“THE MONEY SPIDER”

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 79, Issue 59, 12 March 1935, Page 10

“THE MONEY SPIDER”

SERIAL STORY

(By

Marie Connor Leighton.)

CHAPTER Xlll.—(Continued.)

**A—a— ahi” uttered Darcy Darkin thoughtfully. He was eating salad as he uttered the exclamation, which might account for a peculiar tone In his voice, that made his companion glance at him quickly. “How Is he getting on? I suppose he’ll recover—eh ?” “We liope so. But it’s very doubtful yet. He had an awful smash.” Darcy Darkln ate more salad. He munched the green stuff slowly and ponderingly, which was wonderful for him, accustomed as he was to eat as he did everything else, with a certain rough, jerky quickness. His bulldog countenance had suddenly taken on an even greater determination than it had shown before. Music and dancing were going on at a dozen yards’ distance from where he and his guest sat, but he was taking no notice of either. He might never have looked In the direction of Ihe performers If it had not been for a sudden exclamation from his friend: “Darkin, do look at that fellow dancing there. He’s extraordinarily good.” The detective lifted his eyes then and looked in the direction from which the music came. He saw a. man and a woman dancing together. The woman was just an ordinary charming girl, pretty and slender and smiling and light-footed; but the man was positively a marvel of agility and sensuous seductive grace of movement. He looked Spanish, with his mass of blue-black hair, his very thin, high-bridged nose, his large, lustrous, ever-bold black eyes, and his figure balanced from the hips. “That sort of half-turban arrangement he’s got on his head almost looks as if it wore covering up a bandage,” remarked. Darcy Darkin’s companion casually. “Yes, it does,” the detective agreed, lie was looking hard at the dancing man, seemingly absorbed in watching his performance. Presently he caught sight of the hotel manager sidling along, and he signed to him. “Is that fellow dancing there a Spaniard? ” he asked. “I believe so,” the manager nodded. “He's half a Spaniard, al any rate. His name is Raphael, but that doesn’t convey anything. Besides, it may not be his own name. "With these people you never can tell. Amazingly fine dancer, isn't he? He’s not at his best tonight, either. He’s had a nasty thing happen to him—been attacked in the street by a total stranger, and very badly handled. His head is all bandaged under that silk scarf that’s bound round it. He ought not to be here, really, but he has come in order not to put us out. He’s a great attraction here, especially where the women are concerned.’ ♦*l expect so,” said Darcy Darkin rather drily. “He positively delights ’em.” The manager was growing warm in his enthusiasm. “So It’s all the more pity we shall be losing him soon. He says he’s coming in for a pile of money, and means to give up dancing. I shan’t believe that, though, till I see it happen. lam sorry you should be seeing him for the first time to-night, when lie’s not in his host form.”

Tlie detective managed to get rid of his guest a little sooner than might have been expected, and then, after consulting his watch, went out and stood In the shadow near the main doorway of the hotel, waiting quietly. It was astonishing how quiet he could be sometimes—this short, thick-set man with the habitually abrupt jerky movements. He had warted about twenty minutes, deep hidden in the shadow, when the unmistakeable figure of the Spanish dancing man came lightly down the steps of the great entrance. Reaching the pavement, the dancer looked about him, his over-large, over-lus-trous eyes searching alike the spaces Hooded with light and the deeps of shadow. Then he started off hurriedly, walking at once very swiftly and very Healthily. And Darcy Darkin followed him. CHAPTER XIV. On the Spot. The dancing man went in the direction of Bloomsbury. Ahl No doubt he was on the track of Clementine Holtby—the real Clementine. It was clear that, from having shfidowed her and her companion as far as Great Russell Street on her way home he had got an idea that she must live In the Bloomsbury district, and he meant to haunt that neighbourhood until he ran across her again. What did he want her for? What business could he have with her?. Beautiful though she was, it yet was not on account of her beauty that he was searching for her, trying to track her to her home. Some motive stronger even than a Spaniard’s love passion lay behind his movements. Of this the detective was certain. Presently Darcy Darkin began inwardly to curse the fellow for leading him such a useless jaunt along miles of London streets when he ought to be making his secret investigations out at Redstone Place. Was It possible that the dancer knew that he was being followed, and was dodging about in order to elude his pursuer? “But he can’t know,” the detective decided in this own mind. "I’ve never got close enough to him for him to hear my footsteps, and I’ve never once moved out of the shadow. So he can’t posibly have the smallest suspicion that he's being dogged.” And he quickened his steps as much as caution would allow, while his figure straightened itself to a new smartness and alertness. Why didn’t the slithering scoundrel make for bis own home? That was what Darcy Darkln was shadowing him for —to find out where he lived, or at least some other places that he was connected with besides the big West End hotel. Presently the man left Bloomsbury and struck downward towards the Strand. “Ah!” thought Darkin. “Now he’s surely going home. A foreigner who dances for his living is pretty certain to have two or three rooms in a street somewhere off the Strand.” He was astonished when presently his quarry slipped from his sight into a cabmen's shelter. A queer place for him to go Intol What had he, a Spanish dancer, to do wiih a street shelter of this kind? Anyhow, he could not stay in there •long. He would certainly come out

■within a few minutes. Darkln determined to wait till he came out. He waited half an hour. At the end of that time he went to the door of the shelter, tapped at it, and inquired if a taxi-driver called Allison were Inside. He got no answer, and pushing the door open he looked in. There was nobody there but one very old man, who was sleeping soundly. The Spaniard had escaped him. Darcy Darkin’s bulldog face grew purplish with mortification. “That settles it,” he thought savagely. “He knew he was being followed—and I daresay he knew who it was- that was after him. He may have taken particular notice of me while, he was doing that dance to-night. Anyhow, he's as full of danger as a bomb.” And there was one thing that must be guarded against at all costs. This man must never be allowed to turn the light of his insolent eyes on Clementine Holtby again. And yet—what could he possibly have to do with her? Before starting in his car for Redstone Place be wrote down in cipher in his note-book a few questions that he wanted to turn over in his mind in connection with this Jerome Spurier crime mystery which he had set himself to solve. L Why did Spurier advertise for the daughter of hie- former partner, William Darville? 2. Why bad he done this at a time when he must have known himself.' to be on the very brink of ruin and disgrace? 3- Why, when he got her reply to his advertisement, did be want to interview her secretly, and late in Ihe evening? 4. Why did he want her to marry him? Her beauty, though great, was not a sufficient explanation. 5. Why did he, supposedly a sane business man, make her this sudden offer of marriage, and at - tack her violently when she refused him? He was driving himself, and when he got out of his car near the gates of the magnificent home that had been Spurier’s pride, he was met by an extremely slender man, catlike in his slithery grace of movement, with a face revealed by the motor lamps to be quite pleasant except for a slightly furtive look in the eyes. “Is it all right, Catty?” inquired Mr Darkin. “Quite all right," came the satisfactory reply. “The copper on guard had a friendly half-hour with me about two hours ago, and for the last hour and more he has been sleeping £ comfortable sleep that will know no waking till to-morrow morning. The way i-s quite clear for you to search as much as you like.” “Splendid 1” said the detective. "That’s- where I get the pull over the Scotland Yard —in having you fellows for pals and getting you to help me. I’ve got to do this job secretly, because J can’t expect Hie Yard men to let me in to search openly when they’ve got the case in hand and are already holding the ground. Besides. I don’t officially represent anybody. My client is a hidden person who isn’t supposed to exist, as far as this affair is concerned. Nobody on the watch, is there?” “Nobody. The household is asleep, and the last G.I.D. detective went away at seven o'clock, saying he’d ho back early in the morning. I don’t suppose he’ll turn up before eight o’clock. They’ve finished searching, anyhow. They say there’s nothing more to be found. . . You’re later than I expected.” “I’ve been following a fellow who gave me the slip—hang him. He slipped me as easily as If I’d been a greenhorn instead of the man I am. He’s a Spaniard, or half a Spaniard, who gets his living dancing in cabaret shows; blue-black hair, great rolling black cinema eyes, and all the rest of It. Ever met him, by chance?” “No; but I'll keep my eyes open.” The night was very dark, but they walked to the gates of Redstone Place, entered noiselessly, and found their way unerringly up the avenue and across the gardens to the door of the winter garden without the help of even a momentary gleam of light. They were men well accustomed to the darkness. Darcy Darkin carried an electric hand lamp, but he did not, switch on Its beam until the practised crook who was acting as his assistant told him it would be quite safe to show any amount of light, as he himself had already adjusted the window curtains. “For that matter you could almost switch on all the lights safely if there weren’t any curtains,” added the slender man with the catlike movements.

“When Spurier had this wing built on he must have meant to be very private in It, and no mistake, for he buried It in trees on the sides where the winter garden doesn’t hide it. He didn’t know what was going to happen to him in it.” Stepping aside, “Catty” flooded lhe room with light, revealing the heavy, russet-hued silken hangings so cunningly arranged that, not one glimmer of the blaze of illumination could penetrate to any watching eye in the outside world, however sharp that eye might be. “You need this light to search by,” he remarked. “Where’s the sleeping policeman who was on guard?” “We passed him as we came through the winter garden. He’s just inside the garden door there, In a chair in a recess. He’s certain not to wake Lili morning.” Darcy Darkin nodded. Then he looked about the room. “Luxurious, eh? If we had as much money as went to the furnishing of this room, I shouldn't have to practise the profession of private Investigator, and you wouldn’t have to climb water-pipes to get al. people's jewels.” “There’s more luxury still about the other room, just beyond this one—through that archway there. It’s a sort of reception saloon. It's got an Inlaid old Florentine table in it worth a thousand pounds, and piles of antique silver and one or two gold vases. “I’ll have a look In there before I begin searching here," Darcy Darkln said. "I want to get the hang of the place." He strode across to the archway that led Into the saloon. Parting the heavy hanging curtains, he passed between them. He felt for the electric ■light switches on the wall of the inner room, found them, and turned them on. No light came. (To be Continued.!