Barbara On Her Own

Taranaki Daily News, 19 July 1929, Page 12

Barbara On Her Own

By

EDGAR WALLACE

CHAPTER XXIII. From a place of vantage a man had seen Mr. Hammett enter the store and had recognised him as a lawyer of dubious character. Mr. Peeker knew his man as the legal adviser of a notorious professional shoplifter of South London, and. his presence at Maher's was rather astonishing. Pceker’s' office window commanded a view of Barbara’s sanctum. He had been watching her all the morning through a pair of field-glasses, and now he saw Mr. Hammett’ enter. Unconscious of the fact that she was overlooked, Barbara had drawn the half curtains for Mr. Maber’s office was rather dark, and the watcher witnessed the scene that followed, the passing of the cheque, its destruction.

When Hammett gained the street the watcher was on his heels. All the time he was in his office, Nemesis waited in a taxi by the sidewalk, watching (with some anxiety) the fare click up. When Hammett descended at Pognoli’s restaurant at King’s Cross, Mr. Peeker followed him in and took a place at the next table, where the lawyer’s wife had been writing.

“It is al right,” he said, in a low voice. “There won’t be any trouble?” she asked anxiously. “Trouble!” he scoffed. “I’ve got her like that!” He pressed his thumb on the table with a glance at his neighbour. Mr. Peeker was absorbed in his newspaper, and, moreover, when the waiter came for his order, was so deaf, that the noble Italian had to shout in his ear.

“The poiht is,” said Hammett more naturally after this revelation, “she’s scared of anybody knowing where Mabep is—it would be ruin if it came out—it would mean death to a man like that.”

Peeker was straining his ears. Barbara Storr would be ruined —if would be death to Maber if anybody knew where be was! He experienced for the first time the joy that comes to the great detective when logic and deduction have led him to the support of concrete facts. Thereafter, Hammett spoke in a lower tone, and the listener heard little that was helpful, though Mr. Hammett was giving instructions to his wife which

would have' been very illuminating to the eavesdropping shop detective had he overheard them.

At twenty, minutes past three, ten minutes before the bank’s closing hour, she was to telephone Barbara, representing herself to be the agent of a German wholesaler who had a stock of artificial silks. He had taken the trouble to get prices that morning from wholesalers, and he was able to give a list of prices fifty per cent, below the market value.

“Hold her with this for ten minutes. She ■won’t recognise your voice on the ’phone.” At twenty minutes past three that afternoon he -presented himself at the bank and pushed the cheque nonchalantly across the counter. The cashier liiked up at him and examined him through the grille.

“Are you Mr. Hammett?” lie said. “Yes,” said the lawyer with a quiet smile.

His heart was beating at an abnormal rate, but he showed no signs of his profound agitation, which increased with every second of the cashier’s silence. “How' will you have this?”

Mr. Hammett could have swooned with joy. “Hundreds!” he said nonchalantly. The cashier counted out twenty notes, counted them again, counted them a third time, scribbled his pencil across the signature on the cheque, and pushed the notes under the grill. Mr, Hammett left without apparent haste. His taxi was waiting, and three minutes before closing time he walked into the marble hall of the Eight National Bank of New York, and came out into the street, his pockets bulging with hundred-dollar bills.

Mr. Atterman’s telephone bell rang and the voice of Peekcr spoke urgently. “I’ve found the other man,” he said. “The confederate?” asked Mr. Atterman quickly.

“lie’s a man named Hammett. He’s blackmailing Storr. Maber’s alive, but they’ve got him a prisoner somewhere.” “Wait,” said Mr. Atterman, and imparted the information to Julius, who was filling in the time between breakfast and lunch by eating his nails. “Alive, is he?” Julius did not seem overjoyed. Perhaps the recollection of the service he had rendered the old man and the proverbial gratitude of the aged, which finds, expression in codicils, had slightly shified his moral outlook. “I knew that bird Pecker would find him,” said Mr. Atterman exultantly. “Now, Julius, I guess our plan is clear. If we save Maber’s life, he can't help feeling grateful and I shouldn’t be surprised if it didn't make a whole lot of difference to our negotiations. I guess he’ll be just the sickest man in the world with that Storr woman. ‘Atterman,’ he’ll say, “you’ve been wonderful to me. If it hadn’t been for you I should have been a dead man.’ ”

“ ’For you and Colesberg,’ ” suggested ilius.

“Well, maybe he’ll mention you,” conceded Mr. Atterman. “Anyway, I’ll fix it so that he knows you’ve been sort of interested.” Pecker’s voice was calling him impatiently on the ’phone. “I can t wait, or those birds ■will slip me,” he said.

“Go right ahead, son,” said Mr. Atterman genially. “Spare no expense. Report here before six and at Regent’s Park after. We’ll be in all the °time, waiting on you,”

It was half past nine that night before he heard again from the sleuth. “I’m speaking from Wapping,” said the low voice of Mr. Peeker. “He’s in an eating-house near here, disguised.” “Who—Maber?” “No, not Maber — Hammett. I’ve trailed him all day. He’s dressed like a rough sailor and wearing a false moustache.” ' Mr. Atternian’s eyes lighted. “Good boy,” he "said encouragingly. “Let me know—spare no expense—” Nine, ten, eleven, midnight came before the telephone bell rang again, and then it was not Pecker’s but a deep, official voice that spoke. “Is that Mr. Atterman?” “Yuli,” said Mr. Atterman. “I am Sergeant Johnston, of the Thames police. Have you a man in your employ named Peeker?” Atterman turned pale. “Yes.” “We’ve found his overcoat by the riverside. One of our constables heard a splash in the water, went down to the river steps, and found the coat half in and half out of the river.” Atternian’s head reeled. The house of Maber and Maber had become almost a menace.

Julius was staying at Mr. Atternian’s house, and had retired to bed at eleven o’clock. Mr. Atterman went up the stairs two at a time, and, without knocking at the door, dashed in, switched on the light, and dragged the startled man to wakefulness. “She’s got Peeker!” he said breathlessly. “You’re next!” “Eh?” said Julius.

“You’re next!” Atterman pointed a trembling finger at the horrified man. “She’s got Peeker?” Julius was a picture of horror. “You mean Barbara Storr —got Peeker? What’s she doing with him?”

“You fool, she’s murdered him!” hissed Atterman.' Julius staggered into the bathroom and drank three glasses of cold water in rapid succession; and following him, Mr. Atterman stood at his elbow and gave in detail the story of the crime. “Peeker has been following this lawyer fellow all day,” he said. “He called me up to-night and told me that he was in Wapping. Poor guy! —I guess his wife will be sorry. We must find out where she’s living. What’s the law about that, Colesberg—do I have to pay compensation when husband and wife are living apart?”

But Julius was absorbed in the tragedy.

“Have they found his body?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“Xo, but they’re dragging the river, and they’re sending a man up from Scotland Yard. If my advice had been followed, we’d have called in Scotland Yard at first, and Atterman Brothers woudn’t have been short of the best fioor detective in London.”

I “I didn’t advise you to send for him.” ' Mr. Atterman looked at him reproach- ' fully through his thick lenses. “Boy,” he said brokenly, “we’re all in this. Don’t go back on me now.” Detective-Inspector Finney, of Scotland Yard, knocked at the door of Mr. Atterman’s house at one o’clock in the morning. It appeared that the Thames police had reported the occurcnce to the Yard, and Mr. Finney, who was on duty, had come personally to make inquiries. Ho did not look like a detective; his face was neither thin nor ascetic, his eyes neither deep nor filled with a stranve mystery; his hair was short, and he had cut himself while shaving. He was, moreover, in height some seventy-two inches and he was largegirthed. He listened whilst Mr. Atterman, with the assistance of Julius, described the circumstances which had led Peekcr to his doom.

. “Pecker? That’s your floor man, isn’t it?” asked Winney, without enthusiasm. “The fellow who’s always writing to the Yard telling us where we’re going wrong.” He did not seem to regret Pecker’s untimely end with any great poigancy. “I shouldn’t thing he’s dead —those kind of people are never drowned,” he said, and his ambiguity was offensive. “And who is Maber? Why do you think he’s dead?”

The bag and the stained and crumpled clothes were produced from a cupboard. The officer inspected them dispassionately. “This is undoubtedly blood,” he said. “When did Mr. Maber disappear?” ‘‘Ho was seen on Saturday night,” said Julius. “I have that from a friend of mine who joined Mr. Maber’s party at the Trocadero, but left rather early.” “And where does this Mijts Storr work ?”

They told him, speaking together. “At Maber’s—the place where the sale is?”

Julius and Mr. Atterman nodded together.

“My wife tells me,” said the detective, growing suddenly loquacious, “that there haven’t been such bargains in London since she can remember. She bought three silk petticoats for the price of one. They tell me that Maber’s have got Atterman’s skinned to death in the matter of prices.” . ‘This,” said Julius sternly, indicating his companion, “is Mr. Atterman.” ( “Then,” said the tactful police officer, “lie’ll be able to tell me whether that’s true ?”

“Quite untrue,” said Mr. Atterman hotly. “Maber’s are underselling me because they’re clearing out a lot of old stock at rubbish prices, and that’s all its worth, and they’re selling new stuff at cost. Maber is behaving unscrupulously.”’ ■ . .

“That’s tho murdered man?” asked the detective, fascinated. “Well, no it's the—the murderess, the girl wo're telling you about. The girl who has drowned Pecker.” “That’s vour floor detective?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Atterman impatiently. “She turned up on Sunday morning with a power of attorney, obviously wTiing from the unwilling hands of her victim. Maber was murdered on Saturday night as soon as the document had been signed.” “And tho commissioner of oaths —is he murdered,-too?” asked the detective. "I understand these things have to be signed before a commissioner?” That rather staggered them. “I don’t know the details of the crimes; you'll probably get them best from Miss Storr.” “Very good, gentlemen.” The detective took up the bag and examined it. “Who cut this open?” “I cut it open in the interests of justice,” said Mr. Atterman virtuously. “Where did you get the bag?” (To bo continued.)