“VIPER’S VENGEANCE”

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 79, Issue 109, 9 May 1936, Page 14

“VIPER’S VENGEANCE”

SERIAL STORY’

by

RALPH TREVOR

(Chapter XII continued.') “Nothing really wrong, I hope Bonnie, old man?” “What makes you think there is?’ countered Ronnie nervously. “You look rather like a conspirator you know,” smiled Murchison. “B; the way, how’s the cleaning business' Thriving, 1 hope, because 1 always dk think you'd got some pluck to go inl( that game.” “Oh, business is all right,” Ronnif admitted. “In fact, we're doing rathei well. But, 1 didn't come down l( pester you to buy a Kleanquil Kleaner. ]i was just a little matter ' was interested in. You remember tha two nights ago a guy was bumped off as your American Iriends have il, al a place called ’The Sign of the Twir Moons ? Well, 1 happened to be there when it happened—helped, in fact, tc carry the body through to the manager’s private office.” Murchison nodded slowly. “Sorry old man. I'd like to have your story and all that, but it happens to be one of the few m-urder stories that Fleet Street can t follow up. I cursed soundly when the 11.0. instructions came through.” “1 suppose that accounts for so small a mention of the matter in the newspapers?” Ronnie inquired. “I hat's so. You see, Ronnie, the chap who was bumped off —and this, of course, is strictly in confidence—was a secret agent. You know what that means, don’t you? He was a member of the rubber-soled British Secret Service, and the Home Office, acting in concert with the Foreign Office, sent out urgent instructions that only routine matter was to be published—that is, matter supplied by the authorities. Beyond that we dare not go. It's a sort of D.O.R.A. order. No doubt most people imagined that the old lady was killed and decently burled, but you’d be surprised how her ghost walks occasionally through the corridors of our newspaper offices. Ronnie's face betrayed a new interest. He was glad he had come down to ferret out Murchison. It helped him to understand —if only a little more clearly—something of the mystery. It helped, too, to throw some light, on that mysterious telephone conversation and the warning he had been given. “Of course I’ve heard a bit more than that,” went on Murchison. “Department ‘Z*—that’s the Secret Service—is interested keenly because they’ve an idea that some political plot is brewing -somewhere and”—the reporter lowered his voice until it was little more than a stage whisper— I believe it has something to do with India.” Ronnie whistled at thai. He suddenly remembered the tall, goodlooking Indian who had accompained \alerie \are to “The Sign of the Twin Moons’ two nights ago. “Thanks a lot.” said Ronnie. “Of course you'll realise how interested I was in the affair, being present mvself.” “Naturally,” said Murchison, “and that's more. I'd be glad if you'd kinda give me the low-down on what actually did happen, just in case the service instructions are withdrawn and I’m given a free hand. Not that 1 think that's likely.” he added. Ronnie told him all that, had happened. but he did not mention either Valerie or her Indian escort. He derided that, for the present, he would refrain from telling Murchison anything but the facts of the shooting. “But I'd no idea.” he continued, “that H was possible to hush up a murder.” Murchison smiled generously, “Ah, my friend, a political murder’s different. It sometimes happens that Io pursue the normal course under such circumstances is not considered expedient. You see. the police, for Instance, may be well aware of the identity of the killer, but, acting under instructions from a higher tribunal, they want to ‘get him’ on something much bigger. You see what I mean?” Ronnie only half saw, and said as | much. “I should have thought murder I was sufflicenlly big of itself,” he mentioned. “Murder as a political crime is often only an adjunct, my boy. Look at some of the murders that are committed in India. You don't hear so very much about them, do you? Well, that doesn’t mean that the Indian* Police Service is not doing its job, but it knows, just as probably Scotland Yard knows here, that there’s something more important at the back of the killing; and to quote you a jungle analogy, the elephant is more importj ant than the jackal when you con- ! sider it from the point of view of the bag.” ”1 think I begin to see what you mean,” confessed Ronnie, “ami thanks again.” “Rot!” exclaimed Murchison. “It's been line io catch a glim of jou again after all these months, and if I hear anything further I’ll sure put you wisp.” They had another drink together and Ronnie took his departure. He liked Murchison—■-liked him for his bonhomie and his accommodating philosophy, and as he climbed the stairs to the street he wondered how Murchison would have acted if he had been in his place at the present moment. The clock on the other side of the street told him it was nearing a quarter to nine o'clock, and he remembered that he had had no dinner. He paused for a moment, wondering where he should go. Finally he decided to take a bus up West and go to Raminoff’s, a little place tucked away off Regent Street He'd been there several times before, and liked it because it was so delightfully informal and also because the food was always so good. Ronnie moved along to a neighbouring bus stop, and as he did «o a figure detached itself from the shadows beside the hostelry he had Just left. It was a tall shadow, and, like any other sort of shadow, it moved along in Ronnie's direction, CHAPTER XIII, Ronnie Dines at Ramloft's. Visitors to London rarely stumble across Ramioff's, and the explanation for this not difficult, for Ramioff's cater with an eye to the individual requirements of their habitues. Not for them the mass-produced

’ meals of the multiple restaurants. ’ There is an intimacy about the place , that defies adequate description, and . old Ramioff himself, who escaped the massacre at St. Petersburg, has been 1 revealing his thanks ever since by attention to his business, which synonymously is attention to the fads and foibles of his customers. No garish electric sign proclaims the entrance Io Ramioff s; no mauvecoated commissionaire guards Rs narrow portal, and seldom indeed does a taxi-cab draw up there to decant a customer. Immediately one enters | one is faced with a flight of carpeted stairs. At the top there is an aperture in the wall where an alpaca-coated assistant guards the outer coats and | hats of the diners. Following the | staircase to its terminus one emerges i into a long, rather low-ceilinged room set with tables for one, two, three, or i more than three, just as the exigencies jof the moment may require. The | linen is spotless; tiie silver gleams with the lustre of new' chromium and reflects the light from the table-lamp with which each table is equipped. These table-lights imparl, that touch of the intimate as nothing else can. Each lamp is adorned with a different,I hued shade, but the colours are so delicate that any possibility of an inartistic clash is avoided. Ramiof’s waiters in short, blue jackets in place of the conventional sombre tail coals move soft-footed across the thick pile of the carpet that covers the floor. Ronnie Bayford nodded a friendly greeting to the custodian of the coals and hats. “Many in to-night, Ma:?” he inquired. “ Not so very many, sir,” came back the answer as he pushed a numbered ticket across the polished top of the narrow counter. As he turned away he observed a movement on the stairs below, and instinctively the young man's senses were on the alert, and he paused. The movement below materialised into the shape of a man. He was tall, although his shoulders stooped as he ascended the stairs a trifle heavily, Halfway, where the electric wallbracket spilled a pool of amber light Ronnie saw that the tall man wore a black moustache and a neatly trimmed imperial. He also wore glasses, the lenses of which were slightly coloured. Ronnie made his way up the remainder of the stairs towards the dining-room, pulling his fears at, rest as he ascended. “You’re getting lhe jim-jams,” he told himself as he pushed open lhe opaque glass-pannelled doors. “A black moustache and an imperial just don't mean anything at ail to you. It's more important io remember that, jou'ro hungry, and that Ramioff is going Io lay before yon lhe first really decent meal you've had today.” And with this thought uppermost in his mind Ronnie entered lhe room. In a moment Raminoff himself was striding down lhe centre of the room between lhe tables with quick, nervous little steps, and rubbing his snnll hands together with a circular movement. “Ah. Mcesler Bay ford,” he purred a greeting. “I am indeed honoured. Il ees a long lime scenes yo-u com 'ere. I’airmit me.” and the Russian moved away noiselessly to the far end of the room and pulled out, a chair from one of the tables and laid so attractively for one, “I will send Jacques, hein? Jacques is the one you prefer, Meester Bay ford.” “Thanks,” murmured Ronnie, who was seldom happy whenever Raminoff insisted in treating him as one of his honoured guests, although he knew only too well that, old Raminoff repealed the formula with everyone with whom he was acquaiptcd. From the position of his tabfe Ronnie noted that he had a quite comprehensive view of the room. He saw that about fourteen or fifteen tables were occupied, some solus like himself, others a deux, and some in pa.Ty formation. A low burble of chatter came to his ears. Here and there was a snatch of a girl’s musical laugh as she raised a brimming goblet of sparkling wine Io her matching lips. On the other side he heard the low voices of two men, and, turning, he could just discern in the subdued light the forms of two men whose backs were towards him. As they leaned slightly towards one another they reminded him of blaCk-coated conspirators in a Montmartre cafe. At that moment Jacques, the efficient little French waiter, arrived and, with a stiff little bow, presented lhe menu and the wine list. Ronnie chose his meal carefully, occasionally consulling with Jacques about it, for at RaniinolT's one dues not order one* meals hurriedly. And so it is with tha wine. Jacques recommended Ghambertin, and when Jacques recommended Ronnie knew that Jacques was right; &o Chamberlin it was. When Jacques had gone Ronnie glanced around him again lor a sigo of the tall man with tlie black moustache and the neatly trimmed imperial whom he had lett depositing his coat with the attendant. IL was so difficult Io see everyone in lhe room, but tint was the way Raminoff bad it. To Raminoff dining was as intimate almost as dressing. Only the vulgar restauranteurs turned up lhe lights and exposed the ritual to the gaze of all and sundry. Ronnie had no doubt that ths tall stranger was somewhere in that room, but where he had not the smallest idea. The meal was good, and Ronnie told himself that if ever the Fates gave him wealth he would dine at Raminoff's even’ day and drink not only Chamberlin but Chateau Yquem, and a pint of champagne with a biscuit at eleven every morning. It was just as he was tipping his liqueur brandy into his tiny cup of black coffee that out of the cloistered dimness around him he heard a nania mentioned. Someone said in a low voice: “Miss Vare will be there, of course. The Master could not do without her.. What do you think, Chotah?” “1 should say you are right, brother. She is clever, that girl; but •sometim'js I think she is too clever. What think you of the Viper? She promised the Master that she would bring it to him, you recall?” (To be continued)