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!"