“BROCKLEBANK’S ADVENTURE”

Wairarapa Times-Age, 25 July 1940, Page 12

“BROCKLEBANK’S ADVENTURE”

COPYRIGHT. PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

By

R. A. J. WALLING

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

CHAPTER V.

(Continued.) Standing near the Haymarket entrance was the man with a scar on his face. If he saw Brocklebank, he ignored his existence. He was intently watching the entrance. Of course. That cleared up the mystery of Harrison's non-appearance. He knew he was being tailed —perhaps it was by the man who had watched him in the telephone box. And he would not show a feather while the watch continued. Brocklebank walked on slowly. Pamela was right. These people were smarter than Harrison knew —or had known up to now. That fellow —he must have flown over from Paris; he certainly wasn't on the train. Then it was plain to Brocklebank that the man with the scar, who must be aware of him, might have guessed that he had an appointment with Har-| risen, and that while he, Brocklebank. | was there he would not move nor I ' would Harrison appear. The round-' about was literally a vicious circle, i But he could test that. He marched ! past the policeman out into Regent 1 Street and returned by the Piccadilly entrance. The man with the scar had gone. j Now for Harrison. Half a dozen j more turns. But there was no Harri- i son. Pamela might be getting uneasy. He hesitated at the door of a telephone booth, then flung in, found Felton’s number and rang. “Put me through to Mr Harrison’s suite.’

"Excuse me, sir—Miss Harrison’s gone out.” “What! ” But Brocklebank did not stay to argue with the tremulous waiter who seemed to have answered his call. He clashed out of the station, hailed the first taxi he saw, and was at Felton’s in two minutes. “No, indeed, sir. I have made no error. I took the message to Miss Harrison myself. She was to put on her hat and coat and come down to speak to Mr Harrison in the car. She did come down, and I saw her go into the car and drive away. “And no message for me?” “No sir, not to my knowledge. An agitated waiter toddled after him downstairs, followed him out on to the pavement, answering a quick fire of questions fearfully. He had noticed the car. It was a dark saloon car. Driven by a chauffeur. He had heard no address given after the chauffeur handed Miss Harrison into- the car. It just drove away. Was it Harrison who had taken his niece away from a place he thought dangerous for her? If so, why no message to Brocklebank? If he had found it impossible to communicate at the rendezvous, and had dodged the spy and spirited the girl into safety, he might at least have left a word.

Was it Harrison? Or was the whole thing a dodge to get him out of the way for an hour? Had he balked Farley and company so successfully at Marseilles only to be caught like a perfect Simple Simon in London? A good man in a rough house, but not a first-class conspirator—heart of gold; head of wood. The old waiter came fussing at the door. “Mr Brocklebank, sir?” “Yes, what is it?” “A message for you, sir.” He bowed to Brocklebank, and beckoned to the door. A man in a chauffeur’s uniform entered. The waiter pointed to Brocklebank. The chauffeur touched his cap. Brocklebank gaped at him much as though a ghost had suddenly sprung out of the floor- of Felton’s Hotel. “Mr Brocklebank, sir?” “Yes —what is it?” Brocklebank felt like a parrot. “From the gentleman you know as Mr Harrison, sir. Much regrets that he couldn’t meet you. He and the young lady have gone on, and I'm to take you, if you will- •” “Gone where?” Brocklebank interrupted. “To Caterham,” answered the chauffeur, in a confidential whisper. “Mr Harrison’s most anxious to see you, sir. If you’ll bring your things I’m to say accommodation will be provided.” Brocklebank eyed him reflectively. “Stay here a moment,” said he. “Waiter, I’ve left some things upstairs. I’ll go and get them.” “Very good, sir," beamed the waiter.

In the suite Brocklebank went straight to his goal, Pamela’s bedroom, to see whether she also had been inviting to take her things. Her cases were still there. He rummaged in them for the thing he wanted —the little gun which Mr Farley had bought in the Canebiere. He took it. Returning to lhe sitting room he wrote a note to Harrison and entrusted the waiter to deliver it to Mr Harrison and to no one else. The chauffeur waited in the doorway. “That’s my bag.” said Brocklebank. The chauffeur raised it. Brocklebank followed him out and found a large car at the door. He entered and sat in the back seat. His journey began. A curious and momentous journey, over the most prosaic ground imaginable to a young man in a state of high romance. Endless miles of suburbs, streets and streets practically all the way to Croydon. The chauffeur made good speed. He was nearing Sanderstcad at eight o’clock. Up to that time Brocklebank had sat quiescent behind h : m. A few minutes out of Sanderstcad, when he cut off to the left from the main road. Brocklebank spoke. “What’s our destination in Caterham, driver?" "Not exactly in Cathcrham. sir," he threw back over his shoulder. “Up in the hills, Woldingham way. I’m to lake you to Greenway Prior, the residence of Sir Arthur Ackerton.” “Oh?" said Brocklebank, shifting in

his seat. “Is that where Mr Harrison is staying?” “'I believe so, sir.” “But I thought Sir Arthur was abroad —” "Indeed, sir? If you'll pardon me I think you must have been mistaken. I distinctly inferred that Sir Arthur was at home.” Brocklebank completed the shifting of his position in the car from the near to the ofl, so that he sat immediately behind the driver. “Now,” said he. “I’m going to say something that may startle you. But keep straight on, don’t look round, and don't play any tricks. Just do exactly as I tell you. Look in the mirror.” Brocklebank saw in the driving mirrow the dark face of the driver looking a little paler than before, and his dark eyes startled. "You see, I have a gun in each hand. Slow down, to 15 now —pronto!” Brocklebank watched the needle of the indicator drop back to 15. 'The private road to Greenway Prior turns off to the left about half a mile on,” said Brocklebank, presently. “Go in there. Drive on till I tell you to stop.”

I The big car slowed down to a crawl Ito take the corner into a by-road. It curled twice in five hundred yards. “Stop!" said Brocklebank. “Sit where you are. Don't turn round. Don't take your hands off the wheel. I'm behind you with two guns, both liable to go off if you take your hands from the wheel. Now, Mr Rovigo ” The chauffeur gave a little gasp. “You aren’t aware of it, but we’ve met before. I know all about you, so if you tell me any lies I shall spot ’em

at once. Were your instructions to bring me here to Greenway Prior?” “Yes.” “Then drive on to the house.” “No!” “Two guns, Mr Rovigo, remember—and this is a very secluded spot. Which is it —yes or no?” I ‘'No!” “Is Mr Harrison at Greenway Prior?” “No.” “Where is Mr Harrison, then?” “I don’t know the name of the place.” ' “Never mind the name—you know it well enough to drive there. How far?” “About a mile.” “And is Miss Harrison there?” "I expect so.” “Were your instructions to take me there as well?” “Yes.” “Who told you?” “Norrie..” “Norrie? Describe Mr Norrie to me, please. Is he a man with a red scar on his face?” “That’s the chap.” “A most unpleasant person,” said Brocklebank. “I promised to knock his head ofl the next time I met him. And I will! Is he at this place?” “I expect so.”

“You seem to expect a lot, but it’s nothing to what you’ll get if you don’t do exactly what I say. Lean forward over’ the wheel.” The chauffeur leant forward. Brocklebank from the back deprived him of the revolver in his coat pocket. “Four!” said Brocklebank. “Eh?”

“Oh nothing. Now, Mr Rovigo, find a turning place and drive to this nameless house about a mile away. No monkeying with the car, or I shoot you out of hand.” It pulled up before a closed gate deep among the trees. It was almost night here, but beyond the gate Brocklebank made out the lines of a lodge. “Go on, Mr Rovigo. Pass the gate. Pull in and. stop. Get out on the offside. Stand there.” These manoeuvres accomplished, Brocklebank stood in the road, towering ever the man whom he had last before seen sprawled on a pavement in New York. "Got a torch, Rovigo? I thought so. i I’ll have it. Now, get inside the gate. Knock up the people in the lodge.” | “Lodge is locked up; nobody there,” said Rovigo as he swung over the gate. “Whose place is this?” Brocklebank demanded. “Don’t know. Never here before today.” “If you’re lying. Rovigo. God help you!” said Brocklebank. “How far to the house?” "Not far. Ycu can see it round the first bend in the road.” “Then lead on. If you squeak from this time onward, you’re dead. So better say your prayers now . . .Walk on the grass, Rovigo." One glimmer of light from a window was the only symptom of life in the low. long, grey house. They approached silently. Brocklebank made out on the left of the house a range of buildings, probably stables or garages. j "Turn left,” said he. Rovigo followed the grass track round a swelling in the drive. “Through that archway—quietly.” The entrance to a yard, with a clock in a squat tower above it. Perfect silence. “Straight on. Rovigo," Brocklebank i murmured in the chauffeur's ear. "Follow this wall.” Stables, coach-houses—a big establishment in the old days. Brocklebank ' opened one of the doors, gave a hasty glance round, then shone his torch into , a garage where one car stood. "Get in," said he; followed Rovigo through, and closed the door. Gun in one hand .torch in the other, , he scrutinised the place. There was a ; toolbox in a corner. ( (To be Continued).