The Shadow Crook

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 572, 26 January 1929, Page 21

The Shadow Crook

I By

Aidan de Brune

(Author of “Dr Night,** 4 ‘The Carson Doan Mystery,** The Dagger and the Cord,” etc.)

(COPYRIGHT.)

CHAPTER VI. A low whistle brought: the detective alert. There was a shadow emerging from the shadows of the door of the house across the street. It wavered as if undecided. Out of the darkness into the comparative light of the street stepped the figure of a lithe and graceful woman. For a brief moment she stood, pulling on her gloves, then turned in the direction of the Pott’s Point rocks, walking quickly. With a few quick steps Branston came to the side of the inspector. “Did you see her? What does it mean? I’ll swear the Shadow Crook went in there —and a girl cornea out!” The two men stood ag;ainst the line of buildings, w'atchiug the girl we lk swiftly away. In a few moments she turned the corner into Millington Street and was lost to sight. “Perhaps the Shadow Crook is si ill in the house,” suggested Masou, slowly turning to face the door the girl had come out of. “But there was no one else in there.” Branston spoke excitedly. “I have been on the w'atch ever since he entered, and there has not been a soul about the place.” For a second the detective Hesitated. He wanted to follow the girl, yet, if the newspaper man spoke correctly, it was more important to continue the watch on the house. The Shadow Crook was a menace that had to be caught as quickly as possible. “Will you follow the girl?” The journalist broke in on the detective’s meditations. “I’ll wait here, « r rather, I’ll try to get into the house •. aud find if he’s still there.” “Too dangerous.” Mason decided. “Come aloug. Here, take this.” He Pulled the blackjack from liis belt and passed it to the newspaper man. ‘Don’t use it unless you are attacked

ami then hit for all you’re worth.” He led across the road into the darkness of the doorway. There he hesitated a moment ami pulled out his electric torch. The beam of light showed the outlines of a small room, sparsely furnished. On the left-hand side, facing the door, were the stairs to the upper floor. Beside the stairway in the lower room was a door, evidently opening into the kitchens. There was no one in the room. A quick glance around and Mason ran silently up the stairs to the small lauding. A door was immediately opposite the top of the stairs. From i he landing a narrow passage ran round the stairs to the front rooms. The police officer was making for the door directly opposite him when Branston caught his arm. “Not there. Mason.” The journalist whispered. •Tie’ll be in the room where he can overlook the street. Mason saw the force of the argument and turned to the front rooms. One of the doors was ajar. tor a minute he listened for the breathing of a sleeper, then hearing nothing pushed the door open and entered. There was no one there. He turned quickly to the other room, to find it also empty, in a few strides he came to the door of the room opening i directly opposite the head of the stairs i Here again he found no one. Tile house was empty! What did it mean? The house was deserted, yet Branston had seen the Shadow Crook enter it? With a grunt of disgust Mason slipped down the. stairs to the ground lloor and searched the kitchen. A few minutes convinced him the Shadow Crook had j The Shadow Crook had entered the house —and a woman had come out! With a call to the journalist, who had again ascended the stairs. Mason sped into the street in hot, pursuit ot the, girl He must catch up to her. it! was evident that with her lay the; solution of the mystery. Turning into Millington Street, lie had to reduce ills run to a fast walk. The street was well tilled with people, and even at his slow er pace lowering | faces turned toward him suspiciously If he had continued to run the word would have quickly passed he was a. ••dick” on the trail of some crook anil everv obstacle would have been put m his path, eveu to mob violence He came to the foot of the steps leading up from Woolloomooloo to Victoria Road, Darliughurst. A quick j

glance up them and lie continued in the direction of King’s Cross. As he turned the corner into William Street he saw a slight, girlish figure, dressed in complete black, step from the pavemeut and cross the square. Mason slackened his pace to keep the girl in sight. He believed this was the girl he had seen cpming out of the house in Amersham Street. He would find out where she was going. She might lead him to the lair of the Shadow Crook. The girl arrived on the opposite pavement and turned to the right a few paces, to Walcott Road. A couple of hundred yards down the road, and she crossed and entered a short, blind lane, at the end of which stood a big pile of flats. She entered the wide main doors arid went immediately to one of the lifts. The detective watched the lift disappear upwards, then stepped back to the pavement and looked up at the facade of the building. Over the door, in big gilt letters, were the words “Innesfail Mansions.” A contemptuous smile came on the officer’s lips. Massive, well-lit and finely appointed, Innesfail Mansions bore an unenviable reputation among the members of the New South Wales Police Department. Nearly all the flats were let to the demi-mondaines of Sydney; yet so strict, was the management that not

once had occasion been given for the officially longed-for raid. Who was this woman who had come from the house in Amersham Street to Innesfail Mansions? Mason stood before the building, puzzling the problem. When he had sped up Woolloomooloo in pursuit of the girl a vague idea had been in his mind that he was chasing a man disguised in woman’s clothes. The few yards lie had walked behind her had dispelled that theory. She was certainly all girl, and he had only the belief of the newspaper man that the Shadow Crook had entered the Amersham Street house. He had not sufficient evidence to allow him lo call help from the nearest police station" and raid the flats. All he could do was to watch. If she did not come out within 'a reasonable time he must assume she lived there and that Branston had been deceived. On the fifth floor of the building the girl left the lift and walked down the corridor to the door of a flat bearing the number “37.” For a moment she leaned against the door, watching back along the corridor with wide, frightened eyes. She knew she had been followed from Amersham Street, and feared her pursuer. For some minutes she remained on watch, then felt for the electric push-button. The lights in the flat, seen through the glass panels of the door, were suddenly extinguished. The girl tapped sharply on the glass and the door swung open. “What is the matter, Norma?” The question was asked in an old mail’s quavering voice. “What made you ring the bell likt that? You frightened me.” “I ... I thought I was followed.” The girl pressed into the small hall and shut the door firmly, holding her hand against it for some time. “Followed? You don’t think. ...” “I mustn’t think.” The girl touched the light switch on the wall. “If l stop to think I shall go mad.” Her eyes swept round the room until they rested on the face of the old man leaning against the wall. Her expression softened, and she moved to his side, linking her arm in liis. “What is it, dad? Are you not.; happy here?” ; “Happy!” The old man turned liis ; weak grey eyes on the girl’s dark I beauty with a perplexed look. “Oh, I’m happy enough, Norma, except . . . | it’s all so strange, for the present.” | “Hush! pon’t talk like that.” A j sharp note crept into the girl’s voice. I “You’re not to think of . . . of that.” I “Can I help it?” The old mail j suffered himself to be led into the dining-room, to a table spread with | supper lor two persons. "I want to J tfiiuk ... to think where. . . .” j “That will come.” The girl went to I the table and filled two wine-glasses, i “Drink this, dad It is ... is one way j to forgetfulness and. Heaven knows;. botli of us can do with that.’ ! “You’re a good girl. Norma.” The man sank into one of the big leather : chairs. “It was you made it possible ... I had thought and thought, but | I could not get beyond. . . .”

“It was you found Mayne . . . Frederick Mayne,” the girl interposed. “Without him. . . .” “It was you who taught me what to say to him.” The old man mumbled over liis glass. “What did I do?” There was selfscorn in the girl’s voice. “All 1 did was to take his daughter and give her some of the idleness and luxury I despise and loathe.” “He would have done it tor less.” “No.” The girl paused for a long

time. Tam not repenting. Isla is a sweet child. I am quite fond of her.” “But, if anyone discovers. If you know ... if they guess, her father is a convict. . .” “Was,” the girl interrupted. “You forget, dad. Frederick Mayne. the convict, is dead.” “No. no.” The old man sprang to | liis feet. “Don’t say that! Don’t say I that! Frederick Mayne was released I from gaol, just a week ago. it was j Stacey Carr who died in the infirmary j at Bathurst.”

“Does it matter” The girl made a weary gesture. “Frederick Mayne received his price, and died Happy. He told me he knew I would keep my promise—that his daughter would be given a home of luxury, and shielded from the world’s knowledge—as the daughter of a convict. He died, caring little that the headstone in the prison graveyard would bear the name of Stacey Carr.” “Hush, oh hush.” “Why hush? We are alone here. Our only neighbours are the women of Sydney who have not yet come to walking the streets, for their living. Dad! Dad! You are free, free! That is all I care for! That and . . “And your husband, Norma?” “My husband. A jealous, unfaithful, middle-aged watcli-dog!” The girl lauglied scornfully. “Don’t talk of him, dad. Tell me, what are you going to do?” “What of the shop, Norma?” “It is as you left it. The old man, Sydney Warton is in charge.” “You must get rid of him, Norma.” The girl set forward, clasping her hands on the whiteness of the tablecloth. A little pucker-frown came between her eyes. “That will be difficult.” She paused and continued: “I made a mistake when I put Sydney Warton in the shop, dad. Already he considers the place his own. If I discharge him he “Yes?” “He may go to the police.” The girl finished her sentence in a low voice. “Dad, can’t you remember? Don’t you try? Oh, think, think!” “How can I think, here?” Stacey Carr swept his hand around him vaguely. “I want to be in the old place where —where things happened. Perhaps, then . . .” “I must manage it! Norms’ spoke to herself. “But, how?” “That, man must go,” Carr continued with the obstinacy of age. “I will try, dad. but you must have patience. Perhaps there is a way.” “There must be one.” The old man i was gesticulating wildly. “Norma, Norma! How 1 am to find the jewels unless 1 get back to my shop?” • “Hush dad: Hush!” “Whv hush’? Stacey Carr paced the room, excitedly. “Don’t von know there was a time when I had forgot ten them —when I groped ; n d-eer darkness with but one spot ot tight, to guide me. Oh. yes. 1 know now what happened. I remember lying in the hospital, my head bandaged in a ball of white linen. 1 remember you comiug to see me. and asking me where I had hiddeu the sapphires, and “And, the White Trinity.” “Yes. The White Trinity. And. I | laughed for 1 did not know what you meant. Presently they took the ban dages from my head and r< ugh men led me away and . . . md -hey were i always asking where the .apphives j and the White Trinity were aiiu . . .

and I laughed at them for . . . for l thought ... I thought . . .” “Dad, be quiet. You are exciting yourself.” “They took me away to prison. Day after day they came to me and asked me to tell them what I had d me with the jewels—until I almost came to believe I had had them. Day after night, night after day, I brooded over those jewels others knew of but 1 had forgotten. Again I was ill. and they took me to the infirmary. They said it was the blow on my head, but I knew different. It was because I had thought, and thought, until . . .” “Dad! What is the good of going over all that again?” “Good?” The old man crossed the room and stood beside the girl. “Good, child? Yes, good, because now I remember.” “You remember where you put the jewels? You can go and find them? “No.” Carr shook his head, slowly. “Not yet has that knowledge come to me. But, Norma, I know of the jewels. When I shut my eyes I can see them plainly. They are real, real; just as if I had them in my hands.” “The pearls were sick, dad.” "“Yes.” The old man gropped forward with his hands as if blind. Yes. I can see them, the three pearls strung together by the whisp of irridescent pearly-substance. I took them from the box in which he had carried them across the continent. They hung from my fingers—and he asked me wffiat ailed them. I told him they w r ould never be well, for long. They were the produce of chance —a freak of nature and, like all freaks, to suffering. He, the jew, asked me cure them so that he could sell them to someone who knew their frailty.” “What became of them, dad?” The girl sitting forward, whispering the words in the intensity of her emotions. “What became of them?” Carr passed his hand before his face, per plexedly. “I ... I cannot remember If I could . . .” “Dad. surely ...” “Peace, child ” Carr drew' himself to his full height. “Was it not to discover the hiding place of the jewels [ plotted and planned to get out of the gaol? Was it not for the jewels entrusted to me. that I bribed Frederick Mayne with a life of luxury, at your hands, for his child? I offered him all I had to offer and you . . . you. my child, made good my words. (To he Continued.)