"3 STRANGE MEN"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 4 October 1940, Page 10

"3 STRANGE MEN"

COPYRIGHT. PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

By

C. T. PODMORE.

(Author of “The Fault,” etc.

CHAPTER XV. (Continued •- “Partly. You can’t see things the same if you ride.” “Do you know what I am thinking, Mr Boxwith?” George returned. “I am thinking you were in Chatham, at that spot, looking out for me.” "No!” said Boxwith incredulously. “And here you are again.” “Sing’lar!” Boxwith mused. “But I called here on my way going. It’s quaint, this is—like the Squinting Twins, up near home. I might just as easily see you somewhere else, if you keep coming my way. That’s what you keep doing, you know.” “By the look of it, you may be keeping someone else informed of my movements. You may have been got at. Don’t you think it looks like that?” Boxwith pondered over it, agreed with a cheerful astonishment that it did, rather. “And if I were sure about it,” George added, “I should think little more i about twisting your neck a trifle than I should about lighting my pipe.”, Boxwith whistled softly. “So perhaps,” George concluded, “you had better get on your way; and —take my warning—keep out of mine.” “Blimy!” murmured Boxwith, “he don’t trust me,” and slowly walked out. Next day, going eastward, George found himself in due time crossing the comparatively lonely broad marshes leading down to the Thames. From long wandering in some contrary directions, he deviated into the little village of Higham, to get some food at a shcp-cottage, where he came upon a sailor—a visitor like himself —of whom he could ask questions, while drying himself from the saturated ground. What he heard was of a bridge and a cross road, a mile or more below Cooling; also of a tavern where he could buy drink at any time or of any kind. “A bit of a queer place,” the man said, “with a bad name—The Gibbet. You don’t talk; you listen to all you can, and keep your eyes open, if you want to know about things in this latitude. Got a gun?” “No,” said George. “If you’re seeking trouble this side, you oughter have a gun. By all means.” “No licence,” said George. “Licence!” the man laughed. “Funny, that.” “And I’m not seeking trouble,” George added. “You don’t need—it'll find you. Want to buy one?” The man coolly put his hand in a side pocket, and produced a little blue thing of small calibre. “That’s a beauty, ain’t it?” “Yes. How did you come by it?” “Nasty feller had me at the wrong end, so I took it off him, for safety.” “I might be a policeman, you know,” George smiled. “No mister. I ain’t blind—l know a cop when I see one.” “Well, how much?” The bargain was struck, and George resumed .his course with a feeling of reinforcement. Mists hung about the few farmhouses scattered on the flats. A solitary church tower a! wide intervals loomed vague and grey. The evening promised to be cloudy. The landmark he was seeking came to hand. He noted also the tavern referred to by the man at Higham. It was a long, low-built place, showing thus early a single light behind red blinds; and it stood back from the road against a much larger huddle of outbuildings, which had a curious air of having been built for evasion. A motor car, unattended, was drawn up at one side. George had no wish to enter this place. While he was looking at it, a man came forth, and said, “Want a lift?” “Which way are you going?” George asked. “Riverside,” was the answer. “Yes —that’s my way.” The suggestion of a nip of something first, appealed to George as appropriate so he followed the man in. At a small bar-window a short thick-set fellow produced two large “tots” - of rum, which he set down ,in placid silence. George paid, and got no change. “You won’t mind company, I s’pose. a bit o’ the way?” the other then said: “two fellers, got stuck here a bit too long.” George merely shrugged; the convenience was to himself. “I make a triflle this way,” the chauffeur added, and went to speak a word into an adjacent room. George took a seat beside the driver, the better to see the road. The car went fast. There was no conversation beyond scraps of unintelligible stull between the two riverside men who sat behind. Heavy clouds were coming up distantly, and a faint scent of the river came cn the air as they rushed along. There would be more rain tonight. At length George decided that he had come far enough for his purpose: “Will you stop now, please?’’ The driver had turned sharply into a bylane. He glanced at George leisurely and came slowly and carefully to a stop in the shade of a belated clump of trees in the hedgerow. George got out; so did the men behind. who seemed to have come to a similar decision, though he did not want their company. His hand was in his pocket for silver to pay for this welcome ride. Otherwise, it might have gone to the pocket containing the weapon he had bought at Higham. Something crashed on his head, and he was lifted back into the car. And the car sped half a mile further up the lane, until it bumped over an approach between neglected fields to what looked like a deserted farm. CHAPTER XVI. Darkness. George Parmitter lay on a boarded floor, in a corner of a room which his groping fingers told him was walled with white-washed brick. High up

was a single small window, for ventilation rather than light, and too small for a man of any size to think of as a means of escape. It was closed, and it had a curiously blurred appearance against the dull, dense sky. A pattering murmur beat on his hearing. Rain. By degrees he became aware that his limbs were free, and he got to his feet. He then discovered a strong batten door, which was so firmly secured that he could not even shake it. Then he made out the outline of a narrow, closed casement, which was boarded over from the outside. There was a faint musty smell, which he remembered long afterward as if it were contained in some damaged compartment of his head. He had not the least idea where he was, or how long his head had lain stupidly to the floor’. Those three men had done z this. They had taken his revolver too. His eyes gradually perceived the size and the emptiness of the place he was in. He was going to beat a summons on the door, when a light showed underneath and someone knocked. "Hi —you, there!” a man’s voice called roughly. “I’m here,” answered George, immediately behind the door, which he struck with the flat of his hand. “Open —I want to come out.” “Ah. the genTman want to come out. Going to be rough, now he’s back to hisself,” commented the voice to someone: who replied, “Sling the bar up, and let him see how he’s fixed.” A bar was lifted, and the door opened inward to the extent of six or seven inches, revealing—behind a taut chain which had been run through the handle and secured to the opposite wall of a passage —the two riverside men of the motor car. One of them held George’s revolver somewhat negligently toward the floor. "Better be perlite,” he said, “when you’re spoke to. D’yer want some grub, or a shot in your leg?” “I want to know what you mean by fastening me up in here?” George retorted angrily. “’Ere!” said the fellow, with an abrupt gesture to another person out of sight. “You better come and talk to him.” And in a moment there stood Arthur Boxwith, clerk, of Manchester. George Parmitter gasped. “You rat!” he exclaimed. “Wait a minute —wait a minute,” replied Boxwith calmly, even with a hint of injury in his tone. “All you know is, you don’t stand in my shoes. Are you going to be quiet, Mr Parmitter? Come, now—as one gentleman to another.” “Quiet!” “Quiet and reasonable. I’m not going to talk to you about this, that and the other you may be worrying over. 1 tell you you ain’t in my shoes, that’s all. There’s food for you. and none o’ the cling business neither. This ain’t the jug. Good food—l’m going to see to that —and any drink you like to call for short of champagne and similar; and no need whatever to tip the waiter. The question is, are you going to be what our parson calls resigned, for a day or two? That’s all.” “No!” “Well, you’re pretty sure to get hurt again, and a bit worse too. It’s not intended .b’lieve me; and it seems a pity to carry on like mad, when after a day or two you might walk out like a gentleman passing through his own estate. You see ” “Well?” “That bit o’ paper you had off me was faked just to get you here, out o’ the way; you couldn’t go any further with it—you’d be lost. See? The job’s over. That is, as good as over. Why not be resigned? There’s a ship’s cook with us that could shame any chef in London; and if you want medical attention, you can have a bang-up, hand-picked physician from Harley Street. Can’t say fairer than that." "That’s all you have got to say to me. is it?” “Practically,” agreed Boxwith mildly. “I b’lieve there’s a line or two of poetry that hits off the present situation, but I just forget how it goes. Now say if you want anything to pull you round a bit and keep up your strength. We ain’t got no French menu, but the stuff’s good. We’re just having a hand at cards, and personally I wouldn’t mind if you came into the kitchen, and had a bite and a sup while you watch us play. But my friends here, their language ain’t fit for human ears —I can hardly bear it myself—and I daresay you’d embarrass them too, for they'd think you were up to something. Same as they think even about me." "I shouldn’t wonder!” retorted George. “Low class, that’s what they are.” . “Let me have food and drink, anyhow,” said George, out of patience. “And I'd like to know which one of these struck me on the head.” “I did," said the man with the revolver. "Thanks. You shall have your reward.” "Anything else?" said Boxwith. “I should like to know where you’ve brought me." “Ah—of course. This is the Isle o’ Wight.” ’I see. And how long is it since wo arrived?" "Came here on my yacht a couple o' weeks ago.” “Thank you." responded George; “that’s about what 1 thought.” “Now step back, will you?" The command came in a tone quite devoid of badinage: and in another moment the bar was up, and George Parmitter in darkness again. Boxwith was as good as his word. Inside half an hour a big portion of a chicken, with a chunk of bread, and a jug contaming at least a pint of good ale. was passed in to him. With it wast a bit of lighted candle, estimated to burn itself out in “next to no time."

And that would do for tonight. Coffee and bacon at eight sharp in the morning. Parmitter had no intention of remaining inactive till morning. The ceiling of this place was a blank grey area at least twelve feet up. Everything was ingrained with a light-ish-coloured dust. Even a rat shut in here would have lo gnaw its way out. (To be Continued).