Conspiracies -- Fiction; Detective and mystery stories; England -- Fiction
"You'll hear that all in good time," said Storm. "Wait till I've
finished my speech, and don't interrupt. It's rude. Right! Item
Two: I know exactly why you sent your cheap Bowery lead-slingers
clinking for the men you did. I know why Cardan was killed, and
Marker nearly, just like I know why Hannassay died. Why, I've seen
plate glass less transparent than you! The amazing, everlasting,
all-fired and brass-bound miracle is that even a mutt like old fat
Teal didn't have the bracelets on you days and weeks ago. I could've
done it; except that, as I've explained, it'd've been embarrassingly
public. A day or two late, you decided it was time one of your
incarnations faded out, and you got away with it. You kidded Teal,
but you'd have to put up a bit of whole cloth big enough to cover the
world before you got me guessing! And I think that tots up to about
_that_. You never did anything particularly mysterious. I saw you
stick up Moraine's, and all the world knows how you wangled the
getaway from Marlborough Street Police Station. That was smart, I'll
say. But it didn't matter. A few little fish don't matter when
there's a whacking great whale jumping round the net. And that net
is now blocked in with sheet iron and reënforced concrete tough
enough to hold even you! D'you doubt me--d'you think I'm bluffing
still--or shall I fire off another tankful?"
Surcon said nothing. As Storm's staccato sentences shot out their
deadly burden, the Apex had receded further and further into his
throne, his jaw thrust out, his pale blue eyes gleaming like
pin-points of azure flame, his whole crouching position resembling
the compression of a wild animal about to spring. A crackling
electricity had oozed into the air. The trace of uneasiness which
had been in Surcon's eyes from the first had grown now into a raging
devil of fear, with hate, desperation, and fury leaping in to join
forces with it and bolster up its fundamental weakness. Storm's
gun-metal grey eyes, drilling without a waver into his father's blue
ones, were hard and pitiless.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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