"ADMIT ONE"

Auckland Star, Volume LXII, Issue 166, 16 July 1931, Page 22

"ADMIT ONE"

■Sydney Horler\

(CHAPTER XVl.—Continued.) But disappointment met them at the Convent of the Sacred Heart. They iound the Mother Superior in a state A great agitation. "I don't quite know what has happened," she told the scowling detectiveinspector. "but Miss Ferguson, the girl [ was speaking about on the telephone, las disappeared." '•'Gone "Yes—and in the most unaccountable manner. Although no one saw her leave, the inference is that she acted on a iudden and ungovernable impulse and eft the convent." At this point Whittle insinuated himself into the conversation. "May I inquire if 3he knew you intended to telephone Scotland Yard?" he isked. "Xo. I don't think so. She confided ler trouble to one of our sisters this morning, and the latter certainly did mention the police, but she gave no indijation that a communication would be made to the authorities. "When Sister faith told me about it, I made the leeision myself." "It's easy to see what's happened," ;aid Whittle to Bodkin. "The girl got frightened. Her father is in the hands -jf tliis gang, and she thought, no doubt, that he would be arrested with the rest." Bodkin nodded. "I feel so anxious about the poor jhild," went on the Mother Superior. "May I atsk what you intend to do?" "We shall make a search for her,' was the guarded reply. "Will you let me have any news?" "Certainly, madam." Still frowning, tor he felt that Fate had made a fool of him, the inspector turned to the door. Outside the convent he turned to Whittle. "I'll pass this on to Watson," he said; "he'll be returning to duty this afternoon. I'm only deputising. You'd better come along to the Yard at four o'clock. I'll tell him you'll be there, eh V' "All right." And so the two parted. Four o'clock. That meant the loss of some valuable houre, but Whittle did not see how this could be averted. In the meantime, he decided to pay a visit to a man who lived in the neigh bourhood of Baker Street. Abe Goldschmidt, that once famous criminal lawyer, who, on his retirement, left Xew York to settle in London, might be able to tell him something further about the Empress. Although hew as out of business, Goldschmidt, through hie former connections with the criminal underworld, knew a great deal that, wa.s

going on behind the scenes in London. And, in any event, he would be sure of a very entertaining conversation. Although official enemies in the past, through being arrayed on different sides of the law, Goldschmidt and he had privately always been very good friends. And thifi friendship had increased since the lawyer had retired from his extensive practice amongst the crooks of New York. This was a curious set of circumstances in which Whittle now found himself, and he was pondering over the different links in the chain when he stepped absent-mindedly off the pavement. He heard a shrill cry of warning, caught sight out of the corner of hid eye of a great green car bearing down upon him, and then everything went black. A crowd soon collected, and a policeman bent over the form of the unconscious man lying in the roadway. "It's all right, officer; don't you worry. This gentleman's a friend of mine. I was so excited at seeing him that I could not pull up in time. Buc I'm sure he's not badly hurt." The constable stared at the speaker. "It seems to me," he said severely) "that you were driving far too fast. You might have killed him." "Oh, rubbish, officer," was the smiling response, "he's merely stunned. Where's the nearest hospital?" "No need to take him to a hospital; I'm a doctor," said another voice. "Just let me have a look at-him." A briskmannered, middle-aged man, dressed in a tight-fitting dark grey overcoat, without waiting for any further permission, knelt by the side of the unconscious man and made a rapid examination, i "Nothing serious, officer," he said, looking up at the constable; "no bones broken; he's just 6tunned. Be as riglu as rain in half an hour." At the words, the manner of the police constable softened. , "Let this be a lesson to you," he told the motorist, "there's too much of this careless driving nowadays. What about 'im?" He pointed to the man still lying in the roadway. The driver of the car remained unruffled. "I'll,-take him along to my place in Montagu Street. Can you spare the time, doctor?" "I've got 20 minutes," replied the medical man; "not that he'll need much attention." "Come along, then —and thanks very much. That all right, officer?" The police constable nodded, and then resumed his professional duties, waving dispersal to the crowd with a movement of his monstrous gloved hand. Within 10 minutes, the big car pulled up at what looked like a mews. The driver got down from his seat, opened the door, and winked at the doctor. "Easy enough, wasn't it?" he remarked; "and now, let's get the swine inside." , ■ * » * * Charles Whittle had experienced many unpleasant moments during the course of his professional life, but never one so nauseating as when, returning to consciousness, he stared upwards into the face of tho man leaning over him.-,. "Doing the busy-body here as well as in Iho States, ch?" sneered a voice, "why don't you damned dicks know when you're well off? Can't walk about like an ordinary guy; must go pushing your noses into every corner. Well, get this —and get it straight; you won't be able to do much harm in the future. I can promise you that, Whittle." One of the most valuable axioms that tho detective had learned through life was to keep his mouth shut when the occasion demanded it. He did so now. It was easy to see what had happened. No doubt, he had been shadowed from the moment he had I left the house of The Empress in Curzon Street. Abstracted as he had been, it had been easy for Grosner to run him down—rthe wonder was he had not been 1 killed.

And now? He was a prisoner. He would be kept there until the gang, of which Grosner must be a member, had completed their work—or, perhaps, it was intended that he should be got rid of. In any event, he would be powerless to help young Crane. At the thought, he involuntarily groaned. The next moment, a door slammed heavily. CHAPTER XVII. Mrs. Hamble Finds Mystery. Superintendent Watson turned irritably to hi« companion. "It was quite understood that he should come back here this afternoon: ' he asked. ''Yes. I said you'd be back at four o'clock, and would be pleased to see him. He knew that this information would be passed on to you. That's not the exi planation." "Then what is';' 5 Bodkin pulled, at his upper lip. "Well," he replied, "if that telephone call from the Convent hadn't said something about a hou.se at Handling, I'd have thought that Whittle was trying to pull my leg. He's got something of a reputation for that, you know.' Watson shook his head. "Whittle is one of the soundest men I've met," he said: "and you can wipe it out of your mind that he was not in dead earnest. I must say, Bodkin, he went on more severely, "I'm rather surprised at the attitude you took up. Why didn't von get" into touch with the Folkestone'police and tell them to go alon;: to this 'White House'?" The answer was somewhat sullen. "I wasn't going to take any chances, Superintendent. A nice thing if it had been just a hoax. The Yard has too manv critics now, what with these damned 'special crime reporters' and people writing to the newspapers." "That's all very well—but you ought to have rung up Folkestone. Get me through now." When the connection wa« made, Superintendent Watson spoke slowly and distinctly for three minutes. At the end, he wore a more satisfied expression. "That was Laidlcy," he vouchsafed; "sound man. He's going to look into it himself. And now, why the devil ha&n i Whittle turned up? —that's what I want

to know." .... -r, Borlkin dirl some more lip-plucking. He had taken his rebuke in a bad spirit, and it was a matter of some personal satisfaction that Whittle had not kept the appointment. "Perhaps something he considered more important turned up, he suggested with a sneer. = Watson glanced at the speaker. _ "You seem to have a prejudice against mv friend." he remarked. Bodkin found no answer to this snub, and, obeying the hint, left the room. The pawn-broker, who was Jewish, humped his shoulders in an expressive e, Tm robbing myself if T gi ve y° u a pound," he said, "but, still, you re a nice girl. . . " Margery choked back her anger. She knew the brooch was valuable her. father had once told her it was worth at leas. ten pounds. "I couldn't take a pound for it." "Verv well." The pawn-broker's manner changed. "I am here to do bizzness, not to run a charity home. Goodmorning." He turned away. Fear clutched at her heart. She had to have money, and get it quickly. "I'll take a pound," she said; "but Fm not selling it, please remember. I m simply putting it in pledge. "Of course!" The ingratiating smile had returned to the greasy face. "Here you are, my dear." A grimy pound note was passed over the counter, a ticket was given her, and then she found herself fumbling through the semi-darkness of the shop towards the side-door by which she had entered five minutes before.

She would have liked to have taken a taxi, but every shilling was precious, and so. after waiting at the end of the street for several minutes, she got on to a Strand-bound 'bus.

At Charing Cross, there was an item of crood news. A train was due to leave for Hvthe in ten minutes. Handling, she had already ascertained, was a small station bevond Folkestone and the coast resort which the Southern Railway advertise as "The Jewel of Kent." It was not until the train had started, and she was leaving London behind, that a full realisation of what she had done came to her. She had acted on a sudden and overpowering impulse. In that brooding mood which had follov. eel Sister Faith leaving the room, her mind had been filled with but one thought: what was happening to Philip Crane? She had to know—nothing else seemed to matter. He would be at Handling, of course—hadn't he promised to go there? She had closed her eyes in the attempt to shut out the scene of terror which had formed in her brain. But, in the darkness, the vividness of waking nightmare—-for that was what it was had increased. She saw a small, bare room, with a man lying bound upon the floor, over him bent a gigantic figure, in whose hand was a long-bladed dagger. Every now and then, the steel would bite into the prisoner's flesh. . .

What power was it that had bi ought this vision? Good or evil. She had wondered at first if she could be ill— whether some stealthy, Jjut di ead disease was overtaking her. But, no— when she had opened her eyes again everything was normal. And yet, that vision which had now vanished, had made her shake in actual terror. There could be no waiting after this. On the mantelpiece was a small pad and a pencil. Biit so urgent had seemed the need that she had not even waited to scribble a. line of farewell and regret. Time enough for that when she go./ away. write from Mandlmg. An she must be quick. Any moment, Sister Faith might return, and there would be a scene. She had know n what the nun would say; that it was lier personal duty to remain in the security of | the convent. Let the police—for wasn t that their job?—undertake the task of rescuing her father and bring this gang of crooks to justice. But it \><is no & of her father she had thought. He had receded so far into the distance that now he was merely a misty memory. Yet, how could she have explained this to a woman divorced from the world? ' . ,CTo \e cerrtinuad daily.)