CHECKMATE

Taranaki Daily News, 19 February 1931, Page 14

CHECKMATE

By

SYDNEY HORLOR.

Used to law and order working in the smoothest and most efficient forms, it senied impossible for her to believe that this scene was real.

Lady Wentworth had returned to consciousness to find herself in a room that was absolutely bare of furniture, except for a number of cheap chairs. To one of these she was tied by ropes. Facing her were three other chairs, each occupied by an enemy. In the centre was the woman whom she knew as thj Comtesse Zamoyski. On her right was the cad whose complexion and general appearance led her to think he must be a South American. On the left was the girl who had masqueraded as a parlour-maid at dinner. She could not see the “Doctor,” he, no doubt, was practising some further devilry on that poor child, Mary Mallory. The thought banished every other emotion but indignation. “I hope you realise what this .will mean to you,” she said, “you will all be sent to a French prison for a long term of years —and I have always understood that the inside of French prison is very unpleasant.” Her voice was controlled, although it vibrated with passion. Isofoel Wentworth was being true to the iblood of her ancestors. The woman in charge of the proceedings waved the words on one side. “We are a considerable distance from a French prison, my dear Lady Wentworth, and if you-are the sensible person I believe you to be, you will listen carefully to what I have to say.. “You are perfectly correct in your surmise that we are after your pearls. We want that necklace and we intend to.have it. Indeed, our principal object in coming to Cannes was to secure it. Our stay here is proving somewhat expensive, so that we propose to waste no further time. As we hold the cards, you will be well-advised not to raise any further difficulty. “It was, of course, a disappointment —a very real disappointment —that you did not bring the necklace with you tonight. I. had hoped and believed that you would wear it, not only for the satisfaction of your own vanity, but as a compliment to your hostess. You will pardon me, I hope, when I say that I consider you were lacking in courtesy in that particular. “Wait, please! What talking is to be done will be done by me. “We had made plans, however, to cover eventualities. In case you did not wear the necklace, the gentleman on my right had decided to pay a visit to your rodm at the Chester. The telephone message I received towards the end of dinner was from him. He conveyed the distressing information to me over the wire that the necklace was not to be found. Of course, we were not aware of the time that you had passed the jewels over to the custody of the hotel safe. I wigh to take this opportunity of thanking you for that piece of information. “To get them out of the Chester Hotel, safe is possible, but it would involve considerable trouble, some risk, and a certain delay. This delay, I frankly admit, would be inconvenient to us at the -moment; we have made all arrangements to be out of France before midnight to-night. But we do not intend to go without your necklace. That is the .position.” “Your story is very interesting, Comtesse,” came the comment. “I call you ‘Comtesse’ still in want of your proper name. No doubt you have a pictur-esque-chough. cognomen in the Police Records—‘Flash Flora’ or something like that. That unfortunate girl, Mary Mallory, was employed by you as an unsuspecting decoy, I suppose?” “She- served her purpose in helping us to make your very charming acquaintance, Lady Wentworth., But time is valuable, and I do not .propose to waste any more of it by answering your questions. The only matter that counts is your necklace.” The prisoner smiled. “Which is resting at the moment in a hotel safe that can reasonably be supposed to be burglar-proof. There would seem to be an impasse. If I eaid ‘I was sorry, I should lie—and I hate telling lies. _lt would be interesting to ■know what you now propose.” “I propose that you lend us your valuable help.” “You. flatter, me, Comtesse. But for a famous criminal—-I have no doubt you are famous-!—you appear to be a poor judge of character. Naturally, you have the power , to murder me, but that will not help you in the least —and does not affect me very much. I am an elderly woman, -I have lived my life and enjoyed it. As it happens, my heart is not strong, and-1 do not suppose I have many more years before me in any case. Not that I want to die, of course, but I am willing to do so cheerfully in order to put a stop to this particular ambition of yours. My necklace is a family heirloom. It shall never be touched by your vile fingers.” The man jumped up, but the Comtesse pacified him with a gesture. The girl, however, she was not able to control. “Listen, you old fool,” she said, standing in front of the prisoner, and shaking her fist in the other’s face, “you think it clever to be so defiant, perhaps? You talk of not being afraid. . . but you do not realise what we can do to you.” “That’s enough!” exclaimed the Comtesse. “Nadia, please allow me to deal with this.”

The girl, eullen-faced and muttering to herself, went back to her seat. “There are two things I wish you to do, Lady Wentworth,” said the Comtesse, “and I think after what has just' 'been eaid you will decide to do them. I hope so —for your own sake. The first is to telephone to the manager of the Chester Hotel telling him that you are sending a trusted messenger down with a note authorising him to collect the necklace and to bring it back to you here. The manager may have his doubts concerning the wisdom of the procedure, but in the face of your written. authority, he will not dare to refuse the order. There is just one word of warning necessary: you will not say anything over the telephone which in our opinion would be unwise. To do so would be a very foolish proceeding indeed.’’

“You continue to amuse me, Comtesse,” remarked the prisoner; “in return for listening so patiently to the recital of your plans, you will not, I feel sure, deny me the privilege of hearing what is to happen to me —afterwards.” “You will be left in this villa with sufficient food and drink to last you until someone, calls. Naturally, we shall cut the telephone wire.” “Very considerate! But, of course, you have guessed already what my answer is: I refuse.”

“You refuse?” It was the man who spoke. His face, as he leaned forward, was livid.

“Ah! Do I recognise in your friend the trusted emissary who was to be sent to the Chester for my necklace?” “Stop playing the. fool—make her write that letter.”

Now it was the girl with the beautiful but repulsive face who cut in.

“Leave it to me,” again commanded the Comtesse. , “You have not heard all I have to 6 av,” the woman proceeded, addressing the prisoner again. “You have told us that you do not fear death—that, rather than allow your jewels to come into our possession, you would willingly die. You may -be telling the truth. “I assure you most earnestly that I am telling the truth.” “Very well. But, as it happens, your refusal will involve not only your own death but the death of someone who, I may assume, is very dear to you I refer to your nephew, Mr. Robert Wingate.” “Bobby!” The name escaped her before she was aware she had spoken. What had these ghouls to do with Bobby?” “I see that my assumption was correct,” triumphantly declared the Comtesse. “Lady Wentworth,” she went on in a grim tone, “your nephew is, like yourself, a prisoner in our hands, and whether he lives or dies rests entirely with you. In other words, it is a case or your necklace against his lite. She was shaken in every nerve, but still she did not flinch. f “I do not believe a word you say,' she returned. “Perhaps you will be able to recognise your nephew’s handwriting?” said the Comtesse, producing a letter, ‘This is addressed to Mary Mallory, with whom he appears, to be in danger of falling in love. Listen.” She started to read. CHAPTER XXII. P THE DREADFUL THING. The prisoner listened with increasing apprehension whilst the letter was being read. ' 4 4 If she had not been a fool she would have paid attention to the advice winch Bobby had given her. Now it was too late. , . ‘‘ln case you should doubt the genuineness of this letter,” the Comtesse said when she had concluded, “you can see the handwriting for yourself.” One glance at the small neat script ■was sufficient. “We had an idea that your nephew was likely to attempt to interfere with our plans and so we took measures accordingly. He was on his way up to this villa early yesterday morning with the object of inducing Mary Mallory to leave when —well, 'why should I pursue a subject which must be very unpleasant to you? It is enough to add that at the present time Mr. Wingate is safely tucked away in a place from which it would take an army of soldiers to rescue him. Those who have been in charge of him merely await our word. I trust I make myself clear?” “And now for your answer,” quickly followed the man.

Lady Wentworth, white to the lips, yet kept her head erect. “What you have told me does not make me alter my mind,” she said. “Although that letter is in my nephew’s bandwriting, I have more confidence in Mr. Wingate .than to believe he would allow himself to fall into any trap set by you. He was already suspicious, for he had warned me that you were a criminal.”

“You still refuse?” Jose Santos fairly screamed the words. He waved his hands, which the prisoner noticed were gloved. “Yes—l.still refuse, you scum!” . Then happened a very dreadful thing. The man drew a long knife from his pocket. Before he could be stopped he had rushed forward, # * » * With a long, Convulsive shudder which shook her from head to /foot, Mary returned to consciousness. The immediate past was so packed with terror that she almost hated to see the light streaming in through the window. Sho raised her left arm. She was fully dressed. Then what had happened? The last memory she had was of being in bed with that horrible doctor bending over her. “You are somewhat unduly excited and require calming,” the beast had said —how vividly she could recall the words! —“and' so I must give you something to quieten your nerves.” With that had come., the sharp prick of a hypodermic needle again—she was becoming used to this particular momentary' pain—and then forgetfulness. Had she dressed herself? She could not remember. Where had they taken her? 'She looked round. This room was familiar; it was one of the ground-floor apartments in the Villa Graciosa. Then she had not been taken away; she was still at home. “Home” . . . how grotesquely ironical the name sounded! She was still frightfully weak. Every ounce of strength seemed to have been drained from her.- Even the simple action of raising her left arm had been exhausting. But she must get up. Every minute was valuable. She had to inform the police; that devil-woman, the Comtesse Zamoyski, had got Lady Wentworth into her power and ... She suppressed the cry of fear that rose to her lips, and endeavoured to scramble to her feet. What Was that? Dear God, what was it? !

Mary stared horrified at the longbladed knife which had fallen from her right hand. She had been holding that knife; her fingers had been clenched about the handle. There was no doubt about it. When she had started to put her hand flat on the floor in order to get the necessary leverage to rise, the thing had slipped out of her fingers. She had been holding that knife — that knife on whose blade was a ghastly smear. j With a scream that could not be controlled, she sprang up. Fear had now lent her the necessary strength. One look behind her and she lurched backwards, her whole body throbbing and her hands placed tightly against her mouth. She must have gone mad. That inanimate thing, lying stiff in death, was Lady Wentworth. She had tried to save her, but must have failed. They had killed that old lady, murdered her. That wound in the breast. . . Then why had she been left there? It was horrible, horrible! But she must not faint. She had to keep her strength. They might still be in the villa, and they would try to prevent her getting to the telephone in order to speak to the police. A feeling of deadly nausea attacked her as she started to walk to the door, but she fought it.

A confused series of noises outside made her hold on to a chair for support. Her heart seemed to turn over. In her present exhausted state, what chance would she have against them? Then, whilst she was endeavouring to get something of a fresh grip upon herself, the door burst open and a man entered. .

He was in uniform and wore the regulation dress of a sergent de ville.

A French policeman! She listened stupidly. , “Do you mean that I am to be charged with this dreadful crime?” she gaspThe sergent de ville, an aggressive-j looking man with reddish hair and a long moustache, the ends of which he continually caressed, looked at her with avid suspicion. . | “I say nothing—as yet, Mademoiselle. Allow me to read over the notes that I have made. Your name, you say, is Mary Mallory.” . 1 “Yes.” . l “You are English by birth?” , “Yes.” “Your age is 24 years’” • “Yes.” “You have been acting as companion in this villa to a Comtesse Zamoyski?” “That is correct.” “I find the house empty—why is that?” “I cannot tell you—l have been ill.” “Mademoiselle, I regret to have to inform you that you must consider your-, self under arrest.” The sergent de ville closed his notebook with a snap. . “I go now to telephone to my supeiiois. Should you make any attempt to escape, I give warning that I shall be compelled to deal roughly with you.” The world swam about her as he left the room. # * * * The Juge d’lnstruetion ran his fingers through his doormat of a beard, looked round”like an actor sensing the ‘feel” of a theatre crowd, and sat down noisily. “This is a terrible crime—a scandal to Cannes.” The Commissaire of Police, who had accompanied him to the Villa Graciosa, nodded vehemently. .It is politic for Commissaires of Police to agree with their superiors., There were four people in that room of tragedy. Three were men, foreigners at that, and the fourth was a girl—herself. The entire resources of the law which these three men represented—and they were tremendous—were arrayed against a girl who was entirely alone. Mary had become so stupefied by shock that ever since the sergent de ville had made his unexpected entry into that same room, hours before, her brain had been too benumbed for thought. She was like one in a trance. Even now she could scarcely realise the full significance of what was taking place. Her dominant impression was one not so much of fear but of utter, terrible loneliness. “It is my duty to enquire into all the circumstances of this terrible crime,” announced the Juge d’lnstruetion, looking round at the chair in which Mary had been told to sit. “Now please tell me your story as simply as possible. But, first, I ask you one all-important question: Did you kill this Englishwoman Lady Wentworth?” , , “No.” “Well, now tell me your story.” As the tragic narrative proceeded, the Juge d’lnstruction made . many interruptions. One of these was devastating in its effect upon her. “You say you did not know that Monsieur Wingate was the nephew of the dead woman.” Mary gasped. This was the final blow. She felt that nothing that might happen in the future could matter now. She closed her eyes to shut out all sight of this cruel and horrible world. “Answer me, Mademoiselle!” rasped the police official.. “No—l SW ear I did not know it.” Then came another painful query. “If, as you say, this Monsieur Wingate is a friend of yours, why have you not sent for him?” .. “Because —” •{. “Yes, Mademoiselle ?” “Because, in the first place, I have been unable to think—” “That is understandable,” said the official, looking across at the Commissaire, who nodded in agreement after making sympathetic noises in his throat. “And in the second place, Mademoiselle?” pursued the Juge d’lnstruction. The words were purred, and to Mary’s excited fancy, the man seated at the table, acting as her judge, took on the shape of a great cat, making, ready to spring. What sympathy he might have towards her had been quickly stifled. Yet she replied. “There had been a misunderstanding between Mr. Wingate and myself. He had snubbed me in the Casino.” “So! And why did he snub you, Mademoiselle ?” “I cannot tell you, unless it was because he saw me seated next to his aunt playing baccarat.” A look was exchanged between the Juge d’lnstruction and the Commissaire. # “Apparently he objected to you being associated with Lady-Wentworth?” The remark 'seemed full of menace. “I. could not say. But he had no reason to object except—” “Yes, Mademoiselle?” encouraged the official, his pen poised. “That I was connected—although innocently connected—with the woman who called herself the Comtesse Zamoyski.” She felt strength returning to her. “Where is that woman?” she continued. “It is she you should cross-, examine.” “Unfortunately, she is not here. “Where is the man Santos, then, whom she said was her nephew? It was he ■who was to be the thief.” “Alas! Mademoiselle, he, too, has vanished.” “There was a girl they called Nadia, and a man with glasses who professed to be a doctor—where are they?” The official’s smile irritated her intensely. “Perhaps you think that these people exist only in my imagination—that" I have invented them?” “I would not be so ungallant. No doubt there are such people —but they do not happen to be here.” “But I am—therefore, I am bound to be the murderess? Monsieur, I am innocent, and I will not tolerate such treatment. I demand to be represented by a lawyer —an English lawyer, if there is one in Cannes.” “Justice shall be done, assuredly,” was the reply in a somewhat heated tone. “I will myself give you the name and address of an eminent avocat. But there are some more questions to be answered first, if you please.” “I repeat I know nothing beyond what I have already told you.” The man pounced on the reply. “Do you deny first telephoning and then writing a letter to the manager of the Chester Hotel last night?”

Mary gave a short, tragic laugh. “I was too ill to bo able to do anything of the kind even if I had wanted to —the man who claimed to be a doctor made me unconscious through a drug. Ho used a hypodermic needle —I must have the mark.”

She drew up the sleeve of her dress. Against the white skin of the upper part of her left arm, a small red spot showed distinctly. “Now will you believe me?” she asked passionately. The Commissionaire of Police coughed. Then he caught the eye of the Juge d’lnstruetion. The latter beckoned to him and the two conferred together. Finally: “Is it permitted to enquire if Mademoiselle has contracted the unfortunate habit of taking drugs?” asked the Juge d’lnstruetion. At first the full significance of the question did not occur to Mary, but when it did she felt she would go mad. “It is an abominable question,” she said; “how dare you insult me by asking it , “Mademoiselle,” returned the official sternly, “I am here to enquire into the brutal murder of a defenceless and

harmless woman, and I have the power to put any question I may think-fit. I ask you again if you are in the habit of taking drugs?” “Certainly not. This mark was made by the point, of the hypodermic needle which that doctor used on me last night.” ' “Describe this doctor,” cams the order.

Mary outlined the more salient characteristics of the m?,n whose touch she loathed.

Again the Commissaire coughed. Again he caught the eye of the Juge d’lnstruetion,' who beckoned to him, and again the two conferred. At last:

“What you have just said, Mademoiselle, certainly throws a somewhat different light on the matter,” he started platitudinbiisly, “but there remains much to b- explained from your point of view. Ask M. Caron ,'o step inside,” he instructed the waiting Sergent de Ville. (To be Continued.)