“BROCKLEBANK’S ADVENTURE”

Wairarapa Times-Age, 15 July 1940, Page 10

“BROCKLEBANK’S ADVENTURE”

COPYRIGHT.

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

By

R. A. J. WALLING

(Author of “The Man With the Squeaky Voice,” etc.)

CHAPTER 11.

During the next two minutes while the infernal racket of the train in the tunnel continued, Brocklebank had a curious sensation as they glared into each other’s eyes. He knew that if the man's hand reached round to his hip. or even if he made a movement of any sort, that gun would go off and Narrow-eyes might be dead in a few seconds. But Brocklebank’s curious sensation was an instinctive knowledge that Narrow-eyes would not move. Without knowing it. Brocklebank had established a superiority complex. He had hypnotised his man. It was not at the gun that he looked with so fixed a stare of fear, but at Brocklebank’s eyes. The end of the tunnel at last. A blessed relief to the ears. The clatter of the wheels was almost silence. “Ici!” commanded Brocklebank, from his corner. Narrow-eyes was like a bird paralysed by a cat. He had no will of his | own. Never withdrawing his eyes from : Brocklebank's, he took the two steps.! Brocklebank’s left hand spun him j round, ran ever his clothes, extracted a revolver from his hip pocket, drop- | ped it on the seat, spun him back. , “Allez-vous-en!” said Broekebank. | raised his hand to the bell-push I “Comprenez-vous?” ■ Whether he understood the words or j not, he knew the meaning of the gesture. Backing away, he reached, the door, pulled it open, banged it fast, ran down the corridor. Brocklebank picked up the gun from the seat, threw it into his suit- i case, pocketed his own, with a sort of finality in all his movements. Both Narrow-eyes and he were in a private war, and he need fear no publicity for this skirmish. But Ackerton! the fatality of it! . . . Ackerton giving him away. Not that Ackerton could have known anything about the risky business which was to take his companion down to the docks in Marseilles. It was plain that they had met casually on the train. To Ackerton the only queer thing in the episode must have been that Young Brocklebank was masquerading as a Frenchman, pretending not to know him, thought he must have recognised him immediately both by name and appearance; middle-aged men do not alter their looks much in five years. ’ And men like Ackerton did not approve of masquerading. In their minds a man who played a part was up to no good. Brocklebank knew the man and he knew the type. Well, there it was. Through the accident of Ackerton’s presence. Narroweyes had become aware of him. A mean and timid creature. Harrison had suggested as much. But thenceforth he Would be on his guard . . . Brocklebank looked out upon fifty • thousand twinkling lights. Presently the train was passing through the sub- • urban stations of Marseilles and slowing down for the terminus. He stood ready with his suit-case in hand in the lobby of the coach. He was first off the train; almost first at the exit. As j he went through a slim youth in a • blue suit detached himself from the 1 crowd and rushed at him. 1

“Allo, Bill!” “Hello, Raoul! But—you've shaved off your beard!” "Quite English, am I not? But what wind brings you south, Bill? And why haven't you written?” “Hi! —steady!” said Brocklebank. “Business is business, eh? I wish to stand here a few moments without talking, my friend, and watch the exit.” “You’re waiting for someone? I am de trop, perhaps?” “Never, Raoul. On the contrary, very necessary to me,” ‘said Brocklebank, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m going to point out a man. Remember him like the very devil. Photograph him inside that black head of yours so that you'd recognise him anywhere.” “O! O! —a mystery? But certainly I remember faces well. You speak of the gentleman not too cordially ” “I’ll tell you later. Get back here —stand in front of me, Roaul. He mustn’t sec me. I want to know where he goes. Mow —attention!” The stream of passengers through the platform gate swelled and diminished and had almost ceased before the man with the narrow eyes came through looking furtively right and left. He carried a light suit-case. "That one.” said Brocklebank. crouching behind Guichard at .the corner of the news stand. “That one? Dirty type, I believe! You want him watched? Leave it to me. And you ?” Brocklebank glanced up at the big clock. i "Eleven," he said. “I’ve got to see a man at the hotel right here. I’ll be down at La Joliette by midnight, Raoul.” “Righto! You see I’ve not forgotten my English. Au revoir.” From the shelter of his corner Brocklebank saw Narrow-eyes surrounded by eager porters, waving them off, looking desperately at the entrance gate beyond which a sea of taxis and trucks, passengers and touts, rolled and roared. He saw Guichard go up and shoulder the porters aside raise his hat and speak to Narroweyes. Evidently he spoke in English, for Narrow-eyes turned to him in manifest relief. Now they were talking fast. Guichard was pointing. Guichard was taking the suit case. They were going off together. The rolling sea cutside .swallowed them up. In a few seconds Brocklebank followed, got clear of the jamb and looked about the station yard. Tie caught sight of them crossing the road from the angle of the station buildings and slowly walked that way. Guichard hailed a taxi returning empty by the ramp from the western side of the station. They both got in. It

drove away. Brocklebank turned back. Good — whatever Narrow-eyes did and wherever he went, Raoul would know his every movement. For the present there was Ackerton. He passed the station wall into the garden of the Hotel Terminus . . . A bedroom on the second floor. The porter who had brought him up knocked and entered. Brocklebank heard him make a sad mess of his name, and Ackerton's voice in reply, “Qu’il entre!” The ported stood aside. Brocklebank passed through a narrow dressing room into the bedroom. Ackerton stood by the table with Brocklebank's card in his hand. “Good evening, Bill,” he said. “What brings you to Marseilles'. 1 Thought you were in America. How d’you know I was here? Sit down. Have a drink?” He- stepped to the wall and touched a bell-push. “You’re very good, Sir Arthur,” Brocklebank stammered. “I'm in Marseilles —for a day or two —on business. Heard you were here. Thought I'd —”

Ackerton's eyes twinkled so merrily [that Brocklebank pulled up short. J “Ah, well, of course, Bill. Dam' nice ' of you to come and see me. How’s your mother? When d’you see her? How's business in New York. Half a moment —” as the door opened. “What’ll you have? A spot? Right . . Deux whisky-soda, garcon . . Hope you’re making a fortune, Bill? More than I am.” If Ackerton's cue was to ignore what had passed in the train, it was not for Brocklebank to raise the topic. For the moment, anyhow. He talked of his mother in Gloucestershire, of his illluck in New York. Ackerton listened. The drinks arrived. They said “Here’s how!” “Where are you staying. Bill?” Ackerton asked. “Down at La Joliette with a friend.” “La Joliette? What a place!” “A friend of my father’s,” said Brocklebank. ‘Ah, that’s different. Well. Bill, good luck, and may you get back without a knife in your ribs. By jingo—l must tell you a story! Just listen. Smoke a cigar. If people interrupt, it puts me off.” Brocklebank accepted the cigar and sat back in his chair, looking a little dubious. “Do you know, Bill,” said Ackerton, “I had a sort of illusion that I’d already seen you this evening?” l “An illusion!” Brocklebank exclaimed. “Don’t interrupt. Yes. an illusion —

one of those funny ideas that one gets out of resemblances. A fellow the very spit of you, dressed exactly the sameway. In the train, coming down from Paris. No—don't interrupt. Have another spot and keep quiet. You can. you know, if you’re anything like your father. I’m going to tell you about it. “Yesterday afternoon, I took a ticket in London for Algiers. I’m supposed to be crossing by the Navigation-Mixte boat tomorrow. From Paris today 1 had a seat in a compartment with two old ladies —regular dears, only they objected to smoking. So I had my

cigar after dinner in the restaurant car. When I’d got back to my corner and settled down a man I know walk■ed along the corridor and was surprised see me. He came in. suggested we should go and find a smoker and have a chat. We did find a smoker in the next coach, with only one man in it. He answered me in French when I asked him a polite question; but I could have sworn he was an Englishman and what's more. Bill, I could have sworn he was you!’’ Brocklebank stirred. "Now, don’t barge into my yarn. It’s curious—worth listening to. As a matter of fact, Bill. I did swear that. 1 went so far as to tell him that if he wasn't Brocklebank I'd eat my boots. A mere figure of speech, of course." Ackerton twinkled as Brocklebank looked at his feet. “Now, why do you think I was so insistent?” "Can’t tell,” said Brocklebank. "Because the fellow-with me was under the impression that the man was a Frenchman and couldn’t understand anything he said, and he was just about to blow off on a subject which in my opinion should be kept secret." "Ah!” said Brocklebank. looking Ackerton straight in the eye. They held each other so. "No, —I never gave him a chance. I threw away my cigar and left.” "Indeed? Then you must have known beforehand what the secret was.” "Dam’ clever of you to see that, Bill. One might almost think you were really there yourself instead of your double. Well, I won’t say I knew, though I could give a pretty good guess. But you're stopping the yarn. Its what comes after that matters. I ' get back to my seat. In three or four minutes my friend comes along and calls me into the corridor. Has regularlar wind up. Says that Frenchman I left him with is either a madman or a dangerous criminal —held him up with a gun. and chased him out of the compartment. I say such desperate people ought to be put under lock and ' key and what’s he going to do about it? He says. Nothing: doesn’t, want, to < be mucked about with police and ma- I gistrates in Marseilles, because his ' business is urgent. Now. what d’you ' make of that?” Brocklebank shook his head. “What s do you make of it yourself, Sir Ar- 1 thui‘?" 1 "Naturally you'd ask me that. Bui put yourself in the place of that J Frenchman. What d'you thihk could i have made him threaten my friend with a gun?" "Not knowing your friend. 1 can't say. Perhaps he didn’t approve of his face. But of course it's possible that! your friend threatened him first.” I (To be Continued).