THE GREAT LAROCHE

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 57, Issue 250, 3 August 1937, Page 7

THE GREAT LAROCHE

| By SYDNEY HORLER. | i I

I :: SERIAL STORY s: I 1 I

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CHAPTER XIII. THE VOICE ON THE WIRE. There was no sleep for Peter that night—the flat seemed haunted: haunted by a thousand memories of the sister who perhaps he would never see again! Jacquard had a magnetic personality, but now the man was gone, he had taken his magic with him: on sober reflection what did his sportsmanlike pledge of help actually amount to? Just this: he had promised no more and no less than what any out of a dozen Scotland Yard detectives would have promised in similar circumstances. It was useless Peter decided, to attach too much importance to what the Frenchman had said. Then, just as he was beginning to opine that the world was nothing less than a huge pit of despair, he had a feeling of hope. In order to give this every encouragement he mixed himself a stiff drink. Experience told him that sometimes, out of human enmities the mo9t unexpected results sometimes acctued. .Perhaps Jacquard had been right afteii all. Then, once again, he 'felt plunged back into the mortifying sense of helplessness. This story about the man Horst! Even if it were true that Horst had parted with Laroche, there seemed no real foundation for Jacquard’s theory that Horst had been anywhere near the houseboat that night. The plain fact was that Susan had vanished into the blue. If she had been free to do so, she surely would have got into touch with him somehow or other? She knew how worried he would be. Well, on one point he was determined: until Susan was found—until he had reliable information as to her fate —he would devote himself exclusively to trying to solve this mystery. Somebody else would have to do the safeguarding of Paul Marve —he wished to .heaven that he had never seen the fellow. His drink finished, he looked toward the door. There seemed no point in staying up; his body, at least, would be rested in bed even if his mind emained in a tumult. Sleep was out of the he felt certain, but the ordinary routine of existence might as well be followed. Until morning came — And then, shattering the silence like a bomb, the telephone rang. Susan! Perhaps she had managed to /get to a telephone! With a hand that shook he took off ‘the receiver. And this is what he heard: “Peter !’> It was a woman’s voice—but whether it belonged to his sister he could not determine; it was too racked with anguish, too shaken by fear for him to be positive on the point. “Yes—it’s Peter speaking. Where are you, darling ” . “They’ve got me . . . they’ve got me.” This was torture unbearable; the suspense was tearing his nerves to shreds. “Where are you? Where are you?” he shouted. Then another voice answered —this time it was a man’s. “Is that Mr Renton?” “Yes . . . Who are you?’’. A laugh answered him. “The price is ten thousand pounds. Do you hear me? Ten thousand pounds?” Before he could say anything to this astonishing statement the line had gone dead. * * * * In the private room of the West End nursing home to which Paul Marve had been taken, Sir Robert. Pertwee turned on his two companions. “I’m afraid that so far, gentleman, I cannot hold out much hope,” said the famous consultant. “In this patient we have a man,” he went on without waiting for the Minister for War, or tiie Chief of Q.l. of the British Intelligence to make any comment, “who has evi dently been living on his nerves—and on very little else, I’m afraid—for a gcod many years. The crisis cum a s and he has little or no resistance. He may live for a few days longer, ~r the end may be quite near,” the physici in concluded. The Secretary for War made a characteristic outburst. “But Sir Robert, the situation is serious—so serious that I cannot possibly exaggerate it,” he said, gesticulating with his hands. “In Marve’s brain there is a secret which is of the most vital importance to the future safety of this country. Everything depends upon this man being made to speak. Het is an inventor, who has been working on something which he says is so terrible that it will cut out all future'possibilities of nations going to war—and I want it -or this country. Ho had an assistant named Jeryais, but we heard this morning from Paris that this man had been assassinated. How much he was made to disclose before he was mrudered we do not know—but I have told you enough, I think, to make you realise that this matter is of the utmost urgency.” Sir Robert Pertwee listened without interruption until the end. Then be made his contribution.

“I’m afraid that Nature does not concern itself with things of this sort—although, I realise, as you say, that the matter is of the highest possiblo importance. But medical science can do no more; the man’s mind is a complete blank, , As you have seen for yourself this morning, lie’s still unconscious and nothing that wo can do can arouse him. It is my belief that he will gradually drift into death. . . his heart is very weak. If you would care to have other opinions, of course, I shall be

delighted to call in whoever you may suggest.” Sir Harker Bellamy turned away somewhat impatiently, lie was sick of the whole business. Besides, what gcod would it be to have other opinions —Pertwee was generally acknowledged tc be the best medical man in the who* 3 of London, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid 1 shall have to go—there are many things waiting for me at my office.” With a nod to the physician and another to Hathaway he opened the door and walked out into the corridor. Was there anyone who was carrying such a load as himself at the present moment, lie wondered. In the whole, of his forty years in the Secret Service he could not remember a more testing time than this. Although he had not voiced the opinion to Hathaway, secretly he was not sorry that events had tinned out as they had done. They might have been on a stumer if Marve had not had his breakdown; after all, they merely had his word—but no actual proof—for what lie claimed. The fellow might be a charlatan or just one of those crazy self-deceivers with which the world now seemed to abound. Bellamy had walked only a dozen yards or so along the corridor, when a door opened on tire right, and a girl, after staring at him for a, moment, caught his arm. “Oh Sir Harker,” she exclaimed, and now he was able to see that the girl 'who had spoken to him was the niece of the man on whom Sir Robert Pertwee had so recently passed a sentence of death. “Good morning. Miss Norris,” he said —and if his voice was curt, it merely reflected his thoughts. “Would you kindly tell me how my uncle is this morning.” “I’m afraid he is very ill—l’ve just left the specialist.” Then a thought came to him. “Come along to my office my dear; I should like to have a word with you.” He felt this was necessary, duty—that stern mistress —was prompting. Perhaps the girl could tell him something that might prove later to be of service. “You can do no good here— I’ve a taxi outside,” he said, “if you’ll come out with me.” He began liis questions almost as soon as she was seated. “How much did you know of your uncle’s work, Miss Norris?” She shook her head. “I’m afraid I knew very little. All he told me was that he was working on something to prevent war.” “He did not go into any details?” “No. He always kept that side of his life away from me—perhaps because he was afraid I might be worried.” “Yes.” It did not seem that this interview was going to yield anything of importance. Still, he put yet one more question. “You cannot tell me, then, anything about the particular invention which brought your uncle to .London ?” Again she shook her head. “I’m afraid I cannot, Sir Harker”— and then her mind switched to another subject. _ “Is my uncle going to die, Sir Harder—please tell me the truth,” she pleaded. He decided it would be better if he were blunt. “Sir Robert Pertwee, the consulting physician, can give us very little hope.’ The girl looked up. Peter Renton, the man who had brought her over from Paris, was looking ten years older than his real age. There were haggard lines round his mouth and his eyes were weary. “Good morning,” she faltered. “Good morning, Miss Norris.” He spoke like one who found everything in life a burden. The telephone on Bellamy’s desk rang. The Chief of Q.l. took off the receiver and listened. “I’m afraid I must leave you for a minute,” he said briskly, and without further explanation got up and left the room. Elsie Nome summoned all her courage. “Elxcuse me,” she said— but has anything happened to your sister, Mi Renton?”

He staved dully in front of him. “She’s disappeared—some devil’s got hold of her,” “Oh 1 Has it anything to do with—my uncle?” “I’m afraid it has,” was the curt response. “You remember when we were imprisoned on that nouseboat that someone signalled to me in Morse?” _ “Yes . . .oh, of course, you said it was your sister. . “She was captured whilst trying to get away to bring us help—” He could get no further. The girl who had been listening to him rose from her chair. “Oh, I’m most terribly sorry—can’t anything he done?” And then, because this man s troubles seemed almost equal. to her own, she obeyed an instinctive impulse and flung her arms around his neck. So might she have tried to comfort a brother if she had possessed such a relation.

“It’s all my fault—l shouldn’t have allowed my uncle to come to London,” she cried.

“Hush, my dear,” said Peter Renton —and his voice was very kind.

(To he continued.)