THE LOCKED ROOM

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 685, 10 June 1929, Page 5

THE LOCKED ROOM

SERIAL STORY j|J

By

E. Clepham Palmer.

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER XIV. —AN EXCITING CHASE “Why not? Because it’s your duty to escape. You’ve no right to be a prisoner. No one has. You’ve no right fo be here—in this wretched garden. These moss-grown paths! You've no right to walk on them.” “But really, Mr. Felscombe—” “Well, have you? What right have you to walk about a garden where there are no flowers for you to gather? She looked at him with a new gravity. “What was it I heard someone say once? Oh, yes, I know—‘Our hands are sore from picking roses.* It seemed to me so awfully true.” He hesitated. “No, I don’t think so. You must have courage. You must risk the . . the disillusionment, the thorn.”

She got up and stood in front of them, looking toward the house “It's getting cold. Shall w T e go in? I’m afraid there’s nothing. . . . Ah, here’s Miss Daventry. I w onder . . .*’ Miss Daventry hurried up to her, holding an evening paper in her hand. “Something has happened. Look!” Olive took the paper. In a few moments the colour left her face. Then she handed the paper to Felscombe, and watched him anxiously as he read: fatal motor accident DRIVER KILLED A fatal motor "accident occurred on the Portsmouth Road. A twoseater touring car was driving at high speed near Guildford when it suddenly swerved into the ditch and overturned. Almost immediately it burst into flames. The only occupant, Mr. Robert Sinclair, of Rupert Street, Chelsea, was killed. “Sinclair!” said Felscombe. “It toust be! That’s his address.” He looked at Olive, as she stood with a brightened expression in her eyes. “I wonder.” he added slowly, “what this means? It must mean something. He w as one of the best drivers in London. He knew a car inside out. I can’t believe. . . “What can’t you believe?” said Miss Daventry, eagerly. Felscombe ignored Miss Daventry’s eager question. Turning quickly to Olive he said: “I think I’d better go. * d like to see where this accident I shall be back tomorrow •• •” He hesitated. “I wonder if >'ou’li be all right here? Will you et me know at once if anything happens?” “If anything happens,” said Olive, looking anxiously at him. “What could happen?” ‘Oh, nothing,” said Felscombe nuicklv. *‘i only meant that you s * em rather alone here —no man in rhe house . . . and so on—and I’d 'ke to feel sure you’d ring me up you happened to get nervous about anything. . . . There’s my telephone number. if I'm not there, the houseeeper will take a message. Good night.” D e walked quickly to the main road, a nd hailed a taxi. On reaching the ptrage where he kept his car—a fast *'in-seater—he rang up the flat. Hullo Widhurst! Are you tit for a run to Guildford tonight*? What's nat? Mis s Ashton? Look here, you £ UBt *ash that out. Why not? «ut you must, old man. Sinclair s had

a smash near Guildford, and done himself in. Ah, that interests you does it? Well, I want to see the car and the place. Heavens, no! Why should she? Well, all right, if you must. But nip into a taxi and bring her round straight away. We ought to get off in ten minutes. Righto!” Then he hurried to a post office, and wrote out a telegram to Policeconstable Carter at Horsham— “Meet me outside Guildford Station ten tonight.” In a few minutes the car was ready. Felscombe started the engine and switched on the lights. Then he looked impatiently down the road. Just as he was on the point of driving round to the flat a taxi dashed up. Miss Ashton jumped out smiling. She was followed—rather apologetically—by Widhurst. “Sure you don’t mind my coming, Mr. Felscombe? I’d love a ride to Guildford. You see ‘Faithful James’— that’s my new name for Mr. Widhurst —had promised to take me to a theatre, and 1 let him off on condition that I was given a part in the new cinema drama, ‘The Mystery of the Cedars.’ But if I shall be in the

“Not at all —if you don’t mind being rather squashed. There no dicky on the car—so we can’t get rid of Widhurst —but we shall squeeze in all right. Shall I drive? Right-oh! Now then, Miss Ashton, make yourself as small as possible. No doubt you’ve noticed that Widhurst’s getting fat. The approach of middle age . . . . Splendid! Now we’re all right. Sardines couldn’t do better. Door shut, Widhurst? Good!” The car shot forward and was soon threading its way through the crowed streets. ‘‘Don’t talk, James,” said Miss Ashton. “I’m enjoying this. But aren’t we going awfully fast? We only just missed that bus.”

“That’s the worst of Felscombe,” said Widhurst. “He always forgets he isn’t in the air. He drove a Scout, you know, for six months in France. (Lucky that fellow swerved!) He’s got an absent-minded habit of trying to get off the ground in Piccadilly. Thinks he’s just starting on patrol, you know. 1 remember once he tried to take off outside the Ritz. He was doing fifty—when he remembered just in time to avoid killing a policeman. (Only a little more paint gone!) The policeman was grateful. You’re nervous? Surely not? It’s no good telling Felscombe to go slower. . . . (Just as well that taxi braked!) Would it do any good if you held my hand?” Miss Ashton turned gravely to Felscombe. “Would you mind stopping, Mr. Felscombe? I'm sorry to say that Mr. Widhurst is on the point of proposing to me again.” Felscombe did not take his eyes from the crowded road ahead. “Behave yourself, Widhurst! ” “It’s not my fault, old man. . For heaven’s sake slow down a bit, or hold Daisy’s hand or something. You'll hit a bus in a minute.” “Don’t worry about me,” said Miss Ashton, brightly. “It doesn’t matter a bit if I am killed. But I’d rather like to know why we’re in such a tearing hurry.”

The car slowed down. “Sorry if I’ve been going too fast, but I arranged to meet Carter at ten?”

“And who, may I ask, is Carter?” “A policeman.’ 1. Miss Ashton laughed. “Is this the policeman with the Oxford accent who wants to marry the cook from Girton? Delightful! And how’s the rest of the drama progressing? Has the missiug lover turned up yet, or is the beautiful heroine still alone? Has Faithful James ” “Look here, Daisy,” protested WidJ hurst. “I don’t think you ought to 1 rag like this. For one thing, I object to being called ‘Faithful James’ ” r “Oh, please don’t! It’s such a • splendid name for you. You are ; ‘James,’ you know, and you are faitli- • ful —awfully faithful. You’re always on the point of proposing to me. Y'ou . can’t deny it—can he, Mr. Felscombe?” Felscombe accelerated to swing round a 'bus on Putney Bridge. “Does • he attempt to deny it? At one time, unless I’m mistaken But why not make it easier for him? Why not marry him, Miss Ashton?” “He’s never asked me. He always—” “I say, Daisy, this isn’t fair. You know perfectly well that at Dorking—” “You started to propose, and then backed out of it.” “Because you laughed.” “I couldn’t help it. You were so funny.” “Its always the same. You always laugh at the wrong moment.” “It seems to me,” put in Felscombe, “that the sooner you two children marry the better. In the meantime, has anyone any ideas on where we’re going to sleep tonight?” “Sleep? Good heavens!” said Miss Ashton. “At home, of course.” “We may be rather late. It occurred to me that it might be better to drop you at Guildford.” “I refuse to be dropped!” “But Daisy ” “Be quiet, James. I want to quarrel with Mr. Felscombe. He’s not so nice as I thought he was. Why should I be dropped. Mr. Felscombe?” He hesitated. “We’ve got to have a look at the car that Sinclair crashed in. That’ll take some time. And then—l may be wroug—but it seemed to me, Widhurst, that we might do worse than run down to Winchester and have another look at that house. We could pick up Miss Ashton in the morning.” Suddenly dazzling headlights appeared round a bend in the road. Felscombe drew sharply to the side to avoid the car, which was travelling at a reckless speed. “Did you see him, Widhurst?”!. shouted Felscombe. “That was ! . Tuddenham driving.” “And he nearly had us,” said Wid- | ] hurst. “If you hadn't swerved ”j 1 Felscombe pulled up the car and 1 ■ looked back at the red light vanishing into the distance. “What d’vou think, Widhurst? Shall we let him 1 go?” , Widhurst watched the red light before replying. In a few moments 1 it vanished round a bend in the road. “I d like to know where he’s going, ' I Felscombe. He was driving at the j dickens of a pace.” : I “Probably he’s going back to ‘The i i Cedars.’ I confess I don't enjoy j t thinking of Olive in the same house as I that devil. ... I beg your pardon, i - Miss Ashton. . . .” "Please don’t worry. I often use j 1 words worse than that. But why I d'you say he's a devil?” ' ! * "I don’t know. We’ve got nothing j t really against him—but I never sus- ‘ a pected anyone as 1 suspect him.” j l “Was he alone?” said Widhurst. I § “Could you see? Was Mrs. j c Tuddenham there?” j l “There wasn't time. He was past j o in a flash. I just had a glimpse of j £ him in the driver's seat, but I couldn't ! s see inside.”

“Could we catch him?” asked Miss Ashton. “Yes, we could catch him easily enough. We can do over 70. . . He hesitated, while the car throbbed impatiently. “But on the whole,” he added, “I doubt if we can do better than have a look at Sinclair’s smash. That may suggest something. And anjfliow we’ve promised to meet Carfer. We should be able to get back before two. Will that be all right for you, Miss Ashton?” “Quite. I’m enjoying this. I alwaj-s had a low taste for melodrama. This is really delightfully melodramatic. Midnight ride, car flashing past, villain in driver’s seat, secret meeting with policeman, heroine alone at home,

hero worried about her. . . It’s perfect melodrama.” “I hope it’s nothing else,” said Felscombe. “Surely there’s no danger of my little melodrama being spoilt!” “I hope not. Perhaps we shall know before long. But I confess I'm j uneasy.” He let in the clutch, and the car leapt forward. "Your imagination's too developed. I Mr. Felscombe.” "Don’t rag Daisy,” protested Widhurst. "It’s really rather serious.” "I don't believe it,” she protested, “I believe you're imagining the whole thing. Why shouldn’t a man have an invalid wife in a locked room? Why shouldn't he grow weeds in the garden instead of roses and cucumbers? Why shouldn’t his beautiful niece be sad in the absence of her hero? Why shouldn’t Mr. Sinclair have a smash and kill himself? I don't believe. . .” "I know!” interrupted Widhurst.

“You believe nothing. You’re an incorrigible sceptic. You don’t even believe me when I say. . .” “That you love me. No, I don't.” “Daisy!” he seized her hand. “Sorry if I’m in the way,” said Felscombe, “but I wish you two would keep still. We shall be in the ditch in a minute. . .” Suddenly the car was brilliantly lit up and from behind there came the impatient sound of a horn. “Hullo! What’s this? He must he travelling, Widhurst. We’re doing over forty.” He accelerated slightly, and the speedometer needle rose to nearly fifty. “Have a look, Widhurst. See who it is!” CHAPTER XV.—FACE TO FACE Widhurst looked over thhe back of the car. “Can’t see a thing, old man. Nothing but his headlights. They’re blinding.” Again the horn sounded. “The dickens!” said Felscombe. “How fast does the fellow want to go?” The speedometer needle crept up to fifty-five. From behind came the continuous screeching of an electric horn. Felscombe drew to the side of the road, but kept the car at 55. “Delightful!” said Miss Ashton. “Don't let them pass us, Mr. Felscombe.” Suddenly a shot rang out, followed quickly by another. “Good God! He's shooting. Get on the floor, Miss Ashton. Quick!” The car increased its speed. More shots rang out. “It’s no good, old man. We can’t shake him off. This damned road .

There came a volley of shots, followed by a loud report. The car swerved violently. Felscombe just succeeded in keeping it out of the ditch. Then he pulled up, and jumped out with a heavy tyre lever in his right hand. As Felscombe jumped into the full glare of the headlights of the strange car he realized that he had done a foolish thing. He could see nothing himself, but as he stood in the road, hesitating, he made a perfect mark for a pistol shot. He was just on the point of dashing into the shadow of his own car when he heard, “Good evening, Mr. Felscombe. I must apoligize for this inconsiderate method of attracting your attention ” “Who’s that?” “My name’s Tuddenham. Yours, I believe, is both Felscombe and Beuscart.” Felscombe gripped the tyre-lever in his right hand and moved nearer to the voice. “Switch out your lights!” “Certainly! Is that better?” Immediately a big touring car be- I came visible, with Horace Tuddenham [ sitting in the driver’s seat —smiling. I “You’ve got a good ear, Mr.! Felscombe. and you drive well—if ij may say so. I was sorry to be j obliged, to puncture your tyre. I hope j you carry a spare wheel?” “May I take it that you make a bobby of pulling up cars in this way?” ! “It was really to clear up a mis- , understanding,” said Tuddenham quickly, “that I ventured to bring j about this friendly roadside meeting I by the only means available. It was

unfortunate that you should have a lady in the car.” “Your apologies don't interest me. I shall be glad if you’ll explain your reasons for this outrage.” “By a strange coincidence,” said Tuddenham, “I had persuaded myself that it was from you an explanation j was due. No doubt you will agree ; that we’ve met in peculiar circum- ! stances. I made your acquaintance in the small hours of the morning in j my niece’s bedroom, you explained your presence oy telling a fantastic story of having heard a cry j for help. The next time I have the j pleasure of meeting you I find that you’ve become an elderly man with a foreign accent, and that your name has ; changed to Beuscart. You’ve just j referred to my own hobbies. Perhaps i you'll allow me to ask whether you j make a hobby of calling at a strange house, in a strange beard, and under j a strange name to ask to see someone j who is, I believe, unknown to you? ; Forgive me if I put the matter a little ! theatrically, but the situation itself—” j “Is theatrical?” ‘Exactly! It was really with the I idea of trying to introduce a little j reality ” “That you fired a dozen shots at my car and cheerfully allowed us to run , the risk of breaking our necks in the I ditch.” “Hardly as bad as that. I had a higher opinion of your driving. I : should like to congratulate you on the | way you kept on the road with a burst j tyre.” Felscombe smiled. “You'll under- i stand, perhaps, that your eongratu- i lations leave me as cold as your ; apologies. I may as well tell you at once that I called at your house out- '

i side Winchester and asked to see | your wife, because I suspect you ” . | “Of what?” “I can understand that you’re 1 1 anxious to know, but for the present j I prefer to keep you in the dark.’ 1 Horace Tuddenham’s smile began to i look strained. “You refuse to give i me any explanation of your call—in I disquise—at my house?” ! “That is so.” “You have never met my wife?” | “No.” “So you lied when you said she was an old friend of your family?” j “Exactly.” “You seem to take an extraordinary interest in my affairs. Perhaps ; you’ll remember that on the night you were discovered in my niece’s bedi room there was some discussion as to i w'hether you were quite sane or not. If I may do so without offence. I should I like to suggest that you might be well advised to consult a medical man.” ! “As it happens,” said Felscombe, “I | was just wondering whether I should j consult the police. On the whole, I I prefer, for the present, that you i should remain out of prison.” j “Thank you. Tt’s extremely kind of you. It was because I anticipated you would take that view that I allow* - , ed myself to indulge in a little rei volver practice on your tyres.” | “I congratulate you on your aud- ! acity.” Tuddenham smiled. “I hope we shall have the pleasure of meeting I again. . . By the way, it would interest me to know where you were going in i such a hurry.” , “To have a look at the car in which j Sinclair was killed.” ! “Ah! A bad business that. But 1 I can save you the trouble of going. ,

The remains of the car have already been removed.” He switched on the headlights. You're sure there’s nothing I can do for you? You have a spare w*heel?” “Good night, Mr. Tuddenham, I hope our next meeting may be as pleasant as this one.” The car swung round. “Good night! Please convey my apologies to your passengers.” Felscombe walked slowly back to the crippled car. Widhurst hurried toward him. “Why didn’t you go for the scoundrel?” he protested. “Why should I? If we give him enough rope ” “He’ll hit something more serious than a tyre. He must be mad.” “I’m not so sure. I rather think he’s deeper than we expected. There’s something in the man’s audacity that I like. He put himself in our hands tonight, but he never lost his head for a moment. Apparently he realized that I’d rather keep the police out of it. He’s playing a desperate game, but I'm hanged if I know what the game is. I’m awfully sorry. Miss Ashton. I shall never forgive myself for dragging you into this. You’ve had a most unpleasant time.” “Not at all,” said Miss Ashtou brightly. I enjoyed it immensely—though I was rather afraid you might get hurt. What’s the programme now?” Within half an hour Felscombe and Widhurst had changed the wheel. “Jump in, Miss Ashton—if you’re sure your nerves can stand another run. We shall be over half an hour late at Guildford, but we’ll hope Carter has waited.” (To be Continued dally)