THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY.

Auckland Star, Volume LVII, Issue 26, 1 February 1926, Page 14

THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY.

BY CARLTON DAW£. Author of "Desperate Lore,"' "Euryale in London," '•Virginia," etc.

CHAPTER VIII. A Precious Trio!*

But, in the meantime, apparently little progress was made in solving the Knightsbridge Mystery. The Press still indulged in sarcastic coment on the inefficiency of Scotland Yard; Parkgate Mansions" was still an object of considerable interest to those who had little else to think of. Groups of idlers would stand in the street and stare up at its many windows trying to guess which of the various rooms had witnessed the \ragedy; passengers on the buses appeared to be equally interested. Michael Penbury, unmoved by popular clamour, pursued his customary way. Yet it would be far from true to say that he ignored it. He knew perfectly well that much was expected of him, both from the public and his superiors, and that failure on his part might seriously tarnish his reputation. Moreover, there were rivals in the camp, and one in particular, Detective Barden, a shrewd-eyed, ginger-browed fellow, who for his shrewdness, his rat-like burrowing in unwholesome places, had been transferred to the plain clothes ranks, and had won not a little distinction. From the first he had taken a dislike to Penbury, whose promotion he may have thought too rapid, or perhaps because he imagined Penbury gave himself airs. This was truly an offence Barden was quite incapable of committing, for he was nothing more than an exalted policeman; never would be anything more. But he was shrewd and cunning, with much faith in his own cleverness, and secretly " criticised with severity his chief's method of procedure. He, personally, would have rounded up the cocaine gang, for among them he felt convinced the secret was hidden. Poppy Wilton was known to have indulged in the habit; she had jewels worth stealing, worth committing murder for. Detective Samuel Barden thought he could have managed this matter infinitely better than the man who had it in hand.

Yet Penbury was far from idle. Given a reputation one must endeavour 'to live up to it. Great efforts were made to trace the missing jewels, but so far the culprit had made no attempt to pledge them. No one had seen * stranger enter or leave the mansions. Yet he knew that one stranger had been there that fatal Sunday afternoon. Odd that no one should have seen him. Was it owing to the fact that Sunday was a sort of off day, the day when at least half the staff would be absent?

He closely questioned James Wrightson, who happened to be on duty that day. Wrightson, you may remember, was th> porter Vho had answered Marjorie Melville's frantic ring for help. An unpleasant-looking fellow, this Wrightson, not beloved of the tenants; one of those' harpies who sit in more or less authority, detested by the respectable, tolerated and tipped lavishly by the other sort.

■At their first meeting in the flat, Penbury" felt sure that James Wrightson was not an utter stranger. He had a wonderful memory for faces and figures, particularly the latter. The way a man stood, or walked, or carried his head, the set of his shoulders; these things Once impressed on his memory rarely faded from it. He was looking now at Mr. Wrightson's shoulders, the nervous play of Jiis gnarled fingers, and all the time the porter was thinking this man was trying to read his mind. "As far as you know," he was saying, "the dead woman had no visitors that Sunday < afternoon V' . • . "As. far as I know, sir." "You wouhi have seen them?" "Not necessarily. I might have been absent at the moment, or they might have come through the other entrance." "Quite so. You saw nothing?" "Nothing." "You knew she was in her flat?" » "No, sir; otherwise I -would have known that she was alone." A slow smile played round his thin lips. Clearly he had but a poor opinion of Penbury's intelligence. This was the famous detective! No wonder some of the papers suggested calling in the village constable. _ "Did you ever hear of orgies in the flat ?" "Such a thing would not be allowed," he answered in a tone of reproof., "Cocaine orgies?" "Quite impossible." • "You would know of such happenings?" yL "Trust mc." "They would not meet with Tour approval J "It would be my duty to report such goings on." "Where were you last employed?" Ine httle eyes narrowed; there was a moment of hesitation. "Over Bayswater way—Duke's Hotel." .Before then "Hampstead." 11"' 10 you know anything of a certain block of flats in Shafteabury Avenue"' "Yel" 11, he hesitated, an d then said. "Do your present employers know of them, or their tenants?" „ "All. landlords cannot afford to be squeamish. .r cleared out as soon as I learned the truth." The melancholy eyes were staring at him,, dreadfully, insistent. ■ weii?». tLink . you ; know Sobo prstfc y V "Only tolerable well. It • was ' never a place that appealed to mc." "Ever heard of Nobby Wang?" "No, sir," "he answered solemnly. "Who is he?" "A chink." ■-"J never did like them; slimy yellow vermin.". ■■.■."••• "Perhaps you prefer the nigger, Quincey P. Brookham?" . "Never could stand colour of any sort. It ain't Christian." "One . sometimes meets them by accident, in . nocturnal rambles." "I- never indulge in them." ' "Or: ever did?" "Not that I know of." "Would it surprise you to know that you-have been seen in the company of Wang the chink and Brookham the nigger?" i x "lt would be the surprise of my life, sir. Whoever told you that is a liar.". . . : . ■■- ' " l 'L am glad to hear it; they are both extremely dangerous men. It only shows how an honest person may be maligned." "Look, here, sir, may I ask what you're trying to get at?" "Isn't it obvious? Wheels within wheels, Wrighjtson; cog fitting into COg."- -• r, -■>:-.-- . - :: „._, ~. .. "r-seem to,be an.odd wheel that don't fit anywhere/'.- said the man. i

"Yet we may make use of you to propel the machinery." "You ain't hinting that I done the murder, because if you are you may have to prove your words."

"Cut out that stuff," said the other sharply, his eyes for a moment losing their placid solemnity, "'and answer my questions. I don't think you can be a very good porter, Wrightson."

"My employers appear to be satisfied." His mouth curled in an ugly sneer.

"And I don't believe a word of what you've said."

"Then why go on asking mc questions'"

"You see, don't you. that this affair may yet compromise you seriously? Xobby Wang—Black Q. —cocaine; the terms are synonymous. Add to them the murder of a woman addicted to the drug. You begin to see what it means?"

"Xever was nioreMogged," said the man.

But Penbury entertained grave doubts. Looking hard into the low cunning face before him, the retreating brow, the monkey jaw, the shifty furtive eyes, he felt that here was an animal capable of any vice or crime. Curious, too, that should never have suspected the presence of the deceased in her flat; should have been ignorant of the visit of Eustace Frankford that fatal Sunday. If this were true? But was it?

"All the women who live here are eminently respectable?" '"The manager would be the best one to answer that question." "There is no one with whom you have had secret dealings—with the exception of the deceased woman and her friend, Marjorie Melville?" '"! don't know what you mean by secret dealings." "I think you do. Come now. you are quite sure that neither Nobby Wang nor Black Q. was here on Sunday, July the 25th? Be careful. Wrightson; much will depend on your answer."

"Not that I know of; an' IT I'd seen a nigger or a chink in the building I must have remembered it. That sort of stuff don't come to places like this. They'd be a clean give away." Penbury apparently pondered tllis reply for a moment or two; then said in that disinterested way of his. "They wouldn't need to, with you here." Wrightson looked murder; felt murder tingling in every vein. "I suppose you're privileged to say these things?" "I don't like you, Wrightson," said the detective; "your record is not of the sweetest." He shook a melancholy head; regarded the porter with strangely mournful eyes. ' "What's agen mc?" "Considerably more than you seem to imagine. Birds of a feather, Wrightson. It's a severe world, and often confounds the innocent with the guilty. You see how the net is spread; presently it contracts, is hauled aboard, and muah is found in it besides herrings. . I may want you again, presently, so please hold yourself in readiness. In the meantime, should you discover anything fresh, anything of value, you know where to find mc." He went off leaving the porter silently, foaming, and not a little fearful. Though it was quite evident to him that Penbury was little better than an inflated ass, yet even an ass might blunder upon rich .pasturage. But apart from successful blundering he thought there was little to fear. He held the detective's methods in most profound contempt; was not even sure the man really knew what he was after. He seemed like one half awake; stupid, dreamy, going through an" allotted task without energy or interest. That he knew so much, suspected so much more, must have come to him by chance, or through the efforts of his colleagues. That the man himself was capable of unravelling any mystery however simple was not to be thought of. And yet he thought;; found thought curiously insistent. He did not like that phrase "secret dealings," nor that reference to some of the "eminently respectable women" who occupied the flats. How had he come to know of these things? It was bad luck that Poppy Wilton should have met her end in one of them. Why hadn't the gone somewhere else to die? These women always gave the show away. By a circuitous route he found his way to Fulham that night, to a certain shabby street that took a sudden dive off the Lillie Road, as though anxious to hide itself. Having shed his gorgeous uniform he looked like a very respectable tradesman, innocuous, gxjing quietly to his home. But his little eyes were eharp as needles as he approached his destination; sharper still as he turned into the street. At a certain window he caught a glimpse of two slits of eyes peering through the shutter of a Venetian blind. As he mounted the five steps to the door it opened and he slipped in. It was all done very queitly. Bustle, or noise of any description, was evidently not appreciated in this household. When they entered the room on the right of the passage the person who had admitted him immediately lit the gas and held out his hand. He was a Chinese with a sallow, wicked, dissipated face, but dressed meticulously in European clothes. His sleek black hair was beautifully marcel-waved, and he was scented like a woman. Wrightson grinned horribly as he shook hands. "Seen Q?" he asked. Nobby Wang, for it was he, nodded towards the back of the house. "Q. all li," he said, ejecting a cloud of smoke through his wide nostrils. "How's business, eh? Can do?" "That's what I've come to talk about, Nobby. We've got to be careful. Penbury's on the warpath." "Penbury dam fool," sneered the chink "Bah!"

His tone was contemptuous, as though Penbury and all the hosts of Scotland Yard were not worth a'second thought. "I dunno so much about that," said the porter, who could not forget the insistence of those mournful eyes. This Chinese, with his fishy, cold-blooded orientalism, was always something of an enigma . to the good Wrightson*. who really believed that Nobby would face death itself without the "quiver of an eyelid. But he was clever, cunning, and seemed to get hold of the "stuff" without much trouble. Then Quincey P. Brookham burst into the room glowing like an ebony sun, his shark's teeth very prominent as he grinned. He had on a new smart grey suit, a flaming yellow tie in which sparkled the inevitable diamond horseshoe. Wrightson, looking at the two spruce dandies, felt rather shabby and envious. It wasn't right that a "hardworking Englishman should be thus eclipsed by a couple of coloured rogues. Being a good white man he hated colour; just then he hated it in deadly fashion. "Hullo," he said, unable to conceal his smouldering enmity, "you're looking all right, Q." "An' feel it. son." answered the negro, slapping Ins chest and beaming broadly. "Seem to be doing pretty well?*' "Bet yer life on that. Quincey P.'a struck oil—rich." He continued to grin in a most exasperating manner.

"Some suit, ain't it ? I'm on the" ocean wave, going back home to my dear old mammr." . "What y' mean?" "See hero, son, I'm tellin' you I struck it rich. Kind friend sent the poor lonesome coon back to his mammy; gave him money to buy his passage and outfit. Some country this. Gosh!" He rolled his eyes and brought Jiis teeth together with a snap. "You ain't half awake, son. If I was porter at Hell Gate, like you, I'd twist the tails of them devils to some tune; skin 'em, horns an' all. You ain't awake, James; you ain't born." Wrightson turned inquiringly to the Chow, who appeared quite unimpressed 'by Quincey's. boasting and magnificence." "What's he mean, Nobby?" Nobby shook his head. "No can tell. Quincey, he get flash; lots o' money." "Tons of it, ole fren." He slapped his breast pocket. "An' there's more where that come from. Trust Quincey P. Jes' the dead easiest thing he ever struck." 7 "Where do we come in?" asked the porter, his little eyes gleaming avarici- j ously. I "You don't, son. This is" Quincey's perq.—that poor HI 5 lonesome coon who was jes' dyin' to get back home to his mammy." He grinned immoderately. That mammy stunt tickled him beyond the bounds of decency. "Dam funny, this mammy business," scowled the porter, "but I don't unner- , stan , ." I "No need, son; this is Quincey's own lil* gold mine. It's Easy Street for the rest of his days." Wrightson turned to Wang the inscrutable, but got no satisfaction from the placid demeanour . of the Asiatic. He smoked complacently, watching with unblinking eyelide the white man and the negro. They might quarrel, the whole world might erupt, dissolve itself j in chaos, but nothing should shake his ' inhuman immobility. If he had either thought or feeling he hid it under an impenetrable mask; but principally he conveyed the impression that nothing really mattered. Anger was foolish indulgence, words but so much noisy wind. When he moved he moved without a sound; yet swiftly, remorselessly, relentlessly as fate. No one knew who launched the bolt, or whence it came; one only knew it had been by what one caw. Feelings, emotions, seemed no . part of his equipment. As a despised alien, he had come among the white people, whom he now hated and de- ■ spised. If he ever gloated, it was deep within himself, when he saw the white man fall. And the white woman! Ah, here was the triumph over creed, colour, country. But of all this he never breathed a word. People saw the Chinese dandy, scented, curled; knew him as an insidiously affable little yellow man, and was sure that he was let out of hell to corrupt the world- His intimates knew well enough how he got his money; they knew there were times when he drugged himself almost to death. That appeared to be his one weakness. On occasions he would disappear from his haunts ibr. two or three weeks at a *jme. He might be dead for all his friends knew or cared; their brutality

was bounded only by their own interests. Then he would suddenly come I again looking like a resurrected corpse; pallid, feeble, trembling in every limb, a pitiable wreck of a man. No need to ask where he had been, or what he luuki been doing. And they don't tell tales | in the opium dens of the East and West End, unless it suits them. The three began to speak in low, intimate tones; even Brookham's bla- ; tancy was by degrees subdued. For , Wrightson was both irritable and nervous. Penbury had evidently heard something which boded this precious trio no good. Nobby Wang was quite content with London; he had not the faintest wish to see his native land again, or the inside of an English prison. That hundred per cent American, Quincey P. Brookham, thought' he might survive a little while longer without embracing his old mammy. Besides, he was on Easy Street now; foresaw a good time without end. His prospects being of the brightest, he was bursting to boast of them, but abandoned the foolish thought. When you've got a good thing keep it to yourself, if you're j wise. Quincey shut his big. mouth very ! tight and let Wrightson do the talking. Wang listened; he was a marvellous listener. Then suddenly a woman's voice readied them, a dull, moaning cry. The porter looked from the black to the yellow face. His nerves, already on the raw, began to shoot and jump afresh. J "Say, chink," drawled the negro, "I guess you'd better hop right in. I can't do nothin' with her." When Wang had gone Wrightson turned inquiringly to Brookham. "Maudie?" The. negro solemnly wagged his big head. "That blamed chink'll bring about his own downfall shore as yore born. He ain't human." ! The girl spoken of, Maudie, looked up from her tumbled bed as the chow entered the room, looked up at him with something of fear and loathing in her blue eyes. She was not pretty; her mouth was large and swollen. But she was young,, very young, still in her teens; and the fair hair scattered about her pallid face was like a tangle of gold. With the nervous eyes of a frightened child she watched the Chinese cross to the washstand and mix something in a glass. ! "I won't 'aye no more of that stuff," she cried. "I won't, I won't!" I But she might as well have protested to the wind. Wang crossed over to her . without speaking. She shrieked; then moaned pitifully as "with one hand he seized her jaw and prized it open. With the other he poured the contents of the glass down her throat. When he returned to the sitting room he was complacently smoking a cigarette. "She sleep all li now," he said. "If yore not careful." remarked Quincey P. Brookham, "she'll sleep so sound one of these days that she'll never wake up." Through his wide, flat "nostrils, Nobby Wang contemptuously blew a cloud of smoke. (To be continued daily.)