THE GREEN SHADOW

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 952, 21 April 1930, Page 5

THE GREEN SHADOW

By

HERMAN LANDON

Copyright by Public Ledger

CHAPTER IX- —(Continued). "Oh, no, it wasn't a case of dislike,” he protested. "We were both in bad humour, one suffering from an enlarged jaw, the other from a diminished bank roll. What could you expect?" She regarded him doubtfully. "Had you met Mr. Ainsworth previously?” she asked. ”1 never saw his face until this morning,” declared Dale truthfully. She continued to search his face for a moment. Then she brightened a little. “Next time you meet. I want both of you to be more cordial. You see, Paul and I are to be married soon.” Dale bowed slightly. He felt a little wrench within him. Another young life headed straight for the cataracts of disillusionment and tragedy! “It’s a strange thing,” she murmured. “Men don't generally like Paul until they have known him a long time. He seems insolent and supercilious, but it is all on the surface. lam sure you will like hitn very much when you know him better.” “I—l hope so,” Dale murmured awkwardly. He was in no mood for insincere platitudes. "By the way. how much does Mr. Ainsworth know?” “Nothing,” she said simply, her face clouding. “It's really my duty to tell him, isn't it? I can't, though, I simply can’t.” “Then I wouldn’t tell him.” “But it doesn’t seem right. Time after time I've tried to summon courage to tell Paul every tiling about my father and how Doctor Moffett is trying to blackmail him, but I simply can't. I feel beastly about it. I know it isn’t fair to Paul. Since we are going to be married, 1 oughtn’t to keep any secrets from him, ought I?” Dale looked out the window. The bitter, devastating irony of the situation was acutely depressing. If his surmises and suspicions were correct —and he feared they were—then she could tell Ainsworth nothing which he did not already know. Ainsworth was a scoundrel of the blackest dye. a blackmailer and perhaps a murderer. “You reproach yourself too much,” he said lightly, although his heart was heavy. “Nothing can go seriously wrong with a girl like 5011 as long as she is true to herself and relies on her instincts. If your instincts tell you not to mention the matter to Paul, then don’t mention it.” "I wonder if it is as simple as all that,” she murmured doubtfully. “How can I know my instincts are right?” “I would gamble on them,” Dale assured her, reflecting that a woman’s instincts were often truer than logic and reason. Perhaps they would save her in time. Anyway, time will tell. This ugly business will probably blow over in a few days. Why not wait and see?” She smiled vaguely. "Your auvice is so pleasant to take that I am doubtful of it. You see, Paul suspects something is wrong, and that makes it all the harder. He has bullied and cajoled. tried in every way to make me tell what's worrying me. and I have kept assuring him it is nothing. e had a spat only this morning. That s why he was in such a bad humour. I was only trying to gloss over things With a fib when t said he had received bad news from his broker.”

’ Dale frowned into the sunlight outside the window. Ainsworth appeared to be playing his dastardly role with great adroitness, pretending he did not know what was troubling his fiance. “Oh,” he murmured absently, “then he hasn’t been bucking the stock market?” “Just a little,” she said, vaguely. “It wasn’t as bad a fib as it might have been. But he doesn't tell me much about it, and it wasn’t the thing that upset him this morning. Now,” and her face brigthened again, “you must tell me about the pink elephants and the green dragons and what happened to your jaw.” Dale gave a concise account of the midnight occurrence, but he madeAio mention of the empty sleeve which he had caught for an instant. A faint hope entered his mind while he talked. Had he not jumped rather rashly to the conclusion that the prowler in his apartment had been Paul Ainsworth? The only tangible basis for that conclusion was Ainsworth's empty sleeve and the fact that his appearance tallied with Bilkins's general description of the man who had called earlier in the evening aud then gone away without stating his errand. All this might have been only a striking case of coincidence. Perhaps Adele Castle’s life was steering a straight and safe course, after all. But Dale felt lie was only deluding himself. In addition to the tangible items of evidence, there were the intangible ones —Ainsworth’s sneering look of recognition when Dale was introduced, the pointed glance at his swollen jaw, the way he had reacted to Dale’s unthinking allusion —all the little details of looks and manner and speech by which he had confirmed Dale’s suspicions and which had been even more conclusive than the empty sleeve. His heart sank again. He saw shoals ahead for the splendid, beautiful girl who was listening so intently to his recital. He smiled faintly. They were prac- j tically strangers, their acquaintance dated only since yesterday. It was no vital concern of his if she was headed straight toward a heartbreaking adventure. He was not in love with 'her. He had loved once, and the one disastrous experience was enough. Besides, the Picaroon had no right to look desiringly at the Adele Castles of the world. And yet “Strange!" she murmured when ha had finished. “A green light, a voice! That's exactly the same experience I had, except that I escaped unharmed." She thought for a little while, her exquisite face very tense. Suddenly she looked up at him, her lips quivering. "That man must have ■ been Dr. Moffett!” “Just what X have been thinking.” j She bent her head in thought again. “But what could he have been doing | in your apartment ?” “Looking for something, I suppose. : Papers, perhaps.” “Papers?” "Well, if he had been lucky, or j made a more thorough search, he might have found something which would have gone a long way toward i unmasking the Picaroon.” “Oh.” she said soberly. “Dr. Moffett \ is looking for information he can use to blackmail you.” "Intimidate me, rather. 1 don’t |

think it is his plan to extort money from me—not for the present, at any I rate. All he wants me to do is to fold my arms and keep my hands off. If I am right in that theory, his visit last night was a compliment to me. He is afraid of me, so he wants to force me to let him alone.” “You are getting yourself into a lot of trouble on account of me,” she remarked ruefully. “It’s worth it,” Dale declared with enthusiasm. “Besides, life would be dreadfully dull without a dash of excitement now and then.” “I wonder how Dr. Moffett knew that you have taken an interest in my father’s case.” “It’s possible, for one thing, that he is having you shadowed. Naturally, after your interview with him the other day, he wants to know what you are doing and what sort of people you come in contact with. It’s possible you and I were watched in the park yesterdaj'. Moreover, Axelson knows that X am interested in the affair.” “The caretaker at 262 Bank Street?'’ “I had a talk with him last night. I have my doubts about that fellow. I happened to mention one or two things which disturbed him very much. My theory is that he is iu league with Dr. Moffett, and he probably communicated with the excellent doctor the moment I turned my back.” “But how would Dr. Moffett know that you are the Picaroon?” “There I am stumped,” said Dale in a queer voice. “I haven’t a ghost of an idea. Until last night I could have sworn that you were the only person in the world who knew that, and you had known it only a few hours. Then there is another person who suspects something of the sort, but it’s not much more than a guess with him.” He chuckled. She grew thoughtful and silent. Sitting on the sofa, she leaned her dark head against her fine, white hand. “This morning I read all the newspaper accounts of the murder on Bank Street,” she remarked after a while. “I was hoping there would be a picture of the murdered woman, but I didn't find any. Don’t the newspapers usually print the photograph of the victim in a sensational murder case?” “Usually, if one is available. Summers told me Ferryman carries one in his watch, but it may be too small or not clear enough for reproduction. But there is no doubt about Mrs. Ferryman being the Miss Conway who took you to the house on Bank Street. Axelson practically admitted it.” “But it's strange that her picture didn’t appear in the papers. She was a beautiful woman. X should imagine she had lots of photographs taken. Dale straightened up abruptly. “That’s an idea!” he exclaimed. “Perhaps someone is interested in preventing the picture from getting into the papers.” “What would be the object?” “To eonceal the fact that Mrs. Ferryman and Miss Conway were the same person. Just what bearing that fact has on the case isn’t clear, however. With the photograph suppressed, the woman's dual identity could be concealed without great difficulty. In all probability only a few persons knew Mrs. Ferryman as Miss Conway. I see the police aren’t mak-

mg much headway. They can’t find a motive for the murder, and they haven’t the slightest clue to the murderer.” “Dr/ Moffett, of course.” Dale gave her a keen look, wondering if in that little sentence she had not sketched the tragedy of her young .life. If Paul Ainsworth were Dr. Moffett, and Dr. Moffett the murderer of Miss Conway, then the damning circle was complete. “Why should Dr. Moffet murder a faithful confederate?” he objected. “How do you know she was faithful?” she countered instantly. Date chuckled. “The feminine instinct again! You may have hit the nail on the head. But you and I are not especially interested in finding the murderer or discovering the motive. First of all we want to prove to Dr. Moffett that blackmail is an unhealthy pactice.” A shadow came over her face. “You are still determined to go through with it, even after the warning you received?” Dale hesitated. He wondered wliat his going through with it would ultimately mean to Miss Castle. A heartache now, or a bitter awakening and years of misery later? A whimsical smile lighted up his face. He fingered his jaw. “I owe Dr. Moffett something. An eye for an eye, and a jaw for a jaw —that’s my motto.” CHAPTER X. THE MOVING PANEL The hour was two in the morning. The respectable portion of Bank Street, which meant the larger portion, had retired long since. Only here and there an isolated light gleamed rakisly in an upper window. No. 262 was dark from attic to basement, and not only dark but absolutely still as well. Presently the stillness was broken. A slight sound, like a gnawing on metal, came from one of the windows in the rear, but it was too small to disturb any one. With now and then a brief pause it continued for several minutes, and then it was followed by another sound, a sort of wooden squeak like that produced when a tightly-fit-ting window is being slowly forced open. Soon this sound also ceased and there came an interval of silence. Had there been eyes in the darkness, a shadowy form might have been seen outside the window, waiting and listening to make certain that the road was clear. Everything being reassuringly still, the shadow passed silently across the sill and came forward with a sureness of movement which testified to a previous exploration of the premises. Now there came an intermittent flashing of light from an electric torch, and one of these flashes revealed two sliding doors. At a touch and a gentle pull they slid open soundlessly, and the shadow passed through. Darkness again, and a pause. Alert ears and sharp eyes raked the silence and darkness. Then the white light of the torch fell over the still spaces, and behind the torch stood the Picaroon. His shoulders were bent and he moved with a little limp. He wore a soft hat that had lost its shape and a suit of unbecoming and neutral hue that did not fit very well. There were gloves on his hands and glasses with heavy shell rims over his eyes. He gave the impression of being mildmannered and soft-spoken. Hi 3 appearance, if not his actions, suggested the impecunious scholai or the soap-box philosopher. In this queer get-up, with its complement of odd manners and mannerisms, Martin Dale would scarcely have beeD recog nised even by his friends. With an unhurried air he surveyed his surroundings in the light of the torch, noting the handsome rugs, the

hooks, the pictures, the chairs, among the latter the luxuriously upholstered one, in which Alexander Ferryman had sat last night while Dale questioned him concerning Dr. Moffett. Last of all he turned his flashlight on a point in the hand-carved oak panelling that at a casual glance looked like a flaw in the otherwiseperfect finish. Martin Dale had noticed this little peculiarity last night, and peculiarities, whether large or small, always excited his curiosity. This curiosity was now about to be gratified by the Picaroon. He stepped closer. The upper part of the wainscoting was a border of skilfully carved oak leaves. At one point this border had a broken apappearance. It might mean that the slow ravages of time and weather had warped the woodwork, or it might mean something entirely different. In any event, it appeared to have escaped Axelson’s notice, or he would have seen about having it repaired. For that matter, the Picaroon’s keen eyes had a habit of noting details that eluded the average person.

Now lie ran his hand along the strip his mind divided between admiration of fine workmanship and a desire to know the meaning of the solitary flaw. Into the narrow and irregular crevice he inserted the blade of a small penknife, and pried gently. A little exclamation fell from his lips. A portion of the decorative strip yielded with an elastic vigour which suggested that a steel spring was at work somewhere. An opening appeared, which proved big enough to admit the Picaroon’s hand. He explored the aperture, which widened downward, and suddenly a tingling sensation was communicated to his fingertips. His hand came out, and with it came a rope of pearls. He stared dumbfounded at their pale, bluish-grey radiance. A familiar thrill was singing in his brain as he lovingly fingered the exquisite pellets, perfectly matched and magnificent to the eye. He gazed at them, not greedily, but as a true lover of beautiful things. They dazzled him, charmed him, lulled his brain into a pleasant stupor with their soothing sorcery, filling him with a desire to possess them and call them his own, if only for a little while. It was a familiar desire, one he had rarely been able to resist. But this was not an ordinary occasion in the Picaroon’s life. He had not come to Bank Street in search of loot, but rather in the hope of finding some clue no matter how slight, which might eventually enable him to frustrate Dr. Moffett’s villainous designs. The little breach In the wooc( panelling, noted and filed away in his mind the night before, had played on his imagination in the interim, looming with greater and greater suggestiveness. A hiding place for articles of a very private nature, perhaps? That had been his first thought upon noticing the irregularity. But he had not expected to find anything like this. An even bolder hope had electrified his fingers as he inserted them into the hidden recess. It was exactly the kind of recess to which Dr. Moffett, who with Axelson’s connivance, appeared to make surreptitious use of the house, would confide papers of a secret and highly important character. They would have been safer there than in a place subject to possible search-warrant, and raid, not to mention the contrivances of safe blowers.

The Picaroon’s imagination played extravagantly with the idea. If such were the case—if the flaw in the woodwork indicated a secret receptacle for documents used by Dr. Moffett in his wicked enterprises—why might it not contain the very papers he had offered to sell to Mr. Casfle for 100,000 dollars? What a stroke of luck it would have been’.

What a blow to Doctor Moffett! But instead he* had found this. Already the Picaroon’s first sense of elation was yielding to a feeling of disappointment. This rope of pearls, exquisite and superb though it was, would not solve the problem pressing on Adele Castle’s young heart. Aside from its esthetic merits, duly appreciated by the Picaroon, its value was a purely pecuniary one. It might be worth 100,000 dollars, perhaps even more The Picaroon drew himself up. momentarily forgetting the stoop that went with his assumed role. A thought burned brightly, exhilaratingly in his brain. Whatever the exact value of the pearls, it equalled or exceeded the price Doctor Moffett had demanded for the papers. With the pearls in his position, the Picaroon would be in a position to negotiate terms with the wily doctor. With an elated chuckle he dropped the pearls into his pocket. Now he reached for a case in his pocket, and from it he removed a small card with an engraved inscription. It read: 1 trust you will pardon my little .joke and excuse the liberties I have taken with your valuables. They will be returned to you as soon as you shall have donated 10 per cent, of their value to the Society for the Protection of Animals. THE PICAROON. He gazed doubtfully at the card. A similar card was always found on the scene of each of his enterprises, and he had never failed to make good the promise toward the end, but that promise did not apply here. Doctor Moffett should not get his pearls back on such easy terms. Yet it was a matter of principle as well as ethics with the Picaroon to leave such a card behind him. It served as a taunt to the police who had once cruelly wronged him, and it safeguarded innocent persons against unjust suspicions.

After brief reflection he took out his pencil and in a cramped and unaccustomed hand changed the last sentence so that it read: "They will be returned' to you on terms that will be communicated to you in due time." With a chuckle he dropped the card into the recess from which he had taken the pearls. His good fiieud Summers would grit his teeth and mutter maledictions. Doctor Moffett would fly into a rage. Adele Castle

would give Martin Dale a heavenly smile. And that would be sufficient

reward. He started to close the aperture, and then a doubt came. Suppose the pearls were not Doctor Moffett’s property? Suppose they belonged to Mr. Ferryman, the pitiful mourner in the next house? Not for worlds would the Picaroon touch anything belonging to that gentleman. He stood in a quandary, but soon his doubt dissolved. The very nature of the hiding place in which he had found the pearls suggested secretiveness, even criminal design. Mr. Ferryman would not have concealed them in such a place. Moreover, he would have been more likely to conceal them in the next house, where he lived and where he could watch them closely. Besides, it was doubtful if Mr. Ferryman possessed an ornament of such great value. No, in all probability it belonged to Dr. Moffett, who in all likelihood nad acquired it through some shady transaction.

It was rather droll, thought the Picaroon, as he reached out his hand to close the aperture. Dr. Moffett’s silence would be purchased with his own rope of pearls. For the present, the Picaroon did not think beyond that point. Somehow Adele Castle must be saved from leaping from the frying-pan of blackmail into the fire of marriage to a scoundrel, but perhaps that difficulty would take care of itself.

He laughed softly, and then, with great suddenness, jerked his hand away from the opening. With the swiftness of a thought he darkened his flashlight, stood with his back to the wall, all his senses exploring the darkness. A signal of warning had come out of the stillness, but as usual the Picaroon’s senses had acted in advance of his mind. As yet his brain could not grasp the elusive something that had gone like the faintest tremor through his ears.

The room was utterly still. The Picaroon thought of the pearls in his pocket, and the card he had dropped into the aperture. He edged back toward the opening. Perhaps he had been mistaken. The stillness on all sides had a reassuring quality. In any event, he had left way of retreat open—the door in the rear, and the window looking out upon the backyard. Besides, the Picaroon had

established a reputation for his ability to wriggle out of tight corners. Just to make sure, he stepped softly to the door in the rear. His fingers closed around the knob; he pushed: and then a faint mutter fell from his lips. The door was bolted on the other side. In one direction his escape was cut off. But there were still the windows and the door leading to the front hall. Swiftly and lightly he darted to the window looking out upon the street, raised the shade a little, then drew quickly back at the sight of a face looking straight toward him. “Trapped!” he muttered. It was not an unusual situation, and it had its tang and its thrills for The Picaroon, and without these life would have been a tame and dull affair. As he stood in the darkness waiting for the enemy to make the next move, there flashed through his mind recollections of exciting escapes in circumstances just as difficult as the present. His nerves tingled at a sound outside the door. Someone was about to enter. Captain Summers? Doctor Moffett? Who could tell? In a moment liis question was answered. The door was thrust open, the beam from a flashlight glared in his face. Behind the flashlight he saw the stocky figure of Summers, with his oversized head and his short legs, grim of face and wary of eye, and bluish gleam of an automatic pistol in his hand. And behind Summers w.,3 the tall figure of Mr. Ferryman, followed by the whitefaced and grizzly'-headed Axelson. A stalwart policeman brought up the rear.

(To be Continued Tomorrow.)