THE LOCKED ROOM

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 676, 30 May 1929, Page 5

THE LOCKED ROOM

SERIAL STORY

By

E. Clephara Palmer.

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS CHAPTERS I. TO lll.—Arthur Felscombe and James Widhurst discuss the flatness of life after the excitement of the war period. Both are bored. Felscombo is in the position of a young man so handsome that every woman who looks at him falls in love with him. Widhurst twits his friend with posing. Felscombe wants to meet a girl who will treat him with contempt. Widhurst conceives a plan and lays it before Miss Daisy Ashton, a friend of long standing, with whom he is somewhat in love. Daisy promises to spurn Felscombe with pleasure. The latter receives a visit front his friend, Sinclair. CHAPTER 111. (Continued) A loud knock sounded on the door. Felscombe looked up hopefully. “Let hint knock again! Let’s en.ioy for a few moments the pleasure of uncertainty and suspense. For all we know it may be my mythical uncle from overseas, or, better still, a woman in distress. Keep quiet, Sinclair! Let’s enjoy the mystery while we can!” The knock was repeated. “Come in!’’ shouted Felscombe reluctantly. A middle-aged man carrying a bowler hat entered apologetically. “Very sorry to disturb you, hut I saw your light. Could you tell me which is Mr. Brown’s flat?” “Fourth floor—first door on the right,” said Felscombe. The stranger murmured his thanks and apologetically withdrew. “There you are, Sinclair! It’s hopeless. Instead of our beautiful woman in distress we have a middle-aged stockbroker ”

“Heaven knows.” protested Sinclair, "why you should expect anything else. This is the 20th century, my boy. Everything stopped happening —except war—in the 17 th. And ■what's the matter with your stockbroker? Surely, you’d rather see a contented, well-fed man at your door than a weeping woman?” “You don’t understand. That wretched stockbroker is a symbol of the dullness of things.” •’Personally, I like things to be reasonably dull. I’ve had enough excitement in the last few years. After the Menin Road I don’t object to the dullness of the Cromwell Road in the least.” -You wouldn’t. You’re the sort of man who’s perfectly happy on Saturday afternoon to go into the garden and pot out the geraniums. You’ll marry some unfortunate girl when you’re forty, and drive her to the divorce court in a month —to escape from your happy smile.” "The fact is.” said Sinclair, you want a good dinner. You're peevish.” Felscombe put on his hat. “At any rate.” he said, wearily, ’’take me to some place where the waitress won't fall in love with me.” Arthur Felscombe pronounced the dinner a failure. It was quite a good meal, but he complained that the other people in the room annoyed him. ... ~ •’The trouble is, Sinclair, that all our best restaurants are now monopolised by smug, middle-aged, fat and oily profiteers. It's impossible to dine with any pleasure. The sooner we clear out the better.” “You’re always grousing. why should our friend opposite with three chins and apparently two wives make any difference to this excellent chicken?” , . . •*My dear Sinclair, you re the sort of man that could feed anywhere. . . . This room ought to filled 'vsith the

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young and the gay—but just look round! Nothing but oily profiteers spending their ill-gotten gains. The people who ought to be here can’t afford to come. If you don’t mind, I’ll clear out. The place annoys me rather badly.” In spite of Sinclair’s protests he called the waiter, and, after paying the bill, walked quickly out Into the street. There he stood irresolutely for some minutes watching the crowd, and then walked briskly toward St. James’s. Before he reached his club at least twenty people—both men and women—had turned to look at him. On leaving the club, just before midnight, he again hesitated on the pavement. Then he suddenly ran for a passing bus, and climbed quickly to the top. Beyond Kensington he left the bus and walked away from the main road up a quiet street, where a number of Victorian houses hid behind trees and shrubs of a gloomy evergreen variety. The street was deserted, and no light showed in any of the windows. A cat squeezed under a gate and scurried across the road. There was no sound except the distant murmur of the traffic.

Felscombe strolled slowly down the street, as if enjoying the quietness of it after the clatter of the West End. Clearly it was no place to seek adventure. It was the sort of street where the horse brougham still lingers, and the old coachmen who have been in the family for fifty years earn a dignified livelihood by taking elderly women for a drive in the park. But just when Felscombe was passing “The Cedars”—a forbidding-look-ing house standing in a big garden crowded with dark trees —a cry for help, a muffled cry, as if a struggle were in progress, made him pause abruptly. . The cry was in a woman’s voice, and appeared to come from an open upper window of “The Cedars.” Felscombe hesitated a moment, and looked up and down the street to see if there was a policeman or anyone elxe who could help. Again there catae the cry more muffled than the last time. Felscombe waited no longer. He ran up the short drive to the house, and tried a window on the ground floor. It was bolted. He tried others with the same result.

A third time the cry for help—still fainter—came from the upper window.

Felscombe looked round impatiently. Then he suddenly ran toward a tree—a tall Scotch fir the upper branches of which brushed against the house. Quickly he climbed till he was level with the open window. Then he sat astride a branch and worked his way outwards from the massive trunk till within reach of the window. Without a moment’s hesitation he swung himself threigh into the room.

He landed quietly on a thick rug, just inside, and for a moment stood there doubtfully. He bad expected an immediate struggle, and was braced for it. To his surprise, there was no sign of life in the room. Still standing just inside the window, he peered about in the almost total darkness.

In a far corner he could just distinguish what appeared to be a bed. There was a faint outline of what might be pictures on the wall. Dark, irregular masses he took to be chairs. “Must be in the wrong room,” he

muttered. “Better wait a hit and see what happens.” Nothing happened. Everything was quiet. As Felscombe peered round the room he could see no trace of anyone in hiding or hear any sound that might suggest an explanation of the desperate cry for help that he had heard. He stooped down and looked through the window, wonderiDg if there were likely to be any difficulty in regaining the branch of the Scotch fir. He was just on the point of making the attempt when a sound in the room —the sound of breathing—attracted his attention. He stood up again and listened intently. Undoubetdly there was someone in the room. The sound apeared to come from the corner where the dim outlines of a bed were just visible. For a moment Felscombe hesitated. Then he struck a match and crept—shielding it with his hand toward the

far corner of the room. The match went out, and tile red end fell on to the carpet and remained there glowing. Felscombe struck another, and held it up unshielded. At once a piercing scream rang out. it took Felscombe so completely by surprise that he dropped the match, and there was again complete darkness. The screams the shrill screams of a woman—continued, varied with cries of “Help!” “It’s all right,” said Felscombe, soothingly. “Please don’t distress yourself.” “Help! Help!” came still more piercingly from the far corner of the room. “Shall I strike another match?” ventured Felscombe. “Or, if you’d

tell me where the switch is. In this darkness I agree. . . “Help! Help! Burglars!” “I assure you I am not a burglar. There’s really no need to disturb the house in this way. . . “Help!” “My dear lady, you do me an injustice. I came in here at considerable risk. . . “Help!” Felscombe struck, a match. “I beg you, madam, to look at me. Do I look like a murderer, or a burglar, or even an escaped lunatic ?” A man burst into the room. Without noticing Felscombe standing in the darkness beyond the window, Horace Tuddenham dashed across the room toward the bed in the corner. “What is it, Olive? Did I hear you call?” “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come.” “What’s the trouble?” “There’s a man in the room. Do turn on the liglit^’ “Man in the room! Nonsense!” “Perhaps it would simplify matters,” said Felscombe, quietly, “if I struck another match. . ..” The dim light revealed a girl—a remarkably beautiful girl—sitting up in bed and looking anxiously across the room toward the tall figure holding up the match. It revealed also the dark face of a middle-aged man, in pyjamas and dressing-gown, standing by the side of the bed, and holding in his right hand a revolver. “Don't move a step,” cried Tuddenham. “One step, and I’ll blow your brains out.” “Might I suggest,” said Felscombe, “that it would be as well to switch on the light. Unluckily this is my last match. rt’s clear that light is needed-—in more senses than one—on this unfortunate affair. . . .” “He’s quite right, uncle. Let him switch on the light. It’s just by the door. I’m not a bit frightened now.” “ Remember,” said Tuddenham, “that I’ve got you covered. You can go to the door and turn on the switch. You’ll find it on the right-hand side. If you attempt to escape, I shall shoot. I can see well enough for that. Now.”

Felscombe walked slowly to the switch. In the flood of light the man and girl were surprised to find him smiling. In a moment he became serious. “I feel,” he said, “that someone owes me an apology. I came into this house because I heard a call for help.” Turning toward the bed, he added; “I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you, but I distinctly heard someone call out as I was passing, and I could have sworn the cry came from this room. Are you quite sure you didn’t cry out. It seems to me—” Tuddenham interrupted brusquely “This is waste of time. I shall tele phone for the police at OD.ce, and hand you over to them.” “But my dear sir. . . .” “I refuse to discuss it. I find you here at one in the morning. You tell an absurd story about having heard a call for help. Obviously you’re either a burglar or a lunatic. In either case you should be in the hands of the police.” “May I beg one favour?” said Fels combe. “May I ja.sk whethei’ this is also the view of your niece?” He bowed gravely toward the bed. She smiled. “I must say, uncle, he doesn’t look a bit like a burglar, and he hasn’t said anything really mad—has he?” “That’s for the police to decide. Just because a man is well dressed or

seems to be a gentleman, you can’t assume that he isn’t a burglar. “True,” said Felscombe. “In these days one never knows, so to speak, where one is.” “Don’t you think,” said Olive, sitting up in bed with her chin on her knees, “that he's too polite for a burglar.” Felscombe bowed gravely. “I am in your hands. Shall I telephone for the police?” Tuddenham smiled grimly. “No, sir. I’ll see to that myself, thank you.” “I’m anxious to give no more trouble than necessary, and I don’t quite see how you’re going to telephone ■without giving me an opportunity to escape.” “I tell you what, uncle,” said Olive quickly. “You go down and telephone and I’ll keep him covered with the revolver.”

I “Absurd, child!” ! “Not at all. I used to do a lot of shooting in the country, and I’m sure I could hit him. He’s so big, isn’t he?” Felscombe smiled. “If it’s of any use I shall be glad to give you my word of honour not to move while you’re ringing up the police. Not that I doubt your niece’s marksmanship, but the furniture might get chipped.” Olive laughed. “I don’t believe you’re a burglar at all.” j “Heaven knows what he is,* inter- ; rupted Tuddenham, “but the police j will soon find out. Look here, I acj cept your offer. You’ve given me ! your word of honour not to move.” • “That is so.” said Felscombe.

[ “Very well, I’ll go down and ring ;up the police.” And he started to j tvalk tow’ard the door. | “But, uncle, do leave me the revolver. I mush keep him covered, you know.” Tuddenham hesitated, and then handed the weapon to his niec». When he had left the room Olive put it down on the bed, and beckoned quickly to Felscombe standing at the | further end of the room, j “I’m sorry, but I can’t move.” I “Don’t be’ absurd! I want you to i escape. Get through the window, ! —quickly! That is why I asked for : the revolver. You can easily get i away before the police come.” j “It’s very kind of you, and I’m imj mensely grateful—but what would your uncle say?” “That doesn't matter. Do please be quick! He’ll be back in a minute.” (To be continued daily*