"3 STRANGE MEN"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 7 October 1940, Page 10

"3 STRANGE MEN"

COPYRIGHT.

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

By

C. T. PODMORE.

(Author of “The Fault,” etc.

CHAPTER XVI. (Continued Earling could not help but realise that this inevitable line of inquiry must bring things to light which were at present outside Hardy's ken. But he wanted to be dene with Hardy; for he had not yet satsified himself that George Parmitter’s injunction was adequately met by the police. Crime kept their quarry away. Parmitter’s interest was different. It attracted. Police or no police. Barling meant to pass the night in this house where murder had been done. And, when Hardy had finally done with him, he did pass the night there. It was a tensely oppressive vigil. He was as if numb with listening. A blackness like wet velvet was outside. Heavy gusts of rain beat on the windows, and hour after hour he could hear the murmuring patter of the downfall, with a gurgling, rushing undercurrent that pesisted, without direction and without end. In the dark quietude of a corner in the front room, out of any chance ray that might be flashed in, he heard several times the methodical tread of a policeman on the gravel of the path cutside. He was aware, too. of some long moments when there came a lull. Or he dreamed it. As if it arose from the sodden ground, he heard a very strange whimpering sound; as if a man wept as he moved away, impatient of some torment of his soul. Nothing more. CHAPTER XVIII. Meanwhile, Hardy had at last got hold of a tangible clue. For here was a man—found on the very scene of the Parmitter tragedy, overstepping the routine of the police at the instigation of George Parmitter —with a scrap of paper in his pocket, indicating nothing less than a deal between a stranger in an hotel and a man whom Hardy knew to the secret agent of a “fence’ who specialised in jewels. Hardy was not satisfied with Headley Barling’s answer, when asked at Tooting police station his reason for being in the stranger’s room at all; and it was at least as odd that the stranger himself had been careless enough to leave the scrap of paper for another person to find. But he did not press these points. Mr Barling proved conclusively, by document and telephone, his bona-fides as a business man; and, of course, a man might walk by accident even into a coincidence like this, and be as innocent as a baby of its danger. As for this Rumely of Bristol, MiHardy had no doubt he could fit him into more than one alias, when the time came. He did not attempt to probe why Headley Barling should know that Rumely had moved to another- hotel, and with a change of name. If Barling knew something that was obscurely private in this at present, Hardy guessed that his own private inquiries would bring cut what it was. Some time after Barling had left, Hardy struck off into the outlying shadows towards Mitcham Road: He was not a very long way from the Parmitter cottage, the back garden of which he might have plainly seen, but for the clouds gathered over the wide expanse that lay open between. Outside the house where he paused a small light shewed behind a blind below the railings. His instinct for stealth took him down to listen before ne tapped on the door.

A sharp vocal sound and a shuffling answered before the door was opened. A middle-aged woman, in a stale of furtive wonder, stood there. Hardy stepped in and looked round. “Anyone here?” he inquired. “Only me, sir,” was the depressed reply. "Have you seen him?” "No —no. Don’t I wish I could!” "So do I, Mrs Jowle.” “But it wasn’t him —I’m sure it wasn’t.” “Don’t get upsetting yourself again so much,” Hardy admonished her, "if you’re so sure about it. I feel that way myself, lor that matter. But if he’s innocent, he ought to come forward and say what he knows. I want to know what he knows, that’s all. Why, you’d be doing him harm yourself, if you knew where to find him and wouldn’t say. I’ve told you that before.” "But I don’t know." “So you’ve said.” Hardy looked round at the unpretentious room, the bare table and the brooding bit of fire. "I suppose," lie said, "you don’t sleep to speak of, and of course, he might just pop up in the night. And you’re not eating much. I daresay. No wonder. How much do you get along? You’ll be feeling the pinch, if this keeps on." “Yes. But young Mr Parmitter came to see me. He was very kind. He gave me something.” Hardy nodded. "Good. Here’s a bit more, he said, and laid some silver cn tlie table. She thanked him, but he was surveying the room and rubbing his chin reflectively. “There's nothing of his disturbed, I see,” he said, "not even his Sunday boots, eh?” “No —I haven't touched a thing of his since you said not to.” “Well, maybe it wouldn’ matter now so much, because, if he did come for something you'd tell me, wouldn’t you? And you’d tell him what 1 say, wouldn't you. Mrs Jowle? He's about somewhere. Tell him I say he can help us." Hardy walked to the door. "Goodnight." As he took to the shadows again he knew that other eyes were on him. and would be on Jowle. too. unless he got to this door by a miracle. And miracles do not. happen. Away in the City next morning, a caller at Abipger’s Hotel asked for Mr Headley Barling. He was informed that the gentleman in question had looked in an hour before for his letters and had gone out again. He hadi

j not returned to the hotel last night, but i the movements of Mr Barling were I generally uncertain. i The inquirer asked for a word with ■ the manager—who came. i To him the caller announced his identity, and after some few words was invited into the private office. “Now, Mr Hardy,” the manager said, “anything I can tell you?” "I asked for Mr Barling,” said the detective, “because I thought he might be useful for the moment. He tells me that you have had staying here, in Room 104, a man of the name of John Rumely, of Bristol., That so?” “Rumely of Bristol?” The manager pondered. “Exactly when?” "A few days ago.” “I think not. Excuse me a moment.” The manager went out, inquired of the clerk and came back again, finding Mr Hardy gazing pensively up at the ceiling. “No," he said, "no person of that name occupied Room 104. Nor any other room here.” “H'm. The room was occupied, 1 suppose?” “Yes.” “By whom?” “A Mr Ephraim Diggs, from Leicester —for two days.” ; Hardy speculatively pinched his un- | derlip. I "Did you have a visitor here named I Markham?" I "Yes. I remember a visitor named Markham —the second day. I was in the office at the moment. Just before noon.” “He came to see Mr Rumely, didn’t he?” “No —he asked for Mr Diggs, who came down and took him up to his room. He didn’t remain long.” Hardy nodded. ‘So Rumely of Bristol was Ephraim Diggs of Leicester. Quite so. What was he like?” ‘Tall —dark —stern —middle-aged.” “Do you know where I might find him now?” “Something shady, is it?” the manager asked. “I hope not." He had been thinking of the incident in which Miss Cordery had figured so unpleasantly, and was scenting complications that were against his business reticence. “All I can say is,” he added, “Mr. Diggs” went from here rather suddenly, and sent a messenger to pay his bill and take his things away." “To The Pilgrims, I suppose." “I can’t answer for what Mr Barling may have said, but personally I should accept his word as reliable. Mr Headley Barling stays here always when in London, and he stands Very high in the business world.” “If I were to tell you that the man Markham is a crook, you would not dream of Mr Barling being in any sort of business association with him?” "Most certainly I would not.” “I am much obliged to you.” The detective rose. “I don’t suppose I shall trouble you again. And you need not bother Mr Barling with any allusion to this. I shall see him in due course.” This alias of “Diggs” was as strange to Hardy as “Rumely” had been, for a crook as yet unknown. When he inquired at The Pilgrims, he was further nonplussed—though not surprised —to find that the man he wanted had registered there as Arthur Boxwith, of Manchester. The man was not there now. The manager’s description was almost identical with.that given by the manager at Abinger's. "A tallish, resolute, dark man of about forty-five.’’ Had anyone chanced to notice his bag? Yes —the initials "J. R.” were on it. That, at any rate, indicated that the name, John Rumely, was more habitually used than either of the others. The current of his thoughts was flowing in the right direction. His next move was to have a word or two with Miss Cordery. Hardy had a corkscrew style of getting information that was usually effective when he found things rather tightly bottled up. Very often he applied to some query a shewd extra pull that simply could not be resisted. This was when he wanted an answer that he could not wait for. But his method of leaving or accepting a point apparently unfathomed had its uses, too. It left him whole areas of corroboration to explore. He was able, after some time and trouble, to locate Miss Cordery at the Trust offices; where, in fact, Headley Barling had already called. Sophie, at the moment, was in a state of fear lest this irksome secrecy about the Parmitter doings might be obstructing the law. When, therefore. Hardy began to seek corroboration of Barling's story, as he had sought it at Abinger's, Sophie was Just in the mood to reveal that the man he wanted had been brought to London, for what the hint might be worth. Mr Barling thought that Rumely just happened to be a crook; so did Hardy. She made no revelation about herself. Hardy let her talk. What was she telling him now? Was she dreaming? lie had a tendency to laugh, as at some absurdity. His business was centred in Markham, and the fellow's interview with Rumely; and he wanted to make sure that Barling had nothing—on the bare chance that he may have had something—to do with it. This was a queer tale. Sophie was breathlessly glad when Mr Hardy ha'd gone. She could not think whether she had done right, or not. Hardy, hot-fool on the trail, was allowed to break in upon a confab between Mr Torkney and his senior partner. Reed, in their office at Cursitor Street, the latter, in his aloof way. looking by no means pleased. Hardy augured ill from it. “We can spare you five minutes. Mr Hardy, that is all." Reed said. “Sit, down." (To be Continued).