The HALF-CLOSED DOOR

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 707, 5 July 1929, Page 5

The HALF-CLOSED DOOR

By

J.B. Harris-Burland

S (CHAPTER XI (Continued). “That’s my business, ma’am/' she said. “And it’s mine as well.” Susan answered sharply. “You'll have to leave to-morrow.” “I shan't be sorry.” And so they went at it hammer and longs, in the usual and time-honoured fashion. But Alice Vale spoke with a cool,-almost ladylike insolence that 18 n °l common among general serv ants. Susan Croad lost her temper aQ d, with it, her prudence. # "You came here to steal,” she said, and before you leave this house I’m Soing to know who sent you.” Alice replied to the effect that there * as nothing worth stealing. Susan. However, was not afraid of Alice, for she was quite certain that the woman not in the employ of the police, one was also certain' that Richard celling had sent her—not perhaps to “na those letters, but to spy upon her. j-lic took a small revolver from her fi a S, and laid it on the dresser, close ™ her right Uaud. Look herd"/’ she said. “We’ve got 0 understand each other. When r o ® So upstairs you'll find that your pox has been opened. Well. 1 opened jo—and took back what belonged to You know what you're up Sainst. I’m not particular. I'd Just as soon shoot you and say I'd *** at a burglar in the dark. You’ve tot to own up or I’ll kill you. I'm a “oe lady, am I not?” v Ce Vale collapsed into a chair l the kitchen table, covered her face s her hands and burst into tears. uaaa smiled contemptuously. olne ’ out with it!” she said. “Who to steal th;>t letter?” Tae Boy,” sobbed Alice. "No —not s tte letter— he wanted something—tno hold over vou—in case you— ? v turn . ed nasty.” . \ ou Bar!” said Susan, who wanted turther proof of the truth, it s God’s truth.” ?? how you're giving him away?” sa ! d Susan fiercely. Vo/ dout want to be killed —ugh — «ev,l ” “ 0t 11 woman. You’re a "Vou lie, and I’ll kill you.” in >, 6 a^e roused herself, fumbled table r * )af ’ aDd *krew a letter on the

Author of ’• The Black Moon." • Th« Poison League/' “ T *e White Rook,” &c.. &«.

“Dear Alice,” Susan read. “Do this for me. that’s a good sort. I ; only want something definite —in case ! I’m attacked.” There was no signature, but Susan recognised the handwriting. “What induced you to do this?” she asked. “Who are you? I’ve never heard of you before.” Alice Vale explained who she was. She had been a friend —a very great friend—of Richard Felling's in the days before the war. She knew all about the Bextable affair. She wanted to help Richard Felling to free himself from his old associates. “Although he is married to another woman?” queried Susan. “Married?” queried the servant. “Yes —didn’t you know that? I can show you the cutting from the paper.” She searched for it, found it, and thrust it before Alice Vale’s eyes. “Married,” said Susan Croad. “It seems to me he’s been playing a rotten game with you.” Alice Vale stared at the portrait of Richard Felling and his wife. "I’m glad you caught me.” she said. “He never told me this. I hate—oh, how I hate him!” “Love is selfish after all, isn t it; said Susan Croad. “Well, there’s no harm done, Alice. But I think you’d better leave as soon as possible. You can say that you have failed.” “Yes —I have failed. I’m no match for vou. Mrs. Croad. You won’t think ill of The Boy, will you? He was onlv acting in self-defence. He never meant to betray his friends. But he was afraid. Of course, he is afraid now he’s married, and out of it all. ’ Susan’s lips closed into a thin line. “You'd better go to your bedroom,” she said, after a pause, "and pack your things. Y r ou can sleep here tonight, but you must leave tomorrow after bre'akfast.” \lice Vale did not move. You won’t tell the others about The Boy?” she said. ... , “I shall do exactly what I please. I don’t know much about you, but I tell you that one or two of my friends would think nothing of choking the life out of you. Y’ou'd best not meddle with affairs that don’t concern you. Get along to bed.” The girl burst into tears and left the kitchen. Susan shut up the house for the night and went upstairs to her bedroom. As she seated herself before her mirror and let down

her hair she saw a white face, and bright, triumphant eyes. She was not sorry that this thing had happened. She was glad. Richard Felling had laid himself open to attack. He had played her a very low trick. And he should pay the penalty. It would not even be necessary for her to take any part in the punishment. She had only to withdraw her protection, and the others would deal with him. But for her instructions, they would have betrayed him long ago. Tt had been , very difficult to keep Jimmie from his throat. Jimmie had been like a bloodhound tugging at the leash. They even suspected that Dick Felling had been too sharp for them in the matter of the Blindon’s safe. They needed no encouragement. It was merely a question of withdrawing her protection.

Even the girl Alice Vale would not protect him. There had been no mistaking the look in Alice Vale’s eyes when she had learnt that. Pelling was married. Certainly Pelling had stooped very low to make use of an old sweetheart In this fashion.

Alice Vale would help to destroy Pelling, if any help were required. “No,” said Susan Croad to herself. “She must he kept out of it.” She realised that she hated Alice Vale as much as she hated Richard Pelling. But Alice Vale herself was yet another reason why Richard Pelling should be punished. It was an impertinence for a woman like that to be in love with the “Boy.”

The police were keeping a close watch over the members of the gang, but the hunted always have the best of the hunter, unless the hunter is armed with the power to strike. It was not wonderful, therefore, that Peter was able to leave his rooms, and escape the vigilance of the man who was set to watch him. He was followed to the station, and entered a train, just as it was moving. He smiled as he saw the attendant slam a door in the pursuer's face. Half an hour later he was on Wimbledon Common, in the woods that fringe Queen’s Mere, and there he found a woman waiting for him. It was Alice Vale. “Well?” he said, when he had kissed the girl. "It's all right, Peter,” she replied. “Susan Croad’s as mad as anything. She won't stop you doing anything you like to Dick Pelling.” “Never smelt a rat, eh?”

“Not she. She’s too clever by half —that’s what she is. And, Peter, these clever women are the easiest to fool. She thinks I'm in love with Dick Pelling, and that’s made her madder than ever. She won’t interfere with your game.”

“Not knowing,” Peter whispered, “that you’re my dear little wife, and that I sent you to 12 Portelet Road, in order to be caught at your job ?” “She doesn’t seem to be as clever as you made her out. Too clever and yet not clever enough. That letter

you wrote did the trick. But what’s your game, Peter, setting her against Richard Pelling like that?”

“Game?” he queried. “Oh, well, Dick Pelling’s got the diamonds, you know.” “Sure?” “Sure as one can be sure of anything.” “I see. Well, you'd better be careful. Susan Croad’s in love with the man. And love is uncertain. Tt blows hot and it blows cold. You never know where you are, Peter, when you’re up against love.” “I’d like to tell Croad about her. Croad would soon settle him. You don't know Croad. do you? And you don’t know Jimmie. Our Jimmie’s sweet on Susan and he’d kill Pelling

as soon as look at him. Y T ou want mohey, I suppose?” “Yes, Peter, I have very little money.” The man took some notes out of hie Socket and Thrust them into her hand. “That’s forty pounds,” he said, “and it’ll have to last you for a bit, my child. Funds are running low. Bui; when we get the diamonds you shall have a string of them for yourself.” She kissed him, and then whispered in his ear, “You’re not going to hurt him, are you ?”

“Hurt him? Bless you, no. The* police are going to hurt him, if he doesn’t part with some of those jewels. It’s as easy as falling off a tree. One of us will call on him if he doesn’t come to terms. That’ll be enough—-

just that visit. The police will connect him with us, and sooner or later they'll get his finger prints. That'll land him over the Bextable affair." "And Susan Croad?’ "She won’t come into it at all. He won’t know that she’s given him away. He’ll put it down to me or Jimmie or Sam. And the police can’t hurt us. We’ve paid.” “But this Blindon affair?” she asked nervously. "Who’s going to link us up with that, Alice? Dick Pelling’s got no evidence against us.” They stood there for a few moments in silence. The night wind sighed softly through the darkness of the wood. These two held in their hands the force that would close the door against Dick Pelling for ever —that would shut him out for the rest of his life from the society of honest men. A gentle pressure on their part and the door would close.

But they did not look at what they were about to do in that light. Peter ■Woolf was only thinking of the diamonds, and his wife was as easily moulded as wax in his hands. He was her lord and master. No one else in all the world counted. He had set her this task and she had performed it. Dick Pelling, the girl Pelling had just married, and Susie Croad herself—all these people were nothing to her. The other members of the gang, who did not even know of her existence, were nothing to her. This queer little man with the dark face and the hands of steel, was everything. And yet Alice, during those few moments of silence, grew suddenly afraid—as a child might be afraid of some moving mass of machinery that it did not understand. She realised that a human life was going to he crushed and, curiously enough, she had no pity for the human life, but fear that she too and the man she loved might be drawn into that wonderful complexity of the machine, and be broken to pieces. She was the first to silence. “This Dick Pelling?” she said. "He will not go under without a fight?” "He can’t put up a fight.” “How is that? Is he a fool—a weak sort of chap?” "No, Alice—he’s a rare boy for

fighting. But he can't tackle the law 3 of England.” "And you, Peter dear? Can’t he hit back at you?” "No—over this Blindon affair—certainly not. Of course he can bit out at Susan Croad. But she can take care of herself."

• Alice laughed. "Yes,” she replied, "Mrs. Croad is a woman who can take care of herself. But I tell you she’s ; in love with this man. And women in love are uncertain, as I said just now. Peter, my dear fellow, why not leave Richard Pelling alone?” I "You mind your own business,” he | answered roughly. "This is a man's ; job.” i And Alice had to be content with

that. She, a woman, had played her part in the little conspiracy, and the rest would have to be left to the men. She was blindly obedient. But, a few minutes later, when she was walking alone across Wimbledon Common, she suddenly quickened her steps as though someone were pursuing her. There was no one there, and she knew that there was no one there. But she was afraid of a definite enemy—a man she had never seen in her life —Richard Pelling, the young soldier whose life she had helped to destroy. CHAPTER XU. Mary could not have told anyone with certainty what it was that had first caused her uneasiness about her husband. It might have l?epn something that she had seen in his eyes—some shadow for which there was no apparent cause. Or it might have been something in the tone of his voice—some note of anxiety for which the subject of their conversation gave no warrant. She did not believe that there was any real cause for it whatever. It was similar, so she told herself, to that sudden and meaningless fear which had come to her .in Kensington Gardens before her marriage —that intense desire to be married to the man she loved before, anything could come between them. But it was there, in her mind, all the same—something real, thougli vague and indefinite. And the worst of it was, it was nothing. she could discus with her husband —nothing she could clear up. There were no facts to be discussed. There had, of course, been that letter which he had ke£>t from her, but she had thrust that aside, as having no connection whatever with the matter. If he was in trouble, she would have been the first to receive his confidence.

And then again there was bis narrow escape from the brutal ruffians who had struck down poor Trillick in Blindon’s office. That had affected her very deeply, but it had not affected her husband at all. it was not the kind of thing that would worry a soldier who had lived so near to death for so many years. And it was not as if she could actually say that his mind was troubled by anything. It was she, Mary Pelling, who was afraid. There was fear in the atmosphere of her life, and she could not trace it to any definite source.

Again and again, during the month that followed the burglary at Blindon’s office, she tried to get the better of this unreasoning fear, and for a while I she would conquer it. But again i and again it rose to fight her. It was something real. Perhaps j she was not in good health; perhaps I this new life of poverty was proving | too great a strain on her; perhaps j she was an hysterical little fool. But | the enemy was there —waiting to 1 pounce on her whenever she gave it a | chance. Mrs. Dearden noticed the change

in her daughter, and one day—it was August 6th and a date that Mary was destined to remember —she said: "My dear child, you are not happy. I’ve noticed that for the last month, but I didn’t like to speak. AYliat is it, Mary dear?” Mary Pelling laughed. "It's the weather, I think,” she replied; “It’s been so awfully hot this last week.” "And the week before it was very cold; Mary. Don’t tell me. darling, if you don't want to.” They were sitting in the pleasant drawing room in Brixham Gardens—such a very different room to anything that could be found in Gletton Street. It was a very hot afternoon, but there were sun blinds and an electric fan that whirred by one of the open windows. , "I don’t know what it is, mother dear," Mary replied thoughtfully. "I’m just a bit depressed.” “Those dreadful rooms of yours, darling.” "No. no—l am quite happy there. And Dick is just splendid.” “All you thought him to be, dear." "All and more, mother. I—l’m very happy. I can't tell you how happy I am.” "Happy, but depressed." laughed Mrs. Dearden. "Oh, mother dear, can't you understand —surely you can understand? Have you never known what it is to be unhappy without anj r cause?” Mrs. Dearden nodded. (To be continued daily.)