lord Hannassay.
John Bayridge-Rand.
AND IN ADDITION, the criminal activities of the Alpha Triangle will continue with unabated energy. Of the efficiency of these activities the Public will be in possession of a striking example by the time this Manifesto appears in print.
FURTHER BE IT KNOWN that the lives of those who set themselves to track down the Alpha Triangle are forfeit, and this sentence will be first carried out upon the persons of Captain Christopher Arden and Inspector Claud Eustace Teal.
GIVEN by our Hand this Day,
(Signed)
For signature there was simply a small replica of the crest which commenced the sheet.
Storm read the rambling, arrogant proclamation through again, taking in all its pseudo-legal jargon, unnecessary capitals, and peculiar paragraphing. It was an amazing announcement, and yet he absorbed every word of it eagerly, for even though it was undoubtedly the work of a madman he had already had enough evidence that the madman had the brain of a genius and the organising ability to carry through his extravagant threats. And the men were there to serve him--the half-human, brutal, remorseless dregs of four or five nations, who would kill for him readily.... One thing only amused him, and he spoke of it to Inspector Teal when the plump detective arrived.
"You've discovered my guilty secret," said Mr. Teal sadly. "If I was on the staff of the Triangle, I'd have put the name of the man who suggested those names to my father on the list."
There was a silence. Then:
"It's incredible!" Storm said harshly. "Teal, if your pal Joe put this manifesto into his book every critic would tear it to pieces. And yet it's true! It's possible! A bughouse genius with an army of cheap thugs who'll obey him--this"--he tapped the paper--"this don't count a blue hoot! It only proves he's mad, and I knew that already. And God knows how to stop him. I know the Triangle, and I could arrest him in thirty minutes, but what court'd convict on all the evidence I've got?"
Teal shook his head.
"The Moraine's men got clean away--we hadn't an earthly." He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a pink slip. "This might interest you," he said casually, and strolled away to the window.
Storm read the telegram, and as he read he went cold.
Lord Hannassay found murdered on line near Kearsney.
