HALF-CLOSED DOOR

Waikato Times, Volume 97, Issue 15185, 10 March 1923, Page 12 (Supplement)

HALF-CLOSED DOOR

/BJlarrisSarland. rnPYTW'TT PU!

•YIIOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.

Chapters I. to lll.—Mrs Doarden talks common sense to her daughter Mary, but Mary declares that she will not give up Dick Pelling. Though Dick won honours during the war, he has only two hundred a year, and Mary's mother wishes her daughter to marry happily. "What did he do before the war?" Mrs Hibberd, a pretty young widow, lives in that delightful end exclusive London suburb known as Mexham Hill. She has only one maid but her aristocratic connections enable her to join the elect. She entertains three of her own pals one Sunday night In May who are not of the Mexham Hill circle. These three men belong to a gang of crooks, and Susie Croad (alias Mrs Hibberd) acts as their guide and friend, unseen in that capacity by the outer worl'd. Her husband, Arthur Croad, is the leader of the gang. They are planning a big diamond burglary, and in order to .effect this Mrs Hibberd is undertaking to become engaged to Charles, son of the wealthy Sir William Blindon. The men enquire about the Boy, but Susie Croad acts on the defensive for him. Mrs Hibberd's maid, Bessie, arrives, and the three men depart. Dick Pelling, the one clerk in the office of Messrs Blindon and Co., diamond merchants, receives a visitor in the person of Mrs Hibberd. He recognises Susie Croad and asks her what she •wants. She is waiting for Charles Blindon, who is to meet her there at live o'clock. Chapters 111 (continued) and IV. — Susie Croad tells Dick Pelling that she is Edith Hibberd, engaged to be married to Charles Blindon. Pelling wants to know when Arthur Croad died. Mrs Hibberd says: "Two years ago in Paris," and adds that he has left her a little money. She says she intends to make good, and also lets him know that he and she are in the same boat. Dick Pelling, known formerly to the gang as the Boy, tells Susie Croad about himself, but does not mention Mary Dearden. Charles Blindon arrives and takes Mrs Hibberd into the inner room. Sir William enters later on, and Charles and Mrs Hibberd, emerging into the outer office, discuss 'the diamonds, and safes, and safety. They leave by motor. Pelling prepares for the night. Mary Dearden and her lover, Dick, are sitting in Kensington Gardens, discussing their own affairs. Mary tells Dick that her mother knows nothing of his past. He does not confide this to Mary, and the girl, in sudden, fear, begs him to marry her'at once. Another couple are sitting near them, and Dick and Mary overhear them. Pelling notes what they are saying about having got the-' three, but the x fourth escaped them. He decides to take the bull by the horns, and speaks to Sanderson as a war comrade, afterwards introducing him to his sweetheart. He finds that Sanderson is a detective by profession. One of the boys of the gang spots the Boy talking to Detective Inspector Sanderson. Jimmie scowls.

CHAPTER IV.—(Continued.) Dick Polling was quite unconscious of the effect lie had produced upon the roughest and most ignorant member of the gang, hut as they walked quickly away across the grass he had an uncomfortable feeling that Fate was doing its best to drag him back into the society of his old associates. In less than a week he had met Susie Croad, had seen "Jimmie," and had actually had a chat with one of the men who had been engaged in the Bcxtable affair —one of the men who had helped to entrap his confederates. Sanderson's name had not appeared in the trial at the Criminal Court, and Pelling was rather shocked to And out that his favourite sergeant had taken part in these proceedings. ■ And yet there was something humorous about that. But there would be nothing humorous in a meeting with Sam or Peter or Jimmie. He never wished to see either of the three again. Susie Croad was out of the business, was making good, was going to marry a rich man. He had nothing to fear from Susie Croad. But he must avoid the three men if possihle. They had played the game so far as he was concerned, but he could not let any one of them come back into his life — even to the extent of a few words and a shake of the hand. He had almost forgotten the presence of Mary Deardcn and did not reaLise that he had been silent for more than a minute until she said, "Dick, dear, you mustn't let this worry "Worry mo?" he muttered, and then he laughed and remembered. His mind went back to the point where their conversation had been interrupted by the detective and his '-young lady." ~ ~ "Perhaps you arc right, he sa:u. "Perhaps we had better get married at once. If I scorn In hesitate it is only because I am thinking of you, dear I don't want to come between you and your mother. And. of course, •we shall have to rough it." "I don't mind that, Pick. A workman's cottage will be good enough for j me, and I have heaps nf clothes—, enough to last me for years. I "In spite of the changes of fashion. he laughed.. "Well, Mary, lam inj vour hands. But I don't wan I you. to embark on this perilous adventure—] it is that, isn't it?—just because you j were suddenly frightened. Are you still afraid?" "No, Dick. I don t know what it was'that frightened me —but I think we'd better get. married." He was silent for a few moments. He knew little—less perhaps than most people—about "Influence" and "Invisible currents of thought. But, It did occur to him that his own fear of hi" past life had, in some way or other, stirred the brain of the woman he loved. ~ They parted at one nf the northern gates "of Kensington Gardens "To-.lev week," he said, "at halfrast twelve. I'll fix everything up. We in l ':' 1 I *<■ in m ? rowns unlil l can ret .1 Ii«» 11 ' ..j) v •■■ the happiest day of my life '" -\ -jjernd. .;, ,„,„„ ~,,, ,iear," he sa.id with a smile. ' "That day will only be the beginning of happiness. ~., .1 k- hands —they could not pven kiss' each other in that public place—and Felling strode ranidly away

THE STORYTELLER

Author of "Tba Black Moon," " Th» Poison Loague," " The White Rook," 4c, &c. USHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT

towards the Broad Walk. As he paused to light a cigarette, Jimmie came up to him. ''Excuse me, sir," he said, "but could vou oblige me with a match?" Pelling handed the man the box, and Jimmie talked while he lit his pipe. "Glad to see you again, sir," he said. "Hope you're well." "Quite well, Jimmie, thanks. You've been out in France, eh?" "Yes, sir, and you?" - "On I've done my bit too—over four years of it." "Ranks, sir?" Ranks first, and then—well. I was a captain for the last six months." "Jimmie, who had flung match after match away, said, "Settling down now, sir, I suppose?"

"Yes." "Well, don't forget as.your old pals didn't give vou away, sir." "I'll never forget that, Jimmie. You were bricks. I hope you're going to chuck it. The war, eh? Opens one's eyes a bit?" "Yes, sir. Teaches a man as he can kill without being hanged for it. Don't you get up to .any more tricks, sir. it don't pay." With this cryptic reply and without waiting for Pelling to speak again, the young brute took his departure. Pelling strolled on alone. "Surely," he said to himself, "the devil is in this business. It's as if one couldn't get away from it."

CHAPTER V. Dick Pelling's two rooms were in a small mean street that branched off the Fulham Road. There were days when such rooms could have been had for ten shillings a week. But during the shortage of accommodation that followed the war the landlady asked treble that sum and had a hundred applicants for the miserable apartments. She had selected Dick Pelling because, to use her own words, she "liked the look of him." The rooms were unfurnished, and he had bought his own furniture, at an exorbitant price, out of the money he had received as a gratuity. It was little enough—even for a bachelor who had j "roughed it." As a home for a new-ly-married couple it was pitiable. It had onlv one merit —the merit of comparative permanency- Pelling had forced a yearly agreement out of the landlady, to be terminated by three months' notice on either side. It was to this poor little home that Dick Pelling brought his bride—a j young girl who had been accustomed to a bedroom almost as big as the! whole house. And Mary, seeing the rooms for the first time, said, "It's a jolly little place, and we can't be turned out of it." She was even enthusiastic about the gas-cooker, which was a very prominent feature in the sitting-room. "That makes us independent," she exclaimed. "And I've got a certificate for cooking." | "It's the baths," said Pelling, gloomily. "There is a bathroom, and we've the right to use it. But there's no hot water." "Oh, we don't want hot water in this beautiful weather, Dick," she replied, "and by the winter we shall get thoroughly used to cold baths —we shall slip into it gradually." She was diTtermined to make the best of everything. She had never entered the rooms before until she crossed the threshold as a bride. She saw at once that the skilful hands of a woman could effect marvellous improvements. But she was not going to talk of that just yet. She wanted her husband to think that he had done the very best he could with the mat- j erial at his disposal. j He took her to his arms and held her very close to him. He had no illusions about the hard fight that lavbe fore them, but he was supremely happy. He had won a very great victory against stupendous opposition. He had overcome Mrs Dearden's objections bv sheer capacity for fighting. The same dogged determination that had won him honour in the war had proved itself quite sufficient for this domestic combat. He had made Mrs Dearden see things with-his own eves had persuaded her that he was not 'the same young fool that had ■squandered a modest fortune, and had given her an account of those days ot poverty that had moved her to pity rather than anger. In other words he had completely won her heart, and in spite of Mrs Dearden's lecture to her daughter, her heart usually got the better of her common sense, in a conflict that lasted for any length of time And now, as he held that slim, boyish bodv in his arms, he forgot that his" victorv had not been altogether won by force of will and charm of manner There had been a suppression of the truth, and he had thrust all thought of it from his mind. "We shall be happy here, darling," he whispered. "And very soon—cvervthing will be different." "Idon't want it to be different, you dear Why, if we hadn't a roof over our heads, I'd go singing along the road with you, hand-in-hand." That was true enough. It was no mere emptv boast, born of a desire to show that she wanted nothing but her husband's love. She would have been lianpv anywhere—just then. Rags would have been the same to her as I the. finest clothes that money could I buy \s for fond, a crust of dry bread would have been enough for her din-

The wedding ceremony had been quiet enough. Only a few intimate frends had been asked to the church and the. reception afterwards in Brixham Gardens. It had been decided that there was*to be no long and cxpensivo honeymoon, though Mary's brother had offered a cheque for the purpose. "1 have to stick to my work " Polling had said simply, and neither or us wants a change." And Heat-den had thought this so jolly sensible" that he hod given the cheque after all, and added to it a wedding present of a hundred pounds. liow smoothly everything had gone. The marriage had neon no hole in the corner affair. There had been a reporter with a camera, and Pellmg had been questioned about his record in the war ' He had not sought, this publicity- but he had not objected to it. Wth' his mind so full of other matters he had not seen that perhaps it ivns'nol quite wise of him to allow his portrait lo be published in an illustrated paper.

And certainly he did not think of it now as he held Mary in his arms. The world was so small that it only contained two people. It had shrunk to two rooms in a shabby little house in a narrow little street off the Fulham Road.

The picture was rather smudgy, but Susie Croad could easily have recognised Dick Pelling, even if the letterpress underneath had not informed her that this was "The marriage of a distinguished soldier who won the D.C.M. and the M.C. for two signal acts of valour in the war." Susie Croad had finished her breakfast and had seated herself in her little garden, when she opened the paper and realised that something had happened which affected her own lifeYears had passed since Susie Croad —■ now known to her very respectable friends at Mexham Hill as Mrs Hibberd —had seen a picture in the illustrated papers that had so interested her. The last had been far uglier than this—just Jimmie and Sam and Peter in a row with a spiked railing in front of them. But it had not moved her to anything like the same extent As she caught sight of Pelling's face, she pressed her lips tightly together, and a hard, cruel look came into her eyes. He had not told.her of this —that he was going to be married to this chit of a girl. Mrs Croad held the paper close to her eyes and she seemed to be more interested in the girl than in the man. "Miss Mary Dearden," she said aloud.. Then she lit a cigarette, and her fingers trembled as the match flared out and she held the flame against the white .cylinder, that quivered between her lips. Well, no doubt the girl was better looking than the snapshot had made her. She seemed a queer little boyish creature with big eyes. Of course, she had money. Dick Pelling could not have afforded to marry anyone without money. "Miss Mary Dearden," laughed Susie Croad. And then suddenly she rose to her feet, crumpled up the paper, flung it on the grass, and went indoors. Her garden—the back yard as she called it—was no place for the display of emotion. It was overlooked by half a dozen houses. And at Mexham Hill a woman in tears would have almost caused a scandal. The emotional side of human nature was just a little" cramped at Mesham Hill. The "best people" showed neither anger nor joy in the presence of their fellows. One could laugh, but not loudly. One could mourn, but only with calm dignity. Susie Croad, originally rather primitive, had found this discipline excellent, and it even promised to be a very useful asset in the future. Her present mood, however, brooked n 0 restrictions. She was furious with Pelling for having married, and all the more furious because there was no earthly reason why he should not have done so. She was a married woman, and she had no claims on a man whom she had not even seen for Ave years, until that encounter in the offices of Blipdon and Co. Yet the memory of "The Boy had always been with her, and but for her influence over the others, he would certainly have been given away to the police. He had, of course, flirted with her, as voung men will flirt with an exceedingly beautiful and attractive woman. But he had never been serious in his rather open love-making. And she had not fallen in love with him then. She had only seen the possibility of falling in love with him. It was during'the long years of the war that she had thought of him more tenderly. And then there had been that meeting at the office. It seemed to her now, as she sat alone in her drawing-room and stared through the open French windows at the green patch of lawn, that it was that sudden meeting, and the change in him —the change from a foolish boy to a war-hardened man—that had done the mischief. The seed might have been sown long ago, but it was not until then that the plant of love opened its blossoms to the sun.

She had fallen in love with him, and since then she had made up her mind to do everything in her power to attract him. She had pictured to herself a scene in which she would tell him that she could not marry Charles Bl ndon—another scene in which she would confess the truth, and swear to run straight if he would help her. That she already had a husband did not seem to matter to her at all. Croad was near the end of his days. No one could live Croad's life for another three years. She had begun—so quickly had her mind moved—to look upon Bichard Pelting as the man who would one daygive her the only real happiness she had ever known in her life. And now —he had married, and there was his portrait in the paper, fluttering about somewhere in the garden. The portrait of the woman too —tne woman who was probably just a silly Pirl—like the dozens of girls that plaved tennis at the Mexham Hill Club A young girl with a boyish figure, and no doubt a comfortable dowry! A simpering girl, bending her head to avoid the confetti that had been thrown at her. ~ \nd the bitterest thought of all was that neither of them had given her any cause for anger. Neither of them had annoyed her in any way. She had no right- to the just and awful fury of a woman scorned. This "love of hers was purely a creation of her own brain If she injured him or the girl he had married, she. would be the vilest sort of woman —contemptible in his eves for ever. And her own conscience—even women who steal have a conscience—would give her hideous torment. , , . And yet, as she sat there, she longed to torture both the husband and the wife And there was nothing impotent about her rage. She had an instrument of torture in her hand, and could use it whenever she chose At any moment she could send Dick Deling to prison, but that would be too crude and clumsy a vengeance for a woman of intellect. Year after year she could hold her knowledge like a whip over his head, and watch him writhe at the sight of it. And she could All the wife's mind with suspicions. Oh, she could hurt them both—make their lives one. long slow agony. That he could strike back mattered not at all. All her life she had seemed to be in a prison cell. She thrust out her arms on the cushions of the. sofa and buried her head between them. How easy it would be to ruin the lives of these two young people. And yet—looking at the matter from the point of view of a woman who had not entirely lost her self-respect—how hard. If only he had really made love to her, and" had thrown her over for this girl, how different it would have been. It just came to this. Was she willing lo go clean down into the depths to satisfy her longing—that, intense longing t't destroy the happiness that might have been her own, if she hud only had a little more time given to her*? At that moment it seemed to her that she would set the world In (lames to bring about the ruin of two innocent lives. And yet, even then, she was not incapable of reason. Possibly iier CiOod of madness might pass. And she faneferi that it. would pass. i if only irf A PUUfiS h«4 tfoa<: aowc-

thing that would make him a fair target for her arrows! Unreasoning fury would soon die because it had so little to feed upon. But, given a cause of offence, it would live.

CHAPTER VI. j Dick Pelling, who rose an hour later than his wife because she, had to get up early and cook his breakfast, came into the sitting room, and picked up the only letter that had come for him by the morning po-st. The handwriting was large and childish and the, name of the street had been mis-spelt. Mary, still busy with two kippers that were frizzling on the gas stove, smiled at him and said, "I expect that's from one of the men in your regiment." "Very likely from Sanderson," he said tearing open the envelope. "I sent him our address and asked him to drop in one evening." He took out the letter and read it. It was not from Sanderson, nor even from anyone in particular, for the writer had not signed his name.

"Sir," read Pelling. "The less you 'ave to do with perlice the better. It doesn't do for you to git too thick with 'em, and you knows why." That was all —just these few words on a dirty half sheet of paper. Pelling crumpled it up and put it in his pocket. If there had been a fire in the room he would have burnt it.

Mary placed the breakfast on the table, and sat down opposite to him. He praised her cooking, praised the toast and the coffee, and then began to talk of a new job that had been offered to him. There would be no increase of salary, but there would be a chance of rising to a really good position, if he showed his employers that he was worth the money.

,f Was the letter from Mr Sanderson?" queried Mary, when she had listened to him for a little while. "No, dear, it was nothing of any importance at all." She asked no more questions. She knew that it was something he did not wish to talk about. Otherwise he would have shown it to her, even if it had just been a circular. The incident, trifling as it was, depressed her. No doubflhe letter was, as he had said, of no importance whatever. Still he could so easily have handed it to her. She felt that they were old married folk already—a fortnight after their marriage. "That was just how a husband would behave when he had been married for a year or two. She watched him carefully during that hurried meal, and found him just the same as he had always been. He did not seem to be worried or different in any way. He kissed her passionately before "he left the house at, nine But he left her with something to think about until his return. Dick Pelling was more annoyed than frightened by the message. He.had no doubt whatever that it had been sent him by J.mmie, who had seen him talking to Detective Inspector Sanderson. No doubt Jimmie, thinking over the matter for three weeks, had magnified the trivial incident. And yet—it was odd that Jimmie should have troubled himself about the matter. It was not Jimmie, but he, Dick Pelling, who had reason to be afraid of the police. Jimmie had served his sentence and was a free man. But it was irritating to think that Jimmie, or any other member of the gang, except Susie Croad, took any further interest in him. They had all behaved so decently to him over the Bextable affair. And now —he wished thenf just to leave him alone. But this letter was evidence that they did not intend to leave him alone. He reached the office at a quarter to ten. At ten o'clock, to the moment, Sir William and his son arrived. The office was at the back of the building and the big car had deposited them at the entrance in the main street. Charles Blindon had a fresh sweetsmelling rose in his buttonhole. Sometimes he was rude, and sometimes he was familiar. He had chosen this particularly hot morning to be both rude and familiar.

"You have the married look aV ready," he laughed, when his father had passed into the inner room. "Finding it isn't all lavender, eh?" "It's not all buttonholes and white spats," Pelling retorted. "You'll find that out later on." "I'm not fool enough to marry on two hundred a year," said Blindon. "And I may as well tell you, Pelling, that my father and I do not approve of your marriage. It puts temptation in a man's path, and you hold a very responsible position." Dick Pelling would like to have thrashed the fellow, but he shrugged his shoulders and turned his back on him. It was an unpleasant beginning to a day that was going to be a very busy one. There was a continual stream of callers, and Pelling had to get the firm's accounts ready for the auditors. Sir William was grumpy and Charles Blindpn was most objectionable. Pelling was glad when they both left at five o'clock. He lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair and rested one hand on the window sill. "I'm fed up," he said to himself. A few minutes later he began to put things straight for the night. The private detective passed the window, nodded to him and smiled. And then, following close on the heels of the detective, came a huge form, moving very slowing—limping along with the aid of a stick. It was Arthur Croad. (To be continued next Saturday).