“MAN FROM THE AIRPORT”

Wairarapa Times-Age, 26 December 1939, Page 10

“MAN FROM THE AIRPORT”

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

By

LESLIE BERESFORD.

CHAPTER IX. Continued. “Yet is seems so incredible, my dear sir,” the vicar persisted. "I really cannot understand it. The man seemed such a pleasant, punctilious sort of fellow. Not at all the sort to commit such a sacreligious crime. And, of course, something, must be done about it. I shall have to report the matter at once to the diocesan authorities, and doubtless police action must follow. Terrible—terrible.”

The vicar's distress was no greater than was the surprise of Peters over this discovery. It was a complication he could not have foreseen, and he had not as yet decided its effect on the situation, or what should be done about it. He wanted time to think. First, he felt it wisest to quieten the vicar.

“I think it a practical certainty,” he told the parson reassuringly, “that I know the culprit in this affair. It would be as well if, in confidence, I told you the whole story.” After the registers had been safely locked up again, and the two men had returned to the vicarage study, Peters told him the story, as briefly as possible. The vicar listening in amazement, was the more righteously angered by the way he had been duped and robbed of so important a document in his charge. “I find myself open, you see, to a charge of negligence,” he said anxiously. “It was my duty, before putting away that register, to examine the page and make sure it was intact.” “Quite an excusable omission, vicar, placed as you were,” Peters soothedhim. “I can quite see that you will have to report the matter to your, ecclesiastical people, but you can tell them too that I have the matter in hand, and have every hope of getting the document back —perhaps in the next few days. It is, you see, in my interests to do so, since I am the person, who, if I wish to benefit from it, have most reason to recover it.”

Eventually the vicar was persuaded to follow Peters’ suggestion, and the matter was left so. Peters wasted no time in getting back to his plane and taking off for Beaconsfield. During the flight, he began slowly to realise what had prompted that Tucker, unquestionably the vicar’s visitor of three weeks since, to commit such a desperate act as remove that entry. It seemed pretty clear. Imagining that he, Peters, had meant what he had said in Otterbridge that he was uninterested in the Accrington money, and certainly imagining him still to be in Newfoundland, Tucker had come back to England determined somehow to extract money out of Paula. And she was not likely to pay him anything while that official, legal proof of the secret marriage remained in existence in the register of St Jude’s at Barns-ley-on-the-Moor. She would want to see that utterly destroyed, so Tucker had taken steps to oblige her when the right moment came, never dreaming his act might be discovered. It might perhaps never have been. If it had —with Tucker's neat removal of entry—nobody would have known whose marriage it had proved, so there would have been no clue to follow.

But Tucker had been just a little impetuous. He had no doubt been led away by his avarice, and the certainty that Paula would pay, rather than lose her fortune. Tucker would get the shock of his life, Peters told himself, when he suddenly found himself face to face with the one man he least expected to meet here, the real heir to the Accrington money, whom he blissfully supposed still to be in far-away Newfoundland. The fact that Paula had confided to Mr Wallingford the German’s hint that the Accrington inheritance was not rightly hers, seemed to Peters a point strongly in her favour. She might have said nothing to him, struck a bargain with her two blackmailers, and made her future perfectly secure. But that did not appear to be her idea. Seemingly her intention was to fight, and for that Peters admired her.

Meanwhile, the cutting from the register was in either Tucker’s or the German's possession. Those were the two people of most immediate interest to him. The sooner he confronted them, the better. And when that happened. Peters felt it would be wisest to have Dan and Pierre with him as evidence. Landed at Beaconsfield, he found a pitch-black, rain-soused night. In the aerodrome offices he found also Paula. He noticed that, as they came sharply and unexpectedly in close contact, she was "taken by surprise, her cheeks flushing deeply. Since they had been formerly introduced. he bowed to her, prepared for a snub. Instead, although quite smilelessly, she wished him a good-evening, to which remarked, non-committally: ‘lf you ask me, Miss Accrington, it’s as bad an evening as anyone could want." An aerodrome official intervened here: “Queer that you should turn up al the moment. Mr Peters. Miss Accrington’s in a fix. She's just crippled her car badly, and looked in here to sec if we could lend her one to go to her home. There doesn’t happen to be a single one garaged at the minute, excepting yours. I was just about to offer her the loan of that.’ "The proper thing for you to have done ” Peters was insisting, when Paula interrupted, icily: ] "Thanks all the same. 1 couldn't think of it. I can quite easily walk." Peters laughed. j "1 shall say not. Miss Accrington. It wouldn't be kind to yourself, or very

(To be Continued.)

Author of “Mr Appleton Awakes,” “The Other Mr North,” etc.

polite to me, would it? You really must allow me ”

Before she could say anything in reply. he had turned and asked the official to have his car brought round. Paula Accrington made no protest. She was silent, smileless still, but seemed to have regained her self-pos-session. When she spoke, it was with a little more life in her voice.

"Talking about politeness,” she said. “You are, I gather, one of the those people who practice it in the rudest possible manner.’” “I deserve that,” he nodded. “And — Im quite ready to apologise, Miss Accrington. I behaved rottenly, I admit ”

"Don’t worry,” she looked him suddenly straight in the eyes, and her manner changed completely. “I’m the one who should apologise. You might have lost your life, and not your temper. I did realise that afterwards.”

“The armistice is declared?” he asked, holding out a hand, into which she slipped one of hers. Somehow, despite everything, he felt a little glow of satisfaction that they had, at least, come together so far. He knew that it couldn’t have been easy for her. It hadn't been too easy for him. He said: “I think I hear the car outside. Will you take it, and have it sent back here for me? Or—might I be allowed to drop you at “Sunnyside?” “If you don’t drop me too heavily," she replied, laughing now quite gaily. “I’m honestly a most careful driver.”

“Now —now!” she interrupted him, laughing again. “And it’s only a moment since you said that armistice was on. I can drive —I can fly—quite careful myself, you know.” “Everyone knows, Miss Accrington, that you’re one of the best women-fly-ers in the country,” he said. “Thank you,’ she smiled, then looked up at him critically. ‘That's flattery—not politeness. I'm not so sure that I don’t prefer you in your most ultra-Tude state.” No more was said for a while. He offered her a comfortable seat in the back of the car, but she asked if she might have the place beside him at the wheel. As they passed out from the aerodrome, she pointed to the wreckage of a car beside the road. “That happens to be a monument to me as a careful motorist,” she told him. and added: “The carelessness lay with the driver of an immense brewer’s dray. Quite a lot of witnesses will prove that when the case comes on in a day or so.” Peters, appraising the wreckage before driving on through the rain made an exclamation of astonishment. “Isn’t it a marvel you got out of that with a whole skin?” “I generally do, somehow,” she said casually, and looked before her through the windscreen, and missing his glance. He found himself noticing now for the first time, what a beautiful skin she had. In order to forget about that, he busied himself with driving, not too easy a task on these winding roads, and on such a night. He found himself wondering whether in the light of what the immediate future might hold, he had been wise to be here with her tonight, really enjoying it more than he should do. much more than he would have believed possible a few days back. And when they reached the main entrance to her big house, she insisted on him coming indoors for a drink, and he didn’t find it in him to refuse. There was everything about this house, furnished with modern luxury and a somewhat adventurous taste, what he would have expected to find in the home of such a woman. One thing he did not find, knowing her type. He looked for crowds of noisy guests, from her rather hectic set, but found instead that—apart from the servants —he and she appeared to be alone. “We usually keep a ‘Full House’ board outside ‘Sunnyside.’ ” she said suddenly. “To tell you the truth, I got rather bored after a run of that sort of thing. I sent everybody packing yesterday, excepting one or two, and I suppose they’re up dressing.” That reminded him of the time, that by now he should be at Lea House, and that anyhow he must not detain her long over the cocktails, which a servant had brought. He said as much, but she told him not to hurry. "Now we've made peace," she said laughingly. “I hope you'll let us see something of you here. I —l've heard quite a lot about you from Mr Wallingford, you know. It made me wonder if you really could be —well, what I thought you were on our first meeting." “I hope I don't do our good friend, Wallingford, any discredit?" he asked. "I'll be better able to tell you that." she said, “after I've known a little more about you. So please don't forget that ‘Sunnyside’ is six minutes in a car from Lea House.’

“Not —" his eyes laughed down into hers —"if careless brewer's drays litter up the road.”