Who Was The Jester?

Waikato Times, Volume 124, Issue 20853, 11 July 1939, Page 4

Who Was The Jester?

By Lionel Hamilton

CHAPTER IX—(•Continued) Browning listened to the other’s words, his face paler than ever, and his hands clenching and unclenching. “So you see,” Mordell finished, “I know your reputation, Browning. I know that you were unfortunate enough to kill a roan in Limehouse last year; and that you were fortunate enough to escape from the police. But i'f you should feel inclined to be disloyal, or to refuse to obey orders — well, I don’t doubt the police at Scotland Yard would be glad to know what you were doing that night.” Browning’s legs were feeling weak; there was an indescribable threat in this man’s voice. “I'm—l’m entirely at your service, sir.” “■Make sure you are,” snapped Mordell, “All right, you can go now. Tell your wife to look after the girl upstairs. Keep the room warm, but don’t try to awaken her. She’ll be awake in the morning,” added Mordell with that evil, twisted smile, "and I have an idea she is going to get a nasty shock. But don’t let that worry you. Browning. A lot of people who try to be clever with me get shocks, and you’ll be no exception to the rule, if you forget yourself.” Browning bowed—he had been a butler before he had entered a life of crime culminating, as Mordell knew, with the murder of a man in Limehouse. Browning was cowed; certainly he would be too frightened not to obey orders. And Mordell told hlmsel'f that things were looking very promising indeed. As soon as his wounds were healed —they were not serious, he knew —he would begin to work. As he reached that decision, he seemed to have a picture of George Barclay in his mind’s eye. CHAPTER X. And Again The Jester Half-an-hour after the car had left Hillways, a policeman, who had been sent up with a report to Chief inspector McKinnon, stopped lii'ly yards from the house and siared down as if dumbs truck. His whole body seemed paralysed, and for a moment even his mouth gaped open. Then he emitted a longdrawn out expletive. “Well—l'm—durned !” He had never seen anything like it in his life before, and most people would have been just as stupe-bed. For live plain-clothes men—who had been at the Caterham Station only an hour before —were sprawied on me ground in all manner of weird postures. For a moment the policeman thought they were dead; then he pulled himself together, and beat down to examine the nearest man. lie was breathing! For a moment again, the inan was tempted to try and render first aid. Then he realised that it would take him too long, and muttering under his breath he hurried into the house. Two or three men were stretched out unconscious on the ground Hour; and one man was lying in a pool of blood—dead! The constable felt his hair raising on the back of his head, but he kept his nerve. He hurried to the telephone. and put through an urgent call to Caterham police station, summoning help and doctors. He had some trouble in convincing the station sergeant that he was sane, but before Jong the hillside roared to the exhaust of police-cars. A round-faced medico, who looked as if he could never stop smiling, went upstairs to the room whe-re Barclay and .McKinnon were lying. lie pulled a face, and then started to try and bring them round. He had already diagnosed the gas as one which would bring unconsciousness, yet w'ould not leave fatal results. Barclay recovered first. He felt ill, and for a while was hardly able to realise what had happened. A strong whlsky-and-soda steadied him, however, and when the realisation of the truth came, he looked desperate. But the police who had been rushed to Hillways convinced him that everything possible had been done. The name and number of the car which Mordell had stolen had been radioed from one end of the country to the other, and if anyone set eyes on it, it w'ould be reported immediately. Already reports had been received from police patrols on the Caterham-Reigate ro<ad that the car had been seen. And then the report came that the oar was found, abandoned, ten miles outside Caterham. “There Is Nothing We Can Do’ 1 By that time a dour, sickened and disappointed McKinnon was conscious, although, like Barclay, still a little unsteady. “There is nothing we can do,” Mae grunted. “It must be the de’il for ye, Barclay, but there's nothing at all, I tell ye I” “I know," said Barclay, pushing his hand through his hair. “But the thought of 6ylvia still in Mordell’s hand —” he broke off suddenly, and for the first time a smile crossed his face, grim though it was. “Well, it’s no use crying over spilt milk. We've finished Mordell's capers here, and he must have destroyed a lot of records. But —we ll get him.” For the first time since Barclay had known him, McKinnon was realiy despondent. "But hoo can we?” he demanded. "The rnon is the de’il —the very De’ii himself!” Barclay laughed again, and the other’s despondency seemed to have a stimulating effect, and cheer him up. up. “We’ll get him, Mac. Cheer up, my son! Don't say old Scotland's finished!” “Aweel,” said McKinnon, and lit a cigarette, “I’ve something else to worry about. Barclay. The Jester—” Barclay eyed the ]>olieeman reflectively. “Did you believe Mordell when he said he wasn’t The Jester? • >r did you think he was lying?” McKinnon’s chin was thrust forward. “1 dinna like it,” he admitted, grudgingly, “but 1 believed the man, Barclay.” Barclay smiled. “So did I. Well, we'll see what happens at Heather ley's place. Not that [ feel in very good form for it. Mac. I hope to goodness The. Jester decides he's gone too far, and doesn't try the raid.”

“Tie’ll try It," said McKinnon, with confidence. “Aweel—d’m going to have some rest, Barclay, and if ye're coming to Barnes, then ye’ll he wise to do the same.” Barclay nodded. “My car's still in going order," he said. “I’ll give you a lift to town, unless you’ve got, some reports to make here." “I’m ieaving it until to-monrow,” said McKinnon. "The local men have the situation now." “Lookiins the stable door after the horse has gone, eh?” Barclay's eyes were gleaming now, and he was more like his old self, even thougn he looked haggard at times, and McKinnon knew he was thinking a great deal about Sylvia Dane. But Barclay managed not to let the disappearance rxf the girl worry him too much. There was work to do that night, and no matter what happened, it had to be done. But during the drive to London, and afterwards, when he rested at the fiat—after telling Batcher a little of what had happened—his heart was heavy. He had been worried enough before, in all conscience, but now the complete disappearance of Mordell and his crooks, with Sylvia was frightening. There were two possibilities. One, that Mordell had managed to leave the country, probably by air, Barclay hated to think it even possible, for he realised that if that were the case, then the chances of finding the girl were small indeed. But—Mordell’s work wasn’t finished. That much was certain, and Barclay believed that the man had another side-out, something like the Caterham house, where he was waiting now. And Barclay had a feeling that Mordell would corne for vengeance. . . . Meanwhile, there was the affair at Featherley’s house. Batcher called Barclay two hours before the time when his master had planned to reach Barnes. Barclay could hardly understand his feelings as he started on the journey. The Jester would be at work again; and no one could tell what would happen §ifter that.

CHAPTER XI Another Escape ! November was at its best for tbe last two hours of the forty-eight in which The Jester had threatened to hurgle the home of the editor of the •Comet. A silvery moon was shining from the dark heavens, a fresh easterly wind put a nip into tin- . . damp and the fog of the past few days seemed forgotten. Barclay’s car drew up opposite 5 West Side, and -McKinnon climbed out stiffly. As he did so. two shroudy llgures loomed from the shadows of the neighbouring house. “Everything quiet?” demanded McKinnon. A detective nodded. “Iluniph,’’ grunted McKinnon, hit eyes hard. “It's nearly ten o'clock. Tli4*t gives hirn two hours. Think he’ll do it, Barclay?” Barclay gTinned. Me sensed antagonism in McKinnon that night. ‘‘l don’t know, Mac,” he said, cheerfully. “I only know I hope he'll try. Smoke?” “No,” growled McKinnon, in a surly voice, lie changed his mind suddenly. “Yes, I will—sorry I snapped. I'm a bit 6haky, Barclay. If 1 can pull The Jester in, it will make up for losing Mordell.” “You’ll be let off by the Big Wigs of Scotland Yard,” smiled Barclay. “Here’s luck I” As he spoke, he looked contemplatively at the centre of operations —5 West Side. The detached villa was a blaze of light back and front, top and bottom. Featherley was taking no chances. The waiting police could see everything inside the house, furniture, pictures, occupants. “There’s Featherlay,” said Barclay, suddenly. McKinnon looked across the road at the tall llgure of the editor who had challenged The Jester. Featherley's wide-set grey eyes rarely gave any indication of the things passing through his mind, but on that evening, and even at the distance, the eyes gave something away l Barclay put the thoughts into words. “If anyone’s ever been on tenterhooks, Featherley is,” he chuokled. “Glory be, Mac, the man’s as nervous as a cat on hot bricks!” McKinnon glared across the road. Featherley was sitting at a table In the front room on the ground floor. He looked up from a book he was reading, a dozen times in as many seconds, and they could see his hands, nervously intertwining with each other. The minutes dragged like hours for the editor of the Comet! (To be Continued.)