“BROCKLEBANK’S ADVENTURE”

Wairarapa Times-Age, 26 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 V.

(Continued.) “Go over there and sit down.” said he. ’l’m going to lay down the law. You're a damned scoundrel, Rovigo. I saw you try to shoot a man once. You deserve anything you get. But I believe you’re only an understrapper and I’m not going to bother with you." Keeping the torch light on him, he continued in low tones: “If your precious employers find you. they’ll find a poor fellow bound and gagged. First, you’re going to change coats and hats with me.” Brocklebank cleared his pockets, took the uniform coat that Rovigo discarded. “Thanks. Now, you’re going to bind yourself. So better make a good, convincing job of it. There's a garden line on the shelf beside you. Pitch it here. I'll cut you off a length . . . . Now, Rovigo. tie your ankles —and tie ’em well.” “Now stand up. turn round, hands behind you . . . There—you're trussed. Sil down and I’ll gag you. Not enough to hurt; just enough to prevent you from howling ” “Hist!” said Rovigo. They heard the slight sound —a metallic clink as the latch lifted. Brocklebank switched off his torch and stepped behind the little door as it opened. The place was in darkness. “Who’s in here? What’s the game?” said the familiar voice of Mr Norrie. They were the last words he uttered for some time. Brocklebank strode back, and almost redeemed his promise. If Mr Norrie's head did not actually come off, it was of no futher interest to him. Brocklebank, in the rush of the blow caught him as he fell, laid him on the floor, closed the door and flashed the torch on him. “My Gawd!” muttered Mr Rovigo, and submitted without another word to be gagged with his own handkerchief. Brocklebank cut two more lengths from the garden line and trussed Mr Norrie as he lay. He took his handkerchief and tied it firmly round his mouth, leaving his nostrils free. He ascertained that Mr Norrie had not invested in another gun. Then he shot the torchlight at Rovigo's feet. “This swine will come round in a bit, Rovigo," said he. “Don't be alarmed. What I want to say to you is this. I’m in a private war, and quite content to leave it at that. But if it should come to anything else, you’re for a charge of attempted murder and he's for an abduction, and both of you will get it in the neck. Take my advice. Lie doggo till it’s all over.” Brocklebank found the key in the door, shut them in, locked up, put the key in his pocket. Then he stole to the front of the house and crouched to look in at the lighted window. CHAPTER VI. When Brocklebank got the hang of what was happening inside the house, he was puzzled to know why it had not been surrounded with barbed wire and armed guards. For this, it became plain, was the enemy’s G.H.Q. But as he had crept through the still warm evening there was not a soul in the silent grounds. The door he had passed on the way from the garage was shut The mullioned window of four lights was the only sign of human occupation of the premises. The curtains had been drawn, but they did not meet, and a leaf of the window was fastened back on a stay. By stooping to peer through the bottom of the curtains, he could see almost all the room. Every sound came to him as clearly in the stillness as though he stood inside.

What he saw as he stooped made Brocklebank’s heart miss a beat. It was the face of Pamela, seeming to look straight at him. By a curious optical illusion, she appeared to be close to him—so close that it was impossible for her not to see him. But her eyes turned away without recognition, and Brocklebank realised that she was in fact sitting at the opposite side of a table far from him and that he must be invisible to her or to anyone in the room.

A closer approach when he had recovered from his surprise opened out the scene, a dining room, well but simply furnished, dark walls, and behind Pamela’s head a single picture, an old portrait in oils. He could see the whole table and five people sitting at it —a man at each end, Pamela and her uncle at the side facing him, on his side, opposite Harrison, the back of Farley’s unmistakable bald head. The amazing, preposterous thing was that they were having a meal together —a curious meal, a sort of picnic feast, served by a fellow wearing a lounge suit, who seemed to be of the same stamp as the ineffable Mr Norrie, but if possible less prepossessing. Harrison spoke the first words that Brocklebank heard. Raising his glass towards the man at the head of the table, he said, in his sonorous voice. "Well, Henry, here's confusion to you and all your works!” “Thanks, George. You won’t expect me to drink that toast. I propose another: Here’s health and happiness to Miss Pam.” Brocklebank looked hard al the speaker whose voice was so low and clear, and his accent so cultivated. Hardly of middle-age, ITesh-comple-xioned, blue-eyed, slim-built, selfpossessed. He smiled politely al Pamela. .She tool; no notice of him, did not even turn her head. The gaze which he had for a moment imagined directed to him, Brocklebank, now perceived was fixed on Farley. "Seeing what you've put Pamela through, Henry," said Harrison, “I call that a hypocritical sentiment.” “There may certainly seem to be a little incompatibility. George. But hypocritical’s a harsh word. All’:; fair in love —and war. Miss Pamela knows I bear her no malice. I might retort that if I'd been fortunate enough to own such a niece, I’d not have laid her

open to it. But do eat something, good people. Charles have the goodness to push the sandwiches along to George." Charles, the grey-haired man with the pasty face and the square jaw c at the end of the table was Stubbs, no doubt. So here in this unnamed house on a Surrey hill were all the actors in the drama that began near Battery Park, except the suave and twinkleeyed Ackerton. Brocklebank wondered whether he was a simple-minded idiot who’d been dragged into a conflict between two sets of crooks. But —there was Pamela . . Harrison was speaking again. He had chewed a sandwich, taken a draught of beer, put down his glass. “All's not fair in war between gentlemen,” said he. “I give you best in this round, Henry. No grouch here. You took me off my guard at Southampton and Pamela in London. That's all in the game. But I've got a real grouch about what happened in New York. Didn't think you were the sort of man to go in for assassination." “Assassination! What the deuce are you talking about, George? You know I wouldn’t hurt a hair on your head.” “So I thought till a fortnight ago,' said Harrison, "but not since." i “Why not? What peeved you a fortnight ago?” Harrison shook his head. > “Won’t do, Henry. You know well | enough. Before I went to New York I warned you that the sort of people you were employing were not our sort lof people. Don't tell me Rovigo went I to New York on his own lawful ocI casions—for a pleasure cruise or some- | thing. You sent him.” “I did —by the next boat after you." “Yes —but why? What did you tell him to do?” "Keep tab on you, George —and get it if there was any reason to think you had wheedled it out of Vinnicombe’s.” “Ah!” Harrison smiled. “Well, he couldn’t because I hadn’t got it.” “Quite so. As soon as Pamela started Eastward Ho! the little game was plain. Very neat. YoU go off to America to lure this innocent child after you, while Pamela fetches the goods. Fortunately I respect Pamela’s brains and her courage as much as I admire her beauty.” The fellow made a little bow in. Pamela's direction. She failed to acknowledge it, and continued to stare at Farley—or through him? “So I kept tab on Pamela as well.” “Henry,” said Harrison, “you’re a long-winded spell-binder. Stick to the point. Rovigo had instructions to get it if he could, and if not to get me. And the little bounder nearly did.”

“What!” The man at the head of the table pushed back his chair and half rose. “Capital acting. Henry. But I didn't think even the smell of a hundred thousand or so would tempt you to that. You aren’t going to tell me that Rovigo tried it on without your instructions?”

"I am —I do! I thought you knew me better." “So did I,” Harrison retorted.

“I assure you, George, it’s the truth. First I've heard of it. I’ll skin the dog alive. He'll be here directly, and you shall see.” Brocklebank felt a warm sensation of pleasure in anticipation of this cool gentleman’s surprise when he did meet Mr Rovigo next. Harrison's dark eyes gazed clear into his enemy’s. “You doubt it, George? I mean it. What happened? Did you nab him? Was it a rough house?” “Nothing of the kind. Deliberate. I didn't know he was within three thousand miles. He must have tailed me down to Vinnicombe’s office. Then he lay up for me, and as I came out he was taking a pot-shot at me —only he was prevented from firing.” “How d’ye mean? Who prevented him?” “A friend of mine.” “Ah—this Brocklebank fellow. If he did I owe him thanks, George.” “Yes, it was Brocklebank. But what d’you know of him?” asked Harrison, with his eyebrows up. “Nothing but what Rovigo says. He learned you’d been in touch with a young man, some son of Anak about so high and so broad" —he spread his arms —"and tracked him down. Fellow called Brocklebank. Was out of a job. A few days after he'd been seen with you he was prosperous enough to book a first-class passage to Europe in the Catania I think it was. That’s all 1 know of him. But there’s a good deal more to be known according to Farley. No doubt we shall soon know it." “I don’t think you'll find Mr Brocklebank very communicative or very amiable, even if you happen to meet him.” “Well, we shall be meeting him quite shortly. In fact he’s now on his way here of his own free will. Knowing that Pamela was here, he’d naturally be eager to come.” "I see—l see!” said Harrison. Unlike most men with pots of money, .you're not greedy, I know. But even you. George, if you could see a hundred thousand at the end of the week—come now!” "You can leave me out of it," said Harrison. “I don’t want to. Don Quixote, I want you to come in. There's a hundred and fifty thousand profit in it. at least. You can have a third share. The rest of us will divide the twothirds. On conditions. George." "Oh no conditions,” said Harrison quietly. “But hear them. You take no responsibility. You allow us to rob you of PrilenkoTs letter and don’t discover the theft for ten days—that’s all.” “No!” said Harrison. “I wouldn't make truce with you for a million, Henry. And 1 haven’t got Prilcnko’s letter.” “But Pamela has. and Pamela could do with fifty thousand, no doubt, even ' if you don't want it.” I (To be Continued). I