THE SECRET AGENT

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXI, Issue 21799, 14 May 1934, Page 15

THE SECRET AGENT

By SYDNEY HORLER

SYNOPSIS During a reception at the American Embassy in London, Ivor Marcosaan, first secretary to the American ambassador, is found dead in a private room. The ambassador, Horace Westlake, who makes the gruesome discovery, discusses it with Sir Robert Ilcddiiigly. chief of the Secret Service Department, and suggests that since Marcossan and himself were Hie only persons in England in possession of the secret of a certain confidential code, the circumstances point to murder. A peculiar purple stain on the palm of the dead man s hand strengthens this theory and Sir Robert, realising that tho murder veils something of international significance, _ approaches " Bunny " Cliipstead—s. brilliant young Seeret Service man who retired from that dangerous vocation 011 his marriage—with I lie intention of asking him to solve the mystery surrounding Marcossan's death.

CHAPTER lIT. —(Continued) Bunny turned witli the swiftness which characterised almost every movement. " Bob, you're a life-saver," he told his uncle-in-law. Heddingl.v, who, although able to snatch only a couple of hours' sleep, looked as irreproachably groomed as ever, caught the outstretched hand and gave it a real man's grip. These two had been firm friends lone; before marriage had provided a still more uniting tie,'

" Bored?" lie asked, with a quizzical look in his eye.

Cliipstead carefully closed tlio door before replying. " Sit down, old man, and lend 1110 your ears. Smoke, too. You've already had breakfast, I suppose? " " Yes, half an hour ago. What's on your mind, Bunny? " The man who had retired took the pipe out of his mouth and looked at its gleaming bowl. "1 feel a traitor, Bob. I feel ashamed of myself. But —and you might as well have it —I'm getting restless. It's being back in London, I suppose. Down at The Close I feel so hedged about with peace and happiness that —well, you can supply the missing blanks yourself, 110 doubt."

" I think so," retorted Heddingl.v. "As a matter of fact " And then 110 broke off provokingly. " How long is Susan going to be ill l'aris? " he inquired. " Nothing settled. She may go 011 to Vienna with the Farquhars. She'll bo writing. Poor kid! —she wants a holiday— she's been bottled tip with me for eighteen months now without a break."

" What's happening down at The Close? " " Oh. the servants are carrying on. That's not worrying me." Sir Robert followed the smoke of his cigarette as it iloated upwards. " To get down to cases, then —you wouldn't mind undertaking a job if I could find you one? "

Chipstead's fine teeth showed iti a half-reluctant smile. " You're a nice fellow, aren't you? " he retorted. " Panderine to my low tastes like this! No, I won't listen to you —it's not fair to Susan. You know the arrangement we came to when I married —off with tho old days and on with the new. Not that sho would stand in my way, I think, if something really big broko loose." Heddingl.v turned to face him.

" Something big has broken loose, Bunny something almighty big! That's why I've come round here this morning." The tense expression in Bunny Chipstead's face made the heart of Sir Robert Heddingl.v quicken its beats, How often during the past two years 110 had"wished for the impossible. And now

" Tell me, Bob," said Cliipstead, simply. Within five minutes Bunny had been acquainted with tho full facts of the extraordinary occurrence at the American Embassy tho previous night. " H'm," lie murmured at the end. It didn't go very far by way of encouragement —that is, it wouldn't have gone very far with the average man; but Ploddingly knew his Cliipstead. He could tell that Bunny was interested from the soles of his feet up.

" Anything more:'" lie asked. " Just this: International relations between England and America have reached a very interesting stage. It would pay certain powers very well to ■ret to know what is really happening behind the diplomatic scenes. That. L am convinced, was the cause of tins murder last night. Whoever the killer was, Bunny, he must bo found, and found quickly. There's no man, as you know, I would rather put on the job, for it concerns England equally with America. I've already had a word with Lord l'oynder at the Foreign Office, and he has told me to tell von that he will bo delighted if you will undertake the commission." " Susan?" asked Chipstead. "We must get licr consent, of course. I should never be able to look her in the face again if either of us did anything underhanded, however urgent the necessity might be. Where is she staying—Claridge's, isn t it. - "' " Yes." " What about putting a call through straight away?" " You must do the talking, Nunky mine." Heddingly gave a wry smile. . " You never used to funk your fences, Bunny." Connection was established within a quarter of an hour, and Sir Robert spoke earnestly. " She wants to talk to you, Bunny," he said, putting his hand over the mouthpiece. Chipstead felt a tremor pass through him as ho heard the clear, unmistakable tones of his wife. " What's this L hear, Bunny?" Susan inquired; " Going off on the war-path again. Do you want to?" '• My dear; that's a leading question. It's absolutely up to you. Say 'No,' and I'll fling Heddingly out of the window." " Bunny, darling, you know what you mean to me, don't you?" " Of course, my dear." ! " You know I should die if anything happened to you, don't you?" "J think-you would, Sue.'" " So you mustn't let anything happen to you—but. darling, if you're frightfully keen, I'll say—" the voice broke a little —" ves." " Sportsman," ho told her over the wire. " Does it mean going out of England ?" " [ can't tell you, my sweet." " Because, if it- does, you must promise to write to me every day. Will you do that? And oh, how long will it take?" " Perhaps a week to a man of my skill and intelligence." " Oil, Bunny, darling! . . ." It was as though she could not trust herself to say anything more, but a second later she asked, in a more assured voice, for her uncle to return to the telephone. " Of course I won't allow him to run into any risk," Bunny hoard Heddingly declare. "We're both most awfully obliged to you, Sue, but honestly, it's vitally important. Lord Poynder himself wants Bunny to undertake the job." Then Chipstead had to take up the talking again. It toro at his heart to hear Susan givo her last good-bye. " Do you know what I think Bob ?" lie asked after replacing the receiver. " I think we're a couple of damned cads." The charge did not have any undue effect on the Intelligence chief. '

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Author of " 5.0.5.," " The Spidcr'.'i Web" and " Sporting Chance " A THRILLING TALE OF MYSTERY

" At some time or other every man is bound to bo a cad," lio retorted philosophically. " Don't let that worry you, Bunny. Susan is almost as dear to me as she is to you. Let's talk of something else." " Well, anyway, I'm determined on one thing," said his relation by marriage. "I'm going to work double shifts to get this job done." " In the words of the great anonymous American poet, ' Attaboy,' " grinned Heddingly, looking at least twenty years younger than his real age. " And I want you to come round to my ollice, where West-lake will bo waiting, as soon as possible." " Why not now?" was the quick retort.

CHAPTER IV AT THE SAVOY It had been a busy day. Once he had undertaken the commission, Bunny plunged into the work with all his old enthusiasm and energy. During the past two years ho had lost touch somewhat with things, but he had found timo to visit many of his previous haunts. So far, however, he had drawn a complete blank. The underworld of London had changed since his time, and many of the old familiar faces had vanished. Either prison, death or some other drastic cause must have claimed their owners, i . Now, . freshly shaved, bathed, and garbed in immaculate evening kit, he scanned the menu at the Savoy restaurant and told himself ho entitled to an hour or so of leisure. This brief relaxation of the chase was all the more welcome because of his companion. Barry Wingate had had nearly as many exciting experiences as himself —even if his share in them had been more innocuous. Wingate was a worldfamous newspaper correspondent, who after serving for several years on an important New York journal, had accepted a roving commission to write for Elect Street's most picturesque (and sensational) print, the Morning Meteor. There was nothing that tlw Meteor would not publish, providing it was sufficiently interesting; and Wingate's reputation, previously great, had been enhanced, several hundred per cent since coming to London. After he had shaken hands with Chipstead ten minutes before, tho journalist had done little but indulge in a series of delighted chuckles. He had concentrated on reminiscence. "Ilcmember that time in Barcelona? . . . Oh, boy! And that night in Paris! . . . And so 011 and so forth Chipstead, by nature quiet and selfcontained, found tho chatter of his exuberant companion entertaining, especially as ho wished, for an hour or so at least, to rest his mind. Charles, the famous maitro d'hotel, attended them in person. The divinity which is supposed to hedge about kuigs (and chief waiters in celebrated restaurants) did not prevent Charles from appreciating a little publicity, and he knew that his conversation with tho well-known correspondent of tho "Meteor" would be noted by tho couple of gossip-paragraph writers who had just entered. Bunny, who was acting as host for the evening, consulted with tho maitre d'hotel, and ordered so aptly that Charles murmured his appreciation. Over tho crevcttes dressees Wingate pressed for information. "I hear you are living tho lifo of a monk or something down at Bournemouth, is it true?" "I'm living at Bournemouth, certainly," was tho cool retort. "But I'm no longer interesting, Barry—if over I was. Let's hear your side of the story."

Wingato was one of those life-loving souls who, apart altogether from finding excitement at every street corner, delighted in telling of his exploits. Many a writer of fiction would have given a year's royalties to havo been allowed to listen in to the talk that followed.

Wingate had just returned from a world tour, during which his instructions had been to send a story to his newspaper whenever one offered itself. His narrative might well have been called "The truth that is never told." It dealt with tho private lives of the great ones of the earth; it told of tho flagrant immoralities of a once-famous queen, of the petty thefts of an almost equally famous prime minister; it told, in short, of those many things that form the secret history of the world, hut which never see their way into the newspapers; tho sort of talk that journalists .'indulge in when leaning against the counters of illustrious bars. Chipstead listened to every word. What would havo been merely scandal to lesser minds ho appreciated at its true worth. (To be continued daily)