"ADMIT ONE"

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 191, 13 August 1931, Page 16

"ADMIT ONE"

by

Sydney Horler

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS PHILIP CRANE, a young aeroplane designer, comes to London on holiday. At Waterloo Station he saves a girl. MARGERY FERGUSON, from death by snatching her from beneath a large car. On arrival at the Mid-Western Hotel, where he has suddenly decided to stay, he is surprised to find a letter addressed to him there, although no one could have known of his intention to stay there. He is further mystified by finding the letter is written in code. That evening an unknown girl calls on him in connection with the strange letter. He realises that he is being mistaken for a “crook” of the same name. Resolved to see the adventure through, he goes with the girl, JUDITH FELSTEAD, to see a man named STEVENSSON, who is expecting the “crook” CRANE. Ilis impersonation is discovered when the oilier Crane is announced. Philip manages to escape from Stevensson’s house. From the taxi bearing him to the West End lie suddenly sees Margery Ferguson again. lie persuades her to dine with him. During the meal lie learns that her father is in the hands of Stevensson and his gang. Realising that Margery, as well as her father, is in danger, he persuades her to seek shelter in a convent. He resolves to rescue her father, who is .* being held prisoner at Malulling, in Kent. Mem while CHARLES WHITTLE, an American detective. has come to England on the track of a gang of expert forgers, of which Stevensson is a member. At the head of the gang is a woman known as “the Empress.” who. to outward appearance, is a wealthy society woman. MRS. AUBYN ST. CLAIR. Whitt* discovers that the headquarters of the gang are at Mandling. Philip Crane, meanwhile. has arrived at the “Jolly Sailor” Inn, Mandling. From his landlady, MRS. HAM RLE. he learns that a man named Stevensson owns a property known as “The White House.” That evening, while reconnoitring the place, he meets Whittle. They realise they are on the same track, and resolve to work together. Suddenly a searchlight flashes from the house. CHAPTER Xll.—(Continued.) Altogether, the interview had passed off very well. The landlady was evidently one of those broad-minded souls who, once they took a fancy to anyone--as she had apparently taken to both of them — didn’t trouble her placid mind about too many side issues. She went on face values, more or less and probably, in the past this criterion had not let her down.

After taking a deep drink out of his glass, and replenishing it from the quart jug of home-brewed beer, Whittle applied himself to his portion of the steak.

“Thank heaven for food,” he said: “I don’t wonder soldiers, after battle, stoke all they can. But you’re not eating anything, young fellow.” Crane roused himself out of his lethargy. “I’m going to,” he said; and at once fell upon his share of the viands. After all, he had come out of the escapade alive, and that was something to be grateful for. True, he had not exactly covered himself with glory. As a matter of fact, if this American joker had not dropped from the blue, he might have boon dead by this time. But the cosy fire, the warm food, the wholesome beer, the satisfying companionship of the American—whom he was getting to like more and more as time went on—restored something of his usual optimism. There was silence after this for at least twenty minutes. The nervous tension through which they had passed had made both men hungry; and it was not until the last of the steak had vanished that they sat back with satisfied sighs. At that moment, Mrs. Hamble, like the good housewife she was, entered with a laden tray. “I thought you might like a cup of coffee, gents,” she said; “an’ it’s real coffee—that I can promise you.” One sniff at the steaming beverage, and Whittle, who came from a country where appetising coffee could be obtained at any cafe, pronounced the words justified. A sip—and he sprang from his chair. “Mrs. Hamble,” he said, “I’ve paid as much as two shillings for a cup of coffee at a London hotel, and this beats it hollow.” A couple of minutes later, they were alone once again. The landlady had told them that they need not hurry, but that she herself was going to bed/ “You know your rooms, gents, so I needn't bother you any more,’* she added. After closing the door behind her, Whittle resumed his seat. “Now, young man,” he said decisively, “I think you and I had better have a talk.” “I’ve been thinking that myself,” was the reply; “who’s to begin—you or I?” “Suppose we start with you?” “What do you want to know >” “Everything.”

“Well,” returned Philip, lighting a pipe and sitting well back in the "oldfashioned wooden chair, whilst Whittle, man like, flung another lump of coal On to the fire with his hand; “my story tarts no further back than last night. My name, as I’ve said, Philin Crane—/though I told Mrs. Hamble it was *adden. That’s not too big a fie. because Ur Timothy Padden, the well-known deigner of aeroplane engines, for whom r work, is my uncle. I’ve lived practically all my life in Truro, where the vorks are, and the reason I came to ondon yesterday afternoon was beause of a belated holiday.” The speaker rocceded to narrate the events follow : ng on ifis arrival at the London terminus Town to the moment of meeting Whittle in so unexpected a fashion outside “The White House.” The detective listened with absorbed “And the girl you say is at a con- “ 1 think it’s a convent; at least, it’s a sort of nun’s home, for want of a better description. She’s safe enough there anyway. That is, if that Soho restaurant keeper can be relied upon. But there. I know she’s all right—T only had to look at the face of that sister to be sure of it.” Whittle asked quickly one more “What’s the girls name?” Crane lanohed in rueful fashion. • “You’ll think me an awful ass, but f don’t know,” lie confessed; “you see there was so much else to talk about tliet I cl 5 d n’t think to ask.” “So von haven’t heard her father’s “No. But after what ha opened at that house to-night. 7 feel pretty certain lie’s befi-'g kept a prisoner.” For some moments, Whittle did not. as his companion expected, make anv renlv. But when lie did speak, it was to bruv* in f o th« cosy atmosphere a shiver of apprehension SI f* 1 RE ID glßtl© UK*) I*l (*> I*l !*)[*] i*l (Hl*)

'’'he longest river in Europe is the Volga, 2100 miles.

CHAPTER XIIJ. In the Night. “This is a nasty business,” tlie American detective said. “I agree,” replied Crane; “and now let’s hear your end. Where exactly do you come in on this thing?” “I’ve already told you something. I’ve been sent over here to pursue a certain line of inquiry. By the way,” breaking off quickly, “during the short time you’ve been associated with this gang, have von heard anything about a woman called ‘The Empress’?” “Yes. The man Stevensson mentioned her to me last night.” “You didn’t see her?” “No. Who is she?” “I don’t know —but I’m going to find out. And when I do, I think we shall be a little nearer the solution of this mystery. And now, do you miud answering some other questions?” “Not at all. I’m in a complete maze myself, except for the one -outstanding fact, that I’m uncannily like another fellow called Crane who’s a member of the gang.” “His real name is Birchall. Philip Crane is merely the name lie’s working under at the moment. You might like to know that.” “Funny he should have picked on my name, though.” “Not so very. If you’d been in the crime racket as long as I have, you’d know that there’re a damned sight funnier things than that happening every day of the week. Now, let’s get back to this woman called the Empress. You say Stevensson mentioned her to you. In what connection?” “He referred to her in a manner that led me to think she was the head of the whole business.” “Good enough.” It was .now Crane’s turn to ask questions. “What do you think is at the back or this, Whittle?” “At tlie moment I haven’t the least idea. But it’s .something big. Of that you can be certain. Did tlie girl say what her father did? What his particular line was?”

“No. She told me nothing beyond the fact that he was weak, and that he had extraordinary ability in his work —then we reached the convent, and I hadn’t a chance t.o ask her anything else.” “A pity. If she had said exactly what work her father did, the rest might have been easy. She didn't drop even the slightest hint, I suppose, that he was an engraver?” “An engraver? No. Why an engraver?*' But Whittle turned the question aside. “Oh, nothing,” he said evasively; and now I think ve’ll go to bed. In the morning I shall take the first train to London and make one or two calls. In the meantime, you’ll stay here and see what happens.” Outside, at tlie top of the stairs, before proceeding along the narrow corridor which led to his room on the other side of the inn, the American detective held out his hand. “Don’t you worry, boy,” he said; “we’re going to see this thing through—you and I. Good-night.” “Good-niglit,” returned Crane, and went to his room feeling better for the hearty hand-grip which he had just received. How long he had been asleep Philip did not know, but he awoke, his nerves tensed, and with a prickling sensation all down his spine. That cry ? Had it been a cry ? And from whence bad it come? Outside the inn? He waited, straining his ears to catch the slightest sound. But the darkness held only a deep, settled silence. Ass! His nerves must have gone back on him. A nice knight-errant! A fine rescuer of helpless ftynales! He must pull himself together. He endeavoured to get to sleep again, but it was impossible. Thoughts came thronging at such a rate that his brain became a seething battleground for them. What had happened a few hours before returned to his memory with such force that lie sat up in bed once One thought above all others now occupied his attention: that cry could not have been imagination. It must have been real. Otherwise, why should he have awakened from what had been a deep sleep ? Whittle!

He must go to his room—to see if he was all right. Slipping out of bed, lie had barely put a foot to the ground when a noise from behind made him suddenly turn. Then he knew why he had awakened: his subconscious mind had sent him a warning. Through the window at the other end of tlie room a dark form was silhouetted. And, close behind, was another. . . . Sinister shapes. He had no time to wonder how they had made tlie entry, for a voice said, with cutting sibilance: “Put your hands up!” And. whilst he hesitated: “You’ve got one more second!” That second was a tense affair. Behind the men Crane could see a pale, watery moon, oliedding a little fugitive light. A fitting background, lie thought, for a deed of bloodshed. He started to lift up his hands, and then, with a spring like that of a wild animal, he leapt at the man who had threatened him. His outflung hands caught the fellow’s knees and gripped them tightly. There was no thought now for his own safety; he was so possessed with a maddening hatred that, for the moment, every consideration of self was blotted out. These devils had killed Whittle. Of that he could be certain. They had gone to his room first, probably using the same ladder, and had slain the American detective whilst he slept. That strangled cry which had come to him could have no other interpretation. . . . He was like a man possessed. The normal, somewhat easy-going Philip Crane that Truro knew had Changed into a fight-inflamed individual turned berserker. Ho brought the man he had tackled down with a thud that shook the room. He heard the revolver drop from the other’s hand, and, conscious now that they were on an equality, worked his fingers up to the fellow’s throat, gripped and held on.

But whilst he was squeezing the breath out of his antagonist, he ft\rgot the existence of the second man forgot it until the fact was brought home to him in painful fashion. For the second time within a few hours a succession of numbing blows descended on the back 'of his head, and with scarcely a sound lie drifted upon the broad bosom of that (To be continued daily.)

In the Alps there is a letter-box 10,000 feet above sea level.