KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17781, 26 February 1926, Page 12

KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY

“ STAR ” NEW SERIAL

' By

CARLTON DAWE.

CHAPTER Vlll.—(Continued.) He closely questioned James Wright- | son, who happened to be on duty that day. Wrightson, you may remember, was the porter who had answered Marjorie Melville’s frantci ring for help. An unpleasant-looking fellow, this Wrightson, not beloved of the tenants; one of those harpies who sit in more or less authority, detested by the respectable, tolerated and tipped lavishly by the other sort. At their first meeting ip the flat Penbury felt sure that James Wrightson was not an utter stranger. He had a wonderful memory for faces and figures, particularly the latter. The way a man stood, or walked, or carried his head, the set of his shoulders; these things once impressed o hi ns memory rarely faded from it. He was looking now at Mr Wrightson's shoulders, the nervous play of his gnarled fingers, and all the time the porter .was thinking this man was trying to read his mind. “ As far as you know,” he was saying, “ the dead woman had no visitors that Sunday afternoon?” “ As far as I know, sir.” “ You would have seen them?” ‘‘Not. necessarily. I might have been‘absent at the moment, or they might have come through the other entrance.” “ Quite so. You saw nothing?” “ Nothing.” “ You knew she was in her flat?” “No, sir; otherwise I would have known that she was alone.” A slow smile played round his thin lips. Clearly he had but a poor opinion of Penbury’s intelligence. This was the famous detective! No wonder some of the papers suggested calling in the village constable. “ Did you ever hear of orgies in the flat?” “ Such a thing would not be allowed,” he answered in a tone of reproof. “ Cocaine orgies ? ” “ Quite impossible.” “You would know of such happenings?” “ Trust me.” “ They would not meet with your approval?” “It would be my duty to report such goings on.” “Where were you last employed?” The little eyes narrowed; there was a moment of hesitation. “ Over Bayswatcr way—Duke’s Hotel.” “ Before then?” “Hampstead.” “Do you know anything of a certain block of flats in Shaftesbury Avenue?” Again he hesitated, and then said, “Yes.” “Do your present employers know of them, or their tenants?” “All landlords cannot afford to be squeamish. I cleared out as soon as I learned the truth.” The melancholy eyes were staring at him, dreadfully insistent. "I think you know Soho pretty well?” “Only tolerable well. It was never a place that appealed to me.’ ’ “Ever heard of Nobby Wang?” “No, sir,” he answered solemnly. “Who is he?” “A chink.” “I never did like them; slimy yellow vermin.” “Perhaps you prefer the nigger, Quincev P. Brookham?” “Never could stand colour of any sort. It ain’t Christian.” “One sometimes meets them by accident, in nocturnal rambles.” “I never indulge in them.” “Or ever did?” “Not that I know of.” “Would it surprise you to know that you have been seen in the company of Wang the chink and Brookham the nigger ? ” “It would be the surprise of my life, sir. Whoever told you that is a liar.” “I am glad to hear it; they are both extremely dangerous men. It only shows how an honest person may be maligned.” “Look here, sir, may I ask what you're trying to get at?” "Isn’t it obvious? Wheels within wheels, Wrightson; cog fitting into cog.” “I seem to be an odd wheel that don’t fit anywhere,” said the man. “Yet we may make use of you to propel the machinery.” “You ain’t hinting that I done the murder, because if you are you may have to prove your words.” “Cut out that stuff,” said the other sharply, his eyes for a moment losing their placid solemnity, “and answer my questions. I don’t think you can be a very good porter, Wrightson.” “My employers appear to be satisfied.” His mouth curled in an ugly sneer. “And I don’t believe a word of what you’ve said.” “Then why go on asking me questions ? ” “You see. don’t you, that this affair may yet compromise you seriously? Nobby Wanjg —Black Q. —cocaine; the terms are synonymous. Add to them the murderf of a woman addicted to the drug. [You begin to see -what it means?” “Never was more fogged!” said the But Penbury entertained grave doubts. Looking hard into the low, cunning face before him, the retreating brow, the monkey jaw, the shift, furtive eyes, he felt that here was an animal capable of any vice or crime. Curious, too, that he should never have suspected the presence of the deceased in her flat; should have been ignorant o fthe visit of Eustace Frankford that fatal Sunday. If this were true? But

“All the women who live here arc; eminently respectable?” “The manager would be the best one to answer that question.” “There is no one with whom you have had secret dealings—with the exception of the deceased woman and her friend, Marjorie Melville?” “I don't know what you mean by secret dealings.”

“I think you do. Come now, you are quite sure that neither Nobby Wang nor Black Q. was here on Sunday, July the 25th? Be careful, Wrightson; much will depend on your answer.” “Not that I know of; an’ if I’d seen a nigger or a chink in the building I must have remembered it. That sort

of stuff don’t come to places like this. They’d be *a clean give away.” Penbuy apparently pondered this reply for a moment or two; then said in that disinterested way of his: “They wouldn't need to, with you here.”

Wrightson looked murder; felt murder tingling in every vein. “I suppose you’re privileged to say these things?” “I don’t like you, Wrightson,” said the detective; “your record is not of the sweetest.” He shook a melancholy head; regarded the porter with strangely mournful eyes. What’s agen me?”

“ Considerably more than you seem to imagine. Birds of a feather, Wrightson. It's a severe world, and often confounds the innocent with the guilty. You see how the net is spread; presently it contracts, 4s hauled aboard, and much is found in it besides herrings. I may want you again presently, so please hold yourself in readiness. In the meantime, should you discover anything fresh, anything of value, you know where to find me.”

He went off leaving the porter silently foaming, and not a little fearful. Though it was quite evident to him\ that Penbury was little better than an inflated ass, yet even an ass might blunder upon rich pasturage. But apart from successful blundering he thought there was little to fear. He held the detective’s methods in the most profound contempt; was not even sure the man really knew what he was after. He seemed like one half awake; stupid, dreamy, going through an allotted task without energy or interest. That he knew so much, suspected so much more, must have come to him by chance, or through the efforts of his colleagues. That the man himself was capable pi unravelling any mystery, however simple, was not to be thought of. / And yet he thought; found thought curiously insistent. He did not like that phrase “ secret dealings,” nor the reference to some of the “eminently respectable women ” who occupied the flats. ITow had he come to know of ihese things? It was bad luck that Poppy Wilton should have met her end in one of them. Why hadn’t the gone somewhere else to die? These women always gave the show away. By a circuitous route he found his way to Fulham that night, to a certain shabby street that took a sudden dive off the Lillie Road, as though anxibus to hide itself. Having shed his gorgeous uniform, he looked like a very respectable tradesman, innocuous, going quietly to his home. But his little eyes were sharp as needles as he approached his destination; sharper still as he turned into the street. At a certain window he caught a glimpse of two slits of eyes peering through the shutter of a Venetian blind. As he mounted the five steps to the door it opened and he slipped in. It was all done very quietly. Bustle, or noise of any description, was evidently not appreciated in this household. When they entered the room on the right of the passage the person who had admitted him immediately lit the gas and held out his hand. He was a Chinese with a sallow, wicked, dissipated face, but dressed meticulously in European clothes. His sleek black hir was beautifully marcel-waved, and he was scented like a woman. Wrightson grinned horribly’ as he shook hands. “Seen Q.?” he asked. Nobby Wang, for it was he, nodded towards the back of the house. “ Q. all li,” he said, ejecting a cloud of smoke through his wide nostrils; “How’s business, eh? Can do?” “ That's what I’ve come to talk about. Nobby. We’ve got to go careful. Penbury’s on the warpath.” “ Penbury dam fool,” sneered the chink. “ Bah ! ” His tone was contemptuous, as though Penbury and all the hosts of Scotland Yard were not worth a second thought. “ I dunno so much about that,” said the porter, who could not forget the insistence of those mournful eyes. The Chinese, with his fishy, cold-blooded Orientalism, was always something of an enigma to the good Wrightson, who really believed that Nobby would face death itself without the quiver of an eyelid. But he was clever. Cunning and clever, and seemed to get hold of the “stuff” without much trouble. Then Quincey P. Brookham burst into the room glowing like an ebony sun, his shark’s teeth very prominent as he grinned. He had on a new smart grey suit, a flaming yellow tie in which sparkled the inevitable diamond horseshoe. Wrightson, looking at the two spruce dandies, felt rather shabby and envious. It wsn’t right that a hardworking Englishman should be thus eclipsed by a couple of qoloured rogues. Being a good white Ilian, he hated colour. Just then he hated it in deadly fashion.

(To Be Continued.)