Who Was The Jester?

Waikato Times, Volume 124, Issue 20841, 27 June 1939, Page 4

Who Was The Jester?

By Lionel Hamilton

COMMENCING TO-DAY—THRILLING NEW SERIAL

Sensation! The streets of London on that November night were wet and greasy with the drizzle which had lasted from early morning. What few people were forced to travel on foot moved furtively, silently, alone. Towards midnight, when the West End was emptied of its suburbia-bound ’buses, and the last trains were rumbling homewards, laden with weary but contented theatre-goers, cnly an occasional window showed liffht, very vivid against the darkness of its neighbours. These windows told of the restaurants and clubs where night was turned into day by those with money and leisure enough to dance and revel while the rest of the world was sleeping in preparation for the labours of the morrow. Just after midnight, a taxi turned quickly from Piccadilly into Bond Street, and pulled up outside the owa doors of the Acme Club, with a screeching of suddenly applied brakes. The cab was still moving when its doors opened and a man stepped lithcly on to the wet pavement, put a ten-shilling note into the driver's willing hand, and swung towards the club. A watchful commissionaire pulled open the massive swing doors and murmured a respectful “Goodevening. Mr Barclay/’ George Barclay, one-time crimereporter to the Comet, now man-about-town, grinned cheerfully as he handed ttye man his hat and stick. Barclay was six feet tall, broadshouldered, and beneath his immaculate evening-dress it was easy to guess that he was in the height of physical fitness. 11c walked, danced

and ran easily, his rugged face, with its square chin, lull but well-shaped lips and rather large but well-cut nose, was tanned a pleasant bronze. His grey eyes, wide-set, humorous, seemed to be laughing at some secret joke. The joke which amused him most was that he had come into money via a thoughtful relative, and that no-one he knew believed it. As the result of his new-found fortune he had left the Comet, and only occasionally interested himself in crime-reporting—-or hunting. On those occasions he worked either with .McKinnon, at the Yard, or on his own. when he sold his story to the highest bidder amongst the dailies, laughing at the fact that money was easy to earn now that he had plenty. The commissionaire knew him as a generous palron. “Is there much of a crowd tonight?” Barclay inquired. The man nodded. “More than usual, sir.” he said, “but then, that's to be expected, when all's said and done “ Barclay eyed him quizzically. “Meaning?” ho demanded. The commissionaire's eyes widened in surprise. “Surely you've seen the evening paper?” he said. “Haven't seen one at all,” said Barclay, cheerfully. ‘Tve just come down from the Midlands. I suppose you’ve got another Diablo on show, eh ?” “He's still here,” said the other, speaking with the ease of familiarity of flie great Parisian dancer, Le Diablo, whose nightly ballet had done more to popularise tiie Acme Club lhan the rest of its attraction put together. “What I mean, Mr Barclay, is—but I've got an Evening Wire in the ofliee, if you'd like to see it.” "Bring jt out,” said Barclay, lighting a cigarette. Scenting a generous tip, the commissionaire hurried into the office, reappearing quickly with a copy of the evening paper folded to the front page. The ex-crime reporter took it, eyeing the heavy-type headlines with a smile of dawning understanding. Right across the front page went the headline: “The Jester Challenges Lord Mordell” “The notorious jewel-thief who styles himself the Jester, has taken up the gauntlet thrown to him by the well-known sportsman. Lord Hugo Mordell. Lord Hugo has offered to give twenty-thousand pounds to any charity named by The Jester, if the thief can rob him of the famous Mordell Diamond. which has been in the peer's family for hundreds of years. The Jester's response is typical of his amazing effrontery. This mornintg, a type-wTitten -circular was sent to the office of the Evening Wire. It reads: ‘Tell Mordell to bring his diamond to the Acme Club tonight. If he does, he will not take it away.' ” * George Barclay chuckled, handing the paper back to its owner. “I suppose Mordell's brought his sparkler, has he?” “So I understand, sir.” “I’m glad I came,” grinned Barclay. “We ought to see some fun. Er—l wonder what the police think about it all.”

“You won't need any telling when you fret inside."’ said ‘ the commissionaire. jerking a spatulate thumb towards the ballroom of the club. “There are a dozen detectives there, to my knowledge.” “You seem to have a pretty sound acquaintance with the police force, ' grinned Barclay. “You have to. in my game,” grunted the other. Barclay tipped him, and went into the ballroom. As the door opened to admit him, he was conscious of a hundred pairs of curious eyes turned towards him. Barclay smiled to himself. The revellers were on a tension; so much he could tell from a glance. Led by a soft-footed waiter, he threaded his way between the crowded tables and the glittering assembly. As always, the sober black dress of the men threw the brilliant finery of the women into vivid relief. The light gleaming down from gilt chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling shed a mellow glow over the room. Barclay made for a table occupied by four men. Two of them he knew slightly. They were Yard men, and looked it, despite their evening-dress. The third was Inspector Hamish McKinnon, a thickset, burly man who wore his stifffronted shirt and tails as if he were used to them. The fourth, to Barclay's surprise, was Featherley, Editor-in-Ghief of the Cornel, one of several newspapers owned by Lord Hugo Mordell. Few people would have suspected Featherley to be the man who controlled that loud-voiced section of the flFeliT afrl El etwf la- boy/’ceno yellow He was a tall, spareframed man of fifty, grey-eyed, austere of face and, according to those who knew him slightly, entirely humourless. Barclay knew better. He had worked under Featherley and knew the man to possess a well-developed, if sardonic sense of humour. A waiter placed a fifth chair at the table, and Barclay slipped into it. “Evening, all,” lie greeted. McKinnon grunted, but his expression was friendly. lie knew Barclay to be clever, and, what was more, knew that tiie journalist had often passed important information to the police, without wanting the kudos for any arrest made as a result of it. “I thought ye were taking a holiday in the midlands,” said the Scot. Feat'herlev grinned. Barclay never takes a holiday,” he said. “if he's been in the midlands he's been after something. liow are you, George?”

“Fine,” said' Barclay, grinning at McKinnon. “Ilow’d you know I was away, Mac? 1 haven’t broadcast it.” McKinnon looked sheepish. “I’ve been to ye’re flat,” he admitted. “I hoped ye might gi’ us a little help in this business, but I gave it up when ye're moil told me ye were away.” “Well, I’m here now,” said Barclay.. “What’s worrying you, my Scotsman? You're looking pale and peaky.” McKinnon grimaced sourly. “The Jester’s the trouble,” he grunted, “and he will be until we have him under lock and key. This is the third time in six months lie's threatened trouble at a given time and place, and if he succeeds he’ll have done it each time.” Barclay winked at the two plainclothes men, and glanced round the “You don't seem to have taken many chances. How many men have you got liere? A dozen?” “Aye, and none too many. Six months ago he took the Warrensley Pearls from under the eyes of four first-class men. Three months later he broke into the Newman Safe Deposit, and got away wi’ it.” “Impersonated a night-watchman,” said Barclay, “and half-a-dozen flatties didn’t notice it.” “Mac wasn't in charge, then,” said Featherley, drily. Barclay widened his eyes. “In charge tonight, are you?” (McKinnon grimaced. “Aye, and I’ve no reason to be glad aboot it. If anything goes wrong, I’ll get the kick. . . .” “It might go right,” suggested Featherley. “1 suppose Mordell has brought the diamond?” McKinnon gave a glare of disapproval at a man who was sitting at a table for two twenty feet away. “Aye,” he- said, “although I’ve wasted twa’ tours this very day tryin’ to persuade him to stay away.” Barclay smiled, but for the first time there was little humour in his smile. Without making it obvious, he looked carefully at the dark, arrogant face of the man who was the centra of attraction at the Acme Club that night. George Barclay had little love for Lord Hugo Mordell, whose claim to being a “sportsman,” as he had been dubbed by the Evening Wire, rested entirely on his activities on the turf and in the gaming palaces of southern Europe. But Mordell was an arresting personality. Barclay admitted that as he studied the man. The peer's face was very thin, with sharp, thin features moulded on classical lines. His forehead was high, his nose prominent but sensitive about the nostrils, his lips were well-shaped hut thin, his chin was pointed and aggressive. His eyes were very large, arrogant, and at times were almost black, smouldering and dangerous. His body was built on a large frame, but he was abnormally thin. , The hones of his hands seemed covered by nothing more than tightly-stretched, transparent skin. liis very pale face, sallow almost, had the same unhealthy look. "You don't like the mon?" demanded McKinnon, suddenly. Barclay’s eyes widened; he had been caught unawares by the detective’s shrewd apprisal of the thoughts passing through his mind. “1 don't,” said Barclay/ frankly. “If I had to take sides toniglrt, I’d plump for The Jester every lime.” “Why?’’ snapped McKinnon. Barclay eyed him evenly. “Because,” he said, quietly, “I believe that The Jester gives away at least half of what he steals—and he never robs a man or an institution that can't alford it.” McKinnon nodded gravely. He claimed, with justice, that he always looked at every side of a question. “I think ye’re right, up to a point,.” he admitted. “'But what makes ye think he gives his money away?” Barclay's smile was bland. “Ask Featherley,” he said. “lie's been running The Jester story in his headlines for months. He ought to know all about it!" Featherley laughed. “I’m only an expert on what he steals.” he said. ‘lie’s the best news we've got ” “Ye'll be sorry when we get him, I reckon.” grunted McKinnon. “But it wouldn't surprise me if ye'a re not rigid, Barclay, and if there's one thief I’ve prayed I’d never meet it's, one who does it half for fun. \Yc can tackle the others, when they sell their stuff, if not before. But wi' a man who doesna' care two hoots Look there I”

From a barely audible mutter the detective’s voice rose to a shout. He leapt to his l'eet as Featheriey and Barclay stared at the table occupied by Lord Hugo Mordeli. “My God!” grasped Featheriey. Barclay’s bps tightened. The thing seemed incredible, but it was happening. A pall of smoke hovered about the peer’s table. Through it they could just see the man as he sloped back in his chair, his eyes closed, his mouth gaping open. As the detectives leapt to their feet a hundred people saw the phenomenon. Women shrieked, others swooned, some stared fascinated at the pall of smoke, with Mordeli in the centre of it. Men shouted, chairs scraped on the polished floor, while the orchestra added to the din as it struck up a swinging march calculated to restore confidence, actually making the confusion worse. And then Barclay, half-way to the peer's table, with McKinnon a foot in front of him and Featheriey at his side, heard l-h<* Scotsman's muttered curse. “By all that’s holy!" rasped McKinnon. ‘The smoke’s thickening! It’ll fill the room !’’ (To be continued dally)