CHAPTER III

ADVANTAGES OF RESPECTABILITY

Snooper Brome was not a man who was noted for his love of fresh air and exercise. In fact, none of his clients had ever seen him except in the small, comfortable room in Church Street, where he transacted business with the favoured few who were privileged to deal with him personally. He came and went secretly, and discouraged interest in his movements.

On this particular day, however, there was no furtiveness about him. He sauntered slowly through Kensington Gardens, an exceptionally brilliant waistcoat proclaiming his approach several hundred yards in advance of his person, emerged into Exhibition Road, and strolled on down that wide, barren thoroughfare. At least one man followed his progress, and Snooper permitted himself to smile faintly.

On your right-hand side as you walk down from the Park is a tube subway which leads to South Kensington Station. Into this wandered Mr. Brome, continued about fifty yards, and stopped to light a cigar--a process which took him some time.

Satisfied at last that anyone who was interested in his destination had hurried onto the station by the overground route to pick him up again as he left the tunnel, Mr. Brome turned about, left the subway where he had entered it, buttoned his coat over his fancy waistcoat, and made his way briskly into Queen's Gate. Just before he reached the entrance of a block of flats he stopped to relight his cigar, and took the opportunity of glancing keenly up and down the road.

Joan Sands was curled up on a sofa reading when he rang the bell, and she was not pleased when she saw who her visitor was.

"I don't remember inviting you," she said. "I happen to be alone, so you'd better go."

He pushed her aside without offence, and led the way into the sitting-room.

"This isn't much of a place," he remarked, glancing around him disparagingly. "Couldn't you and Jimmy have done better than this on six thousand?"

"You might leave Jimmy out of it, if you don't mind," she told him briefly. "Also, as I've already said, you weren't asked to come, so if you don't like it you know what to do."

"What's Jimmy doing now?" he pursued.

"Working."

"And what are you doing?"

She frowned at him contemptuously, and he laughed.

"No need to get annoyed, Joan. I've got some good news for you. There's a nice flat in Cornwall House waiting for someone to live in. It's big--there's a huge panelled dining-room, a sitting-room you could lose yourself in that cost six hundred pounds to furnish, and two bedrooms that'd make a queen happy. And the Apex is paying for it and offering you an allowance of two thousand a year for overhead expenses. How does that appeal to you, Joan?"

She nodded.

"I know. And he has a key and drops in any night he feels like it. No, thank you, Snooper!"

He was almost pathetically shocked at her frankness.

"No, no--not that--Good Lord, Joan! Wouldn't have dreamed of suggesting it--don't know what made you imagine such a thing."

"Brought up the way I was, you get that sort of imagination," she informed him coolly. "If it isn't that, what's the game? Don't tell me there's a philanthropist behind it, because I shall shriek with laughter."

He fidgeted while she sat down and lighted a cigarette. It was a side of him she had never seen before, and she would have mocked at the idea of a fence being so sensitive if his distress had not been so palpably sincere.

"It's the Triangle," he said presently. "We've got to have several places in different parts of London, and that flat'll be one of them. All you have to do is to live there and spend your allowance any way you like. In return, any member must be able to come and go as he pleases. The place is really two small flats knocked into one, so there are two entrances. If you like, you can lock yourself in half of it at night, and you can have both the keys of one entrance. I'll have a special lock put on the communicating doors, too, if that'll make you feel more comfortable. The only thing is to have some solid tenant--when big expensive flats aren't occupied the splits are liable to be a little curious, and we can't afford to take risks. Won't you think it over again, Joan?"

She looked at him through a wreath of smoke.

"Who is the Apex--who are the Triangle, for that matter?" she asked him directly, and his agitation froze into a menacing stillness.

"That doesn't matter to you," he said. "All you need to know is that you're part of it, Joan, and you do as you're told."

She stood up and set the long cigarette-holder carefully between her white teeth. Hands thrust down into the pockets of her boyish coat, she stared him straight in the eyes.

"My name happens to be Sands, with a Miss in front of it," she said steadily. "All this Joaning is getting on my nerves. And as for the Triangle--I don't suppose I shall ever go to heaven, but I certainly don't intend to go to Aylesbury! I'll do my gold-digging where I don't have to trust a lot of other crooks with my safety. I'll take on your job, Snooper, but listen to this: I came into this Triangle of yours on the understanding that the crooked side of it didn't touch me, and I meant it. If you'll have those locks fixed, you can billet your crooks on me, because I want big money, and I want it bad. I'll take a chance of the busies getting on to me, but they'll never get me inside even as an accessory. When do I move?"

"This afternoon," said Snooper shortly. "And you can drop the high-and-mighty tone, Miss Sands. It cuts no ice. You're a crook, even if they don't know you on the Embankment--your brother's hardly ever out of stir, and the pair of you come straight from a family of crooks."

She opened the door and waved her hand towards the tiny hall.

"I don't intend to breed a family of Triangles, anyway," she remarked, and closed the door in his face.

James Mattock, returning that evening, was informed that "Mrs. Mattock" had left, and read the note that was waiting for him uneasily. He found her already installed in the flat in Cornwall House, and looked around at the palatial furnishing perplexedly.

"What's this, Joan?" he asked.

"Oh, a matchbox on stilts," she said sarcastically. "What did you think it was--a tram?"

She was stretched out in a deep-cushioned chair, her kimono lightly sashed about her, her little bare feet pillowed in the deep pile of the carpet. Her fluffy golden hair was elaborately untidy. She was arrestingly pretty and attractive.

"Who are you waiting for?" Mattock demanded roughly, but she shook her head and held out a silk-sheathed arm.

"Only you, Jimmy. I'm sorry I was snappy just now. I've had rather a trying day."

"Poor kid!" He knelt down beside her and laid an arm about her shoulders. "But, Joan, who's paying for this? We can't afford anything like this--it must cost thousands!"

"No--it's bringing us thousands," she said. "Two thousand a year, and we need it. And all it means is letting a few men come in and out. I'll tell you----"

He stood up suddenly and clutched her wrists fiercely.

"Joan! _Joan!_" His voice was tense with agony. "Oh, my darling, what have you done this for? I've got a job. Good--good God, Joan----"

"No--no--_listen_, Jimmy! You've got it all wrong. Yes, it _is_ crooked, in a way," she went on desperately. "It's some silly gang. I don't know what they're after, but I'm not in it. Only they want a place to--to come to, sometimes, and there must be somebody always living there, and as I'm one of them, they got me."

"But----"

"Oh, yes, I know! I said I'd given it up, but I couldn't. They've got a hold on me that I can't break--that you can't break. The only way to break it is expensive, and I've got to have that money. Look--doesn't that mean anything to you?"

She drew back the sleeve and showed him her forearm, holding it up close to his eyes. It showed the faint marks of several small punctures, but Mattock only shook his head.

"I don't know what it is," he said dully. "But, of course, I'm a fool anyway...."

He sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. She went on her knees beside him and pressed herself close to him.

"Jimmy----"

"Oh, yes ... Joan ..."

He took her hand and fondled it, and then he pressed it to his lips.

It was a very long time before he spoke again.

"I'm sorry. I'm making a fool of myself. But I was afraid."

The words fell from his lips in a painful monotone.

"I'll go out for a walk. I'll feel better then."

Storm, following Susan into the Leroy that night, saw the hatless figure striding madly down Piccadilly and was puzzled.

"You _are_ doing something," Susan accused him. "I saw you this morning with a detective--Mr. Teal."

"I was being arrested," he said solemnly. "The charge was barratry, champerty, and attempted gum-boils, with complications. I explained that I was a Quaker and had never eaten tripe, so after ringing up Carter Paterson's to verify my alibi they let me go."

"I know he was a detective, because he's been in to see Lord Hannassay. Have you become a detective?"

"Not yet," he assured her, "though I hope to rise to that later. At present I'm looking for a job. I suppose you couldn't get me a master carpenter's ticket or a wood-repairer's diploma, could you?"

"What on earth do you want that for?" she asked, and Storm laughed.

"I'm interested in a saw-mill," he said gravely, "and I want to get inside it. Unfortunately the owner discourages visitors--and I'm curious! I want to rubber round that saw-mill! Why have a saw-mill in Billingsgate? Why not in Tottenham Court Road or Bloomsbury? They're just as aristocratic."

That faint smile of his flickered on his lips provocatively, and she knew him too well to question him further.

"A man's been following me about all day," she told him later. "I don't know what he wants, but he worries me. He hasn't tried to speak to me or anything like that--just trails round behind me wherever I go."

"I'm being followed too," he said with a lightness he didn't feel. "And my man isn't a detective, either! I'll tell you--we're beautiful, and he's an artist. We shall be on the walls of Burlington House next year. Or have you been married secretly and are we going to be compromised?"

"Stop fooling, Storm," she commanded.

He grinned.

"My dear soul, what else can one do? I'll push your little playmate's face in if you like, but you'll only have another man in his place to-morrow. Everybody's being followed--it must be a new game! Raegenssen's being followed, and Sir John Marker's being followed, and Joe Blaythwayt's being followed, and John Cardan's being followed, and Sir John Marker's private secretary's being followed, and I'm being followed, and Inspector Teal's being followed, and----"

"Don't you know what's at the back of it?"

"I know what, but I'd perjure my soul to know who!" said Storm. "And I take back what I said the other day. Respectability's exciting! It's the fiercest sport in the whole wide world bar haggis-shooting! Everyone's turning respectable now, even the crooks, just for the fun of the thing. Just look over to your right--that little cherub at the next table but one. See him? He's my little pet! My name's Mary, and he's a scorching lamb. We're inseparable, like Castor and Pollux or Swan and Edgar."

He waved a friendly hand to the small neatly dressed man at the adjoining table, and grinned when his salutation was coldly ignored. The girl was mystified.

"Who's that?" she asked. "He looks the most respectable man in the place."

"Oh, yes, he's respectable!" said Storm caustically. "He's only killed eleven men! That, old thing, is Comrade 'Gat' Morini, and for exactly four years all the policemen in New York and Chicago have been aching to put him in a hard chair and run two thousand volts through his spine. He's a professional gun artist, and I'll say he guns well! I ran into him in Chicago about two years back, and we exchanged compliments. His compliment missed my heart by just over two inches, and mine missed his by exactly one inch, so I always tell people I won on points. He loves me all right--you can stake your socks on uncle!"

The gaiety of his smile was entirely unforced, and in spite of herself Susan shivered, although the steel showed behind his careless self-confidence. Even so, she was afraid, for she knew his cheerful recklessness too well.

"Can't you do anything about it?" she suggested.

"What?" he demanded promptly. "There isn't a word against him. If I printed what I've just told you there'd be a libel action within the week, and young Storm wouldn't win it! He's committed eleven murders, he's been arrested eleven times, and he's been released just that number. It isn't a crime to follow anyone about."

Morini rose a moment after they did, and Storm was amused to see him greet a loiterer outside with every appearance of astonishment. As Storm handed Susan into a taxi the two reunited friends also decided to charter a taxi, and Storm grinned again.

Lord Hannassay's house was in Hamilton Place, and Storm felt that his luck was in when he caught sight of the massive figure of Oscar Raegenssen coming down the steps, for Raegenssen was a man he particularly wanted to see.

As they alighted, another taxi crawled past and stopped in Park Lane.

He watched Susan let herself in, and then hurried after the Swede.

"Excuse me," he said. "I'm Captain Arden, attached to the Special Branch at Scotland Yard."

"Well? Please be prief! I hof an appointment for supper."

He was in evening dress, with a foreign-looking cloak over his shoulders, and his Viking beard overflowed the white expanse of his shirt-front.

"That card you received--does the date mean anything to you? Did anything important happen to you on April the first, or did you do anything important?"

"I know nothing!" said Raegenssen curtly. "It is my pusiness. I hof entrosted t'bolicemans wit rezearch. April first is day of all the fools. Thot is all I know."

There was nothing to be done. Storm shrugged, raised his hat, said good-night, and strolled on.

In his flat he found the patient Mr. Teal consoling himself for a long wait with one of his host's best cigars.

"Mecklen is my shadow," said Teal, yawning. "He's outside now."

"I saw him," said Storm. "He's got company--Morini trailed me home. For sheer plodding industry, give me the Yankee gunman!"

He threw his hat and gloves into a chair and walked over to the side table on which a decanter and syphon stood.

"Been helping yourself to a drink, Teal?" he murmured.

"I don't drink," said Mr. Teal piously. "It's bad for my heart. Fat men didn't ought to touch alcohol."

Storm carried the decanter to the light, held it up, and inspected the level of the liquid carefully. Then he called to Teal, and that stout abstainer came lethargically.

"See that little scratch in the glass?" said Storm. "That's the level I always keep the whisky up to. And now there's about a quarter of an inch more than there was when I went out. Some little pal of mine's been kind by stealth. I love these subterranean chariteers!"

He moistened the tip of one finger with the spirit and dabbed it on his tongue. Then he went hastily to the bathroom and rinsed his mouth out thoroughly.

"Aconite, I think," he remarked pleasantly when he returned. "Still, we'll send a peg round to the Home Office Analyst in the morning to make sure."

He sat down on the table, forearms resting on his knees, the cigarette that he was never without pointed optimistically skywards between his compressed lips. He grinned at Mr. Teal, and Mr. Teal's mouth widened half an inch momentarily, which was about the nearest Mr. Teal ever came to smiling.

"They seem to think you're important," drawled the detective callously, and Storm nodded.

"I was about due for it. I saw Raegenssen to-night coming out of Hannassay's--didn't know they were friends! Dear old Olaf the Seabird was quite rude. All these people seem to hate having to try and remember their pasts. What can you remember about yourself thirty years ago, Teal?"

"I daren't tell you, Captain Arden," said Inspector Teal.

They were talking seriously about fifteen minutes later when the telephone buzzed a warning, and Storm picked up the instrument.

"Hullo... yes... Susan!... Yes?"

He listened impatiently for a few moments, and then hung up the receiver violently.

"Let's go to a moonlight picnic, Teal!" he crisped, and picked up his hat as he sprang past the languid detective.

He led the way at a breakneck speed down the covered alley towards the courtyard which opens on to Piccadilly, but Inspector Teal, showing an agility which one would not have suspected, kept pace with him fairly comfortably. Just level with the porter's lodge, Storm stopped for a moment and thumbed down the safety catch of his automatic.

"I'll bet it's Lew," he said, and stepped calmly out of cover.

They had just reached the foot of the steps when a spurt of flame leapt out of the darkness of Albany Court Yard, and something sang viciously past his head.

"Rotten bad shooting, comrade," he remarked mildly.

Mr. Teal, however, missed the last part of that observation, for as he spoke Storm fired. There was a scream of pain, and a police whistle sounded shrilly. The next instant Inspector Teal was deafened by the roar of an open exhaust. Storm was already at the wheel of his long silver Hirondel, and Mr. Teal climbed in beside him briskly, A crowd had already gathered in the yard, and Storm made his Klaxon howl urgently.

A uniformed man signalled them to stop, but stepped aside when he recognized the detective.

"Arrest that man!" shouted Teal, as they went past.

The Hirondel skidded hectically into Piccadilly, swinging straight across the nose of an omnibus. There was a screech of grinding brakes, a chorus of angry yells, and the silver car lurched across the road and headed west, gathering speed with powerful ease.

They sailed down the slight gradient towards Hyde Park Corner, cutting in and out of the stream of traffic with a daring that made Inspector Teal grip the side of the car hard and temporarily suspend mastication of his chewing gum.

"Something funny happening at Hannassay's," Storm explained, raising his voice to make himself heard. "Secretary rang me up--two men trying to get in the back door, and Hannassay in his bedroom, locked in, and can't be woken. I heard a shot, and then the line went dead. Respectability--huh!"