EBONY TORSO

Wairarapa Times-Age, 4 September 1939, Page 10

EBONY TORSO

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

(By

JOHN C. WOODIWISS.)

CHAPTER Vll—(Continued)

“Anything except gassin’ ’im,” replied the naturalist. "But the smell o’coal gas they won’t stand; I knows that from bitter experience.”

“Very well, then, we must think out something else,” remarked Galesbourne, after what was evidently a thoughtful pause. “You’d better clear out, my dear, and leave us to decide something as quick as we can in case Hopton’s pals find where he’s gone and call in to look for him.”

“AIL right,” agreed the woman, and the conversation was now carried on in such low tones that the detective could distinguish nothing further. He had overheard enough, however, to realise that his span of life was likely to be cut pretty short unless he could manage to escape, and striking a match began eagerly to examine his prison. He soon found it was nothing but a long cupboard with floors and walls of cement and no window. At the far end were some shelves covered with empty glass jars and bottles, but beyond this, the place was bare. The door was padded with felt, rougnly held in position by tin-tacks, and seemed utterly impregnable. Hopton had learned to estimate the possibilities of a situation, pretty accurately, and three minutes’ examination made him understand there was no hope of escape and that he might just as well settle down and accept the inevitable. For some time he crouched in darkness, waiting with nerves on edge, while the men next door discussed his fate. At last he heard the sound of chairs being noisily pushed back as if the conference was ended, while his captors’ voices were once more raised to an audible pitch. , “That’s wot we'll do, then,” came the harsh tones of Ikey Frost above the general hum of conversation. “You leave ’im to me, boys, and clear out.” “You can manage alone?” inquired Galesbourne.

“Good ’eavens, yes!” retorted the naturalist peevishly. “But I don’t want that woman ’angin’ about and ’olding things up. You’d better take ’er away, Tom, and you pan’ take the old chap as well. Leave me quite alone, and I’ll settle the matter tout suite.”

“Very, well," agreed Galesbourne eagerly. “The sooner we get moving the better, as far as I can see.” “Quite so,” chuckled the villainous proprietor. “I’m an expert at destroyin’ animals painlessly—’specially rats and such vermin.”

“Look out this one doesn’t wriggle off, old son,” warned the padre. “You can trust me,” the other remarked with pompous assurance. ‘■Well, so long then, old son, and don’t start putting it across him until you've given me a change to get the ‘squeamish brigade’ out of the way. It’s quite dark outside, so we’re no! likely to be spotted,” said the Vicar decidedly. “So long,” answered Frost. “Yer can come back in an hour and it'll be all over.” “Righto, old man.” Hopton heard the door bang after the departing desperado, and almosl held his breath to catch any further indications as to his fate. For a time there was complete silence, as if his executioner were thinking out the manner in which he would best be able to exterminate his victim At last he heard the sound of shuffling footsteps and the clinking of glass as if something were being poured into a container and then, with startling suddenness, Frost's voice began to speak. “In ten minutes you'll be a dead, Inspector ’Opton,” he announced with malevolent glee. "It's a queer thing that such a brilliant officer as you should come to such a sticky end through a little slip isn’t it? Still, it’s the same little slip wot often lands some pore bloke on the drop; and the luck can’t always go your way, can it?” The prisoner made no answer, and his tormenter’s voice went on mockingly:

“Let me advise you to breathe deep and it’ll be over all the sooner.”

As he gave this grim advice there was a strange hissing sound, and the Detective became conscious of a queer smell . . sweet and sickening. In a second, he had struck a match and saw the end of a small metal pipe protruding from under the door. He fell on his krtees and jammed his handkerchief over it to prevent the nauseating stuff from flooding in and over-, powering him. His manoeuvre was followed by a grunt of fury from Frost and the tube was instantly dragged away. Hopton knew he had merely protracted the torture of slow asphyxiation and waited for the next attempt. His brain was already reeling from the effects of the gas. And then, just as he had begun to abandon hope, he heard his tormentor give a half stifled cry of astonishment and horror. The exclamation was followed by a crash and the sound of a desperate struggle. Crockery was shattered and furniture overthrown as the combatants fought out their battle. Then came the thud of a falling body, and a complete and terrifying silence. The grim stillness was at last broken by the sound of a low. bestial chuckle of satisfied exultation and Hopton strained his oars to catch some fresh development in this tragedy, but nothing further happened. The strange, inhuman cry had unnerved him, used as he was to horrors: but. 'after a while, he regained a grip on himself and struck another match. The first thing he saw was a thin trickle of something that came from under the door and was quickly forming into a sinis- ] ter pool at his feet . . . something red I and horrible that instantly told its hid-1 ecus tale. Murder had been done!

CHAPTER VIII.

The consciousness that a ghastly tragedy had taken place within a few feet of him stung Hopton into renewing his attack on the door of his prison. He managed to'cut away the felt with his pocket knife, and began to kick the panels in the hope of breaking the lock. He had made some impression on the obstacle when he heard a voice calling to him from the room beyond. "Hello! Who’s there?” “I’m a police officer!” returned the Detective as loud as he could yell. “I’m locked in here.” “All right, pal,” replied the man outside. “I’ll let you out in a minute. Wait a bit while I get at this door.” Hopton could hear his rescuer pull-

ing something heavy from in front of the door, and presently the lock clicked and it swung open. A young, scar-ed-looking constable stood on the threshold and gazed suspiciously in at the prisoner. "Thought you said you were a police officer?” he remarked as his eyes took in the ragged figure before him. “So I arfi,” Hopton assured him. “Detective Inspector Hopton. of the C.1.D.”

“Come out, and let’s get a look at you in the light,” suggested the other sceptically; “ana no funny stuff, mind, or you’ll stop a clout with my baton.” The Inspector did as he was ordered and stepped out, blinking, into the brilliantly lighted kitchen, as he looked eagerly round. The whole room indicated the ferocity of the struggle which .had so recently taken place. The .table was fluhg over in front of the fireplace, and chairs, broken pottery.

plants, and cages were lying about in suggestive disorder. At the Detective’s feet lay the body of Ikey Frost Jn a pool of blood, his throat cut literally from ear to ear, as if his murderer had taken a ghoulish pleasure in the work of disfiguring his victim. Another sickening red smear on the overturned table showed how the work of butchery had been done; the murdered man had been hurled back against it and killed with as little compunction as if

he had been a pig. Two other officers were keeping back an inquisitive throng of excited, chattering sensation hunters, who were

crowding round the scullery door, while a sergeant was bending over the body and taking particulars in nis book. Finding he could do nothing for the dead man this officer turned his attention to the newcomer.

"Who d’you say you are?” he asked sternly, straightening up and coming over to the Detective. “He says he’s Inspector Hopton, Sergeant,” replied the constable. “Inspector . . ?” Well I’m blowed; so it is!” The Sergeant’s sceptical tone changed abruptly to astonished reverence as he recognised the famous detective. “Good evening, sir, this is a bad job!" he went on. “Lucky thing one of my men overheard the noise you were making! How long have you been locked in there?” “Best part' of an hour,” replied the Inspector. “I heard the whole thing from the cupboard. Whoever did this job hasn’t got more than a quarter of an hour’s start on you, Sergeant,” and he told the other his story. “This house has been under suspicion for some time,” said the officer, “but Frost was a tricky sort of card, sir, and we wanted to make quite certain we’d lay him by the heels before we raided the place.” He stooped down as he spoke and picked up a large glass container fitted with a rubber bulb and a long, metal nozzle, which made it look like an overgrown scent-spray. “This was the little gadget he was trying to gas you with when the murderer broke in. I suppose?” he remarked, squeezing a few drops of its con-1 tents on to the palm of his hand and gingerly sniffing it: “Faugh! What vile smelling stuff’.” “Yes,” smiled the Detective grimly. “I’ve good reason to refnember it. You’d better ring up and tell the ‘Yard’ to send some finger-print chaps down here at once. It looks as if they might get something amongst all this lot.” "Very good, sir,” agreed the Sergeant, writing the message in pencil. “Take this and put through a call to the Station immediately, Bullard,” he went on, handing it to the constable.

“Tell ’em to look slippy!” “Very good, Sergeant,” replied the officer, and he went off on his errand, while his two companions removed the crowd outside.'

Hopton and the Sergeant made a careful examination of the room and searched the house from top to bottom. The upper floors presented nothing much of interest, but in the cellars they came upon unmistakable evidence of the traffic that had evidently gone on there for some time . . a traffic so inhumanly foul that they stood nauseated as the truth burst upon them. In the first, cellar they found a great pile of coke surrounding a small blast furnace under which was a mass of curiously white ash, but, on forcing the door of the second room, they were astonished to see a long table, covered with brown, suggestive stains, while in another small table were a number of surgical instruments, none too clean, and showing obvious signs of having been recently used. At the far side of this dismal den, and partially hidden by newspapers and sullied sacking, they discovered the recently dismembered remains of a human body. “Good heavens, look here, sir!” whispered the horrified Sergeant as he turned back the covering. “I’ve no doubt I’d have taken my place on that table if Frost hadn’t got his just deserts so providentially,” answered the Detective sternly. “He evidently disposed of his victims’ bodies in this way. He’s probably done

murder after murder and escaped the gallows by getting rid of his victims on this dissecting table.” “But did he burn the bodies bit by bit in the furnace after he’d cut them up. do’you think?’ the Sergeant asked. “I’ve no doubt that pile of cinders underneath it will prove to be seventyper cent ash,” replied Hopton. “But the smell'd give him away,”■ cried the other. “He’d never be able to burn the bodies and get away with it in a district like this.”

“He didn’t, Sergeant; he only burnt the bones.”

“But what about the other part . . . the flesh?” questioned the officer, in an awed tone. “He must have got rid of that somehow.

“He was a naturalist, wasn't he, Sergeant?” repied Hopton, with grim emphasis. “He had a large stock of carnivorous animals and reptiles.” “But surely, sir . . .” cried the Sergeant incredulously. “I’m afraid a desperate gang like this would go to any lengths to escape the Execution Shed, Sergeant,” Hopton assured him. “The thing didn’t strike me till I remembered part of a conversation I heard while I was imprisoned in a businesslike tone, “You know in that cupbord. They were planning to do me in with coal gas, until Frost made a remark to the effect that ‘they couldn't stick coal gas.’ I couldn't understand who, or what ‘they’ could refer to at the time; but now it’s perfectly clear; it was the animals he was talking about. They evidently dislike their food tainted.” “This is a new one on me, sir,” mused the Sergeant in a horrified tone. “I thought I’d seen a spot of most devilry,, but this just about beats the band.” (To be continued.)