Barbara On Her Own

Taranaki Daily News, 8 July 1929, Page 14

Barbara On Her Own

By

EDGAR WALLACE

“You stay here,” whispered Julius, opening the door of Mr. Lark’s office. “At the first sound, let me know.” “Uh huh!” said the Live Wire, and lowered himself with a joyous sigh into the armchair which Mr. Lark reserved for the most favoured callers. “If you hear any sound, you’ll let me know ?” “Uh huh!” said the Live Wire again. Julius crept along the passage, taking from his pocket the electric torch he had brought. He shook at every sound, and when a floor-board creaked under his tread, he jumped. He w r as perspiring with fear as he moved stealthily to the safe and glided his key into the' lock. In another second the safe swung open. The first objects revealed by his flashlamp were the piles of Treasury notes laid against the back of the safe, and at the sight of them he was filled with cold horror. Suppose somebody came and found him in this position—robbing the safe! There would' be no other excuse for his presence and the open door. He saw the bag, and, lifting it with a trembling hand, pushed home the door until he heard the lock catch, and went softly out of the office. He had put one foot on the passage carpet when he hoar a voice—Barbara’s! She was expostulating with somebody, and he leaned against the panelling faint and ill. Barbara was waking the night watchman! What should he dot He was concerned mainly with his own safety, forgot all about the faithful watch-dog, sitting with closed eyes in Mr. Lark’s office. He heard a foot on the stone steps below and made a frantic dive for his old room. The door was open, and he stepped quietly in. Only then was he conscious of the fact that he was carrying Mr. Maber’s bag. She was coming up the stairs; there was a heavy/masculine foot behind her. The night watchman was old but wiry. And then, to his horror, he heard a third voice—Lark’s. 1

“It’s funny that the same thought struck us both, Mies Storr. I couldn’t sleep for thinking of that money. And really, Simmonds, I’m surprised at you—you’ll have to pull up your socks, my lad, or there’ll be a new face in that watchman’s box.” “It’s the first time I’ve dozed off for forty-three- years,” protested the watchman.

“It’s the first time you’ve woke in forty-three years, if you ask me,” said Mr. Lark. Julius Colesberg’s hair almost stood up. Suppose Lark went into his office; .he would find the Live Wire. How was he to escape, hampered by this bag? He thought' of the window and opened it gently. Looking out, he saw a man standing on the pavement and drew back quickly. And then a low whibhc called him, and, looking down, ho recognised Atterman. “That you, Julius?” he hissed. Julius was nodding like an ape. “They’re here,” he whispered as loudly as lie dared. “Storr.” “Give me the bag,” demanded Atterman, urgently. Nothing loth, Julius held it out of the window for a second, then dropped it, and heard an “Ouch!” He crept to the door and listened. Barbara and her party were coming back from her office, talking excitedly. He heard the word “safe,” and his skin crept. Nearer and nearer they came, and then, seized with a sudden inspiration, he put in his pass key and locked his door on the inside. So doing, he made a noise. “Who’s there?” It was Barbara’s voice. She shook the handle. Mr. Colesberg very naturally made no reply. He darted to the window, swung his legs over the sill and dropped. As he struck the pavement he fell, but was on his feet again in a second. And then somebody gripped him by the arm, and a deep . voice, vibrant with satisfaction, said: “Gotcher!” and he looked into the face of a large and terrifying policeman. CHAPTER XVI For a second Julius was paralysed with fright, and then, wrenching himself free, he ran blindly along the street, with the sound of his pursuer’s feet in his ears. He heard a police whistle blow; a man darted across the road to intercept him. Julius dodged down a side street into Brook Street, found himself facing the railings of Hyde Park, and, with a superhuman effort, leapt over, and in a second was racing through the darkness to safety. At four o’clock in the morning a grimy-looking man, with his knees showing through great gaps in his trousers, collarless, smothered with duet and grime, crawled up the steps of Mr. Atterman’s house in Regent Park. Tiny leaves hung to his coat by the cobwebs he had disturbed in crawling through bushes to avoid the park police. He had lost his hat, and his usually sleek hair hung all ways over his forehead, giving him a particularly sinister appearance. Mr. Atterman came quickly to the door to answer his gentle knock and admit him. “Why, in the name of heaven!” he said, staggering in amazement at his accomplice. “Give me a drink!” gasped Julius, and staggered into Atterman’s sanctum. “What happened?” “Did you get the bag?” “Sure I got the bag.” Atterman pointed. It was on a settee under a rug. “It’s a good job for me that I saw that policeman coming and got away,” he said heartlessly. “I suppose he caught you?” Julius nodded, and there was a long silence whilst he slaked his thirst. “Where’s Minkey?” Atterman asked. “Minkey?” Julius stared at him in horror. He had forgotten all about Minkey. “You did say ‘Minkey,’ didn’t yen ?” “What else?” said the other impatiently. “Where is he?” Julius scratched his nose. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “I left him in Lark’s room. If he heard them coming, the coast was clear and he could have got away.” He looked thoughtfully at his employer. “He. was very sleepy,” he said significantly, and Mr. Atterman drew a long breath. “That poor gink didn’t fall asleep — he wasn’t caught, was he?” he asked, with the first sign of anxiety he had displayed. “I should imagine it’s very likely,” said Julius brutally. “By this time he has spilt the morridg®, or the beans, or

whatever it is you spill?”. Mr. Atterman indulged in a long and painful meditation; wouldn’t talk—he couldn’t, anyway, then observed: — “Minkcy, I was crazy to let him go—he was nearly asleep before he left the house. Have you got the key* for this?” He rose, threw off the covering rug and exposed Mr. Maber’s bag. Julius shook his head. “No, but any key will unlock that kind of bag.” “No key that I have will open it. It’s a patent lock.” “Cut the side cut —” suggested Julius helpfully, but here Mr. Atterman hesitated. There might be an excuse for Julius retrieving the bag; there was no excuse for opening it forcibly. And the more he thought of it, the less advisable did it seem to take such a step. After all, this bag contained nothing more interesting than a change of clothes; unless there was also concealed a definite clue as to Mr. Maber’s present whereabouts, the adventure was not justified, and at this hour seemed a little stupid. “I’ll get out my car and drive you home, Colesberg. The first thing you ought to do is to burn those clothes, nu that if there’s any kick coming you won’t be giving the police any more clues than they’ve already got.” Julius shuddered. “And throw away the key of the safe.” The key of the safe! Julius Oolesberg’s fingers went like lightning from one pocket to another, and as he searched his face lengthened. “I’ve left it in the keyhole,” he said, “and it has my name on it!”

“No, miss,” said Mr. Lark, running his finger from bundle to bundle, “there s no money missing so far as I can remember.” “Only the bag,” said Barbara,.thoughtfully. “It was—er—” she hesitated—- “ Mr. Maber’s bag.” . t “Did it have any money in it, miss? asked Lark. “N-no,” she said slowly, only a little change —I mean, of clothes.” She hurried to remove any impression that at this hour, three o’clock in the morning, she was indulging in ill-timed levity. , . , . “Ho escaped through the window oi Mr. Colesberg’s room,” said Lark. “I’ve always thought that that would be the way a burglar would come in.” “The police haven’t caught him?” “No, miss, but they will,” said Lark, confidently. A light was in the eastern sky, day was dawning upon a quiet and silent world. The sensible thing to do would be to make her way home and go to bed, but Barbara never felt less like sleeping. There was a kitchen and a canteen attached to the establishment, but the cook’s staff did not come on duty until eight o’clock. Mr. Lark, however, knew his way in to the larders and produced steaming hot coffee and biscuits, ■which were gratefully accepted. They breakfasted together in Barbara’s room. “Don’t you ever sleep?” she asked curiously. “Two or three hours a day,” said Mr. Lark, with airy indifference. “I can sleep anywhere, anyhow, any time. Napoleon was like that, by all accounts.” “So were Wellington and George Washington—‘the sewing machine man.” She explained gently the history of Washington. Mr. Lark, who was one of those men w’ho never stopped learning, listened with respectful interest; and naturally the subject of Mr. Minkey obtruded into the conversation.

“I doubt if he’s all he’s cracked up to be,” said Mr. Lark frankly. “I used to have a high respect for him, but I’ve come now go that I don’t think he’s any better—well, it’s a boastful thing to say, but—” “Oh, Mr. Lark, you’re ever so much cleverer than he is!” she said. “Do you think so, miss?” Mr. Lark’s thumbs strayed to the armholes of his waistcoat. “Ever go much more. I can’t imagine Mr. Minkey doing a,, quarter of what you’ve done.” “I’ll say this for myself,” said Mr. Lark, who was prepared on any excuse to speak charitably of his own virtues, “that in an emergency I take a bit of beating. I daresay you used to think I was a dry old stick?” Barbara gave ''him smirk for smirk. “And I’m sure you thought I was an impossible young female?” Mr. Lark protested. He kept a diary, it appeared, and his first impression of Miss Barbara Storr had been distinctly flattering. “And I’ll prove it to you,” he said. He rose, went pattering down the passage; she heard the handle of his door turn and his throaty squeal. A long silence. “Is anything wrong?” she stood at the door. “Nothing, miss.” He came back to her, looking rather white. “Bit of a shock, that’s all. Who do you think’s in my office ?” She shook her head. “Mr. Minkey,” ho said. onsensel ** “Mr. Minkey,” repeated Mr. Lark solemnly. “Asleep, or drunk, or both.” She went back with him to the room, and Mr. Lark switched on the lights. It was true. There was Mr. Minkey, a huddled, limp figure in an armchair, his eyes closed. “Here, wake up!” said Mr. Lark sternly. He walked over to the sleeper and shook him. Minkey opened his eyes and stared up. “Take overhead charges —” he said drowsily. “Come on, wake up—you and your overhead charges! Do you know where you are? You’re in the wrong shop. Good lord! he was the burglar!” He turned with a startled face to the girl, but Barbara shook her head. “He wasn’t the burglar. I know who the burglar was,” she said grimly. “Wake him up, Mr. Lark —sing to him.” Mr. Lark smiled politely. He didn’t think that was very funny, because, as a matter of fact, he had a voice. He was one of those thin-necked men with a prominent Adam’s apple, and that kind of man can hardly help singing. “Wake up, Minkey.” Mr. Minkey had fallen asleep again, and was only aroused by the most energetic efforts on the part of his host. “Take silks,” he said. “After you’ve paid the ad valorem duty and overhead—”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to let him sleep,” said Barbara, as ho grunted him-

self to unconsciousness. Mr. Lark extinguished the light and they went out again to Barbara’s room. “Well, if that doesn’t beat the bank!” said Mr. Lark, in wonder, “Can you imagine anything— ’ Dear, dear, dear! How did he get there?” His brows corrugated in thought. He was settling in his mind a very important question of honour. Obviously this man should be handed over to the police, but should he do it? “He’s probably mistaken the shop and strayed in here. Dozing Daniel wouldn’t have noticed him.” He referred disrespectfully to the night watchman. Barbara made a shrewd guess as to the reason for the man’s presence. “Let him sleep. He probably won’t wake till this afternoon.” Lark had evidently not exaggerated when he said he could sleep anywhere and anyhow. He went up to the warehouse, threw himself on a pile of genuine Teheran praying mats which had arrived from Birmingham that day, and fell into a dreamless slumber; yet was awake and active when the cleaners arrived at seven o’clock.

(To bo continued.)