THE SILK ENIGMA

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 58, Issue 37, 23 November 1937, Page 7

THE SILK ENIGMA

By J. R. WILMOT

SERIAL STORY

Copyright

CHAPTER XIX

ANOTHER RIDDLE FOR BECK.

Superintendent Beck had his hands full. The Assistant Commissioner had, that morning, been anything but polite. If Beck had been asked for a purely personal opinion of the interview to which he had been peremptorily summoned he would have said that the A.C. was definitely rude. But then Assistant Commissioners had a habit of being rude when the occasion suited them, and Beck had left the Presence with a feeling that before very long the official boot would connect with a portion of his anatomy that had always resented anything in the way of undue violence.

A general station call had been sent

out for Phyllis Varley. Up to date it had been conspicuously unsuccessful. To all intents and purposes no one had set eyes on the girl from the moment she left Oxtons on her way home to

Chelsea. Beck felt unpleasantly apprehensive. He didn’t like young girls disappearing in this way; and more particularly when he remembered that

some sinister influence was interested in Oxtons—a yellow influence, so he imagined. Not that he had any grounds for associating the girl’s disappearance with the shop murder. The Assistant Commissioner had made that quite plain. He had suggested that Beck should have been more orthodox right frpm the start. * If he had been, the A.C. made it even more clear that he would, ‘by this, have been well on the

way to cleaning up the mystery. And now on top of all this worry came the report from Battersea. Beck would not have bothered his head about it for a moment in the ordinary course of affairs, but the Station report mentioned that Miss Lennard, who was reported missing from her flat in Battersea had been visited yesterday afternoon by a Chinaman. Beck had sent Inspector Graves off post haste to Battersea to “get the strength” of the report and to make whatever inquiries of' his own that he considered desirable.

Of course there was likely to be no connection whatsoever. He had been telling himself that all the morning. Besides, be couldn’t start an investigation every time a Chinaman was seen anywhere. If he did that he was quite certain he’d end up prematurely as an inmate at Colney Hatch. At eleven forty-five Graves appeared. TTia lean face seemed, if that were possible, even leaner than it usually was. He hung up his hat on the peg and turned his doleful face towards the Superintendent, “I’m hanged if I can make head or tail of it, Chief,” he gloomed. “All I can find out is that Miss Brenda Lennard, who’s missing, fras a middleaged spinster of quiet and kindly habits; lived alone in her flat and yesterday afternoon received a visit from a ‘yellow gentleman.’ The terse description, Chief, is supplied by Mrs Elmily Staines who had a flat on the opposite side of the landing. I’ve had a few words with Mrs Staines, Chief. I say few because that’s all she allowed me to have. Mrs Staines is one of Nature’s own reporters. She pays particular attention to everything that goes on around her and she was, apparently, attracted by the stopping of a black saloon motor car at the entrance to the flatß. To Mrs Staines’s mind the appearance of a motor car of that type inevitably means the visit of a doctor, a visit of a doctor is always interesting to the lady because, so I gather, such visits are usually associated with births and deaths, both of which are ‘news’ to Mrs Staines in the real and exact sense of the word.

“She says that ‘just to make quite sure,’ she opened her door a crack and saw Mis 3 Lennard having ‘words’ with a ‘yellow gentleman’ at her door. It was obvious to Mrs Staines that Miss Lennard was trying to find out what the ‘yellow gent.’ wanted, but short of disclosing her prying nose to Miss Lennard’s view, Sirs Staines had to be content with the tiny crack of her door and, I gathered also, it was extremely difficult for Mrs Staines to discover all she wanted to know. However, to cut a long story short, Chief, Mrs Staines saw the Chinese visitor enter Miss Lennard’s flat and that, it would appear is, the last that was seen of the maiden lady.” Beck grunted ‘inartistically. “But where’s all this leading us, Graves?” he protested. “We don’t even know that Miss Lennard has disappeared at all. For all we know the Chinaman might have been an old friend of hers, looking her up after a long absence. The fact that Miss Lennard was not in the flat this morning when Mrs Staines obligingly sent for the police, means nothing at all to me, or to you either. I suppose you got a description of the Lennard wonjan?”

“I got a particularly good one from Mrs Staines,” he smiled. “It’s so good, Chief, that it might apply to approximately 5000 other women in London at this moment.”' “What did the local men find in the flat? Any signs/of disorder?” “They say they can’t swear to it, not knowing Miss Lennard’s habits, but it seemed to them as if someone had made a particularly thorough search of the place. Some of the contents of wardrobe and drawers- were rather untidy.” “I suppose your good friend Mrs Staines, didn’t continue her vigil after having seen our Chinese gent enter Miss Lennard’s flat. They never do, Graves. People like your Mrs Staines start a job and seldom see it through.” “As a matter of fact, sir, you’re right. Mrs Staines was off shortly afterwards for an afternoon’s shopping. She says that the car was at the kerb when she left the building. She did notice, however, that another Chinaman was sitting in the driver’s seat.”

“We don’t seem to be able to move for Chinamen,” grumbled Beck, disconsolately, “and yet when we want to lay hands on one we can’t find him. You know, Graves, I’m beginning to wonder whether we’re quite sane, you

and I. We seem to be chasing chimeras—yellow chimeras if there be such animals, and how this all connets with that business at Oxtons . . . well, you’ve got as many guesses coming to you as maybe.” “I don’t suppose there’s any connection at all, Chief, between the Battersea disappearance and Uxtons. We’d better wait awhile and see if the lady turns up.” Beck sat thoughtful for some moments. The interview with the Assist-

ant Commissioner still rankled in his mind. It might be as Graves said : that there was nothing to it at all. On the other hand Superintendent Beck was a stubborn man. He didn’t relish relinquishing his theories quite so easily. It was just possible that there might be some connection after all. An idea flashed into his brain. He turned an interested face to his Inspector.

“Get along to Oxtons,”/lie announced, “and find out whether Miss Len-

nard was one of their customers. More particularly find out whether she purchased any of that Suchow silk .arely. Inspector Graves regarded his superior with a puzzled frown. “You don’t think, then, that ...” “I’ve stopped thinking until you get back,” h© interrupted. Inspector Graves departed with an injured air. Peter Oxton heard Inspector Graves’s request with some semblance of interest. He was heartily sick of the whole

affair. He hated the police interrupting his business, and yet the common sense in him told him that they were —• as public servants —only doing their acknowledged duty. “It should be easy to find out what you want to know, Inspector,” he said, reaching for the house ’phone. “If this Miss Lennard was one of our customers we will most certainly have a record.” But the reply Peter Oxton received was discouraging. Miss Lennard was not on Oxton’s books.

“But that does not mean she was not a customer,” persisted Inspector Graves. “I don’t suppose you keep records of everyone who comes into the shop casually.” “Certainly not,” Peter Oxton agreed, readily. “Our records concern only people who give an order to be sent to their address; also people who have accounts with us.” “There is no means of knowing whether this woman purchased Suchow silk in the past few days?” “I’m afraid not,” said Oxton. “Such fj —

a transaction would go through the sale ledger only as so much silk sold. I can find out how much has been sold in the past week if that will be of any value to you, Inspector.” Inspector Graves thought that it might, and once again Peter Oxton dialled a pair of numerals on his telephone. “Seventy-five yards, Inspector. That’s the exact amount to date. But what all this has to do with a murder, I can’t conceive.” (To be continued.)