THE SILK ENIGMA

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 58, Issue 39, 25 November 1937, Page 7

THE SILK ENIGMA

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;! ByJ. R. WILMOT

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CHAPTER XXI

A CLUE. When Philip crept back again to reality it was still dark. He tried to move but quickly realised that during his oblivion the intruder had made a good job of the parcelling. His hands were strung to his side. What was more ingenious was that a loop of cord had peen passed around each thumb and brought across the small of his back so that it was impossible for him to move his arms forwards without inflicting some pain. By rolling into a sitting position he found that he could move his arms backwards but that manoeuvre was useless. His feet were roped, too, and Philip thought of' calling for help. He realised, however, that he might as well save his breath for the exertions that lay ahead of him if he were to free himself before the staff came on duty in the morning. The young man strained at his bonds as hard as he dared, consistent with the pain such straining occasioned him. He i tried to wriggle his ankles, but that was useless. By a physical contortion that would have done credit to a professional stage performer he at last managed to get his teeth in proximity with the cord fastening, his right wrist. The sweat was streaming down his face, but he succeeded, and once his teeth had touched the cord he realised that it was only a matter of moments before he would he able to bite through and so release his arms.'

The cord, however, proved stubborn stuff and it seemed like hours before the last strand was bitten through. He felt limp after the exertion and lay back again on th'e hard flooring of the shop to rest. Then he wiped the moisture from his face and finding h’s pocket-knife, severed the cords about his ankles. He scrambled to his feet and stood weakly for a minute. He had been lying behind the counter not far from the point at which the body of-Nikolas Noleseue had been discovered. A shudder shook him. It was an unpleasant thought. The staff might have been finding his dead! body there in the morning. Noleseue had been strangled. The fellow had nearly strangled him, too. Perhaps those same fingers that had gripped his throat were the same that had pressed £he life from Nikolas Noleseue. Philip Slater felt sick. He realised, however, that being sick wasn’t going to help; so he fought down the sensation and tried to think what he should do next. It was fairly obvious that the man was no longer on the premises. He had finished) whatever he had come for and gone.

Philip thought of telephoning Beck at Scotland Yard. Even if the Superintendent was not there, he could always leave a message.

Deciding on this course ho began feeling his way towards the door by which he had entered the shop when his foot struck against something. It proved to be the electric torch lie had struck from the man’s fingers in the early moments of the struggle. He retrieved it and was surprised to find that it had survived the ordeal. All that had happened, apparently was that, when it struck th© floor, it had fallen on the projecting switch on the side of the casing and the impact had extinguished the light. By maintaining pressure on the point of contact he succeeded in keeping the torch alight. Coming around the counter, however, to make a more direct line towards the door, beside the staircase the light picked out something lying on the flooi a yard or two from the counter where the struggle had taken place. It was a small torn piece of paper. Philip picked it up and examined it. It was an address: “The Beeches, .Near Tonbridge.” For a moment he stood considering it. He was telling himself that it could not have been left there by anyone at CJxtons since the cleaners had gone over the floor immediately the store closed. That being so, he argued, it might easily have fallen from the man’s pocket during the course of the struggle- The idea thrilled him. It might well be a clue—a valuable clue—the clue that he had been waiting for. Ten minutes later he was speaking to the officer on the switchboard at Scotland Yard. Pie was saying; “Would you tell Mr Beck that someone’s been, in Oxton’s to-night and that I followed him in and got a knock on my head for my*trouble. Plowever, tell him further that I think I’m on the trail and that I’ll let him know how I get on.” Philip closed the door of the kiosk with a feeling of warm elation, and found it a pleasant feeling, too.

“TH El BEECHES.” The booming of midnight as Philip left the telephone call-box gave , him a shock. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t considered Time at all. He recalled that it had been ten o’clock when lie had arrived outside Oxtons, but lie bad really no idea how long he had lain unconscious. After all it could not have been so very long. An hour at tlie most. Now he was faced with another problem. Pie had mapped out in his mind a plan. It was a rather rough and ready'plan, but the first essential of it was getting to Tonbridge. He took a bus to the railway station Victoria. He was tokl that there were no more trains on that line that night, but that the first one was fivethirty in the morning. Since hiring a oar was out of the question on account of the expense, lie reluctantly decided that there was nothing be could do until the morning. So lie went to bis lodgings to snatch a few hours’ sleep. The train to Tonbridge was a slow one. It- stopped exasperatingly ( at every station on the line, and as Philip sat back in the corner seat of the “smoker” he chafed at the delay. Of course, bo bad looked at the problem before him from almost every angle. He had dropped a note in the post to Peter Oxton informing him that he hoped to turn in for duty by midday or shortly after. Ho explained liis self-appointed leave of absence by sug-

gesting that lie was following up a clue which, he felt, would lead: him towards clearing up the mystery and also finding out what had happened to Phyllis Varley. Philip was none too sanguine about this latter suggestion. Ho had incorporated it rather to give some justification for his unconventional behaviour. He knew well enough what Peter Oxton would have said had lie waited until that gentleman arrived down at the store. Peter Oxton would 1 have reminded him that it was Scotland Yard’s job to solve the mystery of Nikolas Nolescue’s death and that were he in possession of any information that might assist them, it was his duty to acquaint Superintendent Beck and leave it to him to adjudicate upon its value and to take whatever action lie considered necessary. But such a course would not have suited Philip at all. He had been wearing his patience thin indeed at his enforced inaction. It was true Beck had commissioned him to “Keep an eye on Oxtons, Mr Slater, and let me know if anything unusual occurs there.” Well he’d done that. He’d ’phoned the Superintendent on each occasion anything of a suspicious nature that had occurred. But now that he had found something—and the more he mulled it over the more he was convinced that the address on the piece of paper in his pocket was of the utmost importance—lie was not to be denied the credit of his discovery. He’d earned it, too. He’d bad a punch on the jaw from some mysterious marauder in the store last night and he’d been uncomfortably trussed up. He had a debt to pay ori that score and he was determined that, given the chance, he was going to pay that’debt personally. / Of course, there was the reverse side of the medal. That address might be perfectly innocuous. It might, after all prove to he something that the cleaners had overlooked* It might be the address of a customer, hastily scribbled down as a form of reminder. Well, that couldn’t be helped now. He was on his way to Tonbridge. If Peter Oxton considered that he’d deliberately acted contrary to regulations, well . . . he’d hate to have to leave the firm, but if there were no alternative, he would

have to abide by the consequences. Thought of Phyllis Varley strengthened his belief that he was acting rightly. Phyllis could not have disappeared of her own free will without letting him know. She wasn’t like that. There was nothihg secretive in her nature. And there was that mysterious affair in the store last night. He’di been thinking over that quite a lot, and it intrigued him. He wondered who the man could have been. It had been quite impossible in the dark even to glean a hint of his nationality. All Philip knew was that the fellow was incredibly strong and that the grip he had exerted on his neck was probably one associated with Ju-Jitsu in some form or another. He had no knowledge of the science himself, hut he had read that it was based on a form of paralysis of the nerve centres as a means of rendering the victim helpless, and he’d certainly been that. If he ever encountered the fellow again he’d have to be on his guard. Then there was the reason lor the fellow’s visit to the store. What had been his objective? What attraction did the Chinese Silks Department have for him ? Once again there was no adequate answer to the question. If only he could have been certain that his assailant had been a Chinaman, that might have given him a clue. But he could only guess at that. One thing he was sure of, however, the man had not been particularly tail. Had he been even of average height that swing of Philip’s fist must most certainly have connected with his jaw rather than with the arm. Still, he debated with himself, conjecture wasn’t going to help him very much at this stage, so he spread out his morning newspaper and read the sports pages. Tonbridge at last. He’d never been to Tonbridge before, and he realised that his task of finding a house called The Beeches which was, according to the slip of paper near Tonbridge, might occupy him the whole ol the morning. But Philip was not interested in crime detection for nothing, and lie had no intention of stopping the first person he met and asking so general a question. He had himself directed to the Post Office and there mentioned that a friend of his had come to the district and all that he knew concerning the address was that the name of the house was The Beeches. The Post Office people were exceedingly helpful. He was asked to wait for a few minutes while inquiries were made. When th§ young woman returned she had in her hand a. list with 'no fewer than seyen addresses of people whose houses were named The Breeches. ‘‘What name would it he?” she asked innocently. . Philip thought quickly. “It’s just possible it won’t he there, if you’ve taken them from the local directory,” he evaded. “He’s only recently come to live down here.” The young woman smiled.. “I haven’t got these from a directory,” she told him, disarmingly. “I got them from the sorting-room where we keep lists of houses with duplicate names.” “The name is Rodgers,” Philip told her, desperately. He watched her run her blue eyes down the list; watched her shake her curly head, too. “I’m afraid there’s no one of that name here,” she told him. “But if the list is any use to you in case you want to make a call all round,, you’re welcome to it ’

Philip murmured his thanks and took his departure. Outside lie studied the list carefully. He saw that six our of the. seven addresses were actually in the town itself. It was the other that interested .him because it read: Marcus Stillman, The Beeches, Upper Donningham, near Tonbridge. “Thats the. house for my money,” he smiled to himself. “Now how to get somewhere near Uper Donningham.” The task was lighter than he had expected. A motor bus company ran a service between. Tonbridge and Sevenoaks and the direction hoard, told him that Upper Donningham was cn route. (To be continued.)