IS THIS REVENGE?

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22320, 18 January 1936, Page 15 (Supplement)

IS THIS REVENGE?

By LEONARD R. GRIBBLE Author of "The Grand Modern* Murder," "The Gillespie Suicide Mystery.*' The Case of tho Marsden Rubies.**

AN EXCITING MYSTERY NARRATIVE

CHAPTER Vll.—(Continued)

" Mannering, I've got you 1 Got you, And now- it's my time to laugh and yours to squirm! Well, I'm going to give you time—plenty of time to squirm, as your heart rises up in your throat and jour lungs crack up. Hal ha I You're going, to take your fill of something to-night, Mannering, that'll stand you in rare stead where you're going." Again . that half-smothered laugh trembled through the dark dampness of the room. Slade made a final effort to make the other understand liis mistakb. " You fool, I'm not Mannering—l'm a Yard man ! You'll regret—" His protest was smothered as a gag was forced between his teeth. "A Yard man! Ha! ha! That's a good one, Mannering. You've been many things in your time, but not a snoop before. So I've made a mistake, have I, and roped in a nasty meddlesome detective? Well, well, well!" The short laugh that terminated this speech was hoarse and throaty, and Slade had an instinctive feeling that the man was carefully choosing his words and deliberately emphasising some of them, as though anxious to leave an impression* Of what? Of his voice? Then those deep tones and that guttural chuckle were a fake? But why should the man conceal his identity from the supposed Mannering? Presumably, having taken all these pains to level scores with his enemy, and having decided to square accounts for good, he would reveal himself and crow his success. The rope was now being hitched round a bar of the chair back. There was a sharp creak and a sudden wrench,

to enable him to slip one foot through. The strain on his knees stopped suddenly, and, lying sideways on the floor, he brought them as close to his chin as he could. When he relaxed the tautness round his chest and waist had been eased considerably. Feverishly he wriggled his way to the wall again, dragging the chair with him. With his elbows pressed against the wainscot, he once more brought his knees up to his chin, and this time his freed ankles caught on the rim of the chair's seat. He clenched his t«eth and pressed downward steadily, the rope seeming to bite into the very muscle of his arms. The pain was excruciating, but he stuck it, for the smell of gas was now almost overpowering. Slowly the creaking seat of the chair yielded, its joints springing with reluctance, and little by little Slade worked his heels farther on to the woodwork. With hot pains shooting up from his lacerated arms to his neck and head, Slade rammed his feet down in a final desperate kick. The joints opened, bulged, and the next instant the detective's feet shot into space, the seat of the chair torn from its frame. For several minutes he lay there exhausted; then he clambered to his feet, hurriedly freed himself of the slack coils, ripped off the gag, and, holding his breath, groped towards the gas-jet. He found it, turned the tap, and stumbled across tho room in the direction of the door. It had not been locked.. Slade staggered into the cool mustiness of the dark hallway and gratefully refilled his Lungs. For several minutes he sat on the stairs rubbing his limbs and neck. Then he remembered the sounds of scuffling he had heard. He paused outside the door of the room next to that in which he had been imprisoned. A faint wrenching sound came to his ear, and a sound like a muffled moan. The next moment he had burst open the door and was feeling his way across the room in the darkness, directed by the sounds of struggling.

and the detective knew that his captor was drawing the rope close in a knot. "Now you're set, Mannering. But nothing like you will be when your internals turn black and you swell up. Carbon monoxide's great stuff for making a man swell. Ha! ha! ha!" A swirling giddy sensation raced above Slade's eyes. Carbon monoxide! . . . Tlien he meant to turn the Setting his jaw, the detective tried to shake his head clear and frown away the throbbing at his temples. The thin ray from the man's torch crept round the room. Slade's eves followed it; saw a white circle of light play round the tap of a gas-jet, and a gloved hand stretch out to turn the tap. The silence was broken by a thin hissing, which was suddenly drowned in a low laugh. "Bye-bye, Mannering. You'll be able to stick it for quite a few hours, and it'll last. I've filled the meter with coppers. But when they find, you you won't be worth the picking up!" The door opened and closed, and a few seconds later Slade heard footsteps in the next room. He thought he caught sounds of a scuffle, but could not be sure; the gag had been passed over his ears. Minutes slipped by, and then came the slamming of the front door.

He blundered upon some one tied to a chair ... a woman . . . his hands touched long, silky hair and a smooth face. Unsnapping his pocket-knife, he slashed through the rope and slit the gag. "Quick!" he muttered, his breath coming shortly, for the giddy sensation was swarming back upon him. Holding her by the arm, he guided her to the door, and a minute later they were in the street. Under the first lamp-post they came to he paused to regard his companion. His eyes suddenly bulged with amazement. " Good—good Lord! Miss Eklimakos!" CHAPTER Vm. LINES OF INVESTIGATION Before parting from the murdered theatre manager's sister, Slade procured some refreshment for her in the buffet at Victoria Station, and accepted the opportunity of taking down her statement. There was nothing particularly intriguing about it, -At about five-arid-twenty minutes to eight a stranger had called at 27 Ganchester Gardens and asked to see her. He had offered her a note purporting to come from some one who had been on friendly terms with her brother, and who, according to the note, could help her to solve the riddle of his death if she would follow the bearer. She had hesitated at first, but more because the stranger had not urged her to go with him she had stilled her qualms and had agreed to accompany him. He had had a taxi waiting outside, and within a few minutes of his calling they had driven off together. Neither had spoken for some little while, until at last she had inquired who had written the note. For answer he had merely laughed. At that she had grown alarmed, and tried to stop the taxi. But before she could utter a sound a handkerchief smelling very sweet and sickly had been thrust in her face, and she remembered nothing more until she came to in that dreadful room, to find herself pinioned to a chair and gagged. Fixing a time for her arrival at the mortuary the next morning, he saw her into a taxi, and then made his way to a telephone booth. Three minutes later he rehooked the receiver and came out of the booth with a dark frown creasing his forehead. Mannsring had not turned up at the Greville Club that night. Slade paced the length of the station several times, ruminating upon this. Mannering had ordered the taxi to the Greville. Why had ho changed his mind? Was he afraid of something? Had he come to the Yard because he knew that danger was spread before his feet? . . . And was he wavering, hesitating what to do? Slade was at the Yard by eight o'clock the next morning, and by 20 minutes past he had brought his casebook up to date and was preparing a schedule for the day. At twenty minutes to nine Clinton came in, passed

The strong, acrid smell of the gas grew stronger. In desperation he struggled at his bonds. By raising his shoulders he eased the pressure on his wrists and lifted his knees a little, but his elbdws were firmly secured. The sound of the gas spurting from the invisible jet sounded uncannily clear. He wriggled sideways and tried to slip one of his feet out of its shoe, but failed. Perspiration collected on his forehead and trickled into his eyes. The gag became suddenly stifling, and as he exerted himself its knot dug into the nape of his neck with the pressure of a tourniquet. His head reeled. The gas he had swallowed was making him feel sick, and his wrists were smarting from the chafing of the rope. All at once an idea flashed into his clouding mind. The next moment he had lurched himself more or less uppn his feet, his body bent under the chair. Swaying from side to side, he commenced to hop toward the wall. Ihe operation needed a great deal of care, for the slightest loss of balance would have 6ent him topling headlong. However, at length he leaned against the wall, sweat Dreaking from every pore on his body. Then, slowly, he tilted the chair backward, easing tho weight on his chest, and, with an effort, managed to get his feet on to the rung of the chair. Jabbing at the wall with his fingers, he exerted every ounce of strength he possessed. Tho chair swayed forward and downward, and as the front legs reared he struck savagely at the rungs with his feet. The next moment, with a sound of snapping wood, the chair toppled~over, bringing Slade to the floor with a crash. But be had broken tho rungs, and now had greater play with his feet. Wriggling strenuously, he soon had the rope round his ankles sufficiently loose

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to his chief tho dossier on Harry Eklimakos that he had obtained from the Aliens' Registration Department, and the two fell to enlarging their notes and defining lines of investigation. By nine o'clock four mon had been detailed special jobs bearing on the case, had received instructions and had departed. There were not many tears shed in St. George's mortuary that morning. Marata Eklimakos stepped up to tho table on which reposed the mortal remains of Harry Eklimakos, glanced at tho now composed features, nodded abruptly to Slade, and moved aside. Larkins, the dead man's manager, lingered probably fifteen seconds longer; then he, too, nodded to the detective and moved aside. The coarse linen sheet was replaced by a melancholy-faced hospital official, and the three returned to the land of the living. " I sha'n't keep you more than three minutes," said Slade to the other two, leaving them in a small waiting room. Within that time he was back, having learned from the inquiry office what arrangements had been made for tho inquest and what instructions had been sent to the hospital by the coroner. " No, Mr. Larkins, I don't think there is anything fi»'her I have to ask you at the moment, i—er—didn't think the tone of this morning's report would be likely to affect your new revue." He was watching the manager closely. The other shrugged his shoulders with complete nonchalance. "One can't say, Mr. Slade. One can't say. It's all a question of luck in the profession, you know. What the public takes into its head to do it's impossible even to guess. But I must admit I was pleased the reports were not—er—how shall I put it?—not more suggestive."

There was no need to continue the theme. Slade bade the manager good morning, and returned to the sister. " Now. Miss Eklimakos, if you do not mind, I'll come along to Ganchester Gardens with you. There are one or two

questions I have to put to the servants, and there are several items I should like to check up." Seated once more in the dead man's dark-shaded library, Slade cross-ex-amined the sister on points arising out of the summary he had prepared for the inquest and the notes he had taken on the previous night's adventure. But her story remained essentially the same. From the kitchenmaid and cook he received nothing new, and his only reason for questioning them again was to fix definitely in their minds the answers they would surrender at the inquest. From the second maid—the one who had opened the door to him on the day before —he received a mild shock. As she answered his first question he recognised her voice as that unknown who had spoken to him when he had taken the phono call in Mannering's hall. At once his suspicions were aroused. That this girl was the person who had rung up Mannering's flat ho had not a doubt. At the time tho voice had sounded familiar in some way, and now he was sure. Carefully, as though proceeding through a list in his notebook, he questioned her upon household routine, upon her own hours of leisure, visitors, people who had been in the habit of ringing up her master, and then, among a string of fictitious names, he included Mannering's. Tho girl, after tendering replies to the first question identical with those she had given the day before, calmly denied any knowledge of the persons ho had named. He went over the list again, one by one, as though particularly anxious for her to make sure. She waited patiently, unflurried, shaking her head at each question. When Slade had completed the list ho dismissed her.

" Cool as ice, and a clear-thinking little liar," he thought, as tho door closed on tho maid.

Before leaving ho took tho opportunity of asking tho mistress what agency had recommended the maids. Tlie matter had been referred to the cook. The first maid and the kitchenmaid had come from different agencies, but the maid in whom Slade was most interested had, significantly enough, secured her position by personal application.

Back at the Yard, Slade found that Clinton was still out, but was told that a visitor was waiting to see him. The man had not given his name, but had been waiting the better part of three-quarters of an hour. Turning into tho waiting room, the detective pulled up short. Seated on one of the benches, looking very agitated, was Jorst. As soon as the man saw Slade he sprang to his feet and moved forward. "Oh, there you are, sir!" Ho sounded suddenly relieved. " Yes, Jorst, what is it?" " It's the master, sir. I think something's happened. I don't—" "What!" exclaimed Slade, starting.

The man shuffled his feet, and one hand rinsed the other. His soldierly appearance had evaporated; his eyes were now wide and anxious.

" Well, you 6ee, sir, it's like this here. Mr. Mannering didn't come home last night—" " Didn't come home!" ejaculated the detective, striving with the suspicion that was growing in his mind. "No, sir. I waited up until about three o'clock. Then I had a doze in the sitting room. Somehow I didn't want to go to bed. You see, Mr. Mannering's never kept what you might look upon as very late hours. Well, 1 woke at quarter-past seven. The fire was nearly out, and 1 could see that lie hadn't been in." "Yes?" said the detective impatiently, as the man paused. "Then about half-past eight I gets this in the post." Ho drew from his pocket a postcard, one of the kind issued at all postoffices, with a stamp printed in the top right-hand corner. On it was written: "Could not get back last night. If possible will phone in the morning. Nothing; serious so far." C.D.M. Slade glanced at the postmark. The card had been posted in the E.C.4 district some- time before 9.30 ou the previous evening. "What is the meaning of that 'Nothing serious so far'?" ho asked. Jorst moistened his lips. "That was what puzzled me, sir. I couldn't make it out until ho got through on the phone." "When was that?" "Just before ten to eleven." "Well, what did he say? Hurry on with it, man. I want to know what brings you here." Jorst made an effort to brace his slack shoulders. His glance was bewildered. "He said he had been followed by someone. Who it was ho couldn't say ; but he had tried to slip him by getting on a bus that went along Holborn. Then in a traffic hold-up ho had got off, slipped down Warwick Lane, into Paternoster Row, and so had got dut on to Ludgate Hill. Ho had spent a couple of hours in a restaurant and then written the card. Ho usually keeps one or two in his wallet, sir. When he got outside the restaurant he saw the person who had been following waiting on the other side of the road. So he made up his mind to take another bus, and try to give the man the slip in the Whitechapel Road district. He said he dare not have made his way back to Braith Place, because his pursuer would have followed. Well, when he got off the bus it seems he lost himself, but he didn't get rid of the man who was trailing him. He stuck to him until they got down by the river. Then he opened up with a revolver. Ho got Mr. Mannering in the left shoulder and irf the right leg, and —that's all I know, sir." "What do you mean?" demanded Slade sharply. "Why, that's all, sir," repeated Jorst nervously. "Just as ho got to that point, about being shot in the leg and shoulder, the phono suddenly stopped." "Stopped?" "Yes, sir. I waited half an hour for him to get through again. You see, he hadn't said where he was or anything. And —and then I came here." CHAPTER IX DEPARTMENT x2 AT WOBK Half an hour later Jorst signed a typewritten statement and left the Yard, and the chief of Department X2 set himself to tackle a bundle of waiting correspondence. Among the letters he dictated were one to the coroner who would hold the inquiry on the morrow and another to Messrs. Judson, Flannan, Trench and Judson, the dead man's solicitors, „ who had sent in a formal request for information regarding the tragedy. Having cleared decks to some extent, Slade was about to bring his case-book up to date when one of his plain-clothes men entered. " Well, Polton, what's the luck?" The plain-clothes man took off his hat and unbuttoned his coat before producing a sheaf of paper from his jacket. " Nothing that'll put us very far forward, I'm afraid sir." " All right. Snoot it, then." " Miss Gertz has a flat in South Kensington, 10 Claymen Terrace. One maid, who sleeps in, and there's a woman who calls every morning to do the heavy work. She's been there now nearly nineteen months, having come from the Regal Hotel, Southampton Row. Before that, as far as I can get, she'd been occupying rooms in Hampstead somewhere. But I haven't been able to check that. On the afternoon of the murder she left the theatre at twenty minutes to five "

" Wait a minute," said Slade. " Let me see now." He consulted his casebook. " All right, Polton. Eklimakos left at twelve minutes to five. Go on."

" She went straight to a dressmaker's in Bond Street. The place closes at six, and she got there just before ten to. Madame Janquille, who owns the establishment, attended to Miss Gertz herself She left the shop about a quarter-past six as near as I can place it. Madame Janquille had a taxi brought to the door for her, and remembers her saying " Knightsbridge " as she got in." "That all?"

" That's all I've got for certain, sir. She's believed to have relations in Vienna. And once, according to the maid —this was shortly after the fiat at Kensington had been taken—a letter had been forwarded on from the Regal Hotel addressed to Fraulein Duss, or some such name as that. The girl couldn't remember exactly how it had been spelt." " Duss!" repeated Slade. " Why-—" He broke off, his hand pressing back a leaf of the book in front of him. Duss —Dohss .... Could it bo that the letter had been addressed to " Fraulein Dohss?" That would mean that she had left that name at the Regal . . . but it would also mean that Ananda Gertz and the young violinist were related. . . . Possibly brother and sister. . . .

Slade frowned broodingly at his blotter. If that was the case, then the brother and sister had had a quarrel recently. The detective remembered the brusque way in which the young man had rushed into the actress's dressing-room and the warning look on her face as he had crossed the room, a look that had silenced him. ... "A nice boy is Kurt Dohss. . . ." The house-'phone buzzed. Slade picked up the receiver, while Polton turned toward the window.

" Hallo! Yes. Oh, send him straight

up!" He replaced the 'phone receiver on its hook.

" Sergeant Farrar'e just come in, Polton. We'll see what he has to report. If I'm not mistaken you'll be joining forces with him shortly." The door opened, and Detective-Ser-geant Farrar entered and saluted. " Anything exciting, Farrar?" asked Slade, as the sergeant nodded to Polton and in turn produced his notes. (To bo continued on Saturday next)