"DEATH GOES BY 'BUS"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 9 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 11. Continued. His questing eyes swept over the crowd andjiis lips moved as he slowly counted. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, myself, nine; and driver Carter. That's ten, and ten we want altogether when we get to Netherton.”

“Are you certain that is the full complement?” queried Mr Sharpe. “Count ’em for yourself, sir. There’s the dead man as well, making eleven in all.”

“Quite correct, conductor. But I could have sworn . . .” The remainder of the sentence was unspoken. At the back of his mind persisted the impression that the gathering was incomplete. Somebody who had been behind him during the journey from Colborough was unaccounted for. But it was nothing more than a feeling of incompleteness. He wished he had turned round and examined those who had been sitting in the rear, out of his range of vision. During the commotion it would have been a simple matter for one to have slipped away unnoticed —and that was not an occasion to allow such suspicious behaviour. “Satisfied, mister?” “My total tallies with yours,” was the non-committal response. “Then we'll get a move on."

Assisted by the driver, he bore the dead man back inside, taking him to the smokers’ compartment. This was separated from the main part of the bus by a wood and glass partition. Right at the back was an emergency exit with quick release opening mechanism and there was an extra seat that could be placed right across the gangway. Setting this in position a wide enough support for the gruesome bundle was made available. They covered him with an old blanket generally used for keeping the radiator warm in wintry weather. All the other passengers clambered aboard, sitting huddled together in that craving for human companionship which so so much in evidence during moments of tragedy. Nips of brandy had helped to revive the woman who had collapsed, but she had to be supported to a seat. Once there she resumed her stiffly upright pose, taking no part in the buzz of whispered conversation that punctuated the continued journey. Morrison Sharpe, also sat alone engrossed in a new problem, something different from his usual cross-words. But the methods of working were the same —pawn move, knight’s hop, the freedom of the queen, the circumscribed activities of the king. Some among them had been in a position to wander freely. Others had less scope. Regarding every individual in turn, he tried to account for each one of them, their motives for making the trip, their capacity for planning and accomplishing such a startling deed. “This is a nasty business.” The speaker was the slim-fingered individual who had kept away from the cluster, choosing instead his old seat in the rear of Morrison Sharpe. Half turning backwards, Sharpe examined his companion. Like a flash he fixed together fragments of the jigsaw until the stranger took on something of a sinister aspect in the completed whole. “Decidedly," he agreed. So it might be for this man. who had been given an exceptional chance to fire the fatal shot when standing up, ostensibly to attend to the window. From that position of vantage taking hurried aim would be comparatively simple. Of course there would be an element of chance in it. But there were expert gunmen who could control a lethal weapon under cover of a coat. Mr Sharpe had not first-hand knowledge of such methods, though he had seen plenty of cinematograph films where it was very neatly done. Motive was an important factor. Half a dozen possible alternatives suggested themselves, all of them too farfetched to be probable. More neatlyfitting was the idea that this man was a confirmed criminal. His hands lavoured it—so restlessly sensitive and questing. Juggling his thoughts a little more expertly, he formulated a clever scheme of revenge involving the removal of somebody who either knew too much or who had double-crossed the injured party. But that seemed too melodramatic. So many 'tiny things had to be put together with meticulous exactness to make the puzzle complete. Reluctantly he scrapped it, and was formulating an entirely fresh theory, when the bus pulled up with a jerk that set the already quivering nerves of the majority of the passengers tingling.

Conductor Withers was leaning out from his platform frantically signalling to a small car that was coming rapidly towards them. When it stopped, they could sec that the occupants were police officers. One wore the three stripes, and the other was a uniformed constable. From the fact that they wore peaked caps in the place of the customary spiked helmet, they were evidently attached to the mobile unit detailed to carry out the provisions of the Road Traffic acts.

A gasp from behind was distinctly audible to Morrison Sharpe. So the gentleman with the striking fingers was nervous! Tne unexpected intrusion of the policemen had knocked him of! his guard. At that moment Mr Sharpe started an intriguing line of conjecture. Sergeant Matthews possessed outstanding intelligence —not at all an tin-/ usuaul quality in these days when po-l lice work attracts recruits of good) education Although his intellectual

attainments were of no particular concern to anybody but his immediate superiors, he boasted a first-class secondary school training with a matriculation pass that would have seen him to the University had financial circumstances been different.

Having to earn his own living he had deliberately chosen a life that promised adventure rather than accept a humdrum appointment with an office stool as its starting point. Promotion camo early, especially as the formation of motorist patrols permitted an outlet for certain specialised talents he possessed. One disappointment was that his work on the roads had usually involved cases that were either trivial or merely calling for the exercise of natural courage. Murder was the type of case Sergeant Matthews hardly expected to come his way. At first he was incredulous. When informed that a man had been shot in a bus, he imagined that bus conductor Withers was playing a joke in rather bad taste. “It’s true enough. Sergeant," said Withers. "See for yourself. I wouldn't pull your leg about a serious matter like this.”

Telling Constable Higgins to park the car at the rear, Matthews’ went to investigate. As he stalked down the gangway he carefully took in the position and demeanour of everybody present. Arriving in the smokers' compartment, he stooped down and made a hurried examination. “H'm,” he grunted. “It certainly is a bullet wound. Fired at close range I should judge. What happened?” Withers explained in detail. When he related how the man had been taken outside, the Sergeant's eyebrows went up. “That was fooling," he said reprovingly. “Well, we didn’t know he was dead and it seemed best to give him fresh air.”

"I suppose not. But it makes it harder for purposes of investigation. “Just show me where he was sitting.”

To get there it was necessary to push through several of the passengers, who were craning their necks as they stood in the entrance way. The Sergeant instructed them to return to the seats they occupied at the time of the tragedy. Where the dead man had been he placed his cap. Before proceeding further he called the constable, instructing him to keep watch outside. “See that nobody leaves or enters.”

The latter order was really superflouous, because the road was practically deserted. It was an advantage not to be worried by curious spectators.

Satisfied, he turned back. From the doorway he could see the whole of the interior of the vehicle —even the still form right at the far end. But that post of vantage left the driver out of sight. Morrison Sharpe could see him clearly—except when he stooped down as had happened at the time the back-firing occurred. Why on earth should the man want to. keep fiddling about down there by the floorboards? “Name, please, and address!” It was the routine examination of potential' witnesses that interrupted him. Mr Sharpe gave the necessary particulars and told what little he knew of the shooting, even to the detail of the window incident, Sergeant Matthews made no comment. Eventually he turned awaylooked back again, and appeared to consider taking the n.e:»X; statement from the man with the slim fingers. Instead he contented himself with fixing that individual with a long and searching gaze.

Morrison Sharpe sensed the uneasiness which the Sergeant’s scrutiny was giving the man. But the inquisition was delayed. Again came that deep dreep drawing of breath and the thin sound of breathing out. No, there was not the slightest doubt that one of them, at least, was on tenterhooks.

CHAPTER HI. Matthews conducted his examination in a way that was not strictly in accordance with the rules supposed to be memorised and observed. Some of the methods were faintly reminiscent of those attributed to American detectives. At all events they were unorthodox. Jerry Tuckley, schoolboy, of 184, Parbury Terrace, Netherton, had little to say. It was a merit, holiday and he had stayed overnight with an aunt in Colborough, taking an early bus home so that he could play in a cricket match during the afternoon. No, he had never had a firearm in his possession. From his expression it. seemed that this was a bitter regret of childhood. "Did you notice anything suspicious happening?" the Sergeant asked. "Lots of things."

Jerry, it transpired, had imagination. He had been inventing stories to fit the passengers. Morrison Sharpe heard this statement with interest, tinged with an amusement that gave place to rueful chagrin when it turned out that he had been the particular object of juvenile coffsideration. “That fumry little man, who keeps peeking about" was a description that stung. "What else?”

The lad looked slightly bewildered. "There was something.” he admitted, “but I've forgotten what it was." “Come, come, that won't do! You mustn't hide anything.” “Please, sir, I’m not. But I can’t remember. It was something to do with one of the men. “If you haven't, forgotten that part you must know the rest of it." “Please, sir, I don’t. Only . . . only I thought somebody looked queer like.” (To be Continued) .