THE JUMPER

Waikato Times, Volume 125, Issue 20909, 14 September 1939, Page 5

THE JUMPER

By JOHN CREASEY

CHAPTER XIX. Joan Changes Her Abode Joan Morgan did not know what time she arrived at the Yampton Private Hotel, but she was shown upstairs and quickly taken to a snail, attractively furnished room which was even more cosy than her own room at the flat. The Manageress of the Hotel, a Mrs Rendell, was an extremely pleasant woman, and the first favourable impression that Joan had was more than coniflrmed. She did have a little anxiety as to the money it would cost while she stayed here, but for once Chief Inspector Crabber had been thoughtful. He had passed on a message through the plainclothes man who had accompanied Joan, although the man forgot it and had to call back at the hotel to deliver it. “The Chief Inspector's compliments, Miss,” he said, “and all expenses will, of course, be borne by the police.” Joan did not show the relief that she felt at receiving that information. “Thank you very much,” 6he said quietly. “Good-night, and thanks again for looking after me.” The officer touched his hat. ‘‘Good-night, Miss,” he said, "you’ll have nothing to worry about, for one or two of us will be on duty all night.” The girl found it difficult to understand just why such a fuss should be made of her. It was particularly puzzling, especially as she had been comparatively neglected in the first few days after her father’s death. She began to realise, however, that by butting into the cafe she had placed herself in the centre of this wild intrigue, and the police—probably persuaded by DawlJsh more than anyone else—were convinced that she was in danger. Just what danger she had no idea. She felt that she could believe everything that Dawlish had told her, and he had certainly seemed satisfied that she would have nothing to worry about whilst she was at the Yampton HoteL Over a cup of coffee and blsouits, which she had downstairs with the Manageress—apparently there were very few guests at the hotel just then-r—«he told herself that she would enjoy James Dawlish’s tacit request, and stop worrying. After all, she could do nothing to bring her father back to life, and now she knew that he was dead she felt more at peace. Tt was a satisfaction, aiso, to feel that she had, in some measure, helped towards solving the mystery of tne murder. It was nearly midnight when at last she returned to the congenial little room on the second floor of the house, and very soon she was in bed and drowsing. The ordeal of the afternoon had taken more of h--.r strength than she realised, and she was very tired. Although she had been inclined to fear that her mind would be too active to allow ncsolf to go to sleep, she knew now that such an impression was entirely wrong. Less than 10 minutes after she had slipped into bed she was fast asieep. Before dropping off she had heard a door further along the passage, click, and she knew that Mrs Rendell had retired. The two or three other residents had been in bed for some time. Silence reigned throughout the house for the next half-hour. As James Dawlish could have testified, the clouds were heavy and the night warm, while not a star could be seen in the Armament. Had Joan been awake she might have sensed something of the eerieness of the silence, as though a great blanket had been thrown over the neighbourhood, muffling every sound. Outside in the street the mutter of voices as the two plainclothes men talked occasionally, was hardly more than a whisper, and when they walked slowly up and down the street, never walking together, their rubber-heeled shoes made little or no sound. Both of them were oddly awfcre of that ghostly silence. They knew Chelsea well enough to realise that frequently there was much more traffic, but just for half-an-hour it seemed that everything had stopped, and the low hum that usually spread over the metropolis during the witching hours had disappeared. And then the silence was broken by something which the watchers felt was reassuring. First a late ’bus passed the end of the road, and then a taxi swung round the corner and the wing-lamps shone like eyes along the street. It so happened that Grabber’s men had been talking together for a couple of minutes, and they had no time to separate before the taxi came along. To their surprise, but not to their alarm, it pulled up almost opposite them. The driver was obviously a regular London cabby and possibly he

Thrilling Detective-Mystery Serial

was about to ask for directions. Willis —the senior of the two men—stepped forward. He did not even see the weapon in the passenger's hand. A Trap! Something came out of the cab and seemed to strike him. It was not a bullet; he was aware suddenly of an overpowering sweetness that seemed to get into his mouth and nose, and then change suddenly, like a temperamental woman, to a fierce biting acidity. Willis staggered back a couple of paces, and then he dropped down in his tracks, but did not move. Robins, the second man, had little or no time in which to move. His hand went to his pocket, and he had actually touched the gun with which he had been armed, when the gas assailed his nostrils and he was overpowered just as quickly as his senior. The same sweetness and the fierce burning overwhelmed him. and he dropped down as suddenly as the older man, with hardly a sound. The eerieness of the night along that street was intensified, although the gentle ticking of the taxi's engine could be heard. The man who had used the gas pistol opened the door and jumped out on to the side-walk. In the dim light anyone who knew Rick Mayhew would have recognised him in an instant. The rook, for once, was not worrying about a disguise, and he was apparently convinced he was in no danger. He snapped aD order to the cabby. “Bundle them into one of the gardens, Jensen. I’ll be back in five minutes.” wid me. boss,” growled the man named Jensen. Mayhew lost no more time, but streaked across the road towards the hotel. He did not think there was much likelihood of it being bolted, and when after a few dexterous twists with a long thing piece of steel, he forced the lock back, he was justified in his belief, for the door opened without further protest. Mayhew apparently knew the lay-cut of the hotel, for he went upstairs to the second floor quickly, and his picklock was soon probing the lock of the door of Joan Morgan’s room. iHe stepped in very quietly, making no sound, satisfied with the dim light which spread into the room from the taxi outside. His features twisted unpleasantly as he saw the sleeping figure of the girl. When Mayhew had killed Morgan he had no idea that the girl would play any part in the affair, but again he told himself that she had managed to make herself something more than a nuisance. He was not a man to take a great deal of notice of women in a general sense, but just for a moment, as he reached the side of the bed and looked down on her, her startling beauty, which had attracted James Dawlish from the moment he had first seen her, affected Rick Mayhew. He stared steadily, holding his breath. And then the smile at his lips grew wider, and the expression in his eyes were vile. “The sleeping beauty, eh?” he muttered. He spoke the words very slowly and very quietly, but they were enough to rouse the girl, and he saw her eyes flicker open, and the expression of alarm that flashed through them as she realised that her room had been burgled. Mayhew lost no time. The gas-pistol was in his hand, and he pulled the trigger. There was a soft, hissing sound; Joan Morgan made one desperate endeavour to struggle to a sitting position, but she grew quickly conscious o*f a sickly sweetness, and then a strong fierce burning. With a little gasp she dropped back inert on her pillows. Mayhew’s lips twistea, but he lost no time. He was carrying a mackintosh over his arm, and dragging the girl from the bed, he wrapped the coat round her and then slung her over his shoulder, fireman fashion, and went downstairs. The police of five countries co-uld have testified to Mayhew’s ability as a cracksman, and that when it suited him he could move quickly, without a sound; and it suited him now. He grinned when he realised that no easier place for him to enter could have been found than the Yampton Residential Hotel. Whoever had sent her there had certainly served Mayhew’s purpose very well. He was outside the door, which he shut very quietly behind him, and stepped into the taxi very quickly. No one saw him enter, no one saw him drop the girl into a corner seat, or heard the damming of the door. The cabby, who had pulled the cab round so that it was directly opposite the house, let in his clutch, and moved off. That eerie, somehow sinister silence, reigned again. (To Be Continued)