THE ROGUE OF FITZROY ROAD

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 63, 16 March 1931, Page 14

THE ROGUE OF FITZROY ROAD

By

KENNAWAY JAMES

(Author of “ The Missing- Mannequin,” etc.)

CHAPTER Vll.—Continued. There was certainly nothing seedy about the appearance of Mr. Morden barker. Prosperity was in his every 'line. He was tall, portly and well dressed. Hie face, which was pink, was surmounted by dense -white hair which, from its appearance, might have received an artificial wave. In his vest pocket shone three fountain pens which told the world that in Mr. Sarker you had a man who did much important writing. They could have told the world much more than that had they been able to speak, but that is another matter. When Worral had withdrawn, Mr. Sarker carefully hung up his hat and umbrella on a peg and glanced over his shoulder to make sure that the door was shut. “That's all right,” said Mr. Tinsole, reassuringly. “Sit down.” For a few’minutes they chatted desultorily. “Anything new?” asked Mr. Sarker presently. “Nothing much,” answered the lawyer. Then: “Oh, yes, I had a mild surprise the other day. You know that funny little fellow who has bought ‘The Acacias* in Fitzroy Road?” Mr. Sarker nodded. “Man who’s generally got a dog pottering about with him. I know. Well?” “Well, he seems to get hold of a good thing now and then. Came to me and raked up every farthing he could on hie house and heaven knows what in order to have a cut at some shares. Made about three thousand.” Mr. Sarker gave a low whistle. “That’s going swift,” he said. “Did you go in on it yourself?” “Rather/* replied Tineole, “but not to that extent.” “You have a mortgage cm his house, I suppose?” “That’s 60, but I expect he’ll clear that off. By the way, I suppose you’ve met him, have you ?’* “Only had a few words with him in the train one day. I’m told he’s a broker or something.” * “He’s not. He’s a grocer.” “Really!” exclaimed Mr. Sarker. “I’m sure my -wife said he was a broker when she was saying how his dog had been chasing her cat through our geraniums.” “Got a shop in Pimlico. That’s why I asked if you knew him. He happened to mention you.” Mr. Sarker, who was about to light a cigarette, put it down again." “Did he?” he asked, with interest. “What did he say?” “Well, he was just chatting about the neighbourhood in general. Then he mentioned that you were in the same kind of business as himself.” “Well, that’s all right, isn’t it?” asked Sarker, testily. “What are you worrying about?” “I’m not worrying, but when he mentioned you he didn’t refer to your business as Sarker and Sons, but just as Sarker’s.” “M’m.” Mr. Sarker pursed his lips. “So you think he has some idea that 1 am not of the great multiple firm? Well, it doesn’t matter very much if he does. After all, if the suburb of Mardleham likes to think . I am, well, let ’em.” “I thought you spread it yourself?” “Nothing of the kind. People knew I was in the grocery business, and, knowing my name was Sarker and that I had various shops, they naturally concluded that I was Sarker and Sons. When I got wind of it I told my wife to keep it up, because I could See it was going to help the bit of camouflage, as it were.” “Then I don’t see why they should ever find out.” “I’m not to sure. There’s my daughter Joan to reckon with. She’s a little devil about things like that. She said she wouldn’t pretend a thing about me.” “Nice girl, all the same.” “Yes, but obstinate. By the way, I have seen her with your son quite a lot lately. I suppose there’s nothing in it ?” “Not that I know of,” answered Mr. Tinsole, stroking his bony chin. “It would be rather amusing, though, wouldn’t it? It might have the effect of keeping them both quiet if they found . out anything about either of Mr. Sarker laughed heartily. Then becoming serious, he said: “There’s something in what you say. . Of course, there’s not much likelihood of anything being found out about me. Rather different in your case. You were a fool to let your son go in for lav- You might have known it would mean him being in your vicinity.” “I agree,” said Mr. Tinsole. “But I didn’t quite think of it at the time. Moreover, I hadn’t quite seen that he’d been bitten by this frank-and-open stuff. He and Joan, I should imagine, would make a good pair! I’m darned sure I shouldn’t get much sympathy out of him if anything did crop up.” “You’ve got the wind up because of what .little Noggins said to you. Cut it out, my dear chap.” “Very well, but I didn’t like the sort of sneer in his voice when he said it.”

“Doesn’t look as though he could sneer with that funny Tittle round face of his.”

“P’raps we might sav that those who sneer least sneer bitterest. Still, as you . say, there’s probably nothing in it. I’ll try to hang on to the mortgage. May get some sort of hold on him some day. By the way, Sarker, I always laugh when I think of you and your shops.” “Why ?’* “Well, it was such a brainy idea to turn yourself into a grocer, ‘it would put anyone off the scent. How you do it I can’t understand.”

“Quite simple. Father was a grocer, so I knew a bit about it. Just got the managers, and put ’em in. Anyhow, that wasn’t what I came here to talk to you about. How’s his Lordship of Lanehester? In a better frame of mind?”

“No change,” replied Mr. Tinsole. “He’s about the most obstinate case we’ve had for a while.”

“Yes,” put in Sarker, “but they all have to cough up in the end, so it doesn’t matter. What about him ?” “Don’t say .it. doesn’t matter, like that. “I’m the one who has to do the dirty work, and I’m always afraid somebody like Lanehester w ill go to the police or <lo something uncomfortable,” “You alwaj's seem to be afraid of something nowadays,” said Sarker, unpleasantly. “You ever seem half afraid of that little Noggins man, who's got

about as much about him as one of his own cheeses. What’s coming to you?” “Nothing’s coming to me, I hope,” said Tinsole, grimly. “But you must understand that fear is the father of caution. It’s the self-confident sort who get caught.” “All right. Well, let’s get back to Lord Lanehester again. 'When are you next going to see him?” “Any time you like,” said Mr. Tin-, sole, “though I have a feeling we ought to leave him alone now. He said yesterday that he would see you damned first before he parted with a farthing.” “But in your capacity of his legal adviser didn’t you tell him in a nice, fatherly, legal way that he would be foolish not to get those photographs back ?” “I tried, but he merely asked me wliat fees he had incurred in coming to me, so that he could pay me. I implored him to leave it over, so that he might have an opportunity of changing his mind.” “I’ll change his mind for him without any trouble on his part,” said Sa-rker, screwing up his nose into wrinkles. “Have you kept those photographs carefully?” “Yes,” replied Tinsole. “They’re in my safe.” “Fetch ’em out and let’s have another look at ’em. They amuse me no end.” Mr. Tinsole rose and stepped gingerly across the office and opened the safe as though he expected a wild animal to jump out. There were plenty of lively things in that safe w r hich might come to life and take the shape of beasts at any time. Mr. Tinsole had once had a dream of that kind and had not yet forgotten it. Presently he returned to the table with a quarto-sized envelope, heavily sealed. “Glad you’ve got it sealed up,” remarked Sarker. “Otherwise, that clerk of yours with the . lager-coloured whiskers might have a peep w r hen he’s looking for something less lively.” “I don’t let him go to the safe —not now,” said Mr. Tinsole. “Why not now?” “Well, I rather think I caught him one day fumbling about with things which shouldn’t concern him. So he gets no more chances.” “You’re getting to be a man of iron,” said Sarker, sarcastically. “Mussolini. What ?” Then he broke the seals of the package and took out a number of photographs. “Ah, there we are,” he exclaimed, propping up one of them against a pile of musty books on the table. “Lovely.” The photograph . w'aa of a distin-guished-looking man of middle age. He was seated on a capacious easy chair, whilst upon his knee sat a girl with a wider grin than it seemed possibly for a girl to have. She was, evidently, not English, or at least not entirely so. A beholder would say Greek or Spanish. She was dressed in some costume which might have fitted almost any place from Bagdad to Barcelona. “There we are,” said Mr. Sarker again after regarding the photograph in silence for a few moments. “It’s rather good of Lola, don’t you think? She’s got one of those well-carpentered kind of faces wliich photograph well. I’ve never seen a bad one in any of the papers yet. Have you?” “Never,” said Mr. Tinsole with a feeble attempt at lustiness. “And it’s not so bad of his lordship of Lanehester, either. He’s a dis-tinguished-looking bird. No wonder he’s spoken of as a future Prime Minister. Ah, my dear Tinsole, you are but an innocent man in the ways of the world. Do you seriously mean that you cannot advise his lordship to cough, up a thousand pounds in a case like this? Tell him he’s lucky not to be asked for ten times that amount.” “I’ve told you what he said,” remarked Mr. Tinsole, who was beginning to feel that he was being bullied by the wliite-haired man across the table. “Well, see,” said Sarker. “I’ll help you a little. Can you get hold of that podgy journalist Smarty Quale?” “Do you mean now?” “Now.” “I’ll try,” said Tinsole, picking up the telephone receiver. “He’s in Fleet Street somewhere. Let’s see. "What’s the time? Five-thirty. That means they’re open. He’ll probably be in the Cheshire Cheese.” * (To be continued daily.)