Daredevil
matches to her right-hand jacket pocket--and kept her hand there.
The bright light searched their faces.
"Who are you?" demanded a cultured voice with only a slight accent.
"I don't know you."
"I know 'em," said another, and added a few words she could not
interpret.
The frosted bulb overhead woke to life, and they were relieved of the
merciless glare of the interrogator's spotlight. She looked about
for the one who had claimed to know them, but none of that
dishevelled dozen seemed likely to possess so smooth a voice. And
then he spoke again--a man clad only in his trousers and a greasy
singlet, who stood half a head above the rest.
"They are special messengers of the Apex. Who admitted them?"
"I did." It was the janitor, whom she had not recognised through the
smears of engine oil which disfigured his face, who spoke. "Zat was
'ow zey zemselves called. Ze beeg one 'ave ask for Morini, and ze
mignon for Prestaire Jean."
"That's in order. John and Morini won't be here to-night--I know
where to find them. You'd better go."
It was a miracle to Susan, for the man's face was unknown to her.
And yet there was something vaguely familiar about the cast of it.
Just that indefinable carriage of the broad shoulders, the lithe
swing of the powerful arms--and yet the lank, oily black hair struck
no chord in her memory. She looked at his eyes more closely ...
_gun-metal grey_....
Surely only one man in the world had eyes of the curious tint, and,
taken with the other resemblances in poise of head and general
bearing....
He met her gaze calmly, and she could have sworn that the flicker of
a smile feinted at the corners of his mouth.
"I'll go with you, if you like to wait a minute," he said. "I'll
just get my coat."
A few seconds later he was back, folding a scarf round his bare
throat and buttoning his coat tightly around it. Only one man
returned with him, as if receiving his final instructions, and now
that she had caught an answering "_Si señor_," she gathered that they
were speaking in Spanish.
The man unbarred the front door for them, and they passed out, Storm
going last. A curt exchange of "_Buenos noches_," and the bolts
slithered home on the inside.
Storm led them briskly to the corner of the block and halted.
"Now," he ordered, "you can get in a taxi and go home, and thank your
gods you're going to bed alive!"
"There's a tunnel," Joe began excitedly, but Storm cut him short.
"I know all about the tunnel, and about the synthetic mosque, and
about the power plant, _and_ about the doss-house crew, and about the
arsenal," was his categorical retort. "I also know that there isn't
going to be a second Battle of Sidney Street if I can help it. Our
separate bluffs may be shown up at any moment, and then there'll be
Hell to pay! I've got to get busy, and you'll hinder me. Step on
it!"
"But can't I stay and see the----"
"Nope! Vamos!"
Joe looked hurt.
"This is the first time I've ever been near any excitement," he
protested weakly.
"_Get--in--a--taxi--and--beat it_," snarled Storm, and Blaythwayt
moved aggrievedly away.
The girl had watched this brief encounter in amusement blended with
annoyance. After all, it was only luck that had put Storm on the
spot at the same time as herself, and it wasn't fair. She had taken
exactly the same risks as if he had been a hundred miles away, and
she wasn't going to be cheated out of her reward.
"All right--we'll beat it," she said defiantly. "But we'll come
back!"
"Let me see you, and you'll spend the night in a police station!"
Storm flung at them over his shoulder as he strode away.
From the Custom House he phoned the nearest Division and rapped out
his requirements in terse, staccato sentences. Then he got through
to the Yard, and tried to get Inspector Teal, but Teal, tired of
waiting, had gone home to bed. Storm called a third number, and
presently the detective's drowsy grumble answered him.
"Come right down to the Sud-Scandinavia Sawmill in Lower Thames
Street," he directed. "There's going to be fun!"
"Is that Raegenssen's place?" Teal's voice took on a more alert note.
"Yeh! I've sent a man round to take him, though I doubt if Olaf's
still rooted in Finchley. Flying Squad and all divisional reserves
are on their way. Bring a gun. The mill's like a fort, and there's
over a hundred roughnecks inside. Now burn the roads!"
In less than half an hour the first detachment of urgently summoned
men had arrived, and thereafter reinforcements kept coming in
batches--broad-shouldered, phlegmatic men who took the unusual
circumstances with great philosophy, as though it were merely a
slight deviation from routine. Some were in uniform--these had been
hurriedly called in from minor duties--the rest were in plain
clothes. All were armed, in accordance with Storm's telephoned
warning.
Knowing that precipitancy might be fatal, he waited until he had
mustered a hundred men. Seventy of these he told off to draw an
inconspicuous cordon round the whole block, and thirty he sent down
to cover the Tube bolt-hole at London Bridge Station. A batch of
twenty of the Flying Squad arriving in a van at that moment, he sent
them on to occupy a similar position at Bank Station. The mention of
the word flashed a blaze of inspiration across his mind.
"Bank!" he repeated to himself. "Jerusalem, what a man!"
It would be some time before the men could take up their stations,
and he filled in the period of inaction by smoking a cigarette with
calm enjoyment, and discussing the probable result of a local
bye-election with a night watchman.
On the stroke of 3.45 he trod out his cigarette end, bade the
watchman a cheery good-night, and made a supplementary disposition of
the men who had reached the Custom House in the meanwhile. He was
just leaving when Inspector Teal dashed up in a taxi, the disarray of
his attire testifying to the haste of his start.
"In time?" queried that officer swiftly, and Storm nodded.
"To the tick. We are now going into action."
They walked together to Raegenssen's block. It was just getting
light.
Storm paused before the door and lighted another cigarette. Then he
jerked back the jacket of his automatic, slipped the safety catch,
and pushed Teal to one side.
"No use both of us being shot up," he said, and pressed the bell.
This time there was little delay. The muffled foot-steps of the
French janitor came down the passage; the three-inch bars swished
back in their steel grooves; the lock clicked. As before, the door
swung back a bare, suspicious two inches.
Storm moved so that the light from the gas jet overhead fell across
his face, and the door opened wider as the man recognised him.
Storm pushed into the gap, blocking the door open with his foot. The
surprised janitor felt a sinewy hand grasp his windpipe caressingly,
and a menace he understood equally well glinted before his eyes.
"_Sois sage--et vis!_" hissed Storm in his ear, and the man signified
his acceptance of this advice.
He was handed back to Mr. Teal, who in turn passed him on to a bulky
shadow which rose from the ground.
Storm, with Teal hard on his heels, led the way into the building,
and a number of dim shapes materialised from the adjoining alley and
followed them. So far, all had been admirably plain sailing, but
luck was not with them that night. Storm was groping round for the
switch which controlled the corridor light, when an over-eager
constable tripped over the doorstep and crashed down among his
fellows. The thud sounded like a detonation in the silence, and Teal
turned and cursed the offender in pregnant whispers. Storm found the
lever he sought, and pulled it down.
"Teal--left-hand door," he called. "This way, some of you boys!"
He himself turned the handle of the right-hand door and kicked it
open. The men were pouring into the passage behind him.
He saw how much that fall had cost them, and sprang into the room.
There was another door to it, and most of the roughnecks had already
passed through it. Scarcely half a dozen were left, scrambling to
get through. Storm caught the hindmost and tripped him. A couple of
burly forms promptly sat on the prostrate one.
The next instant something banged close to Storm's head, and he felt
the wind of the bullet and jumped back, drawing as he did so.
The panic had stopped suddenly. The half-dozen who had been fighting
to get through the second door were now filing out in an orderly
manner, and every one of them was armed. The men behind Storm
hesitated for a second, for the London bobby is not anxious to use
firearms, and it seemed to be the only course left open. They were
waiting for orders, and Storm, having none of their scruples, roared
them on.
"Feet--first round--don't hit 'em!" he snapped, and a volley rang out.
The retreating men retaliated on the echo, shooting in deadly
earnest, and Storm heard the cries of the stricken men behind him.
He fired back himself, gunning now to wound, and saw a man drop with
a scream. But the retaliatory salvo had done its work; and in the
momentary consternation, before the officers could return the fire,
those who were left of the half-dozen won through the door.
Storm reached it a second late, and it slammed in his face. On the
other side a bar thudded home.
"The table--smash it in!" he ordered.
While they battered at the thick wood he left the room and crossed
the passage to see how Inspector Teal was faring. Teal had been
more, and at the same time less, fortunate. He had no casualties,
but the reason was that those who had occupied the room had escaped
too swiftly for him, and the way of pursuit was barred by a door on
which his men were already working.
"Heaven knows where these let out," said Storm. "It may be the
tunnel, of course. Here--bring three of your men and we'll go and
see."
They sprinted down the corridor, and so bore the brunt of the flank
attack which the Triangle, with amazing daring and presence of mind,
had organised. Just as they turned the angle of the passage an armed
mob streamed from a side door and let fly at them on sight.
The five dodged back behind the bend, and, leaning over each other,
fired from cover. The police were shooting to kill now, and in the
face of that withering hurricane of death the assault faltered and
broke.
The survivors retreated to the door through which they had come, and
Storm caught Teal by the arm.
"Great stuff! Go back and get the others; just leave a few on guard
in the rooms. Oh, and whistle more men in from the outside."
Teal departed obediently, and Storm coolly reloaded. He was
breathing evenly, and there was hardly a flush on his face. On an
impulse he decided to reconnoitre upstairs, and thereby saved his
life.
He was half-way up when the door below him opened and a man appeared.
In a moment the apparition had vanished again, but Storm had seen the
round black object that had been flung towards the angle he had just
quitted. He yelled a warning, and at the same time fired through the
door. He heard a bellow of pain, and gathered that his random shot
had found a billet. Then the bomb exploded.
Lying flat on the stairs, he blazed between the banisters at the
second mass which crowded out to attack, until his automatic clicked
on an empty magazine. By this time a fresh contingent had arrived
under Inspector Teal, and once again the onslaught was repulsed with
losses on each side. But now, instead of retiring to their door,
most of the party broke for the stairs, running the gauntlet of the
police fire.
Storm leapt up ahead of them, for there was no hope of resistance:
there must have been fully eighty men in that solid pack. He had