THE WAY OF DANGER

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXI, Issue 21876, 11 August 1934, Page 13 (Supplement)

THE WAY OF DANGER

(COPYRIGHT)

By DAVID WHITELAW Author of "The Little Hour of Peter Wells," "The Mystery of Furze Acre," "No. 15," etc., etc.

A THRILLING SERIAL

CHAPTER I " Watch out, Jako . . . it's curtain for you, sure, if you slip. Listen to that, will you? " The slither of a dislodged fragment of rock, booming echoes and tho dull splash of water. No other sounds save tho thresh of tho rain and the muted breaking of surf on rocks. Then the man addressed as Jake laughed, a thin nervous trickle of laughter that held no merriment in it. Ho looked up. Dan Tregellan's face was a whitey-grey blob in the gloom. An evil face upon which the murky glow from the lantern, which he was holding out at arm's length over tho yawning chasm, flickered and threw strange shadows . . . dead-looking, it was, with deep caverns of eye sockets. Tho upper lip, a trick perhaps of that flickering light, seemed to be drawn back from the teeth in a snarling, crooked smile. " Gee, Dan, I guess it'd bo curtain all right. A guy wouldn't be found ever —not thia side of kingdom come." Tho speaker paused for a moment. Then in a voico sunk to little more than a whisper. " Is this where you . . Tho other man nodded.

" You're tho only one that knows, Jake. I thought I ought to put you wise in case anything happens . . " What d'you mean . . . happens? "

Dan Tregellan shrugged his broad shoulders. He pushed out a foot and deliberately sent a small granite boulder hurtling into the depths. Again the echoes spelt out their sinister warning. " Get me, Jake? "

" I get you, Dan. Let's bo going. You'll wire mo from Manchester? "

Dan Tregellan turned and clambered his way up through the darkness using the tough fronds of the bracken as hand and foothold. Then over the coping of a crumbling wall of stono and across moorland, matted with heather, to where a car was standing on the cliff road, its headlights showing misty yellow in tho driving* rain. Six o'clock. In the Cheapsido warehouse of tho silk importing firm of Cotsford and Sons was that bustle and activity that heralds the close of the day's labours. Desk lids were being propped open, combs and lipsticks were making their appearances from all manner of unexpected places, little squares of mirror being brought into play. Ledgers and day-books were being collected and piled into their nightly shelter behind tho big iron doors of tho Bafes, and in a few minutes the employees of Messrs. Cotsford would bo trooping down the stairs to swell tho great army of the homeward bound. All but Brenda Freyne. There was enough work in her basket to keep her chained for another hour at least. Mr. Noel Cotsford, tho junior partner, had apologized for keeping her, but ho had | explained that ho was leaving for a short holiday, and that arrears of work must be cleared up. If ever a man looked as though he needed a holiday that man was Noel Cotsford, and yet Bronda Freyne thought that she had never seen a man who appeared to be less looking forward to one. There had been trouble, anxiety, showing in every line of Mr. Noel's face during that afternoon. One does not act as confidential secretary to a man for two years without getting to read that man, and sometimes his thoughts, protty well. One by one the others called their good nights across the office and clattered downstairs to freedom. Ronald Slade, of the Shipping Department, was tho last to leave. He stopped on Mb way to the door and stood by Brenda's " Be long, Brenda? "

" About an hour. The chiof's off on a holiday, and you know how fussy he is about cleared desks. Eight o'clock didn't you say? " The boy nodded. " Vestibule of the Regal. The big picture starts about a quarter past eight. Guess it's about time tho boss took a holiday. He's been like a bear with a sore head the last week, and so has old Hughes. What's wrong with Cotsford anyway, Bronda? " The girl paused for a moment as though considering her reply. Then : "I think Mr. Noel's worried about something . Young Slado leant closer across tho desk. .

" Look here, Brenda. I didn't tell you before, but I don't like the look of things. Business all going west. Travellers' reports all cock-eyed—say they can't sell the heavies anyhow. Hertzog's been And listen, Brenda. I ran into Mr. Noel in Regent Street the other night with a chap I wouldn't bo seen dead with. Tough-looking thug with a jaw on him like a prize-fighter." Brenda's head was bent over her papers. Curious that what Ronnie was telling her should fit in so with her own thoughts. Then she looked up with a laugh. " Look hero, Ronnie. Good little secretaries don't waste their time discussing their chief's business—or their friends. And I've got to finish filing these letters. Mr. Noel says I can take a fow days off vvhile he's away . . . Slip along, Ronnie . . ." Ronald Slade took up Brenda's little square of mirror, and carefully adjusted the sot of the Old Baronian's tie of which he was so proud. With a nod ho left Brenda to her task.

One by ono the girl slipped the letters into their appointed places in the filing cabinet. The work was automatic, but Brenda performed it with neat dexterity. She had nearly finished when a small sheet of paper became detached from the sheaf she was holding in her hand and fluttered to the floor.

She stooped to pick it up and glanced at it, curiously, (seeking for some name under which she could file it. It was a single sheet that looked as if it had been torn from a note book, and had formod evidently, one of a series of sheets that had made up a complete communication, and from which it had become detached. Then, almost before she was aware of what sho was doing, Brenda found herself reading tho few lines scribbled upon it:

. . . Hero in Manchester and 1 advise you not to move in the matter till I return. I've learnt a lot and them's more behind it than we thought. Murder for instance. I'm watched and I guess you are as well. Lie low . . . and keep trie police out of thia. . . You're right about H. . .

The paper fell from Brenda's nerveless fingers and lay on the office floor at her feet. She leant back against the filing cabinet as though for support, her little flower-like fnce white and strained She called to mind Mr. Noel's room as slie'had entered it that afternoon. The junior partner had been seated at his desk with an array of papers before him. The doors of his private safe had been standing wide

open, she remembered, and in the empty grate sh« had noticed a tiny pilo of grey ash still smouldering. The girl passed chill finger tips across the heated furnaco of her forehead. She stood staring stupidly down at tho sheet of paper lying at her feet as though it were some noisome thing. What was she to do? To hand it back to Mr. Noel would be embarrassing to tliem both. Ho would know that she had seen it . . . read it. There was a sinister ring about that word " police" But sho could not leave it lying on tho floor for the cleaner to seo when she came. She could not trust it to her own desk with its flimsy fastening. Mr. Noel had gono and his office was locked so it was impossible for her to return and slip it in among his papers. For a moment sho thought of destroying it but, for all she knew, it might bo of some great importance to her employer. Perhaps after she had slept on the matter, the problem might be easier to solve and sho might be able to see a way out of her dilemma. She would take the paper homo with her that night and lock it away and try to forget all about it. She tucked it into tho inner segment of her bag together with her flap-jack and lipstick and turned Again to her unfinished task. The city clocks were striking seven when at last she came to an end.

It was while she was waiting on tho kerb by the Bank that a bus passed her with tho name " Knightsbridge " plainly lettered on its wayboard. That name gave Brenda an idea. Mr. Noel lived in Knightsbridge—Tenby Mansions. If she were to place the scrap of paper in an envelope and drop it into his letter-box nobody would be the wiser She would rid herself of a responsibility and Mr. Noel would get back something that he would most certainly not care to have lying about. And Brenda Freyne, being a person of quick decisions, boarded the bus and sat with tho suede handle of her bag securely twined about her little, gloved fingers. There might be bag snatchers aboufc and Brenda was taking no chances with what sho had come to regard in tho light almost of a sacred trust.

A prosaic vehicle enough, a bus, but as it threaded its way through. the traffic of that October evening it had become, all unknown to Brenda Freyne, a chariot of romance . . . carrying her into the Realm of High Adventure. ###*♦#

To reach Tenby Mansions one has to turn down a short alleyway leading off Knightsbridgo and then under an arched entrance into a courtyard around which the great new block of luxury flats rears its head in redbricked arrogance. It was under this arch that a man who had been standing in the shadows thrown by the hanging lamp moved aside and, for a moment, peered forward into Brenda's face as she passed. She was startled, but tho incident was trivial and, after all, what was there to call for particular notice in a man loitering in the entrance to a West End block of flats?

Nothing ... at the time. It was only later that the thing came back to Brenda's mind, linking up with' other things of that amazing evening and bringing into her mind tho words of Ronnie Slade ..." tough-looking thug with a jaw on him like a prizefighter." But at tho time Brenda merely took a tighter grip of the handle of her precious bag and hurried forward to whero the entrance to the flats shone yellow in tho night. On her way she had stopped at a tea-shop and asked for an envelope, a cheap affair it had been, bearing no identification marks, and she had this into which she had placed the mysterious sheet of paper, ready in her hand to slip into the letter-box of Number 24. It was close on eight o'clock . . she would have to hurry if she wanted to meet Ronnie and not miss the big picture. The lift, tho girl was relieved to find, was at one of the upper floors and, crossing tho luxuriously-appointed vestibule, Brenda passed up the carpeted stairs, scanning the number boards on the landings, her envelope held ready. Number 24 was on the third floor and it was as Brenda turned on to the landing of the second that she heard steps descending the stairs above and the next minute her name called.

" "Why, Miss Freyne, what on earth brings you here ? Fire in Cheapside—or is it burglars?" And then seeing that the girl was leaning against the newel post of the banisters and was showing signs of distress, Noel Cotsford came a step forward. He took her by the arm and, turning, led her up the third flight of stairs and along a corridor to a room the door of which bore in brass numerals the figures 24. He said nothing until ho had piloted her to a comfortable chair by the fire in the sitting room. Even then it was the girl who broke the silence. "I'm quite all right, Mr. Noel. . Noel Cotsford had crossed the room and was busy before the open doors of ! a walnut cocktail cabinet. He came j back to her, smiling, a slender-stem- : med glass in his hand. "Of course you're all right. Here, drink this, and then you can tell mo j what it's all about. Another minute and you'd have missed me." Brenda was on the> point of saying : that she wished she had when the ; young man's eves tell on the that had slipped to the ground. He j picked it up and looked at tho address ; scrawled upon it in block letters. She | watched him slit it open, noted the 'j look of blank amazement that passed over his face as lie took out the enclosure, saw his cheeks redden, then j fade to a curious pallor. When he turned to tho girl in the chair, his face was steru and set in hard lines. " I don't want to bother you, Miss Freyne, if you're not feeling fit, but, naturally, I'd like to bear how this came into your possession." She mado a despairing little gesture. " It was iii your letter-basket, and 1 didn't want you to know that T'd seen it. It . . seemed sort of private. I thought of posting it and then I thought you'd get it quicker if I put it into your box to-night. I wanted to forget all about having seen it. I . . . I think I'll go now, Mr. Noel." Tho man crumpled tho paper into a ball and tossed it on to the coals. Then ho walked to the window and, drawing asicto the curtains tho fraction of an inch, glanced down into the courtyard. Brenda saw the grim set of Noel Cotsford's lips, tho wariness of his action when parting the curtains. " Are you looking for a man; a big, dark man?" , Brenda heard her own voice almost beforo sho knew that she was speaking. Ronnie Slade's words to her that evening: the man lurking in the archway; Noel Cotsford's manner. Something was whispering to Brenda Freyne that sho was standing on the edge of tragedy, that .tremendous things were about to happen. , , , , Noel Cotsford wheeled round and faced her. , "How much do you knowP be "I don't know know anything, Mr. Noel ■: . and 1 don't want to know anvthing. I Baw you looking down there and . . . well, I thought of a man I'd seen as I camo in." (To be continued daily)