"THE SILK ENIGMA"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 5 April 1938, Page 12

"THE SILK ENIGMA"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

J. R. WILMOT.

(Author of “Zora,” “The Invisible Death in the Stalls,” etc.

"Most certainly, Mr Beck. He did indeed inquire for someone the name of Stillman, but he was told that we could give no information concerning that gentleman since we had none to give.” Beck grunted. The follow was obviously stalling. ‘And you have not seen him since?” he inquired, meeting the Oriental s gaze sharply.

“Certainly not, Mr Beck. He was a stranger to us and he went on his way. Beck turned to Graves at his elbow. “That seems good enough, Inspector. It appears we have had a jorney for nothing.” As he said this he transferred he gaze quickly from Graves to the Chinaman’s face and was satisfied to note the look of undisguised relief there.

“It would seem that way, sir,” Graves admitted, on a note of disappointment. “I suppose we’ll have to try and pick up his trail somewhere else.” Scarcely had the words fallen from his reluctant lips than a sharp cry came to their ears followed swiftly by the sound of someone falling. Beck spun around swiftly. “What’s that?” he demanded, looking back on the complacent face of Sen Yat Soh. Philip Slater after an ordeal on the electric rack that had been a ghastly experience and which had left him limp and weak,- struggled on to one elbow and tried to think. He was still in the darkened room, where he had been taken yesterday. He had no idea of thetime. He did not know whether it was night or whether it - was day. His watch had stopped, and even had it been going he could not have seen the face. And he had neither matches nor torch.

Yet there was a glimmer of hope in his heart. Beck must assuredly get that message he had left in the custody of the old shopkeeper. Perhaps it was not so hopeless after all. But when he thought of Phyllis and that other, older woman —when he thought of Phyllis undergoing a torture similar to his own before the leering gaze of Sen Yat Soh, every fibre of his body arose in rebellion against his inactivity. He felt that he must do something—must make a desperate attempt either to free her from this house of terror or make contact with the police.

Painfully he crawled across the floor until his fingers, touched the opposite wall. Feeling his way toward the corner he found the door. Phillip straightened himself and ran his fingers over it as he had done before. There was neither knob nor catch on his side—nothing more than a keyhole through which he could not see. If only he had a pocket knife —anything at all—h might be able to make an assault on that door. Then he bethought himself of the small fireplace on the farther side of the room and groped his way unsteadily towards it. The hearth when he reached it was bare. Then his fingers touched, the three horizontal bars in the old-fashioned grate. He tugged at each in turn. They seemed immovable. But the bottom one, he imagined, was not as secure as the two others. He tugged harder. Yes, it was certainly looser, Hope gave him renewed strength, and after many minutes of concerted struggle one end appeared looser than the other. Sweat was pouring down his face. The exertion atop of what he had gone through at the Chinaman’s hands had sapped his strength. He rested for a while before returning to the attack. The rest had done him good and ten minutes later he was sitting in the darkness with a sort bar of iron across his knees.

Crawling to the door again he first tried inserting the wedge end of the bar into the keyhole, only to find the aperture too small to accommodate it. Next he tried to space between the door jamb and the door itself, and in this he was more successful. Inserting it at a point where he adjudged from the position of the keyhole the lock must be he leant all his strength against the lever. At first nothing happened. He swayed almost dizzily backwards and forwards, finding that as the lever operated he was able to push it a little further home. At last his dull ears detected a faint, almost imperceptible splintering noise, and he redoubled his efforts once more. Fortunately the woodwork on the slotted side of the jamb was being slowly undermined by dry rot. The splintering became more pronounced until, at last, a piece fell away to the floor enabling

him to insere his bar still further and to such an extent that he could prise the catch from its socket.

Philip almost fell backwards in a heap to the floor as the door swung inwards.

For a few moments he waited, his eyes growing accustomed to the greying twilight in the corridor. Then he listened, fearful that .the noise of his breaking out might have been detected.

Cautiously he stole along the corridor, down the the first flight on to the landing below and listened again. It seemed as if, down below he caught the burble of voices, and he paused aggain. Then peering over the balustrading he saw a shadowy figure creeping up the staircase towards him. He recognized the figure immediately as Ling Foo. Philip made up his mind quickly.- If he could dispatch Ling Foo he would have a better chance of escape. Ling Foo came on apparently oblivious to the fact that Philip was waiting for him round the angle of the staircase. Just as he turned the corner something smashed between his eyes with the force of a sledge-hammer: Ling Foo gave a sharp, staccato cry, and such was the force behind Philip’s blow that Ling Foo was flung backwards, his unconscious body out of control down the last flight of stairs leading to the wide hall. Philip waited. Below a door opened, and he heard an exclamation that sounded oddly familiar. It was Beck. Before Sen Yat Soh could offer any xplanation for the curious noise they had heard, the Superintendent had raced for the door, flung it open and found himself confronted with the huddled heap of the Chinaman, who had admitted them to the house lying at the foot of the staircase. To Beck’s casual glance it appeared almost certain that the man’s neck had been broken. The next moment another figure stumbled rather than ran down the stairs. It was Philip Slater. “Mr Beck,” he cried. “Thank God you’ve come—Phyllis—she’s upstairs—that fiend ’

“Steady, young man, steady,” cautioned Beck kindly, as Philip swayed against him. But it was little use counselling Philip to be steady. He had fainted. It was Inspector Graves who gave the warning blasts on the whistle and then rushed back into the room they had just left. The Chinaman had vanished. Superintendent Morrosing appeared at the door. “Quick,” shouted Graves, “throw a cordon round the house and hold every Chinaman you can find.” CHAPTER XXVI. TRIUMPH Two days later Superintendent Beck sat in his room at The Yard humming a gay tune. He had just returned from a conference with the Assistant Commissioner and that gentleman had expressed regret that he had ever doubted the Superintendent’s word. He appreciated, now that he had read Beck’s final report on the case, the killing of Nikolas Nolescue had been no ordinary killing; appreciated, too, that the Superintendent’s amazingly fantastic theory had been moderately right after all, which just goes to show, as he had told his subordinate officer, that crime detection follows no hard and fast rule after all.

Of course, as he had explained to Beck, there was some cleaning up to be done. Sen Yat Soh had been captured by the Tonbridge police when they had thrown a cordon around the house and he had willingly admitted that his search for the Suchow silk had been directed towards discovering the secret of the Five Eyes of Medichus. His regret that he had been unsuccessful was tempered somewhat by the knowledge that, so far, no one else had discovered it either. He had proved, too, that he himself, while the mainspring behind the Tong organization, had had no hand in the murder of Nolescue. He had confessed that Wu Ti, one of his minions, had been guilay of that crime. As Sen Yat Soh expressed himself, Wu Ti was a blunderer. He admitted that Wu Ti was acting under his instructions, but Wu Ti would never be brought to the bar of English justice. During the raid on The Beeches the Chinese killer, realizing that the game was up, had obligingly jumped from the roof in his terror and they found his body on the gravel at the rear of the house. Ling Foo, too, was dead but the Home Office had decided that his death had been what might be legally termed an accident and Philip was likely to be exonerated at the Coroner’s inquiry at Tonbridge. The police certainly would offer no evidence against him. But what the Home Office did propose to do was to arraign Sen Yat Soh before a magistrate on a charge of abduction and also with being an undesirable alien, so that after serving whatever sentence the courts might impose upon him he would be forthwith deported. The Home Secretary had made a few caustic comments anent the ease with which some undesirable aliens could land in Britain under false passports, and recommended that a stricter surveillance should be kept so that repitition of this sort of thing might be avoided.

But there was a further point that still intrigued the Superintendent’s mind and that was the secret of the silk. If the theory that had been evolved by Professor Karmen and himself —that the Suchow silk weaver had actually committed his secret of the whereabouts of the famous jewel to the silk he had been weaving—was an accurate one. he felt that only the discovery of that siki could vindicate him,

no matter how pleasant the Assistant Commissioner had been. So far every inch of silk in the possession of Oxtons had been subjected to the closest scrutiny by Professor Karmen and his friend Professor Kan Fu, as also had been the stolen rolls found at The Beeches. None of the silk disclosed any marks other than the regulation ones. Both the professors had been disappointed at this result and yet both were confident that that particular roll of Suchow silk had been purchased by Peter Oxton’s buyers. To Beck the puzzle was as bewildering as ever and though he had promised to give a full-dress review of the case for the benefit of interested parties in Peter Oxton’s private office that night, he felt that it must necessarily be incomplete unless he could prove that his theory had been the right one. There was no more relieved man that day in the whole of London than Peter Oxton himself. On hearing from Beck that Phyllis Varley and Philip Slater were both safe and that the hunt by Scotland Yard was now over, he had been curious to know the details. To that end he had invited Beck, with the permission of the Assistant Commissioner, to meet everyone interested in the case at his office at nine o’clock that night. He had willingly agreed to his two employees who had both played a conspicuous part in the affair meing granted two weeks leave of absence, but he had also hinted to Beck that, in all fairness, he would like them to be present.

That night when Superintendent Beck and Inspector Graves arrived at Oxtons, the store did not wear so forlorn a look as it had done previously. Lights were burning here and there and Peter Oxton’s private office wore a gay look. A number of comfortable easy chairs had been moved in and there was hot coffee, whisky, and even bottled beer for those who preferred it as accompaniments to the varied plates of dainty sandwiches. Beck found in addition to Oxton, Phyllis Varley and Slater, that Professor Karmen and his friend Professor Kan Fu were also installed.

Phyllis and Philip looked little the worse for their nerve-racking experience at the hands of the Chinaman, Sen Yat Soh. In fact, Beck noted that the girl had a pleasant flush on both cheeks.

Beck looked around the assembled company and smiled. “We’re one short at the moment,” said Peter Oxton. “I’ve asked Miss Lennard to come along, too. Miss Varley felt sure she would be interested.” SECRET OF THE FIVE EYES “Of course she will,” conceded the Superintendent. “She’s a very plucky woman.’ “From what she told me,” added Inspector Graves blushing for probably the first time in his life, “she must most certainly have been through it. I admide that woman.”

Beck looked across at his colleague sharply and deliberately winked at Peter Oxton.

Miss Lennard came bustling in, shepherded by the doorkeeper who was on duty.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she smiled. “You will forgive me, won’t you,” she added, turning her smiling face on the Inspector. “Of course we will, Miss Lennard,” Peter Oxton told her, “and now perhaps the Superintendent will tell his story. I’m sure we’re all rather in the dark about this unfortunate affari.” They listened long and intently to the Superintendent, who refreshed his memory repeatedly from the sheaf of official notes he had brought along with him.

When he had finished there was a moment of silence. Suddenly Phyllis turned to Peter Oxton.

“I’ve just thought of something,” she announced. “I wonder if Mr Oxton will excuse me for a moment while I go down to the store.” “Of Course,” agreed Oxton, perplexed.

Phyllis hurried from the room and returned a few minutes later with a small brown-paper parcel. Her face was flushed and her eyes were bright. “I want to explain,” she said, as she unwrapped her package, “and I hope Mr Oxton will forgive me. Four days ago when the last consignment of Suchow silk came in I was attracted by one of the rolls. I liked the colour and I wanted some for myself. I am perfectly aware that it is a rule of the firm that any employee wanting to purchase anything for her own use must obtain permission from her immediate superior, but that is usually after the store has closed to the public. In this case I’m afraid I did a dreadful thing. I was afraid that if I waited there was just a chance that all the silk on that particular roll would have been sold. So in a slack moment I cut myself a length from it. It was just then that I encountered the Chinaman standing at my counter. I was so shocked — knowing my guilt that I bundled it in a piece of paper and stuffed it at the back of the shelf under the counter intending to see the manager about it later. Unfortunately, as you all know, events tumbled over themselves so swiftly that it quite slipped my memory and it’s only since hearing Mr Beck that I thought . . . Professor Kan Fu leaned forward eagerly in his chair. “May I see that piece, Miss Varley?” The girl unfolded the remainder of the wrapping and handed him a dresslength of Suchow silk. The Chinese professor almost snatched it from her in his eagerness and, taking a magnifying glass from his pocket, ran the lens rapidly over one edge. Suddenly they saw the glass halt in its journey. They saw, too, the professor’s body stiffen. Then he looked up, and when he spoke there was a tremor in his voice.

“Thank you, Miss Varley,” he said, simply. “It is here. If you had not cut off this length we should never have found It because the remainder of this roll was stolen by our rivals.” Professor Karmen, eager as a delighted child took the silk and the lens from his contemporary’s hand.

“Hc’a right. Mere it is. It looks like an ordinary trade-mark, but it isn’t The Chinese characters are woven so minutely that they can only be deciphered by the gid of this powerful lens.

I too, thank Miss Varley. It is the working of a bountiful Providence.” A murmur of satisfaction rippled through the company. “I don't think Miss Varley need have fear of any consequences,” laughed Peter Oxton. “As you say, Professor, Providence moves mysteriously.” Miss Leonard’s eyes were bright, “And will you really be able to restore lost youth?” she asked. Prof Kan Fu smiled across at her. “It is a story in our mythology, dear lady,” he told her. “It has never been tested. Some day perhaps, we may be tempted to do so, but for the present . , Youth is often a desirable estate,” he went on, “but for myself I think there is something equally gracious and fascinating about age, about that leaven of maturity that only age can bring to us.” Miss Lennard nodded in agreement and looked up at Inspector Graves. “Well,” said Beck, ‘that’s what I call fine. If you’ll give me a few lines of a report on this, Professor, I’ll pop in and explain it to the Assistant Commissioner first thing in the morning.” “I think this is an occasion for a toast,” announced Peter Oxton. “I'm sure the Superintendent’s thirsty, too.” When the glasses had been filled — and Oxton insisted that coffee was quite unsuited to the moment—he gave the toast: “To Miss Varley, whose disobedience to rule has solved a problem for Scotland Yard.”

Phyllis felt herself blushing as the company clinked glasses. “And now one for Superintendent Beck —the man who refused to be shaken off the scent.” More toasts were drunk and the happy party did not break up until close upon midnight. “Coming along, Inspector?” asked Beck, touching his colleague’s sleeve. “If you don’t mind, sir, I think I’d better see Miss Lennard home to Battersea.’ Miss Lennard blushed because the Inspector had not been able to conceal his own blushes.

Philip Slater had been somewhat overcome by the occasion. There were lots of things he had wanted to say and there had been a particular toast of his own he had wanted to drink. '“You’re coming my way, Phyllis?” he inquired, in a low voice. The girl smiled at him and nodded.

They left Oxtons together and on their way through the quiet streets he told her a great many intimate things that have no right to be recorded here because they concern the happiness of two quite ordinary but nevertheless very likeable people. On a doorstep in Moor Street, however, they kissed for the first time. “I’m so glad it’s happened like this,” Phyllis told him, as he released her, “and if you must have an answer to that other question, I think I would like just a small, single diamond.” THE END.

MYSTERY OF A FAMOUS PEARL History fails to tell what became of a famous pearl ear-ring beling to Cleopatra.

This ear-ring was the one that paired with the pearl which Cleopatra dissolved in a wine-glass when she entertained Antony.

Antony did not take the other pearl. Where did it find sanctuary throughout the ages?

The question is an extremely interesting one, and it is not surprising that a well-known author should have chosed it as the starting point of a story of today. Mr. Stuart Martin, who wrote his first story in a room once used by the immortal O. Henry, has based an entirely modern story on this age-old mystery of the East, and in “CLEOPATRA’S PEARL” he uses the classic jewel as a link between the mystic past and the present day. “CLEOPATRA’S PEARL”—partly a story of adventure and partly a romance —has been acquired by the Wairarapa Times-Age for serial publication.

It is a short serial, but the author contrives to put into it without any suggestion of overloading, all the excitement and action of a story of full novel length. But because it is short, be sure to miss none of it. Begin with the first instalment which will appear tomorrow.