BANK CLERK

Star (Christchurch), Volume LXVI, Issue 20219, 1 February 1934, Page 16

BANK CLERK

By

Author of ____ “George,” “That Wen :«t C! aver ton Mansions,” etc.

HOLLOWAY HORN

(CHAPTER Vll—Contiued.) “There’s Something Wrong With You/” “What do you make of me?” she asked as she lit her cigarette. “I think you’ve told me the truth about yourself,” he said after a silence. “Nine men out of ten wouldn't. A girl has to be careful these days. But I'm not often wrong. I was, though, the other evening. L met a man who was down and out —literally hungry. Quite a nice-looking chap. 1 brought him back here, fed him, and then I had the very dickens of a job getting him to go. He seemed to think I’d taken him for keeps.” “Did you think I was starving?” he asked with a smile. “Xo. But there’s something wrong with you,” she added in a more serious time than she had previously used. “I'm sometimes desperately lonely,” he admitted, after a silence. “I know,” she said quictlv. “So am I. T was to-night. That’s why I went out. That’s why I let men talk to me like you did to-night “But you've got a family. You spoke of a brother.” “I’ve got a family all right. A priceless set of spongers. Jim, my brother, is the best of the bunch, but even lie doesn’t come here unless he wants something.” “We’re getting very serious all of a sudden,” he smiled. “You can’t always keep it up,” she said. “There isn’t such a lot to laugh about, anyway. But what about a drink? I’ve got some whisky.” “Sounds attractive.” “There’s no soda. I’m afraid.” He watched her sitting opposite to him in the soft light. It was not an unkind light, but he noticed the shadows beneath her eyes, the hard dissatisfaction in her mouth. A pretty face, but utterly disillusioned, lie decided. “Chin-chin,” he said as he took up the drink she had mixed him. “Sure you won't have one. too?” “Xo. I’m on the water wagon.” “Why ?« “It’s better for me. When T drink, T drink. And a girl simply mustn't drink —particularly one like me. I’m supposed to have a heart—apart from anything “You needn't be frightened of me.” “I’m not,” she assured him. “But if you come to think of it, it’s damned silly of a girl to let a man come to her flat like this. In the first place, most men would completely misunderstand it—most men do—and in the second, goodness only knows who the man is. While all that scare was on about the man with the purple claw I was too terrified to have anyone here at all. I don’t know the first thing about you, for example; I don’t suppose for a moment that your name is Bullard. I’m not blaming you. If I were a man 1 should do just the same, knowing what I know.” “Why do you think mv name is not Bullard ?” “Because you would have been a silly ass to give me your real name; you don’t know anything about me, remember; I may be an absolute wrong *un, for all you know.” “I don’t think you’re right. There’s a lot to be said for first impressions. Besides, if you were what you call a wrong ’un, there would be no point in keeping up the pretence. I’m fairly certain that you’ve told me the truth about yourself. You’re unconventional, and so forth, but you’re quite right when you say it’s foolish to bring odd men back like this. Still, as it happens, I told you the truth, too. I do live in Mossford and I am a writer. And you can come back with me to-morrow for lunch if you care to.” “I can’t. I’ve got an appointment at a film studio at 11 o’clock. I’ll come over on Sunday afternoon, though, if you like.” “Fine. Well look up the buses and I’ll meet you in the town.” “I’m sleepy,” she said. “What about a spot of bed? Your room's next to the bathroom along the passage.” “I’m ready,” he said. She led the way. “I'll get those pyjamas.” she said over her shoulder. “Good-niglit,” she went on casually as she pitched the garments to him. “Sleep well,” he answered, and went in the bedroom. It was just an ordinary bedroom, and as lie undressed he reflected on the happenings of the evening. In spite of all the evidence to the contrary, lie was almost certain that liis hostess was as she had described herself, that she was, technically at least, respectable. The whole affair was curious, and, he supposed, part of the modern independent spirit of women of which he had read so much. Was the whole thing a trap? The ugly thought suddenly flashed into his mind. Would the ’“husband” turn up and raise a scene? Threaten him? Demand money? If he did, William Chester Bullard reflected, with that momentary grin, he could have money. And much good might it do him. But he dismissed the thought. She wasn’t that kind, he was certain. He liked her. While he had been with her that wretchedly insistent feeling of loneliness had loft him. Supposing he fixed up something more or less definite with her? Once or even twice a week, for example, they could go to the pictures together after a little meal somewhere. He might hire a car and take her down to the coast, or into the country. There was .no point in just hoarding the damned money. He went into the bathroom. There was no sign of her, and the flat was in silence. And sleep came to him more readily that night than it usually did. He missed the absolute silence of the cottage. preferring the muffled monotone of the town that filled the night around him. Mrs. Spagett would be surprised to find that he was not at the cottage in the morning, he reflected, but gradually his thought centred on Nina Warren. In the darkness he saw her dark hair, saw those dancing red flecks in her lovely eyes. That was over. Finished, he told himself. But his sense of irreparable loss was not so acute as it had been. Here he was not. alone. And presently the man with the purple claw was asleep. CHAPTER VIII. Bullard’s Secret Discovered. Bullard waked once during the night, imagining that he heard noises, but when he sat up to listen no sound reached him, save the insistent, unaccustomed murmur of the town around him. He awaked finally at eighty o’clock, and for a moment found it impossible to adjust himself to his strange environment. Slowly consciousness returned, and lie remembered what had brought him to that bedroom. He was in Wat*

ham. That fluffy little girl he had been talking to the night before was somewhere in the flat. The noise of the passing traffic seemed almost deafening after the silence he had become used to in the cottage on the common when he awoke. —Eight o’clock! He had no idea what time the girl expected him to get up. Hotter got a move on. he supposed. He had no shaving things with him, but he would be able to got a shave in the town. There was an old-fashioned washstand in the room, but the jug was empty, so he decided to go into the bathroom next door. Gingerly he tapped at the door, standing there in bare fbet. There was no reply, and he went in. A towel was flung over the end of the bath, and he had a wash, missing the luxury of his own bathroom. Then he returned to his bedroom to dress. As he left the bathroom he heard the girl moving about, and the sound of crockery. Apparently she was preparing breakfast. The whole affair was rather an adventure. She seemed a very decent sort of girl; he had been lucky to meet her! He flung off his pyjamas and methodically began l»is exercises—one of the few settled habits of the old days that persisted. He was putting on flesh, and made up his mind to do more riding than lie had been doing of late. Suddenly there was a tap at the door, and the girl’s voice reached him: “I’ve got a cup of tea for you. Can I come He hesitated, and in that second she opened the door and came in. He turned to face her, and in the same instant came the sudden, awful realisation that he had taken off the jacket of his pyjamas. He saw her mouth sag open, no longer in her control. She stood as if all power of movement had left her, swaying slightly as if her balance was uncertain. Never in his life had he seen such terror in a human face. Once she closed her mouth, but it sagged open again, as she dropped the tray in her hand with a crash. He saw the steam rising from the hot tea, amid the broken crockery on the carpet. Then with a stifled cry she pitched forward on to her face. He was standing watching her. His eyes fell to the sinister mark on his chest. The purple claw; to his distracted brain it seemed to be alive, to be moving underneath his skin like an evil thing. He could almost feel it. “My God!” The exclamation broke from his lips. She knew. That fluffy girl, lying there so absurdly still, knew. She knew that he was Paul Lever* stock, the man with the purple claw. In all the world she was the one person who could link the two personalities—the writer who lived in Moss ford, and the man who was wanted for murder. The edifice of security he had built up crashed around him; he stood watching her, a man in the most desperate danger. In all the world she alone knew. She and William Chester Bullard. 1 hat grin, distorting and hideous, flickered for a moment on his face, and was gone, leaving him wide-eyed with fear. She was lying there, very still. She was wearing a blue silk kimono over pyjamas of yellow and back. Her fluffy head was in the midst of the widening circle of the tea and the broken cup. He could see her throat, thin and white. If he took that throat in his hand and crushed the useless life out of her no one in the world could link, those two personalities. The lust to kill, to remove the damnable danger that threatened him, surged up, but some instinct, older even than fear, stayed his hands. He looked at her curiously, as if he had never seen her before, and picking her drooping body up from the floor placed it on the bed. Her eyes Mere open, staring. He closed them, shuddering as he did so, and knew that she Mas dead. There Mas a purple tinge round her mouth. Purple! He clenched his hands until he felt his nails pierce his flesh in the great effort he made to pull himself together. Were they alone in the flat? Had she a maid? He glanced around him like an animal scenting danger. He knew nothing about the place and tip-toed to the door furtively. No sound reached him, and still moving silently, he examined the flat, breathing a sigh of relief when he discovered that it Mas empty. But at any moment someone might come. (To be continued daily.)