“BROCKLEBANK’S ADVENTURE”

Wairarapa Times-Age, 24 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 IV

(Continued.) “I mean that though Uncle George knew he was up against a clever- gang, he didn’t guess how clever—or perhaps how strong. Why d'you think I sent that packet to England by post instead of carrying it, as he told me?” “Did you send it by post? No —I can't think why. Unless you had a hunch that somebody might try to steal it? “A hunch —that’s a presentiment, isn't it? No— something more than that: I had a stiff warning.” “Gosh —who —?” “But, you know, you don't want to know anything about it, Bandit! You’re the least inquisitive man I ever met.” “Gosh!” Brocklebank repeated. “That’s the very thing I said to your uncle!” “You did? Oh, what would I have given to see you two dodging each other. Being British. So nonchalant don’t you know! But listen to me while I tell you why we're not going to be allowed to get to London in peace.” “Pamela—l'll bet you two thousand three hundred and twenty-six dollars, which is the exact amount of my possessions. that we get to London on time and I deliver you to your uncle at Felton's on the 24th” — "Maybe—. I said in peace. But did you ever hear of a one-horse country called—er—Lavonia?” “No, where is it? On the frontiers of Ruritania?” “Well —somewhere there about. It’s actually next door,- to another onehorse country called ” “You’re making it up, Pamela,” said Brocklebank. “I’m not. I’ve been there, and my uncle knows it well. A month ago he was on the point of starting for it when he had to change his plans and go off in a great hurry to New York. He and I’ve been pals ever since I can remember. He’s fond of adventures. So am I. We always click perfectly. When he said to me ‘Like to go to Alissa, Pam?’ ” “Alissa?” “That’s the wall-eyed capital of the one-horse country. When he said that, I said ‘You bet.’ It was the very day he sailed for America. He had just time to tell me exactly nothing. He gave me a document to take to Alissa. I was to give the glad eye to a certain Minister ” “Politics! Well, I’m ” “Only partly politics. I was to say nothing about the document till I’d made quite sure the Minister had been thoroughly glad-eyed ” “Most unladylike ” “Yes, wasn’t it? But I enjoyed the fun, Bandit. Took nearly a fortnight’s dirty work at the cross-roads before this basilisk had her way. But she fixed him. .And gave him the document. And in exchange for it received another document from him. And promised to meet him next evening. Don’t glare, Bandit!” “I’m not glaring,” snarled Brockebank.

“You are —glaring fit to make Mr Farley fall down dead. The point is that the Minister said to the basilisk, •My dear young lady, that’s a very dangerous paper; there are people who wouldn’t hesitate to kill you to get it,' or words to that effect; he spoke very poor English. So the basilisk thought to herself that she’d better get rid of it( and she posted it to herself in England the same night.” “Good for her,” said Brocklebank. “The next night—you're glaring again ” “I’m not.”

“Don’t interrupt. The next night, the Minister kept the tryst. But she was by that time three hundred miles away, and out of Lavonian territory, and nearing the little port where a small ship called next day. She got on the ship, and afterwards arrived at Marseilles without knowing it. You can fit any sequel you like to the story, Bandit.”

“Gosh, Pamela! Your uncle had no right ” “Why not? Anyhow he did.” “Politics! I never dreamed of it. He said it was a private war.” “So it is.”

“But—a Minister. What’s he got to do with a private war between Englishmen?”

“Cute little fellow, that Minister. Whichever sidb wins he’ll be on ’it. But we're getting away from the point —that document. There are people who won’t stick at much to prevent Uncle George from getting it.” “I should think not,” exclaimed Brocklebank. “And three of ’em are on this train, Bandit.” "Three!”

“Yes. While you were going spuishy. all over just now, watching the sleeping beauty, Mr Farley passed down the corridor and had a look at her too. And then the prizefighter with the scar bn his face. And then, Mr —ah —Stubbs —or I imagine it was Mr Stubbs. Anyway he had grey hair and was much smitten with the sleeping beauty, for he stood outside for a full minute.pretending to look at the scenery ■” “Pamela! I’m the world’s prize ass!” “No," said she, with an appraising look at him, “I shouldn't say that. You’re a man of action. Bandit. Perhaps not a first-class conspirator. But let me have you handy when there’s a rough house.” When he stood nonplussed and impotent on the pavement of a London backwater twenty-four hours afterwards, Brocklebank thought how bitterly true was Pamela’s judgment. Contrary to her expectation, their peace was not disturbed. They had one glimpse of Farley that night when the train reached the Gare de Lyon in Paris. Brocklebank told his taxi-driv-er in a loud voice to go to the Meurice, and half way there diverted him to the

Bristol. Insisting on adjoining rooms, Brocklebank spent a second night in his clothes. The next morning they caught the ten o’clock boat train, and were in London at half-past four.

Felton's Hotel is one of the lessening number of survivals from a picturesque if inconvenient past. At the end of its cul-de-sac it hardly announces itself to the seething multitudes of passers-by east and west. It just drowses in the sun and looks sleepily through its vista of Georgian houses to the twentieth century excitement out there. It was itself originally three or foui- Georgian houses. The most unlikely place in the world for an engagement in HarrisoiT’s private war.

Decanted from their taxi through a narrow doorway, Brocklebank and Pamela found themselves in a small hall with an aged and tremulous waiter in evening dress bowing to them, while his acolyte, a boy in buttons, fetched in their bags.

They spoke to the lady behind the office window. Yes. Mr Harrison, of New York, had engaged a suite for him and Miss Harrison, but Mr Harrison had not yet | arrived. Brocklebank cast back in his mind. Harrison had said the 23rd or the 24th. This was the 24th. Indeed? Well, perhaps Miss Harrison would like to occupy the suite till Mr Harrison arrived. Miss Harrison thought it would be a good idea. And some tea, too? By all means. A procession was formed, led by the aged waiter, with the page-boy as whipper-in, to Mr Harrison’s suite. The aged waiter tremulously unfastened a door and bowed them into a sittingroom more aged if possible than himself, with its chairs done in faded tapestry, its mahongany round table, and its foxed engravings in heavy gilt frames. He departed to discover tea. “Well, Bandit,” said Pamela, “how do you feel? I feel as if I had strayed into Noah’s Ark.” “Two by two —yes,” said Brocklebank, “the elephant and ” But no, he could not work himself into a really gay mood. He had an uneasy sensation. If Harrison had come on a boat reaching Southampton on Saturday he should have been at Felton’s long before now. When the waiter had set the tea on the round table, Brocklebank asked him to bring yesterday’s paper, and spent five minutes reading the shipping news. “What’s the trouble now, Bandit?” “No trouble, Pamela. I was wondering what boat he came on.” “Bad acting,” said Pamela. “You’re worrying because Uncle George hasn’t kept his date. No need to worry. He’s just like that. Light up your pipe while I go and explore the suite.” He heard Pamela splashing water in the bathroom, crooning in the bedroom. He leapt up as the telephone rang, stared at the table where it stood. “Telephone, Pamela!” he shouted. “Shall I answer?” “Please, Bandit. I’m not visible.” Brocklebank took up the receiver, said hello and yes, this was Mr Harrison’s suite. “Is that Mr Brocklebank?” The startled Brocklebank removed the receiver from his ear and looked ai it as if it had bit him. He did not answer the question. “This is Mr Harrison’s suite,” said he. “Who's speaking, and what do you want?” “Please ask Mr Brocklebank to speak to Mr Harrison.” “You’re not Harrison,” said Brocklebank, with a frown at the instrument. “No. I’m getting the call through for him.” “Then, ask Mr Harrison himself to speak.” . “Hold the line, please!” Brocklebank sat on the edge of the table with the telephone at his ear. Presently a deep bass voice vibrated. “Is that Felton’s Mr Harrison’s suite? I want to speak to Mr Brocklebank.” “Brocklebank speaking. Is that Mr Harrison?” “Yes. Have you got her back, Brocklebank?” “Of course. I was just speculating about what had happened to you. Where are you?” “Be careful what you say on the phone, Brocklebank. I can’t come to Felton’s just now —for reasons. You understand?" “Well ?” said Brocklebank. “But I want to see you urgently. I won’t mention names, but —d’you think she’ll be all right there for an hour?” “I suppose so. But you know best.' "Don’t like it. I’ve found they’re on the look out for her as well. But tell her I daren’t show my nose near Felton’s. Where is she now?” "I think she’s in the bathroom.” “Well, tell her that and come straight away to me.” “Where are you?” “AL a telephone-box, and there's somebody outside far too interested in me.” It’s now a quarter to six. Can you get to Piccadilly Circus in ten minutes? Yes, of course. In the Underground Station. Come in from the Haymarket side and walk round clockwise. That’s all. Got it?” “All right," said Brocklebank, and he heard the receiver clicked on al the other end. A minute after Pamela came in. singing. “Quite a nice apartment when you get used to the smell of age.” she said. "Who was it —Uncle George?” Brocklebank gave her the message, picked up his hat, said, "You’re not to stir till you hear from him or I come back.” He walked up lower Regent Street, and was in the roundabout, going slowly clockwise, at five minutes! to six. i (Io be Continued).