MAHOMET AND THE MOUNTAIN
Susan had thought she would never have been able to sleep that night,
but she managed it somehow. She had waited for an hour and a half
after Morini had dashed out of the cellars, and, when he failed to
return, she lay down on the mattresses and pulled a blanket over her.
For a long time her thoughts gave her no rest. They milled and
clamoured tumultuously through her head, whirling her through mazes
of doubt and perplexity and conjuring up hideous visions to line the
route. And then, in some miraculous fashion that nevertheless seemed
eminently natural, the hullabaloo merged into a dull monotonous
humming blackness, and with a detached, infinitely distant interest
she observed herself sinking into great dark depths of fathomless
quiet....
She awoke with a start, roused by the sound of someone unbarring the
door, and looked at her watch. To her surprise she found that it was
nearly nine o'clock.
The man who entered was not Mecklen, but Morini. She was glad of
that, illogically, for, although the gentle Gat was probably as
sinister a scoundrel as Lew, he was far less obtrusively so. Mecklen
had never been a gentleman, and was therefore inclined to be somewhat
vulgar in his villainy; Morini might be more dangerous, but he was
less repulsive, and she felt more in the mood for tackling a Morini
than a Mecklen.
As it happened, however, there was nothing menacing about the
educated Gat that morning. He was carrying a tray which had been
decorated with a clean white cloth and which was laden with much more
attractive fare than Mecklen had brought her the previous night. The
coffee-pot was silver, and the jug of steaming milk was spotless;
there were two slices of toast in a rack, and eggs and bacon reposed
on a plate that was neither chipped nor cracked; he had added an
immaculate cup to replace the battered enamel mug which Mecklen had
given her, and had even remembered to include a napkin.
He gave her a polite "Good morning," and smiled as he noted her
puzzlement at the stainless furniture of his burden.
"These things belong to the Chief," he explained. "He isn't home for
breakfast, so you're in luck."
He leaned against the door and watched her eat. She was able to
muster a respectable appetite, and was especially grateful for the
refreshing heat of the coffee, for the cellars were none too warm.
The only other discomfort she had felt was a certain stiffness from
her cramped bedding, but a little free movement would soon remedy
that.
She became aware that Morini was looking at her curiously, although
he never descended to the Mecklenian coarseness of a stare, and when
she had finished she sat back and returned his gaze inquiringly. For
answer, he smiled again and extended a gold cigarette case.
"Thank you." She helped herself, and accepted the proffered match.
"The last gasper before execution, Morini?"
"It is rather like it," he admitted coolly, and glanced round the
tiny room. "Condemned cell and all--except that real condemned cells
are cleaner. I wonder if you will die to-day?"
He posed the contingency with a speculative air that was terrifyingly
humorous.
"Last night you were cursing Mecklen for not killing me," she
remarked. "Why haven't you rectified the omission?"
He twisted his mouth.
"You'd better see the Chief first, now you're here. He's due to
arrive at any minute."
He was preoccupied, as though some big problem filled his mind, and
she saw that it was useless to attempt to discover what plans had
been made for her disposal.
He picked up the tray and left her. A strange unreality had overcast
everything with a haze which prevented her from working things out
collectedly. This dispassionate discussion of murder jarred against
all canons of actuality. Even in a court of law there was some
emotion about a death sentence--one couldn't, somehow, flurry up any
panic about a threat delivered in such a matter-of-fact tone....
Morini was back in a quarter of an hour, and his face was woodenly
expressionless.
"The Chief's arrived," he said. "He wants to see you. Come along,
please."
As in a dream she followed him. He took her through the hall, and
she saw little mounds of dry earth untidily swept up into the
corners. Halfway down he opened a door, and she had a glimpse of
luxurious velvet hangings which had something familiar about them:
royal purple with golden arabesques. Suddenly she realised where it
was she had first seen those exotic decorations--the sawmill at
Billingsgate! So, somehow, the conceit of the madman had made him
take the enormous risk of stealing his gorgeous trappings away from a
place over which the police still kept watch. He had carted away the
earth that had filled the house in Buckingham Gate, packing it in
crates and removing it in lorries at dead of night, to be dumped in
the deserted quarries around Purley, simply to gratify the vanity of
his megalomaniac mind. The method of his accomplishing the feat, of
course, she could not know, but the completed fact gave her yet
another queer sidelight on his weird mentality.
Morini slipped into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar, and she
heard the brief conversation which passed between him and the man who
sat in the room.
"Here she is, Chief."
"Bring her in, then."
"Right.... Oh, by the way, Chief, Lew went slinking out to a
coffee-stall just before dawn--the darn chaw-bacon!--and he came back
through the garage. He said there was somebody skulking round in the
mews, and somebody else busy doing nothing in a doorway on the street
outside. I don't see how the 'tecs could've got a line on us, but
Lew swears to those two rubber-necks."
"There wasn't anyone about when I came in."
"Maybe it was just a couple of hoboes, boss. Lew ought to dilute it.
Just thought I'd mention it."
Morini appeared in the doorway again and beckoned the girl in. She
entered with her head held high, walking as coolly as if she were
strolling into a hat shop to take a look round. She only gave one
glance to the furnishings of the room--enough to see that it had been
fitted out into an exact replica, on a smaller scale, of the council
hall in Lower Thames Street.
Another thought occupied her mind. Two men had been stalking round
the mews early that morning, if Lew were to be believed.... Already
Storm was on the move, though she couldn't imagine how he had managed
to locate the house of her imprisonment. That was an awkward snag in
the way of rescue which hadn't occurred to her until that moment, and
she was glad it hadn't cropped up before it had been surmounted. She
had always been blessed with nerves of ice; even before the peril of
Mecklen's innuendoes she hadn't wept or gone into hysterics or lashed
around the cellar beating frantically on the walls in an ecstasy of
terror, and, now that the clouds looked like breaking in the near
future, her heart even sang a cheery refrain.
Storm was getting busy, and Storm was no moss-harvester when the fur
promised to fly.
Susan smiled in confident bravado as she turned towards the daïs she
knew she would see at the far end of the room. As in the sawmill,
the huge emblem of the Triangle was suspended a little to one side of
the throne; and, on the throne itself, sat a big built man, shabbily
clad in rough grey tweeds. She did not recognise him, for a black
felt hat was pulled down over his eyes and a black silk handkerchief
folded diagonally was tied round his head, hiding his features from
cheek bone to chin. All she could see of his face was the pale
luminous glint of his blue eyes as he gazed fixedly at her. He sat
back, with his gloved hands clasped on his knees, moveless as a
sculpture in tinted marble.
All those details she took in in that first fleeting glimpse. It was
half a second later that she saw that the Triangle was not alone on
the platform. Another man stood beside him....
It was an immaculately dressed man, tall and broad shouldered. One
hand rested arrogantly on his hip, and he was smiling a trifle
grimly. She recognised him with a thrill of amazement, which changed
instantly to a qualm of incredulous fear....
Storm came out of the Albany swinging his stick, the inevitable
cigarette lofting jauntily between his lips. To have seen him, you
would have taken him for an unusually athletic specimen of the Idle
Rich, and you would have jeered lustily at the mere suggestion of his
having any heavier cares in the world than the selection of elegant
shirtings and tasteful hosiery. In fact, an ideal model for a
portrait of one of the _jeunesse dorée_ sallying forth in quest of
the matutinal cocktail.
Huh!
Well, you hit the bull with one shot--his cares lay lightly on his
muscular shoulders; for, big as those cares were, he possessed one of
those pigeon-holed minds in the various compartments of which the
fortunate owner can always hermetically seal away anything with which
he does not want to be bothered at the moment. Storm's plan of
action was already mapped out and blue-printed; and, granted that the
other side played up in accordance with the laws of probability, that
plan was bound to succeed as far as he had designed it. True, his
scheme didn't take him all the way home; but, there again, sufficient
unto the hour was the worry thereof. Doubtless the god who watches
over all merry fools who go pelting in where archangels would
hesitate to show the tip of a wing would provide for the aftermath.
Theoretically speaking, the man who can wedge his head into a lion's
jaws can get it out again. A somewhat risky theory to put into
practice, but Storm happened to be the sort of intrepid scapegrace
who gets a kick out of fool gambles like that.
And it was all so beautifully simple. Thus far, the Mountain had
shown great enthusiasm for the company of Mahomet, but Mahomet had
steadfastly declined to visit the Mountain. In its eagerness, the
Mountain had even detached portions of itself to go in search of
Mahomet and convey him into the Presence; but Mahomet had remained
obdurate--even violently obdurate--and kept his distance. And now
the Mountain was more zealous than ever, with the difference that
Mahomet had changed his mind and had been seized with an overpowering
desire to pay a call on the Mountain. Therefore, the transition into
the presence of the said Mountain should be easy....
In Piccadilly a taxi was crawling along by the kerb very
conveniently. Behind it followed another, also seeking whom it might
transport; and, behind that one, trailed a third. In the offing was
a fourth. The ghost of a smile hovered on Storm's mouth. Verily,
the anxiety of the Mountain appeared to be exceeding great....
Without hesitation, Arden waved his stick at the leading driver, and
the taxi swung into a stop with commendable promptness. As Storm
opened the door his keen eye detected the automatic lock which nine
hundred and ninety-nine ordinary passengers out of a thousand
wouldn't have noticed; he marked also the steel netting between the
double panes of the window, and observed how neatly the sash had been
screwed up so that nothing less than a jemmy would open it. Leaning
over to give his instructions to the driver, he saw that steel
shutters had been fitted inside the cab against the glass partition
between the driver and passenger, so that the chauffeur would be in
no danger of being stuck up with a gun smashed through the glass by a
refractory prisoner.
"Number Ten, Downing Street," said Storm solemnly, and climbed in.
The driver himself, with a courtesy unwonted in taxi-drivers, got
down to make sure that the door was properly shut, and Storm guessed
that when the driver returned to his perch the automatic lock would
also be efficiently latched.
They moved off towards Piccadilly Circus, where perspiring constables
were struggling to man[oe]uvre a dense millipede of cursing traffic
round the narrow gallery which was all the route that was navigable
until the hordes of navvies who were even then at work had repaired
some of the damage done by the last night's explosion. Kit sat back
comfortably, crushed out the butt of his cigarette beneath his heel,
and lighted a second. Looking through the wire-netted window at the
back, he saw that another taxi, empty but with its flag down, tailed
along in the rear. He could identify the chauffeur--an
unsavoury-looking thug whose license had been suspended indefinitely
some months ago after a curious accident which had attracted the
fruitless attention of the Public Prosecutor.
Satisfied that his head was well and truly padlocked between the jaws
of a particularly ferocious lion, Storm searched the interior of his
own cab for any possible booby traps. A careful examination,
however, disclosed nothing more deadly than a small spanner under the
carpet, and the speaking tube which communicated with the driver. He
did not put an agile employed of chloroform, or even some more subtle
gas, beyond the resources of the Triangle, and therefore he plugged
the mouthpiece of the tube with a handkerchief packed in as tightly
as his strong fingers could jam it. So far everything had been
admirably plain sailing, even if a shade too close to the wind to
suit the nervy, and it wouldn't do to have everything messed up by
sleep dope. But, now that he was sure there was no secret gas inlet,
he composedly devoted himself to blowing smoke rings and
wondering--the truth must be told--exactly how long it took one to
get married in England. The precariousness of his present position
left him unruffled. He was virtually a captive, on his way to a
personal interview with the Big Triangle, and that was exactly what
he had wanted; for Mahomet hadn't the foggiest notion where to find
the Mountain unless he was taken there. Storm had got his ambition,
and the Apex had got his--whether the Triangle would be satisfied
with the one hundred and seventy pounds of consolidated Gehenna they
had collected remained to be seen....
"We are now," mused Storm lightly, "fairly and squarely in the cart.
It happens to be a non-stop bus, and only runs one way....
_Jee_-ru-sa-lem!"
He was not interested in their progress down Haymarket and into
Trafalgar Square, but when the taxi cut round into the Mall he sat up
and began to take notice. It occurred to him that a little realism
might be introduced into the entertainment at this juncture, and he
began to hammer on the steel shutters and rattle the locked doors.
The taxi continued on its way unheeding. After a moment's thought he
pulled his big automatic, smashed the right-hand window with the
butt, and got his fingers behind the netting which intervened against
the second pane. Strong as he was, he could not dislodge it, so,
instead, he twisted the muzzle of his gun through the mesh and sent a
bullet snarling past the chauffeur's ear. The cab swerved and then
accelerated vigorously, and he sank back on the seat again with a
soft laugh.
He had not fired to raise an alarm, but he saw immediately the
measures which had been provided to deal with him if he had attempted
to do so in earnest. The taxi which followed them drew quickly
abreast, and he caught sight of Lew Mecklen leaning out of the
window. He thought of pipping Lew through the neck, _pour encourager
les autres_, but before he could put his idea into effect Mecklen
swung up a syringe which resembled a chemical fire extinguisher.
There was a sharp hiss, and a cloud of acrid spray billowed into the
cab.
For a moment nothing happened, and then Storm reeled, gasping, into
the far corner. His nostrils stung with the pungent fumes of liquid
ammonia, he choked and coughed and writhed, his eyes were a streaming
agony of blindness. "Yew try again, ya big cheese," taunted Lew from
the other taxi. "Try again, ya big stiff, an' I'll flop yuh wit'
anot'er squoit--jest fer bendin' some lead into ole Lew's leg, youse!"
"All right, ole Lew," muttered Storm, panting. "We'll argue about
that later! Hully gee--that stuff's worse than slumber mixture!"
He took no more pot shots, but concentrated on getting the pain out
of his eyes and regaining vision, for he badly wanted to know where
they were taking him, and he had no wish at all to be helpless when
they brought him into the presence of the Apex. When he could see
again, he found that they were travelling down a street of imposing,
austere houses, and it was only a couple of seconds before he had
oriented himself. He saw Wellington Barracks on his left, and half a
minute later the taxi whisked down a side street and turned into a
mews, Mecklen's cab following. The second cab stopped, Lew got down
and opened the door of one of the garages, and Storm was driven right
in. Through the back window Kit saw the door barred behind them, and
then Mecklen came round and poked the nozzle of his ammonia syringe
through the broken window.
"T'row out yore gat," he commanded.
"I can't unless you open something," Storm pointed out.
This fact hadn't occurred to Lew, and after a while the door was
moved a cautious three inches.
"T'row it out."
Storm obeyed, and the door was fully opened and the ammonia jet stuck
into his face.
"Git down--an' no rough stuff, or I'll draown yuh wit' this."
Storm got out, smiling amusedly at the apprehensive care with which
Lew trained the spray on his every movement. Storm's jaw was thrust
forward, his cigarette canted almost vertically, his lips, drawn up
at the corners, showed a gleam of white teeth. Everything functioned
exactly as per invoice. He was in the enemy's camp, and every muscle
in his body was tingling with joyous anticipation.
"Frisk 'im," snapped Mecklen.
Arden opened his arms as a habitual criminal does in the police
station, and the first taxi-driver came up and searched him. The
taxi-driver was not gentle or squeamish, for the bullet which had
zipped past his ear had alarmed him considerably, and he made what he
thought was a thorough fanning. That he found nothing was not his
fault; he even prodded Storm in the small of the back, doubtless with
memories of the Marlborough Street episode, but drew blank. Storm
had sixteen-inch biceps, and the chain mail he wore effectively
disguised the outline of his arm-holsters. At length the chauffeur
stepped back and signified that he was satisfied, but Lew did not
lower the squirt.
"Over thar--by thet cupboard," he ordered. "Start anyt'ing, an' I'll
douse yuh!"
"You're mad as a meat-axe, Lew," said Storm commiseratingly. "I want
to see the Big Triangle first. You flatter yourself! I guess I can
kill you any time."
"Yah!" sneered the gunman, and Storm winced.
"You do make vulgar noises, Lew," he protested mildly.
Mecklen leaned over the syringe he still pointed at Kit's face.
"Listen, buddy. Thet heavy date o' yores is hyar, an' yew kin tell
her ole Lew's sweet on her. We got the moll right hyar, an' she'll
never git out again."
"That's why I came," said Storm calmly.
Mecklen scowled. As we have seen, he was not a man of high
intellect, and Storm's frigid imperturbability made him uneasy. Like
the armour of assurance which enveloped Snooper Brome, it was
something which he couldn't deal with. It was as hopelessly out of
his depth as the fourth dimension. Every way of attack he tried he
came up against those invisible spikes, and bafflement filled him
with futile anger.
"I was told ter kill her, but I jest brought her home an' necked her.
Don't that make yuh feel glad?"
"Not half so glad as you'll feel when I shoot you through the stomach
instead of through the heart!"
"Last night she gimme the air, but before I'm t'rough she'll be proud
ter marry me," persisted Lew.
Storm rolled his cigarette across to the other corner of his mouth.
"Loud cheers!" he drawled. "Going to reform, are you?"
One of the chauffeurs had opened up the panel at the back of the tire
cupboard, and was standing waiting by the gap. Mecklen jerked his
head towards the tunnel.
"In wit' yuh!"
"Sure!"
But Storm paused before stooping in, for the glaring hate in the
gunman's eyes had roused in him an irresistible temptation to add a
final tab to his brief baiting of that unlovable murderer.
"You know, Lew," he murmured affably, "every day and in every way you
grow more and more like an overfed dog-louse!"
Then he entered the passage, and as he went Mecklen landed out a
vicious kick. Storm never stopped or looked round. Mecklen would
keep a little longer. Kissed Susan, had he? Arden reckoned that
that kiss would turn out to be the most expensive one in Lew's
amorous career. As for the kick, that would only add extra zest to
the extraction of due payment. Lew's shins were within easy reach of
a smart backward hack, but Storm deemed it inadvisable to court a
fresh shower of ammonia, for he knew he would need all his faculties
to be at concert pitch during the next hour or two, and his eyes were
still twinging from the effects of the first dose he had received.
They emerged into the cellars, and one chauffeur led the way to the
stairs. Halfway across, Storm's foot brushed against something which
went rattling across the stone floor, so that Lew and the other man
pulled up with a start.
"Only a mouse," said Storm genially. "I'll hold your hands if you're
scared."
"What was it?" demanded Mecklen sharply.
He was peering around fearfully, and presently he saw what had made
the noise--a fountain pen heavily encrusted with gold work. He
picked it up and looked at it suspiciously.
"Thet yores, Arden?"
"Oh, yes," said Storm boredly. "Combination turnip-slicer,
gramophone, trouser-press and portable aeroplane."
He reached out a hand for it, but Mecklen thrust the pen into a
pocket and pushed him away.
"Keep movin'," he growled. "Funny, ain't yuh? Mebbe yew'll be sick
presently."
"I shall if I see much more of you," remarked Storm crudely.
"One day," threatened Lew sullenly, "I'm gonna make yuh wish yew'd
never bin born. Yew flap yore mouth too much. I'm gonna----"
"I'll be there," yawned Storm, and Mecklen relapsed into a pugnacious
silence.
As Storm climbed the steps an odd, dancing, metallic laughter
glittered in his grey eyes. That fountain pen had given an entirely
new twist to the situation, and as yet he was unable to gauge whether
the twist was going to be big or small. For Storm knew and had
recognised the ornate filigree with which the pen was embellished,
and he wondered what business James Norman Mattock might have in
Buckingham Gate that morning.