IS THIS REVENGE?

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22344, 15 February 1936, Page 13 (Supplement)

IS THIS REVENGE?

By LEONARD R. CRIBBLE Author of **Tho Grand Modena Murder," "The Gillespie Sulcldo Mystery," " Tho Case of the Marsden Rubies." ,

AN EXCITING MYSTERY NARRATIVE

CHAPTER Xll.—(Continued) Irvin, the plain-clothes man who had been stationed at tho house in Hinkley Street, had resumed his vigil at eight o'clock that morning, and at a quarterpast twelve ho had telephoned through a negative report. Polton, who had been set to watch the Eklimakos' maid, Lucie Hope, had also telephoned through about an hour after the close of the inquest. Ho had followed tho maids to the court, and had scoured a seat in the fourth row from the front. After the closing of tho proceedings lio had waited outside for the maids to appear. They had left in the large landaulet with their mistress. Polton had followed them back to Ganchester Gardens in a taxi, and had then telephoned up headquarters from a public call-box. He had added that he had thought he saw Miss Gertz, tho actress, in the audience. She had had a large green silk scarf round her throat. "Listen, Clinton," said Slade. "I wanted to be suro just how much damage had been done to Eklimakos before ho arrived at the flat. So this morning I asked Clyde. I didn't tell him the facts, of course. Well, he looked surprised, to say the least." Blade leaned forward, and his gaze was hard. "Eklimakos wni/ wounded only once—by the bullet that killed him. There wasn't another wound on his body. Our chap Sawkins, confirmed what he said. Now, what do you make of that?"

crossed under his averted face. Slade stared hard at the corpse. . . What did it all mean? Why had it been necessary to kill Blass? Had he known too much —or had he said too much? From the impression he had gained on the only occasion he had spoken to the man he judged this latter not likely. Or had tho motive been robbery ? Had Blass been the custodian of something—probably belonging to Eklimakos —which someone else had desired . . .which someone else had found it important that they should possess? Had the same hand killed Blass that had murdered Eklimakos? When he brought his eyes back to the doctor's face there was no doubt in the Yard man's mind. "Was death instantaneous, doctor?" Dr. Winchcombe's face crinkled, and a large hand stroked his blue chin. " I cannot say for sure without a more detailed examination, Inspector. He was struck twice; but whether the second blow followed soon after the first, or whether an interval lapsed between them, 1 am unable to say. However, if the first blow did not cause death the second certainly did." " How long had he been dead when you examined him?" " About an hour and a-quarter." " Where was the blow delivered?" " On tho base of the occiput. The surface of the weapon was very smooth, for there is no brasuro." ,■ " Yet, there's blood on the floor." " Yes; from the nose and throat. A very full-blooded man." " Thanks. There's nothing you can tell me about the person who struck the blow —physique or height?" " Oh, one would not have to be abnormally strong to kill a man with such a blow. But one would have to know where to strike, certainly; he

Clifton stared. Suddenly ho brought his fist down on his desk with a thud. "Then Jorst —"

"Jorst, I am convinced, told tho truth. There was fresh blood on Eklimakos' shirt-front. But it wasn't his own blood!"

The sergeant sat back in his chair, and the tense expression faded from his eyes.

"This has got me beaten to the wide," he confessed dismally. "If it wasn't his own blood —then whose was it?" Slade laughed without mirth. "That's part of the main question, Clinton. Tell me that and I'll be crying 'Warm 1' " A constable knocked and entered. "The Chief's in now, sir." Slade rose. • "Thanks, Webb." Then to the sergeant: "I'll bo back in a few minutes, Clinton, and then you can get that wireless message off." Three minutes after Slade had left the room the telephone rang stridently. Clinton picked up the receiver. When he replaced it on its arm his face was grim, and there was a glint in his eyes that hinted at something serious. "Good heavens!" he muttered. . . * Slade came into the room with a spring in his step. "The Chief's in rare fettle, Clinton. Get that message off within the next half-hour, and the prints can—Why, what—" j, He stopped short. He had seen Clinton's face. "A telephone message came through soon after you'd left the room, Bir. Someone's croaked that fellow Blass." CHAPTER Xin ' AN EMPTY DRAWEE Inspector Lunn explained tho situation as he comprehended it, introduced Slade to the police surgeon who was present, a Londoner, Winchcombe by name, and then, after giving the constable on guard in the corridor a few instructions, bade the Yard man good afternoon and took his leave —if the truth were known, thankful to be out of the affair so easily. When tho door had closed upon the departing inspector, Slade turned to tho doctor. "You say he was struck by a blunt instrument, doctor," he began tersely, evidently anxious to get to grips with his task. "From what position did his assailant strike the blow?" "From behind, Inspector. Ho fell, I take it, where you sco him now." Slado's glanco followed the doctor's. Lying on a crumpled heap on tho oflico floor, in front of the open safe, was tho body of Ludwig Blass, his arms

bad a very thick skull. As for height, I should say a person of average height." " Thank you, doctor." Slade next spent a quarter of an hour examining the surface of the table, the ink-stand, the counter, the counter door, and the door leading into the corridor, the chairs, and the door of the safe for fingerprints. At length he closed his pocket-lens and straightened his back. "Might have known he'd have worn gloves." Dr. Winchcombe said nothing. Next the Yard man sorted over the papers on the desk, scanned the unfinished sheet in the typewriter, and rummaged in the waste-paper basket; but again .drew blank. Then he returned to the safe, and kneeling down, rolled the body over. Under tho dead man's collar, and adhering to the still warm skin, his lens revealed a few grains of some gritty substance. More grains were caught in the hair at the base of~the battered skull, and a thin trickle of tho tiny yellow-white particles had spread along the floor at the corner of the safe. " Sandbagged," was his verdict as ho rose; " and a couple of mighty hard coshes, too, for some of the stitches gave way." » "An amateur?" inquired Dr. Winchcombe, compelled by etiquette to reveal some interest. "Yes—or he wouldn'l; have used silver sand." Slade gathered together the loose limbs, ran his hands oyer the body, looked through the pockets, and then came back to tho centre of the room. " Let's see, who was it who discovered the body? Oh, that typist." He crossed to tho door and hailed the constable who stood outside. Three minutes later a tearful, white-faced girl of about eighteen was ushered into the room and behind the counter. She threw a frightened glancq in the direction of the safo, but Slade had placed a faded screen in front of it. " I believe you first discovered the tragedy, Miss—er " "Bloomfield, sir—Margaret Bloomfield." She nodded, still fascinated by the screen and what it hid. " Well, now," said tho detective kindly, " I want you to tell me how it came about Miss Bloomfield. I will not

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keep you long," he added reassuringly, for it was plain that the girl was again on the verge of tears. She sat down, and for a few seconds contemplated the hankerchief she had bound tightly round her finger. " You see, sir, Mr. Blass being on his own, we had an arrangement whereby [ got the tea for our office, room number thirty-four, just across the'corridor, sir—l generally poured him out a cup, too. I used to put his cup and saucer with our things and they were all washed up together. AVell, I'd taken the tea into our office to-day as usual and come over with Mr. Blass' cup. Well" —here her story became punctu.ated with long sobs —"at first I though he'd gone out. And I considered it funny, because before he had always let me know. I had put the saucer on the counter, and was wondering whether or not to leave it, when I chanced to look at the floor on the other side of the room. And —and then I saw him. ..." "What is the name of the firm you are employed by, Miss Bloomfield?" asked the detective as he led the girl to the door. "The Spencer-Hills Rubber Plantations, Limited, sir. I —l'm the youngest typist in the office." "And what was the time when you brought Mr. Blass' tea over?" "As near as T can say, sir, it was about six minutes past four. You see, I had had to pour out the tea for our office, and the kettle had taken longer to boil to-day." Slade returned to Dr. Winchcombe. "She was in here about six minutes past four, doctor. Now, let's see, you were here when would you say?" "About twenty-seven minutes past. I came over with Lunn as soon as the 'phone-call was received." "Well, now, you say the body had been lying there - for an hour and a quarter when you arrived. That places the crime at twelve minutes past three." The doctor nodded. "Now, let's presume the criminal took twenty minutes getting what ho was after. That would leave the body hero for halt an hour before Miss Bloomfield came in with the tea. H'm, it's narrowing it down. Let's see, the offices mostly close at six. Well, that's fortunate. There are two floors below this and the commissionaire. Ought to be able to get through that lot by sijf." A couple of importunate reporters were being sturdily repulsed by the constable in the corridor. At the sight of Slade, whom both recognised, they ceased their arguments. "Anything to do with the Hyde Park case, Mr. Slade?" asked one. Slade waved a hand abruptly. ' "I can't make any statement for another three-quarters of an hour."; If you like to sit on, well I may have news—and, again, I may not." The Pressmen grinned, scenting a good story. "We'll wait all right, Mr. Slade." However, Slade was in no very amiable temper when twenty-five minutes later he returned along that corridor with the Swindon House commissionaire in tow. His inquiries at the various offices on the first three floors had not procured any assistance. No one engaged in them had noticed or had heard of a stranger scanning the office doors, nor had anyone been accosted by such a stranger. It had been a slight hope, Slade realised, but that was all. The man had evidently learned the position of Eklimakos' office some time before. With the liftman also he had succeeded in getting only suggestions, and then the commissionaire had returned from some errand, and a few questions had elicited the comment that he "usually keeps a close eye on strangers." At the head of the third-floor corridor a little knot of office workers who were discussing -the tragedy in awed undertones fell silent as the Yard man and the commissionaire approached. "That's him —that's Slade himself," one muttered excitedly. "The one who's in charge of this Hyde Park murder. I once saw a photo of him in a magazine. He's the man who solved the murder at the Grand Modena in August. I wonder what he's got up his sleeve?" Slade scowled as ho hurried past the reporters' smiling countenances, and slammed the office door. Dr. Winchcombe had a quarter of an hour before taken his leave. "Now, Tinford," commenced the detective after the commissionaire had sat down and ho himself had taken out hiß notebook, "let's get this thipg straightened out a bit. You were at lunch from half-past twelve to halfpast one. Is that right?" "Yes, sir." Robert Tinford, sometime sergeant of the Buffs, stroked his hirsute upperlip with the only hand the Germans had left him, and regarded the Yard man with complacent eyes. "From half-past one to two o'clock you were gone on an errand " "I was back by seven minutes to two, sir." "Very good. Then until half-past two you were on the fifth floor?" "Yes, sir. Three separate offices are being made into a suite, and the electricians had come to make a sketch of the wiring arrangements. They were finished by twenty past; but I was wanted by Mr. Bute, on the sixth floor, and Miss Simpson, the secretary to Sir Georgo Brunogg, the chairman of the Irish Providential Assurance Company. Their offices are on the fourth floor. ' Slade noted with relief that Tinford had a clear brain and a good memory. "But you were down in the street by half-past?" "Oh, yes, sir. I make it a habit to remember the times I take up my post outside." (To be continued on Saturday next)