DESIGN for BLACKMAIL

Waikato Times, Volume 125, Issue 20992, 20 December 1939, Page 10

DESIGN for BLACKMAIL

by J. L. MORRISSEY

CHAPTER XV. (continued) “What's the game?” the other demanded angrily. “Are you trying to trap me. You just accused me of looking for him in the Silver Dragon. Now you say I have no brother.” “When you searched for him in the Silver Dragon, Powell, you had a brother Hugh. At least you thought you had, whereas in reality he had been dead two days. I am looking for his murderer.” There was a long silence in the little room and the man before them seemed to shrink visibly in front of them. His face went parchment white and his eyes closed as though he could no longer bear to see something before them. “It was true then.” The words came from his lips in a whisper. “It was true . . . they got him after all, poor Hughie ...” “Tell me all you know of your brother, Powell,” demanded McKnight sternly, but Thomas Powell seemed not to hear him. “If there is anything you can tell me to help me trace the killer of your brother, it is your duty to tell me,” he said in a louder tone and this time the prisoner replied. He stood up with his pale face livid with rage. “Get out of here,” he screamed. “Get out, I say. I’ll tell you nothing. Get out . . . Get out . . . Get out . . ” He stamped his foot like a madman or an hysterical child and McKnight and his assistant stood for a moment looking at him. Then the detective turned on his heel and went to the door with the other close behind him. As the cell door was locked behind them, he glanced back and saw that the man had slumped down on his chair and was holding his head in his hands. McKnight turned to his assistant. “Enough for to-night,” he said laconically. “I'm going home to bed. See you in the morning.” He went straight to his flat and slept until eight o’clock in the morning without giving a thought to the matter he had in hand. At nine o’clock he was again at the Yard where his assistant, Allen, was wailing for him. "What’s the programme for today, sir?” asked Allen. “Make out a list of all the insurance companies in London and the main provincial cities and ring up each one of them and ask if the Silver Dragon was insured with them. Then see the man Powell again and see whether he’s more inclined to talk this morning. I’m going out for an hour and then I must get off back to Sussex.” “You’re going back today, Mr McKnight?” “I must. Not much for me here that you can’t handle. Bigger game down there, I think. But I don’t think it will take us long. I expect to I be back for good in a couple of days.” | He walked out into Whitehall and ! hailed a taxi. Getting in, he took from | his pocket the letters Gerry had | handed to him. In the flrst one ap-

peared the address to which she was to take the money demanded. It was an address in Fulham and he gave the driver the directions. The house was in a quiet suburban street and, telling the driver to wait, McKnight alighted and ran up the stone steps. The shutters were up on all the windows and McKnight gave a twisted smile. Even before he raised the knocker, he knew what to expect. His knock sounded hollowly back to him with that peculiar note that is the invariable sign of the unoccupied house. After he had knocked for ten minutes he gave it up and tried next door. Here he was rewarded by the sight of a sturdy British citizen in a dress-ing-gown to whom he represented himself as a friend of the owner of the house next door. “Well, you won’t find him, sir,” said the individual in the dressinggown with a sort of malicious glee. “He’s gone and he won’t be coming back. I own that house, I do, and only last week he paid me what was due plus one week’s rent and gave me notice. No, sir, you won’t never see your friend—he’s gone abroad, he has, and gave up the house.” “Indeed,” observed McKnight pleasantly. “I’m sorry to have missed him. I suppose you couldn't tell me where he’s gone. I’m very anxious to get into touch with him again.” “Why, he’s gone back to France, to be sure. He said he was sick of England and wanted to get back.” “Ah! Yes, he often told me how he longed to get back.” “I can’t call to mind that you ever called on him while he lived here,” the other said, regarding McKnight narrowly and a little suspiciously. “Why, Pierre and I were like brothers,” said McKnight with a laugh. It was a shot in the dark, but it went home, for the other’s face cleared as if by magic. “Well, at any rate, I suppose you must be his friend as you know his name. Well, I’m sorry I can't do any more for you. I suppose I couldn't show you the house yourself ...” “Thank you, no, at least not just at ! present. It’s a great pity you can’t ! let me have Pierre’s address. Still, never mind, and thank you.” He smiled pleasantly and the dressingi gown closed its door. 1 On his way to the taxi, McKnight | looked up at the empty house with a slight frown on his face. Obviously an accommodation address and a blind alley. There seemed to be plenty of blind alleys in this business. Back at the Yard, he found Allen busy at the telephone. He looked up as McKnight entered. “Any luck yet?” queried his chief. “No, I’ve tried three, but there seems to be something in the fourth. Just a minute. Here they are again.” For a few moments he listened, and jotted upon a pad. Then he put his hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to McKnight. “The Anglo-London of Farringdon Avenue report that the Silver Dragon held a comprehensive policy with

them, covering all eventualities. They have, of course, a report of the fire, but so far no one has appeared to make a claim. They have no other address but the Silver Dragon itself and proprietor effected the insurance himself three months ago, paying cash for the first annual premium. He gave his name as Simon Simons.” “He paid cash for twelve months and then set fire to the place,” marvelled McKnight. “With what the police and the firemen found he can’t hope to realise. But then the place was only a blind, as seems obvious now and, of course, the insurance would be only a blind also, to throw any suspicion off.” “Anything else you want to ask them, sir, before I ring off.” “No, that’ll be all now. I’m catching the ten-forty back to Sussex and I’m leaving the loose threads here in your hands. Oh, what about Powell, by the way? Get anything out of him?” “No, he’s just as stubborn as he was last night. Couldn’t get him even to answer me. He’ll be coming up this morning before the beak. What do you want to do with him?” “I can’t let him go. How long will he get for being drunk and disorderly?” “Perhaps seven days. Perhaps discharged with a caution if a first offender.” “Then it’s up to you to see that he’s kept under lock and key for at least a week. If he gets dischaiged, charge him with vagrancy, mayhem, high treason, anything you like, previded you don’t let him get away. Give me all the warrants you think you’ll need and I’ll sign ’em now. I’ll leave all that to you. Now, look here, you see this address in Fulham. Put a man—no—two men, day and night—on down there to watch the place and report to you. Keep in touch with Inspector Weekes and find out all you can about the Silver Dragon and this man Simons. Also keep in close touch with the insurance people to see if any claim is made. I’ll ring you up from the country each morning and evening, and in the meanwhile, if anything should crop up that you think is important enough, ring me up at once, here’s the number. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to go down to the insurance people and see if anyone remembers what Simons looks like. Now have you got all that?” "I think I follow you, sir. It’s very good of you to put such confidence in me.” “Tut-tut, don’t bother, I’m off now. It hasn't been an unprofitable trip after all. Good-bye.” CHAPTER XVI The Unknown Strikes Again He lunched off a sandwich and a glass of beer at the Staghound in Brawton-St. Andrews, for he knew he would arrive too late for lunch. It was 2.30 when he waiked up the driveway to the house and there was no one to be seen about the front door or the terraces. He made his way round to the side of the house and in ti e distance he could make out the figures of Ewart and Gerry on the tennis-court, making up a doubles with the Warrens. Colhoun was nowhere in sight. He would probably be on the golfcourse or else taking a nap in his room. McKnight went into the house through a French window into the library and passed through the empty room. He was a little embarrassed

that he might meet his host, for now that he was back amidst the feudal calm of the old mansion, it seemed to him that he had done rather an uncivil thing in dashing off like he

had done on the pievtous day. After , all it had been rather “cavalier” and ■ he hoped that Colhoun had explained matters satisfactorily. He made his way upstairs and walked quickly I

along to the Commissioner's room. As he had expected, th? room was empty and he debated in his mind whether he should follow him to tbe golf links. „ CTo be continued! *