Daredevil
She could not understand his hesitation, until she turned and saw
Terry and Ann standing behind her. Terry was looking grave.
"Shall I go with you?" he asked gently, but she shook her head.
"I'll go alone--I'd rather," she said.
He nodded understandingly, and she rushed down the steps and climbed
into the car. The policeman followed. In an instant the subdued
mutter of the engine had risen to a deafening roar, and, as the man
let in the clutch, the Hirondel leapt off like an unleashed
greyhound, They swung into the Park at Grosvenor Gate, and as they
emerged at Hyde Park Corner they saw that, diminished as the traffic
was at that hour, the wreckage of Piccadilly Circus had caused a
block which was already spreading nearly to Park Lane. It was with
some difficulty that they threaded their way through the press.
To the girl's inquiries the driver answered only in gruff
monosyllables, and she was reduced to picturing to herself what might
have befallen Storm. It was anguishing to think of--Storm, the
debonair and strong and athletic--now, perhaps, only a crushed,
mutilated travesty of life. A quiver of fear touched her lips, and
then with a conscious gesture she tossed her head erect and sat
stiffly motionless. Courage! ... She must have courage.... He had
always so despised cowardice, been so scathingly contemptuous of
people who trembled and shook at the knees and whined whenever they
came up against the toughness and ugliness of the world.
She had hardly noticed their man[oe]uvring through the gyratory
system at the triangular junction of Piccadilly, Knightsbridge and
Grosvenor Place; but the lurch of the car turning suddenly recalled
her to her surroundings. And with a shock she realised that they had
diverged to the left and were racing down Constitution Hill with the
Hirondel's cut-out closed down until the engine made no more than a
whispering drone which attracted no attention.
She caught at the arm of the uniformed man beside her.
"What's the idea?" she demanded sharply. "You said St. George's
Hospital----"
For answer, his left hand came off the steering-wheel and his arm
whipped behind her shoulders. His hand came under her chin, and she
felt his thick fingers close upon her throat.
"Never yew worry what I said," hissed Lew Mecklen in her ear; and,
now that he made no attempt to disguise his voice, his nasal twang
shrieked a heart-stopping menace at her. "Yew're comin' whar I want
yuh, an' ef yew scream I'll throttle yuh!"
CHAPTER XXI
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