Interrupted Romance

Franklin Times, Volume XXVIII, Issue 33, 24 March 1939, Page 2

Interrupted Romance

By JULIE ANNE MOORE

(Copyright)

INSTALMENT 28. • There was much shouting on the bridge and from the police boat. Chief Carter kept shouting down through cupped hands, “Who is it? . . . Who —who—who !”

Bellowed sounds came back, but they were unintelligible. He signalled his men to go back to the police wharf, turned and saw Garbrook at his elbow. “Oh, hello, Garbrook. Just arrived?” he said pleasantly.

Angus nodded, gravely. “Miss Markey was just giving me the dope — about Dyson.”

“He’s over there,” Carter said. “Rotten business. Say —what’s the arm hanging in the coat for. Hurt it?”

“I was shot. From the upstairs porch at Fordell’s. Tried to rouse a doctor on the island, but no luck. Thought I’d better run over to one of the city hospitals.”

Carter opened Garbrook’s coat, saw the blood-stained shirt. “You shouldn’t have been driving with that bum arm. One of my men will run you over to the hospital. . . No notion who shot you, I suppose?”

Angus shrugged. “I could make a good guess,” he said. “By the way, you haven’t seen Brell since—” He paused as a car came roaring toward the bridge —paused of necessity since the squeal of pinched tyres had diverted every eye.

The coroner stared down the incline. “Hope that isn’t your man coming back to say the Cleaves girl gave him the slip, Carter.” Carter didn’t answer at once, but as the machine neared the top level, he said, “That’s not one of my cars. Looks familiar, though.” And suddenly turned. “Your bus, isn’t it, Garbrook?”

Angus was nodding a puzzled affirmative when brakes screamed and the back wheels of the roadster skidded against the guard at the base of the railing. The next moment the door was kicked open and a tall, erect figure stepped out. For one incredulous instant Polly stared, round-eyed, suddenly trembling from head to foot. Then she was stumbling forward, crying hysterically, “Jerry 1 . . . .Jerry 1” Whispers passed swiftly as Brell left the car. Dubious whispers. Carter muttered an oath under his breath. Angus looked at the man as if he could not credit the testimony of his eyes. The coroner alone" seemed to be able to accept the fact that Brell was here on the bridge, alive, and not a corpse oh the police boat. Polly saw the coroner advance to meet Brell and her feet were suddenly still, glued to the bridge. The coroner said, “You’re a little late, Lieutenant. Things have been breaking fast since you left Fordell’s.” And to the complete amazement of those standing around them, the coroner gave an account of all that had occurred since he w’alked out of Fordell’s more than an hour before. Brell listened attentively. When the coroner finished, he asked, frowning, “What makes you think your man w ; ent overboard?”

The coroner smiled. “The police boat fished him out of the river,” he said.

Brell swung around and his gaze fixed on Garbrook. “Many thanks for the use of your car, Garbrook,” he said, pleasantly. “Mine was about out of gas, and I found yours handy with the key in it, so .. .” He smiled. “By the way, how did you get up here? Didn’t drive with that bad arm, I hope?”

The smile left Brell’s face. He said, “Where’s your car—the one you drove from the island?” “On the incline hack there,” Angus Garbrook replied. He added, with a quiet smile, “If it’s any concern of yours.”

“As it happens, it is,” Brel! said, and his voice was suddenly harsh, penetrating. “You see, Garbrook, I know how you got up here. You drove the Fordell station wagon.”

Garbroolc turned to the coroner, but it was Carter who came to his defence. He said, “Talk sense, Brell. Tf Garbrook had been here, my men would have seen him. We’d been here half an hour before lie showed up. First I saw of him was right after they pulled the body from the river.”

Brell nodded. “I thought so. An excellent time to arrive—just when everybody was banging over the guard-rail and paying no attention to

the station wagon.” Abruptly he stalked off toward the station wagon, caught the little knob on the polished panelling of the back end and jerked, open the door of the luggage compartment. He swung around to demand of Carter, “Did your men look in here?”

Carter started a stammering answer as Jerry pulled something from the compartment. “Here is the answer to our riddle,” Jerry said. “A dirty, long-visored grey cap and a pair of s dark glasses, such as Mel Dyson wore, fell out. Carter said, “Well, I’ll he ” and wheeled in time to see Garbrook backing away toward the opposite side of the bridge. Garbrook’s right hand came out of his coat. Something gleamed in the light for a moment, then spat flame. Jerry Brell heard the whing of the bullet past his head, but then his atI tention was fixed with terrified concentration on the slim figure behind Garbrook. Polly, who had been standing back from the group in the middle of the bridge, was now between Garbrook and the railing. Garbrook meant to get to her, use her as a screen against the half dozen guns al-„ ready in as many eager, excited hands. Jerry Brell shouted, “Polly! Get away—get away from him !” But Polly, obviously confused, not yet understanding what was happening, stood staring, as if in a stupor. One of Garter’s men raised his pistol. Brell knocked the man’s hand up, crying, “Don’t shoot, you fool!” and suddenly pushed past Carter ana started across the bridge. Garbrook’s gun flashed again and Brell felt a lash of fire across his cheek. But he wasn’t thinking of himself now. Head down, he started running. Now Garbrook had halted, was waiting with that small gun poised for action. He wouldn’t miss again. They didn’t dare use their guns—Polly was just behind him. And Brell was coming head-on, a perfect target . . . The muscles of the injured arm tightened, the long, tapering finger on the trigger began to pull. No chance for a miss this time. Not a Something struck Garbrook from behind. Struck him hard in the small of the back. He staggered forward, turned quickly—and suddenly understood. Polly Marker, come to her senses at last, had lunged at him, hitting him in the back with her shoulder and, almost as a continuation of that swift, reckless movement, had clutched that aching right azun. Garbrook spun around, jerked his arm free, jumped back and made a last futile effort to use the automatic. But the arm w-as dead, useless. . . . His narrow eyes swept through a brief arc, came to rest on the guard-rail directly behind him . . . Brell w T as almost on top of him. Garbrook lashed out with his left. The blow caught Brell on the point of his chin. The .man’s full strength was behind that left. It threw Brell off balance and before he could recover, Garbrook sitting on the guardrail—sitting well back, legs dangling —and grinning.

Polly would never forget that grin, nor the two swiftly spoken words that followed it: “Well, Polly . . . That was all. There was no time for more. Garbrook leaned back, his long legs lifted, swung into space. A moment later the railing was clear. . . 'j Jerry Brell said, “Gome along, Polly. I’ll take you home.” He had been standing there for minutes —since that sickening slosh of water far below the bridge. But only now did she realise he was beside her. She took the handkerchief from her eyes and looked up at him. “Home?”

“Yes —your aunt’s. There’s nothing to go back to on the island.” They rode in Angus Garbrook’s car. Polly said, “It’s too horrible to think about. I can’t understand ” “Don’t try,” Jerry said, gently. “Think of something else.” There was silepce. They turned left from the long ramp into Meeting street. “Jerky—why did he do it —why did lie kill them?” He looked down at her small white face in which was expressed so much of the confusion of her mind. He said, quietly, “He killed Fordell because he came to the island to kill him —to collect, through Evelyn, on

one and possibly two insurance policies. He murdered Marco because Marco was wise to who he was, and had passed that information on to Fordell Evelyn, of course, knew he was Cecil Cleaves’ right along, but she probably didn’t wake up to the fact that he was responsible for the murtiers —the slaughter —until yesterday, My guess is that.when she did figure it out, she refused to string along with him and he let her have it.” “But Dyson?” Polly said. “He never harmed any one.” ‘■'Garbrook,” Jerry replied, “lias been masquerading for days as Dyson. The night we came back from the old fort after finding Marco’s body, ;we * saw Dyson feeling his way across the yard—-without his dog. Remember? That w r as Garbrook then. As Dyson he could be here and away at the same time. He took a chance that Dyson wouldn’t show up and gum the works, Then he lost his nerve and figured the risk w-as too great. So he killed that poor devil and stuffed him into Hie station wagon.” Jerry turned. “What say we let that do foe the present?” “Oh, but I’ve got to know, Jerry! Particularly about tonight.” Jerry grinned. “You were in the middle of it, baby —you ought to know.” But after a moment he relented. “All right, sit back and reInx and listen. Garbrook, Cecil Cleaves if you like, was making his getaway tonight. He didn’t know' where Tod was, and he couldn’t find out. And he knew we were closing

in on him. Fordell was dead, which meant that ultimately Evelyn would

lollect on her insurance. That was hat. When Evelyn had the money—)Ut that’s another story. . . . “He—as Garhrook —was all set to lop into oblivion,” Jerry went on, “as :ar as the police were concerned. But ie wanted a last talk with Evelyn. He nust have taken it for granted she was wise to him hy now and just wanted to remind her that he was responsible for her getting the hundred thousand life Tnsurance, and that one of these days she would hear from him again. I don’t know what they said to each other there in the living room —” (Polly thought, “Oh, but'l do. I know what they said.” But she didn’t interrupt). “ . . . . but it stands to reason,” Jerry continued, “that Evelyn wouldn’t agree to play his game. Maybe she threatened to turn him over to the police. But why guess? She spoke her piece and Garbroolc put a knife in her back: —and hustled out the back way. If he had heat it then, we might never have heard of him again. But for one of two reasons, he stuck around. Either he had so much venom in his make-up that he had to know positively that Evelyn was done for, or ” he paused, then finished abruptly, “or he felt he had to have a last word with you.” “Jerry . . .!” “O.K. I’m sorry. But that’s the way I figure it. After all, I’m only a ' boy detective, while you, honey, happen to be in the know. But to go on with the details . . . .”

(To be Continued)