SIX WERE TO DIE

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 209, 3 September 1932, Page 10 (Supplement)

SIX WERE TO DIE

by *Peter Qales

CHAPTER XIV. Levison the Next Victim. Levison walked miles through the gathering dusk without noticing or caring where his feet carried him. At length he came to a country inn, and went into the bar parlour to rest. she place was filled with the wholesome smell of honest beer, fynd the lowrafters were wreathed with curling blue smoke; the atmosphere was hazy with it. ■ Through the haze he saw half a dozen cheerful red faces, half a dozen large Ted. hands holding pint mugs, half a dozen pipes glowing in as many mouths. The landlord, a smiling man,, comfortably padded with flesh about the waist, beamed welcome from behind the chipped oak bar. -Although Levison was in dinner clothes there was no curiosity in the frank eyes of the men who sat on rough wooden benches round the low room, only~a friendliness that wanned his heart. One or two of them greeted him quietly; aii old man murmured that it was "blowin' up for a wild night." A wild night! Only Levison knew what the night was likely to be for him. It might be his last on earth. Hβ spent the evening pleasantly, drinking beer out of a pint mug ar.d chatting with farm labourers, who did not know that lie was a great man in the city reputed to be a millionaire, and who would not have cared if they had known. They, talked of politics, the weathar, of the state of the crops, even of the 8.8.C. programmes, listening attentively when Levison spoke, and volunteering their own views without diffidence. Here in the friendly atmosphere. of a country inn one man was as good as another. The talk drifted to the five financiers whose fate had occupied so much space in the ' evening papers. Opinions differed as to the justice of Marckheim's revenge. ' " 'Tis a tumble thing io kill in cold blood," observed an old man gravely. "They behaved like dogs," demurred another. " 'Tis rightful they should d;e like dogs. Don't J ee agree, sir?" "I do," said Levison soberly. But Levison did riot intend to die. The rain came on just before closing time. The landlord lent him a raincoat, soiled by years of hard wear, cut to lit a shorter, more spacious figure than that of Gideon Levison, but he accepted it gratefully, and went out into the storm, the wind whipping its wide frocJc against his legs.

For two hours he walked, chewing more than he smoked of innumerable cigars. ' And while he walked, unconscious of his drenched garments and mudstained trousers, his brain was pondering ithe urgent question of his! own personal safety. Levison harboured no illusions. He knew that Marckheim would kill . cold-bloodedly, without mercy. But Levison was not an easy man to kill. More than one potential killer had found that out! . A dozen scars on his lean body testified to itho attempts on his life that had been made in the bad old days in South Africa by : men who believed (not without reason) that he had wronged them; Not one but many men had sworn to kill him, but Levison lived to walk the world with that springing etride of his, while some who had sworn to kill him were themselves food for the worms. Levison had brains. Levison had courage. Levison had no- conscience. He was the perfect killer, cold, shrewd, and .callous. And now a killer as coldblooded as himself was waiting, watchingj spying for an opportunity to do unto Levison what Levison had done to others. But Levison was not afraid. Fear had no place in his composition. Hβ was all steel muscle and elastic sinew, controlled by sharp brains, made formidable by iron nerves. Fear! Yes, he knew what,it meant; he had seen it in the wide eyes of men' as a bullet snapped toward them to gouge its way through flesh and bone. He had 6een it reduce , men of iron to men of jelly. But nothing had ever stirred fear in Levison himself. Danger made his brains like ice and his hands sure. Death would not find him an easy captive. He h'ad cheated death before, only to console the dork angel with another victim. , This might be one more time when the man who came to kill would remain to gasp out-his life in a pdol of hie own blood. It was almost one o'clock when he returned to Grey Towers. His sharp eyes darted to right and left of him as he approached the dim gateway by which, he must enter the garden. No blacker mass loomed among the drooping shadows. The hour of encounter was yet to come. A burly guard admitted him, and he walked swiftly across the • spongy turf and entered the house. In the hall his eyes detected the ponderous outline of a large man and sturdy chair; silver buttons gleamed in the* gloom of a far corner. The chair creaked as the uniformed policeman moved to obtain a closer view of the newcomer. Levison paused for a moment where the shaded light of, the hall chandelier threw his profile into sharp relief. "Good-night, officer," he said pleasantly. "Good-night, sir," replied a gruff voice. Levison smiled faintly as he walked softly up the stairs. The timidest spinster in London would Bleep untroubled by" fear with a policeman's comforting bulk in her hall, but he who was the reverse of timid, he who had never ; known fear, drew no comfort -from the constable's presence. The arm of the law was too puny a thing to protect him from the man who sought his life. Levison must depend on his own brain and muscle, on his own iron nerve. When he was almost at the top a white face peered over the bannisters. Levison tensed himself, but a low whisper reassured him.. It was Dr. Britling, who had been waiting in suspense for his return. "Thank God you're back!" Daniel murmured. "I've been on pins and r needles." "You're a decent little chap," muttered Levison. "But don't worry about me. I can look after number one! For heaven's sake look after yourself!" With a softly spoken "Good-night" Daniel disappeared into' his r6om. Levison turned the handle of his bedroom door and pushed the door slightly ajar. Cautiously his fingers slipped through the narrow aperture and found the electric light switch, flooding the room with light before he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The room was apparently empty and there was nowhere for an intruder to hide except inside the clothes closet or beneath the bed. He locked the bedroom door and, as an afterthought, shot the stout bolt with which it was equipped. No door secured

only by ■a lock would keep out the man who was in Levieon's thoughts. When he was clad ekimply in pyjamas he went to the window, which was open a foot at the top, and shut it. As he fastened the catch he made a wry face, for he was a lover of fresh air. But death had eome to Herbert Quail through an open window, and Levison did not intend that death ehould come that way. Queer that his mind should harp on the subject of death. The fingers of one hand would not have sufficed to enumerate the times the shadow of death's dark wings had "passed over hie head, leaving.him unscathed, and he had never felt like this before. Somehow, this was different; his thoughts ran in a circle, the centre of which was the menace againat which he must be ever on guard. Even in bed he did not feel quite comfortable. He rose at last and attached a largo ornamental vase to the catch of the window by a length of cord. He adjusted it so that the vase must smash on" the floor if an attempt was made to rake the window. This device he duplicated on the window of the bathroom adjoining his room. He turned on the reading lamp above his bed and switched'out the light in the centre of the ceiling before slipping between the sheets again. He would read for a while before going to sleep, he decided. Reading would soothe his mind and banish the problem that threatened to keep him awake. Hie nerves were perfectly steady, but—there w,as that insistent voice in his brain which kept on eaying: "Levieon, ; beware!" It had never nagged him like this before, but then he had regarded as fools the men who had made previous attempts on his life. The man of whom that nagging voice warned him was no fool. He had brains as cunning and nerves as cool as those of Levison himself. He had killed Hubert Quail by a fiendishly clever method. He had sworn to kill Levison . . . "Levison, beware!" ! He found himself unable to concentrate on his book. The printed lines melted into a meaningless blurr before his eyes. Was it humanly possible, he wondered, to kill a man who was alone in a room, the door of which was locked and bolted, the windows of which were ehut and securely fastened? If so, how could it be done! If human ingenuity could deviee a method, surely Levison himeelf could solve it—and foil it. Hβ revolved the puzzle in hie mind. No, it couldn't be done. To kill a man dn the present circumstances was to work him up to euch a pitch, by playing on his nerves, piling on the uncertainty. That could be done, but not in Levieon's Levieon was not the type to commit suicide. Levison had never known fear. "Levieon, beware!" ■ It was auto-suggestion, of course, that little voice in his brain that kept on reminding him that this killer was not like other killere, that this killer was to be respected, .to be guarded against, to be anticipated, to be—he had almost admitted—feared. But' fear had no part in Levkon'e composition. Ignoring the whispers that distracted his mind, he concentrated on his book. Page after page was thumbed over as he became absorbed in the etory unfolded. Then the light went outli , With startling suddenness the room was plunged in darkness. Levison eat up, propped upon an elbow, and pushed the book away , from him. His brain was as cool as ice and hie eyes unflinchingly probed the darkness that hedged him in. His ears were on the alert for the faintest sound that might disturb the pregnant silence. But nothing happened. The room was. as still as it had been before the light went out. His own breathing began to sound loudly in Levison's ears. The room seemed , to be filled with the sound of the beating of his heart, magnified by the tension of his nerves to the loudness of sledge-hampier blows. "Levieon, beware!" The whispering voice was louder now, as though the danger had come nearer. This wouldn't do. He must have perfect control of himself to meet and avert Whatever threatened. His keen eaue detected a faint slithering noise, followed by a subdued rustling. Such a sound as might have been made by a snake writhing on its belly through dead leaves. But this was the country mansion of Israel Straust. Here there were no enakee and no—ridiculous thought!—no dead leaves. The slithering and rustling continued, and a new sound mingled with them, a faint whimpering that rose and fell fitfully, like the whine of a dying wind. But the storm, he knew, had died an hour ago. No breath of wind stirred anywhere. Odd how chilly it was becoming in the room, though it was summer and the window was securely fastened. It was cold, and at the same time stuffy. Levison felt his flesh rising in little pimples, and his lungs were bursting for breath. His head seemed to be swollen to the size of a pumpkin. "Levisjn, beware!" Pitter; patter, pitter, patter, a new sound jarred the' silence, a sound like dried peas rattling on the taut skin of a drum. Levieon threw back the bed-clothes and his trembling feet slipped to the floor. The danger he could not fathom was breaking his iron nerve. His heart was pounding wildly, his breath was coming in choking gasps, his scalp prickled as though with the touch of icy fingers, hie forehead was bathed in cold perspiration., He tiptoed toward the chest of drawers where he kept his automatic. His foot touched something smooth and cold, and a nerve-shattering noise sounded. With an inarticulate cry, he dodged, and there was another ioud bang. Throwing caution to the winds, he plunged to the chest of drawers and pulled the handle of the drawer which contained his weapon. He wouldn't die tamely, like a sheep beneath the butcher's knife; if die he must, he'd have company into the valley of the shadow! The drawer was stiff, and he tugged at'it, his fingers itching for the comfortable feel of the smooth handle of his automatic. A flash of flame stabbed the darkness. The room was filled with an echoing report and the acrid odour of powder fumes. Without a word or cry the body ! of Gideon Levison thudded to the floor. Marckheim had won, after all! (To be continued daily.)'