Sentenced to Death.

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 40, 10 May 1927, Page 16

Sentenced to Death.

by

Louis Tracy.

Author of “ The Long Lane of Many Windings ,** ” One Wonderful Night,” '* Love and the Aces,” 4 ‘ The Token,” &c ., &c.

(Copyright for the Author in the Edward J. Clode, Inc., New Yoi SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. CHAPTER I.—A young officer, Antony Blake, learns from a skilled physician that he has not many months to live. One of the valves of the heart is clogged and nothing less than a miracit can save him. He arrives at a part of Regent’s Park where a pony and governess car are stationed which had passed through Harley Street during his interview. The stout driver has vanished. A vivid flash of lightning causes the pony to bolt. As Antony is walking, in a drenched condition, two men overtake and rush past him, one tall ar.tl thin, the other short and fat. The rotund runner falls, picks himself up and tears along. Antony notices a sharp-pointed dagger shining in the grass. He picks it up and examines it. finally flinging it into the long grass fringing the shrubbery. He reaches a small wooden hut. A girl is sheltering there. He shelters there also. She tells him she was to meet her uncle, who was driving a pony in a governess car. The two leave the hut, turning to the left instead of to the right. CHAPTER ll.—Blake takes her to her home. Her name is Iris Hamilton. Soon after he is again in the Park and he finds the dagger. About half-past nine he glances through the day’s news. The first item that catches his eye is “Tragedy in Regent’s Park. Supposed Murder.” Another paragraph details how Dr. EnsleyJones found a long-bladed dagger in the body of the dead man. Its description tallies with the one in Blake’s possession. He taxis to the nearest police station and tells his story. Blake finds himself practically under arrest, suspected of Complicity in the murder of Robert Lastingham.

CHAPTERS 111. and IV.—Furneaux arrives, identifies Blake, hears his story, and then asks the inspector for the knife. Then Furneaux invites himself to Blake’s flat. As the two men are making their way to Antony’s rooms, his housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, says that a young lady had called and left a letter for him. It is from Iris Hamilton and relates to the murder. In spite of happenings Iris Hamilton keeps an appointment. They taxi to the Marble Arch, where Blake phones Mrs. Wilson his change of plans Iris draws his attention to the fact that the short, stout man whom Blake is connecting with the murder has just passed He has a woman with him.

An attempt is make to arrest the fat man but the detective is stunned by a chauffeur, while Blake, suffering a heart attack, can only stand by helpless. Iris goes to get help but does not return.

CHAPTER V. —Blake sees the tall thin man at Albert Gate, and after sending a note to Furneaux. follows him to Soho.

United States and Canada by :k. All other rights reserved.) friend, the good Louis Blanc? Or is it that yon, like me, are a stranger in London?” The man almost sneered. “Can’t you talk English?” he inquired in a singularly musical voice, a voice so utterly at variance with his hang-dog aspect that Blake was astonished. “Oh, yes,*’ came the reply. “I’m sorry. I thought you were a Frenchman.” “I may be, but you are obviously English. If you are searching for Monsieur Louis Blanc why don’t you consult a directory or ask a postman?” “Ah, a postman? Yes. Splendid. A directory will be useless. My friend has not been in business here longer than a couple of months.” “Well, I cannot assist,” and the tall man stalked on. “At present,” mused Blake, looking up and down the street for a policeman, ‘I don’t know whether I am a really smart chap or a confounded fool, but that is a problem which has to be solved by others.”

He affected to scrutinise the names over the shop fronts, walking slowly, and taking care never to be caught staring after the retreating Levantine, since he was sure now of the man’s general classification. He was on© of the human mongrels who swarm along the shores of the Eastern Mediterranean. Probably, from his fluent knowledge of English and French, that one word “Monsieur” being a complete test in the latter language, he was of Egyptian birth. The tall figure was soon lost in the distance, and Blake made up his mind that the actual chase must cease then and there. What next? Should he telephone Scotland Yard or try and find out something about the house? Action was better than a mere reporting of facts which had no instant significance. He resumed his coat and hat, entered an Italian cafe on the opposite side of the road, in which, through skimpy curtains, he spied an empty window table. He ordered some soup and a risotto Milanese, surprising a tired waitress by electing to pay his bill and tip her straight away. He explained this frailty, however, by the singularly true statement that he expected a man to pass whom he must see without fail and might have to rush out. A somewhat frowsy elderly woman of the true Soho brand was the only person who emerged from the watched doorway during the next twenty minutes. and her mission began and ended at a neighbouring pork-shop. The food was well prepared, and he enjoyed it, though the meal was saddened by the reflection that he had started out from St. John’s Wood barely two hours earlier with every prospect of lunching in state with Iris Hamilton, and making her better acquaintance. Soon he would have con~dfd in her T -T« wo’-’ 1 stir-’’*Vo f or iendship. ; - onal companionship of such a girl might

have cheered his loneliness and brightened some of his remaining days, much as members of the old Parisian nobility sought feminine sympathy before they entered the tumbril for that last dread procession to the guillotine. And now he had lost her utterly. No matter what her secret motive in scurrying away from Hyde Park, he, at least, could hardly count on meeting her again in amity. Perhaps, at this very moment, she was being badgered by the police to supply reasons for her action. That detective, Barker, would be rancorous. The mere thought was hurtful. He rose, and went out.

But his luck, such as it was, still held. Before he could step into the street a man ran from the narrow doorway which might possibly lead to some rendezvous used by the Pig and his spindle-shanked associate. This fellow was young, undersized, and sturdy. His dark clothes and soiled Homburg hat were of the semirespectable style adopted by the lower class foreigner in Soho. He raced to Old Compton Street, but Blake was far too skilled a scout to follow at other than a walking pace, since there was no knowing what eyes might be peering through those dun upper windows. Nor was undue haste called for. At the cross roads the newcomer hailed a taxi, and got in. Blake was just in time to catch the cab’s number. The police might like to know it. He was jotting down the letters and figures in his notebook when a voice at his shoulder cackled: “Never make a memorandum in the open street, Mr. Blake. Trust your memory, or seek more privacy than is attainable here.” Blake wheel.ed round. The voice came from a neat little man in trim blue serge, with hat-ribbon, tie, shirt, and socks in complementary shades. “By jove, I’m glad to see you, Mr. Furneaux,” he cried. “This detective business is taking me out of • my depth.” “It took me there 25 years ago,” said Furneaux. “And I’ve been in deep waters ever since. But what’s the special trouble?” “Everything. Girl gone. Scoundrels gone. As soon as anyone sets eyes on me to-day, he or she hooks it instantly. For all that, if I shouldn’t

make notes here, neither may I make a speech, I suppose?”

“I can take you to a cafe where you will be free to rant as long as 1 care to listen.”

.“That’s all very well. Who will keep watch and ward over my specially discovered den of villainy”

“Meaning?” Despite his own protest, Blake supplied a fairly detailed synopsis of the queer incidents of the past hour, beginning from the moment he had quitted the police station in Hyde Park Furneaux did not check him, but followed the story intently. “Good work!” he said at last. He glanced at a loiterer who had been much interested in some French newspaper displayed on a rack outside a news agent’s shop. This person joined them unobtrusively. He was a quiet-looking man, well dressed, with the face of a thinker. Not until he came quite near could it be seen that the pupil of his right eye was perceptibly larger than that of the left. “Detective-Sergeant Sheldon,” answered Furneaux. “He’s a steady lad. No matter what you may thing of me. Mr. Blake, you can depend on anything Sheldon tells you. And I believe he knows Soho better than I knoAr it, which argues an almost infamous acquaintance with its mysteries. Now, suppose the three of us have a look at this house of mystery, between which and your park ruffians, by the way, there is not yet any definite link established.” “I know that,” admitted Blake. “Still, I have a notion that some trivial accident alone detained my longlegged friend in that particular doorway.” “It may be so You’ve been lucky every minute of this day thus far.” “Which house are you talking about?” inquired Sheldon. “I’m not quite sure,” said Blake. “All I know is that a narrow entry a few doors up on the left leads to a steep stairs, and the rooms above seem to be over a greengrocer’s shop.” “Oh, that’s where Casquetti used to live,” said Sheldon. “He was knifed late one night in Charing Cross Road about two months ago. No one ever knew why, nor cared greatly. He was a perfectly poisonous Maltese, and lived on blackmail.” They strolled on, and Furneaux turned in through the open door. On the left-hand wall were 16 small squares, each with a soiled card stuck in it. In every instance a slide was provided which showed whether the person indicated was “in” or ‘out.” Among the “outs” appeared the name of “Mademoiselle Natalie Gortschakoff.” “By gad!” cried Blake, “that’s the woman, for a fiver! She looked like a Russian dancer.” “She lives in Casquetti’s old rooms,” said Sheldon. “But how does Natalie come on the screen? You don’t mean

to say she is possibly the lady who was carried off in the car from the head of the Serpentine?” “Tell him!” said Furneaux. “I want to hear that part of the business again.”

Thus encouraged, Blake related his adventures once more. This time he omitted nothing. He wound up by giving the number of the taxi-cab which he had been watching when Furneaux appeared.

“Luck or no luck, Mr. Blake,” was Sheldon’s comment, “you’ve done extraordinarily well. We managed to intercept that bus conductor in Tottenham Court Road, and thus got here quickly. I only wish Barker had held his hand. The gang is warned now. But that cannot be helped. If Mademoiselle Gortschakoff is really the lady of the Park, we have something definite to go on.” “We can’t go through this shack with a tooth-comb just now,” decided Furneaux. “Sheldon will deuptise for you. Did you lunch well? Or can you do with another snack?” “I was given most appetising fare in that little place across the road,” said Blake. “So you are free. I hate the necessity of imposing any additional strain on that wonky heart of yours, but do you object to making an early call on Miss Iris Hamilton?” Blake hesitated. “What earthly good will that do” he asked. “Name of a good little grey man, how do I know?” piped the other. “You two seem to work admirably in double harness. Or is it tandem? Who can tell? Anyhow, all sorts of things hap pen when you get together. Go and see her now. Tell her why you broke down. That’s your excuse for presenting yourself. I’ve been counting on you, so I headed off Barker and the other lads, who were aching to tackle her. And, listen. My immediate chief, Mr. James Leander Winter, C.8.E., the big man in our Department, dines with me, and possibly Sheldon, at eight o’clock in the Ristorante Milano, in this very street, a chop-house run by Signor Vittorio Pucci. Join us—private room, first floor. Don’t worry if you hear nothing from us in the meantime. I have a suspicion that we shall all be much older and wiser before we lay by the heels the gang responsible for Robert Lastingham’s murder. All I want of you is that you bring the young woman into a proper frame of mind, and may heaven prosper you!” Still Blake hung back.

“You are asking me to undertake a most disagreeable task,” he protested. “Where is the use of pretending that

Miss Hamilton’s disappearance after she saw that car does not call for explanation? lam convinced she will be glad if she never sets eyes on me again.” “It will do no harm if you even discover that nebulous fact,” urged Furneaux. “But, granted I am mistaken, and she takes me to some extent into her confidence, am I to act as decoy duck for the police?” “No. You have done a lot for us already. If, as the outcome of your next meeting with the young lady, you elect to keep a shut mouth and withdraw entirely from the inquiry, you will not be worried any further in regard to it by any member of the C.1.D., always provided that you may be called on to give evidence concerning the men you yourself drew attention to.” Blake smiled. “My mere refusal to utter a word after I have had another talk with Miss Hamilto.n will tell heavily against her,” he said. “How can that be, when, in any event, we must put her on the rack? But I must not press you in the matter. If you don’t take the lady in hand I must turn her over to Barker, or some detective in her own district.” “You offer a dour alternative, Mr. Furneaux.” The little detective nearly showed temper then. “Do I?” he snapped. “I wonder whether you realise just what that alternative is? I don’t believe there is another man in my position now living who would make such an offer, or ad«3re to it if made. Que diable! lam trying to smooth a very difficult path for Miss Iris Hamilton, yet you pretend that my good intention is the poorest sort of trickery. Well, then ” “Wait one second before you cast me into outer darkness,” pleaded Blake, with a sincerity which quieted the rising storm. “No doubt I am wholly in the wrong, but surely it is better that I should state my position clearly now than raise a quibble afterwards? And there is an aspect of the affair which I had forgotten momentarily. A man has been killed most brutally. He is dead, but his rights as a fellow human being remain. If it will help to bring his murderer to justice I’ll go straight to Miss Hamilton. You don’t expect me to sail under false colours, I take it? I’ll be as candid with her as I hope she will be with me, though at the back of my hand I feel it is a wasted effort.”

“Make it,” said Furneaux shortly. “Hop into a cab, and get out at your own flat. There may be another note awaiting you there.”

At that instant the tubby man whom Iris had likened to a pig hurried in out of the sunlit street. He probably saw some figures standing in the darkened passage at the foot of the stairs, but his haste, his feverish excitement, and the way in which his eyes sought the card-rack, accounted amply for any failure to pay heed to their presence. “By ,” breatnea Blake. Sheldon, nearest the exit, said cheerily, “Well, so long!” and brushed past the breathless one. But he did not quite pass. Turning when he was between the newcomer and the open door, he pinioned the man’s elbows and shoved him up against Furneaux, who ran both hands over his pockets and hips with lightning-like dexterity. (To be Continued.)