MURDER

Taranaki Daily News, 6 March 1934, Page 11

MURDER

(By

John Arnold)

CHAPTER HI (continued.) . “You will dine there,” continued 'Monsieur le Marquis. “At nine o’clock you will go -out for a walk. You will go down the King’s Road and take the second turning on the left. That is Pitt Street. You will go to the last house on the- right—that is number twentytwo—and open the- front. door with .this key.”' ’ .' He pushed over to me an ordinary Yale key. “A—er—friend of mine borrowed a lady’s handbag a few days ago, and I took the liberty-of having a copy made of the key which we found inside. The bag was returned via Scotland Yard. It was really very simple.” He leaned back and looked smugly self-satisfied. “Go on,” I said “I am tolerably, well acquainted with the habits of the occupants of number Twenty-two Pitt Street,” he said. “I happen to know that to-night they are going to a theatre. No domestics sleep on the premises, and after nine o’clock the house will be deserted. That is why I am so particular that you should not leave your hotel until that hour.” I nodded and an unwilling admiration for this- man welled up inside me. Whether he was an honest man or rogue, he must have a whole army of spies and accomplices to be so well-acquainted with the workings of the household of another man. .At every step he gave evidence of a well-ordered and organising mind. “You will go up the stairs,” he. con-tinued,-“until you reach the second floor. A door directly faces the head of the etairs. You will enter it and find yourself in a bedroom. In one comer you will seb a small safe. You will open it with this.” . v He handed me a small bottle with a rubber cork. I looked at it curiously. How did one open safes with a bottle ? Monsieur le Marquis explained. “It is a little preparation of my good friend Monsieur Flambard, the chemist of Geneva. It has a pleasant habit of eating away metal, just as heat melts butter. You will be astonished. .Just pour a little over, the lock and in a few minutes—pouf! there will be no lock. But be very careful not to spill any on yourself. You will be careful ?” “You can put your shirt on that,” I said. My spirits were rising. I began to be fascinated by it all. At every turn I saw evidence of such careful preparation, of such a master mind, that I lost any fear that I had had. My night’s work might be criminal, but it was also a most absorbing new game. I thrilled as I had not done since I had been a kid of ten. “Go on,” I said excitedly. “When you have opened the safe,” B aid Monsieur le Marquis, “You will see inside a little metal despatch box. It is that which I wish you to bring to me* I nodded. “Bring it here ?” I queried. “No. It will, perhaps, be safer not. Put it into the cloak room at Charing Cross and post the ticket to John Brown, 109 a, Pimlico Road. As I have said before, morally we are doing right. Technically, and in the eyes of the police ...” He laughed and. again I felt his extraordinary charm of manner sweep over me. I began to look forward to my adventure. Right and wrong had become entirely petty things besides the excitement and the romance of it all. “I will give you a hundred pounds now,” said Monsieur le Marquis. “The rest of your reward will be sent poste restante to. .the General Post Office as coon as I receive the despatch box.. It •wfil be best that we do not meet again. “Right!” I said. “You’ll get the, cloak room ticket to-morrow afternoon.” “I am sure I will,” he said heartily. “I flatter myself that I am a judge of character. I know you will execute it admirably. And now, my friend, au xevoir. Time passes." • He held out his hand and I took it. In spite of everything I. could not help liking Monsieur le Marquis. He was not particularly straight, perhaps, but there was so much that was genuine about him I never doubted for a minute that he really was the Marquis de Cerennes, nor that he was sincere in his affection for his name and race. After all, it was not his fault, that there was a strange kink somewhere in him. And I might be suspecting him unjustly. I ddn t actually know..that he. ■washt. speaking the truth in saying that this errand was

morally just. Perhaps I ought to give him the benefit , of the doubt. I left him with my heart singing. Now that I actually had something to do, all my fears and fancies had vanished., I was set on carrying out this thing properly. I was perfectly calm and collected. The obsequious man servant handed me a grey, soft hat and an overcoat .In the .pocket of the latter I felt a little package. I .heard the crackle of banknotes ‘ and grinned. At the:.-.door a taxi was waiting with a suitcase inside. Monsieur le Marquis was carrying out his side of -the bargain to thc letter. I would do the same. “Sloane Court Hotel,” I told the driver. I sank-back on to the seat, and with a jerk we moved away. My adventure was beginning. ■ CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH T EMBARK ON A STRANGE ADVENTURE. It seemed terribly unreal to be rattling through the dark streets of London in this way, bound on a perfectly incredible mission. A weird metamorphosis the last day had wrought in me, turning Philip Gilmour from a starving, but painfully honest tramp, into a well-fed and lavishly monied potential criminal. I flinched at the last word and hastily erased it mentally. At all costs I must keep my self-respect. - Suddenly I realised something that made me sit up with a jerk, so that I could stare out of the taxi ■window into the dimly lit streets through which we were passing. Fool that I was, I had forgotten that I had not the faintest idea where the house of Monsieur le Marquis lay. True, he had said that it would be safer for us not to meet afterwards, but at the back of my mind I had the ghost of an idea that I might, perhaps, wish to see my late host again. In any case, it could do no harm to know where to find him. I cursed myself for my fatuous dreaming. A poor burglar I should make if I couldn’t keep my mind on practical things.. From my first glance I knew that we were somewhere in the West End. There was no particular reason why I should be so certain of this, except that there is something indefinably yet distinctly different in every quarter of London. If you know the city at all, you cannot possibly mistake north for south or east for west. My exact whereabouts rather puzzled me. In my many wanderings through the streets I had but rarely come west. The darker, more devious ways of the east had appealed to me more. Then we turned into Piccadilly from the north side and I sat back. I thought that I now knew more or less where Monsieur le Marquis lived. , I knew enough to be able to find, him again, anyway. His house must lie in one of perhaps four streets. The cab carried me to Hyde Park Comer, and through Belgrave Square to Sloane Square. Here it drew up before a modest little hotel, with cheerfully green bay trees in tubs on either side of the door. From the hall a stream of light flashed on to the pavement, glistening on the damp stones. I hurried inside out of the rain, leaving the porter to bring in my bag. I thought to myself that it seemed to have been raining ever since I could remember. I had seen it raining on the Embankment, from the windows of Monsieur le Marquis’ study, and now in Sloane Square. I reflected grimly that in all probability, I should still see it raining from the windows of number Twenty-two Pitt Street. Rain, rain, rain! Somehow it seemed to fit with my mood. I felt, idiotically enough, no doubt, that I could not have borne a cloud-less, star-lit sky. It would have been too sentimental, and if I once became sentimental I should chuck up my job in disgust. I must think only of the Stern facts of life and of the absolute necessity of getting that five hundred pounds. The pretty little girl in the hotel office assured me that I could have a room, and the porter went ahead carrying my bag to show me the way. A very ordinary, chintzy hotel bedroom it was, and I only glanced at it cursorily. By this time to-morrow morning it would be all over, and I should have no further use for the room. I would clear out and go where nobody knew me so that I could make a fresh start. ‘I unpacked the suitcase and found in

it two clean collars and handkerchiefs, a pair of pyjamas, washing materialsjmd a razor. I washed my hands and then looked at the watch which I had found in my pocket. It was important that 1 should know the time, and Monsieur le Marquis had obligingly furnished me with a serviceable Ingersoll for the purpose. It was just a quarter to seven. There were still two hours and a quarter to fill in before I-could set but for Pitt Street. I began to grow horribly impatient. I decided to have . dinner. That would occupy some of the time'ana I could dawdle over the meal. I went downstairs arid was shown into a comfortable little blue-and-White dming room. I scanned the menu carefully—oysters, sole, entrecote—yes, it seemed quite' n possible dinner, I decided that I would do myself well. I could not be expected to do my job properly without a good meal inside me. The hundred pounds crackled comfortably inside my pocket. I ordered a gin and bitters and afterwards half a bottle of Duminy, 1911. I ate and drank, and the food and the wine filled me with a great complacency. I ceased to care twopence about anything. I was perfectly content. The waiter brought me coffee and I ordered a brandy and some cigars. I swallowed the spirit and once again my mood changed. I saw myself as rather a dashing figure, romantic and adventurous. Good God, was not all this better than the lot of thousands of my fellow-citi'-zens? I thought of the myriads of respectable suburban homes lying in a wide radius round me. How many of the placid seemingly contented City gentle--men, who dwelled in them, would not give their souls to embark on just. such an adventure as lay before me to-night ? Anything was, bettor than to stagnate. J should finish this job, and, so I told myself in a flaming gust of bravado, 1 should be sorry. I should never be able to settle down again afterwards. I should have to go out and seek more adventure, more and . ever more. The prospect of a. life of adventure was extraordinarily pleasing to. me. I looked at my watch, saw that it was twenty minutes past eight and went up to my room again. I made sure that 1 had everything that I needed—the key, the precious little bottle. Yes, they were both there. Then I looked at my watch again. Just five minutes had passed.. 1 suddenly felt all my false courage oozing out of me. What a fool I was, I told myself angrily. All that I wanted was to get this thing over.’ A life of adventure ? Good God! I thought longingly of those same peaceful, sheltered lives that I had been so contemptuous of such a very little while before. I looked at my watch and became convinced that it had stopped. It must be more than seven minutes since I had left the diningroom. I put my ear to it and heard it ticking away with maddening regularity. I sat down on the bed and cursed. I asked myself why I should keep so rigidly to Monsieur le Marquis’ timetable. What could it matter if I left now? I could dawdle on the way. A few minutes sooner or later could make no difference. Then I remembered Monsieur le Marquis. I could almost see his blue eyes on me, quizzical . yet innately stern. Of course, he was right, I should be a madman if I disregarded his instructions. Even now I felt his personality so vividly that. I had a curious impression of his omnipotence. 1 felt quite sure that if I left the hotel a minute before nine, he would know of it immediately and take steps to check me. I looked around, fancifully imagining that he was standing behind me.

Outside a clock struck the quarter to. Only fifteen minutes more. The air seemed to be growing unbearably oppressive, and I felt stifled. I got up and, picking up my hat and coat, went downstairs. I could not stand that room any longer. I went into the little lounge and ordered a whisky and soda, cashing one of my notes to pay for it. I knew that however much I drank I should never get drunk. My mind was far too active, far too restless, to be deadened by any amount of alcohol. It was five minutes to nine. I glued my eyes to the clock in the hall. 1 could have sworn that the hands were not moving at all. Four minutes to nine. Three minutes to nine. Every second seemed twice as long as the one before. I seemed to have been sitting and watching that clock au my life. One minute to nine. . My eyes started to ache with the intensity of my gaze. The minute hand seemed to tremble and then-the clock gave a little click and started to strike the hour. 1 sat breathlessly. As the last stroke died away I sprang up, knocking over little table and sending my glass and the soda water bottle crashing to the ground, i The glass broke. It seemed a symbol of ' my breaking nerves. I strode out of the door, vaguely conscious that the porter was watching me curiously. I did- not

Care. I was too busy thanking God that I was out in the. air again.. It was not until I was half-way across Sloane Square that I realised that it was still raining and that I had my hat and coat in my hand. . I put them on and buttoned my collar well up. The rain was steadily drizzling down. One hardly noticed that it was falling. One just knew that everything was horribly wet and cold. I walked hurriedly up King’s Road. The shops had closed and comparatively few people were about. Those that I did pass were, like myself, walking steadfastly as though they had definite errands. I wondered how theirs would compare with mine. More than ever I felt that it was all unreal. It could not possibly be true, and yet I knew that it was.. Through my coat I could feel that little bottle. I suddenly became very frightened. Supposing I dropped it ? In my fever I felt that any policeman would inevitably know what it was, and for what I carried it. All the fear of the police that had been banished from me since I. had been picked up from the Embankment, returned a thousandfold. I looked fearfully around me and the fact that there was no policeman in sight did nothing to calm me. I felt my knees trembling, and I leaned up against a wall for a moment to regain my breath. Then I pulled myself together again, tauhting myself and calling myself anything that would rouse me and make me ashamed. I no sort of a coward to carry it through without flinching. I felt better and gritted my teeth. Whatever else I was, I told myself indignantly, I was no coward. (To be continued.)