"BROCKLEBANK’S ADVENTURE”

Wairarapa Times-Age, 29 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 VI.

(Continued.) “I will. First, I’ll tell you what I’m prepared to do. I will let your objectionable man Rovigo off the stiff term of gaol he ought to have for an attempt to murder my friend George. I've already administered some private punishment to nim. I am ready to let your still more objectionable man Norrie off whatever sentence he might get for administering drugs and attempting to kidnap a lady, having also provided him with a severe private punishment. I will further refrain from preferring against you and Charles a charge of conspiracy which might have deleterious consequences for both of- you. Mr Farley, I take it, is already out of the conspiracy. You 11 agree that Im generous." Henry's face had expressed a mo- ■ mentary anxiety at the mention of Ro- I vigo and Norrie. But he answered, quite nonchalantly: ■! “I agree to nothing. Go on.” “If you're going to agree to nothing I withdraw my concessions. I shall j blow up the whole thing in ten minutes from now. Better count twenty before you answer. Take the opinion of Charles if you like. I feel perfectly , certain tha Charles, at any rate, has no | desire to be indicted for conspiracy. I “I think, Henry—” Charles began, j “Don’t. Leave it to me, Charles. What's your interest in this. Mr Brocklebank? I admit none of the absurdities you suggest. But you ve barged into a purely private matter, and I'm curious to know why.”

“And of course you don't expect me to satisfy your curiosity. If you do I shan't. But I’m quite content, on my terms, to let it remain a private matter. Unless you give me the terms, it will become a public matter in”— Brocklebank glanced at his watch—“in I said ten minutes, mut make it a quarter of an hour.” “Henry !” Charles’s face had gone pale again, and his voice was agonised. "Leave it to me, Charles, I tell you!” said Henry, with a touch of anger. “Mi' Brocklebank, your charges are ridiculous, but I prefer to avoid publicity if possible. What do you want?” For answer, Brocklebank stepped to the fireplace and pressed the bell-push. He counted the seconds —a full half minutes before he saw the handle of the door turn. The man who had handed round the beer almost fell into the room. Teeth chattering, he tried to speak. “Get over there and sit down, my man, and shut your mouth. Have you got the keys of the bedrooms'? No? Very well.” Brocklebank turned to Henry. “My terms are very simple. They are that Charles shall go up and release George and Pamela, and bring them down here, and that they shall decide whether I give the word or not. There are exactly 12 minutes left. Expedition is indicated.” “Henry—” said Charles, with agitation. Henry nodded. “Get on with it,” he said. Charles hurried to the door. “One moment. Charles,” Brocklebank followed him and stood in the doorway. “Straight upstairs, please, with no diversions right or left and no noise. Straight upstairs and be down in two minutes with your—guests.” Charles went. Meanwhile, Henry lounged in his chair, Farley guarded the window, and the underling gaped with open mouth at Brocklebank. They heard opening doors and distant voices. Within the two minutes Harrison hurried down, Pamela at his heels. “Hello, Brocklebank!" he said. “On the mark as usual?” “Pass in,” said Brocklebank. "Thank you, Bandit,” Pamela Whispered as she went by. Charles said nothing. Brocklebank closed the door, locked it, stood by it. ‘Now first, Miss Pamela, will you come and take two guns out of my right-hand pocket, keep one and give the other to your uncle? Thank you. Let us stand here by the door. Charles, please go back to your—er —pew.” Brocklebank's mouth twitched as Charles gave him an outraged glance. “Well, Henry," said Harrison, "what did I tell you? Elusive —eh?" Henry did not reply. He gazed pensively at Farley and the black window behind him. "What's the next item on the programme?” Henry pointed a finger at Brocklebank. Harrison turned. "Up to you, sir.” Brocklebank said. “I sent for you and Miss Pamela as one condition of a- —shall I call it a truce? I made this person an offer. Either I would blow up the whole show at a quarter to ten or you must be called in to decide what should be done. No concern of mine except to see that you've got a free choice. Do what you please. These persons can't prevent you: I’ve seen to that. There's a car ready for you outside if you wish to leave. You can take two of my four men. Three of us will be quite enough to deal with this bunch while you're away.” “Ah,” said Harrison. “So that's how we stand? Tables seem to be turned, Henry, eh? What about it?” Henry shrugged his shoulders. “Your card." said he. “Same leads as before, Henry. You can either give it up or take the consequences if Prilenko’s letter gets to its destination before Thursday, as it will.” "What about this blustering, violent fellow and his guns and his threats? You know, George, this kind of thing •” "My dear fellow, you asked for it. or allowed your thugs to ask for it. Brocklebank himself quite understands that this is a private matter between you and me. That's so, Brocklebank.

[ “Of course.” said Brocklebank. “A private war without frontiers or rules of any kind is a new one on me; but you certainly made it clear from the 1 start. You wished me to escort Miss Pamela to London and deliver her to } you. All I've done is to try to carry 1 out that contract. If Ive had to be ’■ rough it was only with people who tried to stop me.” "Well, that's so," said Harrison. , "Now, Henry, do we take the pot?” ' "You do what you damwell please, I George. I'm not saying anything. So far as I'm concerned, the war’s still ’ on. If you get away now I shall have ! you again. And I'll bet you Prilenko’s letter never gets home. • Can't make j you out George. Turning pious at your time of life! Anyhow, there you are with your three guns, like a bunch of gangsters, and here we are with no guns at all. and no idea of using guns :if we had 'em. I’ve done.” j had ’em. I’ve done.” ' | "Ye —es, Henry. I don't like guns | myself.” Harrison looked at his wea- | pen. “Here, Brocklebank- —take ’em ]. back.” j “You aren't quite mad. are you?” Brocklebank asked. "D’you know j where I got these?” i "It don't matter. No use to me. I'd | never use one anyway. Put 'em all ] I away. This is a war without shoot- . ing- " ' I “But Rovigo ” said Brocklebank. ’ dropping the pistols into his pocket. "Henry assures me he knows nothing about that. I believe Henry. A battle of wits between Henry and me. He won the first round; we win the second. Now, Brocklebank, you say you've got a car. Unlock the door; stay here with Pamela while I get my bag. Then we'll quit. "Miss Pamela- — “Better do it, Bandit,” said Pamela. Brocklebank turned with a gesture of resignation. He saw the beer-server goggling at him as he bent to unlock the door and pulled it open. He saw a million stars as if the firmament were exploding. He saw nothing more and he did not hear the shriek that Pamela gave. The sun, shining into a bedroom next morning, awakened a Brockebank extremely sorry for himself and in a lamentable state of disrepair. His head, decorated with a swelling as big as a pigeon’s egg, ached atrociously. Someone had taken off his chauffeur's coat and cap and left his own garments. Someone had dressed his injury. His belongings were undisturbed. But he was alone in the house. Of Henry and his satellites, of Harrison and Pamela, not a trace . . . Only one thing could have happened: Henry, with hidden reinforcements, had turned the tables on Harrison. He swore softly to himself when he thought of Harrison's quixotic nonsense about the guns ... In the next two hours Brocklebank wandered all over this extraordinary house, so immaculately appointed but quite deserted, and thought hard. He wondered whether to disregard’ the theory of the private war and call in the police; or to forget Pamela, call it a day, and take his two thousand dollars down to Gloucestershire; or to following the lure of Pamela's eyes and do a little sleuthing for himself. Still wondering, he took a bath in the shining white bathroom next the room where he had awakaned. It did him a world of good. It made him feel hungry. He descended to the ground floor to forage for food. The dining-room had been tidied up.- Not a vestige of the picnic meal. Nothing in the sideboard. A speckless kitchen, equipped with everything conceivable for cooking—• but nothing that could conceivably be cooked. An immaculate pantry, with nothing in it that .could be eaten —except, eureka! a few biscuits at the bottom of a tin. Brocklebank annexed this prize, ate all the biscuits, drank two glasses of water and felt better. There was a 1 sort of half-humorous nicety about Brocklebank. If this was Henry house, , he did not mean to beholden to Henry for a meal. He put a shilling on the 1 corner of the table before he left. He ' had no idea how important that nicety was to be. : At a quarter past six he stood in the hall, his suitcase on the floor beside, him. looking at the telephone. He resolved to ask the Exchange for the correct time, and rang. He rang three times and got no answer. That settled the question. The wire had been cut somewhere. He was not intended to communicate from that house, which suggested that when the house was evacuated Harrison was not top dog, but Henry. When he stepped out and pulled the door behind him, Brocklebank had made up his mind to follow the career of a private detective till Thursday—and as long after as might be necessary to discover Pamela's other name. At the back of his mind grew the idea that whatever it was he might persuade her to change it. At a quarter to seven, with the sun shining in his eyes. Brocklebank loomed over a little c’d man leaning on the ■ garden gate of a lodge. "Morning, sir?” “Morning. Tom.” said Brocklebank, “Surprised to see me?” The old man peered into his face. "Why—it ain’t Mr Bill, is it?" “Sure thing, Tom." “You could knock me down with a feather. I ain’t seen you in years. Thought you was gone foreign." “And wonder why the dickens I turn up before the fields are aired, and who I've been fighting, and lots more, l] guess,” said Brocklebank. "The fact is, Tom, Sir Arthur told me to come down for a weekend, and 1 meant to get here last night; but I had a crash “Ah —they damned motors. Mr Bill! But Sir Arthur's away. He's gone! foreign, too.” I (To be Continued).