Barbara On Her Own

Taranaki Daily News, 12 July 1929, Page 7

Barbara On Her Own

By

EDGAR WALLACE

Barbara pointed to tlie door. “Skip,” she said. Barbara on occasions could bo almost vulgar. Mrs. Hammett towered over her. “If I skip, there’s going to be troublerm telling you straight. The old man’s in quod and you’re trying to hush it up. What would it be worth to pc. pie like —” She thought for a moment, and only by accident mentioned Attcrman. It was* a shrewd, if unintentional reference on her part. “I’m going to tell you something,” said Mrs. Hammett. “My husband’s got to get out of this country and he’s got to get out pretty quick. We’re up to our eyes in debt and he’ll be in Brixton Prison next week unless we can clear away out of the country. Our passport is fixed and we’re jumping to Canada. Now, listen, young miss; I can’t get any more for blackmailing you twice than for blackmailing you once, and I don’t want to blackmail you at all. But unless you pay up a reasonable sum I’m going over to Attcrman’s and I’m going to tell him that Maber’s in gaol.”

Barbara sat bolt upright in her chair, watching the woman’s face. There was no doubt she was in earnest, that even the threat of prosecution would not turn her from her purpose. To have her arrested would be merely to expose the thing she was trying to hide. In a way things could not have worked out better than for Hammett to leave the country for good. He was the one man who knew all about the unfortunate episode of Mr. Maber’s, the one man who could extract an annual toll as the price of silence.

Barbara was eminently practical. She took up the cheque book, wrote a cheque payable to herself for two hundred pounds, and rang the bell. Then she opened the safe and took out two packages of £lOO and put them on the table, replacing the cheque. “There’s your money, and thank you for your frankness. If you’re in England in a week I’m going to gaol you.” She opened the door and Mr. Maber’s temporary wife passed out, if not jubilant, at least satisfied. That morning Atterman held a council of war, Julius being the other councillor present. The crowd still surged before the window where the sleeping beauty lay at ease, and every time Mr. Atterman moved near the window and saw the shocking sight he grew livid of face and incoherent of speech. “She knows it was you all right,” he growled. “Of course she knows. Gosh! you got me into a mess!” “I?” said the indignant Julius. “What have I done? I wouldn't have gone to the beastly place only you insisted. And why send me with a dead man, anyway?” Atterman strode up and down the room, his head between his hands. “If I could only get one back on her,” he said. “Only one—! What’s that?” . It was the note of. a cornet, beautifully clear, and sweet. Mr. Atterman’s knees trembled. There was only one person in the world who could make a cornet talk that way. He looked round for some sign of her, but the sun glinted on no brazen mouth. It seemed almost as if the melody came from the sky. For a second Mr. Atterman, who had a leaning towards spiritualism, wondered if Maudie was dead. And then he recognised the tune and ground his teeth. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing,” he said. “That fiend of a woman has put her up to it—taunting me! Where the devil is she?”

He searched, the street, the facia of Maher’s and the sky, and presently located the sound.

“She’s on the roof,” he said, dashed out of the room, rang furiously for the elevator, and was carried up to his own roof.

Yes, there she was, a pathetic figure, making music for hie embarrassment. He waved his hand in a signal, but Maudie played best with her eyes shut. “The Wonder Man of Borneo” was being blared forth. The vulgarity of it! And Maudie -was such an artist. Mr. Atterman went back to his office, his heart filled with hate for the girl who had flaunted him. “I’m going to see wfliat’s in that bag,” he said. “I don’t care what happens. We’ll go back to the house and you cut it open.” “You cut it open,” suggested Julius. “I’ve done enough cutting and climbing to last me for the rest of my life.” “Does it matter who does it?” Mr. Colesberg pondered the point, “I don’t know.” a “I’ll ask Peeker,” eaid Atterman. “Who is Peeker?” demanded Julius. Mr. .Atterman pushed a bell, CHAPTER XIX. Of all the shop detectives in the world, Peeker was perhaps the most scientific. Pecker’s task at Atterman’s was to distinguish the kleptomania or wealthy customers from the thieving propensities of the lower orders. He was a terror to all shoplifters, professional and amateur: his gimlet eyes penetrated pillow muffs wherein illicit lace and stockings were concealed; he saw through capacious bags into which odds and ends of ribbons had been dropped. But he was something more than a shop detective. Nobody seeing this short, stout man with the rosy, open face and the curly hair would have suspected that he harboured within his soul an ambition to greater things. He despised himself for the pettiness of his occupation, and bitterly regretted the lack of inches that had debarred him from entry to the police and the attainment of an honoured position at Scotland Yard.

In the bicycle shed at the back of his house in Camden Town he maintained a notable laboratory. Here were the microscopes and rows of bottles, stills and bunsen burners with which he occupied his spare time. He had read every informing book on crime and the criminal that was procurable. He had read Lombroso, Mantegazza, and the “Anthropological Review.” He could distinguish mainalian blood from egg stains, and could detect arsenic by the three recognised tests. To such a man the petty nature of his daily task was both irksome and humiliating. He was something of an authority on criminal law. .He came and stared gravely before his employer, twisting his watch-guard. “Pecker, suppose I have in my possession a bag, the property of somebody else, which I have reason to believe contains information which I ought to have—”

“And which is wrongfully withheld from you?” asked Pecker.

(To bo continued.)

“Yes,” said Mr. ’Attcrman, jumping at this Interpretation. “Stolen property ?” “Um—yes, it might be for all that I know to the contrary.” “Open it,” said the oracle simply, and waited. “Is that all, sir?” “That is all, Pecker.” Mr. Peeker withdrew. “There you are,” said Atterman. “He knows!”

Tho storekeeper had got past any nice feelings that he might have had. He was prepared not only to cut the bag, but to commit an even more desperate crime to get even with this unwomanly creature. He at first intended waiting till lunchtime, but the maddening repetition of significant tunes made work impossible, and collecting Julius from the. little room in which he had been installed, he telephoned for his car and they drove back to Regent’s Park. The bag was in a cupboard, and Atterman, taking it out, placed it on the table.

“Shut the doors and lock ’em,” he said quietly. He took from his pocket a knife that he had collected from his juvenile department; one of those never-wear-out-ablo articles which are so popular with the junior boyhood of our country. “Now,” he said, and stuck the knife through the upper part of the bulging hide, and drew. The knife broke. “There is another blade,” suggested Julius softly. Mr. Atterman opened the second blade and again stabbed the leather, and again the knife broke. “Have you got a razor?” asked Julius, after he had turned out his own pockets to prove that he himself carried no weapon of any kind. “I have several razors,” said Mr. Atterman coldly. “Try one that you did nt get at Atterman’s,” said the rude Julius. Mr. Atterman went upstairs and returned with a large, white-handled, bright-bladed weapon, and this time went more cautiously to work. He had first to cut through the hide and then through the lining. When he had finished, a jumble of soiled clothes was revealed. “What on earth are these? This isn’t a change!” He pulled out a pair of trousers; they were muddy from the ankles to the knees; one leg was s'ightly split at the seam; they were even mudstained elsewhere.

“He’s been sitting in the road, or fallen,” suggested Julius. “That’s queer.” Again Atterman dipped into the unlucky bag and pulled out a shirt and it dress-jacket. The jacket was split at the collar, and there were signs here of a struggle. The elbows were torn, the cuffs covered with some sinister-looking stains. Julius watched open mouthed, incapable of speech, and then Mr. Atterman spread out the shirt. The bosom was muddy, and something worse. Great blood-stains stretched from the shoulder to tho second buttonhole. “Good Lord!” breathed Atteiman, his hands shaking. Without another woid, he took up the telephone, and, providentially remembering the number, called his store. “Mr. Atterman speaking. Tell Mr. Peeker I want him.” He waited, talking over his shoulder. “We’ve got to go carefully to work here,” he said in a muffled voice. “I don’t want to bring in the police until I’ve had Peeker; is that you, Peeker? Mr. Atterman speaking. Come right away up to my house; a murder has been committed!”

He put down the telephone and faced the late junior partner. “The question is,” said Mr. Atterman slowly, “where has she hidden the body?” Mr. Maber had been murdered; they had no doubt on the subject. Here was the damning proof. Even Mr. Atterman shuddered at the sight of those tell-tale stains. The pale pink stain on the left, the brown bloodstain on the right of the shirt bosom. “That looks like wine,” said Julius, indicating the pink discolouration. Mr. Atterman nodded dejectedly. “She probably lured him on—-with wine,” he said. “Young in years and old in- wickedness. What a curse money is!” Julius agreed. Other people having money was the most cursed thing he knew. “I liked him,” said Mr. Atterman softly. “There was something about the poor old boy that was very, very —” He stopped at loss for a word, but. Julius offered no suggestion. “He had that peculiar charm,” said Mr. Atterman, “which you might describe as —” He waited for Mr. Colesberg’s help. “Exactly,” said Julius. “I have often thought that.” “Such men,” said Mr. Atterman, “for all their —what is the word? —have a side to them which is—” ‘ “I have felt that,” said Julius quietly, “with him especially.” He sighed. “I suppose he died intestate. These good-natured, careless old gentlemen, they seldom make provision—although,” as a thought occurred to him, “he was not without gratitude. I remember his saying to me once, ‘Colesberg, I’m greatly obliged to you.’ It was some little service I’d rendered,” said Julius modestly. “I gave up my taxi to him one rainy day—a mere nothing. But these little things count in the minds of the lonely, brooding kind of man.” Mr. Atterman nodded. “I shall hate the publicity of it,” he said, “although publicity of any kind is very good for business. As for the girl—” He shrugged his shoulders. “It seems a pity,” said Julius, “and yet the law’s law.” They sat and gloomed on the virtues of the departed Mr. Maber, on the queer and romantic drama of his death; they speculated, having a limited knowledge of such things, upon the disposal of his remains, until Mr. Atterman’s servant entered to announce Mr. Peeker. The sleuth-hound of Atterman’s preserved an impassive mien.