THE Man From Montevideo

Waikato Times, Volume 96, Issue 15358, 5 October 1923, Page 3

THE Man From Montevideo

(PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT)

BY T. C. BRIDGES,

Author of "Whoso Sheddeth," "The Price of Liberty," "The Home of Her

Fathers," etc., etc. (Copyright).

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. CHAPTERS I TO Hl.—As a fog is coming- on Peter Carr gives up ashing. On the main road he hears a girl's voice callmK for help. He come 3 across a girl in the hands of a burly ruman, whose clothes bear the imprint of the broad arrow. Peter goes for the man, and there is a light, in which both are badly damaged, but the man crocks up. The girl attends to Peter, and takes him to her own home. Her name is Joyce Lovell, and she lives at Otter's Holt. Peter is Introduced to Joyce's brother, Jasper, who is lame, and who takes to Peter at once. He goes off to organise the capture of the escaped convict. Joyce's rather is scandalised by the happening. Jasper returns to say that the convict has escaped yet again. Peter Carr passes a happy rortnigrht in Joyce's home, convalescing. A letter comes from his uncle. Sir Anthony Carr, to say that thero Is a new claimant to the estate, in tne person or a son or David carr, the elder brother or Sir Anthony, who had died abroad. Peter returns to London to nnd silJ? n J? ,e * Slr Anth °ny. lying on the bedroom floor, murdered.

the police, and Peter went back again up the passage towards the sittingroom.

CHAPTER in.—(Contd.) He finished his portmanteau and came down again to fetch his rods from the gunroom. In the hall he met Joyce, who came straight up to him. "You must not mind father, Peter," she said earnestly. "it's just his way." His eyes told her what his lips dare not utter. She flushed suddenly and looked down. "Joyce, I must not," he said hoarsely. "I may be nothing but a beggar." She glanced up again and smiled adorably. "Beggars may beg, Peter,•• she answered softly. "Oh, Joyce," he whispered. Then his arms were round her and his lips met hers. "Joycel Joyce!" At the sound of Mr Lovell's voice the two started apart. Watch in hand, Joyce's father came bustling into the hall. "Oh, here you are Carr," he said in his jerky way. "It is past eleven — time for you to start. Jasper is waiting.' ' Whether ho suspected anything or not Peter could not tell. At any rate he gave the pair no chance for further lovemaking, and Ave minutes later Peter was in the car and spinning away towards Clcverton. "You'll write and tell me what happens?" were Jasper's last words as the train began to move. "Of course I will," Peter answered. "And—and Jasper, give my love to Joyce." Jasper showed no sign of astonishment. "I will," he said heartily, and then Peter was whirled away. The train was late. Peter did not 'reach London until nearly nine. Taking a taxi he drove straight to hu> uncle's flat, which was in one of those high narrow old houses in King Street. Peter had his own latch key, so there was no need to ring. To his surprise the flat was in darkness, and the first thing he was conscious of was a heavy and peculiar odour. ' A sudden uneasiness assailed him as he felt hastily for the switch. Light flooded the narrow hall but there was no sound of movement. "Scrutton!" he calfcd. ' There was no reply. He went straight into the sittingroom. This, a regular museum of miniatures and similar works of art, was empty. About it too, hung the same strange sickly smell. Peter, growing more and more uneasy, hurried to his uncle's bedroom and knocked at the door. No reply. lie did not wait but went straight in and turned on the light. I This room, like the drawing room, was a mass of small pictures and cf cabinets full of miniatures. The bed stood against the far wall. The clothes were disarranged as though someone had pulled them off roughly. And beside the bed lay Sir Anthony, flat on Ills face on the floor, his arms stretched straight out. . Ills gray hair was dabbled with blood and a pool of blood reddened the carpet. One glance was sufficient to assure Peter that his uncle was stone dead.

His hand was on the receiver to lift it, when he paused again. He hated the idea of bringing in the police. He knew, of course, that he must do so sooner or later, yet he wanted badly to find out a little more before he telephoned. So far he had not the faintest idea of the motive for the murder. He suddenly remembered his uncle's letter and thought of Tudor Carr. Was it possible that Tudor had anything to do with the crime? But he dismissed the idea almost instantly. If Tudor Carr's proofs' were good it was the very last thing he was likely to do. If bad, then the killing of Sir Anthony made no difference, for he himself was still the herr.

The only other explanation seemed to be burglary. He could easily And out 'whether anything was missing, and this he determined to do before he called up the police station.

For a second time he went back into the bedroom. The sight of his uncle's body made him shudder afresh, but he conquered his repulsion by an effort of will, and began to search the place. The very first thing he saw was his uncle's gold watch and bunch of heavy, old-fashioned seals lying on the dressing table. Near it was a little heap of loose silver.

There were a pair of gold-backed hair-brushes close by. All these things were among the first that would have attracted the attention of a thief. Then there were the miniatures. Peter looked all around, and so far as he could tell, nothing was missing from the walls. He could not, of course, be sure, but there was no perceptible gap anywhere. Peter- was aware that his uncle sometimes kept a good deal of money in the flat. He constantly visited auction rooms, and was in the habit of paying cash for any purchase he made. Peter stepped back once more into the sitting-room, and tried the upper drawer of the small Chippendale writing table which stood near the window. It was open, and there, at the very top, lay the Russian leather pocket-book which his uncle always carried. Peter opened it and found it stuffed with notes, some of them of large denominations. He stood staring at them. So it was not burglary after all. Yet if not, what could the motive be? The whole thing was most mysterious.. He was roused from his reverie by a slight sound. It was the creak of a board, and Peter spun round wondering who was about. Seeing nothing, he went quickly out into the passage. There was no one there, yet Peter felt sure he had not been mistaken. He hurried to the kitchen, but still no sign of life. Scrutton lay just as he had left him, breathing heavily and still insensible. "Must have been someone coming up the outer stairs," said Peter. "Well, I can't get any forrader, so I suppose the only thing is to call up the police." This time he did not hesitate, but went straight to the telephone stand, and lifted the receiver.

"What number?" came a voice from the Exchange. "Give me the nearest police station,' said Peter. "Quickly, please. It is urgent." "That is Vine Street," came the answer. "I will put you through."

A moment later he was' explaining what had happened to an unseen inspector of police. "Yes—yes," came the quick answer. "No need to give details. I will come round at once."

"And bring a doctor, please," said Peter. "Scrutton, the valet, is still insensible."

CHAPTER IV.—EIGHT HUNDRED POUNDS IN NOTES.

Peter was still a very young man, and this was the first time that he had come into contact with violent death. The shock was so great that, for the moment, lie felt positively sick. For some moments he stood stock still, staring down at the poor, broken body that lay so still upon the blood-soaked carpet.

Bus this' did not last long, and with a sudden feeling of self-contempt for what he wrongly thought was cowardice on his part, he bent down quickly, and took his uncle's hand in his.

It was quite cold, and fast growing stiff. Clearly, not a trace of life remained. Peter's next impulse was' to lift the body and lay it on the bed. But he pulled up short. That would never do. He must not meddle until the police had viewed the scene of the murder. He realised, too, that it was his business to call them.

. He stepped back towards' the drawing room in which was the telephone. Before he reached the door he stopped again. "Scrutton," he said half aloud. "Where's Scrutton? He must be somewhere about." Scrutton was his uncle's servant, a rather silent, middle-aged man who had been with Sir Anthony for some years, and did everything for him. Full of the idea of ilnding Scrutotn, Peter hurried into the kitchen which was at the end of the passage. Tho door was shut. As he opened it a whiff of the same sweet, sickly odour that filled the rest of the flat met him. But here it seemed stronger still. He pulled the switch over, and a flood of light illuminated the small, neat room, and showed him Scrutton flat on the floor between the table and the gas range. The man lay so still that for a moment Peter fancied that he had shared his employer's fate. But a second glance showed that he was' still breathing.

"Very good. I will do so. Expect us within ten minutes. Good-bye." Peter hung up the receiver, and looked round once again through the open door at that still figure on the floor. All of a sudden he felt horribly lonely. There had never been any particular bond of affection between himself and his uncle. Sir Anthony was not that sort. At the same time, the old man had always been good to him in his stiff, dry way, and he had been the only relation Peter had known since the death of his parents. ■ Now he was dead, and Peter was left not only alone but, if Tudor Carr's story was true, penniless and without prospects of any kind. Penniless'l The word formed itself aloud upon Peter's lips. It had an ugly sound. But it was worse than that. Peter, though not particularly extravagant, had lived like most young men who have good expectations. He was in debt. He hardly knew how much he owed, but it was certainly several hundred pounds. Tradesmen had never made any bones about giving him credit, and naturally enough he had taken advantage of their readiness. Now, if Tudor Carr \vere really the heir, he himself was not only a pauper, but actually bankrupt. Like a Hash came the thought of those notes. The money would, at any rate, be enough to put him square with the world, and after all it was his own. His' own, at least, until the other fellow proved his claim. He knew that Sir Anthony, had he been alive, would have given him as much, had 1 he asked it. At that moment, Peter believed that he had a perfect right to the money. There was no feeling in his mind that he was doing anything dishonest, and walking straight across to the desk he took the pocket-book and counted its' contents.

Peter bent over him. "Scrutton I" he said loudly. "Scrutton!" Scrutton did not move or show that he had heard. His eyes were closed. Peter went across to the window and flung up the sash. The reek of chloroform was so strong that his own head was spinning. Then he made a second attempt lo rouse Scrutton. He dashed water in his face and shook him. Scrutton mumbled something, like a man talking in liis sleep. Then he collapsed again, and Peter could not bring him round by any means known lo him.

There was nothing for it but to call

The amount was just over eight hundred pounds. He slipped the case into his pocket, and had hardly done so before he heard steps on the stairs below. He went straight to the door of the flat and opened it. Three men were outside, a tall, grave-faced inspector, a blackcoated doctor, carrying a bag, and a burly police sergeant. (To be continued on Monday.)