"DEATH GOES BY 'BUS"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 8 November 1939, Page 10

"DEATH GOES BY 'BUS"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

LESLIE CARGILL

(Author of “The Yellow Phantom," “The Arrow by Night," etc.)

CHAPTER I. Caleb Wainwright was shot dead on a motor bus travelling between Colborough and Netherton. If Morrison Sharpe had been born a more practical type of man the mystery might never have been solved, for it so happened that a crossword puzzle in the morning paper interested him long enough to let the 8.47 train get away before he had finished his breakfast.

Such an incident was not unusual. Puzzles of all kinds fascinated Morrison Sharpe, and he would not rest satisfied until the solution was within his grasp. There were, he calculated, seven thousand five hundred and four permissible variations in the crossword. As the prize offered by the enterprising publication was £ 1000 and the entrance fee sixpence the chance of winning a prize ought to be remote. Not. however, so far as Morrison Sharpe was concerned. Mentally he put himself in the place of the author of the competition, weighing the clues with the unvarying words making up the body of the square. Chuckling softly he filled in the delusive sectors, signed the entrance form and, having carefully addressed the envelope as directed, made his way to the post, office, where he added a sixpenny postal order and the necessary stamp before he delivered the slim package to the care of His Majesty’s Postmaster General. “Train’s gone half-an-hour. Mr Sharpe,” a porter informed him when he trotted into the booking hall. “Indeed! Ah yes, I suppose so.” Peering up at the clock he realised that it would mean a waste of thirtyfive minutes until the next departure for Netherton. “Of course there is the bus,” he muttered, half to himself. “Yes, sir,” agreed the porter. “One out at 9.30. You’ll catch it comfortably.”

As a matter of fact Mr Sharpe only got aboard as the driver was preparing to let in his clutch—a newsagent’s shop inviting him to halt for a supply of periodicals. And a queer lot he chose, two of them being ponderous Sunday tomes, regarded as particularly desirable because they indulged in fantastic chess problems and other forms of intensive mental stimulation.

Johnny Gibbs, the porter with whom he had spoken, was watching him from the station exit. “Rum bloke,” he observed to a companion. “Misses the train to Netherton every Tuesday as regular as clockwork.” “Why only Tuesdays?" asked the other, a new addition to the Colborough staff. “’Cause that’s the only day he tries to catch it.”

Both of them grinned, Gibbs somewhat sympathetically, for the little man was generally liked by those who came into contract with him. He was one of those unworldly individuals who rarely fail to rouse protective instincts. Whenever he was the winner of a prize half the townsfolk were delighted. Not that big money often came the way of Morrison Sharpe, because it was the battle of wits which interested him rather than the prospect of reward. What he enjoyed was pitting his brain against professional deceivers.

“Hurry up. please!” called out Jer emy Withers, the bus conductor, who also recognised a regular customer. From the driver's cab camo a mumble of words. Harry Carter was in a hurry to be off.

Morrison Sharpe found a vacant seat, settled himself comfortably and opened one of his papers at the only page that held, for him, entertaining possibilities. Within a few minutes he had skimmed that cream. Another effort was even more disappointing. Half closing his eyes he lost himself in an intricate game of chess, mentally matching black against white with masterly efficiency.

Occasionally the lumbering vehicle would stop to set down or to pick up other travellers. Concluding his imaginary tussle. Morrison Sharpe turned his attention to the people about him, as a slight relief from the unrealities with which he had previously been engrossed.

One youngster of about twelve years was quite obviously a schoolboy. As he dived his hand into his pocket the acute observer began to think with the child, through the process of fumbling among pieces of string, cigarette-pic-tures and a broken penknife, until the somewhat grimy toffee was disclosed. What about the middle-aged woman, sitting grim and unbending near the gangway? Most people would choose the corner seal when one was vacant. Disdaining it, she remained in obstinate discomfort on the outside. Such a woman would never willingly permit herself to be easy. .Some time in her life there had been a concession which had not turned out for the best. Even afterwards she would be on her guard. Rather a pity, he thought, that some women should sour when love passed them by. Marriage might make such a difference.

A rather plump man, weather-beat-en of face and keen-eyed, had the appearance of being out of place in such an essentially civilised setting. In the wilds and dressed in sensible roughness he would be more at home. Strange that so small a load should be so cosmopolitan. Another man was either a Southern Frenchman or an Italian, if physiognomy was anything to judge by. In front of him, sitting together, were an elderly couple with ‘•small farm” written all over them — hardly subjects for deductive imagination. Glancing out of the window Mr Sharpe noticed that part of the rear of the coach was clearlv reflected in the

polished glass. Right behind was somebody worth a moment’s speculation. Owing to the position of the individual only a hand was to be seen. IL might belong either to a man or a woman, so delicate and sensitive was its construction. Long fingers, tapering finely, showed in restless movement. “Excuse me," said a masculine voice over his shoulder, "but would you mind if we had the window open for a bit. It’s stuffy in here and I’m feeling a bit faint.” So that was the owner of the hand! Well spoken, sure of himself, competent in his own line, but not to be trusted. There was something altogether’ too feline about him. “Not at all,” answered Morrison Sharpe untruthfully.

“Thank you very much!” How accurately and easily the catch was manipulated by tnose slim hands! No fumbling. Just a brisk feeling of the metal-work, a quick jerk, and the cool breeze was playfully invading die heated interior. “That’s better!"

“I suppose so," half assented the victim of the action. As he spoke he hah turned to make his voice more audible. Out of the corner of his eye he saw somebody snuggling deeper into an upturned overcoat collar. Evidently the air stream was not generally welcome. The presence of still another passenger was dimly recorded in his inner consciousness, but not sufficiently clearcut to make any particular impression. Soon after passing through the village of Belton Magna rather more than half-way on the journey, some sort of trouble appeared to develop with the engine. It was rather hilly about this part and the driver was forced to resort to lower gears more than should have been necessary, even allowing for the stiff inclines. After topping one crest there was a succession of backfires as the bus gathered speed on the downhill plunge.

Had the windows all been closed such a sound would only have reached the ears of the occupants as a series of •poppings. As it was the rattle was as loud and disconcerting as musketry fire. When it first happened Morrison Sharpe jumped slightly—an involuntary gesture that afflicted everybody, with the possible exception of the driver, who would hardly hear in his enclosed cabin.

“What an excellent opportunity to let off a gun,” thought Sharpe. For quite half a minute he toyed with the idea, inventing little plots of singularly gruesome effectiveness. By now the passengers were becoming accustomed to the backfiring, although it was getting worse if anything. With expectant curiosity everybody craned forward to watch the driver, who was fumbling agitatedly with nis controls. Suddenly he bent down until only the middle of his back was visible.

"Afraid the remedy is worse than the disease,” remarked the man with the prehensile fingers. Mr Sharpe came back to the present, tearing his thoughts away from a particularly juicy scheme for firing off a machine gun under cover of the noise made by a faulty exhaust system. “Ah, yes. the window!” he murmured. “Perhaps it would be better closed.” "That banging gives, me the fidgets,” replied the man. “Anyway. I feel better now.” "Good! I’ll pull it up.” "Don’t bother—it’s easier to manage from here.” There was a slight scrambling sound as the man got to his feet preparatory to applying the necessary leverage. Simultaneously the waste petrol fumes started another series of explosions. “Crack—thrupp—.” That wasn’t quite like the other bangs. More distinctive, even sinister, it cut across all other sounds. People half rose from their seats and craned into fantastic positions. Outside could be heard a strident blare, accompanied by the throbbing of the small sports car that dashed roughly ahead. “Crack—thrupp—" again, and the harsh featured individual with the keen eyes sagged incongrously, gave a horrible gurgle, and slumped into a shapeless heap.

CHAPTER 11. Excitement is queerly contagious. Almost as soon as the stricken man fell there broke out a babel of unrestrained talk. "What’s up. . Bloke fainted. . . Stop the bus . . Give him air." Everybody surged forward. No. not everybody. Morrison Sharpe sat still, working out the next move. And the man behind was finishing the fixing of the window. Presumably at the command of the people forward lie let down the sash again. "I don't think that will be of any use," Mr Sharpe said softly. That strange faculty of thinking ahead was occasionally highly disconcerting. This time he must have been planning the murder a second or two ahead of the actual perpetrator. For he had no doubt that a crime had been committed.

Slowly, with a squeaking of heavily applied brakes, the conveyance came to a protesting halt. Before Morrison Sharpe could intervene friendly arms were carrying the unfortunate victim to the side door. Very softly they placed the limp form on the soft grass verge, gathering round wonderingly as the conductor bent down. Jumping from his cab the driver approached with an emergency first-aid outfit. “Good God!" exclaimed somebody sharply. "Look at that!" “That" was a darkly ominous patch of oozing blood, slowly permeating the thick cloth of the jacket

"Quite dead!" announced Mr Sharpe, who had forced his way to the front of the little group. "You should have left him alone. It was too late to do anything before you moved him.” There was a strangled scream from the angular lady of middle-age, who went down in a dead faint. The small farmer's wife looked on apparently unmoved. She was used to death —even in its more violent aspects. Farm folk are seldom squeamish. "Look here," said the conductor suddenly. “I've been put in charge of this bus. and I'm going to do what 1 think is my duty." Nobody resented this unexpected show of authority. “And what are you going to do?" asked his mate. “First of all wo must put this chap comfortable, then we'll take the whole bus load to the nearest police station. Lot’s see how many there are of us!" (To be Cuntiaued.)