SOME PERSON UNKNOWN

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXI, Issue 21868, 2 August 1934, Page 17

SOME PERSON UNKNOWN

By RALPH TREVOR Author of " The Jade Token," " Thm Eyes Through the Mask." etc.

A GLAMOROUS TALE OF MYSTERY AND ROMANCE

CHAPTER XV.—(Continued) " 1 have never heard the name before, Monsieur. Ten minutes later Challenor climbed back into the waiting motor-car feeling that he had gained little by his journey, and he communicated the information to his French companion. " Hold hard, Monsieur," protested the Frenchman, as he withdrew from his tunic a framed photograph. "While Monsieur was busy with Madame upstairs, I took the opportunity to look around Madame's private room and I found this. &2C, it is inscribed," he added, pointing to a signature scrawl. Challenor took the frame from the man's hand and gazed at it curiously. It was the photograph of a man with a lean face and an imperial of much the same cut. as that worn by M. Paquin at the Surete, but with the addition of a beard and a moustache. Below it was inscribed "To Jeanetto with love from Henri." " You think it is Monsieur Delarge?" asked the -Frenchman, excitedly. " I shouldn't wonder," smiled Challenor, a trifle mysteriously, his companion thought. CHAPTER XVI Bernard Gilfont felt that be had rather made a, mess of things. In the first place he was not getting on at all well with Vivienne Maritineau. Since his meeting with her in the Cafe Kspanol she had, ho thought, deliberately evaded meeting him again. Ho had written to her making appointments but Miss Martineau appeared to possess no scruples about breaking her promises. No, he thought, perhaps he shouldn't put it like that. She had never definitely promised. It was him who had pestered her so persistently and \\ hen she had given a somewhat evasuo excuse he had twisted her words around in the hopes that she would capitulate. On this morning—the morning, curiously enough, that Chief Inspector Challenor was investigating in Paris the young man felt strangely miserable. For the past few days he had been giving the matter of the murder at Moor House a great deal of serious thought. He had gone to Scotland Yard and seen Uncle Bertrand about it, and Uncle Bertrand, curiously enough, had been remarkably affablo and told him everything that was known about the jiffair - so far, Not, he quickly realised, that Uncle Bertrand knew much more than lie did himself, but he did learn that Challenor had gone to Paris the previous night in search of a clue. Uncle Bertrand .seemed to be hoping against liopo that Challenor had hit on something at last. But there was something Uncle Bertrand had said that struck a note of fear in Gilfont's heart. Uncle Bertrand had suggested that Challenor had practically confided to him that he was looking; for a woman. Do you really mean to suggest that Middle-ton was murdered by a •woman?'" Gilfont had asked, eyes widely incredulous. Sir Bertrand Knowles had nodded his wise, old head sagely. " Challenor keeps a great deal to himself," he intimated, guardedly.

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" Up in Ringdale I happen to know that he was staunchly of the opinion that there was a ■woman mixed up in the affair somewhere. 1 m not suggesting,, of course, that she actually committed the crime, but Challenor has this much of the old school ' - left in him—he believes that somewhere connected with every crime there is a woman. I think he found some evidence, too, but I'm not sure. He's a secretive sort of fellow, js Cbalienor, biit mark my words, my boy, he s darned clever, .mil if there is a woman jinywhere you can depend on Challenor hunting her out. By the way, my lad, I hope you have long since abandoned the idea of trying to solve this affair

on your own? Gilfont laughed. ' ISot quite that, nuclei You see I'm rather handicapped in that I haven't the expert facilities for my investigation that you have here. I'm very much the amateur—the theorist. As a matter of fact that s all 'l've done as yet —just built up theories, and most of them have been such jerry built affairs that they've toppled down before the roof has been fixed to make them water-tight." Sir Bertrand smiled good-humouredlv. " So long as you stick to 3 01, r theories you'll come to little harm, lie said. " It's when you begin poking about on your own, that the trouble begins. Challenor wont stand for it—l know that. He as good «s told me at Rindale, and, of course, my official position here means that much as i should like to see you beating Cha - lenor at his own game, I couldn t back you up. I've got to back Challenor. If you get into trouble for obstructing the operations of Scotland Yard, that must be entirely your own affair, xou can't reasonably expect any help rrom me. You'll have to take your punishment." " You really would like to see me boat Challenor. wouldn't you, " nc |® - That would give you some idea of what 1 am capable of doing." "It might have its amusing moments." his uncle commented, " but honestly, Bernard, my boy, I can't seo you doing it." " You'll wish me luck though, won't you ?" "I'm damned if I will." protested Uncle Bertrand. "As Deputy Police Commissioner I'm loyal to the old firm." The interview had filled the young man with hope—more hope, in fact, than was perhaps justified, for no sooner had he arrived back in his flat, changed his shoes and had a drink, than the old despair settled on him again. From his chair in front of the electric fire that rippled realistically against its warm copper background, he realised that the odds were against him. He would dearly have liked to know just how much Inspector Challenor really knew about the whole affair . . . how many.cards he was keepin"' concealed up that capacious sleeve of his. But Gilfont reminded himself that there was one thine Challenor did not know. He did not know that he, Gilfont. had met Vivienne Martinean on that lonely moorland road on the night of the crime. It was this'that puzzled him greatly. He had given the girl ample opportunity to confide in him. He had endeavoured to point out the danger she was in and the risk she was running. He had even suggested that, if she was in any trouble at all, he might be able to assist her. But he couldn't do a thing until she confided in him and. to all intents aiid purposes, she was as far off from doing bo as ever.

He bad formed a theory that Vivienne was in crave danger. He had looked at the affair from every conceivable angle—more angles, in fact, than old Euclid had ever dreamed of. If Vivienne was innocent of any complicity in the crime, why had she gvaded confiding in him? That was the snag. No matter how often ho turned the thing over and over in his brain he invariably came right up against that important point. Then there were the gloves. He still retained possession of them, but now he felt that ho could not bear the suspense any longer. Ho must find out the truth about Miss Martineau, detestable though it might be to him. Until he knew the truth he was powerless to help her. There was only one thing to be done. He would run over to Chelsea and try to see her without warning. At first he hated the idea. It wasn't sporting; it wasn't fair. It savoured far too much.of professional police methods . , . "those same methods he had always despised and frequently considered obsolete. But think as he would he could see no other course open to him. Challenor was believed to be searching for the " woman in the case," and if that woman chanced to be Vivienne Martineau she must be made to tell the truth. After he had heard her he would be in a better position to judge just how he would act in the matter. So to Chelsea he went —by bus. It was three o'clock went he presented himself at Canning Gardens, and a trim little maid-of-all-work opened the door. Was Miss Martineau at home? She was! Could he sp§ak to her for a few moments. Name of Gilfont, if you please. Vivienne Martineau received him in a little rose-pink drawing room and smiled a welcome. " You're the most elusive little person I know," he told her, reprovingly. " Why have you been evading me?" " Hafre I?" echoed Vivienne innocently. " I'm sure I wasn't aware of that." She had seated herself in a comfortably upholstered easy chair white he sat on a broad-backed settee. " You know very well you have, and you must have known that I desperately wanted to see you." "Why desperately? Are you t still concerned about my safety just because I chanced to be in Yorkshire one night when a murder was committed?" She sounded ominously selfpossessed, ho thought. There seemed to bo little use in beating about the bush. Ho hadn't come hero for a duel of words. "As a matter of fact I am," he told her, seriously. "You see I happen to know a great deal about that _ affair at Moor House. M.v uncle _is the Deputy-Commissioner of Police at Scotland Yard. I think I told you that before. I saw him this morning and ho told me that Inspector Challenor, who is investigating the affaiij is looking for a woman." As he spoke, Gilfont. was watching the girl's face intently. Perhaps it was his imagination that made him think that it had gone a trifle paler, but it was not imagination that told him her hands were tightly clenched. A little laugh tumbling from her lips eased "the sudden tension. "How very interesting," she fenced, " but why are you telling me all this?" Gilfont felt desperate. This girl didn't seem to understand how desperately ho wanted to help her —if she needed help. She might talk in this strain just as long as she liked, but it cut not a scrap of ice. The very fact that she was adopting this ingenuous attitude was sufficient to accuse her of some prior knowledge which she was attempting skilfully to conceal. " I am telling you because of these," he flashed out, quickly, and, thrusting his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat, he drew out the pair of gloves ho had found on the mantelpiece in the room where Carfax Middleton lay murdered.

This time he was certain her face blanched. He saw her sit and stare at the gloves he held in his hand, fascinated. afraid. " You admit these are your gloves? he followed up, as she made no attempt to speak. But still she sat staring at them, and then he saw the girl's eyes fill with tears. The tension was broken at last. Pretence was swept away. The last barrier between them was down. " Yes," she answered him, quietly, " they are my gloves." CHAPTER XVII. At the sight of those gloves—those tell-tale gloves-—Vivienne Martineau knew that nothing could be gained by trying to deceive this persistent younc man any further. She realised that if what" he had told her was truethat Scotland Yard was searching for a woman in connection with Carfax Middleton's death —the danger to her was indeed far more real than she had ever imagined. # ■ , • Swiftly her consciousness was flooded with the realities of the situation. No one had, as yet, been apprehended in connection with the crime. If what the newspapers said was to bo believed, Scotland Yard were still very much in the dark about the affair, and if it came to the ears of the police that she—she, Vivienne Martineau-rhad been seen in the vicinity of the house on the night of the murder, the whole terrible story must come to light. There could be no concealing it then. Yet she knew that, come what rgay, the truth as she knew it must be concealed. The police must never know that she and her father were ever in the toils of Carfax Middleton. Her mind was working swiftly. The first shock of the situation had worn off and she realised the necessity for coolness. Nothing whatever was to be gained by panic. There was one thing, however, that was worrying her considerably. Just how far could she trust this persistent young man who, by his possession of her gloves, must already be suspecting a great deal. He had said that the Deputy-Commissioner of Police at Scotland Yard was his uncle. The thought gave her hope. If she did, indeed, confide in him, he might, as he had suggested find some way in which he could help her. Her mind was suddenly made up. She would tell him. " Yes," she went on, calmly and quietly, " I admit those are my gloves. I remembered them only when I saw you looking at my hands in the car and suggested you should lend me your own." " You told me you had left them in the car," Gilfont reminded her. " I take it that there never was a car. Am I correct?" "Of course you are correct," she admitted, " but don't you realise 1 had to tell you something? I had to explain in as convincing a manner as I could why you should meet me on a lonely moorland road at that hour of the night. Of course, I could have avoided you. I nearly decided that that would be the best thing to do when I saw the lights of your car. But I wanted to get back to London. I wanted to put as many miles as possible between myself and that terrible house. Had I' walked to the railway station I should never have been in time for the train, and I knew that, were that to happen, I would be immediately suspected. I knew that the police would soon bo making inquiries for anyone seen within a radius of many miles. I simply had to accopt your hospitality." "It was jolly good luck for you that 1 chanced to bo passing when I did," Gilfont suggested warmly. "It "'as lucky for me, too," he added in a lower tone and at the same time gazing her full in the eyes. " Fate sometimes arranges things like that, don't you think?" she smiled at him. (To be continued daily)