For five hours that grim, merciless duel raged. At 12:30 a woman in the crowd suddenly screamed: “The house is on fire!”
The men held their fire an instant. The woman was right. At first it was no more than a plume of smoke curling along the bullet-scarred sill. Then a tongue of flame showed itself, dancing wickedly along the sides of the window. Presently a thick column of flame and smoke billowed upwards. The entire first floor appeared to have burst into flame. But the killers continued to blaze away at the police.
The clang of fire bells sounded above the din. Firemen leaped from their engines, dragging at thick hoses. But the hail of lead kept them from approaching the burning house. They were forced to stand by while the flames leaped ever higher and higher.
A particularly fierce blast of flame swept through the first story window. It was followed by six shots fired in quick succession. They were the last shots to be fired from that doomed house. For a moment, no one could believe it. The firing had lasted so long, had kept up so steadily that the attackers’ ears were unaccustomed to the sudden pall of silence. Only the crackling of burning wood could be heard.
So they had decided to make a break for it, after all! There was only one way and that was through the front door and on that door a score of service revolvers, a score of rifles were trained. They waited with tense expectancy. The killers made no move. Had a bullet found its mark at last?
The house was now a raging inferno. From cellar to attic, thick, twisting pillars of smoke and flame soared skyward. And then for the first time in seven hours a policeman ventured straight across the street to the door of No. 100. He kicked it open, staggering back as a bank of flame leaped at him. The crowds waited, holding their breaths. But there was no shot, no sound.
Before the police could determine what had happened to the two killers, the fire had to be quenched. The firemen attacked it with hose and ax. In the ensuing confusion, a wall, cracked by the fierce heat, toppled over, burying two firemen under its scalding stones. One died, the other was seriously burned. Thus the two killers had taken a toll of four lives, caused severe injury to dozens.
But at last, the besieged house could be entered. Inspector Wensley was the first to dash up the charred stairs. Turning into the bedroom on the landing, his eyes fell on what was left of Fritz Svaars and the man called Joseph. Both had been burned beyond recognition. Their blackened bodies lay under a mass of gutted debris. Svaars, untouched by bullets, had been suffocated. Joseph’s skull had been torn open by lead. Beneath the bodies lay the twisted, melted remains of the two Mausers.
The Siege of Sidney Street was over.
There was a curious sequel. Three years later, the Yard received information that in 1908 three desperados entered a saloon near Boston, Massachusetts, held up every man present at the point of guns, and looted the cash register. One man tried to escape and was shot dead before he could reach the door in his effort to escape.
The three bandits then fled to a nearby cemetery. One of them, considerably older than his companions, became winded, could run no further. So the younger two brutally shot him down to make their getaway easier.
A posse composed of 400 state troopers pursued the bandits, but they got away. A long investigation finally revealed that these two were the same who later held almost 1000 London policemen and guards at bay in the Sidney Street affray.
Murder Caravan
by T. T. Flynn
Tony Savage, on the trail of a coast-to-coast murder syndicate, walks into a trap and finds that Rita Carstairs is headed for danger hundreds of miles away.
What Has Happened—
Anthony Savage, ace private investigator for the Pan-America Insurance Company of New York, and his assistant Briggs, are driving northward along a Florida highway in their coupe with a new trailer, equipped with a short wave radio set for sending and receiving. Suddenly a hatless, bearded man stumbles onto the macadam road and falls, wounded by a rifle bullet fired from thicket along the highway.
Savage stops the car, rushes to the man’s side in time to hear him whisper, “Bellamy” — before he dies. To Savage this is a significant coincidence, for he and Briggs were on their way to visit “Flamingo Grove,” the Florida estate of Roger Bellamy, a heavy policy holder with the Pan-America Company and president of the Arcade Steel Company. Leaving the corpse at the side of the road, Savage drives on only a short distance, where he is stopped by an indignant girl in a coupe who accuses him of the hit-and-run death of the stranger. At the point of a gun she orders Savage and Briggs to drive on to “Flamingo Groves” to surrender to the sheriff who is investigating the death of Roger Bellamy. The girl is Rita Carstairs, reporter for the New York Star.
At “Flamingo Groves” Savage identifies himself and takes up the investigation of Bellamy’s death for his company. Bellamy’s body had been found under a capsized boat. He had been insured by Pan-America for $525,000 in case of an accidental death. Savage concludes from his investigation and the coroner’s report that Bellamy had been murdered.
At “Flamingo Groves” he meets Joan Bellamy, daughter of the slain man, and Jerry Goddard, her fiance. From Anne Teasdale he learns that Goddard had been overheard calling Clark, the gardener on the estate, “Father.” Savage asks Clark to row out to the scene of Bellamy’s death with him. There Clark assaults Savage, but is mysteriously killed by a gunman hidden in the dense forest on the shore.
Savage makes his way back to the dock where Briggs, his assistant, informs him that Bellamy had been in financial straits and had lost control of his Arcade Steel Company to James Larnigan.
Goddard and Joan leave the estate to take Bellamy’s body for burial in Cleveland. Larnigan, a crack marksman, also leaves the estate hurriedly for New Orleans. Savage asks his office there to investigate the man, but a short while later is informed that Larnigan’s charred body had been found in the wreckage of his car near Torrington, close to the Alabama line.
Savage drives to the scene and becomes suspicious when he fails to find Larnigan’s rifle in the wreckage. Informed that Larnigan had phoned a Miss Moira Sullivan, his secretary, Savage continues on to New Orleans, knowing that Rita Carstairs, the reporter, has been one jump ahead of him so far.
In New Orleans in Larnigan’s residence he runs into Rita, who is accompanied by Larnigan’s butler, Jasper. The butler informs Savage that Larnigan had appeared that evening to pick up his clothes!
Savage’s investigation reveals that Jerry Goddard is bound for New Orleans, that Pan-America had a $90,000 double indemnity policy on Larnigan, and that Goddard had phoned Lorette Armond in Hollywood, who wants to collect quickly as Larnigan’s beneficiary. He learns, too, that Bellamy had been interested in the girl.
Savage locates Moira Sullivan. While he is interviewing her in her apartment, she receives a telephone call and unwittingly exclaims “Jim!” when she answers it.
The investigator tells Rita Carstairs that he is sure Larnigan is alive and that another’s body had been found in the wreckage in Torrington.
In Larnigan’s house Savage also had an encounter with a mysterious gunman who escaped but is traced to a home in the New Orleans French quarter. Raiding the place with the aid of police, Savage finds Goddard and Anne Teasdale together. They are arrested.
When Moira Sullivan takes a plane to Houston, Texas, Savage decides to follow with his trailer. Hoping that she will lead him to Larnigan who apparently is the key to the entire mystery.