"3 STRANGE MEN"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 5 October 1940, Page 10

"3 STRANGE MEN"

COPYRIGHT.

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

By

C. T. PODMORE.

(Author of “The Fault,” etc.

CHAPTER XVI. (Continued ■- Carefully George trod all over the place pausing here and there to scrape with his boot a little mass of scaly whitewash from the walls, and crushing it to powder. The greyness of the floor was due to sweeping of flour into the crevices of the wood. The musty odour persisted. Then he did a singular thing. He took the fork from his empty weapon plate, carried it like a deadly weapon to a corner where lay some of the loosened whitewash, and stuck it into the floor. He glanced reflectively at the knife also, but put aside whatever may have been his thought about it. ‘ What a fool I was,” he muttered, ‘’not to ask Boxwith for a feather bed.” The ale had done his head no good. He got down to the floor, blew out the scrap of candle, and lay pulsing to the beat of the rain outside. That pulsing lasted through many weary hours. A grey-eyed morning looked in from the window high up in the wall, and found him contemplatively awake. The rain had ceased. It was too early for his captors to be about. He rose quietly and stepped over to the invitation of the morning. With an agile leap he caught the narrow ledge with his fingers, drew himself up, and peered through. He saw a shabby green enclosure with a broken gateway; the remains of a hay cart on a single rotting wheel; part of a narrow, rutted road that wound between low hedgerows and occasional trees; a glimpse of flat, misty fields, with the ghost of a church tower far beyond, and everywhere suggestive of loneliness, neglect and silence. One or two birds flew past, but no twitterings could he hear. He was in an old farmhouse, and this had been one of its store-rooms. The place was no longer in the world. From this he turned to the casement which had been boarded up on the outside. He could not break through this without rousing his captors; the timbers behind the glass were held in place by bolts driven through the frame from within. He went to the spot below the little window where he had stuck his fork into the flooring, and sat down there, and began to scrape patiently at the edge of one of the boards. The wood came up in soft strips. At last he squeezed his fingers through, and the timber pulped and crumbled in his grip. A foul, clammy mess clung underneath. This was the cause of the odour —dry rot. Cautiously he pulled up a piece of board, which broke at a short length. He looked at the sickly unwholesome fungus on the under side. He could make an aperture big enough to pass through. The depth below was less than two feet, but he could crawl, damp and noisome as it was. A glance showed him little peering spots of light where the vents were, almost choked up; and by degrees he crawled far enough to surmise that certain loose gaps in the parti-walls would admit him under the flooring of adjacent rooms in the house. Also, he found a small rusty axe-head, with a decayed shaft that fell out when he touched it; and this he put into his pocket. He could get away—he had no doubt of it now. One of these vents should be grouted out. All he had to do was to bide his time. Sorely was his patience to be tried. Had it been otherwise, it must have caused him more suffering of mind than anything else he had ever known. CHAPTER XVIII. Mrs Cordery, all excitement at the wire received from George Parmitter, presented herself post-haste at Leadenhall Street to consult with Sophie. “Secure possession of the cottage at once,” that was the injunction. And the question was —How?’ Sophie suggested Torkney’s advice. Mrs Cordery vetoed that, since the lawyers were now so rigidly neutral, had been so unhelpful, and were otherwise concerned with their late client’s affairs. Even less feasible was the idea that mother and daughter should take even the shortest temporary domicile at the cottage. What was George thinking of? The only rational alternative seemed to be the police. But the police were virtually in possession now, keeping close watch in the neighbourhood; and this wire would only prompt curious questions. If the wire meant anything, there might be strange doings there before long. The upshot was that Mrs Cordery went back home, while Sophie got in touch with Headley Barling by a telephone call to Abinger’s Hotel. Barling came to see her. More than once Mr Barling had evaded confidences on what was going on. This time his inference was to be brushed aside. He was shewn the wire, told the difficulties, and presented with an outline of the situation, of which Mrs Cordery thought it was time he knew something, if events were to make them still more indebted to him than they were already. Mr Barling's expressive face registered every appropriate shade of feeling. Yet somehow he did not seem greatly impressed; nor was he so surprised as Sophie had expected. He was like a stage-listener —almost. “Mother shares the right, in one sense, to speak about this," Sophie said. “Mr Parmitter evidently imagines—he didn't at first—that the search will end at Tooting. But that ought to bo ridiculous.” “It would be,” Barling laughed. “This is London. It will end in the clouds.” “Still ” “Of course I’ll go—l'm intrigued. And I think I agree with you about the police. Why give them a reason for butting in what they too might laugh at? Secret papers —buried treasure. It is not their case.” Barling laughed’ again, but instantly excused himself. “What a lure, though!" he added. “Men

fit out ships and sail away, and have lost money in thousands, for the simple chance of it. Lives, too!” “Yes. lives toe,” Sophie agreed. “Treasure or not, the search is always real enough. So is this.” “I understand perfectly,” said Barling. “I can enter into unusual things, especially the romantic, with the zest of a boy. I shall, in fact, quite believe in it for that reason.” So it was Barling who answered the wire. The telegram was in his pocket, and he was going to see that no intrusion on the contents of the house at Tooting was likely to happen for want of proper surveillance by the police. It was early evening when he got there. Nobody was about. Curtains were drawn. There was an air of sorrowful loneliness about the place, from which other houses seemed to have grouped themselves apart. Barling let himself in as if he lived there. Grey light came dimly through the curtains; and here and there a ray was on the floor or up the wall. He stood absorbing the utter quietude. Then he went upstairs. Dead silence awaited him, and absolute stillness, save of the shadows that moved upon him in the radius of a little flashlight he produced. There was a landing, and some closed doors. If he had heard that lonely call of Geoffrey Parmitter —“Steve Cordery, are you there?” —he might have fancied it coming again with the quiet opening of one of those doors. But the shrouded twilight that came through each as he opened it for scrutiny conveyed no thrill of that sort to Mr Barling’s nerves. He just listened to the methodical soft tread of his own footsteps, as he returned steadily and with deliberate slowness down the stairs. , Barling unbolted a door that admitted him to the shallow cellar. He saw a square, low-roofed place, with a bricked floor. Part of the floor- had been repaired recently. Underneath the stairs was a black recess where lay a few garden tools. The door leading outside appeared to have been left unbolted. He was reflecting on this, when the door opened, and a man in a trilby and a buttoned-up light overcoat stepped in. “Hallo! What are you doing here?” “That,” replied Barling, “is what I must ask of you. Who are you?” “Hardy. Scotland Yard. What’s all this?” “Oh, if that is the case, I’ll explain,” responded Barling. “I’ve been asked by Miss Cordery to come over and see that the house is quite secure; Mr Parmitter has sent a wire about it. That’s all. Apparently it was not.” “That’s all right. If you want your bird back, you leave the cage-door open. What is Mr Parmitter afraid of? Thieves?” “That’s it. I think.” “Where is he?” “In Chatham, it appears.” “He knew there is police observation. Seems mighty urgent. However, we’ll go inside.” “Certainly,” agreed Barling. “This way.” Hardy fastened the exit, and followed this unexpected visitor up into the living room. The detective switched on the light. Then he said, “You have not told me who you are.” Barling drew a card from his case. Hardy, glancing at it, put it into his pocket. “Anything else?” he said. “Excuse me, won’t you?” “Certainly.'’ Barling drew out his wallet, from which he extracted a number of papers. These he laid upon the table. Hardy, taking up several, saw that they corroborated the card, and finally glanced at one which appeared to have been screwed up for waste, but on second thougnts preserved. It was an unaddressed note, without a signature, it ran: “Freyne says Markham will see you at 11 o’c.” Barling had forgotten this. He watched Hardy’s face as he read the paper, but it gave no extraordinary sign, even as he said gently, “Ah! How do you explain this note?” “I don’t explain it. I came across it at Abinger’s IJotel, where I am staying at present.” “Did you find it in your room?” “In a room that had just been occupied by someone else." “Who was that?” “A man named Rumely. John Rumely—of Bristol, I believe.” “What number was that room?’’ “Number 104..” “Is he there now?” “Why should you keep this note, Mr Barling?” “Why? Really I don’t know.” “I am asking,” Hardy said incisively,” because I happen to know something about Freyne and Markham.” “I don’t,” returned Barling; “and I didn't even read the note till afterwards. Some business or other. I know no more about what is was than vou do." Hardy shrugged. “Perhaps less!" he returned shortly. "Are you acquainted with this man, Rumely?” “I have met him. I should not care to cultivate his acquaintance. A crook. I imagine.” “H'm. Possibly. You're involved, you know.” Barling put a hand in his pocket. “Here's the wire from Chatham. And this" —from another pocket—“is the key of the house which Miks Cordery gave me to come here.” Hardly looked baffled by these credentials. "I'll keep this paper, anyhow, and be glad of it. When we go from here you'll be able to establish your status, no doubt. If there's any-' thing more you can tell me, Mr Barling “There’s one thing. Rumely has gone from Abinger’s to The Pilgrim's Hotel, but I don’t know under what name: it may be Diggs, or it may be Boxwith. Ask for him there." j (To be Continued).