X ESQUIRE

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18469, 22 May 1928, Page 15

X ESQUIRE

NEW «STAR •* SERIAL

- By

Leslie Charteris

CHAPTER VII.— (Continued ) “He ? alive and kicking: to date, ’ Bill replied. “I told him what I thought, and he made a test. It was cacodyl. He mentioned about the smell, too. There was some other chemical besides cacodyl he found in the test —he thought it might have been added to act as a deodorant. That l>eing the only possible solution, I accepted it." “ And you can't hang the murderer.” Beau said. “ Pit—after all that brain work.” “Any other news?” I asked. “ A little.” Bill answered. “It may or may not help. I had the fingerprints from the electric light switch from Peters this afternoon. I gave ’em to the finger-prints department on the they’d got them. They apparently beo if-chance, and as luck would have it longed to a man by the name of Raymond Borrow, who did time for manslaughter and came out a couple of years ago. I don’t remember the case it was before my time—but I believe he was lucky not to do the eight o’clock walk.” Terry stood up with a magisterial air. “On such an occasion as this,” he pronounced, 44 the words of the poet come to our mind:— " Lives of bad men all remind us We can all do two years’ hard, And. departing, leave behind us Finger-prints at Scotland Yard.” He ducked just in time. 44 Right,” he said, stooping to collect the larger fragments of a vase. 44 You get your penny back. Bill. Anyone else wantin’ a shy? There are two or three more of these lyin’ about the room.” 44 Give your face a rest,” Bill said vulgarly. 44 Now. what are the arrangements for this evening?" 44 After that,” Terry said, with dignity, 44 1 shall sit here and sulk. Anybody tryin’ to be funny will get a thick ear.” “ Engaged—sorry. 4 ’ Beau said. “ Who is she?” demanded Terry. 44 And why haven't you asked my per--44 Shut up. you two,” Bill commanded. 44 You’re not doing anything in particular, Ton>'? Right. Come out with me I*m going to do some interviewing. Meanwhile. Terry's sulks and Beau's engagement will terminate by or before ten. You will then be required to turn out.” 44 What, in this?” Terry protested. He pulled aside one of the windowcurtains so that we could see the rain beating on the panes. 44 Suits me,” Beau murmured nonchalantly. 44 Bill will play for a taxi.” Bill drew the cigarette box towards him. 44 Good,” he said. 44 One more fag, Tony, and we're off.” JJe lighted up, and we went out and drew on our overcoats. As I moved towards the stairs Bill went back to the room we had just left. He half-opened the door. 44 By the way, Beau? ” ‘‘ Yes? ” “ Can you lend me half a dollar? ” A pause. Then: 44 What for? ” —suspiciously. 44 Taxi,” said ’Bill. As we passed out into the street we turned up the collars of our overcoats. 44 A foul night, laddie,” said Bill. 44 I must say I meant to walk by way of a bit of exercise, but Beau’s suggestion has points ” He hailed a convenient taxi. 44 And where.” I demanded, as we were borne swiftly westwards, 44 am I being dragged away from my armchair and postprandial cigar? ” 44 We're going visiting. The first port of call is M. Andre Meurice, a Frenchman with pots of money and a house in Park Lane. * After that, we visit a gentleman blessed with the narrfe of Basil Strange, who adorns a flat in Mount Street. Then we proceed to make the acquaintance of a Major Sinclair, who is domiciled in Half Moon Street. Satisfied? ” 44 Exhausted.” I murmured weakly. 44 And then, I hope,, we return to stiff drinks, cigars and armchairs by the fire in Jermyn Street? ” 44 Stiff drinks if you like, laddie. But after that we all turn out again, en masse.” 44 What for? ” I demanded wearily. 44 That,” Bill returned, 44 will keep.” I gave it up. Five minutes later we were ushered into the present of M. Andre Meurice. I saw a massive Frenchman with keen, deep-set eyes and an incredible biack beard.' He greeted us volubly, bade us be seated, offered us brandy z- n*x cigarette , and deposited his own vast bulk again in the chair from which he had risen at our entrance. 44 I know your.names,” he said, with a courteous bow to Bill and myself. 44 And I yours,” Bill replied. ' 44 I’m afraid I haven’t a very pleasant errand, M Meurice. It concerns a friend of yours—a Mr Seldon.” The Frenchman nodded. " I know,” he murmured gravely. ” Really? ” Bill shot back. 44 How? ’ 44 How? How? How do I know? 44 The man appeared taken aback. 44 1 have seen it in the newspapers.” 44 Clever of you, M. Meurice. So you know who killed him? ”

44 I do not.” The Frenchman spread out agitated hands. 44 I have no idea. I do not know who could have had—what you say—grudge against him. ’E was ?o nice a man.” 4 Lots of people used to think that,” Bill remarked non-committally. 44 By the day, when are you being killed? ” Meurice half-rose in his chair. His face was white and his breath came in little thick gasps. 44 Killed? ”he said. 44 Meurtre ! Que-voulez-vous dire, morbleu! ” “ I was just interested," Bill remarked coolly. 44 It’s always just as well to know when you’re going to die—then yoq needn’t make your will until the last minute.” Gradually the man sank back into ; his seat and the colour came back to i’his ashen cheeks. His eyes were blazing. 44 Who are you? ” he demanded thickly. 44 You are—what you call?—Commissioner of Police, is it not? What for do you come to me with zis talk of being killed? Police—faugh! ” —he snapped his great fingers— 44 they cannot -stop people being killed. They have not saved M. Seldon. But I shall not be killed. Look! ” He stood up and spread out his. arms —« colossal figure of a man. Then he drooped his hands ta his sides and tnrust out his beard pugnaciously. 44 It will be a strong man who will kill Andre Meurice.” 44 It was a strong man who killed Seldon,” Bill said. 44 His neck had been wrung as if he were a rabbit. But you admit you’ve been threatened? ” 44 1 admit nozzing,” said Meurice. 44 If I had been I would not tell ze police—a lot of fools! Bah! lam stronger zan six policemen, and more clever.” He sat down again. 4 What is it you wish to say? ” he asked more caimly. 44 1 m afraid I can do no good, M. Meurice,” Bill answered rising. 44 1 wanted to know anything you could tell me about'Mr Seldon—anything you cou'd tell me which might help me to discover his murderer. As you, appear disposed to despise the police Ira wasting my time.” lie turned towards the door. The Frenchman watched Jiim from under shaggy eyebrows. As he reached it he spoke: 44 Sit down.” Bill turned. Meurice left his chair and went over to a safe which stood in one corner. His fingers adjusted the combination swiftly, and the door swung open. He returned with an envelope in his hand which he flung on to the table in front of Bill. ‘‘Read that,” he said. Bill picked it up and removed the sheet of paper it contained. ‘‘What’s this?” he inquired casually. 44 A love-letter or something?” He spread the paper out on the table, and I peered over his shoulder and read it with him. It was written in a neat copperplate hand on a plain oblong of expensive notepaper. There was no heading or direction. The letter plunged directly in medias res. ‘‘Schofield and Seldon, your little pals, are dead. Unfortunately their removal was of such imperative urgency that I could not spare time to warn them. I am warning veu in order to give you time to make your will. . . I understand you have two or three wives in different parts of France, and I should hate to think that any of them were left unprovided for. ‘‘You can arrange your funeral for next Thursday with some confidence. X ESQUIRE.” Bill shrugged his shoulders and passed back the paper. ‘‘Definite enough, M. Meurice,” he remarked. “Have you followed his advice? I should if I were you.” “Make my will?” ‘‘Sure —as you seem determined not to have police protection.” Meurice blanched. “You think it is not a bluff?” “I’m sure,” Bill said. 44 1 f you think it is—ask Schofield or Seldon.” The Frenchman stared at him for a moment, then turned and strode up and down the room a couple of times, eventually halting in front of us. “I will let you know later,” he said. “As you like,” murmured Bill. “It’s your funeral.” He picked up his hat and gloves. “Brief but merry,” he remarked, as we walked briskly in the direction of Mount Street. “But not very helpful.” “Not noticeably,” I agreed. “I suppose you knew what you were talking about, but I’m completely in the dark. Your reference to his death seemed to touch him on the spot.” “It would touch you,” Bill said, looking at me seriously, “if a man who had given two previous proofs of his sincerity suggested that the world would be more fit for heroes to live in if you left it.” “But how did you know he’d had that letter?” Bill laughed softly. “Poor Watson!” he said. 44 1 didn’t know, laddie. I didn’t, I only guessed.” “Something must have suggested the guess,” I persisted. “Something did,” Bill agreed bluntly. We walked on in silence down Mount Street, until Bill stopped in front of a doorway and glanced up at the windows above. (To be Continued.)