The Man She Never Married

New Zealand Times, Volume LI, Issue 11738, 28 January 1924, Page 4

The Man She Never Married

By

Cora lie Stanton and Heath Hosken

' Authort of “ Throe Men Who Came, Back,** “ Sword and Plough,” ” The Beaten Trath»* A< , At.

, (COPY RIO HT.I

«"• CHAPTER XV.—(Continued). followed, during tho next half-hour or go, divers inquiries, telephonic and ntjierwMy with the result that Alonsi,nir Dearth’s chalet was identified ana located. It was called the OhaletT* Gilderov. and was apparently s’ small eight-roomed villa, with a garago ana a large pinewood wilderness of a garden oT three of four acres hidden away amongst the sand dunes of Hardelot, approached by a private road in a-bad state of repair. J& had_.beqn shut up for years, ever since thi.first .wpek of tho Great War —in fact, like so many of the villas in the vicinity. No one appeared '( have seen M. Dearth, nor did anyone know whether there was a caretaker atatho Chalet Gilderov. So many of those little summer pleasaunces were simply boarded up and deserted dur ing» the war and the aftermath of the ■war. The pinewoods and the dunes, and the plage were only just beginning to* awaken from their long swoon.

Theie was nothing for it but to go and make a personal investigation. So if- Velvet borrowed a large scale ™«]» and instructed his chauffeur whe, though he had been born in Boulogne and had, but for tho past three of fotfr years, lived there all his life, was siimularly ignorant of the region, in winch was hidden M. Dearth’s villa, hni they found it easily. A mors dflggited, derelict, pathetic place it •wau)U he difficult to imagine. It looked. as if it had not been occupied for years. The garden was a wilderness, the paths and the road approach were overgrown with a tangle of weeds, the h«nse was shuttered, and the paintwork on the shutters and doors was faded and peeling. The plaster-work WAS. in a shocking condition. Tiles were oft, the roof, and a general air of desertion and desolation reigned.

Yet one saw that onoe this had been a gay little house, with its red-tiled roof and its green shutters and doors, and it 3 ivory-yellow plastered walls, ana its black-painted woodwork The garden, too, had TJfeen well planned in terraces with delightful glimpses of the seia through the clumps of pine. “There was not a vestige of a sign of lifST The painted name of the chalet oiTThe faded white gate, which wa3 fastened by a rusty chain, was almost obliterated by sun and wind and weather.

was not locked. By man ; . pedaling the chain one was able to get the creaking gate open. Sand had blown into drifts everywhere, almost wiping out the road and. the tangled paths.

Mr Velvet regarded the scene with v unqualified disgust. This was drawing blank with a vengeance. . There was literally nothing doing. Judging by appearances, no one had been near the Chalet Gilderoy for years. The only 6ign of life was a rabbit, which scampered front a vent hole beneath the little raised concrete terrace by the dilapidated front door. •He left the chauffeur in rthe car, smoking—odorous - cigarettes and reading the fenilleton in the “Petit Parisian,’’ and disconsolately moved around the house.

This was going to lead him no further than where he was. There was rib queStiotf" about that.- -He tried doors, sßUtfiStt, latches, keenly observant, looking'Tor the fsMtbst sign of recent occupation? At the back of the house was an attached building, evidently a garage, <Jilapidated as the rest of the little property. But here it was that Mr Velvet stopped short and gave vent to an" expression of sifrprise as he bent down and picked up from the sandy path a half-smoked cigar—a cigar that had undoubtedly been smoked recently No old refuse this; dry, smelling of stale Havana. Mr Velvet’s eyes kindled, and the world took on a new aspect.

“Well, I’m hanged!” he said, chuckling with delight. “The first sign of life in this morgue of a place.” And Mr Velvet began to regard things with a suddenly-awakened interest. He inTestigated the rusty hinges of the gate, and his examination gave him much satisfaction. It was obvious that the gate had recently been opened on several occasions. He fell to a contemplation ' of the sandy drive, and called the chauffeur from the perusal of the story of love aild crime in “Le Petit Parisien” to give his opinion on half-obliterated wheel marks, with the result that they both of them came to the conclusion that a motor-car had passed in and out in the not-distant past. The chauffeur it was who suggested that there were considerable signs of an automobile on the road outside the gate. He discovered patches of oil and signs of a car turning. Mr Velvet investigated the garage in company with the chauffeur, who thoroughly entered into the spirit of the chase. The garage had most obviously not been occupied as such for a long time. The doors were bolted and the locks and bars were rusty. They looked into the interior through a cobwebbed window. It had the appearance of long neglect. . Then Mr Velvet’s spirits fell. After all, the recently half-smoked cigar—a good Havana, he judged it to be, and obviously thrown away before it was finished —did not mean so much. .. Then the chauffeur stumbled upon a really startling discovery. _ “Look here, m’sieu,” he cried, excitedly, rushing round from the hack qf the house. “Here is a door which is evidently often used—doubtless by the custodian. It is a door which appears to lead into the kitchen quarters. And there arc signs of a dog having been about. And there are odds and ends of matches and bits of paper.” He struck an attitnde. “Ah, m’sieu,” he said, “I always knew I was born to he a dotectivo. I have the keen eye. I observe tho little things that may mean so much. Ever sinoo I read ‘Monsieur Lecoq’ when I was a small hoy I have ever desired to be a detective. Observe, m’sieu, people have been here recently—but this very day, it seems. Hero is a torn piece of a newspaper, ‘The Scotsman.’" ft i» but four days old.” Velvet examined the torn piece of newspaper which tho chauffeur produced. This was certainty very extraordinary. 1 low on earth had a portion of a four-dav old “Scotsman” come to tho derelict Chalet Gilderoy in tho sand dunes of tho North of France? Velvet followed the chauffeur to tho kitchen door. Undoubtedly hero wero signs of recent life. He tried the door. It was lucked. He tried to get a glimpse through a small barred but unshuttered window, but the thick glass was frosted and nothing could be v- r:

“We must have a look inside,” said Mr Velvet. “M’sieu 1” exclaimed the chauffeur, dubiously. “But how oan it bo done?” Velvet took a general survey, followed like a faithful hound by the chauffeur. “We’ll try the door first of all,” said Velvet, producing a curious contraption from his pocket that looked at first sight a cross between a safety razor and a mole-trap. He experimented laboriously with skeleton keys. In vain. The lock gave. He turned it —open and shut. But the door was bolted—bolted from the inside. “Whioh means,” said the chauffeur, breathlessly, “that someone is in the house.” “Or,” said Velvet, in a positive ecstasy of professional excitement, “that there is some other exit.” That gave Anatole, whioh was the name of the chauffeur —Anatole Vernet, as he vouchsafed to Mr Velvet —cause to think deeply. “Mon dieu!” he gasped. “This is a thing which stupifiee me. This becomes most intriguing, does it not?” Air Velvet agreed. Aleanwhile he had his eve on a shuttered window just above' his head, the shutter of which appeared to be flapping slightly in the wind as if it had become loose from its fastenings. It may have been imagination and Mr Velvet certainly did not suffer from that —or it may have heen fact; but it seemed for a moment as if Air Velvet saw a tense, white face peering down at him from the aperture caused by the flapping shutter, a sinister, evil face. Be that as it may, Mr Velvet’s right hand slipped -under the tails of his coat and found his hip-pocket, and gripped a tubby Colt automatic, releasing the safety catch. “Look here, my friend,” he said to Anatole. “Get on my shoulders and see if you can open that window.” “But, certainly, m’sieu,” exclaimed Anatole, keen as punch. Then Mr Velvet suddenly changed his mind. No. Why should the impetuous Anatole get his brains blown out? It was nothing to do with him. It was Velvet’s job. He was used to taking risks. It was the life’s blood of him. If there was to be dirty business—well, he was the last to shirk it. Ignoble thought to put up the cheery Anatole to test the strength of the enemy. Perish the very idea. “Anatole, mon ami,” he said, “yon bend down. It is I who will do the burglary." Velvet found that the shutter opened easily, found also that the window was open. In a second he was over the window-sill and into a large bedroom but dimly lighted. He swept the room with a swift, trained glance. It was empty. There was nowhere where a man might hide, save under the bed. He looked under the bed. No one was there. He 'opened a big wardrobe. It was bare. A dank, musty smell of . empty and deserted looms pervaded everything. Furniture was covered with camva3 wrappers. CJarpets and rugs were rolled up. Pictures were swathed. Only one—a large fifteenth century Italian picture of the Flight into Egypt that looked as if it might he very valuable in its elaborate Florentine frame—■ loomed ghostly out of the gloom. ObvToufily the face behind the abut ters was a brick of the imagination. Mr Velvet turned and looked out of the window. Anatole was below looking upward with boyish eagerness. “Stand by,” said Velvot. “I’m going to make a tour of the house.” “Bien, m’eieu,” said Anatole. “I’ll go round and see that the automobile is all right.” Velvet, as was his wont, worked swiftly. He wasted no time over un-. essentials. He took in the details of each room in a flash. The plara was obviously unoccupied, but at tho same time nad Been kept clean and eared for. The contrast between the interior and the exfSrfor of the premises was quite Startling. Inside one might well imagine that the house had only recently been shut lip. Outside the appearance was that of a deserted ruin crumbling to its ultimate decay. He made a tour of the bedrooms and leacended a little staircase to a sort of vestibule from which led on either side a medium-sized room. Everything was dark. Furniture was covered in canvas wrappings. Packing cases stood on carpeted floors. Pictures and mirrors were swathed in wrappings. An all-pervading odour of musty, fusty dampness, slightly tinged with camphor, was everywhere. Yet everything was astonishingly neat and clean. There was no dust. It would seem that the place had only ]ust recovered from the meticulous care of a charwoman. Extraordinary and amazing incongruity. The garden a deserted wilderness. The bouse as clean as a new pin. And now he came to think about it, it was not so damp after all. It might have been lived in quite recently. Every now and then a curious smell assailed his nostrils. He was just like a terrier scenting a rabbit. He thought he smelt tobacco. Then a whiff of scent—curious fresh scent, like Hjoubigant’s Fougere Royale—thferr again a wave of something reminiscent of legal papers and sealing wax. Moet odd and most incomprehensible. It was on the ground floor that this feeling predominated. Downstairs the place seemed to have been more recently occupied. Upstairs in the bedrooms the musty, camphor, moth-destroyer odour prevailed. He crossed the little inner vestibule and observed a lot of circulars and letters on an old carved Breton sideboard and opened the door on his right. To his surprise he found a room showing every sign of occupation. The room was empty and plunged in gloom as the result of the closely shuttered windows but tho place was in marked and startling contrast to the rest of the house. It was apparently a library or study. A largo knee-hole table occupied the centre of the room which was surrounded by bookcases and had an unmistakeably English air in marked contrast to tho rest of the house, whioh was essentially French. He paused on tho threshold genuinely taken by surprise. It was very like a conjuring trick. It was so sudden. Then before ho could correct his impressions, lie heard a sound like a sharp metallic click immediately behind him, and swinging round he found himself gazing at the business end of a very large revolver held in the right hand of a tall fair-bearded man, who said quite quietly in English with a strong north-country accent. “Alay I be permitted to know who yen happen to be, and what you mean hy breaking into my house?” (To be continued.)