THE WAY OF DANGER

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXI, Issue 21879, 15 August 1934, Page 19

THE WAY OF DANGER

A THRILLING SERIAL

CHAP lER ll.—(Continued) The house held for the girl a message, liii some vague way it symbolised her mission; told her that this was no holiday jaunt that she had come upon but grim reality, that behind the glory of this perfect autumn morning tragedy was waiting for her. Even in the golden sunshine there was something sinister, something evil about the place and about the gaunt skeleton of the ruined tin mine that reared the broken masonry of its shaft and power house beside its walls. Standing knee deep in the bracken on the opposite headland Brenda experienced the feeling one .is supposed to know when someone walks over one' 4 grave. For a moment . the sun seemed to be darkened as though a shadowy. hand had been passed before it. But the next turn in the path hid the house from view, and the next after that opened out to the girl a picture of the rilhtge of Zerran nestling in a cleft of the cliffs below her, a small huddle of grey roofs with the square tower of a church and a crooked little street .winding down to a tiny granite mole iifl the shelter of which brown sailed fishing boats rocked gently at anchor. A fair enough place seen from a distance, but Brenda found herself liking the look of Zerran less and less at every step she took along its cobbled high street. Slatternly women peered out at her from cottage doorways, grubby children played with pigs and chickens in the gutters, blue-jerseyed, fcrown- , skinned fishermen gazed at her as she passed. A village with some blight upon ! it. Zerran frightened her. Half-way along the street was the cottage'that proclaimed itself the post office and Brenda entered. No, tbev hadn't heard anything of a Mr. Cotsford. Brenda thought suddenly that possibly Mr. Noel had taken another name for this dangerous mission down into Cornwall in which case there would be no course open for her but the Pensanoe police. She turned to leave the office, 'then: "If Mr. Cotsford calls for letters will you be good enough to say that I have been inquiring for him. My name is Frevne—Brejida Frevne." The postmistress started. " You are Miss Frevne I-' Then there's n telegram for you. Brought out from St. Ives by the boy—there's a shilling delivery charge, miss." / The woman rummaged among a pile Cif envelopes on the counter and selecting one handed it across to Brenda. The buff coloured covering thrilled her a little with expectancy. Who could have sent it to her? Wondering, she thanked the woman, paid,the shilling and, once more out in the street, tore the envelope open. The message had been sent from the Cheapside post office the day before. It read: " Am going to take a scamper on the grass, will be at Golden Lion, Penzance, if wanted, and many thanks for the jolt. 1 needed -it. —Ronnie." An intoxicating sense of relief flowed over Brenda as she stood with the flimsy paper in her hand. She thought of Ronnie's six feet of muscular youth and gloried in the spirit of adventure that her words had spurred into life in the Cheapside tea shop. There was no wav of getting into touch with the boy except by telegram, but there would no doubt be a telephone at Porthmedda. She longed to hear his voice, to listen to what he had to say to her. The thought of Ronnie Slade gave her a warm sense of companionship, a new courage. "For Brenda had been feeling ill at / case at not locating Mr. Noel. The dourness, the unfriendliness of this grey little village had weighed her down with a curious foreboding. She spent the afternoon seated on the sea wall or wandering in and out of the crooked little streets, hoping to find something that might give her a line on her chief's whereabouts. And everywhere black looks from the villagers. Once, as she was passing the post of Bee, she turned her head and saw that the postmistress had come'to the door and was pointing her out to a man who stood on the step beside her. They separated as she glanced back, the man turning and'walking swiftly away down towards the harbour. A man with broad shoulders. Brenda had not been able to see his face, but she had a shrewd susEicion that had she done so she would ave found it dead white like the belly of a fish. She took tea at Zerran's one inn. the "On? and All," but here, as everywhere el±e. the najne of Cotsford was received with blanlc looks and negative shakes of the head. The man who two days ago had left Knightsbridge on a nine hours' run to Zerran, giving has address to Mr. Bristow as the post office, would see in to have vanished into thin air. Nothing left for Brenda now but to return to Porthmedda. ring up Ronnie, and get into touch with the police. .The ugly word murder surged up in the -girl's rnind. Loath as she was to leave thp village, the gathering storm clouds over the sea warned her that if she was to take the el iff path she must be on her way. It was a little after five when c she left Zerran a little depressed at the thought of nothing happening. She need not have worried. She would not have long to wait. Just round the bend of that headland that hid from her sight the house on the rock, tragedy was waiting—waiting silent and sinister as were the storm clouds out over the Atlantic.

CHAPTER 111. "It isn't as if Dave was just an ordiaary citizen. Those chaps take long chances and find themselves in queer places. I know Dave Bristow went to, Manchester but—just read that again, will you, Jim''"Inspector John Carron frowned as he looked from the window across the Kmbankment on to the river. His colleague reached across the desk for the report that had come in that afternoon from the Chief Constable of Manchester. " Man about forty-five. Fair *com- / plcxion. Clean shaven. Good teeth, molars in lower jaw filled with gold. Wearing underclothing only. No identification marks. Maker's tabs and laundry cut away. Clearly murder. Bullet wound in squamosal legion of temporal. Supposed time of death, Tuesday (October 19th). Found Wednesday (20th), Rochdale Canal by ' Brewster's Wharf—" Inspector Carron turned from the m window. " Nerves, I suppose, but it dor>s fit old Dave, doesn't it? I've got to see this through. We're pals, Dave and me. Worked on no end of cases together when he was here at the Yard before he took up private work. Before your time, Jim, that was." " Why not ring him up?" " 1 Nc reply. Guess I'll tool along and have a look-see. Unofficially, / of course." / Inspector Carron reached for his hat, and with a nodd, passed out into the early dusK ot the Embankment. Here, be hailed a taxi and was driven to Wigmore Street. On the way, Carron was thinking. Close on a score of years with the police had given him a sixth sense, a sort of intuition, and he was definitely worried. Dave Bristol, since leaving the Force, had figured in many a case —his running down of the Poplar gang had been a classic of detection —and none knew better than John Carron the man's in-

satiable love of adventure, of living dangerously. The feeling of impending

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

(COPYMGUT)

tragedy had passed over the inspector the moment he had read the report that had come in that afternoon from the northern city. Mrs. Saunders, David Bristow's housekeepe* and sole domestic staff, did little to allay the'inspector's fears. She had becr», she told him, on the point of ringing him up, but -had hesitated, knowing Mr. Bristow's dislike of any interference when he was on a case. " Then Mr. Bristow is on a case, ! eh?" " I suppose so, Mr. Carron. He's | been in and out all hours of the day j and night Sitting up late, too." " Alone? 1 ' " There's been a gentleman with him i nearly every day. When Mr. Bristow j went off to Manchester, this gentleman I saw him off from Euston. Saturday, I that was And not a line or a word I from him since, except the wire saying ! he wasn't coming back on Tuesday as j arranged. You don't think anything's i happened to him, do you, sir?" Inspector.Carron did not answer. Instead, ho put a question of his own. " You know this gentleman's name?" " No, sir. Mr. Bristow called him Noel, or Knowles—l couldn't tell which. There's his telephone number, sir, on the pad, there, on the desk—that's it — City, 2854." I Carron took up the receiver and dialled " Inquiries." " Hullo This is Carron speaking. . . Scotland Yard. . . I want the name of the subscriber whose number is City, 2854. . ." A pause, then, " Thanks . . . Cotsford and Sons, 34a, Cheapside . . . thanks. . ." The inspector replaced the receiver. He took up his hat from the chair oil which he had placed it on entering. "I wouldn't worry, Mrs. Saunders. You know what Mr. Bristow is. When he's on a case and gets down to the scent, carthorses won't drag him off it. I'll keep you posted." During the drive to Cheapside John Carron took up the line of thought that had been broken by his visit to Wigmore Street. Saturday . . . and now it was Wednesday. The conviction grew upon the inspector that Dave Bristow had tackled his last case in this world. To his imagination he pictured his old friend lying on a slab in a mortuary, and he swore by all the gods that if that were the case, be wouldn't rest till he had brought his killers to justice. That cursed intuition of his, second sight, call it what you will, was at work and would not be stilled. ****♦»

Henry Hughes was seated at his desk before a vast accumulation of work. It looked as though he might be there till midnight. And there was an important match on at the Balham Chess Club. Henry Hughes was not prone to strong language, but he was telling himself that it had, so far, been a hell of a week Each day had brought with it its own particular worry. Mr. Noel's temper on thn Monday had been so vile that all the staff had been glad to see the back of him. On the Tuesday, Miss Frevne had been pre-occupied and quite unfit for work, and had gone off early. Then, the following morning, that young pup, Slade, had thought fit to throw up bis job and walk out on him. There had also been that trouble with the brocade consignment to Belfast. And now here was the office boy with further trouble —in the shape of a card bearing th" ' name of Inspector John Carron, of Scotland Yard. 'He adjusted his spectacles, read the ominous letters C.1.D., and groaned inwardly as he told the boy to show the gentleman in. . He received the inspector m the small office set aside, on account of its priv - acy, for the reception of important clients of the firm. The Scotland Yard man opened the proceedings: "I was wanting to see Mr. Noel Cotsford," he began, "but the boy tells me that he is away. I'm particularly anxious to get into touch with him." "Mr. Noel left on Monday, sir, for a short holiday. We have not vet heard from him." "You mean he has left no address. - ' Henry Hughes shook his head. "Then perhaps his secretary can tell

us ?" Again Henry Hughes shook his head and looked at the clock. He was think-inff-of his chess match. "Miss Freyne. too, has taken a few days' holiday. She left on Tuesday. I had occasion to ring her up this afternoon, but her landlady informs me that she is out of town." ''Also leaving no address?" "So far as I am aware . . . none." "Strange, isn't it, for the head of a big business and his secretary both to go away in this manner?" "I suppose it is." Old Hughes spoko wearily. "Mr. Noel has been rather worried, lately, I think, and'needed a change." "Worried about what?" 1 "Am I obliged to answer that?" "Not unless you like. But if you want to help Mr. Noel . . ." "Nothing's happened to him. I hope, Inspector ?" "I hope not. Mr. Noel had business I think with a Mr. Bristow?" "That's what's been worrying me, sir. Private detectives mean trouble.'' "Can't you* give me a line. Mr. Hughes? Private detectives and these sudden holidays. I want to fit 'em in ii I can. There's a small paragraph in the evening papers about a man being found murdered in the Rochdale Canal and the Yard are making inquiries. One line of inquiry passes through this office."

"Not Mr. Noel, sir? 1 haven't had time to look at a paper. We're shorthanded. what with Miss Freyne and the chief—and my shipping clerk left this morning. . ." The inspector smiled, curiously. "Quite an exodus from Cotsfords. eh? 1 suppose your shipping clerk left no address either. But we're getting away from the point. Try to think what has been worrying Mr. Noel."

Henrv Hughes sat tapping his fingers nervously on the desk top. Discretion where the firm's serrcts were involved wjis second nature to him. Hut Mr. Noel and this talk of murdered men . . . discipline must be relaxed.

.. "Business worries. Inspector. There's been a lot of under-cutting lately. Especially in brocades and heavy silks in which our firm specialises. You'll thiijk me r- fool. Inspector, but I'm wondering whether the big prices obtained for the luxury lines of goods I mentioned just now hasn't brought smuggling into practice again?" "Running cargoes, d'you mean? Storvbook stuff?" "That's one wav. but I don't mean quite that. But what with wireless and motors and all that . . . seems to me to be sort of easy. Smash-and-grab raids have been revived by the use of the motor-car. and I thought some of those bandits might. . . but it's only an idea of mine."

"What cave you the idea, Mr. Hughes ?" A moment's pause. Then: "There's been a curious-looking individual about the place lately." The inspector grinned. "Kings in his ears and pistols at his belt, eh?" "Now .you're laughing at me. sir." "Sorry. Go on, Mr. Hnghes." "A man asking for Mr. Noel. I've thought sometimes that Mr. Noel might be being blackmailed. I've seen the man out there in the passage waiting for Mr. Noel. 1 saw him one day lurking—that's the only word for it, Inspector, lurking—outside Mr. Noel's chambers in Kniahtsbridge. A nastylooking fellow with a snarl like a dog . . . if you know what I mean." (To bo continued daily)