Chipstead of the Lone Hand

Taranaki Daily News, 1 June 1935, Page 23 (Supplement)

Chipstead of the Lone Hand

(By

Sydney Horlor)

CHAPTER XXIV (continued). He turned away from watching the table at which there was “no limit,” and at which the counters, made curiously enough of iron, represented no less than 10,000 francs each. As he did so, his body stiffened. Walking across the floor, accompanied by a youngster dressed, so beautifully that he decided he must be either an actor or a young millionaire exquisite, was the man he knew Sc “Pearson”—the man who had had the audacity to call on him in London with that obviously faked story, and who had escaped so dexterously from the Riviera train three days before. At the same instant, and whilst he turned so that he might not be recognised, Tommy Boyne made am exclamation.

“Well, I’m damned! Fancy meeting Harry Upton here!” Chipstead noticed his eyes were on the immaculatelydressed youngster (he , would be about twenty-four, not more, he supposed) the man "Pearson” had in tow. He caught Boyne’s arm. “Look here, Tommy,” he said, dragging the comedian away into recess; “I want you to do me a favour." , < “Of course, old boy—but what’s fretting you?” “You see those two fellows?” motioning towards the backs of the retreating couple. “I not only see ’em, but I know one of ’em,” replied Boyne. “Didn’t you hear me make the remark? The youngster is Harry Upton, in my opinidn the best Jeune premier on Broadway. 1. haven’t seen him for . a couple of years. When I get the chance I’m going to ask him what he’s doing these, days. He looks flourishing.” I ’ “The favour I want you to do is to ask him —discreetly, of course—who his companion is—what name the man calls himself—where he met him and why he is with him. You needn’t, look startled, Tommy—l have the best of reasons for wanting to know.” • “Oh, I don’t doubt that,” was the instant reply, “but what’s the idea? Is the fellow a crook?” , “To the best of my belief he is, but I want to make sure. That is why I ask you to approach your actor friend and get all the information you possibly can. Meanwhile, I’ll be hanging round waiting for you. Sorry to postpone your poker game.” “That’s all right. Of course, if that cove is a crook I must warn Harry for his own sake.” . . ~ “Be discreet,” warned Chipstead. x “Leave it to me,” was the reply. Sitting down and ordering a drink, Bunny endeavoured to come to a decision. He had two moves open to him. The first was to ring up Fouquieres and explain the situation to him. This would probably result in “Pearson” being tactfully detained on suspicion of being, a crook (things like' that can happen m France as he well knew); the second was to hold his hand for the present and to act on the information which Boyne brought back. This seemed much the better plan for, however strong his suspicions might be, he remembered that he had no direct evidence against the man. The mere fact that he had falsely represented himself to be a- London business man would not cut much ice in France unless Fouquieres could bring further charges against him. * ' ' ■ Half an hour went by. The last thing Bunny wanted to happen was for “Pearson” to redogriise him, and so he' remained where he was, his anxiety increasing every minute. I Boyne did not return alone. The young American actor was with him. Before an introduction could be made, Chipstead asked a question. i “Where’s he gone?—the man you were with?” ■ •:

The actor’s face expressed the astonishment he no doubt felt. \ “He’s coming back in half an hour. Just, as we were about to, sit down at the fifty-louis table, one of the attendants said he was wanted on the telephone. He went off and then'' came to apologise and say that he had to fly back to the hotel to meet someone “who had unexpectedly arrived by the ten o’clock train from London. Would I excuse him? —he would certainly be back within half an hour. Meanwhile, I was on no account to leave the club. But this is rather a tall story of yours, Mr. —-” "Chipstead,” 'supplied the man he addressed; “and if you will excuse my saying so, it’s not nearly as tall as the one this man probably told you. • It’s my principal business in life, to know a crook when I meet one, and, as a matter qf fact, a few days ago in London I actually found this particular specimen out in a barefaced lie. He was then masquerading as a wholesale chemist called Pearson.”

“But that's the very name he gave me!” returned the actor; “wait a minute—l have his card. As you happen to be a particular pal of Tommy Boyne’s, I’m willing to take your word for it that the fellow’s a crook, Mr. Chipstead, but, dam it all, it’s pretty hard to swallow all the same. How do you know he v/as masquerading, as you call it?" .

“Because I made it my business to find out. I had a particular reason for wishing to know why this man, a complete stranger, should call at my rooms in London. Ten minutes after I had practically ordered him out, I discovered that the business magnate he was. impersonating was actually in the States on a business trip. What do you say to that?” “Why, that it’s the most amazing thing I have ever heard in my life! Look here, this is what happened: I came over froni New York in one of the French boats—a beauty; had a wonderful trip—and put up at the Continental. I had been playing for fifteen months in “The Lovely Lady,” and felt I owed myself a good time and a bit of a holiday. At the hotel I ran into this fellow—literally, as a matter of fact. Mutual apologies followed; and then drinks. He seemed a friendly sort of guy and volunteered the information that’ he was over from London for a bit of a break, as he called it ” “He said his name was Pearson?” interrupted Bunny. “Oh, yes. Why, here’s his card. I didn’t have much to do with him, except chat in the hotel, until to-night. He then asked me to dinner at Maxim’s and afterwards volunteered to bring me to this club of which he said he was a member. That’s all I know.”

“Thanks very much,” said Chipstead; “you've helped me quite a lot.” He turned to Boyne. “Wait while ,I tele-: phone, will ■ you?” . ■- - The comedian smiled. ■■ ■ ■ “Push on with it! Chipstead,”-he. ex-, plained to Upton, "has the telephone complex. Just when you are beginning to feel you can tolerate him, he breaks the conversations down by rushing off to the telephone.” “I say, this chap may be a crook, but I shouldn’t like to feel that I had split on him behind his back,” expostulated the young actor: “you’re not going to ring up the police, are you?” “Certainly not,” Chipstead said reassuringly. “I’m merely going to put through a call to a pal of mine. If the gentleman we have been discussing should return whilst I am away—a very unlikely event, in my opinion—just carry on, as though nothing had happened. Don’t refer, to.. this talk, of, course, and don’t

point me out to him—that would make him very shy indeed. One last word, Mr. Upton: don’t let him play you for a sucker.’ 1 * “Well, I’m damned!” exploded the Broadway limelight hero; “what do you think I am—a fool?” “No, but “Pearson” is dangerous. Whether you can be tdo careful with a man of that description, I leave to your discretion.” CHAPTER XXV.' THE STREAK OF STEEL. Once again he had drawn blank. “Pearson” had not returned to the club. The probability was that the man had recognised him and had gone into hiding. But as the result of his recent telephone message, Fouquieres’ men were now watching the hotel at which he was staying. That might or might not, have some results. At two o’clock, Boyne admitted that he had had enough. He was forty pounds down at his poker-game and that was sufficient for him in one evening. The young Broadway actor was still playing baccaraUr-and winning. “I’m going to see the night out,” he told Boyne; “run round about noon and have lunch with me.” The night was fine but dark, there being no moon. “If you’re not in a hurry, I’ll walk part of the way with you,” volunteered Chipstead. . “Righteo!” replied the comedian; “I’m staying at the Balzan.” “Well, that simplifies matters; We both go the same way. My flat is only about a quarter of a mile from your hotel.” They turned into the Boulevard des Capuvines, and then into the Rue Royale. Beyond them stretched the vast gulf of gloom, only faintly lit at this time of the morning, which was the Place de la Concorde. The only sound for a few minutes was that made by their footsteps on the deserted pavement. “I hear funny stories about you, Bunny,” remarked the comedian; “and this affair to-night confirms them.” "Aren’t I respectable enough for you to know?’’ "Mutt! No, I mean your knowledge of crooks and that sort of thing. With all your money, why in the devil d 6 you want to go messing about with crime?”. “You should have a long serious talk with my sister, Tommy; she shares your views. But every man must have a hobby—in your lighter moments you choose talking like a bit of decayed Debrett, I find chasing crooks gives me an interest.” “H’m! Well, everyone to his taste, of course. But I think too much pf my skin to—hullo! Bunny; what do those fellows want?” Boyne poinied to a couple of slinking figures which had crossed the road ahead. “What are they, Apaches? Do they intend to cut us off?” . “If they do, we must fight—that s all! “Fight!” returned the comedian; "but, that’s all very fine. We’ve nothing but our fists—at least, I haven’t—and these beauties use kniVes, don’t they? I wish we’d .taken a taxi.” . . “Don’t get chilblains!” adjured Chipstead; "come along—they appear to be waiting for us.” Bunny’s voice was tense, and it held a queerish lilt as though theowner was looking, forward with some sort of anticipatory relish to what was ahead. He caught the comedian’s arm. “It’S curious,” he said, “but I can’t seem to help collecting crooks.” “Curious?” echoed Boyne; Its a ghastly habit if you ask me?’ . 'l’hey were now almost parallel with the British Embassy—Bunny smiled when he noticed the fact. The two men who were dressed in shabby clothes, made no movement as they passed, but went on talking. Bunny and his companion had gone another dozen yards or so, when.he suddenly turned. A grim smile was playing round the comers of his mouth. "Behind me, Tommy—quick!” he commanded. The two men whom he had left jabbering amicably together / a few seconds before were now only a yard or so away. They must have covered the short intervening distance at a run. Their maimer was different. What little could be seen of their faces beneath the hugepeaked caps that both wore was distinctly unpleasant; and, moreover, in the right hand of each was a long bladed, knife! ' ' CHAPTER XXVI. UNEXPECTED ASSAILANTS. “Oh!” gasped Tommy Boyne. “Behind me, you fool!” ordered Chipstead again. By this time he had done something with the cane he had been carrying—something’ which brought a long line of steel with a wickedly efficient point at the end of it out of the wooden scabbard; if these thugs had their knives, Bunny had his sword-stick, a relic of the romantic past, but capable of doing quite good service in this unromantic present. He did not wait for the attack—he carried the fight to the enemy. He was on them before they could determine on their campaign. A squeal, partly of terror, partly of rage, announced that one had been “pinked,” the sword-stick drawing blood from a wound in the right shoulder. The other took the chance to leap, but he was arrested in mid-air, for Tommy Boyne, discontented, with his watching brief, had slipped from behind Chipstead, and, sensing the other’s intention, had dived for his legs. The two went down in a heap. But Boyne was uppermost.

“Good work, Tommy!” cried Bunny—“now jump clear!” ‘ * But the comedian’ was loath to obey. Like many peace-loving individuals, once he had over-stepped the border-line, he was out for blood. He caught the fellow’s neck and started to do his best to throttle him.

In the meantime, Bunny started after the second customer. But the latter, with the blood oozing from that wound in his shoulder, had lost his original ardour; when -he saw the sword-stick flashing again, he took to his heels and vanished into the darkness. - Chipstead .-made..no attempt to follow him. They had' one capture. “Get him on his feet—but be careful of the knife,” he said to Boyne; “here, I’ll lend a hand.”. Replacing the blade, he caught’ hold of the man’s right shoulder and with Boyne’s help, hauled him up. “You’ve done, magnificently, Tommy,” he told the’comedian; “and now, if you aren’t too tired and bored, I want you to help me get this fellow back to my flat. There are quite a lot of questions I intend to ask him.” “Righteof” replied the comedian. « # * *

With his manacled wrists held before him, the man faced his captor. Bunny Chipstead poured out a stiff whisky-and-soda and "held it to his prisoner’s lips. The man drank greedily. As Bunny studied the other’s features, he recalled something with startling intensity. - ' “Have you a brother?” he asked. This man bore an uncanny resemblance to ■ the unknown who. had brought him the,

cipher-picket and who had paid for the deed with his life. The prisoner gulped. • > “Yes, I have a brother,” he replied; “but what’s it to do with you?” Bunny disregarded the question. “Had your brother a small wart on the left side of his nose?” “Yes, but once more, what has it to da with you?” “It has something to do with you, I am thinking.”