BIRDIE RECEIVES ORDERS
"We don't want to lose you," said Mr. Brome carefully, "so we think
you ought to go."
His pale blue eyes bored inexorably into Mecklen's. Before that
stony stare the gunman's gaze fell, and his truculent protest, that
had framed itself instinctively, died unvoiced.
"Aw--guess you're right, Chief," he muttered sheepishly. "But, naow
I'm hyar----"
"What is it?"
"Et's thet skirt. Chief, haow c'n I look af-ter thet li'l' one-way
sweedie when every goldurned bull in this hyar burg is out gunnin'
fer mine? I'll say it ain't no cinch. Arden's too fly, an' he's her
lovin' sugar-daddy. I reckon he's gotten every lallapaloozer in this
deck skinned a mile."
Snooper regarded him contemptuously.
They were in the gorgeous sitting-room of Joan Sands' Cornwall House
flat, and the magnificent furnishings were in strange contrast to the
group of men who sat around the table. Snooper Brome was the only
one of that down-at-heel and flashy convocation who could by any
stretch of imagination be said to fit--despite his vulgarian notions
of waistcoat design, he had a certain dignity which carried them off
rather well. For all his bulk, he had not much superfluous flesh,
and he was anything but gross; his big features were clean cut--with
his flowery vest and white hands, and the mane of dank black hair
that swept back from his high forehead, he resembled a prosperous
exponent of Impressionism.
The others were less favoured. Mecklen, standing by the door
twisting a greasy tweed cap in his grimy hands, unshaven and coarse
of face, was a repulsive sight. The rest of the men, who sat at the
long board over which Brome presided, were divided between the
extremes of shabbiness and overdressedness.
"Are you getting panic too?" demanded Snooper, grittily speculative.
"Yew said a canful," agreed Mecklen complacently. "Let me give Arden
his fer a start, an' then I'll tackle thet Jane--but while thet
perambulatin' hunk of sudden death's still millin' round, this
chile's gonna stick close home. Tell yuh what, Chief, ef yew'll give
the word I'll glom the first freight fer Ardensville, an' when I git
home they'll be liftin' him inter his Kingdom-Come-box wit' a
derrick, he'll be thet leaded up. An' _af-ter_ thet, I'll go chase
yore Jane."
"What is the answer to that?" asked Snooper, turning to Morini.
Gat looked at his friend.
"The answer, Lew, is," he said, "when Hell snows over. Big Chief
Triangle wants to save that little baby boy, and what Big Chief
Triangle says goes."
Mr. Brome extracted a cigar from a pocket of his flamboyant waistcoat
and cut the tip from it with a gold pen-knife. Then he looked up at
Mecklen.
"You heard?"
"I heard, Chief, but what I wanna say is----"
"What you're going to do, is--go home, Lew," remarked Eddie sharply.
"Go home, and stick close home like you said you were going to. When
I want you I'll send for you. Go to Buckingham Gate, and if I hear
of you showing your nose outside again unless I give the word--it
won't be only the bulls who'll be out gunning for yours. Beat it!"
Mecklen glared. He was not a man of equable temper, and the wintry
scorn of Snooper's tone, no less than the consciousness of mastery
that literally crackled about the words, got right up under Mecklen's
pachydermis and rasped on his vanity. He started forward with a
torrid word on his lips and brazen defiance in his mien.
"Yew see hyar..."
Brome did nothing, said nothing. He was lighting his cigar, and he
never even looked up. His superiority wrapped him round like a sheet
of defensive fire. It was a way of meeting rebellion which Mecklen
had never encountered before, and before the Unknown the fear of the
brute killer roused. If Snooper had met ferocity with ferocity, if
his right hand had dropped the match it held and slid down towards
his hip, the Alpha Triangle might have been smithereened at that
instant. It was a peril the leaders of the Triangle faced
daily--hourly--from minute to minute. Under them were killers,
ruthless and inhuman tigers, with the ungovernable passions of the
wild beasts; and these a mere handful of men essayed to rule and
direct. They did it by setting themselves aloof, enveloping
themselves in an aura of superiority, and before their caustic
hauteur their hired butchers shrank back in perplexity. Snooper,
calm and self-assured, dealt with Lew Mecklen in just that fashion.
He ignored him. He appeared to have forgotten his existence, and
certainly he gave no sign of considering him seriously. The gunman's
words trailed away. He was up against something he couldn't
understand, and the ingrained instinct of self-preservation flared a
red danger signal before his eyes.
"Guess yew said it, boss," he muttered angrily.
Snooper did not look up until the door had closed behind the baffled
Lew. And when he spoke he made no mention of the incident; but its
effect was not lost on his audience. Only Morini was not awed--but
then, Gat Morini was nearly as intelligent as Snooper himself.
"The bomb goes off in about two hours," said Mr. Brome. "So keep
clear of Piccadilly Circus on your way home. It'll be the crowning
stroke--and the beauty of it is that we can go on dealing out
crowning strokes for weeks. We've fought off the police, we've
rescued prisoners twice, and we're killing those we've threatened as
well. At midnight we shall have caused an explosion which will
startle the country."
He stopped, intent on the vision of power that retrospection gave
him. The others, only half understanding, waited for him to speak
again.
"Arden must go--and the girl. Those are the Apex's orders. I'll
arrange that to-morrow--they're dangerous."
He tugged at the ornate fob which graced the southwest of his
abdomen, and brought into view a gold repeater.
"The Triangle's about due to speak to you himself. I've heard all
he's got to say, and I've got some work to do to-night, so I'll move
off. I'll be back later. Morini can fix the telephone."
He departed, and Morini rose to obey.
The telephone stood on a small corner table. Morini took up the
instrument and pulled out the flex from the wall plug into which it
fitted. He carried it over to a side shelf and brought back instead
a polished box lidded with ebonite, on the surface of which was an
engraved dial and two frosted bulbs. From the centre protruded the
curved horn of a loud-speaker. He plugged the terminals of a piece
of flex, which ran from the rear of the box, into the slots at the
end of the permanent telephone wiring, and connected two other wires
between the amplifier and an accumulator which he fetched from a
cupboard. The ordinary installation had now been converted into a
loud-speaking telephone, and the flat nickelled button of a small but
supersensitive microphone let into the front of the amplifier case
acted as the receptive part of the instrument.
Then the men sat round the table, conversing desultorily, to await
the voice of their leader. It is a good example of the cautious
foresight of the Apex, that orders which, if they were definitely
traced to him, would be of great assistance to the Public Prosecutor,
were invariably given by a palpably disguised voice speaking to his
subordinates from none knew where.
Presently the loud-speaker broke into that sizzling mumble which
denotes the opening of the circuit, and a moment later it spoke, with
the muffled harshness that is inseparable from electrically
transmitted speech.
"Who is there?"
They gave their names, one by one, and the numbers they held in the
organisation. There followed a pause, as though the speaker was
checking the list. Then:
"To the sixteen men who accomplished the rescue of Mecklen"--here
followed their names, read twice over--"a bonus of one hundred pounds
per man. It will be paid in a few days by Brome. I add my
congratulations on the efficiency with which the man[oe]uvre was
carried out."
A second interval, while the loud-speaker hissed quietly.
"Arden must be taken to-morrow. Brome has all instructions. The
following will report to him at Church Street, Kensington, at eight
a.m. to-morrow, to receive their orders: Lanzani, Sacco, Coles,
Horring, Manuelo, Liebessohn. I'll repeat that. Church Street,
Kensington, eight to-morrow morning: Lanzani, Sacco, Coles, Horring,
Manuelo, Liebessohn. Arden will be taken to Number Two. As soon as
that has been done, the same men will be instructed how to proceed
with the removal of Hawthorne. Is that perfectly clear,
Lanzani--Sacco--Coles?----"
One by one the six answered in the affirmative, and then there was
another silence.
"Sands!"
Birdie looked up with a start.
"Yessir?"
"Go to the cupboard between the windows. Are you there? Right.
Open it. Inside you will find a small copper vessel. Take it
out--and handle it carefully, because if you dropped it Cornwall
House would be seriously damaged. Got it?"
Birdie, after a moment's hesitation, had gingerly removed a little
calorimeter, and was holding it as far away from his body as
possible. He passed his tongue across his lips nervously.
"Yessir," he croaked.
"You have nothing to be afraid of as long as you're careful," the
Voice went on. "I have chosen you specially on account of your
delicate fingers---I shouldn't trust any of the others to move that
stuff with safety. Don't be scared. If you tremble it may slip out
of your hand. Now look at it. There's a tiny bottle inside, isn't
there, and the space between the bottle and the calorimeter is filled
with chipped ice? Good. I'll tell you why that is. That phial
contains the highest explosive known to science, but by a special
process it has been made less dangerous than it is in the ordinary
way. The only things that will detonate it now are heat--that is the
reason for the ice--or a severe shock, such as you might give it if
you let it fall. Is that clear?"
"Yessir."
"Very well. You know the _Daily Record_ offices?"
"Yessir."
"You have made yourself familiar with the appearance of John Cardan,
the editor, as you were told to--you are sure you can recognise him?"
"Yessir."
"Excellent. Then you will go at once to Ludgate Circus, taking a
ninety-six 'bus, and wait outside the office. Take the calorimeter
with you. He leaves the office between half-past eleven and
midnight. When he comes out, take the little bottle out of the ice,
and slip it into his pocket. Then walk quietly away--the explosive
will take a little time to warm, and that'll give you as long as you
need to get out of range without attracting attention. Have you got
hold of all that?"
"Yessir."
"You can keep the stuff in your pocket--the ice will make it
perfectly safe unless you should happen to fall down. Now please
tell me exactly what you are going to do."
Birdie licked his lips again, and then recited his orders haltingly.
Once or twice he was pulled up, and he was not allowed to go until he
had mastered every detail. At last the rehearsal seemed to satisfy
the Voice, and he was dismissed. He put the calorimeter with its
deadly burden into his jacket pocket, keeping his fingers round it to
prevent the ice spilling, and shuffled to the door, white-faced and
shaking.
"So long, mates," he chattered with a rickety attempt at jauntiness.
"See you all later...."
Then he was gone.
"Martinez will drive Morini down to the Embankment immediately,"
continued the Voice. "You will try to remove Inspector Teal. Morini
will shoot, and Martinez will then drive back to Buckingham Gate via
Blackfriars Bridge and Road, Lambeth Road, Lambeth High Street, Broad
Street, Prince's Road, Kennington Street, Upper Kennington Lane,
Vauxhall Bridge, Grosvenor Road, Chelsea Bridge Road. Go through
Hammersmith, circle back via Chiswick, go north through Hampstead,
and get to Buckingham Gate by way of Tottenham Court Road, Charing
Cross Road, and the Mall. I'll repeat that. Take down the important
points on a scrap of paper. Ready? Blackfriars Bridge, Lambeth,
Vauxhall Bridge, Chelsea, Hammersmith, Cheswick, Hampstead, Tottenham
Court Road. Right. One other thing. Wait till you get Teal alone.
If he comes out with Arden, follow and watch your chance. The usual
bonuses will be..."
"_Teal! Isn't radio wonderful!_" murmured a flippant voice.
Every man in the room spun round. With their backs to the door, they
had been so absorbed in the words of their Chief that they had never
noticed the faint creak of the opening door, nor the two soft paces
that had brought Storm and Teal into their presence.
They jerked round as though hot needles had been run into them, half
rising from their seats, with groping amazement in their faces. The
microphone had proved its utility, and the loud-speaker had suddenly
gone dead. The men who had been listening to it stood rooted to the
ground, petrified, while they strove to whip their minds into
grasping the situation. Storm watched them, smiling, a cigarette
between his lips, his hands deep in his pockets. Beside him, the
torpid avoirdupois of Mr. Teal leaned against the door,
expressionless of face, motionless except for the intermittent
oscillation of his inferior maxilla.
Storm's lazy grey eyes swept their blank faces.
"I hope we don't intrude!" he drawled politely.