The Half-closed Door.

Otago Witness, Issue 3518, 16 August 1921, Page 47

The Half-closed Door.

By

J. B. HARRIS-BURLAND.

Author of “The Black Moon,” “The Poison League,” “The White Rook,” etc., etc. [CorriuGHx.] CHA P TER Xl.—(Continued). Susan Tread’s life had been full of surprises, as the life of such a- woman is bound to be. But this was the most astonishing thing that had ever happened. .No one but herself knew of t;ie existence of this letter. She had never threatened to make use of it. She had intended to make use of it when she was driven into a corner and forced to act in self-defence. She was as loyal as she believed Richard Belling to be loyal. And though the letter was an effective weapon it was two-edged. She could not make use of it without injuring herself. , And now someone had stolen it. And the worst of it was that quite six months had elapsed since she had even troubled to look at the contents of the enveione. The drawer was always kept locked, and she had hidden the key away in a small vase on the mantelpiece. Jane had been an excellent servant m manv ways, but she never touched a china ornament. Mil case, ma am,” as she had said, “it might come to pieces in mv ’and.” “Jane, said Susan aloud, and the sequence of thought was inevitable. Jane had taken her departure, and she had been replaced by a different type of woman altogether. Alice was very fond of dusting, but she had been told never to touch the two “valuable vases” on the bedroom mantelpiece. -• Susan (Toad lit another cigarette. Then she closed and locked the drawer, and replaced the key in the vase. It had been wrapped up in a piece of old newspaper. and in the other vase there was a similar piece of newspaper. It was made to seem as though someone had stuffed tile paper into the vases in order to reduce the risk of breakage. Susan’s mind, moving quickly, had at once fastened on Alice as the thief. There had been something suspiciously superior about Alice from the start. A detective, no doubt. But it was hardly likely that tire woman was in the employ of the police. It was almost certain that Richard Telling had given her this job. No doubt the woman had been looking for sometning else. But she had found a letter of interest to her employer. Well, cunning would have to be met by canning and not force. It was quite likely that Alice Vale still had the letter in her possession. And in that case it could be recovered. Susan (.Toad went to bed and slept soundly. The next day Alice was to have her afternoon and evening out. Susan Croad had no difficulty in finding the letter. A servant’s box is a poor affair m the hands of a woman who has learnt to break open a steel safe. The letter had not been destroyed. Susan went into the garden soon after it was dark and buried the box in a place where she could easily find it attain. There was no need to say anything to Alice Vale about the matter; but Alice Vale would have to be dismissed on some pretext or other. And some day, perhaps, it would be possible to punish Alice Vale. The opportunity for dismissal occurred that same evening. Alice was very late. In fact, she did not enter the house until a quarter to eleven. It was almost as though Alice Vale wished to be dismissed. “I can’t have this, Alice,” said Susan, choosing the kitchen as a battle-ground. “I dismissed my last servant for coming in late. Where have you been?” Alice was not apologetic. She was rude, and she had never been rude before during the fortnight she had spent at 12 I’ortelet road. “That’s my business, ma’am,” she said. “And it's mine as weT ” Susan answered sharply. “You’ll have to leave to-morrow.” “I shan’t be sorry.” And so they went at it hammer and tongs, in the usual and time-honoured fashion; but Alice Vale spoke with a i cool, almost lady like insolence that is not common among general servants. Susan Croad lost her temper, and, with it, her prudence. “You came her to steal,” she said, “and before you leave this bouse I’m going to know who sent you.” Alice replied to the effect that there was nothing worth stealing. Susan, however. was not afraid of Alice, for she was quite certain that the woman was I not in the employ of the police. She I was also certain that Richard Pellimr j had son; her—not. perhaps, to find those letters, but to spy upon her. She took a small revolver from her bag and laid it on the dresser, close to her righthand . “Look lure.” she said, “we've got to understand each other. When you go upstairs you’ll find that your box lias been opened. Well. I opened it—and t,i nk binl, what belonged to me. You know what you’re up against. I’m not. particular. I’d just as soon shoot von and say I’d fired at a burglar in the dark. You've got to own up or I'll kill von. I'm a nice lady, am 1 not?” Alice Vale collapsed into a chair by the kitchen table, covered her face with her hands, ami burst, into tears. Susan smiled contemptuously. “Tome, out with it ! " she said. “Who sent you to steal that letter?”

"ihe Boy,’ sobbed Alice. “No —not tho letter—he wanted something—some hold over you- in case you —you turned nasty.” "\ou liar!” said Susan, who wanted further proof of the truth. “It’s God’s truth." “And now you’re giving him away?” said Susan fiercely. “1 don’t want to be killed —ugh —you’re not a woman. You’re a- devil.' ’ ‘You lie, and I’ll kill you.” Alice Vale roused herself, fumbled in her bug, and threw /. letter on the table. “Dear Alice,” SDaii read. “Do this I for me, that’s a good sort. 1 only want I something definite —in case I’m attacked.” I here was no signature, but Susan recognised tne handwriting. " vi nut induced you to do this?” she asked. “Who are you? I've never heard ol you Lei ore.’ Alice \ aie explained who she was. She 1 had been a triced- a very great friend — or Richard Veiling s in the days beiore tiie war. idle knew all about the Bcxiable affair. Mie wanted to help Richard Belling to hoc himself from ins old associates. “Although he is married to another woman? ' queried Susan. “Married ?” queried the servant. “Yes, didn’t you know that? I can show you tiie cutting from the paper.” j She searched for it, muiid it, and thrust j it beiore .Alice Vale s eyes. "Married,” said .Susan Croad. “It 1 seems to me lie’s been playing a rotten ! game with you. ’ j Alice Vale started at the portrait of Richard Belling and his wife. | "I'm glad you caught me,” she said. | "He never told me this. 1 hate —oh, j how I hate him !” “Love is stilish alter all, isu t it?” I said Susan Croad. “Well, there’s no j harm done, Alice. But J think you’d 1 better leave as soon as possible. You I can say that you have failed.” j “Yes-—i hare failed. I’m 110 match I for you, Airs Croad. You won’t think ill of The Boy. will you? He was onlyacting in seif-defence. He never meant to betray his friends. But he was afraid. Of course, lie is afraid now he’s married, and out of it all.” Susan s lips closed into a thin line. “You’d better go to your bedroom,” she said, after a pause, “and pack your things. You can sleep here to-night, but you must leave to-morrow after breakfast.” Alice Vale did not move. “You won’t tell the others about The Boy?” she said. “I shall do exactly what i please. I don’t know much about you, but I can tell you that one or two of my friends would think nothing of choking- the life out of you. You’d best not meddle with affairs that don’t concern you. Get along to bed.” The girl burst into tears and left the kitchen. Busan shut up the house for the tire night and went upstairs to her bedroom. As she stated herself before her mirror and let down her hair she saw a white face and bright, triumphant eves. Bhe was not sorrv that this thing had happened. She was glad. Richard Pulling had laid himself open to attack. He had played her a very low trick, and lie should pay the penalty. It would not even be necessary for her to take any part in the punishment. She had only to withdraw her protection, and the others would deal with him; but for her instructions thev would have betrayed him long ago. It had been very difficult I to keep Jimmie from his throat.' Jimmie had been Idee a bloodhound tugging at the leash. They even suspected that Dick Belling had been too sharp for them in the matter of the Biindon’s safe. They needed no encouragement. It was merely a question of withdrawing her protection. I.ven the girl Alice Vale would not protect him. There had been no mistaking tiie look in Alice V ale’s eves when she had learnt that Belling was married. Certainly Belling had stooped very low to make use ol an old sweetheart in tins fashion. Alice Vale would help to destroy Belling. if any help were required. said Susan Croad to herself. “She mud be kept out of it.” Sim realised that she hated Alice Vale as much a- she hated Richard Belling. But -Alice Vale herself was yet another reason why Richard Belling' should be punished. It was an impertinence for a woman like that to be in love with the ‘' Boy.” The police were keeping a close watch over the members of the gang, but the hunted always have the ' best of the hunter, unless the hunter is armed with the power to strike. It was not wonderini. therefore, that Belor was able to leave Him rooms arid escape the vigilance of the man who was set to watch him. He was followed to the station, and entered a train just as it, was moving. | He smiled as he saw the attendant slam | a door in the pursuer's face. | Half an hour later he was on YV imblej don Common, in the woods that, fringe | Queen’s Mere, and there he found a j woman waiting for him. It was Alice I Va!t \ ‘A'.ell.' he said, when he had kissed i ihe girl. “lbs all right. Peter,” she replied, j ’ Susan ( ri ad s as mad as anything. She i won t stop you doing anything vou like j to Richard Belling.” " j “Never smelt a rat. eh?” i “Not she. She’s 100 clever by ball’ | that’s what she is. And. Peter, these 1 devor women are the easiest to fool. She I thinks I’m in love with Dick Belling, and | that’s made her madder than ever. She j won’t interfere with your game.” j “Not knowing.’’ Peter whispered, “that you’re my deal little wife, and that 1 J sent you to 12 Portelet road in order to i be caught at your job?” “She docs 11 t seem to be as clever as you made her out ; too clever and yet not clever enough. That letter you wrote did the trick. But what’s youi game,

1 Peter, setting her against Richard Belling like that?" “Game?” lie querit d. “Oh. well, Dick Belling s got the diamonds, you know.’’ “Sure ?” “Sure as one can be sure of anything.” ’T tee. Well, you’d better be eaicful. Susan Croad s in love with the man. and love is uncertain. It blows hot and it blows cold. You never know where you | are. Peter, when you're up against love.” j “I d like to toil Croad about her. Croad would soon settle him. You don’t know Croad, clo you? And you don’t know Jimmie. Our Jimmie’s sweet on Susan, and he’d kill Belling as soon as look at him. Y’ou want money, 1 suppose?” "Yes, Peter, I have very tittle money.” The man took some notes out of his pocket and thrust them into her hand. “That's forty pounds,” he said, “and it 11 have to last \on for a bit, my child. Funds arc running low ; but when we get the diamonds you shall have a string of them for yourself.” She kissed him, and then whispered in his ear, ‘'You’re not going to hurt him, are you?” "Hurt him? Bless you, no. The police are going to hurt him, if he doesn't pint with some of those jewels. it's as easy as falling off a tree Olio of us will call oil him if he doesn't come to terms. That II b( enough—just that visit. The police will connect him with us, and sooner or later tliey’il get his linger prints. That'll land him over the Bcxiable affair. “.And Susan Croad?” “She won't come into it at all. TTc won’t know that she's riven him away. He’ll put it down to me or Jimmie or Sam. And the P- lice can’t hi:>‘t us. We’ve paid.” “But this Bliudon affair?” she asked "Who's going to link 11s up with that, Alice? Dick Bel ling’s got no evidence against us.” They stood th:v for a few moments in silence. The night wind -sighed soitly through the darkness of the wood. The-'o two held in their hands the force that would close the door against Dick Polling for ever that would shut him out for the rest of his life from the society of honest men. A gentle pressure on their part anil the door would close. But they did not look at wlrat they wire about to do in that light. Peter Woolf was only thinking of the diamonds, and his wife was aa easily moulded as wax in his hands. He was her lord and master. No one else in all the world counted. He had set her this tank and she had performed it. Dick Belling, the girl Belling had just married, and Susan Croad herself — ail these people were nothing to her. The oi her members of the gang, who did not even know of her existence, were nothing to her. This queer little man with the dark face and the hands of steel was everything. And yet Alice, during those few moments of silence, grew suddenlv afraid —as a child might be afraid of some moving mass oi’ machinery that it did not understand. She realised that a human life was going to be crushed, and, curiously enough, she had no pitv for the human life, but fear that she too and the man sire loved might be drawn into that wonderful complexity of the machine, and be broken to pieces. She was the first to break the silence. “This Dick Belling?” she said, "lie will not go under without a fight?” "He can’t put up a fight.” "How is that? Is he a fool—a weak sort of chap?’’ "No Alice—he’s a rare boy for fighting. But he can't tackle the laws of England.” "And you, Peter dear? Can't he hit back at you?” “No—over this Biindon affair —certainly not. Of course he can 1 1 it out at Susan Croad. But she can take care of herself’.” Alice laughed. “Yes,” she replied, “Airs Croad is a woman who can take care of herself. But I tell you she's in love with tliis man, .And women in love are uncertain, as I said just now. Peter, my dear fellow, why not leave Richard Belling alone?” "A on mind your own business,” he answered roughly. ‘‘This is a man's job.” And Alice had to be content with that. She, a woman, had played her part in the little conspiracy, and tVie rest would have to be left to the men. She was blindly obedient. But, a few minutes later, when she was walking alone across Wimbledon Common, she suddenly quickened her step as though someone were pursuing her. There was no one there, and she knew that there was no one there. But she was afraid of a definite enemy —a man she had never seen in her life— Richard ’[“tiling, the young soldier whose life she had helped to destroy. CHAPTER XII. Alary could not have told anyone with certainty what it was that had first caused her uneasiness about her husband. It might have been something that she had seen in his eyes—some shadow for which there was no apparent cause. Or it might have been something in the tone of his voice—some note of anxiety for which the subject of their conversation gave no warrant. She did not believe that tile: e was any real cause for it whatever. It was similar, so sin; told herself, to that sudden ami meaningless fear which had ; come to her in Kensington Gardens before her marriage that intense desire t be married to tiie man she Lend before any thin:-; could come bcivvi rn. them. But it was there, in her mind, all the same--something real, though vague and indefinite. And the worst of it was. it was nothing she could discuss; with her husband—nothing she could clear up. There were no facts to be discussed. There had, of cour e, been that letter which lie had kept from her, but she had thrust that aside, as having no connection whatever with the nia’ter. If he was in trouble, she would have been the first to receive his confidence.

And then again there was his. narrow escape from the brutal ruffians who had struck down poor Trillick in Blindon s office. That had affected her very deeply but it had not affected her husband at all. It was not the kind of thing that would worry a soldier who had lived so near to death for so many years. And it was not as if she could actually sav that his mind was troubled by anything. It was she, Marv Felling, who was afraid. There was fear in the atmosphere of her life, and she could not trace it to any definite source. v Again and ag in, during the month teat followed the burglary at Blindon’s office, she tried to get the better of this unreasoning fear, and for a while she wourd conquer it. But again and again it rose to fight her. It was something real. Perhaps she was not in good health; perhaps this new life of poverty was proving too great a strain on her; perhaps she was an hysterical little fool. But the enemy was there — waiting to pounce on her whenever she gave it a chance. Mrs Deorden noticed the change m her daughter, end one day —it was August 6th. and a date that Mary was destined to remember —she said : “My dear child, vou are not happy. I've noticed that for' the last month, but I didn’t like to speak. \\ hat is it, Mary dear?’’ Mary Felling laughed. “Its t.re weather, I think,” she replied; “it’s been so awfully hot this last week.” “And fhe week before it was very coid, Mary. Don’t tell me, darling, if you don’t want to.” They were sitting in the pleasant drawing room in Brixham Gardens such a very different room to anything t.iat could be found in Glettoii street. It was a 'cerj hot afternoon, but there were sun blinds and an electric fan that whirred bv one of the open windows. “I don't know what it is, mother dear, Mary replied thoughtfully. “I’m just a bit depressed.” “Those dreadful rooms of yours, darling.” 4 , “No, no—l am quite happy there, .ilia Dick is just splendid.” )t “AH you thought him to be, dear? “All and more, mother. I—l’m very liappv. I can t tell you how happy I am.” ... , . "Happy, but depressed, ’ laughed Mrs Dearden. “Oh, mother dear, can’t vou understand —surely vou can understand? Ha ve you never known what it is to Vie unhappy without any cause?” Mrs Dearden nodded. “Women are like that, dear, she replied. “But in your case—well, there is cause for unhappiness. You have lived all your life in a comfortable home, and now—well, you have to rough it, haven, t you?” Mary did not answer. She clasped her hands on her knees and kept her e\es fixed on her mother's face. “I never approved of this marriage, said Mrs Dearden. “And I'm afraid I was right. Marv dear, can’t you teii me the truth? You have found out that Dick -—well, that we were right about Dick.'” “No!” Mary Felling answered decisively. “I have found out nothing against Dick. There is nothing against him. I’m just a rotten little fool. If I d married a duke I d have been just the same. I’d have seen ghosts in his castle. ’ She rose from her chair. ‘You’re not going, darling, are you?” said Mrs Dearden. “Yes—l think so. Mother, I can't have 3*oll talking or thinking like this about Dick. He's just the best possible husband in the world. And he’s going to make good, mind you- —from vour point of view, I mean. He’s going to be rich.” “Don’t go, darling.” “I must, mother. Dick likes me to be home when he returns. Good-bye, dearest.” They kissed each other —the mother and daughter whose lives had been bound so closely together for so many years. “My dear little Mary,” said Mrs Dearden. “3011 will come to me, won't 3*oll, if there is any real trouble.” “Yes, mother dear. But there is no real trouble. I ought to be ever so liapp3*, and I—well, the next time voii see me, I daresay I shall !>».as cheerful as a lark.” Marv left the house, and made her wa3* back bv the motor bus to Gletton street. The little sitting room seemed vety mean and shabby, but Marv’ was proud of it. It was her home, and love made it beautiful for her. She would not have exchanged it for a palace, where there was no love. She went into the bodroom, took off her hat, and lav down on the bed. She was very tired. The heat was intense. Through the wide open window came a continued assault of noise—a mixture of unpleasant sounds—the rattle of dishes and cans, the harsh voices of women talking to each other over the walls that separated the gardens, the barking of a dog, chained up in a back yard. But she was used to this clamour, and she fell asleep. And when she woke she saw her husband standing by the window. Ho had come in so quietly that he had not roused her. He must have thought that she was still asleep, for he was staring out of the window, staring at something with terrible hatred in his eves. His face was white and his lips were pressed tightly together. She had never seen him like this before, and she realised that she would not have seen him like this now if he had not believed her to be asleep. “Dick,” she said suddenly. “What is the matter, Dick? - ’ (To he Continued.)