MURDER IN THE PROCESSION

Wairarapa Times-Age, 21 November 1938, Page 10

MURDER IN THE PROCESSION

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT

COPYRIGHT.

BY

LESLIE CARGILL

(Author of “Death Goes by Bus.”)

CHAPTER VIII. —Continued,

“Are they as cast-iron as all that?” “Ask yourself, old man. Experience shows that a guilty conscience takes refuge in flight in an emergency. A man can keep his courage screwed up to the sticking point so long and no longer. Eventually he breaks down and bolts.” “Always?” “Ninety-nine times out of. a hundred.”

“And the exception?” “Just fed up, with being on the suspect list, I suppose.” Mosson shook his head reproachfully. “That sound too much like professional prejudice for my liking. Lots of other contingencies may arise. I can imagine a man being called away without even being aware he was thought to be implicated. A hundred and one things could happen to give the impression of flight when it was nothing of the kind.” “Are you trying to make excuses for Vrenska and his man?” “Don’t be wilfully' obtuse. I’m only concerned with getting you to retain an open mind.” “That’s all very well, but you aren’t trained in C.I.D. work.” “All the better. It keeps me from cracking up and moaning that all is lost. Damn it all, you can’t go resigning all over the, place when the least little thing upsets your balance.” “Why all this candid friend stuff? Have you got something up your sleeve?”

"No. But I’m not satisfied that because a couple of chaps have cleared out one or both of them holds the key to the puzzle.” The Assistant Commissioner found ms grin again. “You’re a tonic,” he admitted. "We’ll keep on following tne multitude of trails until we do mt on me right one, and perhaps pick a few more up for fun.” "Attaboy!” “My dear Major, you’re getting positively. Americanized since you mixed in cmema circles. Which reminds me aid you get anything out of that amateur film?” "Not yet. I’ll report later.” “Gopa man. Keep me posted. Any straw will do to clutcii at.” He said it jokingly, not knowing mat Phyllis Hulme was even then providing the slender wisp of evidence mat was due to alter the wnole course of investigation. All her skill and knowledge of photographic chemistry had been devoted to making the indifferent picture clearer and more detailed. Satisfied at last that the ultimate nad been obtained she took the celluloid strip from its final bath, inspected it with something like approval and sent it to tne drying room. “I’m proud of my efforts,” she told Dick Cartwright, who came to see it projected. “Clever girl,” he said, admiring the way her slim fingers were manipulating the film through the maze of sprockets. ' “Are you by any chance being ironical, Mr Cartwright?” “Certainly not, Miss Hulme. Give a fellow a spot of credit now and again.” “Sorry, Dick. I’m a bit of a cat sometimes.” “No, you’re not. You’re . . .” “What?” “I’ll tell you later.” “I refuse to wait.” With a sudden flick she switched off the electric light and omitted to start the projector. Nor was she able to carry on with that duty, for it seemed a suitable opportunity for ashy young man to speak her piece. And Phyllis listened ecstatically, finding no interest in films of any sort for the time being. The interlude, until the cinematograph machine started to purr softly, is no concern to anybody but two young people, who had arrived at a very desirable understanding. It was, however, peculiarly fitting that they should have plighted their troth in such conditions, for they were both creatures of an age of cinema and part and parcel of that strange industry which is partly an art and partly a racket. Malask’s indifferent effort was a vastly imporved proposition since the girl’s technical knowledge had been expended on it. Figures stood out much more clearly, almost as distinct as in a commercial newsreel. But she had not succeeded in bringing up effectively the section devoted 10 the Trafalgar Square platform. That was still somewhat blurred, although a great improvement on the original developing. “I think,” Dick said critically, “my busy form is to be seen now. That’s it, three and a half from the right.” “Surely you know where you were standing?” “Surely I don’t. There was too much to do to start counting off. Besides the frame starts with a half figure, who might be anybody.” “Looks to me like Jack Elstow.” “I believe you’re right. If so that sort of establishes my stand because he was three or four chaps away. Can you enlarge up a still from that sequence?” “Sure. And when I’ve done that it would be a good plan to pass on this sub-standard stock and get it boosted up to 35 millimetre. The Major will be able to deal with a full-sized print much better.” She was as good as her word. Major Mosson never realised the time and trouble she put in to ensure that he should get the very best possible effects. He was, however, appreciative. First of all he pored over the half-plate “still,” closely examining Cartwright about details of the occasion. Under his coaching the young cameraman found he could remember more than he had thought possible. There was, for instance, no doubt | about the identity of Elstow. Next to him would be Morton, then Hugh Writtie, followed by the man from Sweden. “Malask!” “Positively. Look, he is standing by idly, quite different from the one on my left.” “Who would that be?” “The Frenchman.” “Pierre Brule!” “Yes, but I never can remember names. I oughtn’t to have forgotten that the foreigners were under my wing.” In the photograph nothing could be seen of Brule but his legs and one hand stretched out to the winding handle.

On the movie version his industrious attention was even more clearly indicated. They could see the careful movement of his camera as he focussed it on the scene below. “No idling about him," Major Mosson commented. Cartwright answered approvingly. ‘You’re right about that. He was a whale -for work. Whenever I glanced his way he was rolling her over like a good ’un.” “Rolling her over?” “Afraid I puzzled you that time, sir. It is the older version of what we now call “shootin’ in the game. They still use that expression in France.” “I see. And you happen to know what sort of pictures he obtained?” “Excellent. Every single ' foot was first class. We incorporated a lot of his stuff in our own newsreel and I bet the French lapped up most of it. They like the gruesome stuff over there.” “You mean he had a good record of the Parminster affair?” “Best of the lot.” Mosson felt a pang of disappointment. For a moment he had thought that Brule’s close attention might have been dictated by other motives than getting satisfactory pictures of the procession. Phyllis Hulme seemed to sense his thoughts. Her question was a pertinent contribution to the investigation. “Do you think,” he asked deliberately, “that the murderer was among the cameramen?” This was not so easy to answer. Caythers had switched round to a belief that Count Vrenska, or perhaps his servant, was at the root of the business and the Major could not help being influenced in that direction even against his inclinations. Yet he was by no means satisfied to conclude that it only remained to provide a missing link or two. “It was a mad idea I had toyed with,” he conceded. “Impossible,” Cartwright burst out. “Someone would have been bound to hear the shot.” “Not necessarily. Don’t forget there was a lot of noise going on and silencers can be very efficient.” “I don’t know a great deal about such things, but they can’t possibly eliminate the crack of a firearm.” “Not completely, but to the extent of cutting it down to something no more obtrusive than the report of an airgun.” “I’d have heard that.” “With bands playing and people cheering themselves hoarse? It’s very doubtful.” “I’m not so sure. The noise was down below and a gun fired from our platform would be close too, which should make a difference.” Mosson shrugged his shoulders. There was'a sound basis to the contention. He had a notion to put it to the test. After leaving the studio he went straight to Scotland Yard and borrowed a .45 fitted with an expansion chamber, which the expert claimed was a good as any obtainable. An hour later he was back at the studios, apologising for being a nuisance, but requesting a further showing of the film. “Could you,” he asked, “arrange for the ‘Colonel Bogey’ march to be played while it is on the screen. That was the band music at the time.” No record of that piece was available in the library, but he agreed to accept “The Stars and Stripes” as a substitute. And to that in appropriate accompaniment the pictured puppets stalked again. Under the screen of his overcoat Mosson prepared his little scheme. At a chosen moment, when the music swelled to a blaring crescendo, he let off two blank cartridges. , “What was that?” Phyllis Hulme asked out of the semi-darkness. ' “Something wrong with the soundtrack,” Cartwright suggested. The crestfallen experimenter explained. He had rather hoped the “plops” would have passed unnoticed. “But that doesn’t prove a thing,” the girl said excitedly. “As a matter of fact it is in your favour. Here we are shut in. The sound would be louder in this confined space. If that is the effect of a silencer anyone could have potted away to his heart’s content without being discovered. And real sound is far more —more complete, if you know what I mean, than this synthetic stuff.” Mosson cheered up. “Then I think,” he observed, “we’re getting on the right track at last.” She smiled in sympathy. “Now all that remains is to pin it down to the right man.” The Major grew despondent again. “Yes, that’s all,” 110 gloomily. “And I’ve thought ot something that might really help,” she added. CHAPTER IX. Major Mosson was beginning to feel that he was on the threshold of important revelations. At intervals since he conceived it his duty to an old colleague to help bring to justice the murderer of General Parminster it had been brought forcibly home to him that detection was not the accurate science most people were led to believe. Mostly this was misconception due to the public belief that a detective was a creature of romance imbued with semimiraculous powers of pure logic. Since he had seen the machine of Scotland Yard in action he now appreciated the cut and dried way investigations were conducted and understood, the part played by sheer luck. Added to this there was more than a trace of guess-work. ' And he had begun to guess for 'all he was worth. Phyllis Hulme and Dick Cartwright were aiding and abetting.

“My idea is this,” she explained. “Providing we think the shots came from the cameramen’s platform, the next step is to establish it.” “Crime without clues,” muttered the Major doubtfully. “That’s what makes it so deucedly baffling.” “Quit bothering about them for a change. I suppose that sounds foolish to an expert like you.” “Not at all, my dear young lady. In the first place I don’t happen to be the expert you suppose and in the second I’ve been watching people who ought to know all about such things searching round for clues until they’re liable to grow blue in the face, and then getting nowhere.” “All right, you won’t object to groping about a bit more in the dark. I guess if you do it long enough there is always a possibility of grabbing hold of something. What I'd thought of was this . . .” ' She went on to elaborate. Why not

reverse the order in which the procession pictures were taken? Set up a camera as near as could be judged on the spot where General Parminster had ridden and obtain selected shots of places where the assassin might have been situated. Cartwright would do the camera work and there was a chance of working out angles which might at least limit the area of possibilities. After that a little intelligent conjecture would be called for. Mosson fell in with the plan, slender though the hope was. And bewildered and angry motorists had occasion to curse an open car that remained stationary in the middle of the highway while a young man calmly photographed scenes that could not have had any obvious interest for any cinematographic purposes. He was particularly fastidious over a view of the Nelson Column, still disfigured by a wooden framework. Careful observers might have noted that his lines of focus were not concerned with artistic effects. Later examination demonstrated how thoroughly he had understood Phyllis Hulme’s intentions. Each shot was in the nature of a spoke radiating from the central hub which marked the place where' Sir Vincent Parminster had fallen. And with growing excitement, the onlookers realised that the fateful lines led inevitably to the raised platform. (To be Continued.)