In The Flashlight

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 624, 28 March 1929, Page 5

In The Flashlight

By

Bernard Rowthorne

Author of “The Jewels of Tar - Sin," “The Shadow of the Yamen,” Etc., Etc.

CHAPTER XIX. — (Continued.) “Before I reached the place where I'd secreted the camera I caught voices, and heard one man call another a murderer. That didn’t make me hurry any, you bet. I didn’t waut to come into that gallery at all, me having: no idea of being arrested on suspicion of a murder, of which J knew nothing. “For a goodish bit I lay quite still. I saw two men go off leading another; and then after assuring myself the coast was clear, I went forward. It gave me a bad turn when I came on the body of the woman lying there, where the others had left it, but I wanted nothing to do with any public inquiry, and I stuck it, picked up my camera, etc., and cleared out as fast as I could. I heard someone about; and I didn’t waste no time you can be certain, sir, for I had an idea that it might be the murderer coming back. “Guessing that I might have a treasure on my plate, I developed it myself; and as soon as the picture loomed up on the plate, I knew I had; for you’re not difficult to remember, Mr. Carston. You could have knocked me down with a feather, when holding the plate up to the light, I saw what was on it, and as soon as it was dry I Printed that slip there and then, and came along to see you, whom I guessed would be interested in it—and maybe become a purchaser.” “Not at five thousand pounds!” cried Carston coolly. “At not a penny less,” answered the visitor, with a hint of truculence in his tones. “What—for this scrap of paper?” “No,” answered the man quickly, “but for the negative from which it is Printed.” “Now you’re talking,” said Carston Quickly. “I shall want the negative and all the photographs that have been printed from it. I’m not going to have to redeem them one at a time. Five thousand pounds I will pay for them—and for your forgetfulness. '‘You will pay,” cried the photographer. “Then I’m a rich man after But there, I knew you’d pay, be-

cause, as Borrow says, Life is sweet, brother.’ ” “You have the negative with you, Mr. Harvey.” The man laughed cunningly. "Not me! See any green in my eyes. The man who has hilled once will kill again, Mr. Carston; I’m taking no risks. I’ll have the money in notes before I part with the negative.” “Then where is the negative?” asked Carston with eager apprehension. “Chancery Bane Safe Deposit, and the key is where you’ll never find it —you really need not glare at me like that, Mr. Carston. A man's bound to look after himself; and. perhaps I’d better explain that you’ll gain nothing by violence should your inclinations run that way. The fact is, that to protect myself, I wrote a little account of what happened in the wood the other night, and put it with that negative—just in case of anything of that sort happening, you understand, Mr. Carston.” The man broke off and smiled affably, adding, “'Twas no more nor sense to do that, as you’ll agree.” Anvthing in the nature of violence that Carston might have contemplated was for the moment completely scotched, as he was quick to recognise, and he made the best of it. “You're a perfect Solomon among blackmailers.” he said, sarcastically. “But have you thought of the risk involved in becoming accessory after the crime? There are some rather nasty- penalties involved, if you are found out.” “I'll risk those for five thousand pounds,” answered the man with a laugh. “But what guarantee have I that when you have the money you won't go straight to the police?” “You haven't any; but without the evidence of the plate mine isn't a very likely story to tell to anyone, and if I get the John Bradbury’s you can depend on it that I shall keep my mouth shut; and inside a month I’ll be on my way to the forests of the Amazon.” j “The forests of the Amazon," said Carston, thoughtfully, “they're a long way off. I think we may call it a deal. Suppose I meet y-ou to-morrow T night ” j “Not to-morrow,” said the man. “the dav after will suit me better. I'll be at the Mayhew Arms at eight o'clock, and I’ll have the plate with me, if you’ll bring the money." "Verv well! But you'll hold your tongue' about this, Mr. Harvey,” said.

Carston, moving to open the door, or ” “Or what?” asked Mr. Harvey, with an attempt to laugh, which was a failure. He got no answer in words, but the ferocious look in Carston’s eyes set him shuddering, and once he was outside in the darkness, he began to run as if in fear of pursuit. When he stopped he was breathless; and the words came from' him in a jerking whisper. “Heavens above! The man is a tiger.” CHAPTER XX. When he was alone a spasm of rage shook Carston, and he paced the room restlessly like the animal to which Harvey had compared him when it is shut up in a cage. The ferocious gleam was still in his eyes; and once, as he walked, words were forced from

him by the very stress of his anger. “The miserable rat! To thinlt he can hold me to ransom! But we will see! The forests of the Amazon are —mighty convenient for a man to lose himself in—’’ He resumed his pacings. It was good to know the worst even though the worst was as bad as it was. Now he could meet what was to come, prepare for it, checkmate it; which could not have been done had the blow been struck anonymously and out of darkness. But, as he paced to and fro restlessly, he knew that so long as the photographer lived, he himself would never feel secure again, and in his ruthless mind determined that the blackmailer would have to die, once the tell-tale plate had passed into his own hands. That decision reached, he began to think of other things; and suddenly remembered tbat he had not seen or heard anything of Margaret for three whole days. He glanced at the clock. There was still plenty of time to run over to the Melfords, and if he could see Margaret it would help him to find deliverance from the worrying thoughts which troubled him by their persistence. He was a man of swift decisions and inside ten minutes he was driving recklessly through the darkness in the direction of Margaret’s home.

When he reached there he found that Mr. Melford was out; but the footman showed him into the draw-ing-room where Margaret sat alone. On his entry a slight frown gathered on her forehead, but he affected not to notice it, and as he walked across the room to greet her he was apparently quite free from care. “Alone, Margaret,” he said, rallyingly, “and not reading?” “No!” she replied, without any answering smile, “I was thinking.” “A penny, no a diamond, for your thoughts!” he cried gaily. “I shall be glad to let you have them for nothing,” she answered, with a reserve in her manner that chilled him. “I was just making up my mind to write and tell you that I cannot marry you." “You were—what?”

All laughter and gaiety fled from his face suddenly, leaving it black as night. He stared at her with raging eyes; waiting for her to speak again, but she did not do so; and after a minute he broke out sternly. “I suppose that is because this fellow, Mayliew, has come back! But he's not going to be much good to you. even if in order to free himself he did murder his ”

“But he did not,” interrupted Margaret, in a tense voice. “I know he did not.” “How do you know?” asked Carston quickly, a sudden stab of fear In his heart. “I am sure of it, not only because I have his word; but because I know that she was not his wife.” “You have his word for that as well,” he said, with a scarcely veiled sneer. “Yes, the magistrates had his word for It also, but the marriage cer-

tificate seemed to them a sounder proposition. as it will to the judge and jury who will condemn him.” He paused, saw that Margaret was not greatly disturbed by his bitter words, and then he struck again. “That was a pretty story about the letter the Creole sent him, and it was a pity that he lost it. It might have been very useful to him if ” “You think that?” cried Margaret,

with something in her manner that puzzled him. “You really think that note would help to deliver him?” “If its contents were what he said.” he answered, wondering what the girl was driving at. "They were that!” answered Margaret with conviction. “I know that they were that.” "You seem very sure." he sneered.

“One would think you had seen the letter.” “I have,” answered the girl with a quietness that was more convincing than any noisy statement could have been. For a moment there was an amazed look on Carston’s face, then he asked: “The letter has been found?” “Yes —this afternoon.” “Who found it?” he asked quietly. “I did. For three days I have been looking for it, and this afternoon 1 found it by the entrance to the wood, where that poor woman was found. It was trampled in the grass and earth, and rather stained, but quite legible; and its contents are what Noel said they were. To-morrow I shall take it to his solicitor ” “You have it here?” ' interrupted Carston, in a curious voice. “Yes!” “I should like to see it.” “You may,” answered the girl, going to a small antique escritoire. She unlocked a drawer, and taking therefrom a crumpled and muddied sheet of paper bearing the imprint of the Mayhew Arms, she handed it to him. He read it through quickly, then he laughed harshly. “A clumsy forgery, I expect,” he said. “Someone who knows the dead woman’s handwriting is unknown here has played a trick and forged that and dropped it where you found it, in order to help Noel. It isn’t worth the paper it is written on.” He laughed again, suddenly crumpled the note in his hand, and flung back his arm to throw the paper in the Are. But before he could throw Margaret had thrown herself upon him. “No, no! It is for Noel’s life. You must not!” “This shan’t save him!” he snarled, striving to free his hand. But the girl clung desperately, and without absolute violence he could not free himself. They were still struggling when the door opened, and Mr. Melford almost staggered into the room. “Carston.” he cried, gaspingly, “I have just seen ” He broke off at the sight that met his eyes, and rvhile he stood there, white of face, eyes burning with fear, Carston realised that there was something wrong. “What is it?” he demanded harshly. “What have you seen?” "I have just seen Freedlam.” “Freedlam!” A look of utter consternation came on Carston’s face as he stared at the other man. “Yes—in the Mayhew Arms, as I came past. He was standing full in the light of the lamp, and though all these years have passed since I saw’ him before. I knew him.” “Did he see you?” “No. no!” i was in the dark.” “Theu I must so to him,” said Carston. “I wonder what he wants here.” "That dead woman's maiden name was Freedlam,” said Margaret. “Perhaps he ”

“Yes! Yes!” said Carston, making as if to go. The girl still clung to his wrist. “My note?” He looked once at her, saw that her face was resolute and her eyes unflinching; then without another word he surrendered it, and turning away, left the room with Mr. Melford. (To be Continued.) CHAPTER XXI. With the dead Creole's letter in her hand. Margaret Melford sat considering the situation. The more she considered the letter, the more she was convinced of its importance, in spite of all that Carston had said. If there was any of the dead woman's writing to be found among her possessions, it would be easy to settle whether the note was a forgery or not; and if, on examination, it was proved genuine, its value as corroborating Noel's story’ was beyond estimation. Then suddenly a new- thought came to her. The man whose appearance in the village had thrown her father into such a panic bore the same name as the victim of the crime had borne before her marriage. It was possible, nay. it yvas probable, that there existed some relationship between them, since the coincidence of the names in such circumstances was utterly improbable, particularly as the name was not an English one. If she went to the Mayhew Arms and saw this man. he might be able to settle the matter out of hand. She carefully considered the possibilities of the situation a little time longer, then she left the room, and presently returned in a motoring coat and hat A few minutes later there came a knock at the door, and a maid entered. “The car is waiting, miss. “Thank you.” As she left the room a second time she encountered her father, who was plainly in a great state of perturbation. „ . “Margaret,” he began, what “I am going out for a few minutes,” she answered, interrupting him. “I have a call to make.” “A call at this time of the night?” “Yes,” she answered, "rather an important one.” There was something in her tones, and a look of resolution on her face that caused Mr. Melford to refrain from inquiring too closely into this unusual call. “Will you—-er —will you be long?” “Not. very long. I hope.” “I ask,” answered her father, stammeringly, “because I may be gone when you return. I have to go to London at once, on—on a matter of urgent importance.” Margaret divined instantly what the matter of urgent importance w as. “You are afraid of this man whom you have just seen. Freedlam. I suppose?” (To Be Continued on Saturday.)