Daredevil
"I'd like you to move in to-day," he said. "I'm sorry if that rushes
you, but you've got to realise that there is a certain amount of
danger, and if you're killed or anything, I shall get it in the neck.
I'll give Terry a ring, and he'll come round and fix everything for
you. He loves work," added Storm mendaciously.
"I suppose it can be managed," she said, for in spite of his
flippancy she recognised his determination, and knew of old the
futility of opposing him. Also, when Storm gave orders he had an
uncanny knack of being always right.
"Do we lunch with Uncle Joe?" he teased her.
"I shall probably lunch with Mr. Mannering," she mocked him back.
"No, really, I'm sorry you're in such a hurry for me to move. I
wanted to go to Moraine's and see the jewels."
"What jewels?"
"Haven't you seen the papers?"
"Haven't had time yet, I usually breakfast in pyjamas, if that
personal detail interests you. Getting up so early to go out to
breakfast spoilt my interest in the latest horrors other people have
been suffering! I'll get hold of Terry now--and I'll be round with
him. That boy wants watching!"
He hung up the receiver and took the paper from Teal's hand. The
detective, with a perspicacity which indicated that he had not turned
a politely deaf ear to the telephone conversation, had already found
the place and folded the sheet so as to display it. It was an
announcement that the final instalment of the Russian Crown jewels
were to be sold by auction at Moraine's on the morrow, and would be
on view from ten to four on this particular day, and for one day
only. The regalia had already been broken up, and the stones alone,
valued at something like four hundred thousand pounds, would be sold.
"That's a lot of money," murmured Storm thoughtfully. "Teal, get on
the 'phone and find out how many men are watching Moraine's."
Mr. Teal obeyed heavily, and in a few moments he had the required
information. He cupped one hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone
and imparted the facts without interest.
"Eight?" repeated Storm. "That's a hell of a lot--I don't think!
Tell 'em to turn out the reserves. I want fifty men at Moraine's in
thirty minutes, and they've got to be armed!"
CHAPTER VII
ROBBERY OVER ARMS
"The car's in Cannon Row," said Storm, and led the way down the stone
stairs.
Just before they came into view from the street he stopped in the
corridor, fished out his cigarette case, and selected a slender
cylinder with elaborate care.
"I think I'm considered the most important, Teal," he remarked. "So
you'll stand in the doorway while I go down to the car--and you'll
shoot first!"
Mr. Teal nodded, and Storm lighted his cigarette as calmly as though
he was about to stroll out of a theatre during the interval. Then,
with a gay wave of his hand to the grim detective, he stepped out
into the bright sunlight and began to walk towards the Hirondel.
He fully expected that an attempt would be made on his life, but the
manner of it came as a complete surprise. He had covered half the
distance when he heard a warning yell from Teal, which, even in those
circumstances, was unlike that placid gentleman; for Inspector Teal
was accounted the best revolver shot in the Force. An instinct that
had lain dormant since 1918 made him fling himself to the ground, and
as he did so Teal's gun cracked viciously. Practically on the
instant, there came a detonation that surged staggeringly, and
clanged with savage force back from the stone walls of the building.
Deafened and half-stunned, he sensed dimly a chorus of shouts and one
shrill scream, and something hummed menacingly over his body.
Then he stumbled to his feet, mechanically brushing the dust from his
clothes.
In the roadway was a Thing which, presumably, had once been a man.
Inspector Teal was coming imperturbably towards him, pocketing his
revolver with an air of duty well done. Further from the Thing were
a couple of moaning figures, around which a crowd was rapidly
collecting....
"A Mills bomb," said Teal unemotionally.
Two men who had been passing at the time were terribly injured, and
an elderly lady was leaning against a convenient lamp-post having
hysterics. Storm saw the ambulance arrive and superintended the
removal of the wounded men, and then he made an inspection of the
car. It had been between himself and the bursting bomb, and
undoubtedly it had saved his life. The coachwork on one side was
battered and torn in great gaping holes, but, miraculously, the tires
and the engine had escaped.
He climbed in, lighted a fresh cigarette to replace the one he had
lost, and Teal followed him.
"Like to insure my life, Teal?" Storm murmured lightly. "You might
make enough to retire on in a few days."
"I'll go first next time, sir," said the sporting Mr. Teal, and the
two men solemnly shook hands.
Storm drove the car to Moraine's and affected a sublime indifference
to the curious glances which followed the progress of the damaged
relic of what had once been a glorious shining Hirondel.
All the world knows Moraine's, the inconspicuous house where
priceless art treasures change hands, and the bidding rises in
thousands of pounds. To Moraine's come the wealthy connoisseurs and
their resplendent wives, with a small sprinkling of gaping
sightseers, awing themselves with the sight of so much concentrated
wealth, and a few optimistic ladies and gentlemen of irregular
notions anent the laws of property, whose dream it is that one day
they will arrange a coup on the premises. That they do not is due to
the foresight of the architect who designed the showroom--a lofty
hall of glass and marble, roughly square in shape, and set in the
centre of the building, with no windows for the cruder criminals to
attempt to smash, too severely furnished for the more nimble to find
cover in at closing time, too solidly built for the violent to break
into with high explosive. It is a room of fearful silences, where
every whisper rings out like a clarion, and the intruder moves
delicately on the unpurchasable crimson carpet that hides most of the
tiled floor--for fear of offending the giant flunkeys who stand
statuesquely, one on each side of each of the three portals (it would
be sacrilege to describe these masterpieces as "doors") in all the
glory of their gold and scarlet livery.
But Storm and Teal had small leisure to absorb all this vision of
magnificence. Outside they had seen little knots of variously
dressed stalwart men standing chatting, men who scarcely spared them
a glance; or, if they did, gave no sign of recognition. Inside,
grouped about the doors, were similar men; and yet more moved
unostentatiously about the room, peering idly at the glittering gems
displayed in the long glass case that ran down the centre of the hall.
"Four hundred thousand pounds," said Storm. "Teal, wouldn't you sell
your soul for the brains of the Triangle!"
Among the crowd Mr. Teal caught sight of an old friend, and flowed
irresistibly towards him. The friend so recognised suddenly
remembered an urgent appointment elsewhere, but the vast form of the
detective effectively barred his path.
"Hullo, Birdie," he drawled. "How's trade?"
"You're making a mistake, Mr. Teal," said the little man with
dignity. "I'm an honest man. Them jools"--he jerked a contemptuous
thumb in the direction of the showcase--"them jools are beautiful,
but my interest is solely that of the connosewer."
Birdie Sands was playing his "gentleman act," a device he adopted
automatically when accused of anything. Mr. Teal, however, remained
unimpressed.
"Oh, no, Birdie, you naughty, wicked man!" he said genially, "I won't
believe you've degenerated that much. Not when you see as much of
Snooper as you do. What does the Good Book say? 'Snooper finds some
mischief still for Birdie Sands to do.' Birdie, go home!"
"As a lore-abiding citizen an' a man of edjucation," Birdie began
haughtily--but Teal was in no mood for wasting time.
He signed to one of the "connosewers" who was loafing near by, and a
protesting Birdie was taken gently but firmly by the arm and
conducted towards the open air. Following which Teal, with intent to
continue his clean-up, looked around him for a fresh victim.
He never accomplished his ambition.
Startlingly loud above the hushed whispering of the crowd a voice
rang out in a curt command:
"Everybody will now stand perfectly still and keep silence!"
Teal swung round, his hand moving instinctively to his hip. It
stayed abruptly, for he saw the means there were for enforcing the
order. At one end of the room stood six men, in line, their right
hands held high above their heads. And in every one of those hands
was something round and black and shining.
"Shades of Mills!" breathed Teal.
The leader spoke again:
"These are Mills bombs. The pins are out, and at the first sign of
resistance they will be thrown. Also, if any one of us is shot, his
bomb will, of course, explode when he falls. Please be sensible. We
do not wish to shed blood unnecessarily."
The detectives, uncertain, looked to Storm for their cue. He only
hesitated for a second, and then he gave them their instructions in a
clear voice.
"You will all obey that order. Carry on, Gat!"
Three of the men handed their bombs to their companions and moved
towards the glass cases. The other three, now holding a bomb in each
hand, stood motionless.
"Everybody will now move down to the far end of the room," said Gat
Morini. "The officers of the law, except Mr. Teal and Captain Arden,
will be at the back of the crowd. If a bomb has to be thrown, I
should dislike having to hurt any policemen or any of my assistants."
Storm, standing well to the front, was coolly lighting a cigarette.
That amazing young man was smiling, and the hand that held the match
was coldly steady as an iceberg. He looked at Teal, and found that
the detective was flushed and shaking with rage. Teal's vanity was
an unsuspected tender spot, and there was no doubt that the barefaced
effrontery of the gang in so holding up a squad of detectives was
likely to strike him with apoplexy.
"Can't anything be done, sir?" he pleaded unsteadily. "There's about
thirty armed men behind us, and we're helpless!"
"And there's about sixty civilians, male and female," Storm told him,
"who'll get where the bottle got the cork if we start any funny stuff
and bombs go flying about! And they will throw 'em--you can invest
your hosiery in that!"
Teal shook his head despondently.
"This'll be the end of both of us," he said. "What in hell's
happened to those dear friends outside?"
He did not say "dear friends."
Storm shrugged. A bag had been produced, and the three men in the
centre of the room were gathering up the jewels and packing them
quickly and carefully away. One by one they emptied the cases, and
the bag grew heavy and bulging. They were working on the last case
when an interruption occurred. One of the guards from the street
came to the entrance.
The whole thing was perfectly planned. The three unarmed men hardly
looked up from their task. One of those who held bombs turned with
one arm threateningly drawn back as the detective, swiftly
comprehending the scene, made a swift movement of his right hand.
The other two continued to menace the crowd huddled together at the
far end of the room.
"Don't shoot!" rapped Storm, and the man's hand fell to his side.
He was passed back to his comrades behind the crowd of frightened men
and women, and the despoiling of the last case went on without a
break. The Triangle had allowed for all contingencies, and every
counter-move had been designed and rehearsed to perfection, so that