THE GREAT LAROCHE

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 57, Issue 249, 2 August 1937, Page 7

THE GREAT LAROCHE

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1 By SYDNEY HORLER. | £ i

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CHAPTER XII

JACQUARD EXPLAINS. It was the memory of her brother being held a helpless prisoner that induced Susan to reply. “What do you mean—terms?” she said. “I’ll put it very briefly/’ stated Horst. “I offer you your freedom—and my help in rescuing your brother —in return for certain information.” “What kind of information ” “Before I tell you that, I want to know what work you do at Q. 1.” She shook her head. “That’s impossible?,” she said. “Then it’s also impossible for me to carry on this conversation. I won’t waste any more time, Miss Renton. Either you give the information I require about certain codes used by your Department of British Intelligence or —” he leaned towards her—“do you know what happens to the majority of young women who mysteriously disappear from London and other great English cities?” There was so much overt malice in the question that she shrank away from him. “If you don’t know, I’ll tell you,” went on the relentless voice. “They are shipped to certain ports in South America.” She put her hands behind her hack to prevent him from seeing how they were trembling. The man was going to make a white slave of her! That was the threat behind his words. Unless, she became a, traitress. . , but that, of course, wa? unthinkable! Although it seemed that the walls of that room were closing about her, she gave her answer in a firm, unfaltering voice. “I’ll see you in hell first!” she said. * * * * Peter Renton, after leaving Sir Ha.rker Bellamy, walked into Whitehall and looked about him for a taxicab. He was feeling practically all in. Although he dreaded going home, lie felt he must have a hath and some sleep before he could even begin to tackle the problem of Susan’s disappearance. It was just when he was about to open the door of t-ho taxi that had drawn up near the kerb, that he felt his shoulder tctuched. Turning round quickly, he saw the smiling face of Rene Jacquard. The French secret service' agent, who had rendered him such a signal service only a few hours before, prefaces his remark's with an apology. “I hope I don’t intrude, my young friend?” ho said. “Not at all! I’m only too glad to see you—if you haven’t anything better to do, come hack to my Hat and we’ll have a talk.” He felt lie wanted to unburden himself concerning his ter to this man of much greater experience than himself. Jacquard had already proved himself a master at his job that evening, and perhaps—well who knew?” ; “Thank you, I shall be delighteu,' answered the Frenchman. When the taxi had got under way, Renton made his companion smile bysaying: “I suppose you are Rene Jacquard and not the Pope or Musso lini?” The Frenchman laughed out mud. “Why do you say that?” he asked. “Well, you made such a good job of being Von Staltheim to-night that I wouldn’t be prepared to swear you weren’t the devil himself!” “Non! Non!” expostulated the other, “for the moment I am a-eally myself, Rene Jacquard, and very, much at your service.” * * * * Arrived at the flat which she shared with his sister, Renton put some mere coal on the fire—for the night had turned chilly—waved his visitor to a chair, placed drinks and jigareit.es by his elbow and seated himself opposite Jacquard. After that, ho could no longer curb his impatience. “I’m terribly worried, Jacquard, ’ be broke out—“my sister —she s only a kid of nineteen—went on this job tonight against my wishes and Bellamy s strict instructions and”—here he choked hack a lump in his throat—“she’s appeared!” “Laroche?” shot back the Frenchman instantly. “I suppose so . • • Just listen me for a couple of minutes, will you?” “I will listen all night,” replied the other. When his young host had come-to an en d. Jacquard shook his head. “No,, I do not think Laroche has your sister,” he said—and proceeded to tell his own story. Apparently this had not been ms only visit to England during the past weeks. He had crossed the Channel on no fewer than six occasions in that period. The first trip had nothing to do with his regular work of counter espionage. A particularly brutal murder had been committed in a Soho street given over almost entirely to the foreign underworld. A man whose international record as a white-slaver was so abominable that it was an affront to all human decency, had been discovered with his throat cut, the body hanging from a hook in the ceiling of the dingy bedroom which, it was quickly proved, was in the occupation of a French street-walker. At first the view of the police inclined to suicide, but the expert medical evidence soon dispelled that, Claude Boisset, the man in question, had been murdered! “How I came into tbe affair—strictly incognito of course” —went on Jac-

quard to explain, “was because when, within three days your admirable Scotland Yard made an arrest, I was asked by my former Chief to come to London to identify tbe assassin.” “Why was that? Was be a spy?” queried Renton, whose anxiety of mind was being relieved somewhat by the story to which he was listening. “He had been a spy, this canaille,” returned Jacquard. “He was a renegade Frenchman employed by a certain power—you can guess, perhaps the country in question—and as a result of a sentence imposed on him in Paris had been sent to Devil’s Island for fifteen years. He was one of the few who managed to escape from that place of the damned—don’t think for a moment,” the Frenchman broke off, “that I am entirely in agreement with the system practised in that penal colony. After his escape he managed to get to America via Venezuela, and, in the course of time, arrived in London. It is a pity, my friend, that your authorities do not exercise more supervision over the criminal aliens who are allowed to enter your shores; hut that’s by the way. “You will wonder, I suppose, what all this has to do with the disappearance of your sister to-night? But, patience, my friend: I shall he making my explanation quite soon now. “After identifying the assassin 1 stayed in London for two days. Your city has always fascinated me—it is so unlike Paris. And, being on what you describe as a busman’s holiday, I spent a great deal of time in Soho, which, as you know, is the headquarters of the London underworld. It was there that I heard stories concerning the breach which had occurred between our mutual friend Pierre Laroche and a. former chief lieutenant of his named Horst. The latter and the dead white slaver Boisset had been associates —I will say this for Laroche,” the speaker broke off again to comment, “that, speaking by and large, he has kept his hands fairly clean of the traffic in. human flesh.” . The speaker paused to light another cigarette and to drink half of the whisky and soda which stood on a small table on the right hand side of jiis chair. “These two crooks Laroche and Horst—had quarrelled over the usual thing: money. Apparently Horst belived that he was entitled to a bigger share of the spoils in a certain coup than he had received; and being a man of tremendous ambition (he fancies himself, the fool, to be a criminal Napoleon!) he had cried defiance to his former superior and the two had parted. “Now I come to my point: it is possible, I submit, that Horst got to learn through his spies that Laroche ivas planning something big to-night—-and that he himself was not far away from that houseboat on the River Hamble. Supposing he had seen your sister?—from your own story it must have been she who sent that message in Morse—and supposing again, that, denied of the bigger prize (Marve, his piece and your good self), Horst had—” Renton broke in with words of alarm. “If that’s so— she’s in the hands of a notorious white-slaver! Oh God! What shall I do?” The Frenchman rose and patted him on the shoulder. “The essential rule to be regarded in a case like this is to keep your selfcontrol, my young friend; I shall be staying in London myself for another couple of days. I will go disguised into the Soho underworld to-morrow and I will learn all that is possible. Believe me, if Horst has your sister in ,his power, I shall get to know about it. That I promise you!” There was so much calm conviction in the Frenchman’s voice that, almost in spite of himself, Renton felt re-as-(sured. He held out his hand and the other gripped it. “Thank you,” he said simpiy . > • “I don’t know what else to say to you.” The Frenchman resumed his chair. “I have something yet to add —no, it is not about your sister. It is about the visit of Major Oscar von Staltheim to that houseboat to-night.” Jacquard’s eyes twinkled as he spoke. With a tremendous effort Renton put aside his fears. It would be churlish to dwell on his own woes when his visitor was so obviously intent on giving a dramatic version of his exploits that night. “Yes, that is what I •want to hear,” he said. Jacquard warmed to the words like an actor responding to- the applause of an audience. “The story has its points, I think, ’ he returned. “I’ve already tolcl you that I crossed on the same steamer as Paul Marve to-day and that I was mortified when I realised that Laroche had got the man so cleverly. I should have disclosed myself to you at Dover —but did not think it politic. “By what means I was able to trace Laroche and his prisoners to that houseboat on the Hamble, I regret I am not at liberty to disclose, for it would mean giving away secrets that belong exclusively to the French Government.” Renton nodded. “That is understandable, of course.” Like every other European country, tho French had their own espionage system in England, although the two countries were allies. It would be too much to expect Jacquard to play false to his own employers. “But this I will say,” continued the Frenchman, “that 1 was not only able to locate Laroche’s hideaway, but I actually went on board! Vos, ’ smiling broadly at Renton’s stare of astonish ment. “I went on hoard that houseboat disguised—as what do you think?” “God only knows!” returned the young Englishman; “as I iokl you about an hour ago, I’lrfnot quite sure that you’re not Old Nick himself!” “Were I to tell you everything ifc would be easily explained,” commented Jacquard. “I took one assistant with me. He was dressed as a country English policeman whilst I attained to the rank of sergeant!” At the memory the

speaker hurst into a roar of laughter that shook his stout body. “The great Laroche was hospitality itself; he never suspected for a moment, I am ready to swear, that we were anything but what lie believed us to he. I invented a story of some children being frightened by his black cook—a man named Kuhn—and we parted the best of friends. “It r was when I got hack to ;uy local headquarters that I received a telephone message in code from—now who do you think, Monsieur Renton?” “Don’t ask me any more questions!” implored Peter, “my head is dizzy as it is. I suppose, Monsieur Jacquard, that one day you will be writing your memoirs?” “Perhaps,” admitted the other, “hut why?” “Well, if you do, and I am still living—which 9eems doubtful at the moment—l should like to do the preface.” “Admirable!” declared the visitor; “I will bear your suggestion in mind.” “But I interrupted you—l’m sorry,” said Peter. “The message—need I say it was in code?—was sent me by an agent 1 had planted in the Ronstadtian Embassy. He waited for the expression of surprise which duly came. “If you go on like this, I shall really think that you have sold yourself to the Devil,” commented his host. “What did your agent say?” “He told me that message had been received at the Embassy to the effect that the Dictator of Ronstadt wished to have the inventor Marve brought to him at Pe. Laroche was to hold him until Major Oscar von Staltheim arrived t midnight. That explains,” the speaker went on, “why Laroche did not get on with his torturing at the first interview he had with you on board the houseboat. ’ "Yes —\ must admit that was a bit puzzling; but now it’s quite clear,” remarked Renton. The Frenchman chuckled. “What more natural thing to do than for me to take the place of von Staltheim?” he asked. “At my local headquarters I had the necessary clothes and means to make-up. A woman agent meanwhile was keeping the real military attache occupied.” “Do you mean to say that Laroche never tumbled ” “Tumbled?” repeated the Frenchman. “Oh, I don’t suppose you’d understand that. It means saw through you.” “No, he never saw through me. At least, when he did I had got the upper hand. The rest you know,” concluded the Frenchman, rising. “You must not despair,” he said, as the two parted; “remember that I shall be working on your side to-morrow in the Soho underworld —directly I have any news I will let you know. Forward to victory, bon ’•vieux!” he said with the first hint of melodrama as ho turnto go. (To he continued.) The characters in this story are entirely imaginary. No reference is intended to any living person or to any public or private company.