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 _ree_minder," 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.
"Yew li'l' _runt_!"
"Lew!"
It was Morini's voice, hard and imperative. Mecklen took no notice
until the butt of a gun struck him a stinging blow between the eyes.
Lew staggered back and Morini fronted him, having reversed his
automatic to the business position.
"Gat, yew vamoose! Wot's bitin' yuh----"
"You've gone loco," Morini cut in with no suavity. "What're you
fightin' for? If the Chief heard of this you'd be fired right out
into the streets, where half the bulls in London are watching to draw
a bead on you. Out with it--what's the trouble?"
"Thet li'l' critter----"
"Well?"
But Mecklen, aware that he had made a blunder in saying even that
much, had relapsed into a glowering silence. Morini turned to Sands,
who was cringing against the wall, grasping and rubbing his throat
where Lew's fingers had left thick scarlet weals.
"What did you do, Birdie?"
Sands was crouching back, and then he made a sudden dive for the door.
"I'll show yer!" he cried, and bolted down the cellar steps.
Susan sat up with a start as the door of her cell burst open and
Birdie, wide-eyed and choking, crashed in. An instant later
Mecklen's huge form loomed in the gap, and then Morini pushed past
him.
"Don't yer worry, missy," Birdie got out tremulously. "I'll see yer
fru--I 'ad a sister, once...."
"What's this?" snapped Morini, wheeling on Mecklen.
"Wotcha think?" growled Lew surlily.
His raging eyes were alert for Morini's every movement, for he was
twice the size of the other, and the broadcasting of Susan's presence
was going to spoil Lew's plans considerably. But Morini still had
his gun, and he never gave Mecklen a chance to catch him off his
guard.
"This is the Hawthorne girl." Gat's voice was fiery. "You were told
to leave her alone. And, anyway, she was to be killed. Instead of
that, you've showed her our headquarters, and you're still keeping
her alive, so that if she got away we'd all be dished! Lew, I've a
good mind to give you yours!"
All unobserved, Birdie had edged along the wall towards the open
door. Lew and Morini stood just inside. And then Sands leapt
through the narrow gap like a fleeing rat, and was halfway up the
stairs before the other two realised that he had gone.
"Keep yer pecker up, missy!" he bawled. "I'll get the pleece!"
Morini flung up his gun, but Susan kicked the table against him as he
fired, and the shot went wide. The next moment Birdie was out of
sight, with Lew in cursing pursuit.
Susan caught Morini's wrist and wrenched it round with all her
strength. His gun clattered to the floor, and he closed with her in
a short, whirling, hand-to-hand tussle. Susan fought back at him
furiously, but the man was wiry and as slippery as an eel. In less
than a minute she found both her elbows locked behind her back.
"I know ju-jitsu too," he grunted, and kicked his fallen gun out into
the passage.
He threw her from him violently, and the door was shut and barred
from outside before she could rise again.
Birdie could run! He made the front door before Lew had reached the
head of the cellar steps, and Mecklen was left gaping at an empty
hall. Birdie had got away! Fear of what would happen if the
pickpocket reached a police station and squealed had temporarily
paralysed Lew's faculties. It took him some seconds to soak up the
immense significance of the disaster, and in that time Morini, more
agile of mind and body, had passed him at a sprint.
Birdie had tumbled down the front steps, moaning aloud with
apprehension. There wasn't much mettle in Birdie Sands--gutter-born,
gutter-reared, and gutter-minded, he was totally unfitted to play any
more blackguardly part than that of the petty sneak-thief. And what
he'd gone through that night had shivered his brittle nerves to
fragments. He'd killed a man, and you could be hanged for that....
The ghastly sight he had seen in Fleet Street haunted his vision.
And then the girl--that had been the final straw that broke him down.
The splits'd say he was a party to that crime, too. And he knew, or
divined instinctively, what fate was in store for her....
"Gawd, let me get aw'y!" he mumbled, panting. "P'r'aps they'd let me
off wiv a laggin' if I syved _'er_.... I 'ad a sister once...."
His chest felt as if it was bursting, and a steel band seemed to have
tightened round his heart. His legs were like lead. He was
travelling terribly slowly now, as though in a nightmare. Athletic
training had never entered his life, and chain-smoking had ruined
whatever natural stamina he had ever possessed. He couldn't keep up
that killing pace....
Would they follow him through the streets? The thought almost made
his knees give out like over-heated bearings. For some unknown
reason it didn't occur to him to shout for help.
Morini opened the front door and looked up and down the road. He had
moved fast. Birdie was not seventy feet away, running flat-footedly,
with his elbows splayed out and his head down, all but done in
already.
To shoot would be suicidal--it would bring the whole neighbourhood
about their ears in two shakes. Morini knew a better way than that.
He dropped his gun into his pocket and brought his hand out again
with a long, heavy, but beautifully balanced knife. He poised it in
his palm; and then, as Birdie passed under the full glare of a street
lamp, Gat's arm went back and came forward again with amazing
speed....
The knife flashed out with a low _whuu-uit_! He saw the flickering
sheen of it as it skimmed away like a darting splash of quicksilver,
saw Birdie go down with the haft of it sticking out between his
shoulder-blades, heard Birdie's shuddering scream gurgle away into an
awful sob....
Morini stepped back into the hall and closed the door without a sound.