THE BLUE DAFFODIL.

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 56, Issue 156, 15 April 1936, Page 7

THE BLUE DAFFODIL.

♦ ♦♦ Serial Story ♦♦ % %

* ♦ % (By Fred M. White.) % % ♦

% ♦♦ * Copyright ♦♦ * % *

CHAPTER VIII. The little old man gazed about him under penthouse brows like some rather intelligent parrot. It was difficult to decide whether or not he was impressed by his surroundings. For there ..was nothing here to speak of the majesty of the law or strike terror into the breast of the malefactor. “So this really is Scotland Yard ” he muttered. “Very foolish of me to come here—no business of mine.” Evidently an eccentric, Medway thought. But with nothing of the criminal type about him. ' “Excuse me sir,” Medway said. But didn’t you come here on some errand? The Blue Daffodil, you know.” “God bless my soul 1” the little man said. “So I did!—So I did! Something I heard when turning on my wireless a night or two ago for the second news \ bulletin. Police anxious to trace the whereabouts of a blue daffodil —an impossible flower I should have said. A dream, sir!—a dream! But such a flower does exist, and is at present in my hothouse.” “I am exceedingly glad to hear it,” Medway said. “You are, I presume, interested in flowers.” “Interested, sir!—interested! I live for them. Any horticulturist worthy of the name knows Septimus Deacon — meaning myself. lam a man of independent means, and live at Buxted, in Sussex. Lived there all my life. Pro-

pagating new flowers. But nothing so novel as a blue daffodil. A lovely blue with an orange centre. You must come and see it.” “I most certainly will,” Medway responded heartily. “Any time convenient to you. But do I understand that the bulb in question is one of your own producing?” “Indeed not,” the little man sighed. “As a matter of fact I bought it. Lots

of people come to me with floral novelties, or what they deem to be novelties, because my name is so widely known. It was a travelling hawker of carnation roots who brought the bulb to me. Only a week or so ago. He seemed to know its value for he asked a big price.” “Which price you paid. How much was that?”

“Fifty pounds. I ought, perhaps, to have made some inquiries first, but I was too anxious to get the flower.” “You would recognize that hawker again?” “Really, I am not so sure about that,” the little man confessed. “In the first place my sight is none too good. Also it was rather a dull day.” “But what type of man? One sees all sorts and conditions of men reduced to hawking. The seller might have been a gentleman down on his luck.” “Oh, he wasn’t that,” Mr Deacon replied. “No mistaking a gentleman, even in rags. More of the superior labouring class. He had a beard, I noticed, streaked with grey. Probably about fifty years of age. But I tbink I should recognize his voice. He sort of whistled through his teeth.” Many more questions did Medway ask, but all to no practical effect. Of course, the man was a sham hawker and his basket of carnation roots a mere blind.

“Well, thank you very much,” Medway said at length. “Our talk may produce good results. It is our business to trace the seller, and you are to say nothing about this interview until we have finished our case.”

Once having got rid of his visitor, Medway lost no time in reporting the interview to Sir Giles Fairchild,.

“Not much light on the subject,”

Sir Giles said. “But every little clue points to the same direction. It is pretty obvious that our flower seller can throw a deal of light on the big tragedy—if we can only get hold of him.”

“That might not be so very difficult sir,” Medway! said. “But I expect that the man never called on anybody hut Mr Deacon. That gentleman was deliberately picked out as the one widely-known floriculturist who would be the most likely to purchase the bulb. There is a gang here working together, and one of the lot was desperately hard up for money. Hence the stealing of the bulb in circumstances concerning which we still remain in abysmal ignorance. All the same, we are getting on.” So, for the moment, the hunt was transferred to the district round and about Buxted. But the pair of sleuths

detailed for the purpose had nothing definite to report after three days of intensive investigation. Medway listened to what the leader of his human bloodhounds had to say.

“A blind alley, sir,” he declared. “At no single house within a mile of Buxted did any hawker offer plants for sale. But that you probably expected to hear, sir.” “I should have been very surprised otherwise,” . Medway said with a, patient smile. “Anything else, Proctor?” “Just one other little thing, sir,” Proctor said. “In a dry ditch half a mile from Mr Deacon’s house we came on a basket containing a few carnation loots faded and withered.” “Ah, thrown away directly the big deal was completed. But one thing I fail to understand. So good a judge as Mr Deacon would have smelt a rat directly he saw those carnation roots.” “In the ordinary way, yes, sir. But each root was carefully wrapped and labelled though probably they were no more than common pinks. That is an old dodge with some flower hawkers who travel the country, and no purchaser can tell until mouths later when blooming time comes. That’s why I,brought two or three samples of those labels with me.” “Good work,” Medway said approvingly. “Let us see if these labels lead us anywhere.” The officer produced the labels from

his pocket book. They were printed on some sort of stout parchment paper, and various names of well-known earnations prominently displayed. Each of the slips bore the initials “A. 8.” “Evidently turned out by some firm

who do a lot of printing for the flower trade. Now who the deuce is or are ‘A.B’ ? Let us see if I can find them m the London Directory.” Surely enough, after a long and patient search, the name came to light in the Directory. Abel Barnes and 0., printers to the flower trade with offices in Henrietta Street, Covent balden. Medway smiled his satisfaction. “Better pop round there, and make inquiries,” he directed briskly, “lake the people there to a certain extent into your confidence. That ought to buck them up.” In the course of an hour Proctor was back again with some exceedingly interesting information. The labels on the carnations were their manufactuie right enough, and they remembered selling a score of them to a customer within the past week or more. Man with a beard, shabbily dressed and evidently belonging to the working class. Certainly the assistant who sold the tickets would know him again. “Well, that is something gained,’ Medway cried. “See if he can give you any further information. Medway was not destined to be alone for long since his man had hardly departed before Mr Deacon was announced. The little man was in his usual state of fussy excitement with a, suggestion that he had something important to say. “I had to come up to Town on business to-day, and thought I might look you up'. An idea struck me that the Blue Daffodil had been stolen, though your manner inferred it.” “You might have made a worse guess,” Medway said. “I knew it,” the little man cried, “I knew it! Now there is only one flower expert in England who could have raised a blue daffodil, and he is, or wps, my old friend John Garnstone. The poor fellow who was so mysteriously murdered.”

“Oh, an old friend of yours, was he? Strange that this fact should not have leaked out during our interview. You see I have that case in hand, and very intricate it is. I dare say, now we have gone so far, that the Blue Daffodil is mixed up in the tragedy though £ can’t see exactly how.” “Then the Blue Daffodil belonged to poor Garnstone. I might have guessed as much. Somebody stole it.” “Precisely. There is no doubt about that. And the thief sold it to you, Mr Deacon. If we could lay him by the heels we should be a long way to solving that murder.”

The little man danced about excited-

“You don’t say so,” he cried. “What a pity it is that my sight is so bad. Then I might have recognized him.”

“You are familiar with Mr Gamstone’s flat, I suppose?” “No, strange to say, I have never been inside it. I was going to call but never did. I should very much like to have a look at that wonderful conservatory.”

“Then come along with me now,” Medway suggested. “You may see something there of interest to both of us.”

The little man asked for nothing better. A taxi conveyed Medway and his companion as far as the flat, and in it Deacon waited until Medway made sure Vera was there.

“Mr Garnstone’s lady secretary is in charge for the present so I won’t drag you up the stairs until I make sure that she.is on the premises. Just a moment.”

But Vera was not there. Down the stairs Medway shouted to Gunter, who replied that Miss Goff was gone for the day. ‘‘The man, the voice,” Deacon whispered as Medway rejoined him. “The creature you were speaking to. The voice with the whistle in it. As sure as you are alive that was the very man who sold me the Blue Daffodil.” (To be continued.)