PLAYTHINGS OF FATE

Cromwell Argus, Volume LXVIII, Issue 3484, 30 August 1937, Page 2

PLAYTHINGS OF FATE

CHAPTER XXV.—(Continued.)

Mr. Olsen was a tall, stout man. He sat behind a large writing-desk and glowered at Bates, from beneath a pair of heavy, bushy eyebrows. “Well, what do you want, Bates?’’ he snapped irritably. “I’ve brought along a chap who would like to do some business with you, Mr. Olson,” Bates replied glibly. “His name is Rees.”

Olsen flashed upon Arthur a speculative glance.

“I think I told you once before, Bates —that your business wasn’t big enough for me,” Olsen replied. “I remember, quite well,” grinned Bates, "but this isn’t my business. This is Mr. Rees’s business, and he ” his grin broadened, “seems to think that you mightn’t be big enough to do business with him.”

Olsen snorted disdainfully and subjected Arthur to a deeper scrutiny. “Oh! Well I'm big enough to handle anything,” he boasted, “providing it’s right,” he added significantly.

“Well, tell the tale to Olsen,” suggested Bates sneeringly. “I'll talk better If I’m alone,” replied Arthur tersely. “You run along and have a drink. I’ll see you when I come out.”

"What the devil are you after? Do you think a man’s a copper?" Bates bellowed irately. "No; but you remember our bargain.”

“Let me get this straight,” intersected Olsen, a trifle heatedly, addressing Bates. “You’ve got nothing to do with this deal other than to introduce your friend?" "No—but ”

"That'll do, Bates. You know my rules. Get out!” Olsen commanded sharply. “Oh, all right,” Bates grumbled airily, walking out of the office. “Now, what is the nature of your business, Mr. Rees?” inquired Olsen. "What form do your goods take?” “Not so fast, Mr. Olsen,” replied Arthur. "This is no trifling deal. You’ve got to talk in thousands to suit me, and I want to know what the ‘cut’ Is.”

"Oh well, I can talk In thousands,” replied Olsen, blandly, “and I usually give a quarter of the wholesale value.” "I thought the usual fraction was a third?”

“On certain classes of goods. What is your stuff?”

“Diamonds!” Arthur replied, after a pause.

“Diamonds?” ejaculated Olsen sharp-

ly, emitting a low whistle of surprise. He ransacked his memory and ran over the big jobs that had been done recently. There was only one big robbery that would bring the perpetrator a return of thousands on a quarter-cut basis, and that had been done. “Where from? I don’t seem to remember ’*

“Is it necessary to know?” Arthur inquired mildly. , “Yes. It Is very essential to know where the goods come from. You see, I must know where to sell,” Olsen grinned. “Oh!” Arthur paused. He wished he could have kept the knowledge a secret, but it seemed as though there was no help for it “Floodgate’s,” he said at last

“Floodgate’s. By jove! Now I re-

collect it. Their stuff was never recovered In that big turn over, was It?” “No.”

“What did those fellows get over the other stuff? Twelve years, wasn’t it, but no one was ” “No one was killed,” Arthur finished menacingly, “and I’m not getting twelve years, or anything else,” he added unpleasantly. “Now let’s get to business.” "Yes, yes,” Olsen hastened to agree. He pulled a small scrap book from a drawer and opened it. "This cutting says the haul was worth £20,000. Have you got It all?” “Yes.” Olsen studied Arthur closely across

the table. Arthur was a newcomer to f him, seeing that in this nefarious business of buying stolen property he had met all the most notorious and daring of the State’s criminals. He concluded that Arthur must be an "interstater,” in Sydney for the first time. A newcomer and —a killer. He would have to be careful. "I'll give you five thousand,” he said thoughtfully, "if the goods are 0.K.” Arthur stood up. “Good. I’ll bring the diamonds to-morrow at two o’clock. Can you have the money here then?” “Yes.” Olsen ushered him to the door, outside of which Bates was waiting. “Well, how did you get on?” the latter inquired anxiously. “I’m satisfied,” Arthur replied. “Come across to a hotel and I’ll fix you up. They descended in the lift, from the sixth floor of the Telephone Building, and entered an adjacent hotel. What jest of fate was responsible for the presence of Detectives Simpson and Barrow on that particular corner, and on that particular morning, of all mornings? Dick Barrow was gazing pensively at the electric sign on the top of Floodgate’s, which could be seen above the tops of the surrounding lower buildings. Floodgate’s! the Home of the Superlative! "And the home of our first failure,” said Barrow, nudging Simpson to draw his colleague’s attention to the sign. “I’m not so sure,” Simpson replied quickly, vigorously alert. “Look coming across the road A double I

By J. T. ALLAN. (Published by Arrangement with N.S.W. Bookstall Co. Ltd.) [COPYRIGHT.]

CHAPTER XXVI. A Cold Trail Grows Hot.

wouldn’t ask Andy Kerr to lay the odds to.”

Like an unleashed bloodhound, Simpson fairly leapt on to the heels of Arthur and his companion. “Hold on, Les, old man,” cautioned Barrow, “don’t make a fool of yourself, as I did last night. I want to tell you something about one of those men.”

Simpson paused on the hotel steps. “Well, what Is It?” “Last night, I thought the same as you are thinking now. I was wrong and you'll be wrong, too. That man is my prospective brother-in-law. The resemblance is striking at first glance, but if you examine Shannon’s photo., as I did this morning, you’ll discover that Shannon Is much older looking.” '‘Do you know him?” “Not to speak to,” Barrow explained, “but I am to meet him to-night at dinner. He is a wealthy squatter up north. His name is Mannering. He is going to marry my sister. He only arrived in town yesterday. I passed him In our street, on my way home. I didn’t discover I was barking up the wrong tree until I had followed him to his hotel,”

Simpson grunted his dissatisfaction. “That may be so, but it doesn’t explain why he’s in the company of the other fellow. Bates is a pretty shady customer. I had him up on a series of ‘break and enters’ while you were off sick. Bates was a ‘clean skin’ and got off with a five-year bond. He’s only done a couple of months of it, and, brother-in-law or no brother-in-law —Tm going to find out what brings them together.” Barrow stood irresolute.

"Why, if this man is all you claim him to be, and is likely to become a relation of yours, it’s our duty to warn him about Bates. He might be getting shorn.” The bar was a popular one and was fairly well crowded. The two detectives took up a stand In a nook formed by the function of the two walls. Arthur has just finished writing in a long slim book, not unlike a cheque book, from which he tore a pink slip, handing It to Bates. Bates studied the slip then looked at Arthur angrily. Simpson edged closer in an effort to overhear the conversation. “Say, what are you trying to hand a bloke, a crook cheque?” Bates snarled, his voice full of menace. “Nix on that game, I’m on a bond right now, and I want hard cash. D’you think I’m goin’ to cop a ‘spin’ cold — tryin’ to pass this? Gome across lively.” "The cheque’s all right,” Arthur protested. “You ”

“All right! Like hell it is!” Bates sneered. “A. E, Mannering? Your monicker’s Rees, ain’t It?” Arthur smothered a curse. What a fool he had been! Unthinkingly, he had almost betrayed his real identity. “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll give you cash.” He counted the required amount into Bates’s hand. “There you are,” he said, “you’ve cleaned me out. Now I’ll have to go to the bank.” “Yeh.” Bates chuckled unbelievingly. "I’ve heard that one before, too. I ought to go and spur you with Olsen,” he threatened. ‘Tryin’ to load me with a dead cheque.” “All right, give me the cheque back,” Arthur demanded. “No.” Bates grinned, “I’ll keep it for a curio.” “Keep it, then; it’s no good, anyhow, and if you try to cash it, you’ll do that spin for sure.” Arthur tried to make his tone seem indifferent. “I thought it was. It’d take someone a bit cleverer than you to fool me,” Bates sneeringly retorted.

It had been a foolish mistake offering Bates a cheque. Arthur would like to have regained possession of it, but he realised that this was hopeless. So long as Bates thought it valueless, his identity would be safe. “Well, I think I’ll get along,” Arthur said. “You won’t try to spur my deal with Olsen?” "No, but I ought to. When’ll I see you again?” “I’ll drop around some time and let you in on something good,” Arthur promised. “So long.” Bates watched Arthur disappear through the swing door, then he ordered another drink. “You’re sure you know where that fellow Is stopping?” inquired Simpson quickly. “Yes. He’s at the George.”

"Good! We’ll let him go, though I’d like to have a look at his right arm. There’s something queer been going on here. I wish we could have heard what they were talking about. We’ll interview Comrade Bates, anyhow.”

Arthur looked at the two cheques he had just written before placing them in separate envelopes, ten thousand pounds. It seemed a lot of money to give to charity. The gift would cause a sensation and bring him before the public eye with a vengeance. What would his father think? Only Arthur himself knew that the actual amount going out of the Mannering finances would be £SOOO, but the public, his father and all his friends would think of the larger amount. They would think him mad. Arthur chuckled and placed the cheques In their respective envelopes. He took them down to the hotel lobby, posted them and returned to his room.

To-morrow, the papers would make a front page story of It, and bis name would be on every lip. He could afford it, and already be felt free of that sense of guilt which had troubled him concerning the Floodgate property. But no charitable gift could wipe from his mind the memory of Driscoll and the latter’s untimely end. Having gained his room, he pulled from his pocket the ring, her ring, the ring he had bought for her that day. To-morrow, when he was rid of his encumbrances, he would crow'n the achievement by presenting this ring, his token of love and adoration. For the problem he had set the doctor was no longer a problem to Arthur. He had made his choice.

He had also made up his mind to meet her brother that night. Sooner or later they would have to meet.

Arthur returned the ring to his pocket. He felt well satisfied with his day’s work. He lay down upon the bed and prepared for a short sleep in preparation for the night. And as his eyes closed In sleep, a soft contented smile played about the corners of his mouth.

After Arthur had gone, the two detectives closed on their prey, one on each side of him. Bates did not become aware of their presence until Simpson actually spoke to him. “Bit out of your depth to-day, aren’t you, Bates?’ Simpson inquired ingratiatingly, leaning upon the bar counter.

Bates swung round and faced his questioner with a curse of dismay. “Hell! Where did you spring from?” “Me!” Simpson smiled disarmingly. “I've been around, quite a while. You don’t seem pleased to see me?” "Pleased to see you?” Bates snorted. "If you died to-morrow, I’d get blind drunk —just to celebrate.’ Simpson chuckled. “That’s the spirit, but as I remarked, you’re out of your depth, aren’t you?” “Garn now, we ain’t in swimmin’. Besides, it’s a free town, ain’t it?” “Oh, yes. Who was your friend? The chap who just left you?”

“Friend? He wasn’t no friend. Just a fella I know casual.” “Oh! what’s his name?”

“Rees— a dead square head, too. I’ve chucked the other kind for good.” Barrow’s mouth dropped open in surprise. A lightning glance passed between the two detectives. Bates followed Simpson’s glance of triumph, and he turned.

"Another ‘jack,’ eh?” Bates went on. “They say where there’s one, there’s always another hangin’ around some-, where. What's the inquest for, anyhow'?’’ he demanded with a touch of defiance. “I ain’t done nothing wrong. Surely a man can have a drink with a pal, without you fellas buttin’ in.” “Certainly,” Simpson was quick to assure him. "But just now you said he wasn’t a pal—now you say he is. What was that wad of money he passed you before he left?” “He never ”

“Yes, he did. It’s in your right trouser-pocket, and this ” Simpson reached beneath Bates’ arm with a quick deft movement, and fished from his vest pocket the cheque. “It looks like a cheque.’’ He opened it out. “It is, and it’s for one hundred pounds, made out to bearer and signed A. E. Mannering.’’ He flashed a significant glance at Barrow. “ 'Ere, you can’t do that!” protested Bates frantically. “You ain’t allowed to do things like that.” “What are’ you doing’ with this? questioned Simpson sharply, ignoring the protest. "And who Is A. E. Mannering?’' Bates relapsed Into a stubborn silence.

“Very well. Bates. If you can’t explain where you got the cheque, or what you are doing with it. I'll have to place you under arrest” “Aw, now, break it down, Mr. Simpson,” Bates whined. “ ’Ow’s a man goin’ to get a honest livin’ if you’re goin’ to be down on ’im every jump,? That there cheque’s all right, an’ I earnt the money honest. Dinkum I did.”

Simpson laughed outright. “What have you been doing to earn an honest hundred pounds?” “If you’ll give me time, I’ll ”

“Listen, Bates,” interjected Simpson, seriously. “I’ve been playing with you. You are a liar, and a very poor one at that. I saw r that man write this cheque and give it to you. You told me his name is Rees, and I find he has signed the cheque A. E. Mannering. I’m going to take you In and charge you -with conspiring to forge and utter,” "Aw, wait a minute, Mr. Simpson. Let me explain, will you?” "Are you going to come quietly, or have I got to put the bracelets on?” Bates submitted quietly without further protest, and walked out of the hotel between the two detectives, then up King-street, and along Phillipstreet to headquarters. “Looks like you’ll do that spin after all,” commented Simpson, as they stood In front of the desk in the headquarters charge-room, a short time later.

Bates shot his tormentor a hateful glance. “You’re tough, juggin’ an innercent man.”

“What’s the charge, Simpson?” asked the charge-sergeant, opening his book.

Simpson looked at the sergeant and winked.

“Forgery for the present, sergeant. When I arrest his accomplice, I’ll charge them both with murder!” " 'Ere what’s this you’re springin’ on a man now? Gor’ blimey, you’re redhot, y’are,” protested Bates, as he was led away to a cell, at the silent behest of Simpson. At the back of the detective’s mind was the idea that by mentioning a capital charge. Bates might be frightened into peaching about Mannoring, or Rees, or Shannon, whichever was his correct name. Simpson turned to his colleague.

“Well, what do you think of your prospective relation now?” Barrow shrugged. Everything looks to be in a mess, I know that. What are you going to do now?” It was Simpson’s turn to shrug. “There’s a lot of questions to answer,”, he said thoughtfully. "I think we’ll let* Bates cool oft for a while. He might be willing to give us a little assistance —later on.”

Suspense is a wonderful lever with which to break down a man's moral and principle. Suggestion can turn a man Into a fear crazed fool. “What do you want to know?” Bates asked sulkily. “I want you to come clean about this fellow Rees. I know quite a lot, and I’ll know if you’re lying,” said Simpson. “Why did he give you that cheque? I haven’t charged you with anything yet. I’m offering you a chance to get out of the mess. What about it?” .. “All right. Fire away and ask your questions. I don’t know much —anyhow.”

“No? Tell me all you know about him, in your own words,” suggested Simpson. The detectives listened to Bates in silence, and then they stepped outside the cell to confer.

“I think he’s told all he knows,” Barrow said.

“Oh, yes, he’s told all he knows, and it’s not hard to guess what Rees wants to sell, or has sold,” replied Simpson. “We can do either of two things. We can raid Rees at his hotel. If he’s sold the stuff we’re going to make a hash of the business. Remember, we’ve got nothing on Rees unless we get him with the goods, and if he’s a rich squatter these days, we’re going ”

“What’s the other way?” Barrow hastened to ask. Simpson smiled. “We can frame Olsen, through Bates, and make him talk.”

“Go easy on that talk,” protested Barrow uneasily. “Olsen’s in a big way. If we make a mistake, it’s exit for us.”

“Well, it’s now or never, and the chance is worth the risk. Think what success would mean to us. You’re satisfied about this fellow Mannering, or Rees aren’t you? I’m going to take the risk. Are you game?” Thus challenged, Barrow had to join in the project. "Yes. I’ll sink or swim with you,” he agreed. “And to think that this swine’s been mugging my sister about,” he added ruefully. They brought Bates in from the cells and took him into a corner, “I can’t take your word alone about this,” Simpson said, “but I’ll give you a chance to walk out of this office in two hours, hundred pounds and all, on certain conditions.”

Bates licked his dry lips. “What are they?” he asked

“You will steal a diamond pin off that desk,” suggested Simpson. “You’ll take it up to Olsen and sell it.” Simpson took the pin out of his tie and placed it on the desk. “Either that or ” “I’ll do it.” Simpson and Barrow walked a few feet away and paused. "Come on. Bates,” the former called suddenly. “We are taking you for a little walk.”

Bates walked out of the detective office a few yards in the lead of the two detectives.

In his hand nestled Simpson’s diamond tie-pin. Outside the door of Olsen s private office, Simpson leaned with his ear to the panel, awaiting his cue to enter, Barrow stood beside the startled typist, who sat transfixed in fearful silence at the unusualness of the proceedings. Simpson straightened suddenly and flung the dividing door open wide. He stepped quickly into the office, his eyes taking in the details he expected to see. On the desk in front of Olsen lay the pin. Olsen w r as just in the act of passing some money to Bates.

Olsen paused, dumb with surprise

“What’s the meaning of this intrusion? Get out, sirs! Get out!” he shouted.

Simpson ignored his command and, striding to the desk, picked up the pin. He turned to Barrow, who had followed him into the room.

“This looks like it doesn’t it, Mr, Barrow?” he said, holding up the pin Barrow nodded “Yes, that’s it.”

“Who are you?” Olsen interjected, rising from his chair. “How dare you enter my office like this?” “All right. Don’t get off your head. Sit down.” Simpson motioned him to sit again. Olsen sank into his chair, aghast. “Do you own this pin?” "That is my business,” Olsen replied coldly. “Sure. It's mine, too, now,” Simpson retorted blandly. He turned to Bates. “Where did you get this pin, Bates? Yes, I know your name. I had you up some time ago, didn’t I?” Bates wasn’t sure Avliat he was to say. He kept a safe silence. “Well, I’ll tell you, Bates. Your memory seems bad.” Simpson looked at Olsen. “He lifted it out of an old boy’s tie not ten minutes ago. I saw him do it and followed him here; and now, he has sold it to you. You are Mr. Olsen, I presume?” he paused. “I heard the whole transaction through the door.”

“That’s a lie,” Olsen stormed, thumping his desk violently, “and whoever you are. I’ll sue you for libel.”

“Perhaps you will,” Simpson replied smoothly. “Meanwhile, as a police officer, I’m going to arrest you for receiving stolen property. I’ll ask you to step down to the detective office, Mr. Olsen.”

Olsen sat aghast, his face the color of chalk. Hie glance fell upon Bates, and changed to a baleful glare. In an instant he devined from the other’s

calm indifference that the whole thing was a plant. “You infernal rat!” he snarled. “I ought to have known you would do this.” He turned to Simpson. “Have him taken outside, I want to talk to you.”

Simpson nodded, and Barrow took Bates outside.

(To be Continued.)