MURDER IN THE PROCESSION

Wairarapa Times-Age, 16 November 1938, Page 10

MURDER IN THE PROCESSION

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT

COPYRIGHT.

BY

LESLIE CARGILL

(Author of “Death Goes by Bus.”)

CHAPTER VI. It was Major Mosson’s own idea to get the representatives of the French and German news concerns to come and identify their own efforts. “Bring them to the Imperia place,” he suggested. “Scotland Yard might scare them or something.” “I follow the idea,” Dick Cartwright said crisply. “You want to get the chap responsible for the back view of the shooting when he is off his guard. All right. Leave it to me.” Mosson willingly agreed. He and the Assistant Commissioner both felt convinced there was more than an accidental choice in the taking of those few feet of film. “Though why on earth anyone should decide to put a photographer wise about an impending assassination passes by comprehension,” Captain Caythers had exclaimed. “If that was done wouldn’t the cameraman have warned the police?” “That seems an obvious thing to do, but you never know. Anyway, we’re only indulging in wild guesswork.” “So I suppose. And while taking shots at' a venture, has it occurred to you that a faked camera would make a splendid screen for a pistol?” “An elementary possibility,” Captain Caythers replied. “Unfortunately for that theory we have the evidence of the film taken at the same time. Other experts bear out- young Cartwright in saying that one man has all his work cut out to keep the apparatus going. We know these foreigners were without assistants and I doubt if either of them possessed an extra pair of hands.” “Which seems to dispose effectively of a pretty little notion I had elaborated. Ah well, it can’t be helped. I’ll soon get another. This detective’ work is splendid stimulation for the brain.” As a matter of fact, the Major was enjoying himself tremendously and his own department would have gone to pieces had he not prevailed on his su-. periors to install an experienced deputy for the time being. To his delight the Assistant Commissioner had backed up the request on the grounds that valuable help was being given. With official approval, Mosson was now able to throw himself more completely into the task of unravelling the mystery of the death of Sir Vincent Parminster —a duty he considered due to his old chief.

Responsibility for following up the end of the inquiries had been delegated to him, and he was the only Scotland Yard officer present when Mav Weissenheim and Pierre Brule attended at the Imperia studios. Weissenheim, of Flima Wochenblatt, was an uncommunicative Prussian who sat through the whole private showing without saying a word. But the Frenchman was quie ready to talk and had no hesitation in recognising his own exposures. “Certainment,” he exclaimed. “These are very special.” “Rather unusual to concentrate on a rear view, isn’t it?” Major Mosson asked quietly. “Mais non, m’sier. Not with me. I specialist in the angle extraordinary. With others it is the obvious. With Pierre Brule the unexpected.” “Decidedly so when a man is shot in the exact moment of taking the picture.” “Luck, m’sier. In France, it is considered the best thing of all. People come specially to the cinema to see it.” “How did you know the tragedy was about to happen?” “M’sier!” “Were you not told it was impending?” “My English is not of the best. I ro not understand. Or is it that you make a joke? How could I know in advance?” “That is exactly what I am trying to find out.” “Then you do not make fun! It was an accident.” “Cold-blooded murder, you mean.” “No, no. The accident was that I took those pictures. There were many similar.” “Not a target view of the General’s back.” “Pouf! First I take the front. The General was a great man. But naturally I should keep him in focus. During the war he fought in France.” “H’m! Did you know him?” “Only from photographs. Often have I seen those.” “Very well! In view of your excellent record of the tragedy perhaps you have arrived at some conclusions as to where the shots came from.” It was a leading question and not one that would have been put by a more experienced investigator. But Major Mosson was simply asking what he considered suitable things as they sprang to his mind. And the results were surprising. Brule broke into a spate of excited French far beyond the Englishman’s comprehension. “I am sorry,” he said at last. “Excuse me that I forget you do not understand. My tongue runs away with me.” “You Were saying . . . ?” “That I think it would be worth while to examine every man that was on the platform with me. From there I think the shooting was done.” “What?”

“Consider, m’sieur, what is shown on the film! By accident I have it very clear. May we project it once more?” “As you wish.” “Ah! Inspect of the closest. See, your General appears in my view finder like the target of the gunner. He reels ... he falls forward. My meaning, it is clear, yes?”

“Perfectly. But if you are correct, how was it done?”

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders expressively. “That is for you clever police experts to discover,” he retorted. “My suggestion may be wrong. I do not know.” “Did anything happen at the time to rouse your suspicions?” “Nothing.” “No unusual noise?” “Mais oui. The band play loud. Also somebody near kicked an empty tin which made a —a — “Clatter!” “Yes, that is the word, a clatter.” “Who was responsible for that?” “I do not know through being much occupied with my work. It was very near.” “Inevitable on such a small platform. Was it, however, loud enough to cover the report of a firearm?”

“Perhaps.” “Presumably fitted with an expansion chamber?” “Please?”

“A silencer, I mean. You know the difference that makes? Instead of a sharp crack there would be a dull plop, rather like that made by a powerful air-gun.” “I think I should have heard such a noise. I think, also, my companions would have heard it. You must ask them all.”

Mosson decided to accept the hint, although it further widened the sphere of investigation. From official records he was able to obtain the names of companies represented on the occasion. One by one he found the individual cameramen and questioned them lyNone of them had noticed anything suspicious, though the kicking of the tin mentioned by Brule had not passed unobserved. Who was responsible for that opportune interference remained a mystery. The Assistant Commissioner attached a good deal of importance to these inquiries. “We seem to be getting warmer,” he remarked. “Then you think that the shot came from among the cinema people?” Mosson exclaimed eagerly. Captain Caythers shook his head regretfully. “Impetuosity is no use in this gam,e” he said. “All lam prepared to concede is that we’re a wee bit wiser. But there were other suitable spots near by where the murderer could have lain in ambush.” “Meaning the Baltnian Legation, I suppose?” “My dear chap, you really mustn’t say things like that. Count Vrenska and all his associates are accredited representatives of a friendly power. At least I hope so, though it isn’t always possible to tell friends from potential foes these days.” “You’re deliberately trying to put me off the track.”

“Nonsense! I’m just giving, you a quiet warning. Until we have definite information they’re all innocent —and all suspect. Remember also that the newsreel people are presumably respectable men. You’ve seen them all, I suppose?” “Except the one from Sweden. He had left for home.” “Unfortunate! Didn’t I understand that he was also in the working agreement with Imperia?” “Yes, that’s so. But when Brule admitted that he had been responsible for the essential scenes I thought we could rule him out. Even before that he didn’t seem important.” “Why not?” “Because he hadn’t been using his camera, according to Cartwright. That’s why I concentrated on the others.”

Captain Caythers carefully broke a perfectly good pencil in two and threw the splintered fragments on the table. “Good heavens, man,” he exclaimed. “Does not seem reasonable that a skilled technician should come all that distance, obtain special facilities during a historic occasion, and then stand idly by?”

“Oh, I thought of that too. All that happened was that the others agreed that three sets of negatives would be ample and decided not to waste supplies. The Swede contented himself with some preliminary scenes which pointed out to me. Satisfied?” “Not by a mile.” Caythers was already picking up the telephone and calling a number. He wanted to know more about the fourth member of the quartet. Mosson had not even asked his name. Presently the bell jangled. The Assistant Commissioner answered it and a brief interchange of conversation ensued. Major Mosson was astonished at the expression that crept over the face of the listener, for Caythers did not easily betray emotion. “And that,” he snapped, slamming back the received, “is the oddest thing of all. Do you know who the gentleman from Sweden was?” “Haven’t the foggiest notion, though I took a note of his company.” “Well, you may be intrigued to know that the name given on the police pass was Ifan Malask.” “Doesn’t convey anything. Wait a moment! Haven’t I heard that name before?” “I’ll say you have. It isn’t Swedish and . . “Yes, I’ve got it. The janitor at the Baltnian Legation. Funny sort of coincidence.” “Maybe.” Major Mosson gasped slightly. All at once he felt he was getting out ol his depth. Police work wasn’t as simple as it sometimes seemed. Unexpected complications cropped up when they were least expected. “What,” he asked tentatively, “do we do about it? Go and pump Malask first?” A reproachful glare put him in his place. “Or let me take a trip to Sweden, eh? Now that is a good idea . . .” “For you, not for the successful conclusion of this case. A free holiday abroad isn’t at all necessary. O’^'police friends in that pleasant country 1 will make inquiries and report quicker than you could get over there. Keep away from the Baltnian Legation in the meanwhile. One false move might upset the whole apple-cart.” Incidentally it interfered with a personal plan Mosson had evolved, so, being banned from seeking the company of Count Vrenska, he went to the Imperia Studios instead. Not. that he expected to learn anything more there, but he found the queer existence of the newsreel people peculiarly interesting. Phyllis Hulme was standing by waiting for supplies from the developing room. “Seen young Cartwright about?” he asked. “He’s out covering the Royal drive.” “Of course. I should have expected it. You people have had some splendid stuff for pictures this year.” “Never better. Some of these films will be of wonderful historic interest in years to come." “Yes, and that particular bit which interests Scotland Yard may be valuable a lot sooner than that.” She shuddered slightly. “It is rather horrible, isn’t it?” she remarked. “But fascinating. Every now and again I have another look at it.” I “Has it given you any fresh ideas?” | (To be Continued.)