The Half-Closed Door.

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 714, 13 July 1929, Page 6

The Half-Closed Door.

By

J. B. Harris. Barland.

CHAPTER XVIII. — (Continued) “I can’t get away, either, sir,” said the detective. And then he did a very gentlemanly thing. He might easily have begun to talk about the arrest of “Mrs. Hibberd,” and have induced Pelling to pretend absolute ignorance of “Mrs. Hibberd.” As a detective, that would have been Mr. Sanderson’s duty, for it would at once have shown him that Pelling had something to conceal. But Mr. Sanderson, loath to play such tricks on a gallant officer, just said: — “I’m busy over this Blindon case, sir, and I want you to help me. i believe you know Mrs. Hibberd.” “Yes,” Pelling replied with a smile. “And I don’t think any the better of you, Sanderson, for persecuting a good woman like that.” “Well, sir, if you read the report of the proceedings you will see we had good cause.” “Nonsense! Mrs. Hibberd is going to marry Charles Blindon. She dropped her bag, and these men came up to her —one of the men with the bag in his hand. She saw an advertisement in “The Times,” and she answered it.” "But how could they have worked the job, without squaring her, sir?” “Well, I look at it like this,” said Pelling. “Only two men are concerned in the burglary so far as you know. The third was in Kensington Gardens, with two friends, and he picked up the bag. He saw a possible chance of proving an alibi for Sam Felton and Peter Woolf. He thought it very unlikely that the unknown lady would remember the faces of the men. He drew a bow at a venture and hit the mark. That’s how I look at it, Sanderson. But Mrs. Hibberd needs no champion. She is well known at Mexham Hill.” “And you, sir?” queried the detective. “When did you first meet Mrs. Hibberd?” “Oh, soon after I came back from the front,” Pelling replied without hesitation. “We were very great friends at one time.” “I see," said Mr. Sanderson. And he really thought that he did see. There had been some sort of a love affair between Pelling and Mrs. Hibberd. And then Pelling had married another woman. And Mrs. Hibberd had called to see him while his wife was away. It was all very simple. Then Sanderson—and it was so unlike Mr. Sanderson—laid all his cards on the table.

“I saw lier coming out of this house, sir,” he said, “not very long ago. Of course I did not know she had been to see you. But I suppose that was the case.”

Pelling said to himself, “By jove, that was a lucky escape,” and then aloud, “Yes—l remember. She was on her way to—some reception, I think, and sin: looked me up to ask my advice on a certain private matter. Sanderson, I can’t say you’ve j treated poor Mrs. Hibberd very well, j The people at Mexham Hill are very J particular, and I've no doubt you’ve : ruined her reputation there, though ! you couldn’t prove her an accomplice of thos% scoundrels. And I ask I you, Sanderson, is she the sort of j woman who could have anything to do with a gang of criminals?” Mr. Sanderson laughed. “I’m afraid we did make a mistake, sir,” he said, “but outward appearances don’t count for very much. One of the pleasantest and most refined men I ever met was a murderer.”

For a few moments there was silence, and then ' Pelling said; “I wonder you haven’t had your eye on me—a clerk in Blindon's office.”

“Well, sir I think if you'd been in the game, you'd have stayed on. as clerk. It would have made it so much easier for them.”

Author of ** The Black Moon.” ” The Poiton League/’ *' The White Rook," 4c.. 4u

“There’s something in that,” laughed Pelling. “And then, again, sir,” the detective continued. “We’ve fought together, and 1 know the stuff you’re made of. Still ” he paused and looked hard at Felling’s face. “You think there’s a chance of my guilt, eh?” “No, sir. I wasn’t thinking that. But I’ve known more than one innocent man get mixed up in a queer job—get drawn into it against his will, so to speak. And then lie’s got a scare, and the others have kept a tight hold on him.” Mr. Sanderson paused and refilled his pipe. It almost seemed as though he were waiting for Pelling to make some confession. But Pelling only said: “A fellow like that would be a weak fool, and would deserve all he got.” “Well, sir, if ever you get into a scrape, don’t give way an inch. Just go to the police, and, if you’re innocent, no harm will come to you.” “Ah, you gave me that advice before —about, blackmail.” “It’s a fcooa motto, sir—for life. ‘Don’t give way an inch.’ It applies in most things.” He turnect the conversation to other matters, and half an hour later he rose from his chair, and held out his hand to Pelling. “Good night, sir,” he said, “and don’t forget that I’m your friend if ever you want one.” Pelling made some jesting reply about a policeman being the best friend in the world for a criminal. But he gripped Sanderson’s hand hard and it was not until the detective had departed that Pelling realised that it was just possible that Sanderson might make a good deal out of that earnest grip of the hand. “The dear old chap,” he said to himself. “He suspects I can help him, and yet he doesn’t want to hurt me.” And, remembering his conversation with Sanderson, he saw how very gently the detective had dealt with him. So many traps might have been set, and he would have blundered into one of them. But he knew that Sanderson could not save him, if Susan Croad’s past history were ever dragged out into the light. Nor would there be a chance of escape if either of the three criminals were captured. CHAPTER XIX. At half past eleven Dick Pelling went into his bedroom. It was a very warm night, with thunder in the air, and he opened his window wide before he got into bed. For a little while he made no attempt to sleep. The sounds of London had died away into silence. His thoughts were active, and he found that he could think very clearly in the quietude of the night. Then he heard the distant rattling of thunder, and a fierce wind stirred the leaves of the stunted trees in the garden. And then there came the pattering of rain on the Virginia creeper that covered the back of the house. “I suppose I ought to close the window,” he said to himself. But he shrank from shutting out the little air that came in from the garden. And, after all, there was nothing that the rain could spoil. He closed his eyes, and thought of his wife. He wondered if the storm were raging at Folkestone, or whether it was a calm, clear starlight night.

Then he heard a faint sound that was neither the wind nor the pattering of rain. The room was in darkness, and, as he sat up sharply in bed, he could see nothing. The window was just visible as a square of grey that was almost as dark as the walls.

] He listened, and stretched out his I hand for the matchbox which lay on I the chair by the side of the bed. I As his fingers closed upon it a hand I gripped his wrist. ! Richard Felling was too old a solI dier to make a fool of himself. It j would have been easy enough to have i cried out, struggled with the un- | known enemy that had gripped him j by the wrist, and have roused his landlady. But it would have been obviously ridiculous to have done anything of the sort. A man who has a secret to hide cannot do that kind of thing. And in a struggle he might easily have got the worst of it, even if his opponent were not armed. The grip was that of a strong man who had all the advantage of the position. “If you call out,” the man whispered, “I’ll just wipe you over the head, and that’ll be an end of your little story. I don’t want to hurt you. You've just got to come along quietly.” “I’m not a child.”. Felling replied “I suppose you’re Sam Felton.” “No—Peter Woolf. And I’ve got a gun in my pocket. But I don’t want to hurt you, my lad. It’s just this. We’re in a bit of a hurry, and we’ve got to fix up a deal with you before we clear off.” “We can fix it up here—right away.” “No, we can’t. The others have got to have a say in it. You dress and come right along.” Peter Woolf closed the window, drew down the blind, and struck a light. “Look sharp,” he said. “We’ve a long %vay to go tonight. And don’t get it into your head that you can hand me over to the first policeman you meet. There’s a letter written and the envelope’s stamped, and if I don’t return with you up to time, it’s going to be posted to Scotland Yard.” Felling shrugged his shoulders and put on his clothes. He talked freely. The storm had burst overhead, and the noise of the thunder and the wind and the pouring rain would have drowned the voices of a dozen men. “A nice night for a trip,” he said, “and my overcoat isn’t exactly waterproof. How did you get in?” “Oh, there’s a dustbin under the window. Ready, are you!” “Yes, but I’d like to know where I’m going.” “Into the sitting-room to start with. You’ve - got to write a letter. Lead the way.” Pelling knew a dozen tricks by which he could have got the better of this scoundrel in a stand-up fight. But the worst of it was he could not fight. It was not just a question of smashing up Peter Woolf. “Scribble it in pencil on a sheet of paper,” said Peter Woolf, when they were in the sitting-room, “just a few lines to your landlady, saying that you have been suddenly called away on business, and will be back in a day or two. What time does she go ,to bed?” “About half-past nine.” “Well, put ‘lO p.m.’ at the top of it. Hurry up.” Dick Pelling wrote the letter and smiled grimly as he put the time on it. There was one person at any rate who would know that he had not left the house at 10 o’clock. That might come in useful if these brutes murdered him. He signed his name and looked up at Peter Woolf. Supposing I refuse to come,” he said. “Oh, then, the letter will be posted to Scotland Yard. You can’t hurt us, my boy; we’re all right. Lead the way. You won’t get very wet." They left the house and strolled down the street together arm in arm. At the corner of the road a big ear was waiting. Peter Woolf opened the door. “It’s snug enough inside, - ’ he said. They seated themselves, and the car crossed the Fulham Road. “I’m afraid I must bandage your eyes,” said Peter Woolf, “for a little while at any rate. Do you mind?” “Not in the least,” laughed Richard j Pelling; and then, after a pause, “By jove, Peter, I didn’t think you could! run to a fine car like this. Who’s i driving?”