Daredevil
bedroom, Storm went around to the adjoining bathroom, climbed out of
the window, and edged his way perilously along a two-inch ledge with
the assistance of a rickety drainpipe. He came back to report that
the room was empty.
"He must be out," Susan said. "It never occurred to me, though--he
generally tells me where and when he's going so that any important
messages can be sent on."
"Did he always lock his bedroom?" asked Storm, and she nodded.
"He had a safe there with all his private papers. The room's always
locked as soon as his valet has swept it out to make the bed."
"Let's hope it wasn't burgled," said Teal. "Didn't you say there
were two men at the back door?"
They went round to the back, and the detective made an inspection
with the aid of his pocket torch. The door had been burst open with
a jemmy of a peculiar pattern, and Inspector Teal examined the marks
with a professional eye.
"That's Prester John's work," he declared. "I know that jemmy of
his--he invented it himself, and it's guaranteed to make a safe look
like a sardine tin."
"Get back to the Yard and send an all-station call for Morini and
John," instructed Storm. "Send Henderson up here for the rest of the
night, and tell Rankin to be ready to relieve him at eight to-morrow.
Find out where they took Mecklen, and ring me here. I'll wait till
Henderson arrives.... There mayn't be another attempt to-night, but
if there are any strategists on the staff of the Triangle there may
be. Oh, and tell Henderson to bring some burglarious gadgets along
with him--I want to see if that safe's all right. I can't get in
through the window--there's a patent fastening inside, and not enough
handhold outside for an athletic fly."
When the detective had gone, he made a careful round of the room, but
found nothing. Then he turned to the girl.
"I don't know what it is you're supposed to have discovered," he
said, "but there's a bad hombre in the background who seems to think
you spoil the view! Can you remember anything unusual you've come
across in Hannassay's papers?"
She thought for a moment.
"No.... Well, yes, a few days ago he made me search his files for
something about a man named Mattock. Somebody who forged a cheque
with Lord Hannassay's signature and was caught and sent to prison."
"Did you mention that to anyone?"
"I did, as a matter of fact, though I suppose I shouldn't have. It
was an uncle of mine on my mother's side--I didn't know where he was,
but in the City the other day I ran into Uncle Joe and he made me
have lunch with him. He always was interested in crime, and of
course he started talking about it almost immediately. Then I
happened to mention Mattock's dossier, and he seemed awfully
interested--but Uncle Joe's interested in the weirdest things."
"Uncle Joe who?" Storm asked.
"Blaythwayt. He's got a job as manager----"
"Of the City and Continental Bank, Lombard Street, which same firm is
honoured with the account of Olaf the Seabird. Je-rusalem! Things
do run in circles! Why isn't this Regent's Park?"
Just before Henderson arrived a call came through on the upstairs
telephone, and Storm learned that Lew Mecklen had been taken to St.
George's Hospital suffering from nothing more serious than a flesh
wound in the thigh, and that a detective was already guarding him.
So far he had refused to make any statement.
"I'll see him first thing to-morrow," said Storm. "Get hold of the
Assistant Commissioner. Lew must be charged to-morrow morning."
He shook hands with Henderson and led the way upstairs. From the
detective he received a small leather wallet of fine steel tools and
reviewed them critically.
"Anyone might think I was going to smash a strongroom," he murmured.
"Gather round for a demonstration of expert yeggship!"
It took him only a couple of minutes to manipulate the lock, and then
he straightened himself and pushed open the door.
The safe was untouched, and nothing appeared to have been disturbed.
"This is not exciting," he remarked, and re-locked the door on the
outside with his instruments.
They returned to the library, and he gave Henderson his instructions.
"Of course, it's all wrong," he concluded. "The Triangle are so keen
on broadcasting their visiting cards--why haven't we got a memento of
their call?"
While Henderson talked to the girl, Storm embarked on a fresh search
of the house. He combed every inch of every room and corridor, and
was raking the study upstairs when Lord Hannassay himself arrived.
Storm heard the voices downstairs, and came down with the irritating
belief that he had overlooked something. As a matter of fact, he
had, for as he descended the stairs he saw something gleaming at the
edge of the rug in the hall.
It was a silver triangle similar to the one Inspector Teal had showed
him, and had obviously been kicked out of sight when they charged
in--it was barely visible except when it caught the light in a
certain way.
Susan was just telling Lord Hannassay her story when Storm stroked in.
"Look for the trade mark on every genuine article," he said. "I hate
these anonymous presents!"
He held out the token in one triumphant palm as he spoke, and the
peer turned to greet him with a smile.
"Oh, Captain Arden----"
His voice trailed away, and they saw him suddenly go white.
Henderson was just in time to catch him as he fell.
Inspector Teal stood on the threshold, a burly figure, hat in hand.
"I just dropped in----" he was starting to explain, and then he
caught sight of the limp form in Henderson's arms and his jaw dropped.
Storm put an arm around Hannassay and brushed Henderson aside. Then
he jerked the unconscious man from the floor and, heavy as he was,
carried him without any apparent effort to the chesterfield.
He left the two detectives to apply restoratives, and led the girl
over to the window.
Storm was the last man on earth she would ever have associated with
nerves. He was too essentially virile--dynamic--and there was too
much grim strength in every line of his lean, tanned face. His eyes
were as cold and steady as chilled granite, and his every least
movement showed the supple grace of the born fighting man. And yet
the hand he laid on her arm trembled, and when he spoke she was
amazed to detect the faintest unevenness in his voice.
"Hannassay fainted as though he'd seen a ghost, didn't he?" he said.
"And I know the ghost. My God!---- Life's queer!"
"Was it the Triangle you showed him?" she asked.
He shook his head, and his white teeth gleamed in a mirthless smile.
"The Triangle brought it, but the ghost's name was Mattock!" said
Storm.
CHAPTER V
BLAYTHWAYT ON CLUES
In spite of the hour, the nucleus of a crowd had already gathered
outside, with that peculiar instinct for the morbid which is the gift
of crowds; and Storm had to fight his way to a taxi through the first
batch of eager reporters.
He found the vanguard of another contingent sitting patiently on his
doorstep when he got back to the Albany, and was instantly deluged
with questions.
"I can give you no information at present," he repeated for the
umteenth time. "Also, I want to get a couple of hours' rest before
breakfast. Try your luck later."
Fifteen minutes afterwards he rolled into bed and fell at once into a
calm, untroubled sleep.
He breakfasted at seven-thirty in his dressing-gown, already bathed
and shaved, and he was looking as cool and fresh as if he had had
nine hours' healthy slumber instead of two. The table was littered
with newspapers, and folded sheets were propped up against every
available support in front of him. He read while he ate. In spite
of his own reticence, someone at the Yard had evidently talked
unguardedly, for the stop-press columns were full of sensational
hints in small closely set type.
"This will be all over the world in three hours," he said resignedly,
and Inspector Teal, who had dropped in for a cup of coffee, nodded.
"I don't know that it matters much. The real point of advertising a
crime is to call up the noses, and I doubt if there'll be much nosing
the Triangle. Do you know, when they searched Lew he had five
hundred pounds on him? You can't nose a gang who can pay that well."
Storm drove down to the hospital after breakfast to see the injured
gunman, and found him confidently defiant.
"Ef yew think yew're gonna git a squeak outer me, yew sure gotten
another guess comin', Cap."
Storm sat down by the side of the bed and lighted a cigarette. He
had already surmised that it would be difficult to make Lew Mecklen
talk, and he had the disadvantage of being on the right side of the
law, which put the more obvious methods of securing information out
of the question.
"I don't know what the law is in the States," he said, "and I don't
know if you know what it is over here. Anyway, in England we have a
thing called King's Evidence, and it's saved one or two people's
necks before now."
Lew shook his head.
"Quit kiddin', son," he advised. "Yew cain't hang me fer doin' a bit
of fancy shootin' around yore haid. Yew weren't injured any. All
yew bulls c'n do is ter lock me up fer a time--an' then I've gotten
yew all skinned a mile!"
The thought seemed to amuse him, for his big chest heaved with silent
guffaws.
"You can get your sentence reduced by helping us to round up the rest
of the gang," Storm pointed out. "And I can get you a longer stretch
if you're obstinate."
"Yew c'n go ter hell any time," said Mecklen, and chuckled again.
"Aw--mother! Take 'im outside an' tie a halo round 'is baby braow.
Tell me good-bye, buddy, an' go home, or yew'll make me die laughin'!
Put ole Lew in jail?" he scoffed. "I'm an Amurrican cidizen, bo, an'
don't yew fergit it."
"Since when has America been using the slums of Leipzig as a
breeding-ground?" inquired Storm mildly. "Mecklen, you synthetic
Americans make me tired! In case you're interested, I'll say you're
nothing more than a fourth-rate Hun thug, and your pal Morini's about
as American as you are--which means he's a plain ornery Dago!"
He held a consultation with the house-surgeon, and was unaccountably
annoyed at the report he received.
"Of course, if you insist, Captain Arden, I can do nothing; but I
strongly advise against moving him."
"How long is it likely to be before we can take him away?" Storm
asked, and the doctor spread out his hands.
"It may be any time," was his unsatisfactory answer. "I'll do my
best to get him patched up as soon as possible--you can be sure of
that. But if you move him now, you may be sued for damages later,
and that wouldn't do you any good."
As Storm drove back along Piccadilly he saw that nearly every poster
advertising the early editions of the evening papers bore an enlarged
reproduction of the Alpha Triangle. He bought a copy of the _Evening
Record_ and found the latest Fleet Street conjectures stunted across
four columns and crowned with bloodcurdling headlines.
He rang up Susan from Scotland Yard, and had the disappointment of
hearing that she was already engaged for lunch.
"Lord Hannassay leaves for a holiday the day after to-morrow," she
added. "He's going down through Spain, then to Teneriffe, and
finishing up with a tour down the West African coast."
This was news to Storm, and, incidentally, an unexpected blessing for
with Lord Hannassay out of the way a responsibility would be off his
hands.
"Who are you lunching with?" he demanded jealously.
"Uncle Joe."
"Damn Uncle Joe!" snarled Storm, and her soft, amused laughter
reached his ears before he hung up the receiver.
Joe Blaythwayt had come into his own. Few of the callers he
interviewed that morning failed to make some remarks about the