BANK CLERK

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 296, 15 December 1933, Page 13

BANK CLERK

. By HOLLOWAY HORN

Author of "George," "That Man at Claverton Mansions," etc

CHAPTEK IV.—(Continued.) Her entry ..into * ne " room awakened Mm, and he sat up in eudderi fear. "You startled me!" he exclaimed. "I had fallen asleep." "I'm sorry, Mi- Bullard.. But it's tea time., I brought you up some scones I made special." "Thank you. I don't like dropping off like this in the day time, Mrs. Spagett. It means that I don't eleep at night." "Somnier?"' she said, sympathetically. "I can't stand somnier. Not that I've had it for years," she explained. "I should imagine not," he said with a smile. He decided to visit the local cinema in the evening, and on the way down met Nina Warren strolling up to the common with a man about his own age. She pulled up, and, of course, he had to stop. "This is my friend, Mr. Trollope, Mr. Bullard," she introduced them. The two men shook- hands. "I've wanted to meet you, Mr. Bullard," the other man said. "I do a bit of scribbling my&elf. Just as an amateur, you know."' "Good. It's an amusing hobby. A good walking-stick but a bad crutch, as Dr. Johnson said." "I've had no luck so far, but Miss Warren ie very encouraging." "She does your typing, toot" "Yes. Not much, I'm afraid. I happen to be a dentist, and pretty busy." "It's a more certain job than writing. What kind of stuff do you do? Short stories ?" "Yes. I'm on a novel at the moment. I find it easier." "You must come in and see me one evening. I ehould like a chat." "Thank you very much," the dentist said. "I most certainly will. It's very good of you." It was just as well, William Chester Bullard decided, that Nina Warren had other interests. He was getting far too fond of her, and with deadly clearness he saw, as he hurried down the hill into the town, he must cut all women like Nina Warren out of his life. In the eyes of everybody in the world excepting himself he was a murderer. That he had actually been fond of poor old Trotter was beside the point. The police were searching for him, for the murderer of the old fellow, and that ended everything where a girl like Nina was concerned. If necessary he would have to obtain another typist. He was quite firm with himself on the point; marriage, for him, was out of the question. They were walking up to the common together, she and her dentist. Together they_ would watch the passion of the sunset waete and fade, together they would stroll in that soft translucent green of the beech trees, while he— William Chester Bullard—was alone. It was a disquietening thought, although as far back ae he could remember, he had been alone. Until then, however, it had not mattered. He had not been consciously alone as he was that beautiful June evening, thinking of the man and girl who were strolling in the beauty of the common. The first film at the cinema was a typically American product, with a glamorous star and a story that bore no relation to life whatever. It had, however, its amusing moments. During the interval, after the advertisements had appeared, a communication from the police was thrown on to the screen. It contained the description of himself he had already read in the morning paper and a request that people who had reason to suepect anybody of being Paul Leverstock, should at once communicate with the nearest police station. The word murderer was not used, but everyone in the cinema—and in a thousand other cinemas—understood. Curiously enough, it rather amused William Chester Bullard. He, at least, was quite certain that he would not meet this Paul Leverstock, and in the darkness of the cinema permitted himself a grin—that unpleasant grin that was so unlike his smile. The next film was of the wild and woolly West order. In this story men killed each other in a casual and debonair manner, and nobody was apparently any the worse. Death did not seem such a dreadful thing on the screen. He had seen worse shows in big, expensive London cinemas, and having purchased tobacco and three evening papers in the town he sauntered up the hill to the common and his cottage. Mrs. Spagett had left hie supper of sandwiches and a bottle of beer on a tray, for him, and as he felt rather cold, he put a match to the,fire. He drew the blinds although the faint, lemon aftermath of the sunset still lingered in the sky. In spite of the.season he shivered slightly, and took the outer page of the largest of the evening papers to draw up the fire. '• . . . Aβ he knelt in front of the fire the flaring headlines of the paper stood out vividly against the leaping flames behind. "The man. with the purple claw," he read, and for a moment a feeling,of faintness, almost of nausea, all but overcame liim. At that moment the page caught alight and flared up; he had to poke it under the fireplace. With trembling hands , he opened one of the other papers and sank into his armchair to read it. •The police; he learnt, had been seriously handicapped,in their search for Paul Leverstock by the complete absence •of all photos. So complete, indeed, was the absence that, it was probably deliberate. Many banks had photos of all their employees in their personal files, but this had not been the practice of the National Bank. Paul Leverstock's doctor at Peckham Rye, however, had come forward and informed the police that the wanted man had a birthmark on his right breast shaped very much like the claw of a bird of prey. The resemblance between the birthmark and an eagle's claw, the doctor stated, was unmistakable; it had struck him at once. He remembered commenting on it to his patient. The doctor, it transpired, had volunteered the information reluctantly, and nothing but a very keen sense of public fluty would have forced I him to do so. The' ordinary arguments [as to whether a doctor should tell were 'clearly not applicable in a case of murder, and so on. The Purple Claw! .■:; " The papers had played on the phrase. Up to that point there had been little of news value in the murder, but the Purple Claw put an entirely different complexion on the case from the journalist's point of view. It was essentially "News." Red' Hot News—the queer commodity in .which they dealt. Where was the man with the purple claw,? An infinitely more interesting and arresting question than one merely asking for the whereabouts of Paul Lcveretock, an ordinary, Inconspicuous bank ' official.

Still with a hand that trembled he picked up the other paper. Featured boldly on the front page was the ominous phrase. It seemed to strike him in the face as he opened the paper. "Murderer indelibly marked!" the first paper had announced. "The touch of fate!" "The brand of Cain," the second called the birthmark. Damn him! Damn him! Damn him! William Chester Bullard's face was torn with passionate hatred as he thought of the old, grey-haired doctor in Peckham whose eense of public duty had forced him to tell the police what he knew. At that moment, in that quiet secluded room, there was that in Bullard's face which would have startled the colleagues of Paul Leverstock if they could have seen it and made them think he was even queerer than they had imagined. But the spasm of, rage passed as quickly as it had come. Bullard shivered, for the fire was still reluctant to throw out any heat, but he made a conscious effort to pull himself together in order to consider the new and terrible factor. Gingerly he took off his collar, unfastened his shirt, and looked down at the ugly purple mark on his chest. It was about two inches long and had the evil quality that one aesociates with the talons of a bird of prey. j In sudden fear he glanced at the window and refastened his shirt collar. The mark on his chest was the one thing he'd overlooked. As the minutes passed, he succeeded in recovering his self-control; the fire was burning up and the rooixi was warmer. ' The more lie thought the matter out, calmly and dispassionately, the more he convinced himself that it didn't really matter. No one in his new life suspected the identity of William Chester Bullard and Paul Leverstock; no one would, therefore, suspect the purple mark on hi 3 cheet. But the sensational reporte in the evening papers made quite clear to him that the case would in all probability blaze up into a fierce national publicity. Before the doctor in Peckham had betrayed his secret, it had shown every sign of dying a quiet and natural death. Within a few days, readers would have grown tired of it, and the newe concerning it been relegated to the interior pages; smaller head-lines would have sufficed. Gradually it "would have faded into the background of undiscovered mysteries. But the Purple Claw would have the same effect as a can of paraffin on a dying bonfire. The man with the purple claw! The wretched phrase would be on everyone's lips, marked indelibly on memories. They would have it at the cinemas. People in ten thousand trains on their way to London would talk about it in the morning—had, indeed, talked about it, that evening, on their way home. The wireless would be belching it out in every cottage in the country. In Mrs. Spagett's cottage for example. Mrs. Spagett. . . . There was a danger. She brought in his tea in the morning. Supposing that his pyjamas were unbuttoned and he were asleep when the garrulous old fool came in! He wouldn't have tea in the morning, he decided. But there was a danger lurking everywhere! He had to watch his step asleep and awake, for every hand in the world, would be even more against the man with the purple claw than Paul Leverstock. He read the account again. The phrase introduced something sinister and terrible into the affair— something which was not there before, something, he insisted, which was not really there at all! He, William Chester Bullard, could feel that there was some merciless, relentless quality in this Paul Leverstock—this man with the purple claw — something he had never known before. It would lead to an outbreak of mass hysteria before . it became a joke, a byword. "The Brand of Cain." The fools! He wasn't a murderer. He had never meant to harm old Trotter. He liked Trotter. Wasn't it clear that if he had meant to kill him ho wouldn't have bothered to tie him in the chair? Couldn't the imbeciles see that he was not a murderer? It waa an accident. And an accident wasn t murder. And yet across those hateful pages that ghastly phrase stared at him. "The Man with the Purple Claw." He shuddered. Suddenly he clenched his hands. He must pull up. It was getting on his nerves. Calmly, once again he thought the whole case out from the new angle. He insisted that he was in no greater danger than he had been before, that all he required was a cool head. Even the talk about the purple claw would sooner or later die down, be obliterated from men's memories. The one thing he had to do was to keep a grip on himself, never allow himself to be taken by surprise. That was the only real danger. People—even casual people—were bound to talk to him about the purple claw. Ho must not betray the least nervousness when they did so. He must be like that fellow "Poker-face" in the film. Agree with whatever they said. Agree that the man with the purple claw was the world's worst criminal, agree with anything any fool said. Music! That steadied his nerves more than anything. He turned to his wireless set, and tuned in Milan, whence they were broadcasting an opera. ■ • "Jlu&ic that gentller on the spirit lies Than tired eyelids on tired eyes." The lovely lines came bo/ck to him again as he listened to the honeyed Italian words and music. Not really good stuff, but calming. A balm to a bruised spirit, sedative to an unquiet soul. It was late when the opera was finished, and reluctantly he prepared for bed. He stood in front of the looking glass watching the purple mark on his chest .... the brand of Cain, that paper had said. He remembered talking jokingly to the doctor about it, he, himself, had suggested the sinister significance of the peculiarly shaped mark to the old man. Tie put on the jacket of his pyjamas; the mark was hidden—no one would suspect it was there. Up and down the country, as he knew; people would be discussing the new development of the bank murder case, in theatre foyers, at bridge parties, as they walked homeward through the darkness together. That evil grin broke on William Chester Bullard's face as he realised that he was alone in that remote cottage with

the man with the purple claw. The grin seemed not to be a part of Bullard at all. It was just as if it came from some source outside him, as if it had nothing to do with the man who loved music and books and poetry. He looked out from his window when he was ready for bed. The same beauty saturated the night, the same unearthly silence brooded over the scene as on the previous evening. But his troubled spirit was even less in harmony with it. Assure himself no matter how convincingly that he had nothing to fear, doubts would return, terrors spring up like moving shadows. The austere beauty of the night was but a mockery to the man who watched it. Below him, in the valley, a few faint j lights alone marked Mossford, for the village by this time was asleep. But he knew, before he got into bed, that it would be long before sleep came to quieten his unnaturally active brain. He did not even attempt to go to sleep. For two hours he read; his eyes were heavy and tired when at length he switched off the light. The next thing he realised was that it was morning; the light was streaming into his room. « • • • One morning paper in particular had gone all out on the murder, as if it assumed that the matter was of national interest. There was even an article on birthmarks in general, ending with a solemn assurance that usually they were merely bad luck and without significance. A sketch was given of the birthmark on Paul Leverstock's chest, based on information supplied by the doctor, and there was no doubt whatever that the sketch, anyway, did look like an eagle's, claw. The wanted man had been seen, it was confidently reported, in Bournemouth, and the police were carrying out an intensive search of that neighbourhood. His arrest was hourly expected; in the stop press column, William Chester Bullard read that a man had been detained by the police in Poole. This made Bullard grin; the idea of the intensive search in Bournemouth was not without its funny side. Mrs. Spagett had fried him some fillets of plaice, and seemed anxious, in her motherly way, that he should make a good breakfast. "I'm not surprised you've not got much of an appetite, sir," she told him. "It isn't often that I can't look me breakfus in the face, but I was fair put out by this horrible murder. Makes you feel all creepy-like." "A new murder?" He was on his guard even with Mrs. Spagett. "No, sir. 'The man with the purple claw. , 'Orrible!" "You mean the birthmark is horrible? It is a birthmark, isn't it? I didn't read it very carefully." "No. I mean the whole thing, sir. Spagett was reading it out las' night. 'The brand of Cain.' And the mark like a claw! It did upset me!" "I noticed something about it in the evening paper." "Funny 'ow he's disappeared. Fair gives you the creeps. I wouldn't go to Bournemouth, not if you paid my fare." "Why ever not?" William Chester Bullard smiled. "He's been seen there." 'The man with the purple scar?" "Purple claw, sir. That's what makes it so 'orrible. I shouldn't mind if it was anything el3e but a claw! A woman living in Bournemouth might meet the wretch face to face . - . anywhere. You might be sitting next to 'im at the pictures. Gives me the orrors, I tell you, to think about it." "I bet it does. Ah well, let's see what the plaice is like. I'll ring if I want anything else." "The old fool!" he muttered when the door was closed. And then, in an illuminating moment, he saw that Mrs. Spagett typified the whole mass of opinion that the case— and the Press—had created. Mrs. Spagett was public opinion. What had he to fear from an intelligence such as that? Clearly nothing. He made a surprisingly good meal, in spite of the man with the purple claw. (To be continued daily.)