Barbara On Her Own

Taranaki Daily News, 10 July 1929, Page 13

Barbara On Her Own

By

EDGAR WALLACE

CHAPTER XVII. The first post was delivered at halfpast, and she went quickly through the letters until s]ic came to one addressed in an illiterate hand to “Mr. Alling Stuart, C/o Mabers.” Alan had warned her that she might expect to hear from Okko that morning, and she had no compunction in opening the letter. A glance at the signature told her that Okko was the correspondent. “Dear sir,” said the letter. “Having given the matter* thort and talked it over with brother artists, must decline kind offer re wild man act, the same being, as everybody says, very lowering to my position.—Yours truly, Okko.” Barbara said something naughty. Alan had sent paragraphs to all the newspapers about the wild man. She heard Mr. Lark in the shop below living instructions to the cleaners (he was so constituted that ho could never pass a subordinate without giving some sort of instructions more or less uncalled for), and beckoned him from the head of the stairs. She showed him the letter. “This is the wild man you were talking about? That’s very unfortunatevery. It was in the evening papers last night. I heard people talking about it going home in the tube.” “Of course,” said, Barbara. She did not meet his eyes and her voice was a little husky, but that might have been from tiredness —“it might be possible to get a substitute.” Lark shook his head. “Not for a wild man, miss. For a salesman or a young lady in the mantle department, but not for* a wild man from Borneo. I don't suppose he’s any more from Borneo than I am.” “If it were possible to get a substitute,” she said, gazing abstractedly down the stairs. “After all, he’d no right to bo here. I’m not so sure we couldn’t charge him with burglary.” Mr. Lark staggered back a pace and held on to a partition. “Not—not the Wire ?” he said hollowly. “Not Minkey 1” She nodded deliberately.

“He’d be much more comfortable there if wo put a nice mat for him to He on and covered him with some blankets, than ho is in your chair.” Mr. Lark opened the door of his room and peeped in. The Wire did not move, though the intruder pushed a ehair across tho floor. Ho came back to Bar-

bara. “Go into your room, miss,” he said gently. “I'll tell you when it’s all over.” There wae no word in the early edition about the burglary at Maber and Maber’s. Mr. Atterman sent specially

down to the city for the first papers, examined all tho news that came

through on tho tape, and experienced a genuine relief when ho found the item lie expected and dreaded did not appear in print. But what had happened to Minkey? He had got away and gone home, probably. Tho man was exhausted. Musing down on the crowd before Maber’s, he realised that the “display” was a success. They had got their wild man from Borneo, and evidently he was a fairly, fascinating wild -man; for even the mounted police patrols were called from tho roadway to ride along the pavement and clear the block that was disorganising the traffic. The aid af-

forded by a pair of powerful field glasses failed to help him see through the heads that moved and swayed between Mr. Atterman and the jungle window; and, at last, his curiosity piqued, he went downstairs, crossed tho road, and slowly made a progress through the press of people about the window, which was quite distinct from the bulging ■queues that lined up at the doors. By dint of patience and perseverance he reached tho second rank of the sightseers, and finally, getting an opening, he pushed through. For a moment he could not take in the hideous sight. Stretched upon a new mattress, lay a figure, deep in slumber, open-mouthed, altogether hideous. “Minkey! ”

With a strangled cry of wrath Mr. Atterman fought his way clear of the crowd and dashed for the door of Maber’s. A policeman caught him and •gently pushed him back. “You’ve got to take your turn, the same as the other ladies, sir,” he said. “You needn’t worry; there'll be plenty of longery left for you.” “I want to see Miss Storr!” spluttered Atterman. . s / “I’m sorry. I can’t let you in. You’ve got to join in the queue at the end.”

But before he had finished Atterman was flying down the side street to the staff door. The timekeeper saw him, and whilst ho was deciding in his mind whether he should ask the business of such an eminent and well-known tradesman, Sir. Atterman had brushed past him. He knew roughly the topography df tho place, flew up the stone steps, and found himself in the-shop.

Which was the window. At last he saw it, and went at a run to the little door behind which the unconscious Live Wire was taking out his arrears of rest. “Excuse me, sir.” A commissionaire interposed between him and the door. “You can’t touch that. The man's not to be disturbed. Ho wouldn’t think nothing of biting you—or mo either.” “Let me go-!” howled Mr. Atterman. “I want him. He’s mine!”

“I’m very sorry, sir.” The commissionaire’s heart must have been very pure, for he had the strength of ten, and hold the struggling, half-demented man at arm’s length. Foaming at the mouth, Mr. Atterman leapt for the office stairs, and was checked again outside Barbara’s room.

“Gd-J an appointment?” Police-con-stable Albuhera viewed the suspicious character unfavourably. “1 want to see Miss Storr.” The words almost strangled him. “I must see Miss Storr at once.”

The door was pulled open and Barbara camo out.

“Do you want to seo me, Mr. Atterman?” she asked innocently. He could only gibber and point to the floor.

“Yes, wc have quite a large number of customers this morning,” said Barbara, “and thank you for your comjratulations.”

“Afy man—my Mr. Minkey;” he squeaked.

“Your Mr. Minkey? Who is your Mr. Minkey? Oh, I remember 1 Well, what about him?”

“Ho’s in your window—its a disgrace. I’ll have you arrested,”

“Don’t threaten,” murmured Albuhera fiercely. “It can’t be your Mr. Minkey,” cooed Barbara, “It’s the wild man we engaged. I don’t know how he got into the shop, but we found him on our premises this morning; he was sleeping in Mr. Lark’s room, and naturally we thought he was the Wild man from Borneo. Who else could it he ? Suppose it isn’t the man we think it is, but some person who has feloniously broken into the shop in the night. What shall we do with him?” She was addressing Police-constable Albuhera Sturrnan.

“Pinch him,” said that authority. “You can’t go breaking into shops in the middle of the night. That’s committing burglary in the eyes of the law.” The reply sobered Mr. Atterman.

“There’s been some mistake,” lie said more mildly. “Either my man in his weariness camo into the wrong store, or else a low trick has been played upon a respectable and honest official of Atterman Brothers.”

“Incorporated,” murmured Barbara, and added, “such a mistake is impossible. It might occur if he had a pass key or was accompanied by some discharged employee of Maher and Maber who had a key; but to reach Mr. Lark’s room, where he was found, it would be necessary for him to have made an entry on to these premises witli an illegal object. May I add that my safe was opened last night? It contained a large sum of money.” She saw his colour change. “Nothing was stolen,” said Mr. Atterman loudly. “Some property was stolen; the money, so far as we know, is untouched. The burglars and the receiver,” she added —Mr. Atterman winced—“are, of course, liable to ten years’ penal servitude. I have my theories about the burglary, and I hope you won’t disturb them. If I thought for* a moment that our wild man was your Mr. Minkey—” She shrugged and glanced with a meaning, smile at Albuhera. Albuhera blew his nose.

“Perhaps I am mistaken,” said Atterman with a cough. “I must confess the likeness is remarkable, very remarkable. Not,” he added hastily, “that Mr. Minkey bears tho slightest resemblance in appearance to a wild man from Borneo or from any other old place. But there is just a possibility that, that —” he paused at a loss for an explanation. “There’s a possibility that a wild man from Borneo may look like Mr. Minkey?” “Exactly,” ho said. “Now, constable, will you show Mr. Atterman the way out? You don’t want to buy anything?” she asked. Mr. Atterman did not trust himself to speak. CHAPTER XVIII. • Maudie Deane liad called the previous morning according to instructions, and had been sent homo again, with the understanding that she should bo within reach if sho was wanted. She came again at nine, carrying a black instrument case in her hand. “I think,” said Barbara, regarding her acquaintance thoughtfully, “that this is a morning when a little music might soothe the savage breast — or is it beast?” “Who’s that horror you’ve got in the window? I’ve never seen anything like him before,” said Maudie. “Gracious! ho gave me the creeps!” She shuddered. “I hope you keep him locked up? Ho was asleep when I saw him.” “Ho sleeps all summer,” said Barbara. “That kind do. Will you make yourself comfortable on the roof? I'll get Mr. Lark to take you up and show you how to get there. Ho promised to have an umbrella put up for you.” “Shall I be seen from tho street?” asked the who also had some professional pride. “No, from nowhere. The farther back you sit from the parapet, the less likely it is that you’ll be seen.” “What shall I play?” asked Maudie eagerly. Barbara considered this, hand on chin. “I think you’d better start with ‘Where , is My Wandering Boy To-night?’ Will i you do that?” Maudie made a note. “And then you’d better go on to ‘The Wild Man of Borneo Has Just Come to Town’—it’s an old tune,” said Barbara apologetically, “but possibly you know it?”

Maudie nodded, sucked her pencil, and made another note.

‘’Then I think”—Barbara looked up to . the ceiling for inspiration—“you might give him ‘Why Are You Sleeping, Oh, My Heart?’ Do you know that one?” Maudie said she did. She spoke rather reluctantly. “There’s nothing very soulful about these, dear,” she said. “I thought that ‘What l I do?’ would be a. good start off.” - “How does it go?” Maudie recited the words with unction. “Ye—es,” agreed Barbara, “but I think I’d keep that till later.” Soon after Maudie’s departure to the roof, before the first wail of her artistic efforts turned the faces of the crowd, ' Barbara received an unwelcome visitor. “I know you don’t -want to see me,” smiled Mrs. Maber, as she eanie into the room, “but I really, my dear, I’ve come to have a long and serious talk with you.” “Long, yes,” said Barbara, “but serious — no. W'cll, the shorter the better.” The spurious Mrs. Maher dropped all pretence of geniality and good nature. * I vo just discovered that my poor husband is in quod!” she said,‘briefly. Even Barbara knew what “quod” was, and her heart went down into her boots. “Who told you that absurd story?” she asked vaguely. “Never mind about who told me that story; I’m telling you. Between you, you’ve got my husband in trouble, and I’m going to make it hot for some of you. You know ho’s in prison, and you kept it from, me, his own lawful wife. So that’s why I’m not to have my money! That’s why my dear William is not allowed to pay his own lawful wedded wife, in a church, her rightful dues and demands!” , Her anger was not wholly simulated. The last words which her lawful spouse addressed her were: “If you make a mess of this, I’ll murder you.” “You sitting here, living on the fat of the land,” she proceeded rapidly, and in her own language, “a-ordering and a-bossing and a-bullying everybody Who comes in my dear husband’s plaee, and ■treating his own wife as though she

was the dirt beneath your feet; I won’t stand it! Am I to sit here on the doorstep and beg and pray, and go on my knees and crawl for money that’s rightfully mine, just because my husband’s in prison? I’m going to the papers straight away. I’m going to the Home Secretary.” She hesitated a second. There was somewhere else Mr. Hammett had told her to go, but she couldn’t remember the place. It was Barbara’s opportunity. “There’s no need for you to work yourself into a temper, Mrs. Maber,” she said, with some spirit.' “I’ll help you all I can. It’s perfectly true your husband is in prison, through no fault of his own.” The missus sneered.

'‘But when you ask me for five hundred pounds you’re asking for a lot of money. It may not seem much to you, but it’s an awful lot to me. And I’m not prepared —” “You not prepared!” scoffed the woman, her voice rising in a cadence of scorn. “I’ll let you know, young lady, that I’m standing up for my rights. And I'll go straight away to my solicitor this very minute, and he* i s one of the beet solicitors that’s ever been known, the well-known and celebrated Mr. Hammett—” “Hammett!”

Mrs. Maber had made a mistake. Her husband had not told her to mention his name; at the same time, he had failed to Instruct her not to speak of him. She wasn’t even sure that Barbara knew of Mr. Hammett’s existence.

Barbara was laughing, quietly, but in tensely.

“And I was just going to give you the money!”

“What do you mean?” asked Mrs., Hammett, with a sudden fear. A finger pointed at her. “I know how this little idea of the secret marriage came into existence. Just wait.”

She drew tho telephone to her and gave a number. She was rapidly turning over tho counterfeits of the chequebook.

“Is that the Southern Bank? Miss Store _speaking. Stop payment of DH. 1874/5 thank you. It hasn't been presented?—Thank you.” Mrs. Hammett went a dirty white. “What’s the game ?” she asked. (To bo continued.)