"DEATH GOES BY 'BUS"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 21 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 XXII. Continued. Leaving the bus company’s office, Jeremy wandered about for some time doing nothing in particular. Punctually at six o’clock he went into the Fleur de Lys and drank one half-pint of mild beer. When the 6.10 bus left for Colborough he was on board. So were the detectives. At the town he went into the Golden Lion. Waiting about five minutes, the officers followed him. He was not in the bar, and the smoke-room was empty except for a couple of regular customers. According to an observant page their quarry had gone upstairs, presumably to visit one of the guests. Yes, it was possible for the pair to have a look'at the visitors’ book. Production of identity cards opened useful sources of information. Running a finger down the list of names the detective halted at an entry several days old. “John Smith,” he repeated. "Does that convey anything to you, Brownlaw?” “It does. Wasn't that the name of one of the passengers on the bus when Wainwright was bumped off?”

“It was. And he’s in records, too. We’d better ring up the chief and see if he wants to come in on this himself."

Maxley certainly did. It was what he had hall expected, though, not quite so quickly. Ordering a car to be sent round immediately he found Sergeant Matthews, and ten minutes after receiving the message they were on their way to Colborough. Brownlaw and Thornton, the detailed watchers, were waiting at the Golden Lion. Withers was still upstairs. It would be impossible for him to leave by any other exit, except the fire escape. “You should have watched that,” Maxley remarked, "in case he became suspicious that you were hanging about. Wail here while I go and look round. What room did yon say Smith occupied?”

“Number 17 sir..” “Right! If you hear my whistle come up with a rush.” That “rush” was provided by the Superintendent, who came downstairs two at a time, almost before the others realised he had reached the top. From his expression they judged him to be annoyed, a fact that was amply demonstrated when he opened his mouth. “Of all the cock-eyed idiots,” he wound up, after a catalogue effort of choice quality, “that isn’t John Smith in number 17—at least not the one we want. I suppose you made no, effort to verify the identity.” “Oh yes, superintendent. We asked several people. There was no mistake about the name.” “I know that. But there is about the individual. You've brought me here on a wild-goose chase, and that’s all there is to it.”

“But young Withers went upstairs," Thornton apologised. “We both saw him.”

“And out by the fire-escape,” lamented his superior. “Heavens! Can you wonder at it?” He stared at them resentfully. “You look to me exactly like a couple of slops. One glance and all the crooks for miles around get under cover."

“Then we’d better get busy and pick up the trail again.’” said Brownlaw. “Too late tonight. By the way, did that register show any other interesting names?” Apparently nobody had looked beyond “John Smith.” Strolling over to the desk Maxley took another glance. When he joined the group it was difficult to tell whether anger or disgust was his uppermost emotion. "You poor mutts," he snarled. “There are two other Smiths in this hotel —and one of them is John William and the other plain ‘J.’ ” "Then our man is still upstairs after all!”

“Unless he’s gone down that escape. Better cut round, one of you, and keep an eye on it. The rest of us will sit down and watch the stairs. To while away the weary hours, and to cool my temper, a drink is indicated. Better take a quick one yourself. Brownlaw. before you get outside . . . .” One drink led to two and then to a third. Shortly before 9.30 Jeremy Withers came down. With him was the familiar John Smith, and somebody else, whose presence caused Maxley to start all over again on the forceful vocabulary he had already drawn on to good effect that evening. "Well met!” exclaimed Mr Morrison Sharpe genially. “I think you had better have another drink. It still wants half-an-hour to closing time.” “How the devil did you get here?" "Oh, I live just round the corner." "Pah!" "Dropped in for a drink and a dial with some old acquaintances.” “Mr Smith, ch? And Mr Withers. Didn’t that strike you as rather indiscreet?” “Not at all. Your men were keeping an eye on our young friend so 1 didn't see why I shouldn’t do something of the kind for myself. Now the easiest way to do that was to go straight to the rendezvous . . .” “What rendezvous?’ "Dear me. how you do persist with your questioning! The one that Withers kept tonight with Mr Smith." “This is getting beyond a joke. sir. How did you know about the arrangement?’ "Simple chess movement. I figured on it being rook to rook . . .” “Crook to crook,” snarled Maxley, impatiently. j “As you like." A waiter brought) beer. They sipped it slowly. Smith and Withers were standing some dis-

tancc away, looking on apprehensively. The Superintendent beckoned, and they advanced with a show of hesitation.

Thornton was feeling in an inside pocket, and Mr Sharpe wondered if that was where the handcuffs were kept.. Matthews sat bolt upright, alert for further instructions.

“Ah!” breathed Maxley heavily. His eyes were on the clock. “What,” he asked, “will you two gentlemen have to drink?”

Mr Sharpe winked. He, at any rate, knew that the heavy barrage preparatory to an invincible attack had been postponed. The Superintendent was not sure of his ground. Ten o’clock chimed, and shouts of “Drink up, please” echoed through the hotel. Coincident, as it seemed, the armistice concluded.

“Let us go to your room for a little chat.” Maxley suggested. John Smith nodded. “By all means, though it is going to be a bit overcrowded with all you lot. Suppose big-feet, for one, stays outside. That’ll give us more breathing space.” He had resorted to that impudent method of verbal attack which is often a potent weapon in the hands of the professional criminal. The rest of them crowded into the little apartment. Smith sat on the edge of the bed. Matthews was by the door. Maxley perched on a dressing chest, and Sharpe took possession of the only chair, which was not nearly as comfortable as it looked. “Tell them exactly as you explained to me,” he advised. “If there’s trouble brewing, you'll do better by taking the skimming and keeping out of the worst of it.”

Smith nodded. “All right. Where's Withers, though?” “Outside with the officer,” explained Maxley. “So it’s like that? Well, here goes. I'll give you the straight griffin . . .” Mr,Sharpe found out that Smith was staying at the Golden Lion in casual conversation.

Details of that talk recurred to him. “I shall make Colborough my headquarters until this case is settled," Smith had remarked.

“A convenient idea if your business engagements permit." Smith had grinned. “They do.’ A little later the man had been talking earnestly with the bus conductor.

The little man tidily put away his papers, and proceeded to the hotel. “Yes,” he was informed, “we have a Mr Smith staying here. In fact, there are three guests of that name.” “Seems to be rather a favourite.” “It is. sir. Lots of quite innocent and well connected gentlemen are regarded with suspicion merely because their right name happens to be J. Smith. We make it a rule to require a deposit from anyone who registers in that name.” “How quaint. I should imagine that the, er.synthetic Smiths would choose some other name, in view of the free use that appears to be made with an honoured, fa’mily possession.” “That isn’t borne out by facts.” “So I have been given to understand, Mr .” “Smith,” replied his informant smilingly. “Robert Smith, I am thankful to say. As for my namesakes, you can take your choice of rooms 17. 34, and 38." A page’ escorted him to the first apartment, where they drew blank. At the next door a familiar voice called out, “Who is it?,” and the man with the slim fingers came forward to investigate for himself. “Good evening.” he said, recognising the newcomer. “Were you looking for me?" “Just for a short chat if you don’t mind." "I’m listening.” Mr Sharpe looked significantly at the waiting boy, standing inquisitively beside him. “An entirely friendly visit, I may say,” he observed. “So I should hope. You haven’t mentioned what it is about yet." “Rather awkward in public.” “Come inside.” He made way for the caller, though with bad grace. “You seem suspicious,” Mr Sharpe said gently. "H’m! I can’t size you up. What’s your game?” “Game?" “Racket if you like. You can’t, kid me.” “Such is far from my intention." “Then spill the beans. You’re some kind of a copper’s nark, aren't you?” “Good gracious, no! Nothing of the sort, I do assure you.” "Maxley put you up to this!” "He didn’t So far as lam aware, he has no notion that I am here.” "O.K. Now you are, let's hear your spiel." Mr Sharpe smiled. “What a cosmopolitan vocabulary you have. Fortunately 1 am fairly well acquainted with American slang. Your free use of it prompts me to believe you are familiar with United States.” “I’ve lived over there, though it hasn't anything to do with you." "Caleb Wainwright had also just crossed the Atlantic. He managed to smuggle into this country a valuable stolen necklet." ‘You've got a nerve! What the hell do you imagine 1 know about that?" “The police are getting ideas. They’re wondering what brought you into these parts." “Let ’em! I came on business if you want to know." ; "Ha! So I imagined. Some very I crackable cribs in this country. Hope you don’t mind my dropping into the vernacular?” “I'd like to drop you into the river." (To be Continued) .