BANK CLERK

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 302, 22 December 1933, Page 13

BANK CLERK

py I HOLLOWAY HORN

Author of _________________ "Goopge," "That Man (ft Claverton MannOons," etc.

((CHAPTER Vm.—Continued.) A Knock at the Door. Hurriedly he dressed and went into the sitting room to make certain that nothing of his had been left there. The whisky glass was still there, but he left it; finger marks didn't matter — they had no record of hie finger prints. He paused, hesitating whether he would make one of the beds and remove all indication that a second person had been in the fiat that night. It was clear that she had died of syncope —she had talked about her heart; the verdict would be one of natural causes. The thought brougat back the grin for a moment. Natural causes! The police would probably let the matter drop, even if they suspected that someone had been there. A knock at the outer door, sharp and insistent, left him white-faced and trembling. He stood listening. No further sound came and the person had apparently gone away. He tip-toed to the door and listened; there was no one there. He heard footsteps going downstairs. Carefully he opened the door and peered out; the passage was descried, but on the doorway was a half-pint bottle of milk. The anti-climax calmed him; he could think more clearly. He brought it in and made up his mind to get away at once. As far as he could see there was no possibility of his being linked with the misadventure. The police would not know of that murderous impulse that was defeated only by death, and in any case an impulse not acted upon does not concern the police. Once again he found the passage deserted, and having closed the door of tho flat, boldly went down the stairs. A postman came in at the front door of tho block as he went out, but he was looking at his letters. Bullard turned his head away and was certain that the man had taken no special notice of him. Casually he sauntered away from the block of flats and made hi 3 way to the railway station, whence he took a train to a station several miles beyond Mossford. Ho walked home from there and reached Rose Cottage in time for lunch. 'T eouldn't think what had happened to you," Mrs. Spagett complained in her fussy, pleasant way. "I had a phone call last evening. My brother is ill and I missed the last train back. He's better, I'm glad to say." "I wish you'd a' let me know, sir," she went on. "I certainly will in future, Mrs. Spagett, but tho sudden news upset me and I really didn't think. Of course, it would worry you; I'm sorry." "There's no harm done, sir," she said in a mollified tone. "I'll have some lunch in double quick time. I wasn't certain whether you were coming in, or I should have it all ready for you as usual." Waiting for bis lunch he thought the whole thing out. The memory of that sudden impulse to crush the girl's life out terrified him. All tho way across I the common ho had been thinking of it. lit was as if something outside him had impelled him to do it, as if he wero a mere instrument. He looked at the happening from every point of view, arguing that it was merely evidence of the overwhelming fear that had gripped him, that, if it had come to the point, he would not have strangled tho girl. But deep down he knew better, knew that in that dreadful moment it had been cither his life or hers. And that it would not have been his. But, after all, he argued desperately, the instinct of self-preservation is common to everyone, and, at the worst, that was all tho sudden impulse amounted to. But no thought, no argument availed to lessen his self-loathing. He realised that he was as frightened of tho man with the purple claw as the girl herself had been, that ho was terrified of tho uncontrollable murderous impulse that had surged up in him. Mrs. Spagett, cheery and goodhumoured, without a care in the world, brought in his lunch. "There's only one bottle of that red wine left, sir. Would you like to have i it?" I "Thank you, I should. I must order eomo more. It's a very good wine." On tho Saturday he purchased a copy of tho "Watham Gazette," and, having regained the shelter of his cottage, he opened it. After some searching he found a small paragraph tucked away in the corner recording the discovery of the girl's dead body and stating that an inquest would be held. He found, as tho days passed, that the girl's death affected him even more than that of James Trotter had done. lie knew, whatever the police might think, whatever the papers had said about the man with tho purple claw, that, morally, ho was not James Trotter's murderer, whatever he might he legally. But the wretched affair in Watham was different. Although, legally, he was not the girl's murderer, he knew that morally he was, that there was murder in his heart when ho imagined that she held his life in her hands. The next issue of the Watham paper made up for its early reticence. "Film Actress Found Dead in Watham Flat: Amazing Revelations." Tho headlines spread across the page, and with that strangely impersonal feeling which often came to Bullard when he was reading about tho Purple Claw, he now read the life story of the fluffy girl who had, in an unlucky moment, gone to the pictures with him. Apparently what she had told him had been true. It was her husband who identified the body. They had been living apart, he informed tho coroner, for two years. He allowed her three hundred a year. In addition, he understood, she earned an income as a film actress. He had last seen her alive six months before. Medical evidence was positive as to the cause of death, heart failure. It was apparently caused, the coroner elicited from the medical witness", by some shock. But it was the police evidence which lent the case its "sensational" character. Someone, in addition to the dead woman, had spent the night before her death in her flat. There was evidence that two people had supped 'the night before. From inquiries made among her neighbours, the police were of opinion that the deceased was a respectable woman. Nothing whatever was known against her. The Verdict. At the end of the police evidence the coroner recalled the doctor who had been sent for when the body was found. He testified that there were no marks of violence whatever on the deceased, excepting for a small bruise on her knee, probably caused by her fall. There was no evidence whatever of poison, and no symptoms of it. Tho deceased had suffered from heart disease in an acute!

form, and had consulted him. about H several times. He had warned her t< be careful and to avoid excitement. "Thank you," said the coroner. The coroner, who was sitting apparently without a jury, for no mention was made of it, recorded a verdict ir accordance with the medical evidence. The dead woman's -real name, Bullarc learned, was Truscott, but she was bettei known under her stage name of Mavis Delane. Mavis Delane! For a moment that evil grin settled on Bullard's face like a moth, and was gone. Poor little devil! She'd treated him decently. It was a kind thought which had prompted hei to bring in the tea that morning. "For each man kills the thing he loveE Yet each man does not die." The lines of Wilde flashed into his mind, with strangely unsettled significance. In the London Press there were one or two references to the death, but fewer and shorter than he had anticipated. For a day or so, he supposed, it would cause a certain amount of excitement in Watham, but that would bo the end orf it. Once again he had escaped. The unfortunate happening—the words were used by the coroner in his tactful speech—was not linked with the Man with the Purple Claw. Otherwise the whole Press would have flared up with it. Winter was early and severe that year, and the view fram the sitting room of the cottage was often white with frost in the morning. For weeks, William Chester Bullard had sent very little typing to Nina Warren; he had started a great many stories, but for ono reason or another had finished very few of them. He told Mrs. Spagett ho was writing a book. This was partly true, for he started three separate novels. Each, however, ended in the same way;, they died of sheer inanition. Bullard simply lost interest in the people he was writing about. Their problems, tragedies and comedies seemed small and unreal compared with his own. There was ono book he could have written—the story of his own life.'Often ho was tempted to do this in the guise of fiction, but even if it achieved completion he dared not have sent it to a publisher. There was such music as the wireless provided, and there were books, but with the setting in of the winter he found time hanging heavily on his hands. If only he could have worked as ho once had clone he would have managed to extract some satisfaction from his life, but the increasing pile of partly finished manuscript mocked his knowledge that work itself, the salt of life, had lost its savour. Occasionally ho went down to the King's Arms in the evening, where he was quite popular with tho habitues. He listened to a discussion about the film actress who had been found dead in Watham, and the general opinion, in spite of tho police evidence, was that the unfortunate young woman was no 3cttor than she might have been. "I'll bet somebody got a shock when she went and croaked like she did," said Mr. Bayliss, tho draper. "It must have been a very nasty moment—a very nasty moment," said Mr. Cournos, tho chemist. "I'm quite certain that tho truth didn't come out. There's a story behind that girl's death. Don't you think so, Mr. Bullard?" "As a matter of fact I didn't read the :ase," said William Chester Bullard, as if the matter had no interest for him whatever. "Tho world seems to me to be right off the rails," said Mr. Bayliss, who was apparently carrying as much liquor as was advisable. "These things didn't used to happen. They never got that chap with tho Purple Claw. He's still at large, walking about and enjoying the money ho stole. It don't seem right to me. What's the uso of the police, anyway?" He looked around with alcoholic solemnity. "Ah, there you have me," smiled William Chester Bullard, and winked at Mr. Cournos. Quito a pleasant, friendly place in its way, was the little room behind the bar at the King's Arms. One rarely felt onely there, and thought was easily held at bay, and, even if it is only of a temporary nature, there is solace in whisky. (To he continued daily.)