Sentenced to Death.

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 34, 3 May 1927, Page 16

Sentenced to Death.

&

Louis Tracy.

A uthor of " The Long Lane of Many Windings,'* ‘'One Wonderful Night/' " Love and the Aces," “ The To\en" &c., &c.

(Copyright for the Author in the United States and Canada by Edward J. Clode, Inc., New York. All other rights reserved.)

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. CHAPTER I.—A young- officer learns from a skilled physician and an equally clever surgeon, that he has not many months to live. An operation is out of the question. One of the valves of the heart is clogged and nothing less than a miracle can save him. The patient, Antony Blake, leaves the house in Harley Street and wends fcis way to Regent’s Park. He experiments on his heart by stepping into the roadway at a critical moment, but survives various vituperations and receives warning from a policeman. He arrives at that part of the park where the pony and governess car are stationed which had passed through Harley Street, during his interview. The stout driver has vanished. The threatening thunderstorm breaks just as Blake enters the park proper. A vivid flash of lightning causes the pony to bolt. As Antony *s walking, in a drenched condition, two men overtake and rush past him, one tall and thin, the other short and fat. The rotund runner falls. The other continues his pace. The fat man picks himself up ar. I tears along. Arriving at the place where the man had fallen Antcny notices a sharp-pointed dagger shining in the grass. He picks it up and examines it. Anally flinging it into the long grass fringing the shrubbery. He reaches a small wooden hut. A girl is sheltering there. Another thun-der-ciap drives her further back. He shelters there also. Another vivid flash reveals each to the other. He sees a slender, pretty girl; she sees the fine type of British officer, her senior by a few years. She has also seen the two men. He tells her that the fat man is coming back again. He feels sure that the man is seeking for his dagger. The girl tells him she was to meet her uncle, who was driving a pony in a governess car. Antony tells her it has gone, but not that the pony bolted. The two leave the hut, turning to the left instead of to the right. Had they turned in the opposite direction they would have been seen by the one man fated to become their deadly enemy, though known to neither. CHAPTER ll.—Antony Blake accompanies the girl some distance and then he hails a passing taxi. He takes her to her home in Sutherland Avenue. She gives him her card: her name is Iris Hamilton. Blake takes tea about five. Soon after he is again in the Park. He finds the dagger, encases it in a strip of cardboard, ties the package with twine, taxis to the “Rag,’’ where he dines with a couple of men still in the Service. He shows them the knife. About half-past nine he glances through the day's news. The first item that catches Ills eye is "Tragedy in Regent's Park. Supposed Murder." The account is accurate, as Blake himself knows the facts. CHAPTER ll.—(Continued). The police have no further information which can be published at the moment, but it is understood that they are inquiring into at least one somewhat peculiar incident which took place before the murder was committed. Dr. Ensley-Jones’s present

opinion, which may, of course, be modified by post-mortem indications, fixes the hour of the crime at four o’clock or a few minutes earlier. It might puzzle a psycho-analyst to explain why Tony Blake should read these startling paragraphs with a critical eye and complete detachment of mind. Perhaps, subjectively, he had expected to hear something of the sort. The wording of the report was eloquent of the hurry and uncertainty of the writer. But there could be no gainsaying its general accuracy. The news agencies of I.ondon do not broadcast such dramatic statements on mere hearsay. Every sentence seemed to link Mr. Robert Lastingham, so suddenly done to death that afternoon in Regent’s Park, with the man whom Blake had seen driving up Harley Street at half-past three. If so, he was the “uncle” who would now never again keep tryst with Iris Hamilton, and there was every likelihood that the girl'herself, with the consistent inconsistency of her sex, would believe for the rest of her days that if she had been in time for her appointment, or even braved the elements, he would not have lost his life. Blake, however, in the course of an adventurous career had seen the long •trm of coincidence thrust over an astounding area and through many seemingly impassable barriers. He resolved to satisfy himself at once that it really was the stout, red-faced man in the fawn-coloured overcoat and wearing long driving-gloves who had been killed. Mr. Lastingham’s name would surely be in the telephone directory. Someone in Queen Anne Street would know how he was dressed, and be able to describe the pony and car. Why not inquire? He could explain readily that he had information which he wished to hand on to the police, but it would be absurd to bother anyone in the matter if the dead financier and Miss Iris Hamilton’s uncle were totally different persons. Meanwhile, and still subconsciously, he was following the typed slips in their order. In the middle of a parliamentary debate on poor-law relief he came suddenly on the following: THE REGENT’S PARK MYSTERY It is stated now, on good authority, that Mr. Lastingham was stabbed with a dagger which remained in his body and was not withdrawn until Dr. Ensley-Jones discovered it. The weapon is of a peculiarly murderous type, with a long, thin blade and a rigid handle of bronz#. The unfortunate gentleman had collapsed on to his left side, and his right hand rested on the splashboard, a long leather glove which he wore having caught the edge of the car. This slight circumstance, combined with the limp condition of an overcoat soaked with rain, served to conceal the presence of the weapon until the doctor had the body taken into the lodge at the gate of the Botanical Gardens for the purpose of a more critical examination. '

And, at that moment, Blake’s right hand was resting on a parcel in the pocket of his own overcoat which contained a dagger of the exact pattern described by the paragraphist, who, to say the least, was bringing the name of Dr. Ensley-Jones promiently before the public. Thereby he was only repaying a debt of gratitude, as the doctor was evidently the source of all the sensational facts available to the press thus far. Once again Blake took thought. It was idle now to suppose that the murdered man could be any other person in the world than Iris Hamilton’s uncle, and the clear corollary was that he, Blake, had already wasted time rather scandalously in conveying to the authorities such vague evidence as he possessed. So he did not telephone to Queen Anne Street, but summoned a taxi, and told the driver to go quickly, to the St. John’s Wood Police Station. Of course, it was not in St. John’s Wood Road. London makes a secret of the whereabouts of her police depots. The average resident in England’s chief city can live years in one of its many sections, and not know where his local police centre is situated. Even the taxi-driver had to inquire at a cab rank in Upper Baker Street. At that hour the traffic in the West End is light, so, by a quarter to ten, Blake found himself facing a district officer, a sharp-looking fellow who bore a marked resemblance to a bullterrier. “I have called,” he said, “with reference to the supposed murder of Mr Robert Lastingham in Regent’s Park this afternon. I am sorry I did not show up sooner, but I knew nothing of the crime until I read the news bulletin in my club a few minutes ago. Then I hurried here at once.” The inspector surveyed his informant rather sourly. Newspaper reporter’s are not so easily identified nowadays as they used to be. If this were one he would have to be taught the exceeding wisdom of the Biblical truism that in vain is the net spread in the sight of any bird. “Oh!” came the non-committal reply. “Is that so?” Which, of course, meant anything or nothing. “Yes,” said Blake, smiling. “I mean whatever you mean. About the time stated by the news agency I happened to be passing through that part of Regent’s Park where the murder was committed. I was caught in the thunderstorm and took shelter in a hut near the lake on the path leading to Hanover Gate. In it I met the dead

man’s niece, Miss Iris Hamilton. At least, I assume she is his niece. If Mr. Lastingham is another person altogether than I have been misled by an extraordinary coincidence, and am only wasting your time and my own.” The inspector’s bull-terrief aspectseemed to become quite aggressive. He scowled at a constable seated in thai more private part of the office which lay behind a broad counter. This man rose, and found instant business near the doorway, where, as it happened, he cut off Blake’s only line of retreat. “Miss Hamilton is Mr. Lastingham’s niece,” agreed the official then. ‘Are you Mr. Antony Blake, late of the 12th Lancers, and do you live in St. John’s Wood Road?” “Yes.” It was all very surprising, naturally, but Blake was well aware that once events began to develop an unusual kink their subsequent course generally remained somewhat erratic. “You found Miss Hamilton in the hut after you yourself had come from the Inner Circle, and told her some story about a bolting pony and tw r o men running from the storm, one ot whom fell and dropped a dagger?” “Yes. Here it is!” Words failed the inspector. Perhaps he wanted to bark or yelp loudly. At last he contrived to say thickly:— , “This is a rum go, an’ no mistake, come inside, Mr. Blake.” Blake passed through a half door at the end of the counter. The constable followed, and endeavoured to shoot a bolt home noiselessly. He was more successful in nipping some skin off a finger. This was annoying, =ind it irritated the inspector, too. “I don’t know why you are a’ways having trouble with that latch,” he said crossly, lifting a telephone from its hook. “It never jams for anybody else/’ The constable said nothing. He sucking the damaged finger and trying to extract a handkerchief out of the right pocket of his trousers with his left hand. Blake was amused by the simplicity of it all. For some reason, not altogether fantastic, he was practically under arrest. Meanwhile, the inspector, who had put through a call with surprising speed, was saying: “That you, Mr. Furneaux? Mr. Blake is here—yes, Mr. Antony Blake. . . . No. He came in a minute ago, bringing a dagger just like the ether one. . . . Eh, what’s that? . . . No. He’s all right, I should imagine.” There followed the crackling noise which a telephone seems to emit when the voice of a speaker is not quite

audible at a distance from the instrument. Then the inspector hung up. “This is a serious matter,'* he said, eyeing his visitor closely. “It is being taken up by headquarters, and an officer is coming here at once. He won’t be many minutes, fifteen at the outsi e.” Blake decided to put the matter to the test. “I live in the next road,” he said. Wouldn’t it be more convenient for the detective to call there?” “No, sir. He’s started ilready.” “I have a taxi waiting. I had better pay it off.” He made as though he would go out, but the inspector almost shouted an order to the constable to run and look at the meter. Then Blake knew that these two -would detain him by force, if necessary. In effect, he was suspected of complicty in the murder of Robert Lastingham. He found himself wondering if Iris Hamilton shared the opinion of the police! CHAPTER 111. The Chase Begins “I suppose Miss Hamilton supplied my name and address?” he inquired when the policeman had vanished. “I don’t really know much about the affair,” was the non-commital answer. “The ‘Yard’ has it in hand. Better wait till Mr. Furneaux turns up.” “But you were prepared for developments, so to speak? Why have I not been found earlier?” “That is for you to say. We’ve been hunting for you for hours.” with real vision? A telephone call to one among only half a dozen service clubs would have produced me.” The inspector tried to be affable. “I wish you’d take my advice, sir, and say nothing more just now. It’ll only complicate things all round,” he recommended. “Three bob for the taxi, sir,” announced the policeman. Blake produced the money. “May I smoke?” he inquired. The inspector raised no difficulty about that. Blake sat in a chair near the fireplace. A sergeant came in and was about to make a verbal report but was stopped summarily by a statement that it was “all right.” There could be no manner of doubt that “it” concerned Blake. He guessed, quite correctly, as he ascertained later, that the police were watching his flat so as to grab him without fail when he returned home. Such a situation induced thought. The more he examined

this minor crisis the more he saw that to treat it with cynical indifference would be unfair to the authorities. while he himself would be subjected to a good deal of personal annoyance accompanied by an undesirable publicity. Not even to gratify his sense of humour must be behave foolishly. He sat and smoked, therefore, in silence until a car stopped outside and

a little man entered hurriedly. Blake was certain at first that this latest arrival must be a member of the general public—probably an actor — who had urgent reason to visit a police station. He was surprised—indeed almost startled when the stranger, with a mere nod to the inspector, addressed him directly. (To be Continued.)