Читать книгу The Kahm Syndicate - Aidan de Brune - Страница 5

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IMMEDIATELY Dr. Murray replaced the receiver on the telephone hook, Oliver Manx repeated his request to be shown to a private room. At the door he turned suddenly to stare at the nurse who had been a puzzled witness of the late scene.

"I forgot you, nurse." For a moment he hesitated, carefully, scanning the girl's face. "Yes, you'll do. You can keep a still tongue! Anyway, you're elected—my nurse during my long and dangerous illness." The secret agent grinned widely. "You won't find your job onerous—just to shoo away all visitors." He swung round on the doctor, waiting in the corridor. "Get another nurse here, doctor, and let—" He paused.

"Nurse Torrens," completed Dr. Murray.

"—Nurse Torrens attend on me," concluded the secret agent. He walked to the door, to follow the doctor, as if the matter held no dispute. For a second the intern hesitated, then shrugged. This young-old man, evidently carefully disguised, had assumed complete command of the situation. He claimed to have complete police backing—and was certainly backed by the constable in the room, who raised no objections to his demands. There could be nothing wrong. Yet he paused for thought before giving the orders Oliver Manx waited to hear.

"All right, nurse," he said resignedly. "Will you ask Nurse Thorne to take your place in the reception room? I am putting Mr. Keene in room 79; you will follow when you are finished. Tell matron I would like to see her in a quarter of an hour, and that room 79 is engaged."

He paused, looking at the constable questioningly.

"Constable Harris has his orders," said Oliver Manx, interpreting the intern's unspoken question. "Mr. Ramsay will he here within a few minutes, and will take charge—until then I want Constable Harris about here, to prevent unauthorised visitors."

"Unauthorised visitors?" Dr. Murray lifted his brows.

"Just so. Mr. Ramsay, when he comes, will tell, you what we are up against. I should not be at all surprised at your receiving quite a number of callers—all most anxious to have just one glimpse of Thaddeus Keene."

In a long corridor on the second floor, Dr. Murray opened a door and switched on the lights. Oliver Manx entered the room and hesitated, looking at the window.

"Switch off the light a moment, doctor. I want to have a look outside."

Mechanically the medical man obeyed. The secret agent went to the window and threw up the sash; he put his head out and peered down the wall to the court below. With a little grunt of satisfaction he brought his head into the room again and closed the window, pulling down the blind.

"Sit down, doctor; if I may take the privileges of a host here." A quiet smile bent the secret agent's lips at the sight of the medical man's astonished face. "We may as well be comfortable while waiting for Mr. Ramsay's arrival. Smoke?—or is that against the rules?" Oliver Manx leaned forward, open cigarette case in his hand.

"Well—" Dr. Murray leaned forward, laughing, and took a cigarette. "—you've fractured so many rules during the past half-hour, Mr. Keene, that one more—"

"Hospitals mend fractures—that's their business." The secret agent flicked a lighter to flame.

"Of course, you want to know what all this commotion is about. Well, I'm going to tell you—Of course, you understand, that secrecy is essential?"

With a few well chosen words he told the history of the Kahm Syndicate as then known to himself and the police, their public declaration of war against the gangs trying to dominate Sydney suburbs. He frankly doubted the bona-fides of the Syndicate, stating that he believed the real motive to be the organisation and monopoly of crime. As he proceeded in his recital he appeared to forget the intern listening absorbedly to his words, and spoke as if reviewing his case for personal elucidation. He had just finished his recital when a knock came at the door, and, in answer to the intern's permission, Nurse Torrens came into the room. She glanced inquisitively, and somewhat amusedly, at her "patient."

"Assistant-Commissioner Ramsay has arrived," she, said quietly. "He is busy at the telephone at the moment, but says he will come up here directly he has finished."

"Good!" Oliver Manx placed a seat for the girl. "Sit down, nurse. We may see a good bit of each other before this adventure ends, so it is well to get acquainted. Going, doctor?"

"There are other accident cases besides yours." Dr. Murray spoke gravely. "Perhaps not as serious; yet—"

Oliver Manx laughed. "Well, I can't expect to turn the Sydney hospital right upside-down," he said. "I will certify that you have done your best in the short time at your disposal, so far."

The doctor laughed.

"One thing more." The secret agent halted the doctor at the door. "How long does it take a man suffering from a severe—almost fatal—bullet wound to recover?"

"A month—often longer."

"You're not going to stay here a whole month, Mr.—" the nurse asked quickly, with some astonishment.

"Oliver Manx." The secret agent supplied his name at the nurse's pause. "No such luck! I expect to leave here shortly after dark."

"But—what am I to do then?" asked the girl perplexedly.

"Keep to this room, just as if you had a real patient—read a book, do some sewing—anything you like, so long as you pose as a nurse attending to a dangerously wounded man."

Phyllis Torrens laughed; then made a move. "Won't that be terribly dull?"

"Sorry." Oliver grinned. "You'll have the recompense of knowing that your boredom is in the interests of your country."

"I prefer an invalid." The girl laughed.

"Is that a compliment?" Oliver Manx coloured slightly, trying, to look very innocent. "If so—"

The door the room was jerked abruptly open and a tall, soldierly man of about fifty years of age entered. He stared from the man to the girl for a moment.

"Hullo, Manx. Hope nothing serious is the matter?"

"Not a thing, Mr. Ramsay." The secret service man shook hands warmly with the Assistant Commissioner. "I hope Constable Harris put you wise to the arrangements I have made?"

"He told me there was nothing the matter with you—except, perhaps, a scare." Assistant Commissioner Ramsay laughed. "Let's have the talk."

He found a chair and looked questioningly at the nurse as Oliver Manx, without preface, commenced an account of the late happenings at Alford House.

Nurse Torrens went to leave the room, but the secret agent stopped her.

"It is just as well that Nurse Torrens should know all there is to know, Mr. Ramsay," he said. "She's got a difficult part to play during the coming days. Sit down, nurse, you're in this, right up to your neck."

Assistant Commissioner Ramsay listened intently to the secret agent's report. At its conclusion he made no comment, merely asking:

"What comes next?"

"Thaddeus Keene will be in hospital, unable to see anyone. I want Constable Harris' clothes," he added. "I've got to get out of here unseen—and fortunately he's about my size. You can get someone to bring a suit of clothes here for him to get away in."

"What about those you're wearing?"

"Too distinctive." Oliver Manx shook his head. "No, when he goes out of hospital there'll be someone on the watch. They'd recognise those clothes, and perhaps take a pot-shot at him."

Assistant Commissioner Ramsay nodded. "I guess so. What's going to happen to you?"

"I've got a burrow I can duck into—more than one in fact. For the next month or so I'll disappear. When I show up again at the C.L.O—"

"Exit the Kahm Syndicate?" laughed the Assistant Commissioner.

"—and most of the Darlinghurst gangs, I hope," added Oliver Manx.

For more than an hour the two men remained in consultation, Nurse Torrens passing in and out of the room as if in attendance on a patient. A deep colour had invaded her pretty cheeks at knowledge of the big and exciting man-hunt she had become involved in.

Whenever she entered the room she glanced at the secret agent curiously. What sort of a man was he really? She could not place him, as she was accustomed to placing the men she met. That was, she believed, because he was still in his disguise. She liked his voice, his manner—both she believed were real and so vastly different from the grave, dignified man his outward appearance indicated. And—he was going to leave the hospital to venture alone into the big world, to fight the organised crime which had grown up in the city.

"Well, that's settled!" Assistant Commissioner Ramsay stood up and held out his hand to the secret agent. "I'll send Constable Harris to you, Manx. By the way, how do I communicate with you in the future?"

"You don't." For a moment Oliver Manx looked very grave. "Yet we've got to keep in touch. I'll find a way—looks like the best thing will be for you to have me picked up for questioning now and again. You can stage a police magistrate's hearing if you want to make things very real, but you mustn't detain me with any long sentence. Yes, and that will be wise, it'll do me good—the appearance that I'm under suspicion, and that the police can't get anything on me. That'll do. I'll get a name to you, and an address."

"Joining one of the gangs?" Ramsay nodded understanding.

"I've got to be with them. Fact, I'm one of a gang at the moment—have been for quite a time."

For a moment the Assistant Commissioner hesitated, then returned into the room and shook hands gravely.

"Well—take care of yourself, Manx. There's a lot depending on you."

He turned abruptly and left the room.

Phyllis Torrens watched the door close, fascinated by the thought that lay behind the police officer's words. She turned and stared at Oliver Manx openly.

"That will be very dangerous," she said faintly.

"What? Oh, I understand." The secret agent came out of deep thought. "Well, so is your work nurse; you've nursed dangerous infectious cases?"

"Of course. But—"

A knock sounded on the panel of the door and she went to answer it. Constable Harris came into the room, a look of perplexed wonder clouding his big face.

"Good!" Oliver Manx came to his feet. "Now, if you will excuse us, nurse. I have to change clothes with Constable Harris."

Nurse Torrens left the room. The secret agent turned to the constable. "The Assistant Commissioner has told you what you're to do?" he asked. "Good! Now strip. You can put on these things, or get into the bed, until they bring you other clothes."

"Yes, sir." The constable spoke dazedly, loosening his belt.

While the two men were exchanging clothes, Oliver Manx went very carefully over the actions he required the constable to make when he left the hospital. At the conclusion of his instructions he repeated them briefly.

"Understand. You'll remain in this room for an hour after I have left. Then you'll walk out of the hospital, into Macquarie-street. I am certain you will find someone at the gates, examining everyone who comes out of here. Don't worry; let them have a good look at you. Light your pipe and let the light of your match well illuminate your face. Get that? They've got to be certain you are not me in disguise; they've got to be certain I am still in here, very seriously ill."

"Yes, sir."

"Right, then." Oliver Manx pulled the official belt tighter. "Assistant Commissioner Ramsay wants you at Headquarters to-morrow morning. Put this night's work over right and there's a stripe for you, if not more. Now, use what wits God gave you, man. You're in something big—understand? You'll never get another chance like this. I'll get your uniform back to you somehow." He held out his hand, gripping the constable's fingers firmly. In the corridor, outside room 79, he found Nurse Torrens waiting.

"Good-bye, nurse. I'll see you again shortly.

"Why?" The girl showed her surprise, "Why, I thought you were the constable. You've got his walk and manner—"

"Bit of an actor, eh?" Oliver Manx laughed. He turned when he had proceeded a few steps down the corridor.

"By the way, nurse, you've arranged your relief and all that? Remember, you're in the State's service now."

"And you're my commanding officer—"

"—and patient," supplemented the secret agent.

"Yes, sir." The girl saluted smartly and mockingly.

Yet, as she stood watching the tall, lithe figure walking down the corridor, there came a little choke in her throat. It was like watching a man—men—marching to a big battle; but here was just one man, walking from safety into the unknown to battle with organised crime.

Oliver Manx walked down the corridor and entered the lift, telling the man to take him to the ground floor. Outside the reception room he halted for a moment, then shook his head and proceeded through the door into the driveway. He had sought to seek Dr. Murray and bid him farewell, but that would be unwise. Some exclamation might come from the intern—some involuntary word that might have indicated to an onlooker that things were not just what they seemed to be.

He went quickly to the big gates bordering Macquarie-street. Two or three men were on the pavement, evidently waiting for someone visiting the hospital. He scanned them carefully, trying to discover if any one of them had been put on guard over the supposedly wounded Thaddeus Keene. He could not decide that any one man was acting in a suspicious manner; yet he was certain that the hospital was closely watched. He was certain that the hospital would be closely watched until some definite news of Thaddeus Keene were obtained by the man who had ordered his death.

He shook himself impatiently. It was dangerous to leave the hospital in that manner—dangerous for himself and for those he had left to guard his secret. The gangsters would have no compunction in taking revenge on those they believed had assisted him to deceive them. Dr. Murray—Nurse Torrens—Phyllis—

Oliver Manx shrugged and turned southwards. What other course could he have taken. He could not have remained at the hospital—a seriously wounded man. To have walked out of the hospital as Thaddeus Keene would have been foolish. He might just as well write to—to the Kahm Syndicate—to gangland—informing them he was on their trail, and knew enough to make them feel uncomfortable—yet not sufficient at the moment to place them behind bars.

As he came alongside the tall iron railings of the Mint grounds, he glanced up at the top storey of the Crown Law Office across the road. If he could get into that building! A moment's hesitation and he crossed the road. He was the policeman on patrol duty—there could be nothing suspicious in him going up to the doors of the house. If opportunity offered, he might slip his key into the lock—a matter of moments, and he would be in the building and the door again closed—

With his hand on the wood of the door, glancing back on the street in search of watchers, he paused.

There was no possible reason why he should go to his office; he had other places already prepared for his reception—places where everything was prepared for his change from the personality of a constable to any other character he chose to assume. He turned from the door carelessly and recrossed the street.

In shelter beside the tall posts of the District Courthouse, in Queen's Square, he waited again, keenly scanning the passers-by. He did not believe he had been followed; he believed the watchers at the hospital gates had believed him to be the constable who had carried Thaddeus Keene into the hospital. Yet, if there had been any suspicion in the watchers' minds—then he must know at once, for here started the most dangerous phase of his flight to sanctuary.

A full quarter of an hour passed before he felt he could safely move. With apparent carelessness he walked toward St. Mary's Cathedral. Here he was on dangerous ground—the joining of two patrolmen's beats. And still more danger lay ahead. He had to get into Woolloomooloo—into the Darlinghurst Police District. Watching around with the greatest caution, he turned down by the cathedral and crossed the narrow neck of parkland into Cathedral-street.

Again he found refuge in a dark doorway, watching keenly for signs that his movements had aroused suspicions. His progress was becoming still more dangerous. He was a police patrolman—and he was seeking a gangster's shelter; he was a lone patrolman walking through a district where his comrades only ventured in pairs.

Again satisfied that he was unwatched, he came out of his shelter and moved eastwards. Cathedral-street was well filled, for the night was warm and the houses ill-ventilated and close. As he passed crossroads he saw that they, too, were well-filled. Men and women sat or lounged in the doorways; children played noisily in the streets. Every one of these men and women, even the children, were potential menaces. Once the new-hello was raised—and one dirty, sharp-eyed brat might raise it—and his life would not be worth a minute's purchase.

Yet he moved on, keeping in the shadows so far as he could—yet the many wells of light streaming from shop windows had to be passed, and they were continued menaces. Once a woman looked towards where he was standing, waiting, and a shiver ran down his spine. Without thought he moved forward, slightly increasing his pace. Had she seen him? She had not raised an alarm!

He moved forward faster; he had to find sanctuary before gangland awoke to his presence in their territory—and sanctuary was still far away! Hugging the shadows, he turned into Burke-street. Here the menace of discovery was more acute. Women sat on their doorsteps, talking in shrill, argumentative tones; the pavements wore littered with dirty, shrieking, squalling children; men lounged in dark alley-ways and shadows, talking from corners of their mouths, spitting, voicing foul oaths—their language a jargon almost unintelligible to the average person.

Oliver Manx went on, keeping as fast a pace as he dared, believing that he would pass unnoticed with speed—that slowness and hesitation would bring suspicion.

Two hundred yards from the end of the street, where it debouched on to the wide, open street bordering the wharves, Oliver Manx again paused. He had to cross the street to a narrow road opening on the other side. He glanced around him; the street seemed full of eyes—and every eye was fixed on him with deep suspicion. He glanced back along the path he had come—and thought all the children in the street appeared to be concentrated in a mad charge to where he stood. Almost in panic he darted forward, abandoning strategy for speed.

Then came a cry from up the road, near Cathedral-street, and while heads were turned in that direction he went leisurely across the road and was swallowed in the shadows of the ill-lit by-way. Now the tension that had held him was relaxed. He was almost in safety. A few yards along that byway a narrow alley opened, bordered on both sides by broken, high wooden fences. A quick glance back and he slipped into the heavier darkness. Suddenly he flattened against a fence bounding a yard. Three men were coming down the alley, talking in low, tense whispers.

Oliver Manx whipped the distinguishing police cap from his head and crushed it between his body and the fence. In the darkness the men might not notice the uniform—they might take it for an ordinary suit. If there was darkness; if one of them did not strike a light, showing the reflections of buttons and belt; if some lodger in a room overlooking the alley did not make a light that would stream on him through uncurtained windows.

He waited, almost a lump of terror rising in his throat. The men came nearer, and the secret agent froze to immobility. Now he could see the dim outline of their round, bullet-shaped heads, crowned by rakish caps. Gradually their bodies formed a stronger darkness within the surrounding darkness, almost against him. Another couple of seconds and the outside man almost touched him. They had passed—

"Wot th' 'ell!" One man had halted, turning with the quick, defensive gesture of the hunted animal. The lighted cigarette, dangling from his lower lip, firmed and glowed as the man pulled on it. Oliver Manx could see the whiteness of the expelled smoke against the surrounding darkness. Again the man drew on the cigarette, leaning forward until the faint glow reflected on the buttons of the uniform.

"A blarsted fuzz!" A man spoke in dispassionate tones. From the hands of another man a match spluttered and flared.

"A cop! Where's 'is mate?" One of the trio spoke eagerly, his small eyes darting from side to side of the alley-way inquisitively. "Blarst! Th' tike's alone!"

For a moment there was a hesitation, then in ominous silence the three men drew closer. Oliver tensed himself; almost he sensed the death menace in their slow, poised, movements. Again a man struck a match—now close to the secret agent's face.

"A gig—an' lonesome." A harsh laugh came from the group. "Look at 'is buttons—an' 'is belt!"

Now Oliver Manx knew what had betrayed him to the keen eyes of the gangsters. Some flicker of light had illuminated either buttons or belt. Mechanically he moved a step to one side—and the three men moved with him, in silence.

"Wot a lark—A bull bum alone!" The man who had struck he matches giggled. A shrill whistle rent the night air. From far distance it was immediately repeated. The 'Loo was awakening, and to a copper-hunt, the rarest enjoyment they could mentalise. Suddenly Oliver Manx lashed put with his fists, striking right and left, thrusting himself forward with the added impulse of a foot against the fence. The men, taken unawares, gave ground. He felt the impact, of fist against flesh, and heard a disgruntled grunt. One of the men fell backward suddenly, across the alleyway, swearing foully. Into the opening in the ranks he left Oliver Manx drove fiercely. He was free for the moment, the threatened attack disorganised. Wheeling sharply, he ran up the alley-way in the direction from which he had come.

Turning into the narrow road, he collided heavily with a running man, and staggered back. Again he drove-forward, hitting heavily with flailing fists. The rough, slight of build, gave way before his rush. Immediately Oliver Manx sped on through the night.

Shrill whistles were sounding on all sides now. Woolloomooloo was awake for the chase. He heard heavy boots pounding the pavements, the slither of slippered feet. Below the shrillness of the whistling he sensed the low hum of voices, the subtle rumbling of the hunters.

He came into Pelton-street—wide and well-filled with humanity, dodging from the pavement into the roadway. A shoe, flung by a woman lounging in a doorway, caught him under his ear, staggering him for the moment. As he faltered, a shrill whoopee broke the hum of voices. A youth, little more than a lad, dove for his legs. He countered with an upthrust knee that connected with his assailant's chin, rolling him, cursing, into the filth of the gutter. As he lunged forward again sinewy arms wrapped around his throat.

He had failed; here was the finish. For a second he relaxed, then all fighting instincts, returned with renewed force. He tensed, bent suddenly, taking the man unawares, and pitched him clean over his head.

His own sudden movement sent him staggering forward, almost onto the fallen man. He jumped, barely missing the outflung hands clutching for his legs. For a moment the road before him was clear, yet he realised that the human wolves were closing fast on him. He sped forward, elbows pressed to his panting sides, fixed determination in every tensed muscle.

He swung to the right, into Lant Row, to find it strangely empty. Fifty yards along he came to the entrance to the alley in which the gangsters had surprised him, and turned into it. Past the brick wall of the flanking house he came to the wooden fence. His fingers brushed over the slats, counting the doorways. At the third he halted and looked back. There was no-one in sight. He pressed closer against the woodwork, feeling for a length of string that worked the latch. For a second there was a lightening of the darkness before him; then he swung the door shut, leaning against it in utter exhaustion.

The house before him was in darkness. Picking a careful path through the rubbish that littered the yard, the secret agent came to the house wall. A few moments and he found the door. It gave under his hand, and he slunk into the dark passage. Stepping forward slowly, his fingers trailing on the left wall, he came to a door. A key from his pocket opened it. The door closed behind him, with the click of a spring lock. He had found sanctuary!

For long minutes he leaned against the door, allowing his senses to dull again from the frenzied excitement of the past minutes. Then he pulled a box of matches from his pocket and lit the gas bracket, hanging from the centre of the ceiling. The sudden flare of light blinded, him for the moment, yet swiftly he commenced to strip the uniform from his body. In the wall-cupboard he found a gaudy suit of pyjamas and donned them hastily. When in them the upright, drilled aspect of the uniformed man fell from him and in its place came the likeness of a slouching, evil-faced gangster.

On the dressing-table, composed of an old packing-case covered with faded-patterned cretonne, was a twist of tobacco and some papers. Steadying his jumping nerves, Oliver Manx rolled a cigarette, and, with it dangling from his loosened lips, went to the bed. He slipped between the coarse sheets as sounds of boots came from the passage without the door.