The Framing of Inspector Denvers

Ellesmere Guardian, Volume LX, Issue 16, 28 February 1939, Page 8

The Framing of Inspector Denvers

By AIDAN DE BRUNE Author of "The Grays Manor Mystery," "The Flirting Fool," "Saul and the Spinster," etc.

THE GUARDIAN'S SERIAL

CHAPTER 13

(Copyright)

For the moment the shrill agony of the screams rooted the three men in the flat to where they stood. Sir Edmund Morgan was the first to recoyer from the shock. He ran past the two men to the flat door, closely followed by the others.

Half-way down ,the first flight of stairs to the floor below, the police chief hesitated in his headlong rush. The big building was buzzing like a suddenly-disturbed bee-hive. Flat doors were being opened, disgorging their quotas of humanity in various stages of dress and undress^ Motioning to his companions to keep close behind him, Sir Edmund proceeded to descend the stairs more leisurely.

A man was standing at the head of the stairs two floors below Jimmie1 Frost's flat, a small group of people surrounding him. He appeared nervous and ill at ease. The ex-detec-tive recognised him immediately; he was Alec Kempton. He had seen the man in Luther Banke's offices. The solicitor had not impressed him favourably. Even then he had been nervous and irritable, acting as if he had things to conceal.

In his keen analytical police-brain Jimmie Frost had decided that Alec Kempton was a man well worth watching. The solicitor had told a strange tale. He had stated that he had called on Luther Banke on business the morning "Cain" had stolen the Montgomery emeralds; that he had been shown into the jeweller's presence by Martha Tayne, and had not discovered the impersonation of the jeweller. Yet he had acted queerly, as if trying to shield the crook.

Jimmie Frost had not believed the solicitor, even in part. He had come from the interview with the conviction that Alec Kempton and "Cain" were not strangers, and that the crook had some mysterious hold over the stout, little solicitor—who had acted a part under threat of exposure of some misdeed.

Now he found this man in the building, outside Martha Tayne's flat —and somewhere near a woman had

been screaming! Where, and who was the woman? The ex-detective gazed searchingly about him. People were coming up to the landing from the lower floors. Their faces showed bewilderment. No one showing agitation had passed them going down to the street." Without thinking, filled with the spirit of bygone days, he made to pass, the police chief, and take control of the inquiry. Sir Edmund caught warn-1 ingly at his sleeve. The cool, controlling restraint brought Jimmie i Frost to a realisation of his altered position. He was now only one of the spectators. He could not initiate; more, it was not to his advantage to take any prominent position in public; for now he was James Frost, crook and murderer, a!n escapee from Sing Sing prison. Only that day he had escaped from the police of this city. Every constable, every detective in the department was alert for his recapture. He watched about him keenly; hia eyes alert for any sign that might lead him to the truth, his hearing atuned for any careless words that might place him on the true trail His body tensed as he watched the commissioner walk gravely down the remaining stairs and push through the inquisitive crowd to Alec Kempton's side. "Mr Kempton?" Sir Edmund's keen eyes swept the man, yet his tone was careless. Jimmie Frost smiled, he recognised that the old man-hunter was on the trail. Of course Sir Edmund would know the man; behind the keen eyes the clever brain was working, dragging from memory's store details of the man's history—details which might have made the man flinch if translated into words. , When Alec Kempton turned to answer Sir Edmund the ex-detective caught sight of his face. The lawyer's face was deathly pale, his lips were trembling, and the hand he lifted, as if to still them, shook. What had happened to the man? Had he voiced those awful screams? That did not seem possible —Jimmie Frost believed they had emanated from a woman. He glanced furtively about the group gathered on the landing.

His eyes rested on the door of Martha Tayne's fiat. He noted with surprise that it was ajar. Immediately his eyes searched the landing for the girl. She was not there. Martha Tayne! Again the ex-de-tective's eyes went to the door. Did the explanation of the screams—the marked agitation of Alec Kempton— lie in that flat? Little beads of perspiration came on Jimmie Frost's brow. He forced his way through the crowd on the landing.

Was Martha Tayne in her flat? Only a few minutes before the man who named himself Joyce Paynter had come to him, he had seen light in her kitchenette; he had seen her shadow on the blind. But that had been more than an hour before. Since then she might have gone out. But would she go out and leave her door ajar?

" 'Ware, Jimmie!" He turned swiftly at the feel of a light touch on his arm, to see Joyce Paynter standing beside him. For the moment he had forgotten Paynter had been with him and Sir Edmund when the screams had startled them.

Then "Cain" had had nothing to do with the tragedy he was beginning to believe had taken place in that building; for "Cain"—or rather, the man he believed to be "Cain"—had been, and still was. beside him.

The man's steady touch brought Jimmie Frost to caution. For a moment he hesitated.

"All right!" Joyce Paynter spoke suddenly. "Get a move on, man!"

Jimmie Frost understood. He turned to the door again, his hand

raised to the bell. The door swung open under his hand, and he saw a small wad of folded paper lying on the mat. Immediately, he picked it up and, with his back to the people on the landing, examined it. It was a blank sheet of common writing paper, folded many times to a considerable thickness. On the two outsides of the wad of paper were marks of the door-jamb. Apparently the thickness of paper had not beeri sufficient to hold the door shut. How had that paper come in the door jamb? For some seconds the ex-detective scanned the paper and the door frame carefully, but he could discover nothing. It was merely a common piece of paper, used to keep the door from swinging open. A woman had screamed, and on ;hat landing, Jimmie Frost was certain of that! Without asking the question, he was certain that the man at his side was of the same opinion. Had the screams come from within that flat? That was probable. So far as he knew—'so far as Sir Edmund's questions had discovered up to that moment—there was no explanation of the cries—cries filled with terror. "Hold the door, Paynter." The trained instinct of the ex-police officer could no longer be restrained. "Keep everyone out but Sir Edmund, and anyone he vouches for. I'll call if I want help." Immediately he crossed the threshhold of the flat he felt for, and found, the light-switch. As the bulb lit, he glanced about the little hall, replica of the hall of his own flat, two storeys higher in the building. Nothing about him appeared unusual. The door of the room he believed to be the sitting-room was closed. As his fingers reached for the handle, he hesitated. He must be cautious, careful not to destroy any clues, careful not to leave his own fingerprints about the flat. He must remember he was no longer the authorised police officer, Mark Denvers —he was now Jimmie Frost, master crook. As in his own flat, another door i opened into the tiny hall. This gave access to the bedroom. For a moment he stood undecided. Where should he commence his search ? He stepped back and switched off the light for a moment; glancing down at the bottom of both doors. A light showed under the sittingroom door. The narrow space under the bedroom door was dark. Then, someone should be in the sittingroom. He stepped close to the bedroom door, taking care not to touch the wood with his bare flesh. He listened, his ear almost against the panel. There were no sounds of persons in that room. He went to the sittingroom door and listened. He could not heard a movement within the room.

A light was burning in the sittingroom. Cautiously, Jimmie placed his elbow against the door, and pressed it. The door was either latched or locked. For a moment he hesitated, then taking out his handkerchief, gripped the handle lightly through the linen, and turned it, pressing forward.

The door opened easily. Jimmie Frost peered eagerly into the room. The lights were full on. For a moment he thought there was no one in the room.

"Get ahead, man!" Joyce Paynter behind him, was pressing him forward, anxiety in his voice. Jimmie Frost pushed the man back, carefully scanning the carpet between the door and the large table, occupying the centre of the room.

He must be careful not to destroy any clues; nor to leave signs of his presence in the flat. Those two facts he had to keep continually in mind. He looked back, over his shoulder, at Joyce Paynter and scowled. The crowd from the landing were drifting into the flat-hall.

"You damned fool!" He turned on the crook, with a snarl. "I told you to keep those people out!"

"Why? What's the matter?" drawled Joyce Paynter, simulating surprise. "You don't think there's anything really wrong here?"

irritated that his care to preserve any possible clues that might be about the flat had been negatived by the crook's carelessness, or intent, Jimmie Frost strode into the sittingroom. As he went to pass around the table, he stopped and gasped.

(To be continued)

A man was lying face-downwards on the floor. Beside him lay a girl in a position that suggested that she had collapsed while attempting to succour the man.

The ex-detective moved forward

carefully. He bent over the prostrate man and rolled him over.. At sight of the pale, set face Jiminie Frost uttered an exclamation of unbelief.

The man on the floor, apparently dead, was Luther Banke, and the girl beside him was Martha Tayne!