THE LORD OF TERROR

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXII, Issue 22240, 15 October 1935, Page 17

THE LORD OF TERROR

By SYDNEY HORLER Author of " The Secret Agent." " 5.0.5.," " Tho Spider's Web," etc.

(COPYRIGHT)

an enthralling story, packed with thrills and adventure

CHAPTEIt Xll.—(Continued) Why—this was from her! From Mary!! From Mary!!! He told himself that he recognised her handwriting at once, forgetting meanwhile that ho had not previously seen any specimen of it. And so it proved, although the contents were very different from what he imagined they would be. "Djar Johnny" (ran the top sheet), " This came by post this evening. What does it mean ? Do take care of yourself." It was signed "Mary." At this point Gcvcr took upon himself to re-enter the room.

"I'm most terribly sorry, Johnny, but 1 entirely forgot to give you a message last night." "Oh?" The reporter was abstracted. "Yes, a lady rang up—a Miss Carruthers—and said that 1 was to be sure to tell you she had posted you a very important letter." "I appear to have got it, George," was the slowly-spoken comment. "Here, read it; there's no secret, and I should like vour advice." ,

George Cover took the typewritten sheet and read: " Dear Miss Carruthers, "I should have thought that a girl of your intelligence would have gathered something from your experience last night. As apparently that did not convey sufficient to you, let me send you this warning: have. nothing further to do with Mr. John Oardell, exreporter of the Daily Whim. If you do so, the consequences may be painful. "Yours faithfully, "A Friend." "It's a joke, Johnny," declared Gover when he had como to the end. "A joke, eh? Well, it's a funny sort of a joke. Here, I must get dressed . . . Oh, never mind about breakfast . . . I've got to get over to Archer Street." But when ho arrived at that highlydepressing thoroughfare he was told by a prim-faced landlady that Miss Carruthers had already gone to the office. A telephone call to the headquarters of James van Dressier elicited the information that Miss Carruthers could not be called* to the telephone as she was engaged. A supercilious voice r inquired: "Can I take any message?" "No thanks," replied Johnny curtly. This was not the sort of information to be passed on to a third party. Back at the flat—he had returned to Hart Street in a sort of unconscious maze —lie. ate his breakfast mechanically and was wondering what he could do" with himself until twelve o'clock (he wouldn't be with Wargrave very long, because he was determined to see Mary as she came out of her office at one o'clock), when Gover announced a visitor. For one wild, delirious moment he hoped it might be . . . And then he found himself looking into the face of a middle-aged man who appeared to be regarding him with more than passing interest. "Mr. Cardell, I believe?" paid the visitor. "That's right. Sit down. "I must apologize, Mr. Cardell, the visitor began in excellent English, _ for troubling you, but I have como with a business proposition." "Of what kind?" "I represent," the man said, a new firm of publishers. Here is my card, passing over a piece of pasteboard. Johnny looked at it without much interest and read: " Messrs. Olsen and Derwent, Publishers, 228-230 Norris Street, Hay market, S. W. 1." "We are a young firm just starting, Mr. Cardell. I," rising very unexpectedly and making his host a bow, am Mr. Olsen. I am looking for manuscripts— * "Itm a reporter, not an author." "I know. But so many journalists write books nowadays is it not so? Johnny flung his cigarette end into the grate. , ~ "Sorry, Mr. Olsen, but I'm afraid there's nothing doing as far as I'm concerned. How did you get to know about me in any case?" he demanded. In his present mood the fellow was beginning to get on his already over-taxed nerves. "You ask me how I came to know of you," replied the visitor; "but surely that is a superfluous question. Are you not alrcadv famous as a special writer on the staff of the Daily Whim?" "I've left the paper now." "Then .that is all the more reason why you should devote your energies and time to literature. What we want, Mr. Cardell," the speaker continued in a more rapid tone and with what seemed a rising title of excitement in his voice, "is a book on the present state ot affairs in Rbnstadt." Johnny stared. "Ronstadt?" he repeated. What do ]know about Ronstadt? Less than nothing, my dear man." " Yes—but I believe you have a friend, a Mr. Hugh Webber. My fellow directors and I thought that you possibly might collaborate, Mr. Webber " Wait a minute." Cardell cut the current off. Ho imagined he was beginning to see some kind of daylight. Hugh Webber! Was it possible that his \ isitor had any connection with the murder of his oldest friend? He decided to put the theory to the test. " Well, it's true that Mr. Webber is a great friend of mine and that he has recently been sent io 'Rondstadt to report on the present political position in that country." Having said so much, he waited. But not for long. " Then what I proposo should be easy," retorted the other, with what seemed to Johnny suspiciously like a leer, " You write to your friend Webber/ and get some course, the book must be at least eighty thousand words long, the standard length—and then you write the matter up in your own inimitable way.. We would be prepared to pay an advance of at least one hundred pounds, Mr. Cardell." Johnny told himself to keep his rising temper in check. He must get to the bottom of this business —nasty as it appeared to be. " Exactly what sort of stuff would you require, Mr. Olsen?" he asked. The man leaned forward.

" You are a journalist; you know tho sort of stuff that sells books. We want the real inside story of that ravaged nation. Wo want stuff that no journalist could print in his newspaper —tho kind of material that would bo censored if sent over the telegraph wires or by post." " I see. Well," rising, "you can go to blazes!" The man sprang up as though he were an automatic figure worked by electricity. " What was that you said, Mr. Cardell?" " You heard what I said: I told you to go to blazes. And look here—" He could not say any more. The conviction that this old-looking caller was possibly at the back of the threatening letter Mary had received roused him to a state of insensate fury. "Mr. Cardell!" The man looked the personification of outraged dignity. Suppose, after all. he had made a mistake? But ho couldn't boar the sight of the follow any longer. " You'd better go," he said. "If you didn't know it before—as I believe you did —lot me toll you that my pal Hugh Webber is dead—murdered. And what's more—"

He stopped. It was stupid to rant on like that. Presuming that the man was an enemy —presuming, that was, that he had some connection with that foul killing, he would only be giving himself away if lie said any more. " Clear out," he gasped finally.

The man picked up his hat and walk-ing-stick. " Your conduct is most extraordinary," lie stated. " I realise that you are in no state to discuss this matter further. I wish you good-morning." " But it may be," he said by way of a Parthian shot, "that someone else will prove snore amenable." Before Johnny could decide whether there was a covert threat in the words the door had banged.

I As he had anticipated, Norris Street, I Haymarket, did not contain any offices with the address of 228-230. That card had been a fake, just as the presenter had been an imposter. Turning away, Johnny almost collided with an extremely well-set-up young man, who smiled when he started to apologise. " You're Cardell, aren't you?" asked the other unexpectedly. " Yes. But—?" He was sick of being accosted by complete strangers. The other put a hand on his arm. "My name's Sinclair and I'm a friend of Sir Brian Fordinghame. I want to have a talk with you, Cardell. Where shall we go? My club's just round the corner —will you como?" There was something about the speaker which caused the frown between the reporter's eyes to disappear. 'Besides, the mention of the name " Sir Brian Fordinghame " acted as a passport! "I've got half an hour before I'm due in Fleet Street," he said. " Good enough; we'll get right along." In a secluded corner of the smoking room at the Junior Sportsman Club the two became better acquainted. " How did you know I was Cardell?" asked Johnny. " You'd better ring up Fordinghame," Sinclair suggested. " If you'll wait a minute I'll get him on the line.'' Had any doubt existed in Johnny's mind before, this suggestion on the part of the other man would have dissipated it, and further proof was forthcoming when he recognised the voice at the other end of the telephone wire. " This is Sir Brian Fordinghame," it said. " I understand you would like to speak to me, Mr. Cardell?" " Oh, I didn't want to trouble you, Sir Brian; it was Mr. Sinclair's suggestion." " Quite so; but, now that I've got hold of you, let me say that you need have no fear about trusting Sinclair in any one particular." " Very good, Sir Brian." " Good-byo." " Good-bye." Back in the corner, Johnny resumed his chair and became confidential. " You needn't have troubled to do that," he said. Sinclair waved his pipe. " It was necessary, my dear fellow— I might have been a crook. Now," without waiting for the otl.. to reply, "got any beans to spill?" " Plenty," was the answer. Without any more preamble, Johnny launched into his story. As lie progressed he noticed the Secret Service man's eyebrows lift. They went up still higher when Cardell produced from an inside pocket the letter he had received from Marv.

"You'd better read this,"-he said; "thero's nothing private in it." Sinclair handed it back after a steady perusal.

" A blind man could see what has happened," he summed up. " The plot starts with'-your pal Webber. He brings back something of valuo from Ronstadt, but friend Kuhnreich gets wind of it and telegraphs to an agent in London to have Webber put away. The fact that Webber dies in your flat makes you a marked man. O.K. so far?"

Johnny, absorbed, nodded. " All right, then. Now your lady friend enters the scene. And because she is a friend of yours, Miss Carruthers is a marked woman, just as you are a marked man. I'll have a word with the chief and see that someone is told off to look after you both. . . . What are you shaking your head about?"

" That's all right so far as Miss Carruthers is concerned, but—" And then he remembered how he had had to eat his words with the Scotland Yard detective. " We'll see about it so far as regards myself," he stated. " You'll want a few particulars about Miss Carruthers, I take it?"

Sinclair' nodded. " Very well. She works with the van Dressier crowd at Cornhill."

The Secret Servico man stopped writing.

" Do you mean James van Dressier, the millionaire?" " Yes."

The other whistled. " I suppose you know ho's a rum bid? Takes a passionate interest in ladies of one kind and another?" " Yes. I do know it —confound him!" returned the reporter—and then, looking at the clock on the wall, he held out his hand. " Sorry, but I must run," ho stated. " Got an appointment in Fleet Street at twelvo o'clock, and its five minutes past now. If you want me you know where I hang out." x " 0.K., brother," said Sinclair. "I'm at Albany myself. You know where that is?"

Cardell grinned. " Just around the corner from Vine Street —yes, I know it "

CHAPTER XIII ® JOHNNY TAKES OFFENCE All the way to work that morning Mary was taking mental guesses at the men by whom she was surrounded. Walking in the street, going down the escalator, sitting in the tube, emerging into the daylight again, thrusting her way through the crowds that thronged the busy Cornhill pavement—never once did the possibility leave her mind that her neighbour might be one of the gang who kept on threatening danger to Johnny Cardell and herself. Yet it was not on her own account that she was so nervous. No, it was of Johnny Cardell that she was thinking. Finally, by tho time she had reached the office, she had come to a decision; she must not see that very likeablo and good-looking young man again, because, if sho did so, she would bring some dire punishment upon him. Tho prospect was pretty appalling, but she had to force herself to faco it with courage. Work wa3 difficult that morning. Somehow or other the mental picture of tho reporter would get between her and the typewriter keys. Then Anthony Melksham appeared in the doorway. " Miss Carruthers!" he called. " Yes, Mr. Melksham?" " Air van Dressier wishes to see you immediately." When the narrow back was turned: " You know what I told you about watching your step, Mary?" " Mabel, don't be ridiculous." " I'm not being ridiculous —I'm just giving you the plain tip to keep your overcoat buttoned up." " All right, I shan't forget." " Good! Now run along to Mister Ogre." After tho bareness of the typing office, the private room of the million-aire-financier looked a haven of comfort and luxury. On the open hearth a wood lire was burning. Her employer rose as she walked toward tho big desk. " Good morning, Miss Carruthers." " Good morning, Mr. van Dressier." The swivel chair was swung round. "Sit there, won't you?" indicating the seat usually reserved for important callers. (To be continued daily)