CHAPTER X

RETURN OF AN EXILE

There was a thin yellow envelope which was familiar to the members of the Alpha Triangle, for it was in such envelopes that they received their weekly general orders, and in similar envelopes the lieutenants of the Apex communicated with their Chief, under one or another of his various aliases. It was one of these which caught the eye of Joan Sands on a certain morning when she entered the living-room for her belated breakfast. It lay beside her husband's plate unopened, for James Mattock was absorbed in the latest news about the Alpha Triangle, as purveyed by the _Daily Mercury_, and seemed to be unattached for the moment by the more intimate news which awaited his scrutiny.

He glanced up as she came in, gave her a perfunctory smile, and went on with his reading.

Joan took her seat and poured herself out some coffee. There were unbecoming shadows under her eyes; and, not yet rouged and powdered, she was unhealthily pale. The girl had altered during the past week, and Mattock had noticed the change without understanding it. There had never been any love between them--the old sophisticated Joan would have scoffed at the idea--but there had been Mattock's infatuation and the girl's readiness to accept anything that offered in the shape of easy money and a good time. He had done much for her--had served a term of imprisonment to save her life--and she was grateful. But love ... no. She was a gold-digger, and she was honest about it; she played the game by him, because her own peculiar code commanded her to. She would have given him what he wanted without the formality of marriage, because she was fond of him in a cynical way, and he had been very good to her in his unworldly, altruistic manner. Not that she was in any sense promiscuous; that was about the only form of gold-digging she barred, and that fact, perhaps, constituted her only virtue in the eyes of her victims.

It is difficult to analyse her mind. A child of the people, she had risen to the fringe of Society by reason of her beauty, wit, vivacity, and a certain acquired refinement, while her less gifted brother remained in the ranks of the petty in-and-out-of-"stir" sneak-thieves. She kept up her position because she was unscrupulous where money was concerned. And yet, incredible as it may seem, for all the wealth her foolish middle-aged admirers had offered her, she had come to James Mattock a virgin. So ill-assorted a couple were they--James Mattock, Oxford graduate and gentleman by birth, who had in his headlong course down-hill tasted all but the ultimate dregs of dissipation, unselfishly in love with a woman of the criminal classes whose chastity had been her only claim to his consideration....

He was at a loss, now, to interpret her changed attitude towards him. Ordinarily, she had been the ideal of a good comrade to him--not demonstratively affectionate, yet kindly sympathetic, loyal and trustworthy. Of late she had become rather distant. There was an awkwardness between them which exasperated Mattock and perplexed the girl herself.

"You've forgotten your letter," she reminded him as he drained his cup and rose to go.

"Oh, yes."

He was preoccupied. She could see the lines of worry on his face. He had been past middle age when he had met her, and prison had aged him; he had aged even more during the last few days. His unspoken trouble awakened the old companionship--shook for a moment the strange barrier of reserve which had separated them so incomprehensibly.

She fetched his hat and umbrella for him, and then put her hands on his shoulders.

"What is it, Jimmy?" she prompted. "You're so quiet lately."

"Am I? Oh, yes, dear, perhaps I am a bit. I'm not feeling quite myself." His voice was expressionless. "This--the whole thing's rather getting on my nerves, I think."

He had forgotten the yellow envelope in spite of her reminder, and she went back for it and placed it in his hands.

"Do you have to go on?" she said wistfully. "I wish--I wish you'd drop it, Jimmy."

"You wouldn't have this flat, then," he said innocently.

"D'you think that's everything in my life?" she broke out resentfully. "Didn't I marry you when you hadn't a bean--when you had to--to steal for me? Have we always got to have this life, with everyone's hand against us, and nothing in the future ... _nothing_ ... unless it's Aylesbury for me and the Awful Place for you?" The wall was down now. "This silly feud of yours is going to cost us everything! That's the only idea you've got in your head--to satisfy your rotten vanity, and get your paltry revenge--and you'll go on slogging at it, and risking on it, and wasting your whole life on it! You've set it up as your god, and you'll sacrifice everything to it--sacrifice yourself--sacrifice _me_! ... You've kidded yourself that heaven's at the end of this road you're going, and you'll sweat for your worm-eaten heaven--you'll slave and slink and cringe and break your heart to feed this bloody thing that's gnawing away inside you--and what good'll it do you?"

"We've had all this before," said Mattock tonelessly. "I've got to go on. I'm sorry, Joan.... But you can get out of it--it nearly broke me up when I found you were in the Triangle, but it's been on my mind ever since. Get out of it, Joan, and don't fret. We'll pull through somehow."

She faced him accusingly, unshed tears in her eyes.

"If it costs you everything--in spite of all I've said, you're going on?" she flared.

He nodded.

"Even if you lose ... _me_?"

He stared at her.

"You, Joan? Why, how does it touch you? You can go--I've told you I'd prefer you to--and then, when it's all over----"

"Yes, _when_!" she blazed back. "And when that happens you'll be dead--dead! Don't you know that? You're playing skittles with dynamite, James Mattock--you're screwing your head into the mouth of a howitzer with a wild horse harnessed to the lanyard! You're mad!" She clung to him convulsively, her head buried in his shabby coat. "Jimmy, give it up ... don't go on asking for death!"

Instinctive actress though she was, her passionate outburst was desperately sincere, and Mattock passed a shaking hand across his forehead as if to brush away a veil that clouded his eyes. And yet, when he took her gently by the shoulders and set her from him, the dull blankness of his eyes had given place only to the glimmer of a fanatical light.

"There was Sylvia," he said. "I must go on.... She suffered cruelly ... I must...."

He spoke as one who repeats a prayer, and as she drew away from him it seemed as if the old insurmountable wall slid into the space between them. She must have realised it, for she made a last fierce effort to break through his armour.

"Are you blind?" she whispered tremblingly. "The strain's getting too much for me--and it's not myself I'm worrying about.... I've been blind too, and I've just realised it.... Jim"--a wonderful light was born suddenly in her eyes--"oh, Jimmy"--breathlessly--"Jimmy----"

And then, in the old caprice of Fate, the clock struck. The sharp chime of it perked Mattock from his throbbing expectancy, wiped the dawning comprehension from his face, lashed and wrenched and hammered and tortured him back behind the reef that had all but crumbled away--beat him back to the cold matter-of-fact reality of things and his madness.... Flung back into his brain the madness that had come to him one drizzling afternoon when he had sworn to set a Goal above all Prizes.... Gave him back the Ambition--the One Idea....

"I must be going," he said unevenly, for the hurt showed in his voice. "Can't afford to lose my job. Cheer up, Joan."

He kissed her--not perfunctorily now, but with all the frustrated longing of his heart. And then he strode swiftly from the place.

He saw little of Raegenssen that morning, for the Swede marched straight through the outer office without his customary "Goot morning!" to his clerk, and gave no instructions for the day's work.

Raegenssen locked himself in the inner office and lighted a cigar. He opened the big safe and took down from it a number of ledgers and a bundle of miscellaneous papers bound up with tape. Each one of the books and papers he went through carefully three times, as though memorising their contents, and then he tore out the pages which bore his scrawling handwriting, added the other papers to the pile, and carried the whole over to the fireplace. He watched them burn until every least scrap was reduced to brittle black flakes, and then with the poker he stirred and powdered the ash to a fine dust. Even this, to make doubly sure, he swept up into the shovel and threw from the window.

He was left with three photographs, and these he placed in the wallet he carried in an inside pocket.

Then he resumed his seat and sat through the time it took him to smoke another cigar, motionless except for the regular monotonous twisting of the pencil in his strong hands. It was nearing eleven-thirty when with a sudden movement of decision he snapped the pencil in half, pitched it into the waste-paper basket and rose. He picked up his battered hat, unlocked the door, and passed again through the outer office without a word or a glance to either side, and Mattock watched his departure with a puzzled frown.

He went to the City and Continental, drew some money, and made certain arrangements.

"I see you've had a burglar," remarked Blaythwayt when they had concluded their business.

"Yess. He debarted away!" The Swede's voice was lifeless.

"So the police haven't caught him yet?"

Raegenssen glowered.

"No!" he snapped. "Der bolice are fools! Why hof they nod ter Driangle abbrehented?"

He usually stayed for a short chat with his bank manager, but this morning he seemed curiously disinclined to be conversational. Joe Blaythwayt himself opened the door to his customer, and that simple soul was almost personally apologetic, for Raegenssen's comments on the Force seemed a direct slight on the lethargic officer who was wont on occasion to brighten the Finchley Nights Entertainments.

That same Teal, driving down Lombard Street in a taxi with a couple of unsuccessful jargoon sellers, saw the Swede leaving the bank and chuckled.

"You boys want to aim high," he said. "Fifteen million pounds for a few murders is better than a hundred for a white sapphire!"

Things happened to Mr. Teal in those days with the well-oiled precision of a detective story from a master pen. He was chatting downstairs in Scotland Yard that afternoon when a vast young man of incredible ugliness came hurtling down the steps three at a time.

"I want you, Teal," he crisped. "Where's Captain Arden?"

Teal came to attention.

"I don't know, sir. He hasn't been in all day. He said he'd be here about dinner-time."

"Get him on the phone."

Teal called the number, and was answered by the voice of Cork. He snapped out a curt demand, listened, and then snicked back the receiver.

"No good, sir," he said. "Captain Arden's been out since eleven this morning and his man doesn't know where he is."

"Hell!" snarled the Assistant Commissioner. "You'd better come along, then."

Bill Kennedy led the way to the waiting taxi, Teal following obediently, and it was not until they were turning out into the Embankment that the Commissioner explained.

"The Triangle's on the war-path again," he said. "Marker was shot this afternoon as he was leaving his house."

"Dead?" drawled the callous Teal, and Kennedy shrugged.

"The message didn't say. Did Captain Arden give you any idea what he was doing this afternoon?"

"He said he was going to commit another felony to-day. I wonder if he is the Triangle?" suggested Mr. Teal lusciously.

His inspiration being received with scorn, he maintained a dignified silence until the taxi drew up in Queen's Gate, where the Home Secretary lived. The usual crowd was gaping about the entrance, only restrained from closer investigation by the presence of two burly constables. The two detectives pushed their way through the mob and were instantly admitted.

The doctor who had been summoned was already preparing for an impromptu operation, and was inclined to be brusque.

"The bullet glanced off a rib and tore up his right lung," he said shortly. "I may be able to save his life, but it's very chancy."

The most coherent narrative was supplied by the chauffeur, who had been actually holding the door for his master at the time of the shooting.

"There were three cars close together--a Navarre limousine, a Carillon cabriolet, and a Hirondel sports. I couldn't be sure which it was, as I had my back to the street and didn't turn until I heard the report. I should say it was either the Navarre or the Hirondel--they were nearest when I looked round."

"Did you get any numbers?" asked Kennedy.

"No. They all put on speed immediately the shot was fired, and I was too busy attending to my master to look at them closely. Oh--I remember the Hirondel was very battered--looked as if it had been in an air-raid. ZY-something. There was a '2' in it, anyway."

"ZY 28822?" murmured Teal, and the man nodded.

"Something like that. It was the last car of the three, and they all raced into Cromwell Road, so that's the only number I got a glimpse of."

Kennedy dismissed the man and glanced at Teal.

"Captain Arden on duty," he said. "That looks like a thin time for Morini. It was the gentle Gat, of course."

"How're you going to prove it?" Teal wanted to know.

"Your business!" Bill Kennedy took his cigar-case from his pocket and offered it. "This isn't my case at all, really, only Marker's so deuced important."

"What about Hannassay?"

The Assistant Commissioner carefully charred the end of his cigar and then placed it in his mouth and lighted it meticulously.

"Hannassay's was his own fault," he said. "The man refused protection---said he could look after himself, and that he wouldn't have his holiday messed up with a lot of detectives hanging round. He had a compartment to himself--I saw him off--and it was a corridor train. He must have been easy."

They waited to hear the result of the doctor's operation, for there was clearly nothing they could do for the moment. An all-station call for Morini had been out for days without result, and unless their luck changed the only hope was that Storm would be able to hold up the gunman.

A butler came in with a tray of sandwiches and offered them the use of the syphon and decanter in the corner. They talked on odd subjects, and it was just before they received their report that Bill Kennedy opened up a new line of thought to Mr. Teal.

"What we really need in a case like this is the German Razzia," he remarked. "If a wanted man's patient and really ingenious, he's as hard to find as water in the desert. All he has to do is to retire to the house of a friend, or to a fairly big residential hotel, and never budge out of doors. By simply lying doggo instead of trying to make a bolt for it, he could have the police rubbering till all's blue, and never be in danger."

A few minutes later the doctor arrived.

There was a hope--yes. Marker was a healthy man in good condition, and stood as much chance of pulling round as anyone. It had been a nasty wound, and the illness would be a ticklish business, but it would not necessarily be fatal.

"Well, that's a relief," Kennedy said as they returned to the street. "But it don't let us out, laddie. Morini must have been rattled--according to Captain Arden, that dago's one of the slickest gunmen in the world."

Towards eight o'clock that evening, when Storm had failed to put in his promised appearance, Inspector Teal huddled into his mackintosh and set out to walk down the Embankment towards the restaurant in New Bridge Street where he occasionally fed. He was a man who never complained of the vilest weather, seeming even to revel in it; which was fortunate for him, for the rain was pouring down in stinging clouds, drumming on the macadam like a stage effect. The sky was black and thunderous, and from time to time a crackling reverberation omened the continuation of the downpour. Such few pedestrians as there were scurried along under umbrellas with stifled curses and a drowned-rat-like aspect, but Teal plodded along with his shoulders squared and his face defiantly thrust out to meet the lash of the storm.

He was within sight of Blackfriars Bridge when he first noticed the tail lamp of a stationary car, and wondered that anyone provided with such a luxury should dally by the way on such a night. As he came abreast he saw that the driver was poring over a map, and as Teal passed he was hailed.

"Can you tell me the way----" began the man, and then the flickering light of a street lamp swaying in the wind fell across his face, and Teal let out an exclamation.

"You're Carl Schwesen," he said, "and you were deported six months ago for----"

So far he got before the driver's fist shot out and ripped into his face. Half-stunned with pain, the detective staggered back, tripped on the kerb, and fell. As he did so the car jumped forward.

He was fumbling for his whistle when he saw it had slowed up again, and he struggled to regain his feet. And then a heavy-calibre revolver thundered from the interior, and his hat went flying.

He got out his whistle and blew a piercing blast, but the driver of the car accelerated and dashed up the empty road into the obscurity of the streaming rain. He saw the car speed over the bridge, and knew that he had no hope of catching it, but the number was firmly imprinted on his memory.

Inspector Teal continued towards his dinner with a furrowed brow, for he well knew the brilliance and unscrupulousness of the erstwhile deported Austrian chemist. Without being able to give any logical reason for his suspicion, he had more than an idea that Schwesen's return was not unconnected with the sudden inrush of other dangerous men into London, and he wondered what this fresh activity of the Triangle might mean.