"3 STRANGE MEN"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 25 September 1940, Page 10

"3 STRANGE MEN"

COPYRIGHT. PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

By

C. T. PODMORE.

Author of “The Fault,” etc.

CHAPTER VII. (Continuedv “There’s Jowle every day, that’s all. He has been sleeping on the premises a bit lately. Sort of odd man, who lives with his wife not far away. His wife cleans up here twice a week. Jowle ought to be somewhere about, but he isn’t. He seems to have been digging in the garden—and in the cellar, too.” "Did he know of the pearls and the emerald?” “Sure, I should say. My father trusted him.” “Left handed, was he, by the way?” “Not to my knowledge.” “Not noticeably, I suppose. He was on close terms with your father, you say.” “Pretty close. My father was an old sea-captain—had his own vessel— South Seas—trading out of the usual latitudes very often—that sort of thing; and Jowle once sailed with him. You can imagine the sort of intimacy that might spring up in a contact like this on shore, sort of harboured for good, you know.” “Yes, I can imagine all that. Anyone else you ever heard of in that way?’

“There was one he wafi intimate with,” George answered, after reflection. “A mate he had. Drowned down there, years ago.” “No one else? Think. Funny things ooze into London through the shipping, if London only knew.” George shook his head. “No —not within my knowledge. Jowle might better answer a question like that.” “Perhaps so. Let us have a look round.” A constable was below, to whom, at the detective’s request, George gave directions how to find Jowle. Jowle must be brought back with him at once. While-the officer went on his errand, an examination of the lower premises was begun. There were no signs in the house that Jowle had been about that morning. The six feet of excavated soil in the garden, quite dry on top, seemed to have a curious significance for the C.I.D. man. When they went into the cellar, which had a bricked floor, they saw that about ‘the same length of bricks and earth had been superficially dug out, like the effort in the garden, abandoned at an irregular depth of a foot or so. “This must be Jowle’s doing,” said George, stooping for the spade, which lay across the trench. “No—no —don’t touch that,” Hardy interposed. George looked at him. “Was it to bury him?” he whispered. “Is that what you think?” “I shouldn’t imagine,” was the reply “It was to grow lilies.” The Sergeant facing George at the moment permitted himself a sly smile. “And I shouldn’t imagine,” the detective added, “that the fellow Jowle is a lunatic.” “No,” agreed George, “ of course not. Whoever it was, he must have changed his mind suddenly about something.” No heed was paid to this. As Hardy moved away, followed by George—in whose mind the treasure idea grew definitely more secret —he observed in a tone warmed by an access of friendliness, “Your father seems to have lived a pretty comfortable and quiet life here. Was he independent?” “Yes —just comfortably so.” “You are his only son, perhaps, are you?” "I am. There are no relatives I ever heard of.” “So what he had is now yours, eh?” “That is so. His lawyers and I—at least Mr Torkney and I —had some talk about these valuables the other day. We thought they were not safe here—that it was not safe for himself to have them here. But my father, it seems, would not listen to Mr Torkney’s argument.” “Then you didn't feel quite so sure about Jowle?” “Torkney didn’t. But it did strike me that such things might be a great haul for someone —not necessarily Jowle —and an equally great loss, eventually, to me.” “Who are the lawyers?” George told him. “I suppose, as a matter of form,” returned Hardy, his tone suddenly barbed, “you cannot account for all your movements?” “Certainly I can.” George realised that Hardy had got to know a great deal, in a short time, without the trend of his inquiries being suspected. Further talk was stopped by the arrival of the police doctor, for whom the Sergeant had been intermittently looking out. And here the Sergeant took Hardy’s place. George accompanied them indoors, but remained by the threshold of the bedroom while the medical examination was made. He heard the doctor's remark: “About seven o'clock last evening, as nearly as one can tell. After a certain period of rigor mortis it is difficult to say precisely, in the early stages.” Then a low-toned something; to which the doctor responded, “Oh, quite possibly suicide. Close held, you see. The flesh is burned. Still —apart from motive—you have means to determine that. Suicide and robbery are rather unusual.” Sounds below signified the return of the constable, who now came upstairs. “Wen?” the Sergeant asked rather eagerly. “Jowle’s wife,” the constable announced, "says he went home at six last evening, and left again before seven-thirty to come here. She hasn’t seen him since. Says she thought he had been kept by the old gentleman being extra ill, like he has been many a time. Thought nothing of it. She’s having a fit just now.” “Ah,” the Sergeant said, with a glance at Hardy’s indifferent face, “so Mr Jowle has disappeared. We must find him.” With that, as they began to move downstairs again, he added to George,

“You may leave it to us now, Mr Parmitter. There will be nothing disturbed here at present. Just come along, and you can make your statement. Then we’ll get to work.” The constable, primed with instructions mainly negative, which he seemed to understand well, was left in charge. CHAPTER VIII. Naturally, as he left the Tooting office, a whole crowd of obstacles began to rise in George’s mind. This upshot must surely hinder or divert him from his quest, to some degree, his hands were going to be tied. Surprises awaited him when he reached Cursitor Street. He was met in the outer office by the typist, who informed him that no member of the firm was in. She was, in fact, alone, and the office would be closed very soon. The Mrs Cordery he spoke of had had an interview in the private office. What other callers there had been she could not say.. Mr Torkney would not be coming back. That was certain. He had said so.

“Is anything left for me?” he asked. “A packet?” “Nothing at all. . All papers are locked away.”

“You are quite sure about that?” “Certain.” “Nor any message?” “None whatever.” George, hurrying away to Brixton-, found Mrs Cordery awaiting him. From her he learned that Mr Torkney had received the news of the discovery at Tooting very seriously, but with a remarkably business like self-posses-sion. He had explained that he could not do as George suggested; foi- the man from Manchester had managed to reach London by an earlier train, had had his interview, and was gone. Mr Torkney understood he had gone, for the time being, to some relatives in the East End. So far as the firm was concerned, there was nothing, now, that could be recalled. Unfortunately, young Mr Parmitter was likely to have his hands much more seriously occupied than in a mere adventure. “He knows it is not a mere adventure!” commented George. He recounted the investigations at the cottage. Had Torkney referred to Jowle? “He said something about ‘stupid temptation,’ I remember. Would he think it is Jowle?” “He would not be far wrong, I’m afraid.” Sophie added to the sensation when she came in soon after. The news was on late placards. She could scarcely restain her impatience to hear everything in a breath —everything. George went into the details elaborately. In the thick of it the three had a semblance of tea together. What to do next? “I am not going near my office this evening, nor to my rooms,” George decided. t“I want no news-hounds on my track tonight,” One reflection was in the mind of each. Apart from the tragedy, three unknown strangers among the millions of London presented much the same difficulty as three needles in a haystack with the difference that needles could be recognised. One of the strangers George might recognise. But where? One could not go about looking for him. Then an idea came to George. He would take a chance —he would advertise for Boxwith. There should be a, prominent call for him in the morning papers to come at once to 99a, Tottenham Court Road. The advertisements must be handed in this evening. And then — “Yes,” George decided, “we will dine at a quiet place in town, where we shall be entirely undisturbed. So an advertisement for Boxwith was handed in at three big newspaper offices, and afterwards they went to Jawney’s restaurant, in Regent Street. Jawney's specialises neither in showy parties nor in instrumental noise. It is a place where business men may round off a day in comforable quietude. Snug corners and confidential tables may be had there. Everything is done with decorous promptitude, perfect service, but no hustle, apparently no hurry. The effect of a quie’ corner in Jawney’s usually is like a complete cessation of worry; a calm sanctuay from outside concerns. The chances were slender indeed that George might encounter here anyone who might definitely be seeking him tonight. But, before they had been seated long, Sophie observed at one of the farther tables a gentleman she knew. This, she told them, was a business man named Headley Barling, known in the City as being connected with large international interests, who came frequently to London, and to the Trust offices, and was still comparatively young for such interests as he seemed to have. Sophie made a topic of Mr Barling. From where they sat, they could see that he had an uncommonly distinguished appearance. “Rather like an actor,” observed George. “Funny you should say that,” Sophie responded, “for he has actually been on the stage. A big man. too—or might have been. But he never tells anyone the name he was known by.” “Sounds singular. Swank? Or scandal?” “Nothing, I imagine, to his discredit.” “I believe he has noticed us. Sophie.” her mother said. Now at this moment George's glance became fixed elsewhere. Farther away than Barling, a man, his back half-turned, sat alone beyond a couple of vacant tables. Looking aside, his profile had suddenly become visible to George. It was turned away as suddenly. George’s manner changed. “Excuse me a few moments,” he said, and got up sharply. He trod quietly to the table where the man, his head down, was having his meal. “Mr Diggs?” said George. (To be Continued).