Who Was The Jester?

Waikato Times, Volume 124, Issue 20844, 30 June 1939, Page 5

Who Was The Jester?

By Lionel Hamilton

'CHAPTER lll—Continued They talked for twenty minutes onger, and Barclay learned, amongst ither things, that Sylvia's lather had iied while she was at school. He vould have liked to have questioned ier about the all-male staff at the *ark Terrace house, and about the ■l’ve men who had called there dur--118 the half-hour that he had waited or her, but he forced himself to ceep away from the subject. There vere times, he told himself, when autious progress was necessary. It was nine o’clock when they made heir way from the Picnic" Club. Barclay insisted on taking a taxi, and .vhile they were waiting for the cab to pull up, Sylvia saw a newspaper placard. Barclay noticed a gleam of excitement in her eyes. He laughed is he read the wording: i“THE TESTER SENSATION.” Another placard proclaimed: “SENSATIONAL JEWE'L ROBBERY DEVELOPMENT.” “Looks as if we haven't heard the last about the Mordell Diamond yet,” he said, as he bought a paper from a , yelling newsboy. “Does he thrill you, loo?” Sylvia nodded, not noticing the hint of mockery in Barclay's voice. “Yes,” she said. “'He must have the courage of the devil!” “lie probably has,” said Barclay, “but he'll slip up one day. Pheww! Look at that!” But Sylvia Dane was already reading the heavily-splashed sensation in which the Jester was the central figure. The girl's eyes glistened as she read: “THE JESTER’S AMAZING CLAIM” “MORDELL DIAMOND IS PASTE.” “At the Acme Club, everything worked to plan. The waiter, whom I bribed to distribute some smoke bombs in the restaurant, did his work well, and is now safely out of England. The police were completely bewildered. In fact, the only thing that I did not anticipate was that the Mordell Diamond was made of paste. The Jester.” ‘"Well, well, well!” drawled Barclay, as he handed Sylvia into a taxi. “I wonder what Mordell will say to that.” And then Barclay frowned, for Sylvia Dane's face was filled with an expression which he found it hard to diagnose, but which was fear, or anxiety, or both I

CHAPTER IV. A Disappearance At ten-thirty that evening, Lord Hugo Mordell sat at his desk, staring into nothingness. There was a shadow in his black eyes, an ugly twist to his thin lips. He sat motionless, as though unconscious of time, and when the electric buzzer on his desk burred out, he was startled out of his grim reverie. I The door opened, and Peterson, Mordell’s valet and one-time inhabitant of that cold grey prison on the moors, stepped into the room. Peterson was a man of medium height, with heavy shoulders and thick, muscular limbs. He looked more like a prize-fighter than a man who had been struck off the roll of solicitors for professional misconduct. His features were coarse, his eyes, set. deep and close together beneath shaggy, light brown brows. His hair was cut close to his head, like a prison crop. His mouth was little more ! than a gash across his ill-favoured j countenance. “Well,” snapped Mordell, “what ' happened?” Peterson gave a hoarse laugh. “Just what you reckoned. Boss. Barclay was waiting for the girl when ” “When you talk of my ward,” rasped Mordell, “give her a name.” An ugly grin crossed Peterson's face, but he went on smoothly. “Barclay caught her up in the park, and they went to the Picnic Club together. Then they took a taxi to her flat, and Barclay went on to his.”

Mordell nodded. He watched Hobson keenlv.

“‘What time did she get home?'' "Just after nine.” "1 see.” Mordell's voice was husk} with rage. "All right, Peterson, That’ll do.” The crook hesitated, anxiety in his small eyes. “Say, Boss,” he whined, ’ you ain’t going to try any funny tricks with Barclay, are you? He’s a tough boy, that young man.” For a moment Mordell looked as though he could have struck his man down. lie kept himself in check, however, and his voice was surprisingly cool. "What do you know about Barclay?” he demanded. Peterson's eyes narrowed. He took a step nearer to his employer, and his voice was husky with fear. “Barclay’s a sight worse than the police any day,” he said. "He’s always going the rounds with McKinnon, and I reckon half of that hardhead's successes are really the other man’s. Barclay’s ginger, take it from me.” "I see,” commented Mordell. "Well —you can leave the bright gentleman to me, Peterson. No, don’t go yet. I’ve another job for you.” "Anything you say, Boss ” Mordell gave a snort of disgust. "Don’t cringe,” he snapped. "Is the Caterham place empty now?” "Yep. Everything's cleared that might cause trouble.” "Humph! Well—l want Miss Dane to go to Caterham tomorrow. i'll send enough work to keep her busy for two Or three days, and I'll call myself before it’s finished. But listen, Peterson. Miss Dane's not to go out of the house. Tell her I gave that order, and that you’re afraid to disobey me.” Peterson nodded; but his eyes narrowed viciously. "'See that every telephone in the house is disconnected,” went on Mordell, "except the private line to the underground room. And don’t let her post any letters. Send anything she writes to me.” "Sure thing,” muttered Peterson. Mordell's eyes raked through him. "And don't try any tricks,” he said, in a hard, cruel voice. "■■Remember Toni Marino, Peterson? The police would like to know who killed him—they would like to know very much indeed!” The crook’s face went a sickly pallor. He said nothing, but the fear in his eyes satisfied Mordell. "That’s all,” he snapped. "Send Hobson in.” Peterson, Thoroughly cowed, grunted and went out. For five minutes -Mordell sank hack into that grim reverie; the buzzer jerked him out of it. 'Hobson, whose official description in that house of men Was butler, was the exact counterpart of Peterson. He was a short, thick man whose sinewy arms and legs were perpetually on the move. Little slits of eyes glittered from his swarthy, pocked countenance. His lips were full, and always seemed wet. His nose had once been hooked and pointed, but was now broken and one-sided. His hair was that shade between brown and red which is called ginger.

“You called for me, Boss?” he said, in a thin, somehow evil voice. “Peterson said so.”

“I want to know what you think of Barclay,” he said, softly. A little hiss came from Hobson’s lips, and his little eyes widened venom ously.

“That smart alec, eh? I think the quicker he's put out of the way the better. That’s what I think!”

As iie spoke Hobson ran his fingers across his throat, a horrible piece of byplay which made Mordell’s eves glitter.

“Why?” demanded the peer. Hobson grinned wickedly. “He's dangerous, Boss, I can tell you. There’s a dozen of the boys inside who wouldn’t have been caught if Barclay hadn’t got to work. And he can use his flsts, 1 can tell you! There ain’t many tricks he’s got to learn!” Mordell leaned back, watching Hobson like a cat watches a mouse. “That’s bad,” he said. “Barclay’s making friends with Miss Dane, Hobson.” A vile oath spat from the man's lips. “Say,” he muttered, “if Barclay’s after us, there's only one thing to do. Bump him off!” 'Mordell leaned back in his chair, and there was an expression in his dark eyes which would have made even Barclay shudder. “So I've decided,’ he said. “Get to it, Hobson.” With an evil grin the little man turned away. As he went he .fingered the keen-bladed knife in his trousers pocket, a knife which had caused deatli before, and would again. And the hard glitter in Hobson's eyes was the glitter of the man to whom human life meant nothing. Mordel knew that his “butler” was a killer, callous, clever and entirely without scruple.

“‘You may think I’m a fool,” said George Barclay, as he looked at Inspector McKinnon's dour face, “but I don’t like it, Mac. I arranged to meet Miss Dane tonight at half-past seven at the Picnic Club. She hadn't arrived at half-past nine. I tell you, it's queer.” McKinnon shrugged his shoulders wearily. His small office at the Yard was filled with the smoke from his well-burned briar, for lie had been working all the evening, sifting every particle of evidence against the mysterious thief who called himself The Jester. Nothing had resulted. “Maybe you're right,” he said, “but I can’t, help you, Barclay. If Mordell reported her missing. 1 could act. Rut if he’s trying any tricks with her he's not likely to do that.” “I’ll say he’s not." said Barclay, hard-eyed. “You’ll let me know if anything should turn up?” “Sure,’ said McKinnon. Barclay left Scotland Yard and returned to the Picnic Club. He had not. expected to find Sylvia there, and was not disappointed to find her still Missing? Barclay wondered whether he was justified in using the word. There were a hundred and one possible reasons for her failure to m.-el him: she may have regretted her frankness with him. and have wanted to close the episode. And yet the memory of the girl’s lovely face, fringed with that dark brown hair, seemed (•> make (he Ilioiv-hi ridiculous. Sylvia Dane was deliniteh not the type lu gi\c her confidence uuc evening, and regret it the next.

More worried Ilian he would have admitled even lo himself, Barclay decided to walk hack to his Brook Street Hat. After the mist and drizzle of the previous evening, November was giving the lie lo her reputation. A full moon shed a gentle light over the metropolis which was not yet asleep. Buses, laxis, and private ears in their hundreds, made a continual stream of traffic. People hurried, chattering to eae!i other over the events of the \Tu be Continued.)