“BROCKLEBANK’S ADVENTURE”

Wairarapa Times-Age, 31 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 VIII

(Continued). ‘•Yes, and only apparently. You’re not really free at all. You’re a stool pigeon. Plainly," said Brocklebank pigeon. "Plainly," as Brocklebank frowned. "What’s the crux of this business? The letter that Miss Pamela brought away from the East and had the sense to get rid of at the earliest possible moment. They don’t know what she did with it. But you do. She posted it to herself. Because you don’t know even her name, and can’t discover her aetdress, you can’t get at the letter. But in turn they don’t know that. The inference Henry must have drawn from what Harrison said and from what you said was that you are aware of the whereabouts of the letter that the first thing you'll do is to get it and blow up the whole show, to use your own words. I think that’s why you're left apparently free. But 1 guarantee that you've not made a movement since you woke up that hasn’t been shadowed, and that your presence in an insurance office at Watling Street at this moment is perfectly well known to them.” "Gosh!" cried Brocklebank. "They think you'll lead them to the letter. Harrison said it was within ten miles. Therefore somewhere in Surrey. That’s why you’ll not show me the old house in the wood, but staj in London. I can find it myself if necessary." "Think it mayn’t be necessary?” "Very likely it will be. It suggests some interesting possibilities. But I’d put more on another line. If you could find out who’s shadowing you and how. there’s just a chance that we might hoist Mr Henry with his own petard. Suppose instead of leading them to anything, we could make them lead us to the Henry G.H.Q. “My aunt!—if we could!” said Brocklebank excitedly. "Well, we might, with luck. Here’s my idea. You go to Felton's Hotel, and take rooms. Explain that Mr Harrison's been suddenly called away and may be back during the week, and you’re going to wait for him. Live the life of a young man about town. Now, I’ll lay the trap. Excuse me.” Tolefree rang his bell. The bright youth entered. “Allen,” said Tolefree. “This is Mr Brocklebank. Take a good look at him. Got him?” “Perfectly sir,” said the youth. “Right. I'll give you instructions directly.” "Very good, sir.” The bright youth disappeared. “There’s the born detective, Mr Brocklebank,” said Tolefree. "He'll shadow the shadower and be invisible himself. Now, I suggest you go to Felton's right away. If you observe anything that suggests to you that you're being watched, take no notice. Only, be in your room handy to the telephone by five o'clock. I shall ring at that time. Don’t ring me. You can never trust to complete privacy on the telephone. Let me handle that encl of it. Au revoir.” It was not easy for Brocklebank to affect indifference to his hypothetical shadower as Tolefree. wished. He lookround suspiciously among the crowds on the pavement as he went to recover his bag at Cannon Street Station. On his return he stood for an instant on the step of the hotel, saw no sign that he had been followed, remembered Tclefree’s urgency, and passed into the lobby. “Good morning, sir.” The aged and tremulous one recognised him. Brocklebank nodded, and was going on to the little office window. "I’ve had no opportunity to deliver your note, Mr Brocklebank,” Brocklebank had forgotten the note he left for Harrison. "Mr Harrison had not yet arrived, sir.” "Oh, I know," said Brockelbank, "He’s delayed.” “And Miss Harrison has not returned. sir.” "Oh?” said Brocklebank, and passed on to the office. After an exceedingly unexciting lunch decorously served to him in his, room by the aged and tremulous one and some time spent in gazing from behind the curtains of his window without seeing-anyone with the slightest resemblance .to a shadower. Brocklebank went for a stroll along Regent Street. Long before five o’clock he was sitting in his room at Felton’s listening for the telephone bell. It was ten minutes past five when Tolefree rang. "Don't mention any names over the wire,” said he. “I have news. Go now to Henschel's bookshop in Charing Cross Road, about half-way up on the right. Ask old Henschel if he has any becks on Surrey. That's all. Ring off.’ Books on Surrey!—well, that was a queer way of privately detecting. As if books on Surrey could throw any light on the whereabouts of Pamela—or the spare, tall old man with the grey beard who pushed his steel spectacles back and looked up from his desk at Brocklebank. "Good evening, sir,” said the old man. "Have you—er —any books on Surrey?” "Yes, sir. Pass by here, if you please, into the room at the back.” Brocklebank squeezed his waj' between stacks of second-hand books and through a narrow door into a square book-lined room. There was Tolefree, swinging a leg from the table in the middle, and turning over the loaves of a large volume. "Henschel's an invaluable friend of mine. Mr Brocklebank,” said he. “He allows me to use his back door. Which is why this makes a perfect rendezvous. If you are followed here, well, you're a customer, deep in the study of Brayley's History of Surrey.” "Rather an antiquated book to be any use to us," said Brocklebank.

"In a sense,” Tolefree smiled. “But here's quite a good account of Wolston Manor House.” ‘Manor House? Wolston? What s that? —you’ve found it!—the house?" “Yes. But not by the z grace of the late Mr Brayley.” ,c» r '■ US “Gosh —how?” “I identified the house by making a few discreet inquiries: quite a lot of City people live down that way, you know. However, that's not much to the point. The important fact is that I've just been having a chat on the telephone with Henry.” "Henry !” Brocklebank stared open-mouthed at Tolefree. “Yes—Sir Henry Worth, of Wolston Manor House. And I can tell you Sir Henry's in a towering rage. He wants to meet you this evening—insists on it.” CHAPTER IX. More than once during that astonishing evening Brocklebank doubteo whether Tolefree had taken the right line about Wolston Manor. The explanation of Brocklebank that he had invented for the delectation of SilHenry Worth was unquestionably thin. If Sir Henry Worth had been less preoccupied with his own importance, he would certainly not have swallowed it. That Brocklebank had been wandering about Surrey on Sunday evening locking for the residence of Ackerton. and had stumbled on Wolston Manor, found it in the hands of a gang of desperadoes, and been knocked insensible and left to come to His senses on one 01 Sir Henry's beds; it was the sort cl thing you could hardly have told to the Marines with any chance of getting it believed. Yes that was the yarn over which Sir Henry Worth fumed as they climbed the hill and went through Woldingham. He sat beside an immaculately dressed chauffeur in the front seat of a large and expensive car. Tolefree and Brocklebank, in the back, could see his sanguine neck bulging over his collar and imagine his scarlet face and his bolting blue eyes. Several times, in that sputtering interview in a City office, he had seemed to be on the brink of apoplexy. Now, instead of rolling back to Eastbourne to dine at ease with Lady Worth in their hotel, he was rolling down the narrow lane through the woods, up the curling avenue, and getting out at the door of his own empty house without any prospect of dinner whatever. It was seven o’clock. He sent the chauffeur off to the garage, and told him to stay there till he was called. He stood under the arch of the doorway looking like an angry turkey-cofck, faced Tolefree and Brockebank, and said. “Now, sir, have the goodness to tell me on the spot exactly what happened.” Whereupon Brocklebank recited the story composed for him by Tolefree. It was a story which said nothing about Harrison, or Henry, or Stubbs, or Farley. Nothing about motor cars, garages, pistols, or dagoes. Just a hint of the man who had served the beer and of an invisible Mr Norrie. “I told yoi,i I was searching for Sir Arthur Ackerton’s house,” he said. "This seemed a likely place to make an inquiry. So I came up the drive. There was a light in one of the lower windows ” “Which window, sir—which window?” exclaimed the lord of the manor. Brocklebank stepped back and looked along the terrace. He pointed to the window of the dining room. “That one, I think. I won’t be sure.” “Humph!” said Sir Henry, who had followed him. “And then?” “And then? —well I rang the bell. In a little while the door opened a few inches and a man looked out —- —” “What man? What sort of a man? Describe him.” “Not easy. A nondescript man. Middle aged, I should say. A weasel of a man, with a pronounced cockney accent. He asked me what I wanted." "And what did you say?” “I said I was looking for Sir Arthur Ackerton’s place. Was this it —and if not, could he direct me?” "Well ?” “He invited me inside, to wait in the hall while he inquired. In a minute, he came back, asked me to follow him, him, and set off towards a sort of corridor. When I got to the corner I suddenly saw the universe going up in sparks, and that was all I knew about it till I woke up this morning lying on a bed in an upper room with this bump on my head bandaged up. Then, as I said before, I found the house empty and not a soul on the whole place. I worked my way back to the main road, discovered where Sir Arthur's house lay, and went there —only to learn that he was abroad. I took the train back to London, and requested Mr Tolefree to take up the matter. Doubtless, Sir Henry, you’re anxious to know why I didn't at once inform the police— —” “Well—allay my anxiety, sir.” "ft’s quite simple. Things in the relations between Ackerton and myself—well, undesirable to tempt the police to get curious about them, especially as Ackerton is abroad. Oh, nothing dishonourable. I assure you —merely well —inconvenient to enter into explanations.” "Well —you say so,” said Sir Henry Worth, with a touch of scepticism. "But, mind you, I’m not going to consider your convenience for a moment if I find any damage has been done to my place. You'll just have to tell the police. That bump on the head’s your own affair, but Wolston Manor's mine." "Quite so, Sir Henry," said Tolefree, mildly. “An outrage—a damned outrage!" He was fishing for keys in his pocket. "You don't know what an outrage. Tolefree. Here. I go away for a fortnight at Eastbourne for the benefit of my wife’s health, and I leave this place in charge of a man ” Tolefree whistled. “It’s just possible ” He stopped. "What’s possible?” “That he may have been in whatever mischief was afoot." “I should damwell think so!” (To be Continued).