The Flirting Fool

Ellesmere Guardian, Volume LVI, Issue 89, 22 November 1935, Page 7

The Flirting Fool

By AIDAN de BRUNE

INTRIGUING MYSTERY STORY

"A commercial matter," Lloyd Sampson interrupted. "It was proved in the bankruptcy court that the syndicate would have made a handsome profit if the Islington-Wagga railways had gone through "

"And the powers that be decreed that the railway should pass through! Ashton and not Wabbereri." "You think -?" j Dizzy shrugged. "I haven't evidence," he said, "butj I've something more than a suspicion that Arthur Skields was mixed Up in the Ashton Improvement Company, which made quite a killing out of the unexpected direction the railway took." "And Ernest Skields was the moving spirit* of the Adlington crowd?", Lloyd Sampson nodded. "That would work."

"One angle of the cross," said Dizzy sombrely.

"Ernest Skields hinted that during I the bankruptcy proceedings," the managing-editor laughed. "He put up quite a squeal!" "Yet, for a concern he founded and managed, he had a surprisingly small holding," Dizzy mused. "I think that is what put me on the trial —if you can call it a trail." "Then you've not dropped the mati ter?" "I keep my eyes open." "How do you link up Stanley Griffiths with the Skields?" "Griffiths and Chalmers, stockbrokers." Lloyd Sampson sat back again. "If I remember rightly, they had only a small interest." He smiled wryly. "I may add, I had money in the company. Skields sold me a block of shares "

"Whew!" Dizzy stared, openmouthed. "So you bit—and in spite of what you knew——"

"Of what you had told me," corrected the managing-editor. "Lucky for you, young man, you've no money. If you had—l believe Ernest Skields could sell stock to the devil!"

"He sold stock to a newspaper editor," commented Dizzy dryly.

"Then he's progressing." Lloyd Sampson grinned. "But a small block of shares wouldn't bankrupt Chalmers and Griffiths!" "By the shout Griffiths put up, you'd have thought it had." Lloyd Sampson whistled gently. "Griffiths and Ernest Skields had a hell of a row at the Community Club," continued the journalist. "The matter was brought up before the managing committee — and hushed up."

"You won't make that a motive for murder." The managing-editor was silent for some moments. "Weil, I'll leave it to you, Dizzy. Don't forget: You're a journalist, not a detective. I want a story—front page—big streamers —and "

"And I, the return of DetectiveInspector Saul Murmur to the backblocks of the Thames Embankment," completed Dizzy, with a broad smile.

He went to the door and, holdingit partly open, turned to face the man at the desk. Lloyd Sampson looked up speculatively.

"I may not get a story, sir," said Dizzy reluctantly.

"Then you get the sack!" Lloyd Sampson's tones were uncompromising. "I can promise you that!"

"A sop to the vanity of a fat English detective," commented Dizzy meditatively.

"A sacrifice on the altar of the God of Failure —to get the Skields brothers just where you want them."

Dizzy nodded, and closed the door. For a moment he stood against it, a wide smile on his lips, then strolled across the big room to his desk. For some time he occupied himself with the various drawers, destroying papers and re-arranging others. He typed a short note and threw it in the post-basket; then seized his hat and strolled to the elevators.

On the pavement, before the "PostAdvertiser" doors, he paused again, then turned southwards. A sudden shout from a man crossing the road startled him. He stopped and turned quickly. Then he swung round again, still moving quickly. A brick from far up the building before which he stood had smashed on the pavement at his feet. He looked up. The building was old and undergoing repairs. So far as he could see, there was no one on the staging before the fifth storey. If that man across the street had not called out! Another step forward and that brick would have struck him on the head! He turned sharply at the sound of a voice behind him.

"You had a lucky escape, young

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man!" A stout, lethargic-looking man, with wide, blue eyes and full red lips, stood at the edge of the pavement, grinning at him.

"Hullo! Inspector Murmur, I believe!" Dizzy tried to speak nonchalantly. "Seems I've got to thank you for saving my life. But for your sudden shout that brick would have scattered my brains "

"Impossible!" For a moment the full, red lips parted and the small smile on the round face faded. "Mr Dizzy Lame, a—a journalist, isn't it?"

The emphasis on the word was unmistakable. Dizzy flushed.

CHAPTER XI.

Before Dizzy Lame, for once at a loss for a retort, could speak, the stout English detective had turned and was ambling down the street. The newspaper man looked after him, a mixture of anger and- perplexity showing on his face. The man was an enigma. He had saved his life—there could be no doubt of that! At the same time he had deliberately irritated him—tried to insult him! A big question-mark formed against the mental image of the Londoner in the newspaper man's mind.

With a shrug Dizzy moved slowly along the street, automatically turning in the opposite direction to that which the detective had taken. He did not want to appear to be following the man, yet he had a great curiosity regarding the Englishman. He wondered—why was the man alone? He knew that Inspector John Pater, as well as Inspector Saul Murmur, had been assigned to the Griffiths case. Then where was Pater? The newspaper man would have liked to run into the Australian at that moment. A few discreet questions might uncover quite a lot; and he badly wanted to know what trail Inspector Murmur was following. Not that he was afraid for Addie Pulton; she was safe, however far the Englishman's obstinate adherence to his theory might take him.

Full of thought, he wandered along the crowded pavement, walking southwards. He crossed King Street and made a way through the crowd of women who appear to consider the space outside the big stores the best spot in the city to stand for a gossip with friends. As he stepped from the pavement to cross Market Street a firm hand caught his arm, dragging his back to the pavement. "News scarce, Dizzy?" With a start the journalist looked

"Hullo, John Pater! What's the game?"

"Doing my good deed for the day, boy—saving the life of a prominent journalist—or, perhaps news is scarce and he is sacrificing himself on the altar of the newspaper god."

"Well—on second thoughts, one might just as well live." Dizzy grinned. "I was thinking of you."

"Is that cause for suicide? Or did you expect to find me under the four wheels of a wool-waggon?"

"Well, the wool -'

"Speaking disrespectfully of a member of the police force is a criminal offence—or shoiild be." The detective's eyes twinkled. "Why the sudden agitation of grey matter?"

"Why is Inspector Pater allowing his little English lamb to wander through the wilds of Sydney unattended ? Have you never heard of the wolves of Pitt Street?"

Dizzy was surprised at the sudden frown that darkened the Inspector's face. For a moment he showed surprise; then enlightenment came.

"So—lnspector Murmur has decided not to remain in leading-strings?" he continued, with a broad grin. "Kicked over the traces?"

"Your metaphors are mixed, Dizzy." The smile returned to the detective's eyes. "Lambs don't kick over traces. Inspector Murmur had some important business to attend, to personally."

"Personally?" The newspaperman glanced around him. On the opposite side of the road was a coffee-shop. He seized the Inspector by the arm and steered him across the road into the shop.

"Who said I was thirsty?" laughed Pater.

"Loitering on the pavement is punishable by a fine of ten pounds, under the new police regulations," announced Dizzy. "A new regulation, issued solely for the benefit of the tea-shops monopoly of the city of Sydney. Therefore, when a consultation is desirable, even with a prominent member of the police force, a coffee-shop, at least, is indicated. You know, you can't break your

immediate superior's regulations, Pater."

"A consultation?"

"Business in which Inspector Murmur is alone interested indicates consultation by his—friends."

"So!" Inspector Pater's eyebrows arched. "You did not seem very friendly towards Inspector Murmur when you left police headquarters a little over an hour ago."

"I may be clever at disguising my real feelings," mused Dizzy, a faraway look in his eyes. "You forget, we are told to forgive our enemies." "Look here, Dizzy." Pater became suddenly serious. "I know you're wild with Murmur, because he dared to cast suspicion on your lady friend. But, don't forget, he has a big reputation in London." "In breaking genuine alibis?" "The better the alibi the more suspicion should be cast on it." Inspector Pater voiced the platitude gravely. "You know that, Dizzy. You have fractured enough alibis in your time."

"You won't break Miss Pulton's alibi." Dizzy laughed. "Now, what I want to know is: What did you and Inspector Murmur quarrel about?" "Quarrel?"

, "Yes—quarrel." Dizzy was not quite certain of his ground, yet he spoke firmly. He noted the sudden light that came in the Inspector's eyes. "Look here, Pater, honest, you don't believe Saul Murmur's theory."

"Inspector Murmur is working on definite facts."

"Theories that he can't prove and will eventually have to abandon. I stand in his way—l and half a score other reputable people. That's a fence even Inspector Murmur can't jump. I'm good enough for him in the witness-box and at the 'PostAdvertiser' office, and if he tries to prove that I'm not, he'll wade through a sea of trouble."

"So the 'Post-Advertiser' is in this?"

"I'm not committing myself. Possibly so. I'm tipping you to keep your lamb off the grass. There's ! quite a number of people in Sydney alone who'd have been glad to take a shot at Griffiths " [ "For instance?" ; Dizzy hesitated. He knew that Inspector Pater was too alert to be led into any verbal trap he might set for him. In the Inspectors' room at police headquarters he had formed the opinion that the Australian detective had a big doubt concerning the theory his English confrere had erected. Since he had met John Pater that doubt was evolving into a certainty. "You've had Skields under examination," he said quietly. "Skields had a big reason to dislike * Stanley Griffiths. They were at daggers drawn >» "Over what?" "For one thing, the IslingtonWagga railway deal -" "Old stuff." "Maybe old stuff, but the loss of a fat wad hurts—and hurts that Pitt Street crowd far more than a blow. Don't forget that. Then " For a moment the journalist hesitated; then came to a quick decision. "Look here, Pater," he said, "I don't know what you think, but I do know that you and Murmur had words about his absurd theory regarding Miss Pulton. He's off on his own—trying to break the alibi I put up for her. I'm willing to bet you told him he was mad—that I would not be so confident unless I had the facts to stand in support of my alibi. I'm guessing that then Murmur went off on his own, to get the evidence to prove he's right. Well, I'm sorry for him —he's due for a rough awakening."

"Unless Inspector Murmur proves his theory right."

"You don't believe that," Dizzy laughed. "Now, what line are you following? I know you're not trailing after Murmur and his theory. Are you on the trail of Arthur Skields?" (To be Continued).