THE GREAT LAROCHE

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 57, Issue 252, 5 August 1937, Page 7

THE GREAT LAROCHE

SERIAL STORY

By SYDNEY HORLER.

Copyright

CHAPTER, XV. “THE TRAVELLER IN SILK GOODS.” Meanwhile, at that other headquarters of criminal activity run by the renegade Edward Horst, an animated discussion was proceeding between the former lieutenant of Laroche a.nd Ruby Trost, that aged adept in crime, who was devoting her few remaining years to acting as Horst’s “housekeeper” at least, that’s what she called herself to the still recalcitrant Susan Renton. She might have spared herself the trouble: although Susan was not very familiar with criminal argot, she sensed sufficient about this dreadful old woman to know that the term “housekeeper” covered a multiplicity of offences. If she had known that “housekeeper” was the term usually used by white slaters to denote the women who kept the poor unfortunate girls safely under cover until they were shipped abroad, Susan might have felt even more apprehension than she was experiencing at the present time. But that knowledge was mercifully hidclen from her. “What’s the good of holding out for this so-called information which you say the girl’s got—but which she won’t give you?” Ruby Trost was now demanding. “Far better to get a, good price for her—as you would do—and get her out of the country as soon as possible. ' That would mean real money!” The crone spat contemptuously as she finished her brief harangue. Horst, reaching to take a cigarette out of a tin by his side, did some reflecting. The prisoner had been extremely obstinate; even the threat of torture had not moved her in the least. Her attitude had been summed up in the one phrase: “I’ll see you in hell first!” That was what she had told him at the beginning of the interview — and that was what she repeated when this exhausting talk was concluded. She had courage, this chit, and Horst, who admired courage above any other human quality, found himself in the embarrassing position of mentally applauding this girl’s stamina. But admiration was one thing; turning something to good account in the shape of hard cash was an entirely different matter. A man had to live. It was in the endeavour to break his prisoner’s spirit that he had done that telephoning trick the previous night. “We will se wha.t your brother has to say • on the subject,” he had threatened and, taking off the receiver, had asked for Peter Renton’s number. Meanwhile, Ruby Trost had stood over the girl, revolver in'hand. When he had first mimicked the voice of a young girl beside herself with anxiety—ho prided himself that he had never brought off a better impersonation—and had followed it up with a statement in his own natural voice to the effect that the price was ten thousand pounds, he turned to the girl expecting to see her ready to admit defeat. But on the contrary, Susan Renton was smiling—yes smiling! „“You won’t be able to kid my brother with any stuff-of that sort,” she told him. “He hasn’t got ten thousand pennies, the poor darling, let alone ten thousand pounds!” ,He had threatened to lose his temper completely. “Are you or are you not going to give me the information I want?” he shouted. Still she only smiled. “The answer’s in the negative,” was the reply. It really seemed that she would continue to hold out no matter what threats he made; and, after all, the stuff she knew—even assuming she was willing to pass it on—was probably of very indifferent value. A man like Bellamy would not be fool enough to entrust her with any valuable secrets. No, Ruby was right. Horst looked up at his hideous' handmaiden and nodded. > The crone grunted. “Glad to see you’ve come to your senses at last,” she said. “I’d better ring up' Laidley, eh?” “Yes—tell him there’s something very special in the market.” * m * * The man who called himself “George Laidley”—and who supported the claim by having a brass plate outside his door bearing the same name—could generally be found between the hours of eleven and one in the mdrning and three and seven in the afternoon, at a small office in Beaker Street, W.l. This narrow, not too salubrious thoroughfare in the heart of the West End, is devoted almost entirely to soft-goods merchants, so that Mr Laidley was in the right atmosphere since he called himself on his cards “Silk Importer” and introduced himself to strangers as “a traveller in silk goods.” ’ That was the side which he showed to the world in general; to the inner circle of his associates he was an entirely different personality. These knew the respectable-appearing George Laidlev (who, like the rest of us, could not help his appearance, repulsive as this may have appeared to many on first acquaintance), to bo something very different. These—to come to the point—knew George Laidley to bo something far removed from a humdrum silk goods specialist; they knew him in the first place as a former Jew by the name or Hermann Bader, who had been hurled out of the new Germany by the scruff of the neck and the seat of the pants. Many refugees from the country now Under iron Nazi rule may have legitimate grievances; it is equally certain

that Hermann Bader, had he presented his alleged misfortunes to any unbiased court in the world, would have lost his case by an overwhelming majority. As a former purveyor of the notorious night life in the infamous Friedrichstrasse quarter of Berlin, he ha.d been arrested by the police assigned to “clean up” that noisome district and only the expenditure of much money in bribes that it broke Ins heart even now to think about it, had enabled him to get away physically scathless from the country which had become too hot to hold him in comfort. Like others of his type he had come to England. And between Berlin and London he had undergone the metamorphosis which had changed him from Hermann Bader to George Laidley. He had chosen the latter name because to his way of thinking it was as good as a specimen of British nomenclature as any other he might have selected. It was quiet, gentlemanly, and yet in no way outstanding or likely to attract undue attention to the new owner. Tho latter was the most, important point; the one thing that the new George Laidley desired most of all was not to attract attention to himself. After his experience at the hands of tho Brownshirts lie- would have been willing (a.lmost) to cut himself up into little pieces rather than attract undesirable notoriety. Yet old customs die hard. Arrived in London, the refugee actually did secure a small footing in the silk industry, but when he discovered the amount qf freedom he was allowed—how he was permitted to come and go practically as he pleased with no vexatious questions asked —he took courage unto himself. True, it was the courage of a rat, but still it was courage. So it happened that one night, meeting a likely “prospect” at the corner of Beaker Street and Regent Street, George Laidley (alias Hermann Bader) resumed liis old calling; in other words he reverted to kind and became a white slaver. On this particular afternoon he was sitting in his small office in Beaker Street when he had a visitor. The latter entered unannounced; the supposed traveller in-silk goods did his own book-keeping and acted as liis own office boy and telephone clerk. Frugalminded as regards business expenditure, he did not believe in. spending money to waste. It was about five minutes after tne arrival of this unexpected visitor that the telephone in. the small loom lang. The former ornament of Berlin nightlife made an effort to answer the call, but he was forestalled; it was the visitor who took off the receiver. What he said in reply to the words that came to him over the wire made the bogus silk merchant squirm but they served a useful dual purpose. “If any proof were needed, what I’ve just heard would suffice,” remarked the visitor; “you’re coming for a little ride with me, Hermann Bader.” It was an hour after this that Ruby Trost distorted her hideously wrinkled face into what might have passed in the case of the ordinary person for a smile of welcome. “You haven’t got a cold, have you, Mr Laidley ” she inquired after the initial greetings had been passed. “No, I haven’t got a cold,” was the cross reply, “why do you ask that?” “Because your voice sounded a little hoarse on tho telephone,” commented the crone. “It must have been the line _ was bad—l couldn’t hear you very distinctly and now,” with a sharp attention to business, “where is this something very .special that you say you nave kept for me?” • At this point Horst, entering the room, looked at the other keenly. He had done business before with the man who called himself George Laidley. The latter drew up his coat-sleeve and looked at his wrist-watch. “1 can’t stay more than 10 minutes, he remarked. “Where is the girl?” Horst, still keeping his eyes fixed on the visitor’s face, made a sign to the crone. “Go and fetch her,” he ordered. “I got into touch with you, Laiclley,” he went on, “because I knew you wouldn’t haggle.” “It all depends,” was the cautious reply. “There are so many damned outsiders in the business now that the trade’s getting ruined.” _ “Wait until you see this girl, advised Horst. . • Two things were immediately evident to the visitor directly tho captive walked into the room. The first was that so far her spirit had not been broken, and the second was that she was hoping almost against hope that help would come so that she might get away from this rat-trap. It was a compliment to his make-up, he decided that she should shrink away from, him in the way she was doing. Horst himself made the introduction. “This is the gentleman, who is going, I hope, to superintend your travels abroad, my dear Miss Ronton—of course there are one or two preliminaries of business to he settled first. . . well, Laidley,” he asked, turning to the caller. The latter ignoring the speaker, looked at the girl. “You needn’t he afraid of me, my dear,” he said. “I’m your friend—if you but knew it.” Ruby Trost cackled. “That’s a good one,” she cried. “Well, of course, he is your friend,” she continued, devoting her attention now to the girl, “he’s going to send you on a voyage where you will meet all kinds of nice people.” “All right, Horst—wo can call it settled,” remarked the caller. “The young lady comes away with me immediately.” “Not so fast, Laidley,” adjured his host; “as I said before there are one or two business preliminaries to he settled' first. For one thing I want to see the colour of your money . . . You promised to bring notes on the telephone—at least so Ruby told me.” “Yes, that’s right,” corroborated the hag: “what the hell do you think we asked you out here tor if it wasn’t to get your money? There are plenty of others if you—” “Wait a minute!” cried the caller in a tone of aggrievement, “who is trying to get out of paying. I’m not. And putting his hand into his pocket and pulling out a revolver, “I’m going to take care that you don’t either! Now, my friend, Horst, please walk across this room, stand with your back to the wall, and put your hands high above your head. And that applies to you, too,” turning to the crone. “Who the devil are you?” demand-

ed Horst. The reply was given not to the speaker, but to the wide-eyed Susan Renton. “My name is Rene Jacquard, once of the Paris Surete and now of the French counter-espionage corps. Your brother, mademoiselle,” he added still speaking to the girl, “is one of my dearest friends. I promised him last night that* I would do my best to find you—and now lam going to take you straight back to him.” “I’ll see you in hell first,” cried Horst—and sprang forward. Jacquard’s revolver harked. The bullet caught the crook in the chest and the man slumped to the floor. “Quickly, mademoiselle!” urged the Frenchman—but when they reached the bottom of the stairs that led upwards to freedom and a less-tainted atmosphere. they found a horde of faces staring down at them. Then a hoarse voice shouted a command. Get them both—you heard what Laroche said.”