Sentenced to Death.

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 42, 12 May 1927, Page 16

Sentenced to Death.

By

Louis Jracy.

Author of “ The Long Lane of Many Windings/* " One Wonderful Night/* “ Love and the Aces/* ** The To\en/* &c. t &c.

(Copyright for the Author in the United States and Canada by Edward J. Clode, Inc., New York. All other rights reserved.)

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 rntracit 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 and 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. finalls' 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 inst€!ad 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 (inds the dagger. About balf-past nine he glances through the day's news. Th<=» first item that catches his eye Is “Tragedy In Regent’s Park Supposed Murder.” An other 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 *o the nearest police station and tells his story Blake finds himself practically under arrest, suspected of com plicity in the murder of Robert Lastlneham. CHAPTERS 111. and IV.—Purneatix 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 Tris Hamilton keeps an appointment Th*»y 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 lust pass**'* 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 sufferine a heart attack, car. only stand by help ess. 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 Detectives join him and they succeed in finding the haunt of the criminals. The fat man walks In and is caught. CHAPTERS V. and Vl.—Blake sees the tail thin man at Albert Gate, and after sending a note to Furneaux. follows him to Soho. Detectives join him and they succeed in finding the haunt of the criminals. The fat man walks In and is caught. Blake calls on Iris and is surprised at her reception. She warns him to go away quickly. An American crook threatens Blake over the telephone. (By special arrangement Reuter’s World Service, in addition to other special sources of information, is used in the compilation of the oversea intelligence published in this issue, and all rights therein -n Australia and New Zealand •re reserved.)

“I cannot suggest anything better. But —never miss your dinner for the sake of any woman. That way madness lies. So, turn up at the Milano, but leave the telephone number with that excellent housekeeper of yours. Then, if the lady appears between eight and nine you may wheedle her into coming along to Pucci’s. If she shies at that, you can hurry off and see her. In any event, she can talk over the phone.” Winter’s downright commonsense method of expressing himself supplied just the mental tonic Blake needed. It took all responsibility off his shoulders and he adhered to the programme faithfully. At half-past seven, there being neither sight nor sign of Iris, he summoned Mrs. Wilson, gave her the necessary instructions, and went out to find a taxi. Above all else he enjoined on his housekeeper the importance of getting Iris to come into the flat and use the telephone there. At the Dean Street restaurant he found four men gathered in the upstairs room spoken of by Furneaux. A tall, strongly-built person, typical of the country gentry who farm their own lands and understand the mysteries of pedigree cattle and the rotation of crops—a round-headed, cheery giant, with tremendous limbs and prominent all-seeing eyes—came forward with outstretched hand. “I’m Winter,” he said. “This is Mr. Alexander Inglis, a financial expert who can explain the difference between a Turkish and an Egyptian piastre. Furneaux and Sheldon you know. There are five cocktails in readiness. Shall we make them the first course?” Blake looked at Mr. Alexander Inglis with real interest. Here, at last, he imagined, was a man who might shed light on the dark places in which the business career of Robert Lastingham had been fashioned and spent. “Your name, sir,” he said, “seems to indicate that you are not a native of either of the countries whose currencies are an o.ien book to you.” Inglis, a black-haired Scot of the true Highland stock, eagle-nosed, thinlipped, dark-eyed, a big-boned, hairy man of almost ascetic appearance, smiled agreeably. “No,” he said. “I am not even a Czecho-Slovak. I was born in Aberdeen, though I have little doubt you are disappointed when I don’t roll my ‘r’s’ in the vernacular. I can do it, but it sounds rather stagey in my ears.”

“Ah!” sighed Furneaux, “such restraint is an indication of real strength of character. You ought to hear my respected chief trying to talk French. He does worse than roll his ‘r’s.* He mangles them.” “Why this undeserved attack on me, you rat?” demanded Winter. “Because I’m tired and hungry, and feel that I must bite somebody, and either Mr. Inglis or Mr. Blake would feel justifiably annoyed if I tried to chew their ears, even in metaphor. So I have to snap at someone too big to hit back yet mentally unfit for repartee. The fact is I’ve just scored a blank failure and it hurst. An oleaginous Levantine, a greasy, pudding-faced scamp named Giorgio Belgrano, proved a very Paladin, a Chevalier Bayard, a gallant knight ready to die the death for the sake of a fair lady. He wduld talk about himself—far too much—but when I asked for confidences regarding Mademoiselle Natalie Gortschakoff, whom, in the first instance, he professed never to have heard of, he turned up his eyes like a dying duck and vowed she was a finer danper than Salome, not to mention the leading ladies of modern Russian Ballet. Then the fat little fool began to pirouette, showing me her and his favourite pas. The unfortunate constable who brought him into my room nearly ricked his neck trying to keep from laughing, especially when I, too, skipped about in an utterly vain effort to stop Giorgio’s rhapsodies. Not a word of sense could I get out of him about La Gortschakoff. He is either mad or an admirable actor.” “Natalie Gortschakoff!” cried Inglis, evidently startled to an extent that defied repression. “Is she in this business? I can hardly credit it. What sort of person is the one you have in mind?” Winter, serving an excellent sole Golbert, nodded to Blake. “Your cue,” he said. Whereupon Blake, fully aware of the rabbit which Furneaux had bolted in his own peculiar way, supplied an accurate description of Natalie Gortschakoff’s general appearance. He could

not describe her face, he explained, but, as he went on, with graphic illusion to her panther-like grace of movement and the lissome play of aer limbs, Inglis’s astonished alarm showed that he recognised even the incomplete portrait. “I want to tell you gentlemen straight away,” he said emphatically, “that I refuse to be connected with any inquiry which brings me across that lady’s path. She is easily the most dangerous woman now living. Let any human being interfere with or thwart Natalie Gortschakoff’s plans and he or she is a goner. There is no escape, yet personal liability is never brought home to the real author of the crime. Her wanderings through Europe, from Odessa to Paris, can be charted by mysterious deaths—undoubted murders, all of them. The mere mention of her name has spoiled my dinner, and I don’t mind admitting it. . . . Yes,” he went on with rising anger, challenging the critical looks of the others at the table, “I mean what I say. You imagine, I suppose, that I’m howling before I am hurt, and that, in any case, a man of my experience shouldn’t talk like an hysterical schoolgirl. But why the devil should I sacrifice my life because a shady financier of Robert Lastingham’s kidney has been stabbed by some of his associates? I have a wife and children to consider, and I would be several sorts of a fool if I ran up against Natalie Gortschakoff with my -eyes wide open.” The man was so thoroughly in earnest that his words carried conviction. He was neither frightened nor a coward. He was simply a downright sensible individual who when told that an unsuspected crevice harboured a poisonous snake refused to thrust his hand into it. Furneaux’s face while Inglis was speaking fascinated Blake far more than the strange revelation he was hearing in regard to an under-world of which he hardly realised the existence. The little detective seemed to be absorbing every word as though it were the utterance of an inspired

prophet. It was quite evident, indeed, even to an uninformed listener, that Inglis,-yielding to the stress of the moment, had said already far more than he meant to say. Out of the whole wide range of the English language he could hardly have strung together a few sentences of such pregnant import in the ears of three of the leading lights in the Criminal Investigation Department. Winter did not shirk the onus put on him. Without the shadow of a smile on his strong face he met the onslaught squarely. ‘I am more than sorry, Mr. Inglis,” he said, “if any action of mine had involved you in personal risk. I sought the assistance of an Under-Secretary in our Foreign Office who is well acquainted with the affairs of the Near East, and he told me you were the best qualified man he could think of at the moment to clear up certain questions which have been puzzling me since a late hour last night—since, I may say, our young friend here, Mr. Blake, proved beyond doubt that a charming English girl, supposed to be Lastingham’s niece, was on her way to meet her uncle in Regent’s Park at the very moment he was killed. May I point out, however, that thus far you may be exaggerating matters? No one outside this room except a highly-placed official in Whitehall knows that you have been consulted in the matter. I assure you, if you choose to leave us now, your name will never be mentioned again in connection with it, though I shall be exceedingly disappointed if we are deprived of the information you undoubtedly can give Inglis, who had poured out and swallowed a glass of 3-star Chianti with much haste, now tackled his share of the sole furiously. ‘Confound it!” he snapped. “I’m going to have my dinner if I’m knifed with the first cup of coffee. An English niece of Robbie Lastingham’s, you say? Where on earth did he get a niece from? What’s her name?” (To be continued.)