DESIGN for BLACKMAIL

Waikato Times, Volume 125, Issue 20991, 19 December 1939, Page 3

DESIGN for BLACKMAIL

by J. L. MORRISSEY

CHAPTER XV (Continued) “Something like that, Weekes,” I replied McKnight. -‘Just got back ! from the country today and dropped i down here for a little.” “Not looking for anything . . . or anyone, by any chance, sir?” j “Maybe. Maybe.” McKnight was non-committal. He glanced up at ! the blackened shell of the buildings. ! “Everyone out of the place when it i caught fire?” he asked. ‘•That’s the funny part about it, ! Mr Knight,” replied Weekes. “The j fire captain tells me there was not a ' single soul in the house when his I men went in. This was at twelve- ! thirty last night, mind you, when a j place of this sort might be expected j to be just getting full.” “Eh?” McKnight stared at the other I dumbly for a moment. “No one in j the place, you say? What about the : buildings on either side?” “Both empty. Seem to have been ' quite empty for some time. Not even any furniture in them.” “What was the cause of the fire?” ; “Deliberate arson,” was the in- ' spector’s startling response. “Heaps j of old sacks and cotton waste were found in the basements and even in , some of the upper rooms, soaked with j ; paraffin. Everyone cleared out and j ■ the place was deliberately fired. Why, j \ God alone knows. No one has turned j ■ up to claim the place, not up to now j at any rate.” “You mean to say no one has • turned up connected with the place/” ; McKnight was frankly incredulous, ! but the emphatic reply of the in- ' spector convinced him. ] “It’s only too true, sir. Either myself or several of my men have been 1 on the spot ever since the alarm was ; given. Not a soul has been to see \ either us or the first captain ever ( since then.” “Who gave the alarm?” j “The man on the beat gave the ] alarm just before midnight. The j i brigade was here ten minutes later | j but the place was burning like aj £ match-box. They’ve broken down ail j £ the floor frames to prevent it spread- j ing any farther. They got it under control just before daylight.” I j “Seems a very curious sort of an ! affair, inspector,” said McKnight ! 7 rubbing his chin. “What do you j j think about it? I suppose you’ll have | to find out something about it sooner I ' or later.” I c “Well, sir, as you say, sooner or I later someone is bound to turn up | t with an interest in the place. What j '<■ beats me is why it was set on fire.” c “The owner’s name was apparently Simon Simons,” said McKnight. j "How did you know that, sir?” r The other showed his surprise. r “I’m slightly interested in the place, inspector. Did you happen to j know of any of the staff? Was j there, to your knowledge by any r chance, a man in the orchestra by the name of Pierre?” ] “Now that you mention it, sir, . there was, at least until ■ about a j week ago. The man on the beat j here reported eight or nine days ago j that his place had been taken by an- j , other man.” / “You mean, he left, or disappeared, or what?” j j “Don’t know, sir. Couldn’t have ! « disappeared or it would have been j , reported. Still, of course, you can’t j be sure with these near-shoddy j places.” j j “Was the Silver Dragon in any sort ; J of trouble any time?” “Oh no, sir, most respectable sort ' , cf place it was. These clubs have to 1 be. with the new regulations in ! , force; you know that, sir.” j ‘ “This man, Pierre ...” McKnight j . was abstracted, thinking of Gerry ‘ Gower down at Deep Hollow and j ( those letters. The girl had fairly got ; . herself into a jam. What was the ( connection ■ between this dance cluo ( and the murder of Powell and the sinister presence that was preying : over them ail down there?” “Are you looking for him for . something, sir?” the inspector asked, i but McKnight only waved his hand ; vaguely. “I’m going to have a word with | the chief,” he said, moving away to ! the salvage wagon, where he intro- j duced himself to the captain. He chatted with him for perhaps ten j minutes, then with a last dubious look j at the black, smoking pile, he turned j away and once again pressed his way ; through the throng of people, now to j a large extent, beginning to thin out. ! Back at the yard, he found his as- I sistant waiting for him in his room, and told him all that he had found. “And the firemen say there was absolutely nothing in the building beyond the ordinary furniture of such a place ... no safes or filing cabinets or anything like that?” “Not a thing.” “Just what are you looking for, sir. What did you .expect to find at the Silver Dragon that you came all the way up from Sussex to look at ; t?” “It sounds fearfully melodramatic, old man.” said his chief, “but you’ll be surprised if I ted you that I kind of half-expected to find the place the headquarters of a blackmailing gang. If you cast your mind back, during the past twelve monins, there have been no fewer than six unexplained suicides, all of them of people well known in society and all of them wealthy. Certain indications seemed to me to lead to the Silver Dragon ” “Suicides, sir. By Jcve, perhaps you’re right. Six in the past year there have been, as- you say, and since you went away, there have been two more ’* “The devil you say!” McKnight sat bolt upright. “Yes, two more of them. One of them was Selma, the musical comedy actress and the other was Ambrose Herold, the black-and-white artist. Curiously enough, each of them shot themselves and left no notes behind and each of them, from having been comfortably off a few months previously, died practically penniless.” McKnight gazed out of the window for a few moments, trying to see the connection between these events and the things he was investigating.

“And nothing has been found of j any gang, any organisation behind a | blackmailing theory of these j suicides?” “No! Nothing has been found, j Neither of these two had ever laid a i complaint and if you remember, none ' of the others did either. It's passed i with the general public, of course, as ; a passing wave—statisticians say ! that suicide is on the crest of a ris- j ing wave, but one or two of the news- j papers have been getting a little bit ! curious of late. “Oh! By the way, sir, something came in while you were out that you j will want to handle. A man was \ picked up late last night, just out- ! side the Silver Dragon and brought ‘ in ‘drunk and disorderly.’ A state- j ment was taken down from him la it 1 night, but this morning when he had ; sobered up, he denied having said a i

j word. He’s down in the cells now. I Do you want to see him?” | “Do I want to see him?” McKnight 1 repeated with a smile. “You keep I your best news till the last, my boy. J What did this fellow say last night?” “Gave his name as Powell and said j that ‘as sure as his name was Thomas Powell, he’d that murdering j gang in there.’ Of course, I’m quoti ing the man’s own words, shorn of ! unnecessary—er—expressions and j embroideries.” i “Of course, of course,” grinned j McKnight. "He said his name was j Thomas Powell, did he? Very, very j curious. Anything more*” , “No, nothing but a string of oaths ; u-nd bad language, tbiat had no meani ing. This morning he denied every j word of it, denied he’d ever heard of ! the Silver Dragon and is most trucu- ! lently demanding to know why he is being held.” This time his assistant accompanied him and they made their way to the cells. At first sight, the prisoner seemed p very ordinary respectable elderly man of the clerk class, clad in a neat black suit and with a small moustache upon his upper lip. While the ceil door was being unlocked McKnight studied him closely but could see no resemblance to the other Powell. At the first mention of his name the similarity had. of course, struck him at once, but he had felt that it was too good to be true, that if there was any connection between the two men, it would mean that the long arm was working far too hard on his behalf Things like this happened only in books, he decided. The prisoner rose to his feet as they entered, and it was obvious to see that his night in the cells had merely sobered him and had not cooled his independence. “What do you want now?” he demanded in a hard voice. “When am I going to be let out of this place? Wbul’s the charge against rne aryhow? I was harming no one. The streets of London are evidently not safe for decent people to walk on these days.” McKnight smiled at him and waved his hand to the one chair in the cell. “Sit down,” he invited. “I promise you I won’t keep you very long. But you'll forgive me if I say so, your case interests me not a little.” “And who the hell might you be?” demanded the prisoner with a sneer. “I might be a hundred people, Mr Powell,” replied McKnight suavely, “but I happen to be Chief DetectiveSuperintendent McKnight.” “You can be the man in the moon for all I care,” was the other’s surly reply. “But now that you’re here perhaps I’ll get more sense out of you than out of these bobbies. When, I ask you, am I to be released from here so that I can go about my business?” “What is your business, Mr Powell?” McKnight shot the question at him suddenly, but Powell was too crafty to be caught. “My own, at least,” he said grudgingly. “And if you looked after yours as well as I look after mine, I wouldn’t be in here.” “Be very careful what you say, my man,” cut in McKnight briskly. “You were picked up outside the Silver Dragon not half an hour before the place was gutted by fire.” The man stared at him in silence for a moment, but he was obviously no newcomer to deception, for if he held any surprise, he concealed it well. He gave a harsh laugh. “Just before, you say. Well, that seems to make my alibi cast-iron enough even for you fellows, doesn't it?” “We are not interested in your connection with the fire at the Silver Dragon,” said McKnight. “What does interest me is that you had quite evidently been drinking in the Silver Dragon and had been thrown out of the place.” “It’s a lie . . .a damned lie,” i the other protested vehemently. ! “They tried to pin that on me this i morning but it’s false, I tell you. 1 j was never in the place, I sv/ear it.” I “Not even to look for your brother, | Hugh Powell?” McKnight put the i question very softly and this time he ! was rewarded with a sign in the I shitty eyes of the man before him. tt ; was clouded over as soon as it had 1 come but McKnight had seen it, j and it had been enough to tell him i that his intuition had been correct and that this man was connected with or related to the man whose murderer he was looking for. He looked again more closely at the man’s face, but of course, the first Powell had been so frightfully disfigured that his real features had been a matter purely cf guess-work. “I have no brother,” the prisoner said in a defiant voice. “I agree with you,” <gaid McKnight i quietly. (To be continued)