"3 STRANGE MEN"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 9 October 1940, Page 10

"3 STRANGE MEN"

COPYRIGHT.

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

By

C. T. PODMORE.

(Author of “The Fault,” etc.

CHAPTER XIX. (Continued ■- It saw a middle-sized spare figure moving hitherward, a prim and overccated person, who paused by the gate, opened it softly and stepped to the front door, fumbling as for a key. But shadow was here, and along the whole side of the house; so Mr Barling’s sudden movement round that way occurred in comparative darkness. “Hullo!” Mr Barling said. “Hullo! Who are you?” the person answered. “Surely you’ve heard my name—l’m Headley Barling.” “I don’t know that I ” ,“Oh, come, Mr Torkney!” . “How do you know me?” “Association. Besides, I saw you at the funeral.” “Oh, did you. And what are you doing here, I should like to know? What do you want?” “I have been asked by Mrs Cordery, in Mr Parmitter’s interest, to see that this house is not left absolutely deserted. Someone should be in charge—especially, I think, during the night.” Mr Torkney fingered his chin, very prim and challenging. “That is so. Don’t you know I have made a sort of arrangement? My man should have met me at the lane end — 1 over an hour since. Where is your authority to be on these premises?” "My authority is my presence here, which you may confirm at the Tooting police station if you like to go there. Where is your man all this time?” “If my man does not come, my intention is to stay here myself.” “Then I’ll stay with you, Mr Torkney. We can keep each other company. It isn 1 a cheerful spot, but shall we go in?” Torkney stood his ground, staring resentfully at this cool intruder. Then he walked away. He went round as if to survey the conditions at the rear. Barling watched him go. A couple of minutes went by. Then, with a faint smile, Mr Barling opened the front - door with his key, passed through the house by way of the cellar, and emerged upon the startled Torkney up the cellar steps. “How’s this?” Torkney almost gasped. “Are the doors open?” “I opened them,” Barling said, “to look round.’ “What for?” “Possibly a little convenient shelter.” “Have you a key, then?” “Oh yes.” Mr Torkney stood fixedly again—and again walked away. Barling followed him this time. “I don’t' understand you,” Torkney said over his shoulder, as they reached the front. “Mrs Cordery gave you a key, did she?” “What does it matter?” Torkney bit bis lip. “Anyway,” he said, “I will tell you what I’ll do. I will go to Tooting police station and arrange for a constable to come in. That will relieve us both. You have no business here you know. Then you can clear off, and I will get away too. I’m very annoyed my man is not here. Yes, that’s what I will do —I will go to the police.” “No, Mr Torkney,” Barling said. He thrust a finger into his waistcoat, as if contemplating a trifle of soliloquy. With his free arm he held out to Mr Torkney what might have been an open handful of the argument.

Torkney, stepping back as from a threat, gave him a slow look. “This is not a recitation, is it?" he said. “If I thought,” Barling replied, “that a few lines of standard drama might awaken in you a more sociable spirit, I would let you have them. But just Apart from special surveillance of this dear old home, are you not aware that it comes under observation of the regular night constable at intervals? And there are no extra constables slung on pegs behind the police station door. You said you intended to stay, tf your man fails. He has failed you. I said I would stay with you in that case. I will do so. Now what’s the matter with our setting up house together for the night? We could have a fire, and it may be there’s an interesting bottle somewhere —and we can be quite snug till daylight appears. Come —why not?” The lawyer’s unemotional features veiled a sort cf sneer. "No,” he said, half turning; “I’ll send for the police.” “Believe me. Mr Torkney, I’d like to be friendly. I've taken a fancy to you —in this light, anyhow.” “No, certainly not,” Torkney responded, as if he passed a professional opinion. “You are not my fancy at all. No.” Mr Barling withdrew his gesture, and the other hand fell from his breast. “Very well —good night. I’ll stay. I I daresay I shall make friends with the police. I'll find a reason.” “What reason?” snapped Torkney. “I’ll think of one," Barling answered thoughtfully. Losing patience, or not wishing to reveal the expression that came into his dark face, Torkney walked through the gateway, and, without another word, passed deliberately along the moonlit road until he was out of sight. Barling looked after him, nodding now and then, and stroking softly his resolute jaw, as if it were silk. He then let himself into the house again by the front door, put on his hat this time, passed through to the cellar steps, and sat down to wait once more, the door slightly ajar behind him. He had nerve. It needed some to be here, conscious all the time that he not without imagination. The feeling of being in touch with something grew in him. It was something, perhaps, of memories left about; of something hollow, as the remembrance of echoes that were gone; of a breathing something that was nothing, and that could not be heard even by the closest concentration of mind, or seen by any effort of vision. .Mr Barling re-lit his pipe, and

smoked calmly. Something might have been outlined in the flicker, for he had snapped off the lighter quickly. But all remained still and dark, save for the moon above, and the cool light that lay here and there. Then into the hush, from the door behind him, came a low, toneless voice: “Has he gone?” “Who’s there?” exclaimed Barling, startled to his feet, “who is it? Come out!” The door moved slowly inward, and a figure came into the aperture. It was an elderly man, not yet grey, his eyes sunken, his front teeth nearly all gone. Barling’s hand was on the little blundgeon in his pocket, while he surveyed him, waiting for the next word. “Him that was here,” the man said in his husky voice. “Are you Torkney’s man?” “No. Who’s Torkney?” “The man who was here. Who are you, then? I haven’t seen you before.” "You’ve got me.” ‘How did you get inside? You weren’t here —I looked.” "I came over that wall. I was under the stairs when you passed through just now.” “Are you one of Rumely's sneaking J curs?” I “Dunno him. mister. I ain’t no cur I neither. No—you’ve just forgot me.” I “Where have I seen you before?” “Below Gravesend, ’bout a year since. My name’s Kitson. I sailed with old Geoff, I did, at one time. Poor old Geoff that’s gone.” “Ah —yes, I remember now. I had a chat with you by the riverside. But there's something on your mind. Don’t bluff me. What is it?” “Dunno. Gawd knows I dunno.” Some vague perplexity wrung anguish from this stranger. “Been over this wall before?” “No. And never but a few times over the way, at the front —just to 100k —in the right. Murders a draw, ain’t it? I saw the funeral go, and saw you, but you didn’t see me. There’s been some sneaking about this place in the night. B’lieve me, I only thought I might see something—that’s all, b’lieve me —I dunno what. I felt a bit glad when I spotted you here quiet and on your own this time. Maybe you knov' there’s something—?” “There's nothing here to see, Kitson, that need matter to you, if that’s all. The man you saw has gone to send the police back here. They might want you to question you if you remain. Do you want to be questioned by the police?” “No. I couldn't say any more, if I was.” “I don’t know about that. You might tell vzhat you’ve seen.” “Shadders,” the man said. “Shadders." “All right. Watch out. I don’t want you here, Kitson.” Barling backed up the steps. “Come on —I’ll fasten that door. And don’t be surprised if I come and see you again at Gravesend in a few days. Remember that, will you? Same place?” "Ay, ay—same place—if you do come that way.” ’“Leave this watching to me, do you hear?” “Ay, ay, sir.” On the garden level, the man paused, looking at the wall he had come by, anxious to remain, to do or say more, his mind unsatisfied. "Not that way," Barling said —‘’take your chance along the front. You have time before anyone comes.” So Kitson, with a swinging yet reluctant gait, took his departure, and Barling went back, pondering, to the cellar door. He was wondering whether Torkney really meant to bring or send the police back here. Torkney knew quite well where he stood; but he did not know that Barling had already said more for himself at the Tooting office than could be said against him. Nevertheless. his presence in the house was a trespass. Nothing serious, of course, could eventuate; but if he did fasten the cellar door, and assumed merely a superficial watch on the place, there would be no sign nor proof of entry. So Barling made the cottage fast as he had found it, and sat very quietly once more below the garden level, not even drawing at his pipe. Time passed slowly—it seemed. But at length, over the waste land, came a faint sound of some distant clock striking the hour. Barling checked the time by a glance at his watch. Midnight. Intently, ne listened for the last stroke, which lost itself in the veering of a breeze that had began to rustle branches near by. For five minutes he listened fixedly, it seemed, to that last dim stroke, as if he followed the sound of it along the mysterious waves that were carrying it perhaps through eternity. And suddenly an impulse electrified him, and he sprang up. Something there? Yes. Something darkly hunched and shapeless falling over the wall. Nonet falling. It righted itself, and dropped back on the other side. A halfstilled sound of fright went with it. And Barling leapt for the wall, clambered swiftly over, and followed.

(To be Continued).