"DEATH GOES BY 'BUS"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 23 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 XIV. Erratic in all his dealings, Morrison Sharpe went to bed while it was still daylight, as a result of which he awoke earlier than usual. Mrs Dodie, nis housekeeper, could be heard bustling about in the kitchen, from which direction was wafted the fragrant perfume of freshly ground coffee. He stretched himself luxuriously. What was it he had arranged to do? Of course, he was not a private detective. There was a thrill in the words. He was an unattached investigator pledged to right wrongs and bring the guilty to account. Of course there were snags which must be encountered. In this first case the accused was, without doubt, a lawbreaker, who would be better out of the way. Yet because he robbed, that was no satisfactory reason to hold his life forfeit. For five or ten years in gaol would do him good. Such a punishment was, no doubt, deserved. Mr Sharpe could visualise what would have happened had the plan with Jeremy Withers been put into operation. Poor deluded Jerry would have gained nothing but a little experience, while the slick Mr Smith would be miles away with the swag. But if anything went wrong there was always the dupe at hand to take the rap. One of the first envelopes he opened as he toyed with his breakfast was from the cashier of that periodical which Mr Sharpe had been studying when this story opens. It was, in fact, his dallying over the puzzle which had caused him to loose the train and thus forced him to travel by bus. It was one of those simple but eminently satisfying letters which run: “Dear Sir,—We are pleased to announce that you are the winner of our £lOO crossword competition. Enclosed please find cheque, which we trust you will accept with our hearty congratulations.” So that was that. Of course the names had been printed in full a few days previously. It was rather strange nobody had told him the news. They often did, for he never bothered himself with such sordid details. Cash rewards are necessities, but not nearly so exciting as the seven-and-six-penny novel which came that same morning in token of the solution of e chess problem of extreme difficulty. Once reaching this stage, Mr Sharpe had no further interest in the matters. The £lOO would go to his banking account and the book into his library. There were several unread prize awards on these shelves.

Before he had finished his simple meal Jerry Withers called, a wan, anxious individual, who was bearing signs of mental strain.

“Can't you do something?" he asked despairingly. “They'll be after me next and you must know the police arc on the wrong track. I didn’t kill Wainwright and I don't think Smith did.”

Morrison Sharpe eyes him attentively. “So far as your—er—confederate in crime is concerned you can’t very well speak. But I’m going to ask you a question, which I should like you to answer honestly and sincerely.” “Go on!”

"Did you shoot Caleb Wainwright?”

Withers pulled himself up. Without wavering he snapped out a crisp negative. His questioner was glad to observe that he made no attempt to embroider the reply. It stood out as an unequivocal disclaimer. Mr Sharpe was merely being ingenuous. Nothing subtly analytical was at the back of his question. On the contrary. He was just hoping that in face of a simple query there would be no chance of subterfuge. Staring full in the face of the young man, Morrison Sharpe had not the least doubt that he had got the truth, and that was another important assurance. In his own mind the schoolboy, farmer and his wife, the driver, and now the conductor, could be eliminated from the case. They could add nothing to the evidence. Additional to them he was almost inclined to place John Smith, the one man the police regarded with suspicion. “Better wait and see what happens," Mr Sharpe advised. “But I don’t want to. It’s dreadful when you expect the blow; to fall at any minute. For two nights I haven't been able to sleep."

“What do you expect me to do. young man?" "Act for me. Of course, I haven’t got much money, but 1 could manage reasonable fees . . .”

“Here, wait a minute,” the little man interrupted. “In what capacity do you want to' engage me? I haven't any standing, you know. Better get a solicitor, or throw yourself on the mercy of the police." “No. no! Don't imagine I haven't noticed how you’ve helped with this business. Matthews seemed glad to have your assistance, though the superintendent has other notions, I imagine. But you're a detective, Mr Sharpe, although you may not call yourself one. You're a born detective and I'd rather trust you than anyone else I know to handle my interests. "Dear me!" murmured the little man. Across his face a tender smile of beatific satisfaction flitted. “Dear me! It really does seem as if I am being pitchforked into my rightful profession at last. Whatever the consequences I'm on your side. One ol these days we'll discuss the question of foes. For the moment I'm not sure it isn't an illegality to talk about such things. In this he was rather astray. Maxley actually grinned when informed that the little puzzle-master had joined the ranks of the private inquiry agents. "Afraid you don't quite know what il means, sir," he observed. "You get

no special rights in this country to expedite your clients’ affairs at the expense of the police departments. in some countries I understand the private man has definite status.”

“Does this mean that I'm going to be kept at arm’s length?” “Not a bit, Mr Sharpe. Matthews and myself have had occasion to thank you for some valuable tips. Any further help will be gratefully accepted. Naturally, I take it, you are not going to the detective business as a financial proposition.” “One never knows,” said Mr Sharpe evasively. “Then be careful for whom you act. your first customer is an associate of criminals, a carrier of firearms and known to have been planning housebreaking. Sounds a bit dangerous to get mixed up with fellows like that.” “Offences against property and against the person are different matters, Mr Maxley. Jeremy Withers was headed for the slippery slope when something intervened. I don’t think he’ll repeat the mistake. When you fine him for being without a permit for that pistol I’ll ” “You forget it wasn’t a genuine lethal weapon. As a toy no formalities were called for.”

“Quite! Anyway I should have stood by without raising a finger. But try and insinuate he had something to do with the murder and it’s a different matter.”

“You are getting a bit melodramatic about it, aren’t you? Nobody has made any accusation. Tut, tut! I ought to censure you for threatening the police. Instead we’ll go and drink your health across the road. This is surely an occasion within the meaning of the act.” “An occasion?’

“Certainly! Here you are setting up in opposition to the regular C.I.D. with all the self-assurance in the world. Mind you, I'm not going to take you too seriously, but you’re welcome into the fold for one reason.” “Please?”

"That you're not concerned with selfaggrandisement. To prove my belief in your I am even prepared to lay some of my own cards down on the table . . .under certain conditions.” “That I reciprocate?” “Sure! Isn’t that a fair arrangement?”

Mr Sharpe grinned. “That depends,” he retorted, “on who deals the cards. Foi- instance, suppose you play first tc give me an inkling of what you hold. Is it a court card or one of the rags?” “Nothing less than an ace,” Maxley said.

Morrison Sharpe fidgeted with the glasses and utensils on the table. Appearances suggested that he was idly rearranging the articles without noticing what he was doing. Actually he was playing a nice little game in which Maxley was keeping a move behind all the time.

“Check,” muttered the little man so quietly that was like a click of irritation. Maxley took it for something of that kind.

“I beg your pardon, Mr Sharpe,” he said, “but I nearly went too far. Police secrets have to be carefully guarded.”

“I said ‘check,’ ” answered Morrison Sharpe, “It should have been ‘checkmate’.” A tumbler was shifted into closer contact with a vase of flowers to point the lesson. “Afraid I don’t follow,” exclaimed the Superintendent. “Oh, I was just engrossed in a chess problem.”

Maxley laughed aloud. This was really too funny. Here was the wouldbe detective worrying over some fruitless game at the moment when he had nearly heard an important piece of confidential news. “Very interesting, sir,’ he remarked. “But not very helpful in dealing with real-life problems

’Possibly you don't play chess?"

“Never tried it in my life. I’ve had to work for my living, you know.” “What a shame. Chess ought to be compulsory in the police force. Now tell me, since it is no longer a secret, where you ran Mr Huntley Young to earth?”

Superintendent Maxley positively gasped. People really do under the stress of strong emotion. “H—how did you know that?” he demanded.

Mr Sharpe scattered the glasses haphazardly about the table. That little problem was settled. His hand almost caressed the tumbler with which he had threatened the flower vase with a deserved checkmate. “How did I know?’ he repeated dreamily. “Well, to be strictly accurate, you revealed it yourself.” "Don’t pull my leg. please."

“I wouldn’t dream of it, old man. That's why I advised chess. You see that game leaches you to think with your opponent . . even ahead of him." "Hui!" growled Maxley. still unconvinced. “You're just an uncannily good guesser."

To his surprise the little man seemed on the verge of Haring into violent anger. This was touching' him on a raw spot. “1 would have you know," he exclaimed stiffly, "that 1 do not indulge in anything so lacking, in exactitude as guessing.’ Another heart-throb and he would have lost the opportunity of being present at the interview with the longwanted Huntley Young. Maxley must be appeased, not annoyed. Mr Sharpe called for drinks ami sei himself to play for an invitation to talk to the new-found commercial traveller. "What a wonderful organisation you must have." he exclaimed plaeatingly. “Picking up the trail of somebody who has gone right away from his usual haunts savours of the miraculous."

(To be Continued)