CHAPTER XVII

BIRDIE RECEIVES ORDERS

"We don't want to lose you," said Mr. Brome carefully, "so we think you ought to go."

His pale blue eyes bored inexorably into Mecklen's. Before that stony stare the gunman's gaze fell, and his truculent protest, that had framed itself instinctively, died unvoiced.

"Aw--guess you're right, Chief," he muttered sheepishly. "But, naow I'm hyar----"

"What is it?"

"Et's thet skirt. Chief, haow c'n I look af-ter thet li'l' one-way sweedie when every goldurned bull in this hyar burg is out gunnin' fer mine? I'll say it ain't no cinch. Arden's too fly, an' he's her lovin' sugar-daddy. I reckon he's gotten every lallapaloozer in this deck skinned a mile."

Snooper regarded him contemptuously.

They were in the gorgeous sitting-room of Joan Sands' Cornwall House flat, and the magnificent furnishings were in strange contrast to the group of men who sat around the table. Snooper Brome was the only one of that down-at-heel and flashy convocation who could by any stretch of imagination be said to fit--despite his vulgarian notions of waistcoat design, he had a certain dignity which carried them off rather well. For all his bulk, he had not much superfluous flesh, and he was anything but gross; his big features were clean cut--with his flowery vest and white hands, and the mane of dank black hair that swept back from his high forehead, he resembled a prosperous exponent of Impressionism.

The others were less favoured. Mecklen, standing by the door twisting a greasy tweed cap in his grimy hands, unshaven and coarse of face, was a repulsive sight. The rest of the men, who sat at the long board over which Brome presided, were divided between the extremes of shabbiness and overdressedness.

"Are you getting panic too?" demanded Snooper, grittily speculative.

"Yew said a canful," agreed Mecklen complacently. "Let me give Arden his fer a start, an' then I'll tackle thet Jane--but while thet perambulatin' hunk of sudden death's still millin' round, this chile's gonna stick close home. Tell yuh what, Chief, ef yew'll give the word I'll glom the first freight fer Ardensville, an' when I git home they'll be liftin' him inter his Kingdom-Come-box wit' a derrick, he'll be thet leaded up. An' _af-ter_ thet, I'll go chase yore Jane."

"What is the answer to that?" asked Snooper, turning to Morini.

Gat looked at his friend.

"The answer, Lew, is," he said, "when Hell snows over. Big Chief Triangle wants to save that little baby boy, and what Big Chief Triangle says goes."

Mr. Brome extracted a cigar from a pocket of his flamboyant waistcoat and cut the tip from it with a gold pen-knife. Then he looked up at Mecklen.

"You heard?"

"I heard, Chief, but what I wanna say is----"

"What you're going to do, is--go home, Lew," remarked Eddie sharply. "Go home, and stick close home like you said you were going to. When I want you I'll send for you. Go to Buckingham Gate, and if I hear of you showing your nose outside again unless I give the word--it won't be only the bulls who'll be out gunning for yours. Beat it!"

Mecklen glared. He was not a man of equable temper, and the wintry scorn of Snooper's tone, no less than the consciousness of mastery that literally crackled about the words, got right up under Mecklen's pachydermis and rasped on his vanity. He started forward with a torrid word on his lips and brazen defiance in his mien.

"Yew see hyar..."

Brome did nothing, said nothing. He was lighting his cigar, and he never even looked up. His superiority wrapped him round like a sheet of defensive fire. It was a way of meeting rebellion which Mecklen had never encountered before, and before the Unknown the fear of the brute killer roused. If Snooper had met ferocity with ferocity, if his right hand had dropped the match it held and slid down towards his hip, the Alpha Triangle might have been smithereened at that instant. It was a peril the leaders of the Triangle faced daily--hourly--from minute to minute. Under them were killers, ruthless and inhuman tigers, with the ungovernable passions of the wild beasts; and these a mere handful of men essayed to rule and direct. They did it by setting themselves aloof, enveloping themselves in an aura of superiority, and before their caustic hauteur their hired butchers shrank back in perplexity. Snooper, calm and self-assured, dealt with Lew Mecklen in just that fashion. He ignored him. He appeared to have forgotten his existence, and certainly he gave no sign of considering him seriously. The gunman's words trailed away. He was up against something he couldn't understand, and the ingrained instinct of self-preservation flared a red danger signal before his eyes.

"Guess yew said it, boss," he muttered angrily.

Snooper did not look up until the door had closed behind the baffled Lew. And when he spoke he made no mention of the incident; but its effect was not lost on his audience. Only Morini was not awed--but then, Gat Morini was nearly as intelligent as Snooper himself.

"The bomb goes off in about two hours," said Mr. Brome. "So keep clear of Piccadilly Circus on your way home. It'll be the crowning stroke--and the beauty of it is that we can go on dealing out crowning strokes for weeks. We've fought off the police, we've rescued prisoners twice, and we're killing those we've threatened as well. At midnight we shall have caused an explosion which will startle the country."

He stopped, intent on the vision of power that retrospection gave him. The others, only half understanding, waited for him to speak again.

"Arden must go--and the girl. Those are the Apex's orders. I'll arrange that to-morrow--they're dangerous."

He tugged at the ornate fob which graced the southwest of his abdomen, and brought into view a gold repeater.

"The Triangle's about due to speak to you himself. I've heard all he's got to say, and I've got some work to do to-night, so I'll move off. I'll be back later. Morini can fix the telephone."

He departed, and Morini rose to obey.

The telephone stood on a small corner table. Morini took up the instrument and pulled out the flex from the wall plug into which it fitted. He carried it over to a side shelf and brought back instead a polished box lidded with ebonite, on the surface of which was an engraved dial and two frosted bulbs. From the centre protruded the curved horn of a loud-speaker. He plugged the terminals of a piece of flex, which ran from the rear of the box, into the slots at the end of the permanent telephone wiring, and connected two other wires between the amplifier and an accumulator which he fetched from a cupboard. The ordinary installation had now been converted into a loud-speaking telephone, and the flat nickelled button of a small but supersensitive microphone let into the front of the amplifier case acted as the receptive part of the instrument.

Then the men sat round the table, conversing desultorily, to await the voice of their leader. It is a good example of the cautious foresight of the Apex, that orders which, if they were definitely traced to him, would be of great assistance to the Public Prosecutor, were invariably given by a palpably disguised voice speaking to his subordinates from none knew where.

Presently the loud-speaker broke into that sizzling mumble which denotes the opening of the circuit, and a moment later it spoke, with the muffled harshness that is inseparable from electrically transmitted speech.

"Who is there?"

They gave their names, one by one, and the numbers they held in the organisation. There followed a pause, as though the speaker was checking the list. Then:

"To the sixteen men who accomplished the rescue of Mecklen"--here followed their names, read twice over--"a bonus of one hundred pounds per man. It will be paid in a few days by Brome. I add my congratulations on the efficiency with which the man[oe]uvre was carried out."

A second interval, while the loud-speaker hissed quietly.

"Arden must be taken to-morrow. Brome has all instructions. The following will report to him at Church Street, Kensington, at eight a.m. to-morrow, to receive their orders: Lanzani, Sacco, Coles, Horring, Manuelo, Liebessohn. I'll repeat that. Church Street, Kensington, eight to-morrow morning: Lanzani, Sacco, Coles, Horring, Manuelo, Liebessohn. Arden will be taken to Number Two. As soon as that has been done, the same men will be instructed how to proceed with the removal of Hawthorne. Is that perfectly clear, Lanzani--Sacco--Coles?----"

One by one the six answered in the affirmative, and then there was another silence.

"Sands!"

Birdie looked up with a start.

"Yessir?"

"Go to the cupboard between the windows. Are you there? Right. Open it. Inside you will find a small copper vessel. Take it out--and handle it carefully, because if you dropped it Cornwall House would be seriously damaged. Got it?"

Birdie, after a moment's hesitation, had gingerly removed a little calorimeter, and was holding it as far away from his body as possible. He passed his tongue across his lips nervously.

"Yessir," he croaked.

"You have nothing to be afraid of as long as you're careful," the Voice went on. "I have chosen you specially on account of your delicate fingers---I shouldn't trust any of the others to move that stuff with safety. Don't be scared. If you tremble it may slip out of your hand. Now look at it. There's a tiny bottle inside, isn't there, and the space between the bottle and the calorimeter is filled with chipped ice? Good. I'll tell you why that is. That phial contains the highest explosive known to science, but by a special process it has been made less dangerous than it is in the ordinary way. The only things that will detonate it now are heat--that is the reason for the ice--or a severe shock, such as you might give it if you let it fall. Is that clear?"

"Yessir."

"Very well. You know the _Daily Record_ offices?"

"Yessir."

"You have made yourself familiar with the appearance of John Cardan, the editor, as you were told to--you are sure you can recognise him?"

"Yessir."

"Excellent. Then you will go at once to Ludgate Circus, taking a ninety-six 'bus, and wait outside the office. Take the calorimeter with you. He leaves the office between half-past eleven and midnight. When he comes out, take the little bottle out of the ice, and slip it into his pocket. Then walk quietly away--the explosive will take a little time to warm, and that'll give you as long as you need to get out of range without attracting attention. Have you got hold of all that?"

"Yessir."

"You can keep the stuff in your pocket--the ice will make it perfectly safe unless you should happen to fall down. Now please tell me exactly what you are going to do."

Birdie licked his lips again, and then recited his orders haltingly. Once or twice he was pulled up, and he was not allowed to go until he had mastered every detail. At last the rehearsal seemed to satisfy the Voice, and he was dismissed. He put the calorimeter with its deadly burden into his jacket pocket, keeping his fingers round it to prevent the ice spilling, and shuffled to the door, white-faced and shaking.

"So long, mates," he chattered with a rickety attempt at jauntiness. "See you all later...."

Then he was gone.

"Martinez will drive Morini down to the Embankment immediately," continued the Voice. "You will try to remove Inspector Teal. Morini will shoot, and Martinez will then drive back to Buckingham Gate via Blackfriars Bridge and Road, Lambeth Road, Lambeth High Street, Broad Street, Prince's Road, Kennington Street, Upper Kennington Lane, Vauxhall Bridge, Grosvenor Road, Chelsea Bridge Road. Go through Hammersmith, circle back via Chiswick, go north through Hampstead, and get to Buckingham Gate by way of Tottenham Court Road, Charing Cross Road, and the Mall. I'll repeat that. Take down the important points on a scrap of paper. Ready? Blackfriars Bridge, Lambeth, Vauxhall Bridge, Chelsea, Hammersmith, Cheswick, Hampstead, Tottenham Court Road. Right. One other thing. Wait till you get Teal alone. If he comes out with Arden, follow and watch your chance. The usual bonuses will be..."

"_Teal! Isn't radio wonderful!_" murmured a flippant voice.

Every man in the room spun round. With their backs to the door, they had been so absorbed in the words of their Chief that they had never noticed the faint creak of the opening door, nor the two soft paces that had brought Storm and Teal into their presence.

They jerked round as though hot needles had been run into them, half rising from their seats, with groping amazement in their faces. The microphone had proved its utility, and the loud-speaker had suddenly gone dead. The men who had been listening to it stood rooted to the ground, petrified, while they strove to whip their minds into grasping the situation. Storm watched them, smiling, a cigarette between his lips, his hands deep in his pockets. Beside him, the torpid avoirdupois of Mr. Teal leaned against the door, expressionless of face, motionless except for the intermittent oscillation of his inferior maxilla.

Storm's lazy grey eyes swept their blank faces.

"I hope we don't intrude!" he drawled politely.