THE SILK ENIGMA

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 58, Issue 38, 24 November 1937, Page 7

THE SILK ENIGMA

:: SERIAL STORY ::

By J. R. WILMOT

:: Copyright ::

CHAPTER: XX

Inspector Graves closed his not© hook and, looked across the desk at the proprietor. “No more can I, Mr Oxton,” he said sadly. “Between ourselves the Superintendent has a hunch that this silk of yours is going to 1 be the means of his solving a problem and when you know him as well as I do you’ll know that he’s as tenacious as a bull-dog when he getsTiis teeth into anything.” Peter Oxton smiled. Ho was telling himself that the case had its human side apart from what had happened at his store. _ It had, so far, given him a remarkable insight into human character and human nature. There was something likeable about Superintendent Beck; something that caused him to reassess his idea of human values in relation to police investigators. “I suppose you can’t tell me what Mr Beck’s particular theories are?” he suggested. Inspector Graves shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr Oxton, I can’t. All I can say is that your Suchow silk seems to be a peculiarly fascinating commodity in the eyes of someone, and the Superintendent is confident that he’s right about that.” “There’s no more news of Miss Varley?” asked Oxton as the Inspector prepared to depart. “None at all,” Graves told him, reaching for his hat. “But it’s early yet. We haven’t given up hope, you know.” “I should think not,” rejoined Oxton. “I can’t have my best assistants being spirited away like this. It’s all very unsettling.” “You’re right there Mr Oxton. It’s unsettling for the Superintendent, too. He’s got to show results and our people sometimes don’t know what patience is.” STRUGGLE IN THE DARK. To assert that Philip Slater was worried would merely be an inadequate statement of fact. How he had gone through the past two days without displaying the hysteria' he felt, was a miracle of self-control that, had he given the matter the requisite thought, would have him. He had been in communication with Superintendent Beck more than once only to be told, a trifle irritably, too, that there was still no news. That night he felt that he must do something to quieten his fears. The strain of waiting was beginning to take its toll of him. He had been unable to concentrate and his work at Oxtons was suffering. But when he came seriously to consider what he might do, the answer to the question that hammered at his brain eluded him with a disconcerting completeness. To take himself “out of himself” as he put it, Philip decided to “eat in Town” rather than.go home as usual. So he had an excellent dinner at Pettolinos helped down by a bottle of wine and it made a wonderful difference—»s good food and equally ' good wine so often will. He felt physically and mentally a “different man” as he walked down Regent Street to Piccadilly Circus. Here he boarded a bus for Kensington and within half an hour he was outside Oxtons. A clock striking nearby reminded him that he had taken much longer over that dinner than he had imagined. It was ten o’clock. The night was dark and a thin edge to the wind caused him to turn up the collar of his overcoat and button it across his throat. Superintendent Beck had asked him to “keep an eye on Oxtons.” He had been faithful to that request since the day after the murder of Nikolas Nolescue. At some period of each night he had made it a habit to stroll around: the outside of the premises. To-night, as they had been on other occasions, they were wrapped in a blanket of blackness. Snug! To all appearances the store was sleeping—oblivious to the fact that murder had been done there only that week; a murder that had changed his whole outlook on life and which had now—so he earnestly believed—taken from him the one girl in the world who meant anything to him at all. He walked past the dark windows. From the light of a. neighbourly street lamp he could pick out the colours of the silks heaped riotously together in their fascinating and intriguing displays. They, too, seemed to know nothing of tragedy. Why should they? They were beautiful—beautiful to the eye and comforting to' the touch for those who loved beautiful materials. The high grille gate was across the main entrance and beyond it he could see the heavy main doorway with the holland blind drawn down the centre glass panels. He stood staring for a moment between the diamond-shaped metal lattice, but the concentration was without comfort. From the front he turned down the narrow street* at the side of the premises, and made his way to the staff entrance. Here again darkness enfolded the building. He paused outside the staff door uncertain as to what lie should do next. For a moment the old sense of futility swept down upon him and he told himself that it was little wonder Scotland Yard had met with so little success. Oxtons —if it held a secret at all—was as inscrutable as the Sphinx.

Philip stared at that, door for a moment and then started. The door was not closed. There was a little vertical gap along the door frame and jamb. For a second or two he could scarcely believe his eyes . Then he extended a hand and touched it. He had been right. The door yielded to his gentle touch and swung inwards. He felt bis heart beating ... as though he were on the very edge of discovery. It was dark in the passage-way, too. Darker than it was outside. Of course, the open door might have been an error. Perhaps the watchman, in locking up had forgotten to snap the spring lock. But, Philip reminded himself, that would have been unlike the watchman, who was one of the most meticulous men ho knew. “There’s something wrong,” he told himself, “something very much wrong,” and with this thought he stepped in-

side the premises and softly closed the door behind him. Philip possessed the advantage of knowing the lie of the premises with accustomed intimacy. Cautiously be crept forward, fingers against the wall, pausing every yard, etars strained listening. The store was as quiet as a vault and as eerie. At the end of the passage were two doors. One led directly into the ground floor of the shop and the other to another passage leading to a staircase that ran upwards. Philip paused, uncertain which direction to take. He chose the door to the left that opened into the shop about twenty feet away from the nearest counter. For a moment he stood rigid, his back to the door. In front of him he could see the faint glimmer of the street lamp throwing its soft radiance against the plate glass of the windows, and casting strange oblique shadows across the panelled hack of the windows and down on to the floor of the shop itself. His eyes had grown quickly accustomed' to the darkness; but it was not his eyes so much as bis ears that served him. Suddenly be thought he heard what sounded like a stealthy movement in the darkness ahead of him, and he listened more intently than before. The sound was not repeated and he was beginning to persuade himself that his senses were' playing freak tricks with him when corroboration came. It came over on his left . . . from the direction of the Chinese silk counter . . , . the quick, decisive flash of a veil- ’ ed electric torch. 1 Then darkness. Philip felt his nerves taut as wires. That open door had not been a mistake after all. Someone was in the - store; someone who ought, not to he there. Someone ivas at the rear of the Chinese silk counter and Philip appreciated the significance of that. The young man crept forward mentally visualising the lay-out of the floor-space that intervened so that he would not disturb anything and so reveal his presence to the marauder. Ntearer and nearer he crept fearful •lest the heavy beating of his heart should be heard, for it sounded as loudly insistent as the tattoo of drums in his ears. The light shone again. This time it was no longer a quick flash. He watched the little halo of white light moving here and there like a jack-o’-lantern among the Eissex marshes. Now he was within three yards of the counter from the floor side. It was an eerie experience and he braced himself for what must follow. Philip’s fingers outstretched touched the counter edge and, for a moment, he steadied himself. He noted that the light on the farther side had been switched off again. Perhaps whoever was there had heard him and was preparing for an attack,. The thought flashed on the screen of his mind that it might be the murderer of Nolescue. Beads of icy moisture sprang to his brow. It was an uncomfortable feeling the like of which he had never experienced before. He felt himself trembling ... his teeth chatter and he realised that it was no time for hysteria. He must pull himself together. If he succeeded in getting the fellow it would be a feather in his cap. More than that it might he the means of leading him to Phyllis Varley, and that was infinitely more important than pcisonal satisfaction. The light had not flashed again and it was then that he was convinced he could hear someone breathing. That breathing was uncomfortably close. His fingers clutching the counter trembled., So did his knees. The suspense was devastating. Slowly on feet that felt oddly numb he edged along the counter inch by inch, and with frequent pauses lest the scrape of his shoes on the polished floor give him away. He was at the end, now, and he stood there in the darkness, afraid. There was no mistaking the emotion. It was very real. Like the cold blade of a knife plunged between the shoulderblades. ■ . A moment later it happened. The electric torch snapped on and the light flooded his face momentarily blinding him. Philip kept his head. In an instant he had, plunged forward scarcely knowing what he was doing ; but anything to evade that blinding glare. His outstretched arms touched something soft. It was a man’s face. Philip felt like screaming, but the scream was stifled for a hand shot to his throat and remained there. The touch of that hand electrified him. He fought like a tiger hitting upwards at the point where he imagined the man’s face to be. The movement had its reward immediately. His right fist struck something and the next moment the torch held in the man’s free hand went hurtling upwards illuminated. It described a curious, fantastic arc, like a meteor 1 ' in a November sky and then dropped like 'a spent rocket and crashed somewhere ahead of them on the floor. Philip saw this through eyes that flickered. The grip on his throat was increasing and he fought to release it. He could feel the man’s breath now. Hot fumes exhaled quickly. Then the man’s free arm flung itself around him. The fingers bit into the flesh of his neck just below the ear. A sudden numbness crept into his brain. It was like a paralysis creeping insidiously upon him. His arms felt useless. The grip on his throat relaxed, but the pressure below his left ear persisted. Then he felt himself being swung from his feet. The fellow was undoubtedly strong. The next moment he was lying, still feeling numb and unresisting on the counter top. The man did not speak hut Philip could sense in the darkness that he was standing over him, staring down upon him perhaps with a grim smile of satisfaction. As the numbness began to clear Philip felt full of fight again and when the next moment he felt the man tying his feet together, Philip began to struggle. It was an error in tactics for an unseen fist found the point of his jaw. His head cracked backwards on the hard, mahogany counter top. Something resembling a display of sheet lightning flickered through what remained of his consciousness. That was all. (To be continued.)