THE JUMPER

Waikato Times, Volume 125, Issue 20916, 22 September 1939, Page 5

THE JUMPER

By JOHN CREASEY

CHAPTER XXV. , Crabber a ROnegade The gun did not move, and Crabber's eyes were fixed unwaveringly on the Jumper's. The Special Branch Agent was staring into the Chief Inspector's face, absolutely unable to believe the evidence of his eyes and ears. Crabber was in this thing! He had spent many hours of concentrated thought over the affair in which Mayhew and ißrigham were concerned, and ho had frequently tried to convince himself that there was someone else working with the crooks. Now he knew that that suspicion had been well-founded, but for a few seconds his mind refused to work* Crabber was a renegade! The fact was slowly sinking into Dd\wlish’s mind, and suddenly he seemed to click back into vivid awareness of what was happening. No longer was he amazed at the depth of this revelation; his mind was working fast, and he was trying desperately to think of a way of evading the bullet which would hone from Crabber's gun any moment. It seemed ages, but actually only a couple of seconds passed between the last words spoken by the treacherous Chief Inspector and the Jumper’s move. It was now or never, and every second lessened the Jumper's chances of escape. He had a vague idea of what was in Crabber's mind. The Chief Inspector had obviously been working himself up to a pitch of desperation, but even now he found it difficult to shoot down an erstwhile colleague in cold blood. But unless Crabber did shoot Dawlish, the truth would be out; not only would Crabber be a fugitive from the law which he had served all his life, but the scheme which Mayhew had conceived some months before would be smashed. Crabber touched the trigger of the gun. At the same moment Dawlish seemed io stagger, almost as though he was suffering from the effect of the bullet before it left the gun. He swayed backwards and his eyes rolled. Crabber was startled for a moment, and then told himself that Dawlish had worked himself to a point of collapse during th'e past few days. As Dawlish collapsed in a head on the pavement, Crabber bent over him, intent on getting the all important wallet first. Had be been Mayhew, he would have killed Dawlish before wasting another moment, but Crabber was not so experienced in the business of murder as the man for whom he had been working secretly over a period of years. And Dawlish had counted on this reaction. As the man bent over him, Dawlish cracked his fist with tremendous force into Crabber’s stomach. Pain sheered through the Chief Inspector’s body, agonising, and for the moment, paralysing. Dawlish knew in a flash that his ruse had succeeded; Crabber had been taken in by that fake collapse, and the death which had seemed to he gaping over Dawlish was defeated yet again. Grabber was staggering back, his hands clutching his stomach, but 'Dawlish was not finished with him yet. He jumped to his feet and went after the man, his fist cracking right, left, right, in the renegade’s face. But for the numbing effect of that first blow Crabber might.have put up some kind of a fight, but all he could do was to try to get back, away from tile human whirlwind in front of him. But Dawlish was seeing red. He realised that there were a dozen ways in which Crabber must have helped Mayhew, that Crabber must have known from the start what had happened to Morgan, and—perhaps this was the main eause of his rage—he had deliberately tried to create suspicion against Joan Morgan in order to make sure that it did not fall on his own head. How long Dawlish kept up that battering rain of blows he did not know, but suddenly Crabber collapsed in a crumpled heap, and the Special Agent drew back, breathing hard. * He was desperately anxious to see what was in the wallet, but even more he was concerned with finding Joan Morgan, and he told himself that it was. quite possible that Crabber would know where the girl was. He determined to exert a little pressure—lf necessary an even more severe beating up than the Chief Inspector had already received. But before he did that he needed help. He did not regret the fact that he had sent the flying squad men to search the estate, for had he not met Crabber alone he would probably not hawe discovered the truth; and later the opportunity might have been lost. “The End of Your Run” He searched Grabber’s pockets—the man was conscious, but apparently unable to move—and found a whistle. He blew three short blasts, confident that they would be sufficient to recall the flying squad men. Then slipped a flash of whisky from his hip pocket and wetted the Chief Inspector's lips. Crabber muttered, and his eyes flickered open. •Dawlish’s voice was very grim. “You’ve come to the end of your run,” he said. “I don’t know just how far you’re mixed up in this job, Crabber, but you know where the girl is—don't you?” Crabber stared at him. Dawlish could not fail to see that the man was afraid. 'Certainly few people could have had such a good reason for fear as the renegade policeman. But Dawlish was in no mood to keep his temper. His voice rose. “If you don’t talk I’ll smash every bone in your body!” iFor a moment be was afraid that Grabber was going to prove obstinate, and already a turmoil of suspicion was growing in his mind that someone else was in this game, someone whom he had suspected as little as he had suspected Chief Inspector Crabber. But as this fear began to seep through, Crabber opened his mouth. “She—she’s in—the roof!” He spoke in little gasps, and the words were so low that Dawlish could hardly catch them. But they were enough. Dawlish looked up from the Chief Inspector's face, and saw three flying squad men racing towards them. They pulled up short a coyple of yards away and stared in amazement at the crumpled figure of the Chief Inspector. Dawlish did not hesitate, but told them just what had happened. Crabber’s been running with Mayhew,” he said, “and we’ll get proof enough without much trouble. Put the handcuffs round him and get him back to the Yard as soon as you can. Take no chances.”

Thrilling Detective-Mystery Serial

“Very good, sir.” One of the men saluted, and the handcuffs flashed from his pocket. Crabber made a single spasmodic move to evade them, but in a few seconds his wrists were fastened together. He was hauled to his feet, and half pushed to the first flying squad car. Dawlish waited just long enough to hear the final snap of the handeuffs, and then he beckoned to one of the men and turned towards Number Seven Edgway Close. “There's someone in the roof," he said. Miss Moigan amongst other people, but we’ve got to go steadily; Are you ready for it?” The man nodded, and together they went to the house. Dawlish grunted when he saw the signs of the struggle which had taken place in there, but lie had no eyes for the woman who was still lying on the floor, or the dead Mayhew. Nothing mattered but the gtrl! He raced up the stairs two at a time, and reached the landing. There above his head was a small panel let into the ceiling, obviously a door which opened into the roof. “We’ll net a couple of chairs,” he said. He did not propose to waste time looking for a ladder, but when a chair had been brought from the nearest room, he clambered on to it, and without a great deal of effort he contrived to push the door open. Then, realising that he was taking a desperate chance, fully aware of the possibility that the girl might not be up there alone, and that another member of Mayhew's gang might be waiting with a gun, he hauled himself up. For anyone else but the igirl the Jumper might have been more cautious, and waited until he had more help. But the need for finding her was increasingly urgent in his mind, and first his head, then his shoulders, were hoisted through the hole in the ceiling, and he was able to make out vague objects in the roof. Nothing moved. No sound came. Dawlish's lips were set grimly, and as soon as he contrived to haul himself up so that he was kneeling on the rafters of the ceiilng, he slipped both hands in his pockets and withdrew an automatic and electric torch. Still there was no murmur in the silence, and his fear that there was someone else sheltering here besides the girl girl slowly disappeared. ■He was even beginning to wonder whether Joan was actually a prisoner here. Then the beam from his torch stabbed out, and a teyv yards away he saw her! He knew in an Instant that she was unconscious. She was lying on her back, her feet and legs covered with old sacking, an 4 in the glare of the torch she looked ghostly white. For a terrible moment the Jumper was afraid he had come too late, that she was dead. Cursing the fact that he could not move quickly over the rafters, he scrambled towards her and shone the torch full on her face. Cupid’s Bow is Drawn A moment later a thrill of sheer relief went through him. For her eyes flickered in the strong light, and her head moved a little. He knew that she was unconscious, and even then he could detect a strong odour of the drug which had been administered to her, but she was obviously dreaming, and twice her lips moved in a half smile. It was madness, but the Jumper could not resist the temptation. He slipped his arms round the girl and hugged her to him. For a moment he kept absolutely still, satisfied to feel her in his arms. Then, forcing himself to be gentle, he pressed his lips against hers. Time seemed to stand still. Then suddenly the silence was broken and t#he flying squad man’s voice rang out. “Are you all right, sir?” Dawlish swallowed hard, and then giinned in the semi-darkness. “Quite all right, Lewis,” he said. “Stay there, and be ready to give me a hand in a couple of minqtes.” A few moments later the Jumper had carried his precious burden to the hole in the ceiling, and gently he lowered the girl down. Lewis supported her, and in a very few minutes she was lying full length on «Tie of the beds, while a doctor —summoned by one of the flying squad men to attend to Brigham—was bending over her. “Nothing much to worry about,” he assured Dawlish. “I should imagine that chloroform was used, but not a very strong dose. She will be as right as a trivet in a couple of hours.” “Thank the Lord for that!” said Dawlish devoutly. “Thanks, doctor. And now ” He smiled at Lewis, the flying squad man, who by now was aware of the reason for the Special Branch Agent’s interest in the girl, and as he did so his mind was working quickly. “We’d better get busy,” he said. “We’re going to learn a lot of surprising things in the next few hours. Meanwhile, we’ll have a look at this wallet.” He took the wallet from his pocket and opened it. He saw that it was stuffed with papers, and tnought for a moment that Brigham had been carrying a lot of bank notes with him, but when he pulled the papers out his eyes widened with surprise. m "Cheques!” he exclaimed. “Signed cheques!” It was true. Thirty cheques, all of them for four figures, and dated over a period of two months, were in his hands, and were signed with Brigham’s rather crabbed signature; it was quite obvious that the Australian had signed them, and had proposed to pass them over to Mayhew. ißut why? For the life of him Dawlish could not understand. lie put the cheques back and then pulled the papers out from the other side of the wallet. There was little of interest, saving a few printed cards and one or two letters addressed to Jonathan Brigham, but the last thing* which Dawlish found was something which | the police had been trying to get for \ weeks. It was a post-card size poruait of Jonathan Brigham. Dawlish looked at it and saw It was several years old. Brigham had not altered a great deal, however, although he had grown fatter and coarser. With his eyes' set hard Dawlish turned the photograph over; and then he stared down absolutely rigid with surprise. For the photograph had been taken in Australia —the photographer’s name was printed on the back—but there, in a bold hand, was the name. Arthur Simmons, photograph taken at Melbourne, 1931. Arthur Simmons—or Jonathan Brigham i Which name was the right

one? At the moment Dawlish did not know, but a sudden suspicion leaped into his mind, and as he stared intently at the photograph the idea was working itself out. It seemed too absurd—but it could certainly be easily proved one way or the other. (He did not feel that there was much doubt which way it would be, for his theory was that the man that had been known as * Jonathan Brigham was actually Arthur Simmons, posing as the Australian millionaire. If that true it would explain many things. “Now I wonder,” said Dawlish in a very quiet voice, “whether Crabber will talk without much trouble? He’s the only one left who can tell us the truth.” (To Be Continued)