The Half-Closed Door

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 717, 17 July 1929, Page 5

The Half-Closed Door

By

J.B. Harris-Burland

Author of “ The Black Moon * •* The Poison League/’ *' The Whit* Rook,” &c.. Ac

CHAPTER XXII. ••I ll bare a try for one of them,” ho thought, and he took off his coat and wrapped it round his head. The casks and wine bins were now ablaze; the straw had nearly burnt itself out. The heat was terrible. Through the opening he had left in the coat, he could see the four bodies. Croad's clothes were alight, but Pelling took no notice of Croad. He caught hold of Sam Felton and dragged him toward the steps. His left arm hurt as though a dozen knives were cutting it. The sleeve of his shirt was ablaze. He dragged Sam Felton to the top of the stairs, and then went back. He slipped and fell, and when he rose, the coat about his head was burning. The hot air scorched his legs. He could not breathe as he staggered to his feet. He stooped to pick up Peter Woolf, and fell to his knees All his strength had left him. It was doubtful if he would even save his own life —drag his own body out of this torture chamber, most certainly he could not save the life of another man.

Yet lie dragged Peter Woolf to the ] foot of the steps, and then, as he lay i only half conscious, the instinct of 1 self-preservation—the instinct of a wounded animal to save itself —was the only thing left to him. He crawled up the steps—screeching and moaning with pain. He heard noises, and they sounded like distant thunder —vague sounds mingled with the shrieks of a voice that he did not know to be his own. Then there was a sound like the roaring of gigantic seas—and then silence. There were long days and nights of agony in a hospital, and then for a little while there was infinite calm. To Dick Pelling it seemed as though his left arm had suddenly been re- j leased from the teeth and claws of some wild beast, that had been gnawing and tearing at the flesh. During those days of agony vague figures had fluttered before his eyes j and had vanished again. His wife, his mother-in-law. Sanderson, men and women he did not know —they had all ; passed by like visions in a dream. And then came that infinite peace, . The pain had gone. His brain was j

| clearer, and when—two doctors came j and stood close to him. he smiled at them. i “You’ve got to lose it, old chap,” I said one of them.” Alortification has ! set in. Your left arm —well, you might have lost it in the war.” "Life is always a kind of war,” Pelling said foolishly. The operation was entirely sucessful. The left arm was removed from the elbow. And Pelling was rather glad when it was all over. After all, what was a left arm! He j thought of his very good friends who • had given much more than that in the i war. 1 "Why on earth should you cry, Mary?” he said. You ought to be jolly thankful I’m alive.” She was with him always after the j operation. She told him that two j men, coming ashore from their yacht, i had noticed the smoke pouring from the empty house, and thou she told him that Croad and Sam Felton and ! Peter Woolf and Jim Leader were all j dead. Sam Felton had lived long j enough to understand how he had been rescued, and Sam Felton had told a j certain story to the police. Most of the diamonds had been recovered. Sir William Blindon’s valet had been arrested, and Croad’s story had been confirmed. Susan Croad was still living at Mexham Hill. No one had thought of connecting her with the gang or the burglary. Sanderson had been most kind —most pleasant. “I’d like to see old Sanderson.” said Pelling. But it was not until a week later j ' that Sanderson appeared. "Well, sir." he said, “this is a bit of , bad 'luck.” ] “I wonder,” Pelling replied and then, j

as he saw Sanderson take out a note- j book. “You’re going to cross-examine j me, eh?” “Only about that night, sir. And we’ve had the story from Sam Felton, i Before he died he swore on his oath that you had had nothing to do with the breaking open of the Blindons’ safe.” “That's true enough.” “But they thought you had the dia- I monds, sir,” the detective continued, j “and they wanted to get them out of , you. Peter Woolf came and fetched i you out of your lodgings and brought 1 you down to an empty house in Essex. | near the mouth of the Crouch.” “Oh, that’s where it was!” “Yes, sir. They intended to kill you or get the diamonds before they ; cleared out. They were going on j board a smack m the creek and iuI tended to try and reach the coast of | France or Belgium. But M. Avator, a jeweller and receiver of stolen goods in Paris, and a member of the gang, had his own game to play. He knew : that these three men could give him away, and he made up his mind to get ; rid of All the rest of the t whisky was burnt, but, from Sam Felton's description of his feelings, there j is no doubt that it was poisoned with morphine. The Frenchman had taken morphia by injection for many years—we found the marks on bis arms—and. of course, he could swallow enough of the poison to kill any ordinary man. He drank first, and no one suspected that there was anything wrong with the whisky. I'll read you out Sam 1 Felton’s statement, sir. and I should be glad if you'll corroborate it.” He read out a short statement, and I Dick Polling was certainly able to en- , j dorse every word of it,

“Is that all you want from me?” i queried Dick Pelling. “Yes, sir,” Sanderson replied, and ! then after a pause. “Well, I'd like to I know, sir, why they thought you’d got the diamonds?” “I told them so,” Pelling answered 1 simply. “You see ” “One moment, sir,” the detective j I interrupted. “I want no particulars. ! ' I expect, they thought a man in your j j position would be able to steal the j : diamonds —just a general sort of idea j j like.” j “That isn't so,” Pelling answered I quietly. "I want to explain why I j didn't give them away to the police. ; One of them had a hold over me —I i was a bit of a fool when I was young j —before the war. I have been trying to work my way up again, and they could have flung me down to the bottom of the ladder. You understand?”

“Yes, sir, but please don't go into f details. It’s quite unnecessary.” The eyes of the two men met, and the eyes of Sanderson said as plainly j as possible, “Don’t force me to do my j duty, sir.” For nearly a minute there was j silence and then Sanderson said, “Whatever you’ve done, sir, you’ve paid for it. You tried to save the lives of men who were better dead, so far as you were concerned. Chaps have got the V.C. for less than that. He closed his notebook with a snap and left the ward of the hospital. Richard Pelling sighed and shut his | eyes. ! “Good old chap,” he thought. ‘I ! wonder how much he does know. And | then suddenly he said aloud, “Great Scott! ” The finger print left on the Bextable safe had been, according to the experts, the print of a finger and thumb of the left hand. Dick Pelling stared at the stump ot his left arm, and for a few moments he was unable to control his laughter. “Still Sanderson is a good old chap,” he said to himself. “He’s held his tongue about that meeting with Sam i Felton on the tow-path.” j “I think.” said Mary Pelling, | quietly, “that the honours are easy.” Susan Croad did not answer. She j stared out of her drawing room window at the dead leaves that a cold November wind was driving across the lawn. “I am glad to hear that Charles Blindon is still faithful to you,” she ! continued, “and that you are going to be married before Christmas.” Still Susan Croad did not speak. She had grown very thin during the past j two months and her face was wh^te

I and haggard. The terrible tragedy in i the empty house by the mouth of the Crouch had left its mark upon her. | There were times when she had lain ; awake at night moaning with terror at the horrible picture she had reconstructed out of the darkness. “You see,” Mary went on in the same quiet voice. “I can stop th. marriage. You, on the other hand, can accuse my husband of having taken part in the Bextable affair. But the main proof of his guilt is missing. It would no longer be possible to take the finger prints of his left hand.”

(To be continued daily.*