The QUEEN'S HALL MURDER

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 639, 17 December 1932, Page 29 (Supplement)

The QUEEN'S HALL MURDER

By ADAM BROOME, Author CHAPTER XVI. —(Continued.) Thev were nearing the church and the little group of shops which flanked it across the village green. From two or three of them shone bright electric lamps, but a solitary stable lamp, hung by a wire from the ceiling above, illuminated the grimy, uninteresting windows and the dusty back premises of Harry Lawford’s shop. “Here we are,’* cried Lattice, “almost at Lawford’s shop. ... I want some bicycle oil. He doesn’t look any too busy this evening, and he’s always ready to talk. He may be able to give us some information. And, anyway, the police never • seem to have thought of questioning him.” “I should have thought,” said Stephen Garton —they had crossed the green and reached the little 'bit • of broken pavement which ran along outside the shops —“that the police; were very * wise not to have done so. For what in Wie 'vorld the connection can be I’m blessed if I know.” “I don’t think. you’re a bit enterprising,” said s often in the most unexpected ways—almost accidental —that even the - police come on clues that end up by leading them to solve a mystery.” 1 Garton pushed open the glazed door, to which led a broken stone step about six inches above the level of the pavement, and the pair entered thetshop. Their arrival was announced by “ the “clankety-clank” * of an old-fashioned house bell hung by a spring to the door frame itself. There-was no-immediate answer, • and Stephen had tinw to look round him. Behind a row of machines displayed in the window ran a. battered wooden counter, which continued round two walls of the shop. From shelves nailed round hung rows of bicycle tyres.' some obviously even more second-hand looking than-'the bicycles themselves. The centre of the shop, on the customer’s side of the counter, was a veritable bicycle shambles. There were frames of cycles, pedal cranks, wlic-el rims, handlebars, pumps, footrests, and brakes; There was not one whole, complete, usable bicycle in the mass. The air was 6trongly impregnated with an effluvium epmopsedtof-kerosene, rubber solution, lampfiliumrnant/ and lubricating oil, in aboilt equal parts. *• Behind % the < counter stood a rather, battered and woebegone ’cello with only, its two upper strings intact. Underneath a pile of seemingly new cycle spare parts, on the counter itself, lay a much worn leather violin case. On the end of the counter nearest the door Stephen noticed a pile of papers. Idly he picked up some of the top layers. It consisted of a torn and dirty copy of Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas, a nearly new violoncello tutor, and several bicycle manufacturers’ trade catalogues. “Nothing doing, it seems,” said Stephen, at the same time pulling do wit ♦ hf> crazy hell' on top of the door to the full 'extent of its rusty spring. He let it go, and the resulting cracked clamour caused someone to stir in the room abovo them. “Hullo! Who's that? Just wait a minute—l’ll be down in a jiffy.” There was sound as of tools being thrown hastily into a box. “And don’t forget, Stephen, that Mr. Lawford is the acknowledged authority, on music in Shallow. Don’t quarrel with him whatever your own views may be on any subject he raises. It’s only bv getting him into a good humour that I’ll be able to get him to talk. And once he’s started the difficulty will be to stop him.” There were sounds of bustling above. \ “By the wav,” said Stephen, in quieter tones than he had so far employed. “Did you notice this?” He held up the ’cello tutor which he had discovered amongst the dusty piles of literature on the counter. “And that ?” He waved the paper-covered volume in the direction of the instrument standing behind the counter. Lettice looked first at the bcok and then at the forlorn 'cello. Her face was completely blank. The young man was amused at her perplexity. “We came here. I thought—on the traek of the Crowther mystery. But wnat about a spot or westcott, too — you know-—the West African fellow who got the poisoned cello strings?” Lettice put her fingers to her lips, and her companion replaced the “Tutor” on the counter. The door leading from the Ijttle parlour was flung open, and Mr. Harry Lawford himself appeared. The village organist was a bachelor. Even Stephen, who was not by nature unduly observant, could have divined that. The middle button of the oldfashioned snuff-coloured Norfolk jacket which he wore was missing, and no man's wife would have permitted him to wear that low-cut, wide-ended soft white collar, which was none too clean at that. A pair of baggy knickerbockers, snuff-coloured like the jacket, not too full to be called “plus-fours,” and too full for ordinary shooting knickers, thick grey worsted cycling stockings, and a pair of much patched brown boots, completed the musician-cycle-repairer’s attire. He had a large head, curiously shaped, a wide forehead, narrow chin, and a large and somewhat hooked nose. His long hair was dark and very untidy, parted to one side; and it stuck up rather like a cockatoo’s comb in an obstinate stiff upward curl over the man’s right temple. There was a curious look in his nondescript hazel eyes; one might have hazarded a trace of insanity —or genius. Stephen had never heard Harry Law* fdrd hailed as a genius, so he was inclined to accept the alternative. Mr. Lawford was lanky, bony, and angular. He wore large untidy, oldfashioned black mutton chop whiskers, flecked with grey, which sprouted from high, angular cheek-bones. Altogether a curious person, a person who might have done many queer things —not excepting a murder. “Good evening, Miss Man ton —good evening” said Mr. Lawford, pumphandling the girl’s arm in a ludicrously exaggerated manner. “You’re quite a stranger —quite. Haven’t seen you for ever such a long time —not even on Sundays—ha ha! ” He drew back his hand and raised it with a strange hoarse exaggerated laugh, whether in remonstrance at her impiety or merely in jest, Stephen Garton was unable to fathom. His own immediate feeling was a strong desire to kick the fellow*-—hard —where it would hurt him most. Laughingly Lettice gave some sort o f explanation.' She’d been away a good deal: had had to help look alter her grandmother since her illness. She was more than sorry, she said, to have missed being in church last Sunday. She'd heard that Mr. Lawford had given them a voluntary entirely of his own -omposition. She’d never heard one of his pieces and she was disappointed. The organist was obviously pleased He signified his pleasure, by another.of

r of ** Crowner* Quest, ’* etc. his hoarse, raucous laughs, threw his head right back and clasped his great bony hands together in high glee. Passing in a manner which was intended to be light, but which struck Stephen a* singularly heavy and pompous, over his own musical achievements, Mr. Lawford referred to old Mrs. Manton. How was she getting on with her symphonic poem? It was he who had encouraged the lady to take up harmony and composition again. It was he himself who bad suggested a theme —the thanksgiving for the capture of the murderer of Signor Parelli when that villain was caught—that black-hearted rascal and scoundrel who had robbed the world not only of its gx*eatest musician, but also of "a noble and great-hearted gentleman. h Having endured the fellow’s vapourings ou these subjects, as long as she could bear them, Lettice turned towards her companion. 1 Ri “And, by the wav, Mr. Lawford, may l introduce a -friend of mine—Mr. Garton? Mr. Garton was with me at the Queen's Hall that night that Signor Parelli died.” The organist, who had up till now utterly ignored the young man’s presence until the formal introduction had been made, now became all smiles, and uttered a few more of those dreadful hoarse laughs of his, which exposed the rows of blackened and decayed teeth in his cavernous mouth as he favoured him with one of his simian liandsliakes. Jndw.’fc waste your'time; I know how busy you always are.” As she looked round the untidy, illkept shop she felt that the last remark did not ring quite true. “What we really came for,” the girl went on, “was a tin of bicycle lamp oil. Mine’s quite finished; we’ve got to be more careful than usual with the police getting eo busy roqnd here. And I don’t want to lie run in bv Jones and tried before the J.P.’s at Mill Dean!” Mr. Lawford’s roar of a laugh shook the very ball bearings of the many dismantled hubs in their races.

“Very good—ha ha!—very good .ndeed! If the police would pay a little more attention to big things and a little less to the trivialities of life, the murderer of Signor Parelii would have been caught before now, I’ll wager.” Police Constable .Tones had purchased his own bicycle in Brightmoutli and any repairs that were needed to be done were effected by the mail at Mill Dean. \ The conversation continued. Presently the name of Mollie Crowther was men' tioned. “'Poor Mollie—ah—poor Mollie.” Mr. Lawford gave a theatrical sigh. “Such a promising child, too. Her mother wanted her to learn music. She suggested the piano; parents always do suggest the piano. But I had an old ’cello stored away in an attic; it was there for years. Don’t quite know- how I got hold of it. But that’s neither here nor there. Anyway—l said I’d teach her that; knew a little about it myself—enough to start her, anyway. j “I thought she might have some better chance of earning her living—at music—dunce band or cinema orchestra, you know —than if she just played the piano. Everybody does that—or did.” He turned Lis back on his hearers and pretended to strum on the counter, humming loudly, and in an exaggerated way. Turning round once more, he let out a laugh much harsher, louder and more hysterical than any that had preceded it. Even Stephen Garton had to surrender. This man, whatever else he might be, was certainly an “original.” » Mr. Lawford reverted to the subject of Mollie Crowther. '<? “I saw Mollie—about two o’clock in the afternoon it would be—that Saturday. She came to fix up about her lesson for the next week. Couldn’t have it on tiie usual day or something like that. She had a bag of sweets in her hand. Asked me not to tell her mother. Said her mother didn’t like her having sweets —anyway not from strangers. I asked her who gave her the sweets. But she wouldn’t tell me—not at first. 1 said she could have her lesson that very afternoon and get it over. But she ‘said she couldn’t—she was going tc ■Brightmouth to do something for somebody. • Si/She asked me if I knew any of the doctors —all the doctors round here. I asked her why she wanted to know, but she wouldn’t tell me. I ran through the names of all the doctors within miles. I've lived here—man and boy—these past 50 years. I left out Dr. Littlewood. of Shallow—she’d know him, of course. But at each of .the other names I gave—and I must have rattled off a score or more [—she only shook her head. And that’s all I could get out of her. She always was a queer kid—kept herself to lierself —you know what I mean? “There now—it’s struck me all of a sudden. There was that bit in the ,‘Brightmouth Herald* —about the inquiry. I wasn’t there—never go to court unless I have to. Don’t like the police—a* lot qf lazy busybodies. Fancy me not tumbling to it before. Suppose I ought to have gone and told them I wanted to give evidence. But it’s all over now, I suppose—all over.” ft Mr. Lawford lowered his voice and became mysterious. V “Of course—of course —I see it all now. She was collecting Dr. Hawkes’ letters. The pencil scrawl on the paper! And though the police and the post office people—like all Government people paid to do the public’s jobs—have nevernoticed it—not till now—must have overlooked it. Those two letters—if they ever came—must be still there. We know Mollie didn’t go to Brightmouth that day. She died first.” He paused to let the effect of his ensuing words sink in and take their full effect. “Don’t you see, Miss Manton—Mollie Crowther didn’t knmv Dr. Hawkes —and yet,” a really demoniacal light seemed to sparkle now in his queer eyes, “he must live here!” (To be continued daily.V