The QUEEN’S HALL MURDER

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 643, 22 December 1932, Page 18

The QUEEN’S HALL MURDER

By

ADAM BROOME.

Author .of “ Crowner'c Que»t," etc.

CHAPTER XIX. The Waiter’s Story. '‘lsn't it a bit stuffy here?’* Stephen Garton was half inclined to argue the point with Lattice Man ton. The winter garden of the big Hotel Majestic on Brightmouth front was crowded to suffocation, but they had found by luck a corner table for two looking out over the promenade in front. It wasn’t much after three o'clock; the January sun was bright’ and even had a little wavmtli as it shone on the crowds passing to and fro in front of them. “Thought you said you knew one of the waiters here; seem to remember that the last time we came here we were served before anyone else.” “Yes —the man’s Luigi Pomagna, the man whose wife got mixed up in the Parelli affair, and whom somebody tried to rope into the Bianchi murder. That’s really one reason why I wanted you to bring me here. I wanted to have another look at him.” Stephen Garton looked round. The head waiter came lip and smiled blandly at the girl. No —they did not mind. They weren’t in a hurry for tea—it was early. They’d sit and listen to the band. “It seems ages since I was down here last and you had your interview with your musical pal in the bike shop. 1 suppose you haven’t made any headway in that direction ?” The girl shook her head. She really was looking her attractive best. “And yet,” went on Stephen, “it’s scarcely a month ago.” Lett ice thought she noted a sentimental timbre in the young man's voice. “No,” she said. “Having very little else to do” —she sighed —“I’ve been having a shot at trying to solve these curare problems: but though I’ve made up enough theories to keep a thrillerwriter going for years L can’t make head or tail of them. I can—so to speak —manage to make up everything except the last chapter. And in this ease it’s only the last chapter that really matters.” “I’ve got one bit of news for you that doesn’t seem to have leaked out so far, and I swear you’re the only person I’m telling it to. I’m sure you won’t let it go any further. “I’ve got a friend in the Home Office, as you know. We belong to the same club, and the F.O. and the Home Office have each a professional interest in the curare crimes—and it spreads right through the buildings. Tt’s not appeai-ed in the papers yet, but—and this is a dead secret—it mustn’t come out to anybody—and even at home—it’s really true that the police are working on a definite clue. ‘‘They seem to have had to go rather a. long way to find it, and I believe it came in a cable that was sent by one of the Scotland Yard fellows who’d been sent out to West Africa. I can’t for the life of me get hold of more than that. But I did manage to find out that the cable was a very short one. There couldn’t have been much in it. But what there was, so I understand, has fairly set the Yard buzzing like a hive of bees.” Lettice was rather disappointed; she felt that Stephen must lie hiding something from her, and she was, a little unreasonably in the circumstances, annoyed. “Are you one of those people who are so secret about office things—business things —that he wouldn’t even tell his own wife ?” Stephen coloured visibly. “I always think that that's one reason why I should never marry a Mason,” she went, on, rather inconsequently. “Well —if it’s any satisfaction to you —T’m not a Mason,” said Stephen. He felt a pleasant sense of intimacy growing, despite the superficially hostile tone of the conversation. “But whether I’m a Mason or not—it’s beside the point. I’m quite honest when I tell you that 1 don’t know what was in that cable. My friend himself—in the Home Office—had never even seen it. As to whether I’d have told you if I had known —” he chanced a bold shot —“men, I believe, do tell their wives things that they don’t tell anyone else.” Lettice laughed. “Is that a sort of bribe?” she asked. Steulien reddened. He was indignant at the suggestion of corruption, but pleased somehow at the picture of Lettice Manton as his wife. “Hullo—here's Pomagna coming at last.” The little Italian had just deposited i an enormous load of teapots, cups and saucers, plates' and dishes piled high with all sorts of the most unwholesome looking cream buns and tarts and meringues on the two tables behind them. He set the table quickly—hurried, beaming and smiling, to where Lettice and h?r companion were sitting. “Good afternoon, madame. Eet is so long since you were here. And the other ladies. T hope they are well—no?” Lettice reassured him as far as her mother was concerned. Her grandmother was not very well; but in the winter old people never felt their best. It would no doubt all be well when the spring came and with it the warmer weather. “Oh—l am so sorry.” The little southerner was nothing if riot sympathetic. Lettice nodded toward her companion. “My friend is from the Foreign Office. Have you any news of your wife?” The little man spread his hands in a gesture of despair. Poor Francesca was still on remand; she was on bail Avith friends of his in London and himself as sureties. He got up to see her when he could. But he couldn’t give his job up altogether in these hard times. And then he had had all this trouble himself when the murderer had tried to use his name in connection with the Bianchi case. Tt Avas all too worrying, but the police had told him that they did not suspect him at all. The police had told him that there was no chance of Francesca’s being convicted of the crime of nnmler for Avhich she had originally been arrested, and a judge of the High Court had been approached and actually raised no objection to bail; a course which was unusual when a capital offence was in question. She had been foolish in what she had done, a thousand times foolish: but no—she was not wicked. Why should she want to kill Signor Parelli—whom she di l not even knoAV—the greatest Italian ,*f her time? He had heard that the police were working on a new clue; that they expected to make an arrest any time now. And then it Avould not be long before poor Francesca was free—quite free—after giving anv evidence she could at

the trial of Parelli’s murderer. The little man’s eyes literally sparkled at the thought, and a tear or two began to form. “And that is why I miss so much Mrs. Manton and your grandmother. Often they used to come here to tea—in the summer—when the weather was fine.” Lettice remembered those excursions, had sometimes accompanied the two older ladies. “And they were so kind to me. They had been in Italy —both —a long time ago. They talked to me nicely. And majlame your grandmother asked so kindly always after my wife who was in London. She talked a very long time to me some days when she was waiting here for Mrs. Manton, who was shopping in the town, to come into tea. I gave her her address and she said she would write to her to cheer her up and say she had seen me. I do not know if she ever did. My wife has not told me. But it was kind even to think of it—l am only a waiter. And madame your grandmother is a lady who has herself so much to think of.” Stephen Garton was getting rather restive. He was hungry; he wanted to hear Lettice talk —not the Italian waiter, however estimable a person he might be. And then, of course, he started on the Parelli case. It was the last straw as far as the youn|; man was concerned. “Do you mind if I go out and get some cigarettes?” Lettice looked round. There was a slot machine just behind her. Again Stephen flushed. “Yes —I saw it. But there aren’t any Turkish in it.” Lettice had never seen Stephen smoke a Turkish cigarette, except with his coffee after dinner, but she made no , demur, and as the young man threaded his way out through the closely-crowded tables, continued her conversation with Luigi Pomagna.

.-itimmmmimiiimimiiimimimtiiiiiir “I don't know why it is, Stephen,” said Lettice as they left the crossroads where the bus stopped, about a quarter of a mile from The Rosary, “but I feel somehow all nervy—afraid—afraid of I don’t know what.” He remembered her sudden fright that j day when he’d been having tea with her l in the little drawing room and the books j had fallen suddenly on the floor of the room above. “Everybody gets ‘nerves’ sometimes. Wouldn’t be natural if they didn’t. It’s not very nice—your grandmother being still ill——and in this cold weather, too. But she’ll get over it—just as she’s done before.” Lettiue tried to laugh. “I don’t think it was over that that I was worrying. But—yes, I suppose it might be; the illness in tlie house—the cold—and perhaps a little worry of my She put her hand through Stephen’s arm. And the young man thought that even nerves perhaps had their compensations—for others. But Lettice could not feel quite herself again for the rest of the evening. A fear—a strange intangible fear—a fear she could not define—kept gripping at her heart. (To be Concluded.)