Who Was The Jester?

Waikato Times, Volume 125, Issue 20862, 21 July 1939, Page 10

Who Was The Jester?

By Lionel Hamilton

CIi'APT DR XIX— (Gon-t-inu-ed) “Well, Barclay! Is she to sign? And will you witness?” “You can save your breath,” snapped Barclay. “You can save yourself a lot of unnecessary pain,” murmured Mordell. “You don’t quite appreciate the situation, Barclay. First, by being a little unkind to you, 1 shall persuade Sylvia to sign. Then, by being unpleasant to Sylvia, I shall make you witness the signature.” (Barclay's lips were set very grimly, lie knew what to expect, and he hated it. Yet ‘"’George!” Sylvia called his name again, her voice tense with emotion, “it's no use. I’ll do it, and you—” “I won’t allow it!” snapped Barclay, and there was one thing and one thing only in his mind—to gain time. “No?” murmured Mordell. “We’ll He turned from the helpless man suddenlv, and without a word, walked out of ‘ Ihc room. Sylvia stood, trembling a little, yet. reading a message. in Barclay's eyes to keep smiling. Smiling, in a situation like this! Mordell Resorts to Cruelty The minutes dragged. Barclay found it difficult to keep lucking at the girl who was so dear to him, but he tried. And at last Mordell relumed. Sylvia saw the whip in his hand, and gasped. Barclay paled. Mordell stepped towards him, and stood a yard away. ‘“Well?” He was addressing Sylvia, not Barclay. “Will you sign it, my dear?” Sylvia Dane drew a deep breath. "Yes —yes! George, 1 must ” “Don't sign!” snapped Barclay. And as he spoke, Mordell's eyes flared, and the whip slashed across his face! Not once—but three times the cruel hide cut across Barclay's cheeks, laying the flesh open, sending the blood streaming down. Barclay didn't move; his eyes closed and his teeth were gritted against the pain—'But Sylvia couldn’t hold out. • “Stop!” she cried, and there was anguish in her voice. "’Stop! I’ll sign it. And, George—you'll witness it. Please! Money doesn't matter, it doesn’t matter!” 'George Barclay, almost sick with pain, knew that once their signatures were on that paper, they had signed their own death warrant. Yet he knew that Mordell would slash the girl just as he had slashed him if he refused. He knew the light was hopeless, and he nodded. “All right,” he said, and the words were a s.'gh. “I must congratulate you,” Mordell said, in that suave, mocking voice. "And you, Sylvia.” •He gripped the trembling girl’s arm, and led her to the table. She could hardly hold the pen for a moment, but she made a great effort, and made the signature that signed away the fortune that was rightfully hers. Mordell's eyes glinted with triumph. “Now you,” he snapped to Barclay. Sylvia Signs Her Death Warrant 'Barclay still felt a terrible desire to resist, to fling everything to the winds. But he controlled himself, and signed beneath Sylvia’s signature. He drew away from the table, and dropped the pen. Mordell’s face was satyrish. * H Excellent,” he said. “Excellent indeed! And now—” Barclay was gripped in the hands of two ruffians again, and was helpless —“1 shall tell you just what I propose to do. It is very simple ” “Why don't you shoot us and get it finished!” growled Barclay, savagely. “An excellent idea,” murmured Mordell, “but you foiget that so far the police cannot fasten a murder on me. And obviously this must look 'like suicides. So 1 propose to leave you in tiie upstairs room—together.” "Alive!” Barclay couldn't resist the single word, and for a moment hope surged through him. “Alive,” replied Mordell. and his expression was more horrible than Barclay had ever seen before. "1 shall sit you opposite each other, fastened to. chairs. And benealli each I chair, a stick of dynamite, with a I time fuse, set for one hour. By the | time we are safely away from here, the dynamite will explode. A most | elllcacious way of killing you, I'm sure you'll agree.” The veins in Barclay's forehead were standing out like whipcord, llis blood-spattered lace looked terrible. -you—swine 1” “Words,” murmured Lord Hugo Mordell. "mean so little. And in case you should feel that it will stiu look like murder, I’m going to leave a letter at your llat; I’ve an excellent specimen of your writing now, and can easily arrange to -foige it. Unlike Sylvia, you are of 'full ago, and the signature will be legal, whereas she was bound by terms of the will. But that mat- ! ters nothing. The letter will admit that you, Barclay, are The Jester! That Sylvia was an accomplice! That you decided you couldn't carry on, since the police were so hard on your heels, and that you’ve gone to Gloucestershire —to commit suiV.de!” Barclay’s muscles tensed, but the men at either side of him held him back. “•They’ll never believe it i” he shouted. “There will be one or two things The Jester has stolen in the past at ,>our fiat. Barclay. Proof will be cun- : elusive. And as no one here has | ever seen Air Smith’ you will also : say you bought this house —as Smith. ! Du you see how beautiful it will be. j Barclay ?" j Barclay didn't speak. Sylvia's eyes I were filled with a horror that she ! couldn’t force away from her. And j thou, finding ail almost super-human j *drengt.h, Barclay freed himself from | the restraining grasp of the two men. ' and hurled himself a! Mordell. Une i list crashed into the peer’s face, but ! before -he could repeat the blow. UarJ clay was surrounded and forced, j struggling’ like a jii oiman, to the j floor. ! So it was finished, j Barclay sat opposite Sylvia, less i than a yard away from tier yet uni able to move arm or leg. Sylvia’s I dear face was very close to his. and her eyes were wide open, no longer I filled with if ear. 1 “You did everything a man could,” she said, very softly. "And —we're together, dear.” Barclay drew a deep breath. The horror of the thing—of being tied to the chair, seeing Sylvia as helpless, seeing the stick of dynamite and the

fuse that was burning with agonising slowness —was in his heart. But if she could smile I 'He smiled back, his teeth very white against his scarred, blood-spattered face. “Yes.” he said. “We're together.” And all the time the fuse, was spluttering. creeping towards the dynamite, that would blast them into aternity in the twinkling of an eye. There were forty minutes left. Forty short minutes between life and death. CHAPTER XX. At the Last Minute Bill Higgins, fat, usually satisfied and complacent, was sitting in the parlour of the Red 'Grow, with a j puzzled frown on his red face. From time to time he look out six ten pound notes, and eyed them as though they were ghosts. "No one’d be mad enough to give ’em away. Musta meant it, 'e must. Anri it's neariv nine, ain't it. Charlie V” ■Charlie, a large, slow-willed countryman. who was one of the best hovers in Gloucestershire, agreed that it was nearly nine. The oilier members of the rescue parly, that George I Barclay should have Jed to the Black j Lodge, were playing banker on a corI Suddenly Ihc clock in the bar—- | which was being looked after by the barman that night—struck nine. it i seemed to strike something into Butch I Bill Higgins, for he jumped up as quickly as his eighteen stone would let him. “’Ere, I’m going up to Hie Lodge," he grunted. “Come on, boys, let's With his six companions, Higgins moved towards the door, but as he opened it he heard the door leading from the road burst open, and through a crack in the glass saw 'Browning—the caretaker of the Lodge. Browning was looking scared; 'Higgins' suspicions that something had gone badly wrong were doubled. And 'Browning's orders startled him. “Four bottles of whisky,” the man snapped. “And hurry, son, the Boss wants 'em, and he's going away for a few days.” “Sure, sure,” said Higgins’ barman, while Bill Higgins closed the door very quietly, and swung round. "•'Fishy, that’s what this is, boys. Fishy! Beckon there's bin trouble, and the cove wot saw me maybe's still at the Lodge. Out the back way, and wait fer me to give the word.” Six hard-hitting, grim-faced boxers followed Butcher Bill out of the rear door. Higgins went silently—for a large man he could move both quickly and silently—towards the front of the Red Grow. In the dim light from the saloon bar he could see two cars pulled up. dlalf-a-dozen men he didn't recognise were sitting in them. The driver of the lirst car swore. “Why the devil doesn’t he come? We’ll be caught afore we can get Jt was all Big 'Harry wanted to know. He whistled—a high-pitched whistle which he used when urging men in the ring to mix it. They didn't mix it for a moment, but went as near the cars as they could in the gloom. The saloon door was opening as Higgins whistled again Bill Higgins to the Rescue And Browning saw the boxers suddenly come to life. The attack was so sudden that only Mordell of the men in the cars had time to draw his gun. Bill Higgins saw it glint, and guessed what it was. All the strength in the big man's body was behind the blow that took Mordell on the chin, and sent him back against the seat with a thud. The bullet hummed harmlessly into the air, and it enraged the boxers mure perhaps than anything else could have done. They fought fiercely, pulling open the doors of the cars and dragging the gangsters out, crashing bony fists into their opponents' faces, muttering all the time. Bill Higgins was like a Goliath, smashing this way and that, dragging Mordell’s men into the road and pulverising them into unconsciousness. No one at Tarling had ever seen anything like it. It lasted for five minutes —a gangbattle as fierce as anything East London or Glasgow had to show, if cm a smaller scale. And at the end of it the only man in .Mordell's party who was conscious was Browning. lie was leaning against the wali, with the buttles of whisky broken at his feet. ltiggins reached him, and gripped his coat lapels in a mighty hand. “Where's the guy wot came to see you this afternoon?” he snapped. Browning hesitated; Bill Higgins hit him. The man’s face was cut badly, and he groaned with pain. “1 —I’ll tell you. Up in the top room—but don't go—-don’t go!’ "Why the 'cck shouldn’t 1 go?” growled Higgins. "it’s—it’s a mine! TUB l>!ow up! In half-an-hour, and you can’t get there in time!” / For a split second Bill Iliggins looked at the man as though he couldn't believe his own ears. Then with a roar that seemed to reach the heavens, he crashed Browning back against tlie wall, and swung round towards the cars. “Hear that, boys? Half-an-hour and the ruddy show goes up. That bloke's there, see? I'm going. AnyThey didn't wait to answer, but crowded into the larger of the two ears. One man was left behind, with the. local policemen, who storied solemnly to handcuff all Ihe* unconscious men. He had finished Mordell —and Featherley, who had recovered consciousness—when the roaring of the ear engine was lost in the silence of the night. ll would take at least twenty mini's ps more. But Higgins cursed 1 the risk, and drove like a madman. It had been typical of Mordell to leave a clock on the mantelpiece of the '•••/;» i when- the two prisoners were nine when tlie fuse had been lit; now Ten minutes to go. Barclay couldn't keep his eyes off it. Syivia tried, but failed. They hadn’t spoken for live minutes, and the silence seemed heavy with menace. Nine minutes to go. The clock ticked loudly, the sound exaggerated in the silence. Their hearts were pounding. Barclay told himself time and time again that he couldn't stand it, but the smile on his lips remained.

And Sylvia was very quiet, yet somehow serene. Until that day they had never spoken of love; they had had little opportunity even then. But they knew each other's thoughts. Words weren't needed. F,ight minutes to go. Seven minutes. And then Barclay broke the silence, with a gasp that echoed like a pistol shot round the room. “Sylvia! Did you hear that?” The girl’s eyes were suddenly very wide, and her body went tense. There had been a sound downstairs. The banging of a door. Another hang In that moment Sylvia Dane came i' nearer to fainting than at any other i: time during that dreadful hour. a For footsteps were pounding up the 1 stairs. Men’s voices came, high- l pitched. The footsteps came nearer— < “Oh, my God!” groaned Barclay. L There were five minutes to go. £ The footsteps reached the top of the t stairs, and a voice bellowed through v the silence. v “Where are you—where are you?” <_ Barclay heard it and recognised it i ( —Higgins! But although the reaiisa- j tion came with a glorious Hood of re- j lief, he shouted first, a high-pitched { cry lie hardly recognised as his own. “Here —here!” 'Pile footsteps thudded on the passage. floor outside. Someone thud- 1 ed against the door —the locked door. 1 Four minutes to go. The fuse was spluttering now, very J near its end. It seemed that any * moment the stick of dynarhite would ( be ignited, that the last-minute rescue ' could not succeed. In that moment Barclay prayed: and Sylvia’s lips were * moving. \ Higgins hurled his eighteen stone against the door again—once, twice. The hinges creaked. Once again, and ; the door burst open! Higgins stood for a moment in the j doorway; and then he saw the fuses I and the sticks of dynamite, and he ’ knew it was too late to put them out. 1 “Break the winder!” he bellowed, ( and two men rushed after him towards i the window. He grabbed each stick of dynamite with a courage tiiat Barclay • doubted whether he would have pos- ; sesed himself, and hurled them out j through the broken window, one after ; the other! * The first hit the ground thirty < yards from the house before it ex- , ploded; the other burst in mid-air! r 4’he explosions seemed to shatter . the very night. The walls rocked, ‘ every pane of glass on that side of the J house was broken by the detonation. Through the open window of the j room where Sylvia Dane and George Barclay were silling there came a gust of wind that sent Higgins staggering, and lifted the other men off their , feet. And then silence came outside; and J Barclay, drawing a deep breath, saw I that Sylvia had fainted; but there was a smile of incredible happiness on her Jips.