Sentenced to Death

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 53, 25 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 &c., &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 l. —A young officer. Antony Blake learns that he has not many months to live. He arrives at a part of Regent’s Park, where a pony and governess car are stationed. A vivid flash of lightning causes the pony to bolt. As Antony is walking, 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 dagger in the grass. He examines it, finally flinging it

into the long grass fringing the shrubbery. He reaches a small wooden hut. A girl is sheltering there. She tells him she was to meet her uncle, who was driving a pony in a governess car.

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. The first item that catches his eye in the night's paper 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 i.d the nearest police station and tells his story. Blake finds himself practically under arrest, suspected of complicity in the murder of Robert Lastingham.

CHAPTERS HI. 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.

CHAPTERS V. to Xl.—Blake sees the tall thin man at Albert Gate, and atter sending a note to Furneaux, follows him in Soho. Detectives join him and they succeed in finding the haunt of the criminals. The fat man walks in and Is caught. An American crook threatens Blake over the telephone. Blake attends a dinner of detectives where the mention of the name of "Natalie Gortschakoff” strikes terror into one of the guests. Then Miss Hamilton rings him up but the conversation Is cut short. News comes of a fight between the police and a gang at Blake’s house. Blake himself has another heart attack when he is on his way to Iris He goes to the fiat with a detective, and Mrs. Hamilton is arrested for complicity in the murder. Natalie rings up Blake and he agrees to take luncheon with her. He is blindfolded and taken In a ca»- to Natal'e's home where the villainess receives him graciously. Injudiciously he drinks some vodka and loses consciousness. He wakes up In Hamstead Heath. From observations he made in the house he is able to lead detectives there and a raid is made.

(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 in Australia and New Zealand are reserved.)

CHAPTER Xl.—(Continued). “Not one issued by a magistrate, but I think none the worse for you for looking after your employer’s interest. So, cast an eye over this. It is my official authority,” and the detective produced the identity card carried by all members of the Criminal Investigation Department, a personal passport, as it were, signed by the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.

After that the butler, whose name was Soames, offered every assistance. Two frightened maid-servants and a dull-witted fellow r , whose thoughts did not rise above garden rakes, shoe brushes, and coal-scuttles, were marshalled under the eye of a policeman. The second policeman was stationed on an upper landing, and the others went to the basement. Blake accompanied them. Furneaux said nothing, but it was evident that the embargo on his (Blake’s) presence had been removed.

Soames was useful in explaining the ground plan of the kitchen, scullery, cellars, and the rest. It was in l staff sitting-room that “Andrews” had been shot by the gentleman whose name ended in "owski.” None of the staff knew what the quarrel was about, and when “Madame Gautier” rushed downstairs to investigate she and the two men spoke in a language which Soames could not recognise.

“I’m sure it weren’t French, German, or Italian,” he declared. “Anyone who has been employed in big houses or hotels learns enough of the different lingoes to tell which is being used, even if you can’t speak it yourself.” A bullet mark was found on a wall, and Sheldon extracted a battered piece of nickel. “It must have passed clean through the injured man’s body,” he said. “Through his upper left arm, sir,” explained the butler. “The wound did not bleed much. Madame bound it up quite easily.” “Can you describe ‘Owski’?” put in Furneaux. Soames made a fairly successful attempt. From his words grew a faint picture of the Levantine, whom Blake had last seen in a Soho doorway. A few definite questions settled the matter. There was not a suggestion of the man’s physical peculiarities made by Blake which the butler did not accept readily. . 4 •

Not a jot or tittle of any sort of evidence did the house yield from basement to attics. There were neitheir papers nor personal belongings, even books, to give any hint of the tastes or habits of the occupants. Soames, entering into the spirit of the thing as he grasped the significance of this raid by- the police, made a valuable contribution when Sheldon commented on the phenomenal speed with which boxes must have been packed to permit of the place being evacuated at such short notice.

“Everything was always ready for departure in five minutes, sir,” he explained. “Madame had a lot of fine clothes, but they were never set out in wardrobes. She used trunks with shelves and hangers. At first I’d wonder a,t it, because ladies hate to have their dresses creased, but she’d go and come so unexpectedly that I came to see the wisdom of the arrangements.”

“Were accounts opened with local tradesmen?” inquired Furneaux.

“Not one, sir. Household stores were paid for in cash. Even to-day, when madame hurried off, she left me twenty pounds to meet expenses for the staff.”

“A strange creature!” muttered the detective.

Blake guessed that Furneaux’s unuttered thought was favourable to Natalie Gortschakoff. Not often did a fugitive from justice display such consideration for the well-being of temporary dependants.

Fully an hour was passed before either of the Scotland Yard men could bring himself to admit failure. Then Furneaux looked at his watch.

“We are wasting time here,” he announced decisively. “You, inspector, will leave two men on duty all night. Mr. Soames will no doubt see to their comfort. Early to-morrow Mr. Sheldon or I will come and take detailed statements from the servants. Tell them there is nothing to be afraid of. There will be no more shooting in this part of Belsize Park. Do you still wish to go home, Mr. Blake, or will you come with us and wait at the Yard until we can get out for a meal. Even detectives, if they would live, must eat.”

“If it is not taking you too much out of your way, I would like to call in at my place for a moment,” said Blake.

“Why? Not expecting any more nctes or telephone messages from a lady, are you?” “You never can tell,” and the younger man tried to conceal a whiff of embarrassment by a laugh. “But I can tell. I had no chance

this morning of giving you some news which may be of almost painful interest. Mrs. Hamilton and her daughter left for Paris by the afternoon train to-day.” For some inexplicable reason Blake yielded to a spasm of anger against this unfeeling little wretch.

“I take it you have allowed Mrs. Hamilton to drag her daughter out of the country?” he said, quite careless of the offence his words might give.

“No,” came the flippant answer. “No one was dragged anywhere. The young lady packed her boxes and went off, tearful but resigned.” .

“And may I ask why?” “Why she went? Because Mrs. Hamilton thought she had better leave her London environment. I agreed with her. I think she has told me the truth, and in any case I can pick her up more easily in Paris than here. People always behave foolishly in Paris.”

Blake was certain that if he did not, break off their talk at once he would say something very rude.

“If you don’t mind,” he said with a restraint that Furneaux appreciated thoroughly, “I’ll go home alone. It’s not so far. If I feel tired I can hail a taxi.”

He strode off, outwardly an iceberg, but a veritable volcano beneath the surface. He did not try to analyse his feelings or measure their absurdity. What he knew was that he had lost Iris, probably for ever, and the knowledge was devastating.

“Why did you hit that young fellow so hard” murmured Sheldon as the two detectives made for their car.

"Because I like him, and it’s good for him,” snapped Furneaux. “ 'Cre nom, he vows he can’t marry the girl, so why keep hankering after her. This is not a case of good fish being still in the sea. The poor lad is doomed, and knows it. Where’s the benefit in dreaming vain things during the lew months he has to live Let him take a knock to-day, and he may begin to enjoy life again to-morrow. And why should he blame me I tried to get hold of him and send him to Charing Cross at the right moment. Something might have happened then —a frantic hug and a holy row with mama. But he seemed to have been swallowed alive. Even according to his own account, he was making sheep’s eyes at Natalie Gortschakoff when he might have been gazing into the tear-laden orbs of Iris Hamilton. I’ll tell you something, Sheldon. I’ve gone out of the match-making business for keeps.

It worries me even more than it upsets the sloppy young things I throw at each other’s heads.” CHAPTER XII.—THE HAP OF THE. HOUR Blake regained some degree of selfcontrol before he had walked half a mile. He had no real grievance against Furneaux. His trouble lay rather with the crass conditions of life in general. In calmer moocl he saw that if he would be captain of his soul he must compel that unruly heart of his to cease hankering after the unattainable. It was doing him injury enough in shortening his days. It must certainly not be allowed to depress his spirits. He was, it has been shown, a young man who liked to order his time. I-Ie had attempted something of the sort when told that he had not many months to live; even for the passing hour he planned to hurry to his flat, retain the taxi he had just signalled, and go to his club, where he could attain a care-free respite in the company of friends. It was about twenty minutes past seven when he entered the cab. As the light was good he took out his note-book, a small, compact diary, to jot down .the parkkeeper’s name, because that good fellow deserved some payment by the authorities for the assistance he had given, even unconsciously, in the search for Natalie Gortschakoff’s wellhidden retreat.

A narrow strip of red ribbon marked the page of the latest entry, and Blake found instantly a -message written there signed “N.” It read: “I am not one who lightly breaks my pledged word. I could not allow you to go to the police at once after leaving my house, yet, to make sure of non-interference, I had to get rid of you. So I gave you the vodka with a harmless drug added to insure drowsiness. Then I hypnotised you, which I might not have been

able to do in your normal state. I hope you will come to no harm while insensible, and advise you finally to go away and forget all that has happened during the past forty-eight hours—all. Y'ou have no right to expect further warning. I have power. I can reward and punish, but cannot always control those who act with me.”

He admitted the hynosis without demur, since the premonitory symptoms were such as he would expect, though he had never before undergone any such semi-occult experience. In her own, strange way the woman seemed to wish him well, though it was, perhaps, better not to ask what would have been the outcome if she had discovered in his note-book unfailing directions for locating her residence. It was odd how she insisted that her quarrel with certain social and political conditions was no concern of his, or even of the representatives of law and order in Great Britain. He wondered what had become of her. Could she have attempted to travel by the train which took Iris and her mother out of England? Surely that would be impossible? He was convinced that the police, despite a mass of information of which he knew nothing, were holding back, as it were, for some crisis which had not yet developed, but it was absurd to believe tha-t they would let this organiser of murderous crime slip through their fingers so easily. Nevertheless, the time sugggested a selfevident coincidence. The well-known Folkestone and Boulogne boat-train left Charing Cross at 2.20 p.m. Mademoiselle Gortschakoff would just be able to take it if she allowed the bulk of her baggage to follow later. Did Furneaux suspect something of the sort? He had been curiously subdued in manner when told that the quarry had bolted. Was he eating his heart out now with annoyance because he had been outwitted? Well, Furneaux must make the best of it. He, Antony Blake, would give Scotland Yard and every human being connected with the Lastingham murder the widest of wide berths in future.

Of course, he regretted this decision. Life had been worth living while the chase lasted. Could it actually have ended while he was lying like a log in a Hampstead thicket? Surely not. Were there not barriers in the innocent guise of passports, with sharpeyed detectives scrutinising all passengers both in England and France? From that problem his mind wandered to the signature “N.” Where had he seen it before? Why, of course, it was an exact replica of the initial which Napoleon scrawled on his despatches. Had a modern woman modelled herself on the great Corsican? If history did not lie that imperious little man had not scrupled to avail himself of some of mademoiselle’s methods, even when he commanded mighty armies. And how Furneaux would revel in that characteristic “N.” It was almost worth while to seek him that night at his favourite haunt if only to see his beady eyes glisten at sight of it. No, tnat was not to be thought of. Here he was at his flat, and Furneaux might go hang. Above all else, Antony Blake

prided himself on an inflexible adherence to a course already mapped out.

“I’ll not be more than five or six minutes,” he told the driver. “I’ve got to wash and change my clothes, but everything is ready.” He ran in, ignoring once more his physical disability. Perhaps it would have given him a sharp reminder if Mrs. Wilson had not hurried from her den and caught him half-way up the stairs.

“Sir!” she cried. “The young leddy is here. She kem just now, an’ I tole ’er you would surely be back before dinner.”

His heart, did literally jump then but not with anguish.

“What young lady?” he breathed, not daring to suggest a name.

“Miss ’Amilton, sir. Pore thing! She’s that worried an’ when she axed if she might write, I sez ” He heard no more. Using his latchkey, the simpler mechanism of a doorhandle having been perforce abandoned, he entered his rooms. The door of his sitting-room was partly open and a voice reached him. “Is that you, Mr. Blake?”

Some words are set to a music of their own, and Blake’s love of harmony Ijad never been so gratified during his twenty-seven years on earth as it was at that moment.

“Yes,” he said, meaning to reassure her. Had he uttered another syllable his voice would have cracked.

He went in. Iris was seated, in the half-light near a window, and rose to meet him. She had been crying quietly, but checked her grief now.

“Please —forgive—this intrusion,” she said, trying bravely to speak without emotion. “I have been so miserable and thought—l might come to you—for some advice.”

He told her afterwards that he could not endure the strain of seeing a woman in tears, and indeed every woman is well aware of that always vulnerable chink in a man’s armour. But, whatever his excuse, he acted strangely, because he just put his arms around her. and kissed her on the lips and eyes and forehead, and told her that he, Antony Blake, would make it his bounden duty from that ecstatic moment thenceforth to shield her from all manner of evil whatsoever.

Of course, he did not use any such stilted language. His broken words would probably have been described by Furneaux as sheer drivel. But whatever they were, they seemed to be thoroughly understood* Iris clung to him, sobbing loudly the while, yet making out that she, the unhappiest mortal alive a minute ago, was now a thoroughly happy little girl, and she didn’t care whether it was true that he could not live long—she was his for ever and ever. (To be continued.)