THE LOCKED ROOM

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 695, 21 June 1929, Page 5

THE LOCKED ROOM

SERIAL STORY jj]||j

By

E. Clepham Palmer.

CHAPTKR XXIX. —Continued. ■'Yes,” said Felscombe, “you are tree —to disappear, to leave the country, and to escape justice if you can.” “11 I can? You mean you’ll do nothing—” “I shall do nothing. I’m satisfied to leave it to chance —to Providence, or whatet'er it may be. And you?” “Yes, I’m satisfied,’’ he said slowly. “I’ve had—l’ve had enough of it. I have been haunted. You don’t know how- I’ve been haunted. I‘thought I could stand it. I thought her voice—but I couldn’t. I was going off m3 7 head. The nights! Good God, you don’t know what it means.” “I know what it meant to Sinclair, and what it might have meant to me." “Yes, 1 was mad. I was ntad when I did it —mad with love —and I could not turn back. I had to go on. If I’d got the money we could have left the country. That was what we meant to do. No one would have known. But you—when I found j’ou the first time in that bedroom. I ought to have turned back. I was mad.” He paused, and looked round at the sunlit countryside. A little girl standing at a cottage door waved her hand to him. An expression of pain crossed his face. “1 shan’t be sofrv,” he said slowly, “to get out of it. It’s mockery. But I like this idea of yours. Providence! What is Providence? What is God? You saw that little girl? She waved her hand to me! Why? Did jjslie mean to mock me?” He seemed to expect no answer. “Why trust in Providence?” he went ou. “Is there any justice in the world?” j“We shall see,”’ said Felscombe. “You believe in it? You thiuk I shall choose the right car—the car that will put an end to the things that have been aiaunting me? I doubt it.

COPYRIGHT

But I’ll make you an offer. I’ll play the part of Providence. If I choose the other car, I’ll do justice on myself. You’ll lend me your revolver?” “No. If you choose the other car, you are free.” “Free! You little know! Free from what? From the night, from dreams, from all that’s been haunting me for months? You don’t know! Why, I can hear the voice now. There was never a sweeter voice. 'You hear nothing?” “Nothing,” said Felscombe, gravely. “That’s because you’re free. Free from the voice! How much further? Can’t you see that I, too, want to be free? Faster! For the love of heaven —faster! ” They swung round a bend in the road. In the distance, standing by the hedge, they saw two cars—exactly alike. When within one hundred yards of them Felscombe pulled up. Carter hastened to meet them. “Which car do you choose?” asked Felscome sternly, “the first or the second ” “The first,” said Horace Tuddenham quickly. They walked along the road. With a smile on his face, Tuddenham stepped into the car. The engine started. Firmly he let in the clutch. As he accelerated past the little group of men standing gravely by the side of the road, he smiled and waved his hand to Fels^pmbe. Then he tore down the deserted straight stretch of road. After covering a few hundred yards the car swerved. Then it charged into the ditch, turned a somersault, and burst into flames. On their arrival at “The Cedars” there was no response to Felscombe’s knock on the door. Carter looked up at the windows. They were all shut; and several had the blinds down. Widhurst started to walk round Ihe path to the back. . . .

Suddenly from an upper room there came a voice-—a woman’s voice—calling impatiently, “Horace! Hoi ace!” Widhurst halted abruptly. “Did you hear that?” “It’s Mrs. Tuddenham,” said Carter. “Mrs. Tuddenham. You mean that he left her here alone —in the locked room! ” “It looks like it. He knew he was finished. . . . Again there came the voice—- “ Horace! Horace!” CHAPTER XXX. —FORCING THE LOCKED DOOR. - Widhurst turned to Felscombe. “Look here, we can’t stand this! We must get in—break a window. . . Again he started to walk round to the back of the house, out of sight of the road. “It’s all right,” called out Felscombe. “There’s no hurry.” “No hurry. What d’you mean?” He looked indignantly at his friend. “I’m afraid,” said Felscombe, “that we can do nothing to help her. But wee’ll certainly break in.. Where’s the best place, v Carter ? You’re an expert on these things. ‘ Which window d’you suggest?” Led by Carter, they walked round to the back of the house. In a few minutes they found an unbarred window, which they had no difficulty in opening. At once they climbed through and found themselves in the kitchen. Widhurst took out his revolver. “You can put that away,” said Felscombe. “You won’t need it.” “You’re certain there’s no one here, except Airs. Tuddenham?” “Certain. We’d better go straight up to the locked room.” “Are you ready? You look a bit shaky, Widhurst. So d’you, Carter. What’s the trouble?” “I shan’t be sorry to get out of this place,” said Carter, slowly. “There’s something. .. . Good God! She’s call ing again!” From upstairs there came the voice —more distinctly and with a greater urgency—“ Horace! Horace! ” The three men dashed aloug the passage and up the stairs, Widhurst stili holding his revolver. Only Felscombe retained his calm. The two meu stood back -while he tried the door of the room from which the noise had come. It was' left-ked. Felscombe turned round. “I’m going ito charge it. Look out!” Taking a short run, he hurled himself at the door. The lock still held Again he tried with the same result. “Now then. Carter! You’ve got heavy boots ou. Kick it as hard as you can.” Carter hesitated. He looked at the door and then at Felscombe. “Isn’t there any other way? We don't know who’s in there—and she’s ill, you know. If we break the door in, she might—well might happen. We don't want another death on our hands.” “What do you suggest?” asked Wid- ! hurst. | “Can’t we get her to unlock the : door? Why not call her?”

“Try it,” said Felscombe quietly. Carter stepped close to the door. “Mrs. Tuddenham!” he called, “Mrs. Tuddenham! ” There was no answer. The three meu listened in silence. Then Carter put his ear to the keyhole of the door. “Can you hear anything?” asked Widhurst impatiently. “Not a sound! We must’ve frightened her. What a cad the man was to leave her alone! Even the servants have gone. He must’ve sacked them when he knew he was done. We’d better try. . . . Good, God! She’s calling him again!” From behind the locked door came impatiently, “Horace! Horace! Horace!” The three men looked at each other. “I’m going down,” said Carter, “I’m going to get a ladder. The window. Suddenly ’Felscombe gave the locked door a violent kick. A panel split. A second kick made an opening big enough for him to put his hand through. He turned the latch, and quickly opened the door. Hurrying along the lobby, he opened the door of a room at the far end. He hesitated a moment, and then entered hurriedly. When he turned to the two men waiting on the threshold they saw that his face had lost something of its colour. “It’s all right,” he said slowly. “.It’s just as 1 thought.” Widhurst and Carter entered. To their astonishment they found themselves in an empty room. They looked round in display. “There’s another room,” said Widhurst. / “That door. . . . Have you tried it?” “There’s no need,” said Felscombe. “No need! She was calling!” “Yes, I know. But she’s not in that room. If she”s anywhere, she’s here.” ! Carter and Widhurst glanced hur- I riedly round the room, while Fels- j combe stood casually with his hands j in his pockets by the window. \ “Here!” protested Widhurst. “What j do you mean?” There was a faint smile on Fels-! combe’s face as lie leant agaiust the 1 wall and said, slowly, “I’d given you and Carter credit for rather more in- j telligence. It seems that I was j wrong.” Widhurst glanced indignantly at his triend. “Look here, this isn't a joke! , Where’s Airs. Tuddenham?” “There,” said Felscombe quietly, pointing to a far edvner of the room. Widhurst looked round expectantly. “Where? What do you mean?” “There!” repeated Felscombe. Carter crossed the room. Then he, too. looked indignantly at Felscombe. “There’s nothing here —except this cabinet.” “Exactly! Why not open it?” Carter turned round. “What’s the idea? Why should I?” Felscombe quickly crossed to the cabkzet. He opened it, and gave a handle a few turns. At once a : woman’s voice sounded in the room— j “Horace! Horace! Horace!”

“Good God” cried Widhurst. “A gramophone!” Felscombe put on another record. A plaintive air tilled the room. He turned toward the two men gazing fascinated at the instrument. “You remember that song. We heard it first when we were hiding in the shrubbery.” The voice sweetly filled the room. “For Heaven’s sake stop it!” cried Widhurst.' “You mean that Tuddenham ” “Exactly! You see the cunning of the man; before he murdeerd his wife he got these records made. You remember everyone told us how she called out good-bye to him every morning. It was the gramophone that called out good-bye. It was the gramophone that sang those duets with Tuddenham. Can you wonder lie was haunted by what he called ‘the voice’?” He closed the lid of the cabinet. “As you see, it’s the latest type of gramophone. It’s exactly like the human voice. No one could tell. . . . He picked up an electric battery and clockwork mechanism. “You see how he worked it. He was clever. He timed it to sing at any time he liked. There was no need for him to be in the room—or in Londou. That was where he was so clever.” “Devilish!” cried Widhurst, walking quickly about the room. “By giving the impression that his wife was still alive he hoped to be able to substitute the other woman and then leave the country.” “Exactly! But he wanted money first. And if we hadn’t stolen that car, he’d have had the money. Then he’d have disappeared one day—with his ‘invalid wife.” Who would have known? If necessary, he could have

written from abroad to say that she had died.” “But the body,” protested Widhurst. “What did he do with the body?” “Buried it in the garden. You remember it was the state of the garden that first persuaded me . . . Why was he afraid to have a gardener about the place? That was his great mistake. And he went wrong in not telling me that those calls for help that we heard were simply nightmare. If he’d' told me frankly that Olive was merely calling out in her sleep, I doubt if I’d still have .been suspicious; but I could see that he suspected me of knowring more than I did know. He didn’t believe that I’d broken into the house because I’d heard Olive calling out in her dreams. . . .” Widhurst pointed to the gramophone. “You assumed this?” “Yes. One couldn’t help noticing that the same songs were always sung, and that the" voice never said anything except ‘Good-bye’ and what we have heard ... It was a risk, of course, but when I told Tuddenham that I knew what he’d hidden in the garden, and the secret of the locked room, he didn’t attempt to make a fight for it. He caved in at once—as I thought he would.” “But the woman he was seen to carry out to the car?” said Carter. “What of her?” “That puzzled me at first. But you remember she was alw r ays heavily veiled —no doubt to support the ‘disfigurement’ ideh. But I’ve no doubt that the woman w r as simply a manufactured figure—probably a dressmaker’s model —with clothes on. Probably if we look round—” He opened the wardrobe. “Yes, there it is!” They stood by the open door of the

wardrobe, and saw’ inside a dressmaker’s model, wearing a heavy black veil, an overcoat. and high-heeled shoes. “Devilish!” repeated Widhurst. “As devilish as that scheme of his for wrecking a car . . . Have we seen enough? Or d’you propose to search the garden?” “I don’t,” said Felscombe decisively. “1 propose to leave the place as we found it. We’ll hope that the whole grisly thing may be kept dark. Tuddenham has paid the penalty, Mrs. Tuddenham is at peace. The woraau he hoped to leave the country with—well, no doubt she will read in a few hours that the man for whom she waits at Winchester has had a fatal accident. As for ‘The Cedars’—” He picked up the cabinet. “I think we may as well take this . . . Will the police become interested in the mysterious disappearance of Mrs. Tuddenham? I doubt it. 1 rather think the chances are that the garden will be allowed to keep its sinister secret.’ He hesitated, and then looked out of the window at the sunlight on the dark, crowded trees. “In any case 1 confess that I’d like to get away for a w'hile. I’d like to suggest that *the three of us rake on another sort of job together. You know what I mean!” He smiled as he walked toward the door. “But I daresay,” he added, as he paused to glance round the room, “that we may lose each other for a time—after the ceremony. Olive has an idea —a good idea. We’re going to motor through the night—to th.e sea. And then we’re going to board a sailing boat ... It seems to me, you know, that after this sinister business we all want a little fresh air.” They hurried out to the car. The End.