SENSATION OUT OF COURT
Storm returned to meet the lazily inquiring gaze of Inspector Teal.
Teal was far too ponderous a man to be swayed by the emotions of the
thin-flanked herd, but it was obvious that puzzlement was seething
within his placid bulk--the symptom was the exaggerated precision
with which his jaws chewed from side to side the plastic sweetmeat of
Mr. Wrigley--and Storm was privately amused.
"What was his secret?" demanded the detective with assumed languor,
when after some time the information had not been volunteered.
"Oh--Prester John sent you his love," Storm replied truthfully but
uncertainly. "He didn't dare give it you in person!"
Mr. Teal's recumbent mountainousness heaved with an explosive grunt
which registered unbelief.
They parted, for Storm had a luncheon engagement for which he did not
wish to be unpunctual. He met Susan at the portals of the Regal, and
thought that he had rarely seen her looking so beautiful. Being
gloriously ignorant of the niceties of feminine apparel, he received
from her dress no other impression than that it suited her to
perfection. In her smart costume of plain bisque, relieved only by
the daring splash of green where a flowing kerchief was knotted
loosely at the throat of her white silk undertunic, she was piquantly
beautiful. The bright sunshine lit up her smiling face, and its
searching brilliance at once absolved her red lips and the faint
flush of health on her cheeks from all accusation of artifice.
They made a striking couple.
Her loveliness was none of that pink-and-white fragility to which a
certain type of Frenchwoman aspires--prettiness which is at one and
the same glance irresistibly attractive and yet so obviously unfitted
for any locale but the drawing-room and the Poiret gown. She was
essentially a girl of the open spaces, with the lithe, free grace of
carriage and the delicate browning of a clear skin which come only
with a perfectly functioning body bred of, and to, the love of plenty
of exercise in the eye of the sun and in the breath of the wind. And
Storm fitted her perfectly, being a man good to look upon and finely
built, and having a boyish love of laughter always lurking in his
steady eyes to counteract the first impression of hardness you got
from the squareness of his jaw and the vigorous set of his mouth.
Outstanding at once by the lissom poise of his athletic figure, with
just that indefinable air of restraint about him which is the
infallible sign of a tremendously dynamic vitality controlled and
directed by a dominant will.
He had meant to talk to her gravely, warning her of the dangers she
was running, and pointing out the foolhardiness of her last night's
adventure. She, for her part, had made up her mind to laugh at his
fears and complain of his selfishness in keeping all the thrills for
himself. He had meant to be firm: she had meant to be defiant.
Somehow, neither programme produced according to schedule.
"Who was the man you recognized last night?" he asked her point
blank, and her resolutions crumbled so weakly that she hated herself.
"The man we saw when we had that motor accident," she answered
meekly. "Mattock, I think you called him."
Storm had known that, unless she was bluffing, it must have been one
of three men, and he annoyed her afresh by the coolness with which he
received the report.
"He's an enterprising man," he murmured, passing his cigarette case
across the table. "One of these days there'll be trouble for
James--you wager the haberdashery on uncle!"
"Aren't you interested?"
He raised his eyebrows.
"Fairly! I know nearly everything there is to be known about
Mattock. At the moment, I'm betting in my mind which'll die
first--James Norman or Oscar Siegfried. That problem, however, is
reserved strictly for office hours, and this is my lunch interval.
What're you going to do about a job now Papa Hannassay is with the
majority?"
"I don't know that I need one," she said surprisingly. "He's left me
everything. I heard from the solicitors this morning."
Storm bit his lip.
"How much?"
The bluntness of his question made her stare at him. She found him
unaccountably irritating that afternoon, and had half a mind to snub
him, but she decided that that might be a failure. He had an amused
way of laughing at people who stood on their dignity which was
absolutely impossible to deal with.
"Ten thousand odd--if you're so desperately interested," she said
frigidly, and was speedily disconcerted.
His eyes danced with quiet mockery.
"I am. Desperately interested," he assured her, and his smile swept
pettiness out of existence. "Susan, don't be small! It's an
important question, because I always understood old Pop Hannassay was
rich."
"Don't be irreverent," she said severely. "_De mortuis_----"
"_Nil nisi ludicrum_. And how about the dead what die in their sins?"
She opened her bag and handed him the letter. He read it through
carefully, and then made a note of the address of the solicitors.'
"Bylom, Craill and Bylom, Suffolk House, Lester Street, Strand. I'll
see 'em this afternoon. Ten thousand! Jerusalem--a few years ago
old Daddy--sorry, Susan!--Lord Hannassay was worth about half a
million. You ought to be rich, instead of the unreasonably proud
heiress to a paltry ten thousand!"
"How do you know all this?" she asked in wonder.
He was not disposed to enlighten her at that moment.
"There's damn little I don't know!" he boasted airily. "The snag is,
it's going to take me all my time to remove just those little scraps
of ignorance!" He looked at her for a moment, frowning thoughtfully,
and then dropped a bolt from the blue: "When can you be married?"
Her face went blank.
He disregarded all the time-honoured laws governing the proper
setting, manner and preliminaries for such questions. Twice he had
made love to her--once, years ago, in his breezy, inconsequent manner
in the kitchen of the Presidential Palace of Olvidada; for the second
time, on that night when he had driven her home from Raegenssen's.
And when he made love he was irresistible. On the whole, it was a
proposition he should by rights have put forward long ago; yet, now
that he had put it forward, the suddenness seemed alarming. It
caused a queer constriction about her heart, and at the same time it
brought to a head the vague and formless anger that had troubled her
all day. He had been almost insulting--he broke every accepted canon
for proposals. In fact, he did not propose at all: he took her for
granted, and she was furious.
"Married to whom?" she asked with dangerous obtuseness.
"To me, of course."
The perplexed lift of her straight brows was perfectly done.
"I don't understand. Why should I marry you?"
His eyes held hers, and at the back of that clear gaze she saw a
glint of comprehension and, coincidently, of good-humoured reproof
which was maddening. Without batting an eyelid, he suggested a
sympathetic elder amusedly tolerating the peevishness of a child.
"I really don't know," he said coolly. "It occurred to me you might
like to. Besides, you love me."
The man's audacity stunned her. In her consternation it was some
time before she could find suitable words wherewith to administer a
stinging rebuke, and the effort was not diminished by the knowledge
that he had spoken nothing but the truth.
"You flatter yourself," she said coldly, and he smiled.
"You flatter me," was his quick response. "Now, for the love of Mike
don't boil over with rage--not till we've finished eating, anyway.
Squabbling at meal times is so horribly bad for the digestion! You
wouldn't like me to utter a loud shriek and collapse on the floor,
clasping my diaphragm--a young man stricken down in his prime with
dyspepsia--would you?"
Her retort had simply glanced off the armour of his confidence. The
edge of it had cut rather less ice than would cover a sixpence. He
might have done no more than ask her to go to the theatre with him,
and agreed to wait for an answer until she had consulted her
engagement book. He was--Good Lord! He was actually _humouring_ her!
"You're mistaken--you won't refuse ever to see me again," he said,
and, looking up, she saw that his eyes were still upon her, and knew
that he had read her thoughts. And then he switched from the subject
with the abruptness of the turning off of a tap: "How's Terry these
days? D'you remember the X Esquire case? Old Terry was in that,
though it never came out."
He continued blithely to recount the story in that staccato, jerky
way he had of speaking, and she had to listen in spite of herself.
He could be a delightful _raconteur_--he had the happy knack of
coining spontaneous phrases which had the punch of mule kicks.
Gradually, so gently that she never noticed it, he thawed her out of
her attitude of barely polite attention. Coffee was on the table
before she realised how the time was flying. And, as she took the
final cigarette he offered her, light dawned. Why had she been
snappy? Because she had had so little sleep the night before, and
tiredness had frayed her temper at the corners. Why should she vent
her bad temper on him? Because ... because she'd read in the morning
paper about the fight in Billingsgate (and she'd never even asked him
about it--what must he think of her for that?) ... and she'd had her
eyes opened to the danger he was in--and because there was some of
_her_, something infinitely precious, going with him into every peril
he encountered.... _Because, for days, she had longed for him to
want to marry her...._
Understanding of herself came as a shock, but it did not break her
resolution--merely turned it in another direction. He must have his
lesson. He must learn that methods which battered a Board of Enquiry
into submission (she had had that anecdote retailed to her with great
gusto by Bill Kennedy himself when that genial Assistant Commissioner
dropped in for a nightcap with Terry) would not have the same effect
upon her.
She was still strong in this decision when they prepared to leave,
and, when he had paid the bill and was waiting for his change, he had
this fact demonstrated to him.
"For the last time but----" He paused and studied the end of his
cigarette meditatively. "But two--for the last time but two, Susan,
when will you marry me?"
"Never," she said, and hoped she sounded inflexible.
His eyes danced. His optimistic egotism was unshakeable.
"Sure?"
"I've given you my answer," she said, straining to be haughty in the
face of that sunny smile. "So please don't ask me the other two
times."
"I shan't forget," he promised ambiguously. "But hear me, Susan!
Unless you come and ask me to marry you before midnight you'll sleep
in a Vine Street cell, probably!"
She stared.
"What for?"
"Safety," he said soberly. "It all depends on whether a certain
gentleman now in custody gets clear as he's promised. Now think!"
That evening, before he went to dinner, he made his last arrangements
for the guarding of Lew Mecklen. He made a personal inspection of
the cell, "fanned" the gunman himself for additional assurance in
case he should have succeeded in concealing a weapon, and appointed
three men with over ten years' service to watch the man, with three
others to relieve them at 2 a.m. He left a last warning.
"If Lew gets away, somebody's hopes of promotion'll be gone for ever!
Anything that's sent in to him is to be kept from him until after
I've seen it to-morrow morning. He's not to have the privilege of
ordering anything whatever from outside--you can tell him all his
money's gone to pay his hospital bill. Nobody is to be allowed to
enter the cell--don't even go in yourselves, unless he looks like
dying. That's all. If the Triangle scores again, I should say the
Chief Commissioner'll crucify every man in C Division with his own
hands!"
It was perhaps lucky for several people that Storm had exaggerated
the brutality of Sir Brodie Smethurst.
The circumstances, as far as one can collate the depositions of those
concerned, were as follows:
About nine p.m. that night Police Constable C811, who was standing at
the corner of Marshall Street and Broad Street, was approached by a
bulky ruffian whose dissonant caterwauling was clearly a public
nuisance. On being requested to desist, the large one smote C811
with some strength and his boot, even upon the shins, and was
promptly taken into custody. Leading his captive up Marshall Street,
C811 met three other musicians who, linked arm in arm, were making
the night air hideous with their attempts to harmonise _Rose in the
Bud_ and _Annie Laurie_. C811 told them to shut up, whereupon the
three ranged themselves in line before him, chorused a hearty _tu
quoque_ plus a vulgar expletive, and switched over to a pathetic
rendering, in comparative unison, of Tosti's _Good-bye_. They also
were added to the bag, and the four were shot into the charge room of
Marlborough Street Police Station, certified drunk and accused of
being disorderly withal, and locked up to await judgment in the
morning.
They had scarcely been removed to the cells when Police Constable
C796 arrived, having in tow two troubadours looking distinctly the
worse for wear, whom he charged with conducting a free fight in
Regent Street in the course of which they smashed a shop window.
They also were placed in durance vile.
Meantime, four husky specimens, who looked like farm hands in London
for the day, had drawn up in line before the station entrance,
teetering somewhat unstably on their heels, and had commenced to
regale the man on duty at the door with _Pack Up Your Troubles in
Your Old Kit Bag_--a subtle jest which was not appreciated until
later. After enduring their immelodious advice for some minutes, the
doorkeeper descended the steps and invited the four bards to move on.
The man who seemed to be the leader of the troupe failed to
understand.
"Move on?" he hiccuped, swaying slightly. "Norra bi'vit _hic!_
Thish--thish, of'cer--thish"---he tapped the Law solemnly on the
thorax--"_hic!_ thish commun'ty singin'.
Finesthingin--_hic!_--England. Go 'way. Don' spoil gai'ty
vnations." He turned to his waiting choir. "Nowthnboys--sh-show
thish of'cer wotchen _hic!_ do. Now. Al'gether."
Whereon the welkin of Marlborough Street rang with a cacophonous
interpretation of _Three o'Clock in the Morning_, the chronological
inaccuracy of which ancient ditty they appeared to perceive, for they
made of it an apologetically discordant dirge. After three more
unavailing efforts to make them cease their serenade, or to inflict
it on another thoroughfare, the door-keeper arrested them, and they
were marched into the station still wailing the refrain of that
touching ballad _Bye Bye, Blackbird_.
And now a problem arose. No police station has more than seven
cells, and by then all those at Marlborough Street were occupied.
Appealed to for instructions, the Divisional Inspector scratched his
head, for more than one prisoner cannot be placed in the same cell
except during riots. The four songsters, having been roughly
searched and charged, were now lined up at one end of the charge room
abiding the Inspector's decision on this knotty point, and their
persistent warbling was not helpful.
"... When somebaaaady waits for meee
(Shoogar's sweet, saow is sheee),
Baaaye-baaaye, blackburrrd.
Naowone used to laave 'rr understaaand meee,
Naowone knows----"
"SHUT UP!" bellowed the frantic Inspector, whom this ghastly vocalism
was rapidly driving to the verge of insanity, and added a virulent
commination.
He telephoned to Vine Street, only to learn that the more
aristocratic police station was already full. Unwisely, he chose to
exercise his own authority without appealing to headquarters.
"... Make maaye bed 'n' laaaight the laaaight,
Aiyull be home late to-naaight,
Blackburrrd, Baaaye-baaaye!"
The lullaby howled on to an appallingly strident conclusion, and the
chanticleers, without tarrying for applause, swept on to an
ear-splitting prayer that they might be permitted to join their lost
loves upon the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond.
"If this doesn't constitute a riot, God knows what does," squealed
the Inspector in anguish. "TAKE 'EM AWAY!!"
The four were sent to join their fellow-choristers in the bonny,
bonny cells of Marlborough Street. Even that did not end the torment
of C Division, for within the next half-hour they accumulated three
more psalmists and two men who had endeavoured to capture a
policeman's helmet. Towards ten o'clock, a man in a small two-seater
car drove down Marlborough Street, turned his car at right angles
across the road, and shouted to the constable at the station entrance
to stand clear, explaining that he was going to drive right in. He
even tried to carry out his threat, and when they went out to him
they found that he was very drunk. What was more, he was the only
one of the night's captures whom the Divisional Inspector knew by
sight.
"You're James Mattock," he said reproachfully. "Jimmy, we thought
you'd gone respectable."
Mattock shook his head, staggering a little. There was a fatuous
grin on his face.
"James--sh--nothin'!" he protested loudly. "Lis'en. Tell you ...
secret. I'm Queen 'f Sheba."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself--an old man like you," said the
Inspector sadly. "Take him away."
With that the influx ceased, and when a humdrum burglar was brought
in the Inspector sent him on to Vine Street, feeling that his own
preserves were already overstocked. There were now sixteen men
divided in between the six vacant cells, and that their lubrication
had been thorough was proved by the fact that muffled yelps of
carolling still came through the charge room door. It was impossible
to subdue the uproar, and the reserve P.C., whose duty it is to make
a round of the cells at half-hour intervals, was pleading to be
allowed to use chloroform.
About two a.m., when the vociferation was become slightly hoarse and
rather less enthusiastic, the reserve constable was making the round
when from one of the further cells came a shuddering cry and the thud
of a heavy fall. Running down the corridor, the constable found that
it came from one of the cells where three men were herded together.
One of them lay twitching on the ground, and the other two were
watching him helplessly.
"'Ad a fit," one of them muttered; and, seeing the gaoler, added:
"Fetch a doctor--Bert 'as these fits. 'Orrible, it is."
It was just at this moment, as far as one can gather, that a powerful
lorry drew up by the kerb, almost opposite the station but on the
other side of the road, and one of the men descended and lifted the
bonnet as though to investigate a breakdown. The constable at the
station entrance saw the incident, but thought nothing of it.
The reserve P.C., meanwhile, not knowing what to do, called the
relief Inspector, and together they entered the cell.
Both were promptly killed.
The three man who were guarding Mecklen rushed down the passage at
the sound of the shots and were faced by the three prisoners--the
epileptic having made a miraculous recovery--and threatened with
automatic pistols. They were brave men, these three constables. Or
else, perhaps, they did not expect the three toughs to shoot. Be
that as it may, they continued to advance, and were shot down in cold
blood.
The prisoners now moved swiftly. They took the cell keys from the
dead bodies and released the other prisoners, all of whom were armed.
Already there was a tumult in the charge room, and the sixteen, with
Mecklen, burst in upon a dozen or so officers, only two of whom had
had the time or forethought to arm themselves. The two died in their
tracks before they had time to fire a shot, and the others paused
aghast. In another second the seventeen men were streaming across
the road to the waiting lorry, the hind-most firing random bullets
backwards to discourage pursuit. They piled in, and the lorry moved
off, gathering speed, to the accompaniment of a final volley from the
escaped prisoners. Before the pursuing constables, who were now
armed, could return the fusillade, the lorry had turned a corner and
disappeared.
The Flying Squad and all reserves of every Division were called out,
and those first on the scene commandeered cars and taxis and dashed
off in chase, but the seventeen, with their lorry, got clean away.
As has been stated, the P.C. at the door had not taken much notice of
the lorry, and its number plates had been so caked with mud as to be
indecipherable from across the road, in the dim light. And, standing
midway between two street lamps, at night, one big lorry looks very
much like another--the doorkeeper was unable even to identify the
make with certainty, although he thought it looked like a Rossleigh.
But the most remarkable feature of the crime was its execution. For
one thing, it proved that the Alpha Triangle had an unusually
accurate knowledge of police station routine. In the first place,
ordinary "drunks and disorderlies," being apparently harmless and
charged only with minor offences, are not perfunctorily "fanned." As
was demonstrated at the subsequent inquiry, it would have been
possible for a man not suspected of carrying arms to have concealed a
small automatic pistol in a holster strapped to the small of his
back, with little risk of it being discovered in a more or less
formal search; and in the absence of definite information this theory
is the one which is now universally admitted satisfactorily to
account for the Triangle's success. Secondly, the locks of the cell
doors, and those of the doors leading from the charge room to the
cells, can only be opened by a special manipulation of the keys which
is a police secret; yet the prisoners had clearly been well
instructed in this trick beforehand by someone with an intimate
knowledge of that secret, for there was no delay in liberating the
occupants of the other cells.
The third curious point was that Mattock was found in his cell
efficiently gagged and bound with strips of his own shirt. His
explanation that he had been set upon and trussed by the two who
shared his confinement, just before the prisoners made their escape,
was accepted. Experts declared that he could not possibly have tied
himself up so thoroughly, and no one had seen him in the affray;
furthermore, the head waiter of the Leroy swore that Mattock had
entered the bar late that evening, already more than a trifle
"oiled," and had imbibed continuously until closing time. Mattock
was fined for being drunk in charge of a motor-car, and was
discharged on the other count.
It was a verdict which did not please Inspector Teal, for he could
have sworn that the ghost of a wink trembled on Mattock's right
eyelid as the clerk left the court.