The Sign on the Roof.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 230, 28 September 1935, Page 12 (Supplement)

The Sign on the Roof.

gßS£> 182 tPETER CHEYNEY

CHAPTER Xlll.—(Continued.)

And why not ask? The idea intrigued him. He walked over to his desk, took up the telephone receiver, and asked "directory inquiry" for Bardella's telephone number. There was a chance, of course, that she might not he on the telephone, but, after a moment, he was pleased to hear her rather high-pitched voice asking who the caller was. "Hello, Bardella," he said. "This is Michael Bitterly. I'm sorry to trouble you at this time of night, and I'm very glad to have found you in, but I wantedto apologise"—he grinned to himself— "for my seeming rudeness this morning and to tell you that I discovered some information which might interest you." Bardella's voice was suspicious. "Oh, really," she said shortly. "It must be very important for you to ring at this time of night. I was in bed. I hop© you've not rung up with some more impertinent questions. I don't w«mt to make myself unpleasant, you know!" Bitterly laughed. "That's as may bo, Bardella," he said. "Of course, I realised this morning what you were getting at. You mean that, having overheard the quarrel between Lariat and Diane, you might inform the police of that fact and they might be inclined to make inquiries, possibly implicating her, into this business. But I've an idea that you won't do that, Bardella—not that I care—Diane's business has nothing to do with me," he continued airily, "but I don't think that you'll feel inclined to discuss this matter with anyone, Bardella. Your own position isn't quite so secure, you know. .. ." There was a pause; then. . . "What do you mean by that?" she asked. "If you think that I'm going to answer your silly questions because you threaten me, let me tell you that you're wrong—quite wrong." "That's all right, Bardella," said Bitterly. "Don't you bother your head about questions." "I've not rung up to ask any questions at all," ho continued. "In point of fact, I rang up to tell you one or two things. Would you be interested to know that I've discovered where some of your £100 went, the eum you were so secretive about this morning?" Bitterly heard a gasp from the other end of tho telephone. There was a long pause. Then, in a voice which was obviously shaky, Bardella spoke. "I don't understand," she stammered. Bitterly took advantage of the situation. "Look here, Bardella," he said, "this thing's getting pretty serious, and if you're not careful you're going to find yourself involved in a very nasty business. Don't you think that the best ■ thing you can do is to tell me the i truth 1" i

There was another pause. Bitterly was quick to take advantage of Bardella's hesitancy.

"Now, look here, my dear," he said, "take a tip from me. I think there's going to be a great deal of trouble over this Lariat business, and I think that if you're not careful you may easily be involved in it. I'm not suggesting for one moment," he continued, "that you've done anything which you consider to be wrong, but, you know, Bardella, people often do things innocently, but other people get entirely mistaken impressions as to their motives. Now, supposing we talk this thing over again. Don't you think that it would be a good idea? Don't you think that you would be wise to put all your cards on the table?" There was another pause. Then Bardella spoke shortly. "Well, when?" she asked. Bitterly grinned. It looked as if things were coming his way. "There's no time like the present, Bardella," he said. "Why not put some clothes on and I'll meet you outside your flat in a quarter of an hour's time. I can do that easily in a cab. Then we'll go somewhere and have some coffee and talk things over. I know this sounds pressing, but, for your own sake, I think you ought to know just what is happening. I'll come over right away." "Very well," said Bardella, "I'll be waiting for you outside. But you'd better make it half an hour. I've got to get some clothes on." She clicked back the receiver. Bitterly breathed a sigh of relief. Once get the information that he desired from Bardella, once he knew to whom she had given that money, and he could trace its further progress into the hands of Charles and Lariat. He felt definitely elated. Pausing only to fill and

light a pipe, he seized his hat and limned downstairs.

Twenty-five minutes afterwards found him walking up and down tho deserted pavement outside the main entrance which led to Bardella's flat. But here Bitterly had ample time for cool reflec-

tion, for the minutes passed and there was no sign of Bardella.

Eventually, having waited 15 minutes, he walked upstairs and tapped on the outside door of the flat. There was no reply.

An idea seized Bitterly and he cursed himself for a fool. Bardella. had made it half an hour not because she wanted to get some clothes on, but because she wanted to cut her stick and run. Bardella was frightened; that had been obvious on the telephone, and, like a fool, he had deliberately led her into believing that he knew more than he actually did in the hope of making her talk. After another minute's wait Bitterly tried the handle. The door was open. Inside, in the tiny hall, the light was on. Looking through the door into the sitting room, Bitterly could see dimly that Bardella's desk was in a state of confusion. Through the other door, leading to the bedroom, he could see the flung-back bedclothes, the open drawers and the general confusion which exists in a room when somebody has packed quickly. Bitterly whistled to himself. He walked into the sitting room and switched on the light. The waste paper basket was filled with hurriedly torn up correspondence. Stuck on the mantelpiece in front of the clock was an envelope. 'It was addressed to' the caretaker. The fap was not stuck down and Bitterly opened in and read the note inside. In a few terse words Bardella had informed the caretaker that she was going away for an indefinite period and that any letters were to be forwarded to her care of her bank. So that was that. Rather than talk Bardella had run away.

Bitterly slumped down into a chair and refilled his pipe. What the devil was he to do now? Just when there had been a chance of really finding out something definite he had thrown it away simply by being in too great a hurry. He got up and made his way back into tho hall. Tho idea came to him that it might be a good thing to search tho flat; that lie might, possibly, come across a clue of some sort, but a moment's reflection told him that Bardella was not such a fool as to leave anything incriminating about the place. She had too much 'brains for that, besides she would guess that he would come up to the flat and look around when he discovered that she had not kept her appointment outside. He stepped outside the hall and was just about to close it behind him when lie heard the telephone in the bedroom ring. He slipped back, crossed the hall, and ran to the instrument.

"Hallo," said Bitterly quietly. "Exchange speaking," came the reply. It was the telephone operator at the exchange. "Do you still want that number?" Bitterly thought quickly. So Bardclla had wanted a number, had telephoned, obviously, after he had spoken to her on the telephone. Tho number which she had wanted had been engaged or unobtainable at the time and she had asked exchange to ring her. But she had been unable to wait for it: she had been afraid that she would run into him. Bitterly softened his voice. "Yes, please, exchange," he said. 'Til have the number now." Ho waited. After a few moments a voice spoke. Bitterly started. There was no mistaking that voice. It was Charles! But he had to make certain. "Who are you, please?" he asked. "This is tho Associated Garage Company," replied the voice. Bitterly quietly replaced tho receiver. So it was Charles! Bardella had telephoned Charles—or, rather, had tried to telephone him and had then cleared off because she had been afraid to face the interview with Bitterly. He knocked out his pipe in tho fireplace and switched o(T the light in the bedroom, which had been on when he had arrived. Then he walked slowly downstairs. Outside, after a moment's indecision, ho turned his steps in the direction of his rooms. For a moment he had been tempted to go round to the garage oflice once more to see Charles and to use any sort of threats in order to. get the truth out of him, but obviously this idea was useless. There was not the slightest doubt in

Bitterly's mind that Charles' story of the interview on Monday with Lariat was nothing but lies. It was becoming more and more obvious that there was something afoot—something ominous. For the first time there came to Bitterly's mind an idea that, perhaps, Diane was in some sort of danger; that something else might happen. But by the time that he had reached home lie had regained his usual coolness. Nothing was going to be gained by getting excited or hurrying things. Whatever he had discovered had been the result of coolness and decision. He would carry on on the, same lines. Walking up and down his sitting room he concentrated his mind on Charles. There was an increasing tendency in his mind to connect tho death of: Lariat directly with the meeting that he had had with Charles on the Monday before. Bitterly thought that if only he could ascertain exactly what had happened at that interview the whole business might become fairly easv.

Ho wondered if there had boon any ;ruth at all in Charles' story—in anyfiling he had said. After all, with •efcrence to Charles' movements on Fri-

day night—the night of the death-

there was only Charles' word for that. Supposing be "had not seen Bardon, the commercial traveller, on that night; supposing that was a lie, too . . .

Bitterly picked up the telephone directory and began to look through the Bardons. Eventually he found the

number—Erasmus Bardon—he remembered Herbert joking, a long time ago, about the strangeness of the name. And, as he found the telephone number Bitterly experienced a slight shock. For Bardon's address was No. 1, Derhain Crescent; that would be the opposite end—the Lonsford Road end of the Crescent, and on the opposite side of the road to the Vallcry flat. For some unknown reason Bitterly felt amazed that Bardon should live in the same road. He had always imagined him living somewhere in the country. Well, he was going to talk to Bardon. He looked at his watch. It was 12.30; pretty late for making appointments, but there was also more chance of finding his man in. He walked over to the telephone and rang the number. Two minutes afterwards he was speaking to Bardon, and five minutes after that—having persuaded the traveller that his business was urgent—Bitterly was walking rapidly round to No. 1, Dcrham Crescent. (To be continued daily.)

There are still about 70 parishes and schools in England in which the old customs regarding tho Pancake Bell are

still observed on Shrove Tuesday. These include Warwick, Claverdon, Buckingham, Haxey, Minehead, Tingewick, Blaby, Wimbornc Minster, Bedale, East Markhani, Ripon and Bromley (Kent). At Dursley, "when a signal is given by a great peal from the parish church, inaids in various houses begin to cook a pancake; later, on tho bells arc rung again, and the girls run to the church with plates of pancakes for the ringers, and honour is paid to the girl who gets there first. At Wcm, Shropshire, the same ringer has run the Pancake Bell for the last CO years, without a break.