The Terror. Martin Edwards

been made into a super film, which was one of the first ‘talkies’ shown to the public, and which will long be pronounced one of the best, and now in book form the Detective Story Club presents it to the world.

      The Terror is a masterpiece of its kind, and the Edgar Wallace enthusiast will delight in tracing a hundred and one clever devices from subtleties in plot to fine consistency in the characters. The plot speaks for itself, but as an example of a cleverly drawn character take Soapy Marks, a man of secondary importance in the story. In the opening scene we see him chided by his confederate, Connor: (‘Don’t try swank on me, Soapy—use words I can understand’) but this characteristic does not obtrude—in fact, it is only well on in the book that we see Soapy in his true light, spoken of by Scotland Yard as ‘so clever that one of these days we’ll find him in Oxford or Cambridge’. And so with each and every one of the characters.

      The atmosphere of terror suggested by the very title of the book is handled with that care which makes real melodrama—a word, by the way, which should not have become degraded in meaning, had all the novels and plays so called been of the Edgar Wallace standard! He never overdoes it. His thrills are relieved by flashes of real humour and the love element introduced with Mary Redmayne and the drunken Ferdie Fane is so slightly suggested that when she admits in the closing chapter, ‘Yes—I—I’m awfully fond of—of Mr Fane,’ we only then realise that the unknown something which gave the story its charm was indeed love!

       CHAPTER I

      O’SHEA was in his maddest mood, had been like it all night. Stalking up and down the grassy slope, muttering to himself, waving his hands at some invisible audience, cackling with laughter at his own mysterious jokes; and at dawn he had fallen upon little Lipski, who had dared light a cigarette in defiance of instructions, and had beaten him with savage brutality, and the other two men had not dared interfere.

      Joe Connor sprawled on the ground, chewing a blade of grass, and watching with sombre eyes the restless figure. Marks, who sat cross-legged by his side, watched too, but there was a twisted and sneering smile on his thin lips.

      ‘Mad as a coot,’ said Joe Connor in a low voice. ‘If he pulls this job off without getting us in gaol for the rest of our lives we’ll be lucky.’

      Soapy Marks licked his dry lips.

      ‘He’s cleverest when he’s mad.’ He spoke like a man of culture. Some said that Soapy was intended for the church before a desire for an easier and more illicit method of living made him one of the most skilful, and nearly the most dangerous, gangster in England.

      ‘Lunacy, my dear fellow, does not mean stupidity. Can’t you stop that fellow blubbering?’

      Joe Connor did not rise; he turned his eyes in the direction of the prostrate figure of Lipski, who was groaning and swearing sobbingly.

      ‘He’ll get over it,’ he said indifferently. ‘The bigger beating he gets the more he respects O’Shea.’

      He wriggled a little closer to his confederate.

      ‘Have you ever seen O’Shea—his face, I mean?’ he asked, dropping his voice a note lower. ‘I never have, and I’ve done two—’ he thought ‘—three,’ he corrected, ‘jobs with him. He’s always had that coat on he’s got now, with the collar right up to his nose, the same old hat over his eyes. I never used to believe there was that kind of crook—thought they were only seen on the stage. First time I ever heard of him was when he sent for me—met him on the St Albans Road about twelve o’clock, but never saw his face. He knew all about me; told me how many convictions I’d had, and the kind of work he wanted me for—’

      ‘And paid you well,’ said Marks lazily, when the other paused. ‘He always pays well; he always picks up his ‘staff’ in the same way.’

      He pursed his lips as though he were going to whistle, examined the restless figure of the master thoughtfully.

      ‘He’s mad—and he pays well. He will pay better this time.’

      Connor looked up sharply.

      ‘Two hundred and fifty quid and fifty getaway money—that’s fair, ain’t it?’

      ‘He will pay better,’ said Marks suavely. ‘This little job deserves it. Am I to drive a motor-lorry containing three tons of Australian sovereigns through the streets of London, possibly risk hanging, for two hundred and fifty pounds—and getaway money? I think not.’

      He rose to his feet and dusted his knees daintily. O’Shea had disappeared over the crest of the hill, was possibly behind the hedge line which swept round in a semi-circle till it came within half a dozen feet of where the men were talking of him.

      ‘Three tons of gold; nearly half a million pounds. At least I think we’re entitled to ten per cent.’

      Connor grinned, jerked his head towards the whimpering Lipski.

      ‘And him?’

      Marks bit his lip.

      ‘I don’t think we could include him.’

      He glanced round again for some sign of O’Shea, and dropped down beside his companion.

      ‘We’ve got the whole thing in our hands,’ he said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. ‘He’ll be sane tomorrow. These fits only come on him at rare intervals; and a sane man will listen to reason. We’re holding up this gold convoy—that’s one of O’Shea’s oldest tricks, to fill a deep cutting full of gas. I wonder he dare repeat it. I am driving the lorry to town and hiding it. Would O’Shea give us our share if he had to decide between an unpleasant interview with us and a more unpleasant interview with Inspector Bradley?’

      Connor plucked another blade of grass and chewed on it gloomily.

      ‘He’s clever,’ he began, and again Marks’ lips curled.

      ‘Aren’t they all?’ he demanded. ‘Isn’t Dartmoor full of clever people? That’s old Hallick’s great joke—he calls all the prisoners collegers. No, my dear Connor, believe me, cleverness is a relative term—’

      ‘What does that mean?’ growled Connor with a frown. ‘Don’t try swank on me, Soapy—use words I can understand.’

      He looked around again a little anxiously for the vanished O’Shea. Behind the hill crest, in a narrow lane, O’Shea’s big car was parked that would carry him to safety after the job. His confederates would be left to take all the risks, face the real dangers which would follow, however cleverly the coup was organised.

      A little distance away to the left, on the edge of the deep cutting, four big steel gas cylinders lay in line. Even from where he sprawled he could see the long white road leading into the cutting, on which presently would appear the flickering lights of the gold convoy. His gas mask lay under his hand; Marks had his sticking out of his coat pocket.

      ‘He must have a lot of stuff,’ he said.

      ‘Who—O’Shea?’ Marks shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. He spends money like a lunatic. I should think he was broke. It’s nearly twelve months since he had a big haul.’

      ‘What does he do with the money?’ asked Connor curiously.

      ‘Spends it, as we all do,’ was the laconic answer. ‘He talked about buying a big country house last time I saw him; he was going to settle down and live the life of a gentleman. Last night, when I had a chat with him, he said it would take half this loot to pay his debts.’

      Marks examined his well-manicured nails.

      ‘Amongst other things he’s a liar,’ he said lightly. ‘What’s that?’

      He looked towards the line of bushes a few yards distant. He had heard a rustle, the snap of a twig, and was on his feet instantly. Crossing the short intervening