“BROCKLEBANK’S ADVENTURE”

Wairarapa Times-Age, 2 August 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 IX.

(Continued). “Oh, but consider! What would you have done if you'd learned that some gang of toughs had been using your fine house as Liberty Hall in your absence? Come down from London without saying a word to a soul about it? Gone all over the place with me and done your damdest to prove there was nothing in it? — dreams, hallucinations —you remember?” “Well—perhaps ?” “But listen. Would you then have gene off to Eastbourne and left the place empty for the next gang of toughs? No, sir!—you'd have been on to the police at the start. Why—why should this particular nouse of all the houses in the world be used by an anonymous gang for a purpose unknown to its owner? It won't hold water Broklebank.” "No —I suppose not.’ They had reached the turning into the road to Ackerton's place. “Yes, you'll see. I took a leaf out of your book. This is where the invaluable Allen come in." “Sir!" Brocklebank started at the sound of a voice from nowhere. Tolefree’s bright youth stepped out of the hedge. A slight youth with the down of adolescence on his face, keen blue eyes, and a mop of fair hair trying to push his cap off his head. “Well, Allen—have you got him? Report away.” "Right, sir. According to instructions I took up my watch on Felton's. Mi Brocklebank had already arrived. An ugly fellow between thirty and forty with a scar on his face was also watching Felton’s. He did not come into the alley—just hung about the corners; but he never let the place out of his sight for more than thirty seconds. At half-past three, Mr Brocklebank came out and walked up Regent Street. The man with the scar followed him, and trailed him back to Felton’s at halfpast four. Five minutes afterwards the man was in the telephone kiosk in Haymarket, and a District Messenger bey was waiting outside the "You young devil!" said Tolefree. “I've got his cap and wallet here, sir,” Allen dramatically .conjured a round cap from his pocket and pulled up his waistcoat to show a belt and wallet. He related how the messenger boy managed to keep the door of the kiosk open just a crack, and how he heard the man ask for Gravesend 0685, and, when he got the number, say that Mr Brocklebank had returned to Felton's. A very short conversation. “The messenger boy stepped in after him, and having rung you up, stepped out again immediately. "The man watched Felton's till a quarter past five, when Mr Brockebank again came out, and took a taxi to Charing Cross Road. The man took another taxi. He watched Mr Henschel’s bookship till a quarter to six and then went in. He asked Mr Henschel whether there were any letters in the name of Brocklebank, and Mr Henschel told him he had made a mistake; his was a bookshop, he said, not an accommidation address. Mr Henschel looked quite annoyed, but not so much so as the man with the scar, who did a lot of swearing under his breath, and walked hard down to Charing Cross Station, where he telephoned again. He then visited the booking office and took a ticket. I saw him through the barrier, and according to instructions brought my taxi here, where I arrived at half past seven.” “First class, Allen.” said Tolefree. “Worked out like a book. I thought Henschel's shop would be a twister for him. Now—lead us to your taxi and take us back to London. Stop at Woldingham Station. I want to telephone.” They found the taxi round the bend of the road whore Brocklebank had put fear into the heart of Rovigo. Tolefree got out at Woldingham to send his message. "Gravesend—does it suggest things to you?” he asked when they were again shut in the bad: of the cab, with Allen sitting very upright and alert alongside the driver in the luggage space. "I've 'phoned to my friend Pierce at Scotland Yard to get me the Gravesend address represented by 0685. He'll do it quicker than 1 could. But Gravesend -?” "Gravesend —" Tolefree repeated. “It may mean nothing, of course. But it’s certainly suggestive. For determined people I know no place easier to get away from or to take people away from that Gravesend.” If Harrison's enemies had got him and Pamela hidden at Gravesend "Are you thinking of having a shot at Gravesend when you discover the address?” "Such an idea had crossed my mind," said Tolefree, smiling. "But, you see —a lot hangs on Scotland Yard's answer to my inquiry. If. for example. 0685 was a call office? I take it you want to get at the Harrisons by the shortest route? Gravesend might be a long way round. If we could guess what the Henry party are fighting about it might be possible to get Gravesend into the picture.” But Brocklebank had told him all he knew and all his speculations. Some intrigue in the Near East, in which Henry was looking to make a lot of money illegitimately and George was determined to prevent him. It was all very vague, but some decisive factor in it would develop on Thursday if in the meantime a certain document Pamela had wheedled out of an objectionable person had not been discovered. If it was discovered, then Henry would have lost his war. "Exactly.” said Tolefree. "Don’t see anything exact in it,” Brocklebank grumbled. "That’s exactly what I mean. But you can’t help thinking something like this —Near East Mediterranean port:;

voyages, Gravesend. And then you wonder whether the decisive factor might develop at Gravesend or thereabouts on Thursday." "A ship ” “A ship, or some association with a ship, would certainly seem to be indicated,” said Tolefree. As he remarked, these were speculations in a void. But they whiled away the journey to London. They dropped Allen in Pall Mall with instructions to report at half-past ten whether the watch on Felton’s had been resumed. They went to Brocklebank’s rooms to await the message from Scotland Yard. Tolefree took it as they were in the middle of a scratch supper. Brocklebank, watching his face as he listened, saw disappointment spread over it. "Oh?" he said to the instrument. "That’s it? Thought it might be something of the kind . . . Well, thanks. Pierce . . . No—nothing very exciting. . . . . Good-bye!"

"Got it?" asked Brocklebank. "Yes—o6Bs is that immensely respecable hostelry, the Royal Victoria Hotel. Obviously, Brocklebank, your friend Harrison, and his niece cannot be kept under lock and key at< the Royal Victoria Hotel. IM send Allen down tomorrow to discover who's there. Then we can safely ignore Gravesend at least till Thursday. Now—where else?" CHAPTER X. Where else? Brocklebank marched about the room—then suddenly pulled up with a cry. Propped against the clock was a letter addressed to Mr Brocklebank at Felton's Hotel—a dirty looking, scrabbled letter in a cheap envelope—the superscription in a feminine hand. "A letter! 1 ' said Brocklebank. “For me —here?” “Eh?” said Tolefree. “That’s queer.” Brocklebank tore open the envelope and pulled out a half-sheet of paper as dishevelled as the envelope itself, “Gosh!” he exclaimed. “Come here Tolefree.” Tolefree peered over his arm. “It’s from Pamela.” A mere half-sheet of paper, crammed and creased, bearing the printed heading—“ 467 Ladywell Park, London. S.E. 19.” and three words written upon it —"For a Bandit." "Well, I'll be damned! - ’ said Brocklebank. “A common while envelope,” said Tolefree. It might have been in the pocket of a dirty boy before he dropped it in the mud. But the postmark was plain enough —“London, S.E 19, 12 noon, Sep. 24.” "Hurrah!” cried Brocklebank. “Where is 5.E.19?” An S.O.S. She wrapped the letter around something heavy and flung it out to the road. Some Good Samaritan happened along and posted it.” “You may be right; but, on the other you mayn't. You don’t know her handwriting, or if you do, this may bean imitation. Since you have not at once led them to the document, they can trail you in London till the cows come home without finding it. This fellow Brockebank has a nasty habit of turning up at inconvenient moments. They may like to put you under control till the game is over.” “Oh, but it’s far too clever. Tolefree. Besides —no one knows the Bandit gag "Perhaps. It may be a real message from Miss Pamela, and they may have intercepted it. Norrie rings up from Charing Cross to say you've done a vanishing trick. He’s told not to bother about Brocklebank any more, as they know where Brocklebank’s going, and he’d better return for orders. How does that go?” “But it’s not going to stop me ” “My dear chap—as if I thought it would!" Tolefree beamed up at him. “But look at the thing all round, Pamela's not the sort of girl to worry about herself. But she might think of an obscure way of putting Brocklebank wise to something else. Suppose this is the address where the document may be found? Or is this by chance Miss Pamela’s own address?” "Ah!" cried Brocklebank. j “There’s a certain improprietary about looking into the belongings of a young lady. But I understand from what you said that Miss Pamela’s things are still here in the hotel —" "They are!" "Under the circumstances, do you think we might—” Pamela's two cases were there, just as he had left them when he rummaged for her little pistol. He turned over clothes and shoes. Kept everything in her handbag, of course. Even her passport was there now. Nothing —and nothing, and nothing—"l hate to suggest it, Brocklebank,” said Tolefree. with humour, “but thebe's a coat in this wardrobe, and it has pockets.” Brocklebank looked as if he hated Tolefree for suggesting it; but there was undoubtedly a coat; it was the one she had worn when Norrie, damn him, carried her over, his shoulder like a sack of coal. In the right hand pocket suddenly they came into an embarrassment of riches—two clues to Pamela on a half sheet of notepaper: 14 Nottingham Gardens. Chelsea. S.W. Dear Pam. That awful man called again this morning. Threatens to arrive at four this afternoon. Thought you’d like to know. Shall be out till seven. Yours, Kat.The second clue to Pamela was a likely one. At Nottingham Gardens, Chelsea, there was at any rate a friend of Pamela's who could tell them what they needed to know. Pamela had received the note while wearing this coat, and had just rammed it into the pocket. But which clue to follow first? "The freshest." said Tolefree. And Brocklebank said. "Of course. Where's Ladywell Park. Tolefree?"

Somewhere in the region of Catford, I think, and that, by the \vay, is in the general direction of Gravesend. Lets go down and see if the old boy's got a London Directory. We might even discover who lives at 467. But the London Directory was two years old. It informed them where Ladywell Park could be found, but not who lived at 467. When it was compiled, No. 467 in Ladywell Park was “void.” "Gosh! another empty house!' growled Brocklebank. “Not necessarily,” said Tolefree; “that was two years ago, or more.” Brocklebank all eagerness to discover; Tolefree more cautious. “I shall be glad to take a hand in Harrison's private war,” said he, “but it's no use going to war without a plan of campaign and an adequate armament. How many guns have you already captured from the enemy?” he grinned. "Four,” Brocklebank grinned back. “Two each. Hope they're not loaded?” “Afraid they are.” "Then unload mine. I hate loaded guns, and I'd never dream of firing one. But the enemy don't know that. Got a good knife? If you have, stick it down inside your sock before we start operations . . Tolefree’s preparations did not stop at weapons . He insisted on implements and kit. Did Brocklebank possess a pair of rubber-soled shoes? He did. He must put them on. Then a jemmy, or something that could be used as a jemmy, and a rope of some sort . . . “Cape a pie!" he smiled, looking at Brocklebank as they left his room. Brocklebank was left in a cab at Cannon Street, while Tolefree ascended to his eyrie. "It's rather short." he said, when he returned. "But it's better than nothing. Now for the jemmy." A few words to the driver brought him off his seat to search in a tool box. When Tolefree took his place again he had in his hand a hefty tyre lever. “Right away, driver." said he. "Lady well Station." The cab turned and made for South wark Bridge. ITo be Continued).