CHAPTER VIII

ANNOYANCE OF OSCAR

Nothing but credit can attach to Captain Arden, who is in charge of the case. Immediately he heard of the display of jewels, he ordered fifty officers in plain clothes to be armed and dispatched to Moraine's. The hold-up, however, was staged in a manner so unprecedented and so completely unforseen that, hampered as they were by a considerable number of sightseers, Captain Arden and his men were helpless. As it was, his prompt action in attacking the member of the gang who was left behind to ensure the getaway of the others was as courageous a deed as that which won him the D.S.O. at Mons during the Great War. It was not his fault that he failed to prevent the escape of the gang. Captain Arden also deserves special praise for the way in which he quelled the subsequent panic. A gentleman who was present has written us a strongly worded letter abusing the methods used by Captain Arden in doing this. Our correspondent apparently fails to realise that you cannot argue politely with a terrified mob, and that Captain Arden's vigorous measures probably saved several people from, at least, serious injury.

So spoke the _Daily Record_, after the first profitable crime of the Triangle.

The trouble about sensational crime, from the journalist's point of view, is that once the public has ceased to be interested in its committal, the news value falls several degrees below par. The Triangle mystery, however, suffered from no such disadvantages. The definite threat of further crimes effectively maintained popular interest at fever heat. The Triangle was the topic of conversation wherever two or three were gathered together, and those who at the first announcement had dismissed it as a hoax, prayed that their indiscretion might be forgotten.

Joe Blaythwayt was confidently pessimistic.

"I Know Criminals," he would say darkly, to the few doubters that remained.

Another man, personally concerned with the fate of the plot, was belligerently smug.

"I shall nod bay," he repeated with liturgical monotony.

He sat opposite Joe Blaythwayt in the Lombard Street office. It was not his usual day for calling, but his reason was costly enough to justify this departure from routine.

"Ter day afder to-morrow," he said, "I shall a cheque traw vor fifty tousand bounds. I shall require to pe baid in one bound notes. Led berbarations pe mate."

"Certainly, sir," said Joe Blaythwayt briskly, and made a note on his pad. "The money will be ready for you. In the morning?"

"Yess!" Raegenssen nodded violently. "That iss all. Thang you."

He rose.

"If I might mention something, sir," Blaythwayt stopped him. "That man Snooper--you want to be careful of him."

Raegenssen wrinkled.

"Snoober?"

"That Brome fellow--Edward Brome he calls himself. I saw him driving through the City in your car yesterday morning. Of course, it's really no business of mine if you give your acquaintance a lift, but Brome isn't--ah--desirable. He's a well-known fence."

"Fence?"

"'Fence,'" explained Mr. Blaythwayt with unction, "is the cant term among criminals for a man who buys stolen property. A receiver. Brome is a receiver."

Raegenssen stroked his chin.

"Tear me! That iss most disdressing--yess! Hof you seen him before? How do you know?"

"I Know Criminals," said Joe with an air.

"When you again meed him," said Raegenssen seriously, "dell him nod to gall on me again. I shall pe gross--yess! A griminal! I shall eggsdinguish him! He shall hof ter fire out!"

Blaythwayt was surprised at the man's vehemence.

"There's no actual evidence against him," he explained erroneously, "but the police know him for a criminal and they're anxious to get a conviction." In this he was nearer the truth. "It'd be unpleasant for you to be known as a friend of Snooper's. I thought I'd take the liberty of warning you."

The Swede nodded.

"I am gradeful. Thang you. Goot-pye!"

He left in his usual abrupt manner, and Joe Blaythwayt returned to his desk with a comfortable feeling of having at last found an opportunity of giving a practical demonstration of his knowledge of the criminal classes.

So escaped Snooper Brome, with three car-loads of detectives all but on his heels and four hundred thousand pounds' worth of gems in a shabby leather bag. And the armed men who prowled the streets of London searched in vain.

That evening, Oscar Raegenssen summoned his portly butler and his chauffeur to his study. He took the cocktail the butler shook for him, and threw two buff scraps of paper on the table.

"To-night," he ordered, "you will go to der theadrigal enderdainments. Your tiggets! I do not wiss to disturbed pe!"

His servants accepted the tickets with murmured thanks, and exchanged a covert wink, for they were used to their master's eccentricities. Without warning or explanation he would disappear for weeks, and return, as though he had only been absent for a day, expecting to find everything running smoothly for him to drop back into. Often he sent them away for the night, with some such instructions as he gave them now. They put their own constructions on these habits of his, and they were quite wrong.

Raegenssen saw them out of the house, and then fetched a hat and stick and himself left. He dined economically at a small restaurant in Soho, and from there he went on to the Orpheum Theatre, where that bright entertainment _Bronx or Manhattan_ played nightly to crowded houses. Not that Oscar Raegenssen was interested in snappy back-chat, negroid music, or chorus girls' legs; but the box of a theatre is a convenient place for meeting those whom you wish to see and speak with in private. There Storm, who was in the stalls, saw him dozing boredly during the first part of the show, for Oscar Raegenssen's friend was not due to arrive until ten.

Storm left in the interval, and strolled leisurely to the garage where his car was kept. He drove north and west--along Oxford Street and up Orchard Street, and when the gates of Regent's Park loomed before him he veered half left and went on up the Finchley Road. After a distance he turned right, drove on for about three hundred yards, and suddenly swung left into an unlighted track. The car bumped and jolted as he nursed it over the uneven ground.

At length he stopped, switched off all his lights, got down, and stretched himself.

The moon was new and feeble, and the sky black with hurrying clouds. Somewhere to the north rumbled the mutter of distant thunder, A summer storm was brewing.

He disappeared among the shadows. The darkness was almost complete, yet he picked his way over the rough path unerringly. On either side of him rose ghostly polyliths which resembled ruins in that faint light, and once he climbed over a wall in the interstices of which the cement was still soft. He was on a plot of land where a block of flats was being erected.

Presently he stopped and took a black silk handkerchief from his pocket, and this he pinned to the lapels of his dinner jacket. It erased the white blur of his shirt and made him practically invisible. A second black silk handkerchief, folded diagonally, he tied about the lower part of his face.

A six-foot wall barred his way. He scaled it like a cat, and dropped nimbly on the springy turf on the other side.

The house stood back from the road, in darkness. Storm was in the back garden, the high walls that enclosed it screening him effectively from the view of any possible outside watchers. He stole along in the shadow they cast. A car passed with a hoot and a blare as the latch of a window clicked open under his expert manipulation, and as the splutter of the car died away he raised the sash soundlessly and slipped over the sill.

Inside, the blackness was intense, with a tangible quality to it that was numbing to the senses. Myriads of silver specks whirled before the eyes in protest against the strain of attempted vision. The utter opacity was tactile, half fluid, like a fog. He crept through the room with a feline assurance, uncannily avoiding chairs and tables, crossed the hall, and opened a door on the far side, closing it behind him. Then he went over to the window and passed his sensitive fingers delicately over every inch of it, even as he had done to that by which he had entered--a touch light enough to stroke a butterfly's wing unfelt. Satisfied that there were no alarms fitted, he pressed back the catch and opened the window to its fullest extent, after which he drew the heavy curtains.

A beam of light stabbed the darkness, flickered over every part of the room, and rested at length on a Sheraton cabinet.

Unhurriedly he made his preparations. From an inside pocket he took a paper bag from which he scattered a coarse powder over the exposed parquet by the door, so that anyone attempting to enter would be bound to step on it. Next came a slim wallet of morocco leather which, laid open on the floor beside the cabinet, gleamed with the silvery sheen of fine steel tools. Lastly, he drew from his hip pocket an automatic pistol, and this he also laid on the floor beside him.

The cabinet hid a small safe of the most modern type, built like a battleship, yet he tackled it confidently. Patiently and skillfully he worked, and at last he had a rubber cup fixed securely to the metal about the lock. Into this he poured a viscid liquid from a rubber bottle, which he handled gingerly. Then he sat back on his heels, while the concentrated acid bubbled against the steel and gave off a heavy, pungent vapour.

Exactly three hours after he had entered the house the door of the safe hung open, disclosing rows and rows of documents tied in bundles of various sizes, neatly arranged on the metal shelves.

Holding the electric lamp between his knees so that its rays fell towards the floor, he ran through the packets rapidly.

It was then that he heard the snap of potassium chlorate--the safety powder he had sprinkled around the door detonated under foot like the tiny explosions of "cap" pistols. He caught up his automatic and spun around, just as a switch clicked over and the room was flooded with a blinding glare.

For a space of seconds there was a strung, pulsating silence. Then:

"Hullo, Snooper," said Storm, in a voice that was not his own. "How are things?"

It was a deadlock. Snooper Brome's big hand held an ugly revolver which covered Storm, and Storm's little automatic was steadily focused on Mr. Brome's rainbow waistcoat. So they stood without movement, with every nerve keyed and strained to humming pitch, while their eyes never swerved a fraction of a millimetre from each other's trigger finger. Moments passed with the glittering clarity of crystal drops falling in a bottomless pit....

"What are you doing?" asked Mr. Brome, though the question was rather unnecessary.

He looked pale, and his mane of black hair was more unruly than usual.

"I might ask the same question," remarked Storm.

Their eyes met over the blue-black gleam of their weapons--Storm's glinting metallically over his improvised mask, Snooper's blue ones cold and level. And Storm saw Snooper's first finger whiten over the knuckle ... saw the slight backward tremble of the hammer of his revolver.

"Don't be a fool!" he snapped tensely. "An automatic's quicker than an uncocked revolver. I can shoot a fraction of a second before you can, and I never miss!"

Snooper's finger relaxed, and the masked man rose slowly from his crouching position.

"That's why you'll drop that gat," went on Storm's monotonous, unrecognisable voice. It was perfectly level, and yet he was playing the most terrific gamble of nerve in his career. He was banking, betting, coldly and unruffledly threatening on the infinitesimal margin of time's advantage the difference of weapons gave him. "You're poaching, Snooper. Your business is to fence, not to crack cribs yourself ... taking the bread out of the poor burglar's mouth.... I shall have to report you to the Larcenists' Union, Snooper, really I shall...."

His voice trailed away.

Brome slackened the muscles of his forearm preparatory to making his own gamble, for he knew how desperate was his position. And yet he need not have been afraid, for Storm had taken one of those swift, inspirational, entirely characteristic decisions of his. But, not knowing this, Eddie Brome watched keenly for the faintest wavering of the gun-metal grey eyes.... He stirred slightly, and the _crack!_ of another speck of potassium chlorate under his foot was like a gunshot in the stillness.

For a decimal of a split second it distracted his attention.

A fine tongue of flame licked out from the muzzle of Storm's automatic, and the roar of the explosion was shattering. The bullet struck Brome's revolver from his hand, and it clattered to the floor while his arm fell limply to his side, suddenly paralysed by the shock.

Storm dropped his gun into his pocket and leapt. His fist crashed into Snooper's face, and the big man slid limply to the ground.

Storm had his back to the drawn curtains, and behind him he heard, quite distinctly, a stifled gasp. In one lightning spring he was beside the window, his back flattened against the wall, watching and listening. No one entered, and he drew back the edge of the curtain a centimetre. There was nothing to be seen, but as he let the cloth fall back he caught the gentle crunch of stealthy footsteps on gravel.

He was across the room in a flash, had turned out the lights, and was back at the window. He slipped between the curtains and swung himself out, dropping to the path with hardly a sound. At the corner of the building a dim grey shape moved suddenly and vanished.

Storm jumped the path and raced along the turf to where he had seen the figure. There was no sign of it, but he could glimpse the small area in front of the house, and he saw the two black burly forms which pounded up the tiled approach, their lanterns dancing as they ran.

"Damn these police.... But it's no use getting rattled, Horace!" he murmured.

With which sound piece of philosophy he doubled back to the window and returned to the room he had left. His one shot had already raised the alarm, and he had much to do, yet he moved without flurry. On the floor in front of the safe he continued his interrupted task by the light of his torch. It was finished in a few moments, and then he closed the safe and replaced the wallet of tools in his pocket. As he crossed to the door he saw that Snooper had vanished and, on the strength of his decision, was glad that he had not hit the fence harder.

There was, however, small time for these reflections, for the constables outside were already thundering on the front door. He flitted upstairs like a shadow, temporarily unperturbed by the problem of how he was to escape, and made a speedy, methodical search of all the upstairs rooms. The door of one remained shut when he turned the handle noiselessly, and from within came a faint sound of cautious movement.

Coolly he twisted into the next room, and, looking out and down, he saw the policemen climb in through the window he had left open for his own bolt-hole.

"Jerusalem!" he breathed. "They've both gone in--the poor, damned boobs! I ought to take their numbers, really, and report them for incompetence.... However...."

He flung a leg over the sill and looked up, for although his way of escape was temporarily clear he was anxious to see the man in the adjoining room. Above his head ran a stout gutter, and, testing it with his weight, he decided that it would hold. He swung out into space and risked his way along the side of the building. In a few hair-raising seconds he could see into one corner of the lighted room, and then a loose section of pipe rattled in his hand, and the blind whirred down almost in his face.

Without hesitation he turned and made his way as swiftly as he dared back to the window he had left. He got his legs inside, and then grabbed the top of the sash and wrenched his body down and inwards with all his strength. Even as he did so, the shot he had feared and sought thus to dodge rang out, and something seared across his shoulder.

"Here--none of that, sir!" commanded a voice, and the next instant the lights went up.

Raegenssen stood on the threshold, cold murder flaming in his eyes. Behind him were the two constables, holding him back, and one of them was clutching the Swede's wrist to prevent him firing the second round he was wrestling and straining to loose off. He was in evening dress, with his mane of fair hair dishevelled and his Viking beard awry with the struggle.

"Take that man!" he screamed, and one of the constables released his hold and came towards Storm.

"Dear me," murmured Storm. "Siegfried, my Pelican, you seem annoyed!"

His hand went to his pocket, and whipped into view again immediately with a vision of snarling death. He fired in between the men until the magazine was exhausted, and for a moment they recoiled instinctively. It gave him his chance. With a light laugh he leapt for the little group in the doorway.

Raegenssen staggered back from the sideways smash of Storm's elbow, and in the same movement Storm hit one of the policemen regretfully but scientifically on the point of the jaw. An instant later he was sprinting down the passage.

He sprang to the banisters, and went whirling down, as the Swede fired again. The bullet sang harmlessly past Storm's head, and a whistle shrilled urgently. The three men came stumbling down in his wake, but he had the start of them, and he had ducked back into the shadows of the hall and vanished into the library before they could switch on the downstairs lights. They were still groping about when he passed through the still open window and scudded across the back lawn the way he had come.

He found his car, stripped off his disguise, and had his hand on the door when he noticed that there was someone huddled up in the front seat. He glanced keenly around him, and then kept his right hand on the gun in his pocket as he turned his electric flash on the face of the intruder.

"Hullo, Kit," said Susan calmly,

When he had disposed of the police Raegenssen collected the papers from his safe and studied each one of them closely. Then he replaced them and went to the kitchen at the back of the house, where he brewed himself some coffee, and, armed with this, returned to the library and lighted a cigar.

Half-way through the smoke he discarded the stump fastidiously and rose. At one end of the room was a small writing-desk, which he unlocked, drawing down the folding front. Then he took off his coat and white waistcoat and began to work.

A tiny reading-lamp on the top of the desk was all the light in the room. He looked a grotesque figure, his leonine head stooped over his work, his glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose, his protruding tongue following the movements of his hands, with the direct light bringing out his angular face in high relief.

It was two hours later that he heard the sound--the creak of a board under a wary foot. He laid down his stylo carefully and switched out the reading-lamp. On the threshold of the library he halted. The hall was in darkness. Facing him, though he could not see them, were three doors, and he had left each one of them slightly ajar. Almost certainly his study would be the goal of this new trespasser, he decided, and passed over the heavy carpet without sound. He was just outside the study door when he heard a curious noise--three deliberate claps. It was so obviously designed to attract attention that another man would have paused, but Raegenssen was a man without fear. He slid through the opening and stood with his back to the wall, every sense on the alert.

"Who iss that?" he demanded.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" boomed back a mocking voice.

It was disguised, yet there was something familiar in it which he could not place. His searching fingers located the electric light switch, but he flicked the lever over and back without results. The wires were cut--he found the loose ends hanging free a foot further down.

"What is...?" he said.

And then came a rollicking chuckle that, unemotional as he was, seemed to set a fine thread of ice vibrating in his spine.

"Maddock!" he roared uncertainly, and then he saw a shadow move, and stumbled forward.

He touched cloth, and with a deep-throated grunt he closed. The unknown struck at him with something that whistled as it fell, but Raegenssen bowed his head and the life-preserver thudded agonisingly into his shoulder instead of into his skull. He grabbed the striker's hand, and for a short while they swayed and panted in the darkness. His opponent was heavy and strong above the average, but he was no match for the giant Swede. Presently they fell together, and Raegenssen heaved himself astride the writhing man and sought to gather in the arms that struck viciously at him.

"Now we shall see," he growled, and then a chance blow crashed into his solar plexus and he rolled limply away, gasping in a torment of nausea.

It was some minutes before he could rise, his great chest heaving painfully, and by that time he knew that the unknown had gone. He reeled across the hall, bent almost double, and snapped on the lights in his library. Every drawer and cupboard had been hurriedly rifled, and their contents strewn on the floor, but he gave the damage scarcely a glance. From among the wreckage he retrieved a flashlight and went back to the study, switching on the lights in the hall on his way. He went over every inch of the room in search of anything his late visitor might have lost in the struggle, and it was quite early in his hunt that he saw something winking up at him from the carpet.

It was a little silver triangle.