THE LOCKED ROOM

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 686, 11 June 1929, Page 5

THE LOCKED ROOM

SERIAL BTOBT|

By

E. Clepham Palmer.

(|)|||| COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER XV.— (Continued.) "May I ask,” said Miss Ashton, as the car started, “whether the entertainment is over for tonight. Or is there a second act?” "Daisy,” protested Widhurst, “you’re hopeless—but I admire you more than ever. Your pluck ” “Nonsense! I enjoy this. I was always afraid that melodrama wasn’t wue to life, but I’ve never spent a more melodramatic evening than this —not even at the Lyceum. I hope there's a second act, Mr. Felscombe.” "There will be,” said Widhurst, “if we take another corner as fgfst as that. Steady, old man! Let Carter wait.” ‘Be quiet, James! We’re going beautifully. There's one thing I want to know, Mr. Felscombe. Does the extraordinarily beautiful girl who is minus a lover have to live in the same house as our friend with a revolver?” "Yes. Does it seem right to you?” “No. She must be hopelessly out of the picture. What can we do?” "I don’t know. The whole thing mystifies me. Why does Tuddenham keep his wife locked up in that house? Why does she refuse to see anyone? The thing would be simple if she stayed there under protest, or tried to escape. But she doesn’t. Apparently they’re perfectly good friends. When he leaves the house she always calls out good-bye, as if she liked the man. That doesn’t look as if Carter’s idea that she’s being kept a prisoner had anything in it.” “Hasn’t anyone spoken to her from outside—from the garden?” “No. She mustn’t be disturbed. Her only chance is to have absolute quiet. What I gathered from Miss Western was that there’s a general fear in the house that she’s frightfully disfigured, or has mental trouble of some kind. They’ve got into the state now of being afraid to see her. They’re afraid, too, of hearing her say something ®ad. of finding that she’s hopelessly insane. So they don’t make any attempt to get her to come to the window.” “What makes you think there’s something wrong?” He looked round at her. “What’s your impression of Mr. Tuddenham?” “Yes, I know! I admit I’m not so sceptical now as I was. He’s not the sort of man I’d like to have about the nouse. But isn’t there anything else? 4 re you motoring about the country jike this simply because Mr. Tuddennam happens to be a little eccentric?” t “Hardly. There’s the cry for help lye heard from ‘The Cedars.* Miss Western denies having called out. Who did?” “Exactly!” put in Widhurst. “And T nere’s the note from Sinclair we found in Tuddenham’s pocket.” Felscombe told her the story of the Pursuit and the finding of the mysterious note in the coat dropped from Horace Tuddenham’s car. “I’d rather have nothing more to do **ith it. It seems to me too risky.” Repeated Miss Ashton slowly. “I wonder what he meant by that. What do you think. Mr. Felscombe?” “I don't know, but I’m inclined to suspect that something shady was |oing on between Tuddenham and Sinclair. Why didn’t Sinclair ever j®ll us he was friendly with Tuddenftam? i was dining with him the I climbed into the ‘Cedars.’ He even mentioned Miss Western.”

“What I’d like to know,” saidWidhurst, “is whether it’s only a coincidence that Sinclair gets killed a few days after he backs out of some ‘risky’ arrangement with Tuddenliam.”

“But surely it was an accident?” saict Miss Ashton. “I was reading an account of one—exactly the same —in the paper the other day. A car suddenly ran into, the ditch, turned over, caught alight, and the driver was killed. Exactly the same:” “I'm not so sure,” said Felscombe. “Supposing Sinclair knew something that Tuddenham wasn’t quite happy

about. Supposing he'd agreed to something that he found, on second thoughts, to be too shady. We ll assume that. Then he writes to Tuddenham saying that he wants to back out of it. Tuddenham is alarmed. Perhaps he finds that he can't rely on Sinclair to keep his mouth shut. He decides to get rid of him. What could be simpler than to give him a dose of poison which wouldn't take effect till a certain time, and then to start him off in a car. You can imagine what would happen. Sinclair was always a fast driver, and would go pretty well ail out when

in the open country. The poison would take effect. Sinclair would lose control. The car would run full speed into the ditch, turn over, catch alight, and so on. It would look like an ordinary accident, and the inquest would be merely a formal affair.’’ “What d’you propose to do?” asked Miss Ashton. “I’m going to suggest a postmortem. That's why I want to see Carter. He knows how such things are arranged. And it’s time he was back in London. It seems- to me that we ought to keep a pretty close eye on ‘The Cedars’ for the next few' days." CHAPTER XVI.—THE GROPING HAND. Just after midnight Miss Daventry was wakened by a knock on her door. She sat up quickly, hoping that she had been mistaken. The knock was repeated, more loudly than before. She hesitated. Again the knock sounded—with a new note of insistence. * Jumping out of bed, she switched on the light, and then crept noiselessly to the door. “Who’s that?” : - “Olive!!” At once she opened the door. "What is it? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.’ Olive waited till the door was shut. “Have you locked it?” she asked tremulously. Miss Daventry looked up quickly at the white face of the girl standing in her dressing-gown. “What’s happened? Something's upset you. Tell me! ” Olive sat down on the bed. “Didn’t you hear it?” “Hear what? I haven’t, heard anything. I was asleep w r hen you knocked.” Olive looked eagerly at her. “You didn’t hear someone crying—someone sobbing her heart out?’ “Heavens—no!” “I couldn’t have imagined it. It was about five minutes ago. I heard it distinctly. It was awful. Directly it stopped I came along to you. Are you sure ” “All I heard was your knock. Let’s go out and listen!” “No, no! We might hear it again.” Miss Daventry walked across the room to the door, and there stood listening. Then she quietly opened the door and stepped into the passage. In a few minutes she returned, and Olive saw that the colour had gone from her face. ‘'Yes. it’s Mrs. Tuddeuham. I heard it distinctly-—coming from her -room. What shall we do?” Olive hesitated. “Let’s call out to her,” she said suddenly. “Uncle isn’t there. He came in at eleven and went out again at half-past.” “You're certain he hasn't come back?” "Surely. I’d have heard him. Tt’s only twenty past twelve now. Yes, I’m sure he’s not tnere. Let’s go and see if we can do anything.” “You might have been asleep when he came in. He may be there with her. You know what he said.” “Yes, I know. But she’s never cried before. She must be awfully unhappy. I don’t see why we shouldn't.” “Listen!” Olive walked quickly to the door and opened it. Down the long passage there came the faint but distinct sound of a woman's sobs. Quickly Olive drew back and stood inside the room, holding the handle .of the closed door. She looked across at Miss Daventry. “Did you hear it?” “Yes. She must be feeling veryvery ill tonight.” “No, no. It’s more than that. She’s unhappy—miserable. She

must be. She wouldn’t cry like that. I’m sure lie’s being unkind to her. Will you come with me? I don’t care if he is there.” “Nor do I. Let’s go.”

Quietly they crept down the long passage. Halfway they paused, and listened intently. A board cracked, and Olive started involuntarily, and then looked round as if expecting to see someone come up the stairs. From beyond the locked door at the end of the passage there came a faint moaning sound. A clock loudly struck the half-hour. Olive found herself trembling. She leant against the wall. “What shall —-we do? That moaning! Ah! It’s stopped. Can you hear anything?” “No. We’d better go back. We can’t do anything. Your uncle will be here soon. It’s too creepy. We’d better Ob, heavens! Look there! ” As they looked down the passage they saw the door gradually open, very slowly and quietly. Then the hinge squeaked. At once the door became stationary, and remained so. while the two girls watched fascinated. In a few moments it moved again, more stealthily than before. Gradually the opening was increased, and they saw a woman’s hand come

from behind the door, and then, very slowly and stealthily, a bare white arm. For a moment the hand paused, and then felt along the carpet outside, quickly aiid nervously, as it* expecting to find something there. Olive put her hands over her face and leant, back closer against the wall. Miss Daventry watched, fascinated, with an expression of helpless terror in her eyes. Suddenly the hand withdrew and the door was shut as gradually aud quietly as it had been openea The two girls looked at each other, and then turned quickly and crept back along the passage. When Olive had entered the room she locked til* l door and then burst into tears “I'm sorry, but I couldn’t stand the doer opening like that. But I’ll be ail right in a minute. Weren’t you . . . weren't you frightened, loo? It. was horrible*. I was afraid I snould shriek.” “Yes, I know! So was I. T wonder why your aunt. . . . Do you mini: it’s true —that she’s mad?” “Oh, I don’t know. It’s all so hor rible. What was she feeling for? What did she expect to find on the carpet? I wonder. . . .” She crept to the door and opened it, and remained there 1 i: • Bning. “She’s crying again. She’s moaning and crying again. . . Oh, it’s too awful! I’m going back now—now—before I can think about it. Wimust. I’m sure we must.” She hurried from the room and walked quickly along the passage. On reaching the door she tried the handle. It was locked. “Oh, please let me in,” she called out. “I’m sure I can do something. Do let me in!*’

At once the low sobbing ceased. Again she cried. “I am Obve. I heard you. Please open the door. Oh, do open the doorU’ There was no answer. CHAPTER XVII.—EXPLAINING THE MYSTERY "It seems to me,” said Felscombe, “that we’re wasting time. For three days we've done nothing. We’re no further than we were a week ago. All we’ve discovered is that Sinclair wasn’t poisoned after all. Tuddenham is scoring heavily. Can’t you suggest something?” “I’m very inclined to think.” said Widhurst slowly, “that the best thing to do is to put the whole affair in the hands of the police. It’s all very well for Carter to say that he wants to keep it to himself. It’s getting a bit too serious for that. Our friend Tuddeuham is distinctly dangerous. The next time he may put in a little revolver practice on us—instead of the tyres. Why not back out of it altogether and tell the police what we know?” “We don’t know enough. They’d laugh at us. If we told them about the way Tuddenham pulled us up they’d want to know why we hadn’t mentioned it before. I don’t suppose they’d believe the story.” “But surely,” protested Widhurst, “we could tell them about Mrs. Tuddenham? We could say that she’s been kept in her room for three months, that she never leaves the house, except in the middle of the night, that, although he says she’s seriously ill, she’s well enough to drive fifty miles in a car at the devil

of a pace . . . Why, there’s heaps of things we could tell them. They ought to demand to see Mrs. Tuddenham.” Felscombe got up from his chair and walked quickly about the room. “Look here, Widhurst,” he said, suddenly. “Let’s be clear about it. We’re getting a bit fogged. All we’re certain about is that we suspect Tuddenham of something—but w r e haven’t any notion what that something is. What makes you say that the police should demand to see Mrs. Tuddenham? What exactly d’you suspect is happening to Mrs. Tuddenham?” Widhurst hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “It’s difficult to know what one suspects. But 1 don’t believe she’s ill. We know she hasn’t seen a doctor during the last three months. Is it likely—supposing she’s ill —that she’d consent to be locked up without seeing a doctor. . . .” “Yes. it’s possible. Suppose she has a mental trouble, and is afraid of going to an asylum. Rather than risk that, she prefers to shut herself off from the world in the hope of getting better. I don’t say it’s probable, but it’s not impossible.” “But you admitted last night,” protested Widhurst, “when we were behind those wretched laurels, that she

sang that little Schumann thing perfectly. No. I can’t believe she’s mad. It’s just possible she may be disfigured in some ghastly way, and can’t stand the idea of people seeing her. But 1 doubt it. You see, the trouble is that Tuddenham—the personality of Tuddenham —doesn’t fit in with those theories. If we assume that she’s merely mad or disfigured, wbat becomes of our suspicions of Tuddenham? There must be some explanation of his behaviour. A man wouldn t go to the trouble of puncturing our back tyre with a revolver unless he feared something.” “When he stopped us that night,” said Felscombe. “it seemed to me that he wanted to find out what we knew. I believe he was afraid we knew more than we do, and thought it worth while to risk something to find out.” « (To be continued daily.)