CHAPTER XX

MECKLEN IS DISOBEDIENT

On a hot summer night the library of Terry Mannering's house in Brook Street was a cool alluring room.

Susan sat there, cosily stretched out in a deep armchair placed by an open window. At the big centre table Terry was engaged in the arduous task of selecting the probable winner of the St. Leger; and a litter of sporting journals, both pink and white, a much-thumbed copy of _Racing Up-to-Date_, an open volume of Ruff's _Guide to the Turf_, and sheets upon sheets of notepaper covered with abstruse calculations involving such weird factors as weights, lengths and seconds--testified to his earnestness. His wife was sewing in the chair opposite Susan. At times Terry would sit up abruptly and explode into a concentrated malignant malediction upon every congenital imbecile who ever had, ever did, or ever intended to essay the unravelling of equine form; at other moments he would lean back with a resigned look of martyrdom on his face, heave a long sigh, and offer a fervent prayer to be caught up to heaven in a fiery chariot before he reached the stage of dementia where it would be necessary for him to be hailed to a lunatic asylum--which anguished vociferations only served to convulse his audience with unsympathetic hilarity.

Susan had been trying to read, but her mind refused to converge on the printed word. It kept straggling off into other channels, and she would recall herself with a start to find she had skimmed through half a dozen pages without taking in the meaning of a single line. At length this continual absentmindedness forced her to admit that the effort of literary assimilation was, for that evening at least, a hopeless failure. She looked at her watch. It was nearing midnight--in spite of her abstraction, the time had flown past unnoticed--yet she felt in no mood for sleep. Following another outbreak of blood-curdling fulmination from Terry, she laid her book down on her knees, clasped her hands behind her head, and decided to give her imagination the rein it was straining for.

Her thoughts sped instantly to Storm. She strove to picture him in her mind's eye, and discovered to her surprise that she could form only the vaguest possible image. Little mannerisms of his, his swinging gait, snatches of his staccato conversation, vivid expressions he had invented--these were all the material she found to her hand. The complete design eluded her. Even the attempt to visualise his face resulted only in a mental blur. Being no psychologist, this disability irritated and puzzled her.

But at least she could remember nearly every word of their exchange that afternoon, and a soft smile curved her lips. Yes, she loved him--loved him with all her heart and every atom of her being.... But her smile was not of motherly affection. (God help the man who inspires that watery form of love!) It was a smile of pride, of clean, wholesome, exuberant joy that he was hers and she his. He was so fine, so sunny, so eminently sane and vital, so masterful--and yet without any artificial, self-conscious, diluted, drawing-room, flapper-thrilling, synthetic-cavemanishness about him--so dynamic, so fresh and savoury--both intellectually and physically.... And she was going to marry him. That pride she felt whenever she was with him was to be hers always....

And so, after moments of delicious day-dreaming, her fantasy carried her reluctantly to his immediate work--the Alpha Triangle. When would the menace of that dread organisation be lifted from the city? What was the secret of the Apex, that secret which if broadcast would mean the lightening of the shadow which loomed over London--the secret to preserve which the Apex was prepared for murder? The thought recalled to her his threat to have her arrested unless she married him that day. She had believed at first that he was joking. The idea was too preposterous.... And yet, was anything preposterous in those days, when a gang of killers such as one expects to encounter only in the pages of the sensational novelist were trying to blackmail the Centre of the World to the tune of fifteen million pounds sterling--and were, moreover, almost daily giving convincing evidence of their mercilessness and their ability to carry out every threat they made? But why arrest her? The answer was easy: that she might be more efficiently guarded than she could be in a private house. And the alternative, marriage to Storm, would make her nearly as secure. But the day he had given her for making up her mind had gone by, and she had not married him--he had left the choice open to her as if he expected her to ring him up and say: "Kit, old man, I've changed my mind. D'you think you could spare the time to drop into a registry office with me this afternoon?" Everything that was romantic in her revolted from the cold-bloodedness of the idea. It was unthinkable, and yet there had been a substratum of seriousness underlying his light tone. What was the second condition? "_If a certain gentleman now in custody escapes..._" Of course--but no; even that didn't exceed the bounds of possibility, when already the Triangle had rescued thirteen of its members from the Flying Squad van in which they were being hustled to a police station. Who was this man who might escape? And what was his particular importance?

She had no data for the solution of that problem, and branched from it on to another tack.

Why should she be in danger at all, from any member of the Triangle? What did she know, or what had she had the chance of deducing, which might imperil the secret of the Apex? Here at least she had a little knowledge to train on the question. She knew some people who were connected with the mystery: Lord Hannassay, Mattock, Raegenssen, and--Uncle Joe. The inclusion of her uncle amused her; but she left him in the list because he had received one of the Triangle cards. Now, what did she know about each? She took them one by one. Lord Hannassay? The Triangle had murdered him. She knew little about him, except that he held a minor position in the Home Office. Was he connected with any of the other three? ... The recollection of his interest in Mattock, to which Storm had attached some import, came to her in a flash. She wrestled with the circumstances of that case. Mattock had been Hannassay's secretary, and had forged his employer's name to a cheque; Hannassay had prosecuted him without mercy, and Mattock had gone to prison. Therefore Mattock had a grudge against Hannassay. Then how did the others fit in? She was certain that Raegenssen belonged somewhere in that complicated jig-saw--she had a distinct recollection of the afternoon when the Hirondel had skidded into him. Raegenssen had been knocked half unconscious, and she had heard him speak as he was coming round: if he had been partially stunned, his brain would have functioned without the restraint which his caution imposed upon it in ordinary life, and he might have let fall a hint of Something. And that Something had had an astounding effect on Storm, Mattock, and Uncle Joe. She could even picture their different expressions--Storm's tense inscrutability, Mattock's passion, and Uncle Joe's excitement. What was it Raegenssen had mumbled? Some girl's name ... _Sylvia_! That was it. Then where did Sylvia come in, and who was Sylvia--why should she have such an incredible influence upon three men brought together practically by a fluke?

Another idea came tapping at Susan's brain. She could not quite place it--it was something which hammered at the doors of her conscious mind and yet just missed gaining ingress. A cold wind seemed suddenly to lap her spine, sending a shiver up her back to the nape of her neck. She had a numbing sensation of being on the verge of a bottomless precipice, of being on the threshold of some terrible realisation. There was something enormously significant attached to that name, and yet it was only a superficial association. It wasn't the name itself, but ... but ... but the way it was said--Raegenssen's voice!

For a space the fog that had thwarted her memory rolled back and blotted out understanding in a maddeningly, impenetrable vapour of obscurity; and then, through the mist, dawned a slow nimbus of realisation. Raegenssen's voice! Never in her life, she would have sworn, had she spoken to a man named Raegenssen, and yet the remembered timbre of his incoherent mutter "_Sylvia ... Sylvia ..._" struck a responsive chord which vibrated through her consciousness with ever-increasing assurance.

Conviction came against her will, fighting for expression against all the massed forces of logic and reasoning. It was ridiculous, smacking of hallucination, incredible--and yet, pluck that awakened chord ever so distrustfully, it rang true every time. Millimetre by millimetre, battling doggedly against the overwhelming odds, common sense gave ground before the onslaught of primeval instinct. She was sound of mind and body, had never had cause to doubt the stability of her senses; therefore, insane as the idea might seem, it must be granted due audience. And so, with every breathless second, that clear, single note of belief sang in greater and greater volume. She knew she was right, knew she could rely on the combined depositions of hearing and memory ...

_She knew Raegenssen's voice, and it was the voice of a man who had spoken to her recently!_

The full light of understanding blinded her, and her hands came down suddenly to grip the arms of her chair. Now that all darkness had been swept away by that last swift incandescence of knowledge, she was amazed that she had never seen and gripped that stark fact before. Perhaps it was because she had not thought to place sufficient importance on the incident, and therefore had not turned it over in her mind and inspected it from every angle. Certainly, circumstances had allied to lull her into accepting the salient, startling truth as a thing of no account. Of course, one may always find a full-grown African rhinoceros in a soap factory, but the possibility falls short of the commonly endorsed probabilities of normal life, so that anyone seeking African rhinoceros heads automatically for Africa instead of taking his chance in an expedition to Port Sunlight. In exactly the same way, her subconscious mind had so scoffed at the idea of Oscar Raegenssen being no more than the Mr. Hyde of somebody else's Dr. Jekyll, that the censor on guard between conscious and subconscious had barred out the suggestion. Nevertheless--and, now, she would have sworn to it--Raegenssen was somebody else. Or, conversely, somebody else was Raegenssen. In dress, deportment, face and figure there was only the most far-fetched possible similarity; in the ordinary way, that difference was likely to extend to voice also; all the same, there remained one dogmatic heads-I-win-tails-you-lose certainty by way of bed-rock on which to start rebuilding every theory about the Alpha Triangle. And that that certainly had some very intimate relation to the Triangle was an assumption which brooked no question.

Her head was spinning like a high-pressure dynamo; the glimpse of infinite leagues of the Unknown which her new-found wisdom gave her was appalling. She had a grip on one salient fact, and she was sure that attached to that fact was the thread which, properly trailed, would lead to the centre of the labyrinth. Whose, then, was that momentous Voice? She racked her brain for inspiration; but having obliged so far, memory baulked at that last fence. She realised the difficulty of divorcing voice from all association of appearance and demeanour. Storm might have the various compartments of his reminiscence more efficiently docketed and cross-indexed than hers were--but how could one describe a voice? It seemed hopeless unless one happened to be an expert imitator, and that ability was not among her talents. Still she thought she should get in touch with him: even while he was on his way she might succeed in remembering the owner of the Voice. She had a ludicrous vision of herself seated in the Chief Commissioner's room at New Scotland Yard, her head swathed in ice compresses, what time the heads of the Criminal Investigation Department hovered and tiptoed around her, waiting in anxious silence for a clue to fall from her lips ...

She smiled to herself, but the impulse to ring up Storm persisted. Where would he be at that hour? Most probably at his flat, she decided promptly.

She was on the point of getting up from her chair to fetch the telephone, when----

BOOM! ... _--oom! ... --oom! ..._

The muffled thunder of a distant explosion came echoing and reëchoing through the ether. And not so very distant either, for the thud of it was louder than anything she had ever heard--it shook the earth and rattled the windows in their frames. She sat up with a jump, and saw that Ann had dropped her work and was staring about in amazement. Even Terry looked up with a surprised expression; and then he leaned heavily on the table.

"Concentration!" he breathed reverently. "What absorption! What industry! I hope you're all takin' a lesson from me. I'm goin' to register a Deed Poll changing my name to Rip Van Winkle. When I started this pestilential job it was June, and now they're already lettin' off fireworks and burning the image of Mr. Fawkes. Still, I suppose to anyone of my vast intelligence----

"Shut up!" commanded his wife rudely. "Susan, whatever was it?"

"Fireworks, I tell you," said Terry. "This is the Fifth, and they're celebratin' Brock's Benefit."

And then, stealing through the open windows, from the east, came the dull roar of a hubbub which swelled with every minute. Came, ever so thin and faint, a horrible, sobbing cry.... The racket grew ... not so very far away they heard shouts, a screaming babel of police whistles, and the patter of running feet...

Terry moved over to the window and peered out over their shoulders, but they could see nothing.

"Not an air-raid, surely? Don't say I've slept all through the Great War, daddy," he murmured, but there was not much jesting in his manner.

They listened. Windows were being flung open and people were coming out into the streets. The shouting had come nearer--men were spreading the news to everyone within range of voices, but as yet it was impossible to make out what was being yelled. Until, gradually, to the three of them, came a glimmer of comprehension. The Triangle. That ruthless organisation had been abroad again that night, spreading death and disaster in some terrific fashion at which for the nonce they could only guess.

On the pavement outside the two detectives who guarded the house were staring into the darkness, speculating about the cause of the disturbance.

"What was it?" Terry called through the window, and one of them looked up and shook his head.

"Can't say, sir. The Triangle threatened to blow up some places, and Piccadilly Circus was first on the list--the noise seemed to come from that direction, but I couldn't swear to it."

Storm's flat was near Piccadilly. A little pang ripped into Susan's heart, and she caught her breath. But it wasn't likely that he'd be in the damage, she reassured herself doubtfully. The Albany was some way from Piccadilly Circus, and London was so big that, even if he were out that night, it was umpteen thousand to one against his having been near the explosion. And, anyhow, it wasn't certain that Piccadilly Circus had been mined, although logic was inclined to support that hypothesis....

Still they listened, and while they did so a handful of men and women ran past, laughing, dashing off to "see the fun." And then, through the night air, came an ominous silence, a murmuring stillness which was perplexing until they realised that it was caused by a sudden stoppage of all the traffic running on the near south and east. And through that hush came a new sound, approaching rapidly. It increased, until it could be recognised as the splutter of a high-powered car tearing through the streets towards them. As it sped nearer, it could all but be identified, and the suspicion it roused made Susan clutch the window sill in unaccountable terror. That loud, rising and falling snort and purr was the voice of a Hirondel--Storm's car. Was Storm himself driving? The fear that It might be carrying his maimed or lifeless body filled her with a shuddering dread.

_Was_ it the Hirondel? The car broke into sight now, rocking down the road with its twin headlights ablaze. It drew almost abreast of them, and then swerved across the road and jerked to a standstill before the door with all its brakes screaming in protest at the rough handling.

One of the detectives ran to open the door, and Susan watched, striving not to flinch, to see who should descend.

It was not Storm---it was a uniformed policeman. The man spoke a curt word to the detective, and then ran up the steps.

Susan had the door open for him before he could ring.

"What is it?" she cried. "_Quick!_ Tell me--is he--is Captain Arden hurt?"

The man twiddled a button.

"Yes, miss--er--well, not much." The constable was confused. "He's--er--he wants to see you ... and..."

"Yes, _yes_!" The girl stamped her foot impatiently. "Go on. Tell me the worst--I shan't faint or do anything silly. Is he--seriously injured?"

"Well, miss, you never know," said the policeman huskily. "The doctors say--

"Where is he?"

"St. George's Hospital--on his way there, anyhow. He sent me to fetch you. That's his car."

"I'll come right away," she said pantingly. "Hurry!"

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!"