The Terror. Martin Edwards

he said, ‘and how long he’s been listening!’

      ‘Who—O’Shea?’ asked the startled Connor.

      Marks did not reply, but drew a deep breath. Obviously he was uncomfortable.

      ‘If he’d heard anything he would have come for me. He’s moody—he’s been moody all night.’

      At this point Connor got up and stretched himself.

      ‘I’d like to know how he lives. I’ll bet he’s got a wife and family tucked away somewhere—that kind of bird always has. There he is!’

      The figure of O’Shea had appeared across the rise; he was coming towards them.

      ‘Get your masks ready. You don’t want any further instructions, Soapy?’ The voice, muffled by the high collar which reached to the tip of his nose, was rational, almost amiable.

      ‘Pick that fellow up.’ He pointed to Lipski, and, when the order had been obeyed, he called the cringing man before him. ‘You’ll go to the end of the road, put your red lantern on and stop them. By stop them I mean slow them down. Don’t let yourself be seen; there are ten armed men on the lorry.’

      He examined the cylinders; from the nozzle of each a thick rubber pipe trailed down into the cutting. With a spanner he opened the valve of each, and the silence was broken by the deep hissing of the gas as it escaped.

      ‘It’ll lie in the bottom, so you needn’t put on your masks till we’re ready,’ he said.

      He followed Lipski to the end of the cutting, watched the red lamp lit, and pointed out the place where the man was to hide. Then he came back to Marks. Not by word or sign did he betray the fact that he had overheard the two men talking. If there was to be a quarrel this was not the moment for it. O’Shea was intensely sane at that moment.

      They heard the sound of the incoming trolley before they saw the flicker of its lights emerge from the cover of Felsted Wood.

      ‘Now,’ said O’Shea sharply.

      He made no attempt to draw on a mask, as did his two assistants.

      ‘You won’t have to use your guns, but keep them handy in case anything goes wrong—don’t forget that if the guard isn’t knocked out immediately it will shoot at sight. You know where to meet me tomorrow?’

      The shrouded head of Soapy nodded.

      Nearer and nearer came the gold convoy. Evidently the driver had seen the red light at the end of the cutting, for his siren sounded. From where O’Shea crouched he commanded a complete view of the road.

      The trolley was within fifty yards of the cutting and had slowed perceptibly when he saw a man leap up, not from the place where he had posted him, but a dozen yards farther up the road. It was Lipski, and as he ran towards the moving trolley his hand went up, there was a flash and a report. He was firing to attract attention. O’Shea’s eyes glowed like coals. Lipski had betrayed him.

      ‘Stand by to run!’ His voice was like a rasp.

      And then the miracle happened. From the trolley leapt two pencils of flame, and Lipski crumpled up and fell by the side of the road as the lorry rumbled past. The guard had misunderstood his action; thought he was attempting to hold them up.

      ‘Glorious,’ whispered O’Shea huskily, and at that instant the lorry went down into the gas-filled cutting.

      It was all over in a second. The driver fell forward in his seat, and, released of his guidance, the front wheels of the lorry jammed into a bank.

      O’Shea thought of everything. But for that warning red light the trolley would have been wrecked and his plans brought to naught. As it was, Marks had only to climb into the driver’s seat, and reverse the engine, to extricate it from the temporary block.

      A minute later the gold convoy had climbed up to the other side of the depression. The unconscious guard and driver had been bundled out and laid on the side of the road. The final preparations took no more than five minutes. Marks stripped his mask, pulled on a uniform cap, and Connor took his place in the trolley where the gold was stored in small white boxes.

      ‘Go on,’ said O’Shea, and the trolley moved forward and four minutes later was out of sight.

      O’Shea went back to his big, high-powered car and drove off in the opposite direction, leaving only the unconscious figures of the guard to testify to his ruthlessness.

       CHAPTER II

      IT was a rainy night in London. Connor, who had preferred it so, turned into the side door of a little restaurant in Soho, mounted the narrow stairs and knocked on a door. He heard a chair move and the snap of the lock as the door was opened.

      Soapy Marks was there alone.

      ‘Did you see him?’ asked Connor eagerly.

      ‘O’Shea? Yes, I met him on the Embankment. Have you seen the newspapers?’

      Connor grinned.

      ‘I’m glad those birds didn’t die,’ he said.

      Mr Marks sneered.

      ‘Your humanity is very creditable, my dear friend,’ he said.

      On the table was a newspaper, and the big headlines stared out, almost shouted their excitement.

      GREATEST GOLD ROBBERY OF OUR TIME.

      THREE TONS OF GOLD DISAPPEAR BETWEEN SOUTHAMPTON AND LONDON.

      DEAD ROBBER FOUND BY THE ROADSIDE.

      THE VANISHED LORRY.

      In the early hours of yesterday morning a daring outrage was committed which might have led to the death of six members of the C.I.D., and resulted in the loss to the Bank of England of gold valued at half a million pounds.

      The Aritania, which arrived in Southampton last night, brought a heavy consignment of gold from Australia, and in order that this should be removed to London with the least possible ostentation, it was arranged that a lorry carrying the treasure should leave Southampton at three o’clock in the morning, arriving in London before the normal flow of traffic started. At a spot near Felsted Wood the road runs down into a depression and through a deep cutting. Evidently this had been laid with gas, and the car dashed into what was practically a lethal chamber without warning.

      That an attack was projected, however, was revealed to the guard before they reached the fatal spot. A man sprang out from a hedge and shot at the trolley. The detectives in charge of the convoy immediately replied, and the man was later found in a dying condition. He made no statement except to mention a name which is believed to be that of the leader of the gang.

      Sub-Inspectors Bradley and Hallick of Scotland Yard are in charge of the case…

      There followed a more detailed account, together with an official statement issued by the police, containing a brief narrative by one of the guards.

      ‘It seems to have created something of a sensation,’ smiled Marks, as he folded up the paper.

      ‘What about O’Shea?’ asked the other impatiently. ‘Did he agree to split?’ Marks nodded.

      ‘He was a little annoyed—naturally. But in his sane moments our friend, O’Shea, is a very intelligent man. What really annoyed him was the fact that we had parked the lorry in another place than where he ordered it to be taken. He was most anxious to discover our little secret, and I think his ignorance of the whereabouts of the gold was our biggest pull with him.’

      ‘What’s going to happen?’ asked Connor in a troubled tone.

      ‘We’re taking the lorry tonight to Barnes Common. He doesn’t realise, though he will, that we’ve transferred the gold to a small three-ton van. He ought to be very grateful to me for