CHAPTER XXIII

PANIC OF BIRDIE

Susan sat quite still. The tension of Mecklen's fingers about her throat and the ferocious look on his face left her in no doubt but that he would carry out his threat if she gave him the ghost of an excuse. Besides, Susan wasn't the sort to go into hysterics when yammering for help didn't offer any reasonable hope of help being forthcoming. There were a few pedestrians about and not another car in sight--anyway, even if she did shout, and were heard, her would-be rescuers would have about as much chance of stopping that flying Hirondel as they would have of hopping over the Woolworth Building.

"You needn't get excited," she said coldly. "I haven't screamed since they took me out of long clothes."

Mecklen said nothing. Still retaining that menacing grip on her windpipe, he was hunched up over the steering wheel with his eyes glued to the road in front, pushing the car along as fast as he dared.

"You can take your hands off," Susan added. "Someone might see us, and"--she groped about in her vocabulary of American for a phrase the Bowery boy might understand--"I don't want to be mistaken for the Sheba of a roughneck like you. I promise not to yell."

Lew hesitated, and then withdrew his arm--not because her gibe cut any ice with him, but because he'd remembered his uniform and didn't want to make himself conspicuous if anyone _should_ happen to see them. Tough-looking policemen don't as a rule drive round in expensive cars with their arms round the necks of fashionably dressed girls; and Mecklen realised that he'd left enough tracks behind him already that night without adding to the number.

"Yew'd better not squawk," he assured her, to make it plain that he released her for his own reasons and not because of her command.

They swung round the Victoria Memorial and entered Buckingham Gate. The car ran down the deserted thoroughfare and tacked down a side street on the left and left again into a dark mews.

Mecklen stopped the car and took Susan's arm in a vise-like grasp.

"Git outa here," he ordered. "An' jest yew see yew don't fergit wot I told yuh. One yap, an' yew git yores."

She got down from the car, and he followed her. In the darkness he shifted his clutch to her left arm, and she felt something prick her breast, and saw the dull shimmer of steel.

"Jest a _ree_minder," he said. "Move!"

He unlocked a garage door and pulled her inside. She heard two bolts clang into place behind them, and then a switch clicked down and the place was dimly illuminated. She saw that what had seemed to be one solitary lock-up was in reality a huge garage which ran the whole length of that side of the mews behind the other dummy doors. Stored in it was a wonderful collection of motors--two aluminium-finished racing cars, four Rossleigh trucks, a Navarre limousine, a Carillon cabriolet, and one black closed-in van which she could not identify although something about it was vaguely familiar. And the noticeable fact about the collection was that none of them carried number plates; she saw the reason a moment later, in the shape of a stack of detached plates of different numbers from all counties, ranged along the wall.

Mecklen dragged her across to what looked like a big tire cupboard. This he opened, revealing it to be empty, and fumbled with a bracket at the back. In a few seconds the false back slid sideways, laying bare a faintly lighted passage. Lew extinguished the garage light and made the girl precede him into the tunnel, while he shut the cupboard doors and slid home the inside panel.

There were only a dozen feet to go, and they emerged into a spacious cellar. Here Mecklen paused, rubbing his scrubby chin as though wondering where to go next. At length he went over to a door which led off the vault in which they stood, and he seemed surprised to find it empty. He came back and seized her arm again.

"In hyar," he rasped, and almost flung her inside.

The door closed again, and she heard a bar thump into its socket on the outside.

An electric bulb glowed in the ceiling, and she was thankful for it. She took stock of her position as calmly as she could. The room was more like a cupboard than a cellar--it could have measured no more than eight feet by six. It had held a great deal of earth recently; the stone floor was half an inch deep in it still, and small clods of damp soil adhered to the walls. There was no window--no outlet of any sort except the door through which Lew had pushed her--but the door itself fitted loosely in its frame, so that there was no lack of air. She went to the door and ran her fingers under it. Despite its clumsiness, it was fashioned of three-inch oak. It might have been three-inch boiler steel for all the hope of escape it offered her; and, shoving her hardest, she couldn't make it budge against the heavy outside bar that held it shut.

Leaning against the wall, she thought out the circumstances methodically. For armoury she had the pin of a small brooch and her two hands. Expectations--what? The story about Storm being injured might or might not be true, although now she was inclined to regard it as nothing more than a cock-and-bull yarn invented to decoy her. Strangely enough, her first emotion was of exasperation; she, old stager that she was, to have been caught on the hop with an antediluvian parlour trick like that! Well, how long would it be before she was missed? Terry, being an old friend of Storm's, might go down to the hospital himself later on, and then the fraud would be exposed. Or, if he didn't do that, and Storm was safe and sound, Kit'd be sure to ring her up in the morning; and, once he'd absorbed the news of her abduction, he wouldn't be likely to let grass grow under his feet. Extraordinarily comforting was that thought. Within a few hours--she looked at her watch--within eight hours at the very limit Storm would know all about it, would be out scouring the metropolis for her. The last feebly rising bubble of panic collapsed. She was sure, now, that Storm hadn't been smashed up. He'd be On The Job, moving heaven and earth to find her, and every Triangle in Christendom massed up in one big wad all round her, with barbed wire in front and a company of field artillery behind, wouldn't stop him....

Her day-dreaming was interrupted by the return of Mecklen, laden with a rough straw-filled mattress and a couple of coarse blankets. He dumped them on the floor and went out again. For a fraction of a second she had meditated attacking him from behind when his hands were full and his head turned, but the thought had died as quickly as it was born. She was strong and supple as a young mermaid, but she knew that against his rugged bulk such crude methods would be wasted. She might have got him in a ju-jitsu grip--she knew one or two----

He came back again that minute, carrying a small table on which was an enamel mug of water, a loaf of bread, some fried bacon congealing on a cracked plate, and a hunk of butter wrapped in a scrap of newspaper. Her chance of springing on him unawares was gone now, for he kept the table between them all the time.

"Make yoreself at home," he invited. "Sorry I cain't stay an' wait on yuh jest naow, but yew're supposed ter be dead. The boss might think et kind o' queer ef I stayed grubbin' 'round these hyar cellars, an' it don't pay ter git the boss's goat. But I'll see yuh later--don't yew worry!"

His foul leer struck a qualm of terror into her heart, but she faced him boldly.

"I don't worry," she said acidly. "What's your name?"

"Mecklen--but yew kin call me Lew, honey."

"Well, Mecklen, I've heard of you. You've killed a good many people in your time--have you ever wondered what it's like to die?"

He lounged against the wall, grinning.

"Huh--yew li'l' cougar! So yew're gonna make ole Lew pass in his cheques, air yew? Gee, baby, I'll say yew got sand!"

"Oh, no, I'm not going to kill you," said Susan. "But I'll tell you the name of someone who will. Ever met Captain Arden, the man they call _Storm_? He's out hunting you by this time, Mecklen, and d'you know what he'll do to you when he gets you? He did it to a man outside Valparaiso once--a man rather like you, Mecklen--staked him out and flogged him to death with a stock-whip! How does that appeal to you? And he'll get you, Mecklen--there's no hole and corner on God's earth you can hide in where he won't find you one day. Storm never gives up! Think it over."

There was no idle threat or bravado in her tone. She stated the facts simply and cold-bloodedly, so that the smooth venom behind them would have stabbed horror into the soul of most men. But Mecklen's imagination was that of the untamed brute--he had to feel the lash before he could flinch from a sight of it.

"Storm!" he scoffed. "I'll tell yuh something. That sheik o' yores'll eat his breakfast right in this hyar shack. Now think thet over!"

And then with a cat-like spring he rounded the table and caught her in his arms in a bear's hug. His fetid breath stung her nostrils, and, before she could move, her lips had tasted the gross contact of his mouth.

He jumped back, breathing heavily, one fist stuck out in front of him.

"Keep off," he warned. "Thet war jest something ter go 'long wit. I'll kiss yuh--properly--later. See yuh again soon, honey. Yew'll larn ter like ole Lew--he ain't no amachoor!"

The door bumped shut behind him, and she was alone again.... But now there was a new fear to face--something that she'd never thought would come into her own life, often as it occurred in the pages of the novelist. The tightest corner she'd ever been in.... She tried to stay the involuntary quivering of her lips. The hot defilement of Mecklen's embrace seemed to sully them still, and she got out her handkerchief and rubbed them with it. Death itself she could have met with a proud contempt, but that.... She sank on to the mattress he had brought and buried her face in her hands. She was ... desperately ... _afraid_....

Lew went stumbling up the cellar stairs with a burning exaltation skipping about like a lump of molten lead in his rotten heart. He passed through the stairs into the back hall, and was confronted by a small man whose ferrety face was drawn and haggard.

"Lew!" The little man grabbed Mecklen's sleeve convulsively. "Lew--I--I saw yer go dahn wiv a bundle 'f beddin' an' then yer went agayne wiv a table 'n' grub. I was on the front stairs, an' I saw yer!"

Mecklen rested his hands on his hips.

"So li'l' Birdie sore ole Lew," he grated. "Did yew!"

"Yes. Wot's it mean--wot's it _mean_?"

Birdie seemed almost frantic. His normally sallow complexion was ashen, and he was shaking horribly, like a man with ague, and an ugly look came into the gunman's eyes.

"Air thet enny perticlar concern o' yores?" he drawled, leaning forward so that his out-thrust jaw almost touched Birdie's nose.

"Yes--I don't understand! _Lew_! Why're yer lookin' at me like that? My Gawd...." A shifting light of madness was coming into Birdie's staring eyes. "Lew! _'Oo's dahn there?_ ..."

"Yew li'l' four-flushin' piker!" snarled Mecklen.

His huge hands were clawing out for Birdie's throat. They found their hold and, crushing the pickpocket's scraggy neck in that boa-constrictor twist, Mecklen shook him as a Great Dane might shake a poodle.

"Yew li'l' _runt_!"

"Lew!"

It was Morini's voice, hard and imperative. Mecklen took no notice until the butt of a gun struck him a stinging blow between the eyes.

Lew staggered back and Morini fronted him, having reversed his automatic to the business position.

"Gat, yew vamoose! Wot's bitin' yuh----"

"You've gone loco," Morini cut in with no suavity. "What're you fightin' for? If the Chief heard of this you'd be fired right out into the streets, where half the bulls in London are watching to draw a bead on you. Out with it--what's the trouble?"

"Thet li'l' critter----"

"Well?"

But Mecklen, aware that he had made a blunder in saying even that much, had relapsed into a glowering silence. Morini turned to Sands, who was cringing against the wall, grasping and rubbing his throat where Lew's fingers had left thick scarlet weals.

"What did you do, Birdie?"

Sands was crouching back, and then he made a sudden dive for the door.

"I'll show yer!" he cried, and bolted down the cellar steps.

Susan sat up with a start as the door of her cell burst open and Birdie, wide-eyed and choking, crashed in. An instant later Mecklen's huge form loomed in the gap, and then Morini pushed past him.

"Don't yer worry, missy," Birdie got out tremulously. "I'll see yer fru--I 'ad a sister, once...."

"What's this?" snapped Morini, wheeling on Mecklen.

"Wotcha think?" growled Lew surlily.

His raging eyes were alert for Morini's every movement, for he was twice the size of the other, and the broadcasting of Susan's presence was going to spoil Lew's plans considerably. But Morini still had his gun, and he never gave Mecklen a chance to catch him off his guard.

"This is the Hawthorne girl." Gat's voice was fiery. "You were told to leave her alone. And, anyway, she was to be killed. Instead of that, you've showed her our headquarters, and you're still keeping her alive, so that if she got away we'd all be dished! Lew, I've a good mind to give you yours!"

All unobserved, Birdie had edged along the wall towards the open door. Lew and Morini stood just inside. And then Sands leapt through the narrow gap like a fleeing rat, and was halfway up the stairs before the other two realised that he had gone.

"Keep yer pecker up, missy!" he bawled. "I'll get the pleece!"

Morini flung up his gun, but Susan kicked the table against him as he fired, and the shot went wide. The next moment Birdie was out of sight, with Lew in cursing pursuit.

Susan caught Morini's wrist and wrenched it round with all her strength. His gun clattered to the floor, and he closed with her in a short, whirling, hand-to-hand tussle. Susan fought back at him furiously, but the man was wiry and as slippery as an eel. In less than a minute she found both her elbows locked behind her back.

"I know ju-jitsu too," he grunted, and kicked his fallen gun out into the passage.

He threw her from him violently, and the door was shut and barred from outside before she could rise again.

Birdie could run! He made the front door before Lew had reached the head of the cellar steps, and Mecklen was left gaping at an empty hall. Birdie had got away! Fear of what would happen if the pickpocket reached a police station and squealed had temporarily paralysed Lew's faculties. It took him some seconds to soak up the immense significance of the disaster, and in that time Morini, more agile of mind and body, had passed him at a sprint.

Birdie had tumbled down the front steps, moaning aloud with apprehension. There wasn't much mettle in Birdie Sands--gutter-born, gutter-reared, and gutter-minded, he was totally unfitted to play any more blackguardly part than that of the petty sneak-thief. And what he'd gone through that night had shivered his brittle nerves to fragments. He'd killed a man, and you could be hanged for that.... The ghastly sight he had seen in Fleet Street haunted his vision. And then the girl--that had been the final straw that broke him down. The splits'd say he was a party to that crime, too. And he knew, or divined instinctively, what fate was in store for her....

"Gawd, let me get aw'y!" he mumbled, panting. "P'r'aps they'd let me off wiv a laggin' if I syved _'er_.... I 'ad a sister once...."

His chest felt as if it was bursting, and a steel band seemed to have tightened round his heart. His legs were like lead. He was travelling terribly slowly now, as though in a nightmare. Athletic training had never entered his life, and chain-smoking had ruined whatever natural stamina he had ever possessed. He couldn't keep up that killing pace....

Would they follow him through the streets? The thought almost made his knees give out like over-heated bearings. For some unknown reason it didn't occur to him to shout for help.

Morini opened the front door and looked up and down the road. He had moved fast. Birdie was not seventy feet away, running flat-footedly, with his elbows splayed out and his head down, all but done in already.

To shoot would be suicidal--it would bring the whole neighbourhood about their ears in two shakes. Morini knew a better way than that. He dropped his gun into his pocket and brought his hand out again with a long, heavy, but beautifully balanced knife. He poised it in his palm; and then, as Birdie passed under the full glare of a street lamp, Gat's arm went back and came forward again with amazing speed....

The knife flashed out with a low _whuu-uit_! He saw the flickering sheen of it as it skimmed away like a darting splash of quicksilver, saw Birdie go down with the haft of it sticking out between his shoulder-blades, heard Birdie's shuddering scream gurgle away into an awful sob....

Morini stepped back into the hall and closed the door without a sound.