MURDER IN THE PROCESSION

Wairarapa Times-Age, 30 November 1938, Page 10

MURDER IN THE PROCESSION

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT COPYRIGHT.

BY

LESLIE CARGILL

(Author of “Death Goes by Bus.”)

CHAPTER Xlll..—Continued. “Yes, it is true. I am the son of the General Parminster and could call myself of his name. But I shall remain a Brule until the day of my death, as did my mother, who so often prayed that this should not be. -There were no records. All had been destroyed when Villers Marteaux was razed to the ground. It might have been that I should have compelled recognition had they been available. Without proof my father would have disowned us, or so I think. He only replied to all pleadings with repetititions of what his rank meant and how publicity would ruin him. “So Desiree Brule, wife and mother, died in the name she had kept since birth, and I, Pierre Brule, swore to uphold her honour and avenge her wrongs. Make no mistake, this Sir

Vincent Parminster killed her as surely as if he had broken her neck instead of her heart, and his way slower and more cruel. “Hers was a very great love. Almost

to the last the half of a British coin he had given her as a token was her most prized possession. Often have I wondered how long the famous soldier kept his half—as long, perhaps, as he retained his marriage vows. That is the tragedy of a lonely woman’s life and the shadow that darkened the childhood of her son. " •*

“In the village where she rests there is a monument to her memory. Upon it I set in English the words ‘Lest we forget,’ to remind me- of my vow. It was not necessary. That was branded on my soul. Some day I knew I would be revenged. No, cross that out and put that some day I knew he would be punished for a cold selfishness more bitter than any other form of unkindness.

“There is no more to be said of Desiree Brule. It is related so that my action shall not be misjudged. I am not the type of man to become an assassin. That I decided to kill was because it was deserved. “I knew almost how it was to be accomplished, as if a vision had come to me. My work as a cinema photographer was to provide the opportunity. Everything was planned long ahead. “Then came the announcement of the great procession in which would ride the great ones of the land. How I smiled when it was said that the General Parminster would take part. Of course I should be sent to London for the occasion. My knowledge of the language ensured this as well as being the best man on the staff.

“Carefully I prepared my camera. It was all so easy. Everything happened as I had dreamed it would. Though I was prepared for things to go wrong, nothing did. There was band music so loud it might have been ordered for my benefit. Around me other camera operators on the special stand were talking and contributing noises that deadened the slight sound of the shots. “In death I respected the General more than I had ever done in my life. He met it bravely, like a good soldier, without a trace of fear. Through my view finder it was very clear. First he shuddered, then pulled himself together. After that he slowly collapsed. I think he knew at the last why he had been shot.

One minor arrangement went astray. It had not been my intention to make use of the pictures taken at the time, but the containers were rushed away by my English colleague. Later I found that they gave a clue which must point to me, nothing less than the jerk caused by the explosion. I thought, too, that smart detectives would suspect the nature of close-up views of the General’s back.

“Returning secretly to London, I managed to make my way to the Imperia studios, hoping to burn the danferous negatives with any copies that might have been taken. How far I succeeded I do not know. The police have found out much, possibly from my films. “Again I solemnly affairm that the plan and the executing of it were entirely mine. No other person is implicated. This is my first and only description. In conclusion I sign myself with the name my mother gave me, Pierre Brule.”

The Home Secretarj' cleared his throat noisily. “It' is hardly necessary for me to ask if this confession is accepted as a statement of fact,” he observed. “Confirmation of a sort appears to be contained in accompanying documents.”

“My department is satisfied that the case is now fully explained,” the Assistant Commissioner assured him.

“Quite so, quite so! It is extremely awkward that this Pierre Brule has been invested with heroic attributes. Extremely awkward, I repeat. There is a suggestion that this country should be officially represented at his funeral.” Respectful silence greeted the utterance. Everybody waited to know what the great man was going to say next. “In the-circumstances,” he announced, “publicity cannot possibly be given to this document. Discreetly—yes, most discreetly, it must be made known that the murderer of Sir Vincent Parminster has been found, together with a reference to suicide.”

That, to all intents and purposes, was the end of the startling case of murder in the procession. There were no loose ends to be tied up. Officialdom had decided to ignore the conduct of Major Mosson. No doubt there was relief that Brule should have provided such an unexpected finale. His story confirmed Schweitzer’s impression that a trial would have been unsatisfactory. He had taken a dreadful revenge, but there could be no doubt that he was suffering under a sense of deep wrong inflicted on his mother and carried to himself. Parminster’s reputation, too, stood to be badly tarnished. In the interests of public policy matters were just as well where they left off. No scapegoat was needed. Captain Caythers was not called on to give up his Assistant Commissionership and Major Mosson could return to the humdrum duties of his executive department without hindrance. “For the love of Mike don’t ever try to assist me in the C.I.D. again.” Caythers implored. “Only a wonderful slice of luck saved our skins.” “Well, L solved the mystery for you,” Mosson retorted. ' “So you say, for the hundredth time. Actually that girl at the film studios I really gets the kudos. I suppose she! and her boy friend will keep their I mouths shut?” . 1 "Absolutely! I’ve had a word with

them about. Nothing to fear from them. And the French chaps aren’t likely to spill the beans. Not in their interests.”

“Damned irregular, the whole business. Anyway, it’s better than getting mixed up in international complications.” The Assistant Commissioner sighed heavily, but whether with satisfaction or relief was not at all clear.

There happened to be another big procession- passing when Major Mosson emerged from Scotland Yard. London was gay this year. Never before had there been so much colourful pageantry, such stirring music, so many splendid opportunities to view the great ones of the land and cheer them to the echo.

Dick Cartwright, with his camera, was packing up when the Major pushed his way forward. His face lighted up in welcome. “Just finishing, sir,” he exclaimed. “Not so well placed here. No special stand. But I don’t mind taking pot luck. Of course this is a comparatively small show.” “Getting a bit tired of processions?”

“No fear. They always make good studies, and the public love ’em. Coming along to have a word with Phyllis? I’ve a car parked in one of the side streets.” Between this trio there was a firm bond of friendship as among those who are called upon to share secrets. It had been impossible to refuse them knowledge of what, had transpired. Phyllis Hulme knew enough to begin with and' it was only right that some of the crevices should be filled in.

“Well,” she greeted them at the studios, “I’m really glad to see you. Better hurry your ‘takes’ to the developing room and tell them I’ll attend to the cutting as soon they’re ready. Major Mosson and I will have a quiet chat while you’re gone.” “Something important?” he asked curiously. “Our wedding.” “Supremely important, of course. I trust I shall be able to fulfil my duties as best man to your satisfaction.” “It’s kind of you to take it on. In fact you’ve done so much for us I —we —don’t know how to thank you.” “On the contrary, Scotland Yard is in your debt. We’re arranging a little tribute in the way of a wedding present.”

“How nice you all are. But somehow I'm a trifle sorry that —that —” “Mosson nodded sympathetically. “Don’t worry your head about it, my dear,” he advised. “By accident you had a front seat at a great tragedy. Forget it for everybody’s sake.” “All right, I’ll try to. But I shall always think of that poor Frenchwoman and picture her waiting and hoping all those years. We’re going to France for our honeymoon. Would you think it very foolish and sentimental if I took my bouquet to that little village and placed it on her grave.” “It would be a beautiful gesture.” Suddenly he stepped forward and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “That’s a best man’s privilege, isn’t it?” he observed.

There were tears behind her smile. “Poor Desiree Brule,” she whispered. “God rest her wandering soul.” And in the end it was the lonely neglected wife and mother who held pride of place in the thoughts of those who knew the real secret behind the strange murder of a famous soldier. THE END. Commencing Tomorrow. An outstanding story “Ann Steps Out,” by that noted authoress, Margaret Gorman Nichols. Do not miss the opening instalment tomorrow. A vivid story of love, yo.u cannot afford to miss.