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 owners. And when they saw what he proposed to do, they said nothing.

"I shall ask you to give me your opinions on the less certain cases," he said steadily. "There are some which you don't have to be a doc. to diagnose. I shall give the shot myself, and I take full responsibility..."

It was an hour before all the human scath which could ever hope to live had been removed in the ambulances, and the dead decently laid out.

Storm was weary of body and soul by that time, and when he found Inspector Teal he saw that, husky as the detective was, he was in no better case.

"I've killed seven men to-night," said Storm heavily. "It was God's blessing to 'em. But I'm--sick! This is worse than war."

Teal was silent. Then:

"What do we do now, Chief?" he asked.

"Go home, I suppose. We can't do any more here. Where's Joe?"

"Somewhere round--I saw him lending a hand with the best of 'em, soon as he'd got over rubbering. He's taken it better than either of us. He must have nerves of ice!"

Blaythwayt came up at that moment, wiping his hands on a stained handkerchief. He was still round-eyed with interest; but otherwise, except for an excusable excitement, he was remarkably self-possessed.

"An Extraordinary Experience!" he said. "Of course, one's very sorry for all those poor wretches; but still..."

He broke off with a shrug, as though to imply that the scientific mind transcended such mundane considerations.

"I ought to drop in at the Yard," Teal said with a sigh. "You've got an advantage over me, Captain Arden--you're not a regular and you don't have to bother so much about routine." He yawned. "Lordy! I seem to average about ten minutes' sleep per night these days," he complained somewhat paradoxically.

"You'll average less for the next seventy hours or so!" Storm told him. "I'll come with you--I might find the Commissioner in."

Joe Blaythwayt was skipping eagerly in front of them.

"D'you think I could come too?" he pleaded wistfully. "I've never had a chance to see inside Scotland Yard, and after what's happened to-night it seems as if my Luck Is In--I don't mean to be callous," he excused himself incoherently. "I'm sorry, as I said, but----"

Teal shook an admonishing finger at him.

"Joe, you go home to bed," he commanded sternly. "You're a bloodthirsty little man, and I think you've had all the horrors that's good for you to-night."

"Oh, let him come," Storm interrupted wearily. "What the devil does it matter, anyway?"

They found a taxi in Trafalgar Square and piled in. Joe Blaythwayt, still clasping his umbrella, which somehow he had managed to retain throughout the proceedings, was all agog with anticipation. Decidedly, one would have thought, he regarded it as His Evening.

Storm was less cheerful.

"The hell of it is that I feel responsible," he explained bitterly. "I deliberately let the Triangle get away, and now he's made to-night's mess. Selfishness--or quixoticism, if you like--I don't know. Listen, Teal, and I'll tell you something! I've known the Triangle for days, but I wasn't going to show him up in the usual way, as I told the Inquiry, for the reason you know."

"You know the Triangle?" broke in Teal incredulously. "I thought that was a bluff you put up for the Board."

"Yes, I know him. I'll tell you what my idea was. I'm a fool, maybe, but because he's my father I didn't want any publicity. And by the same token, I couldn't very well kill him myself. So what I intended to do was collect so much evidence that I could go to him and lay it before him so definitely he'd see the only alternative to hanging was--suicide. I know what his choice'd have been."

"Have you got that evidence now?"

"No," said Storm bitterly, and was silent all the rest of the way to Cannon Row.

They left Blaythwayt in charge of the reserve sergeant and went up to the Commissioner's room. Smethurst was away, but they had not been there five minutes before Bill Kennedy came in for first-hand news of the Piccadilly Circus explosion. Storm left Teal to give the account, and himself went over to the window and sat down on the sill, smoking a cigarette.

Storm's face was chiselled out into grim lines, but behind its inscrutability and actuating the leisurely precision of his movements was a hurtling mill of mental concentration. What was the next move to be? He strove to grapple with the problem, but his over-tired brain refused to function with the methodical accuracy he demanded of it. Teal had complained of the curtailment of the hours of slumber, but Storm himself had had little sleep that last week, and mind is not tireless like machinery. Yet he kept on, keying his already taut faculties almost up to snapping pitch, calling up all his reserves of energy, and struggling with their aid to outline a practical plan.

Teal had just finished his account when the telephone rang. Storm, who was nearest, took the call.

It was the City Commissioner speaking.

"You've had a blow-up in Piccadilly Circus, haven't you?"

"Oh--er--yes! I believe we have!" said Storm ironically, and the Commissioner snorted in disgust.

"Well, we've had a smaller one in Fleet Street. Just one man--blown to crumbs. There's no hope of identifying him. I just thought you might be interested. Sands, a pickpocket belonging to the Walton Street manor, was seen haring away from the scene as if he'd a big scare, so you might put out a call for him."

"I will. Fleet Street, I think you said?"

"Yes."

"Uh-huh. The dead man is John Cardan, editor of the _Daily Record_," said Storm calmly, and hung up the receiver.

After what had happened that night, such minor details as solo murders seemed things of no account. Storm had reached the stage where he was beyond the reach of agitation.

He gave the Assistant Commissioner a brief account of the conversation, and he was still speaking when the telephone bell shrilled again. This time it was the Thames Police depot on Victoria Embankment.

When Storm put down the instrument a queer flush had come into his face.

"A body's been taken out of the river," he said slowly. "Head smashed to pulp with an axe. The tailor's tab in the breast pocket, and some papers in the clothes, say that it's Oscar. I guess this is the end of the world!"

Storm and Teal went off to view the corpse, and the detective was surprised to see that Storm hailed a taxi in Cannon Row instead of setting out to walk the short distance along the Embankment. Mr. Teal, however, was too well trained to make any demur, and he had just got in when Blaythwayt came rushing up.

The bank manager climbed in as the taxi started off, and sat down beaming. The other two let him stay--it was amazing what a fixture that plump little man had become that night. In normal times he would probably have been unceremoniously ejected, but both Storm and Teal were too tired and too occupied with other matters to take the trouble of arguing him home.

The taxi drove to a house in Harley Street, and Storm had to ring for some time before he could get an answer. At length a dishevelled butler swathed in a grey flannel dressing-gown over lamentably striped pyjamas opened the door. When he had heard Kit's business, he began to shut the door again, but Storm kicked it wide and entered the hall. A moment later the Home Office pathologist, himself awakened by the noise, appeared at the head of the stairs and inquired sleepily but with some mastery of expletive, what it all meant.

Storm presented his credentials.

"I'm sorry to turn you out at this ungodly hour, but it's very important. I may not need you at all, but there's a big possibility that I may, and if I want you I shall want you at once!"

"All right," said the doctor peevishly. "I suppose it's all in the night's work. The butler'll give you a drink while I'm dressing."

He was down in an astonishingly short time, and the four of them entered the taxi. The pathologist seemed surprised to see Blaythwayt, and Teal was in a quandary until an idea seized him.

"Mr. Blaythwayt is Raegenssen's banker," he explained. "He's going to identify the body."

Joe stood by while the sheet that shrouded the dead man was removed, and then peered interestedly into the battered face.

"I couldn't swear to it," he said at last. "But I think it's he--that yellow beard of his is so distinctive."

"That's half the trouble," remarked Storm cryptically.

Blaythwayt was then shown the clothes that had been worn by the body, and these he declared without hesitation to be Raegenssen's. Apparently the Swede had possessed only one lounge suit, for Blaythwayt said that the garments were those which Raegenssen had been wearing whenever his banker had seen him.

Storm turned to the pathologist.

"Set up the gadgets!" he ordered curtly, and the doctor, after a glance of surprise, began to unpack the large black bag he had brought with him at Storm's request.

In the small room, besides Teal and Blaythwayt, was also a sergeant of the Thames Police, and to these three Storm addressed his next command.

"There's to be no dispute about this," he said, "so to make everything trebly sure you'll all do your bit. I want each of you to take two hairs from Raegenssen's beard, and lay them on the sheet of paper Dr. Malleson has laid out for them."

Wondering, they obeyed.

"Now stand by while Dr. Malleson makes his tests."

The pathologist bent to his work, while they waited in a mystified silence. It was half-an-hour before he straightened his back with a sigh and indicated that he was satisfied.

"Well?" asked Storm, and Malleson looked at him curiously.

"Peroxide," he replied. "The hair was originally black, and I should say that it was the hair of one of the more southern races--several Spaniards and Portuguese are diluted with Moorish blood. What made you suspect bleaching?"

But this was a question that Storm was not for the moment disposed to answer. As a matter of fact, all that he had suspected was that the body was not Raegenssen's, and the rarity of beards of that Nordic hue was great enough to arouse the suspicion that a black-bearded man would have had to be found and disguised in order to provide a substitute.

He led the way into the office, and a combined deposition was made out and signed. It was an interesting document.

We, the undersigned, do hereby attest and swear that at 1.30 a.m. this morning we did, in the presence of each other and of the undersigned Dr. Malleson, pathologist to the Home Office, and Captain Arden, temporarily attached to the Special Branch of the Criminal Investigation Department, remove from the beard of a cadaver taken from the Thames last night and so far presumed to be that of Oscar Raegenssen, agent, of Cockspur Street, S.W.1, each of us two hairs; and, further, that the said Dr. Malleson made the examination of these hairs, which is the subject of his appended affidavit in our presence.

(Signed) C. E. TEAL, Inspector, C.I.D. J. CLAVER, Sergeant, T.P. J. BLAYTHWAYT.

And I, Soames Malleson, pathologist to the Home Office, do hereby attest and swear that in the presence of the above-named witnesses I did examine the said beard hairs, and did find that they were the hairs of a dark-complexioned man which had been bleached with peroxide of hydrogen to give a similitude of fairness. I further add that, from an inspection of other body hairs of the deceased, and from such cranial characteristics as can be observed, my sworn opinion is that the deceased was not Scandinavian, but of the Latin type, and probably of Moorish extraction.

(Signed) SOAMES MALLESON, M.D.

And I, Christopher Arden, of Albany, W.1, having been present during the operations specified above, do hereby affirm and support the statements of the above-named witnesses.

(Signed) CHRISTOPHER ARDEN, Capt.

"That's simply for the official record," Storm said as he blotted his signature. "I want a copy for my own use, also signed by all of you."

When the facsimile had been made out and witnessed, he went back to make a fresh inspection of the clothes that had been taken from Raegenssen's body. This time he made an interesting discovery, for a more careful search of the coat revealed that there were some papers sewn into the lining. Storm slit the silk with his penknife and drew them out--four photographs.

For a while he stared at them, standing as if he were carven out of granite. Every face that was there he knew, and the realisation that he had stumbled upon the last secret of the Alpha Triangle thundered through his head like the roar of a cataract.

"Je-rusalem!" he breathed.

At one stroke all the handicaps that had been piling up ever since the disappearance of Raegenssen, and that had culminated in the Piccadilly explosion that night, were swept away. Just by that one slip. The body which lay stiffly stretched out on the stone slab was not Raegenssen--was not even the man who had impersonated Raegenssen--but it was simply the corpse of an unknown man of similar height and build, and similarly bearded, with his hair and beard bleached to the likeness of Raegenssen's Viking crop and Raegenssen's clothes upon him to assist the identification which the terrible mutilation of the features prevented. And, in putting his clothes upon his substitute corpse, Raegenssen must have overlooked those photographs stitched for safety into the lining. For the third photograph was the face of a man whom Storm knew well by sight, and had also known to be associated with the Triangle--but never had he dreamed that that man was none other than the Triangle himself! The other two--and Raegenssen was one of them--were mere effigies, shadows, puppets that danced to the bidding of the Apex and served to screen his own importance; but the third man was the Apex, the keystone upon which the whole edifice depended....

Storm became aware that someone was breathing down his neck, and swung round sharply. It was Joe Blaythwayt, his cherubic pink face gone livid, his baby blue eyes almost popping out of his head.

Storm stepped pointedly away from the banker, and a crestfallen Joe resumed the nibbling of his umbrella handle. Kit put the three photographs together and buttoned them into the safety pocket on the inside of his waistcoat; and as he did so the fourth fell from his hand.

Teal picked it up and glanced at it before restoring it to his chief. It was the picture of a girl of about twenty, and even the hideous Victorian high-necked, leg-o'-mutton-sleeved blouse she wore and the ugly, old-fashioned arrangement of her fair hair could not disguise her striking loveliness. Even the impassive detective drew in his breath with a quick hiss of admiration. And then Storm gently took the print from him and put it away in his wallet.

"Who was that?" asked Teal.

Kit looked him straight in the eyes.

"That," he said evenly, "was Sylvia Mattock--my mother!"