"DEATH GOES BY 'BUS"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 10 November 1939, Page 10

"DEATH GOES BY 'BUS"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

LESLIE CARGILL

(Author of “The Yellow Phantom,” “The Arrow Jjy Night,” etc.)

CHAPTER 111. Continued. “What do you mean by •queer''?" "Just queer, sir. Sort of jumpy. You know; sir, as if waiting for something to happen.” “Not very clear, but I think I’ve got the idea. Which of them was it?" “That’s funny, too, sir, because I don’t know that either.” “Look round and see if you can recollect.” Jerry stood up rather self-conscious-ly, examining every passenger with a wide-eyed stare that would have been amusing under other circumstances. At last he shook his head. "Can't place him, sir,” he announced. Matthews clicked his tongue impatiently. Plainly he regarded the witness as dull-witted.

But Morrison Sharpe was thinking otherwise. The boy’s statement tallied with his own impressions. Somebodj had managed to leave a memory on the sub-conscious . . . and there wa: no presence to encourage a distinct re minder of what it was. “No presence?” That was the clue. Of all those who were there not oneprovided the right influence to encourage remembrance. Had there been a miscount of the passengers after all? Managing to catch the official's eye, Mr Sharpe beckoned Sergeant Matthews across. “I think I can elaborate the theme,’ he remarked.

“In what way?” inquired the Sergeant. “Well it is rather difficult, but 1 imagine you will follow my method of reasoning.” “Your reasoning, sir,” echoed the Sergeant, slightly shocked. Mr Sharpe was mildly apologetic. “Of course I don’t pretend to teach you your business. I’m not a trained observer like yourself, although I am in the habit of working difficult matters out very carefully.” “What are you trying to tell me? This is no time to discuss these things." “I am only endeavouring to justify my intervention. Suppose there had been another man present at the time in question.” When Mr Sharpe suggested that there might have been a twelfth passenger in the bus at the time of the tragedy, Sergeant Matthews looked at him incredulously. “My suggestion is made in perfect seriousness. Ask the others, and they will, no doubt, bear me out,” protested Sharpe. “You mean they can say that the murderer has escaped?” “Not so fast, please. Do you realise how rare it is to visualise the obvious? Ever read Chesterton?”

“H’m . . the best place to hide a leaf is the forest . . nobody saw the postman because he was too familiar to be noticed . . . Yes, that has been pointed out plenty of times. What bearing has it on this case?” “The proper place for a bus passenger is on a bus.” “Agreed,” said the Sergeant, a little snappily. “People are getting on and off at irregular intervals.” “Don’t waste time, sir.” “I’m not. How many buttons have you on your tunic? Tell me offhand the number of pockets you have, or stairs leading to your bedroom?" Matthews allowed a flicker of a smile to disturb his studied grimness. “I live in a bungalow,” he murmured. “No matter, you know what I’m driving at by now." "Yes. I’d answer at random that I had seven buttons and find the accurate number was either six or eight.” “Nine to be exact.” Morrison Sharpe pointed out. “Eh!”

“Nine. I’ve been counting them to make sure. But, mark you, Ido not take a census of the passengers because there wasn’t any necessity, although I could tell every one in the near vicinity.” “Why?” “Taking mental notes is a habit of mine.” “And good manners would prevent you turning round to see who was behind you in the bus?” "Exactly! You are a man of acute discernment." "Thank you, sir. Spare the compliments until later. Now I’m going tc be busy discovering' who sat in the rear seats. Much obliged for the tip." The man with the slim fingers was not nearly so grateful, for it drew attention immediately upon himself. Forgetting that regard for good manners which had been mentioned Mr Sharpe placed himself in a position where he could both see and hear what was going on.

“Your name, please?” "Smith —John Smith." • Sergeant Matthews smiled grimly. “Sounds rather familiar." "It happens to bo true. Nobody ever believes it." “Then I shall have to accept it.” The other shrugged. "Please yourself about, that. There's worse to come.” "It will be the worse for you if you come the smart Alec with me. my man.” “Don't bully. Now ask my address, and I'll tell you." “Well, what is it?” "No fixed abode." “H’m! Are you trying to make yourself out lo be a suspicious character?" “There isn't any ■ need. I am one. Might as well admit it. I've been in quod half a dozen times. That do any good?” “Not unless you're going to come clean about the killing?” “You can't pin that on to me.” For

the first time he betrayed acute fear. “I didn't do it, I tell you.’ “What brings you here?” “None of your business.” “Let me suggest the reason. This man who is now dead was a confederate of yours. Either he betrayed you or tried to double-cross. So you followed him and took the first opportunity to croak him.” Morrison Sharpe smiled to himself. This was exactly the theme he had first toyed with. John’Smith wriggled uncomfortably. "You’re too smart,” he sneered. “But I thought you’d invent that yarn when you found out who I was.” “Keep a civil tongue in your head." “I’ll try! Now get on with the third degree.” The sergeant frowned. He did not like these taunts. “The gentleman in front says you were standing up when the shot was fired." . “That’s true. We’d had- the window open, but it got a bit draughty and the row from the back-fires was getting on our nerves.” “Eh! what’s that?"

“The back-fires —bang-bangs from the engine. I thought the shot was another of ’em at first.’ “Strange! So there was a series of explosions going on at the time. Very convenient for the murderer. I’ll comeback to that point later. Will you describe exactly how you were when the man was killed?"

Quite obligingly John Smith got up and opened the .window, closing it as he had been doing when the tragic interruption intervened. While so engaged, his memory was stimulated. “There was a rowdy little sports car passing,” he observed. “Didn’t notice the number, I suppose?” “No, why should I?” “What happened then?” “The chap down the gangway gave a sort of a gurgle and flopped out.” Matthews thought the story was straight-forward enough, told so simply as to'take suspicion off the teller. What if the man was an acknowledged crook? That hardly warranted him being held responsible for the major crime. “I'll have another word with you soon.” he added brusquely. “Can’t you cops leave a chap alone to earn an honest living?” Smith said with a leer.

“We can,” the sergeant retorted meaningly. “So long as that’s the sort of living a man is getting. But there’s one more question I want to put. Who was behind you?" “Couldn't say.” “There was somebody?” “Oh, yes. A man in an overcoat, for one.”

Smith paused. Oddly he looked at the people sitting around. Then he turned and examined the rear, a frown wrinkling his forehead. "That's all 1 can remember . , . but . . .” “Go on! What else?" “I —I didn’t notice." His roving eyes flickered. “There’s ten now, and yourself. I suppose that the lot. No, there was another . . .”

Morrison Sharpe craned round. The sergeant showed signs of rising excitement. “Who was it? Where was he sitting?” “There,” came the disappointing retort, “Just down the gangway. It was the man who was shot, of course." “Damn!" snapped .Matthews. “Isn't there anybody without an addle pate on this ’bus?" "I can’t see one," grinned Smith. He was looking intently above his interrogator’s eyes as he spoke. Mr Sharpe quietly interrupted. "Never mind about the front, what about the back?”

That brought back the frown. "Well,” Smith replied, “it's possible there was another, but I can't place him. You see I didn’t look properly, except to notice the man with his coat collar turned up. On a warm day that struck me as a bit queer." “Never mind about him,” broke in the sergeant. "Really, officer. I think you ought to concentrate on this point,” objected Mr Sharpe. “Doesn’t anything occur to you?” “Only that there is a lot too much talk about a man who didn't think the same about the weather as some oi you. Numbers of people wear overcoats when travelling, even in the middle of summer." "Take a good look round." "I'm doing so. Up to now I don’t what you’re driving at.’

“And I don't want to explain. If you hit on it yourself you will appreciate more thoroughy the point I want to make.” “Oh. I'm level with you in that already. It’s a sort of psycho-analysis, isn't it? So long as certain circumstances persist the memory will function efficiently enough. Remove them, and it isn’t so easy. That’s what, you mean, isn't it?"

“Good! Do you play chess?" "Yes. But. damn it all, I haven't time for all these riddles." "Sorry, sergeant, I'm only trying to be helpful. Occasionally an odd man gets in a chess set —very worrying, because you mix him up. An oversize pawn. say. tempts you to make a bishop move that isn't on.” Admiration showed in Matthews' eyes. He snapped his fingers in an instinctive gesture. "Got it at last,” he snapped. “There isn't an overcoat among this crowd." "Except ths lady's," Mr Sharpe pointed out. "Smith was looking at a man." "That’s right." broke in Smith, who had been listening, open-mouthed, to the discussion. "Then we’ve got to find that man. Who was he? Where did he get to?” “Don’t get excited.” Sharpe chuck-

led dryly. “Better finish questioning the passengers first. You might learn something else interesting.” CHAPTER IV. Up to this stage only the schoolboy had been definitely eliminated from the list of those who might have committed the crime. Because of his confessed reputation,' John Smith could not be ruled out. Sergeant Matthews was satisfied about Morrison Sharpe, for whom he was acquiring a slightly envious regard. This queer stranger had quietly taken charge of the investigations without any ostensible intervention. “Come and listen-in, sir." he invited suddenly making up his mind to avail himself to the full of the presence of this quick-witted little man. “Rather irregular, isn’t it?"

“So's the whole confounded business. It strikes me you've got the instincts of a detective, and I appreciate the way you’ve managed to set me working on the right track." “Rather early to say that. But I'll be glad to stand by. Suppose you deal with the easiest witnesses first. That old couple, for instance, might be disposed of in a few seconds.” “Mr and Mrs Wylie, you mean. I know them by sight. They've a small holding by Little Borringham.” Another win for Mr Sharpe, who had set them down as small farmers. They had nothing to reveal that could be regarded as helpful.

Nor had the middle-aged woman. Her name, it transpired, was Edith Maude Hanson, unmarried, of South London. She was taking an unconventional holiday, sometimes by train and sometimes by motor 'bus as the whim took her. The happenings had upset her too much to notice anything in particular. When it was found that the man was dead, she had promptly fainted. No. it was not a habit of hers.

Then came the foreigner, neither French nor Spanish, but a Levantine. His passport, was quite in order, identified him as Gregor Gardopoulos, importer. "I leeve in Ilford, and I coom here to sell my so good dates, figs and currants, thee best that Corinth can supply," he announced. "Ever seen the dead man before?" "Nevaire. 1 know not’ings about thees business.' Harry Carter came out of his cab to add his testimony. Trouble had developed with the engine soon after leaving Coldborough and it had grown steadily worse, especially at the hilly part of the road. "What appeared to be the matter?” "Ignition. I should say." "Wity didn’t yon stay to attend to

"Well. I'd thought of that, but as we could get along more or less, I decided to wait until a staff mechanic could put it right. We drivers are only supposed to be competent to deal with running repairs. Anything serious has to be reported to the garage." "I see. Then' this was a big matter you couldn't handle properly yourself?"

(To be Continued>