MURDER IN THE PROCESSION

Wairarapa Times-Age, 9 November 1938, Page 10

MURDER IN THE PROCESSION

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT COPYRIGHT.

BY

LESLIE CARGILL

(Author of “Death Goes by Bus.”)

CHAPTER ll—Continued. “Wait a moment! What makes you so sure.” “By the way he took things. There’s a difference between the resentment of a wronged man and the bad temper of a guilty one who’s been found out. Marley sort of smouldered inside.” “I see what you mean. Do you think he would have nursed his grievance all these years?” “Most likely, sir.” “And then planned to shoot the General in cold blood?”

“That’s not a fair question. Somebody did.” Major Mosson went away pondering over what he had learned. And the more he thought about it the less he liked the business. Having known Sir Vincent Parminster fairly well, he loathed the idea of connecting him with such a mean trick as had been suggested. At the back of his mind, too, was a feeling that an officer and a gentleman could not stoop so low. Against this he was well aware that bad sheep were to be found even in pedigree flocks.

In any case it was a line that must be followed up. . If it didn’t lead anywhere there was another skeleton that must be dragged out of the closet and Mosson hated the prospect of rattling old bones he had thought buried for ever.

Back at Scotland Yard he found an urgent request waiting for him. Would he see Captain Caythers without delay. The Assistant Commissioner was in a restless mood. “We’ve roped in a chap who seemed a likely suspect,” he explained. “Used to be a batman until he was ignominiously pitched out of the army.” “That’ll be ex-Private Marley.”

Caythers started. “Evidently you’ve found something out. Pretty slick too. You’re wasted in that watertight compartment of yours. How much do you know?” “Enough to establish a motive.” “Huh! A darned sight too easy in this case. That’s all we’ve got against the man at the moment. He was there all right, so there was an opportunity as well as a reason.” “What about a statement?” “Blank. Says he’s not sorry, but murder isn’t in his line. By the way, we’re not keeping under cover any more. They’ve decided that with all the investigation going on it can’t be done. Marley wouldn’t keep his mouth shut for one. That man is bitter, and I can’t blame him if his story is true.” “Maybe it’ is. You know Parminster was by way of being a friend of mine. Yes, I'll call him that in spite of everything. A lot can be forgiven in a good soldier, and he was certainly that. As the muck rake is being used I might as well mention an episode of some years back.” “Will it throw light on this case?” “It might. Anyhow it will give you a better idea of the General’s capacity for falling foul of people. We were in the Balkan State of Baltnia together. In those days I was very young and callow and rather admired my senior for cutting a dash with the women. That can be decidedly dangerous in a country where blood runs hot. Karel Vrenska was a member of one of the most influential families in Baltnia, and Irma Yskoida was practically engaged to him until the dashing English officer intervened. That sort of thing does n’t lead to a duel in England, but it is part of the Baltnian code to avenge such matters in the local forest in the cold grey hours before breakfast.” “Parminster was challenged?”

“He certainly was. To make matters worse he laughed at the seconds. So Vrenski presented himself in person, and slapped Parminster’s cheek in a highly dramatic fashion. I was present on the occasion.”

“What happened then?” ' “Fisticuffs. Crude and vulgar scrapping, with the local lad coming off second best. But no gentlemanly duel. The queer thing about it was that Irma was furious with her English admirer on the grounds that her honour had not been defended. Vrenska swore a blood feud. They went in for those as well. When the British authorities got to hear about it, they shifted Parminster to the other side of the globe. Interesting, eh?” “Very, though not particularly helpful.” “Have it your own way. It’s given me an idea though.” “What is it?” “For the time being, I’ll keep it to myself. Don’t forget I’m a freelance. You carry on with your ex-private while I gang my ain gait.” Captain Caythers glared, then chuckled. “How nice to have an executive position,” he taunted. “Cosy office, secretary, interesting flies—and nobody worries you if the boss keeps out of the place for days and days and days.”

“You’ll be sorry for that when I bring you the culprit, all nicely shackl-

“Do that and everything will be forgiven. In fact, you can play at being a detective as long as you want.” Yes, that was right. It was playing at being a detective. But Major Mosson felt impelled to do' his best to help solve the mystery for old times’ sake. The murder must be avenged. . Hang it all, he owed it to the memory of a comrade in arms. Perhaps his bungling methods would succeed where the routine efficiency of the proper departments might fail. Caythers had not appeared to set much store by the Baltnian revelation, yet it might be important. To call at the Baltnian Legation would not take up much time. He had what the Americans call a “hunch” that the halfhour or so would not be wasted. To his surprise the taxi stopped at a tall bulding not far from Trafalgar Square. There were still crowds of people about admiring the decorations. Inquisitively the Major looked up and down the street, then back to the Legation, taking careful measure of what he saw. And this caused him to approach the place with a certain amount of eagerness. “Vrenska, sir? Count Vrenska, you will mean! But yes, of course. He is our Attache here.” CHAPTER 111. “Count Vrenska is at your service, sir.” i Major Mosson started to his feet im-! mediately. He had been kept waiting

for perhaps ten minutes, during which period his thought had been concerned about the possibilities of the coming interview. The attendant’s words took him back over the years to the time when that same invitation had a more deadly ring. Karel Vrenska had then been in the prime of life. Of course he would now be an elderly man. The Major tried to imagine how he would have altered, basing the mental picture on Baltnian notabilities he had known in the past. They ran to bearded picturesqueness, with bristling moustaches and a certain fierceness of eye that told of untamed instincts.

Following the guide, he was ushered into a pleasantly furnished room where a well-dressed man rose courteously at his entrance. There was no sign of any patriarchal nobleman. “I came,” he said hesitantly, “to see Count Vrenska.” “The pleasure is mine, Major Mosson.” He glanced at the visitor’s card in verification of the name. “From Scotland Yard, I observe.” “Yes, but . . .” “Please! You seem surprised. Can it be that I am not the individual you expected to see?” “That is exactly the case. Years ago I was in Maltnia and knew a Count Vrenska.”

“My father, no doubt. He is, you will regret to hear, dead. But any friend of his is also a friend of mine. It would appear that this is not an official visit.”

Major Mosson ignored the last remark. There were difficulties in deal-

ing with the representatives of a foreign diplomatic service and he knew he would have to remain consistently tactful.

“I am sorry to hear of your loss,” he replied. “It must have been a great loss to your country, too.” “Indeed, yes. My fathei- was a Baltnian of the old school —a splendid patriot and one who had a very fine sense of duty. We do not breed the type any more. They belonged to a past age, in Baltnia as elsewhere. One by one they go and- there is nobody to take theii’ places. Yesterday I watched your wonderful procession from this window —.” He indicated the position with a brief nod and could not have noticed that his visitor started.

“Yes,” Count Vrenska went on, “there was a certain amount of pathos in contemplating some of the wonderful men who had played a great part in the history of this century.” His Efiglish was almost perfect, only slight traces of the unusual in grammar and pronunciation betraying that he was of Slavonic stock. Even his appearance and mode of dress were more of the educated cosmopolitan. “You did not appear’ in the procession yourself, then?” /

“Unfortunately not. A passing indisposition made it impossible, and my country was already represented by Prince Rudolf. It would have been an honour to have ridden in his train had I been well enough. However, the view from here was excellent.” ' He led the Major to the window and they stood looking down at the sea of bunting. Was this action one <j>f bravado; a deliberate demonstration of self-confidence? “Sir Vincent Parminster fell from his horse there.’” The Count pointed downwards. “He also was once in Baltnia. I could see him taken away.” “Shot in the back,” said Mosson. “What is’that? Ah! Now the import of your visit becomes apparent. You expected to see my father. There was an old feud, yes. A bullet could have been fired from this building. Do not look uncomfortable, my friend. It is your duty to have suspicions. But my father is dead. Had he been alive and here he would not have revenged himself so.” Despite his friendly words a coldness had crept into Vrenska’s voice.

“I—l am awfully sorry . . .” “Do not be. But perhaps I also am suspect. Am I not also a Vrenska. I bear the family name of Karel, passed to every first-born son. My recollections are stirred. Some talk of a bloodfeud, of course. So Count Vrenska lurks in the shadow of a curtain to avenge an ancient wrong.”

“You are making it very difficult,” remarked tne major plaintively. He had not the tough skin of a routine police officei’ and this interview was beginning to be distasteful.

“On the contrary I am endeavouring to make it simple. Have you not arrived at a conclusion which requires verifying. Now, presumably, I shelter behind diplomatic privilege. Is there, by the way, immunity for an assassin?” The war was being carried into the enemy camp with a vengeance. Major Mosson found himself in the position of a defender whose post was decidedly insecure. When a servant brought in the car of another caller he was distinctly relieved.

“We must continue this discussion later,” Count Vrenska said with quiet irony. ‘A friend of yours wishes to see me, probably on the same subject. Perhaps you would prefer to remain during the interview.” “No thank you.” The major made a somewhat embarrassed exit. In the anteroom he came face to face with Captain Caythers, who'grinned. The major grunted a greeting to Caythers, and went off scowling. Only when he found the assistant commissioner wearing a black look a couple of hours latei’ did he recover his cheerfulness, for there is a lasting sense of unpleasantness in feeling vaguely that one has come off second best in an encounter.

“Not much change out of that chap,” Caythers reported. “You appear to have put his back up. That business of passing on a family feud is a trifle archaic, and doesn’t fit in with modern ideas. If it did, police work would be a sight more romantic, but a hundred per cent more difficult.” (To be Continued.)