THE GREEN SHADOW

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 947, 14 April 1930, Page 5

THE GREEN SHADOW

By

CHAPTER V.—Continued. “Besides,” Dale pursued, “something tells me that you will be just a wee bit sorry when the great day comes. The Picaroon has provided you with excitement for so long that you have actually grown to like him. Your life would have grown stale without his merry quins and pranks. You have a lot tto thank him for.” “And I’ll show my gratitude with a pair of perfectly good handcuffs.” “Moreover,” Dale went on, ignoring the captain’s last remark, “the fellow isn’t doing any actual harm. Rumour has it that the authorities once did him a great wrong. He is simply talcing his revenge, and he takes it with a smile.” “So I see,” Summers observed dourly, looking up at Dale’s smiling face. “It’s you all right, Dale. X like you. You’re a good entertainer, you know how to order a good meal, and I enjoy your company, even if you talk like an idiot at times. But I know what I know. Friendship won’t cut any ice. with me when my chance comes.” Dale gave a serio-comic sigh. “Then let us Implore heaven that the evil day may be deferred as long as possible. By the way,” and he lowered his eyes in a casual way, “has The Picaroon misbehaved again?” “Why ask me?” “Who could be better informed in relation to the doings of The Picaloon?” "The Picaroon himself, of course,” Summers looked up from his squab and fixed his meaningful eyes on Dale. “Since you ask me, though, my answer is that I don’t know.” Dale gave him a glance of mock reproof. “Bad, Summers—very bad A great cop never admits that there is anything he doesn’t know. I like your charming frankness, however Am I to infer that somebody’s necklace and earrings have vanished and you are not sure whether The Picaroon took them?” “I’m not worrying about necklaces and earring's this time.” “No? What is it, then? Has some body robbed a bank, or has your pet stool pigeon choked to death on a fishbone?” “No, nothing like that,” Summers drawled with the air of one who finds enjoyment in another’s mystification. “Then I’m stumped,” Dale confessed. “Utterly stumped, unless ” He paused. A little smile played at the corners of his lips. He regarded his companion with a shrewd, sidelong glance. “Unless,” he continued tentatively, “the thing you have in mind should happen to be a —ahem! —a green light!” Summers dropped his fork and drew himself up straight. His face was as expressionless as a wooden image. “What do you know about a green light?” he demanded, “Mercy!” Dale exclaimed. “I seem to have fired a shot in the dark and hit something!” “Are you sure you fired it in the dark?” Summers's tone was inquisitorial. “What made you mention a green light just now?” A RARE BRAND “I’ve talked enough—too much, perhaps.” Dale shrugged his shoulers tantalisingly. “Not another word until you reciprocate. Our minds seem to be travelling in the same

HERMAN LANDON

Copyright by Publio Ledger

channel, and at the end is a great green light. Where did your channel connect with mine?” Summers hesitated a moment. He had often confided intimate details of his work to Dale, and the latter had never betrayed his confidence. On the other hand, Dale had often offered helpful suggestions. This situation was different, but the captain gave a terse account of the occurrence in Mr. Ferryman’s house. ‘‘You saw the victim of the murder was Ferryman’s wife,” Dale murmured after listening with grave and puzzled interest. ‘‘Odd, isnit it? While Ferryman sat in your office telling you of his wife’s dereliction she was really lying dead in his house. Can you describe her?” Summers described the dead woman in detail, and Dale appeared to make mental notes of the description. ‘‘She must have been a beauty,” he commented. “Too lively for Ferryman, I should imagine—the hectic, emotional, pleasure-loving kind. You didn’t find any clues?” “Not unless a cigar band can be regarded as a clue,” said Summers, masticating his final morsel of squab. “A cigar *band? There’s nothing distinctive about a cigar band, is there?” “Not generally.” Slowly Summers stirred his coffee. He reached into liis vest pocket for a cigar, but Dale anticipated him. “Try one of these. They’re not bad.” “I know,” said Summers, casually, accepting one of the two cigars Dale held toward him. For a moment his gaze lingered on the decorative band. “I’ve smoked the same kind before You haven’t changed your brand, I see.” “Why change a good thing?” “It would be foolish. Bs r the way. have you ever been inside either of the two houses Ferryman owns on Bank Street?” “What on earth would I be doing there?” “I was just wondering.” The captain puffed with relish on his cigar. “Good cigar. Dale.” “Glad you like it. You will not find many of that brand in America. I get them direct from a manufacturer in Key West who makes his selections from the choicest Cuban stocks.” Summers nodded. He was leaning back, eyes half closed, as if giving himself over to the enjoyment of his smoke. In an absent fashion he inspected the band again. “Verona, eh? Nice name for a nice smoke.” He blew a ring of grey vapour ceilingward. “Did you say you were never inside Ferryman’s houses?” * “Never,” said Dale languidly, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “Why do you ask?” “Oh, because,” said Summers carelessly, “the cigar band I picked up at No. 262 Bank Street a as from a Verona. I just wonder how it got there. You tell me you have never been inside that house, and you say there are not many of that brantin this country.” Dale’s hand paused in the act of returning his cigar to his lips. His eyes narrowed over a vague flicker. A smile of faint mockery came to his lips. “Summers,” he drawled, “are you trying to prove me a liar?” “Oh, no!” Summers disclaimed, his voice heavy with sarcasm. Dale glanced at his watch. “I’ve enjoyed our chat. Unfortunately I have an engagement. Sorry.” He

rose and moved away with his lithe, ! swinging stride. “Much obliged for the cigar,” said Summers. CHAPTER VI. A BENCH FOR TWO Dale jumped into a taxi and hurried away to keep the appointment of which he had spoken. His face had worn a light frown when he left the restaurant, but it changed quickly to a whimsical expression. At one of the entrances to Central Park he dismissed the taxi and walked briskly inside. A girl was seated on a bench.

and he gave her a quick and unobtrustive inspection, then raised nis hat. “I believe you are Miss Adele Castle?” he murmured. “Yes,” said Adele, regarding him a little doubtfully out of her dark, troubled eyes. “But* you”—she hesitated—“certainly you are not the Picaroon.” “Why not?” he asked lightly, casu ally noting the trim lines of her smartly garbed figure. “You don’t look a bit—er —vicious.” Dale laughed. “You can never go by appearances. I may be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” Her lips relaxed a little. “Anyway,

; sheep’s clothing is becoming to you.” “Thanks. Is there room for two on that bench?” She edged away a little, making room for him, and she was still regarding him with a shy, questioning glance. “I’m glad you came,” said Dale, sitting down beside her. “I wasn’t ; sure you would.” “Well, I hesitated a bit, but when one is desperate, then there is nothin? to do but clutch whatever straw mav come along.” (To be Continued Tomorrow^