DESIGN for BLACKMAIL

Waikato Times, Volume 125, Issue 20993, 21 December 1939, Page 11

DESIGN for BLACKMAIL

by J. L. MORRISSEY

HiHmimiiimiiimiimmiiiiHimiiiiMiiii CHAPTER XVl.—(Continued) Deciding to do so, he closed the door behind him again and went downstairs. As he walked down, he caught sight of Bates, walking slowly along the terrace outside. Giving him time to round the corner of the house, McKnight again went out through the French window and made his way to the small nine-hole course that was one of the amenities of the spacious domain of Deep Hollow. Colhoun had evidently just arrived, for he had driven off from the first tee and was walking to his ball. He shook hands with McKnight and looked at his face eagerly. “Well, Jim, what’s the verdict?” he muttered. “What about Gerry? Did you find out anything at the Silver Dragon?” “Well, I didn't have a wasted journey,” smiled McKnight. “I don’t think you need worry over your niece any longer, Colonel. At first, I thought there was danger, but this morning I found that the whole affair was an obvious plant. The man Pierre has gone abroad, probably sent abroad to get him out of the way in case of any investigation.” The scar on the Commissioner’s face glowed redly as he grinned his pleasure at the news. But McKnight’s face did not reflect his feeling. “The affair of your niece appears to be the least of our troubles, sir,” he said. “What I found out in London leads me to believe that this whole thing—” his outswept hand embraced the house and the grounds —“may be much more serious than we at first thought. There seems to be a web of intrigue woven round us, one of whose focal points seems to be he*a at Deep Hollow.” He paused and looked round cautiously, but there was no one in sight. They apparently had the small course to themselves. “Go to the pavilion and get a bag of clubs and go round with me,” suggested Colhoun. “You can tell me everything as we go round and it will look perfectly innocent.” “That’s a good idea,” agreed McKnight, and he made his way to the pavilion and got out a bag of clubs. Less attention was given to the game than to the conversation and Colhoun was deeply interested in all that McKnight told him. “I suppose the fact of Powell being killed here means that there is some connection, and also the fact that Gerry received one of her letters here, though no one knew she was coming down here. That was a big mistake on their part, McKnight. Has that ever occurred to you?” “It shows the power of the people,” was the reply. “The first thing that their experience teaches them is that their victims will never appeal to authority. They can afford to be reckless in such little matters. After all, the letters tell us absolutely nothing. Type-written on ordinary paper in block capitals, what handwriting expert could get anything out of them? But certainly something has happened to frighten them. I feel morally certain that the Silver Dragon was the London headquarters. They deliberately fired the place and left no traces. The house in Fulham .is closed up and apparently all traces are extinguished. Where is the next place to look?” Colhoun paused and looked at him quizzically. His glance strayed to che big house. “God God, man,” he breathed. “You don’t mean . . . it’s impossible . . . who . . . who could it be? Powell was part oT it, we know. But he’s dead.” “He didn’t’ kill himself,” said McKnight inexorably and the thoughts of both *men came up against a blank wall. “Bates!” said Colhoun suddenly as a thought struck him.

“A minor member of the gang only,” said McKnight impatiently, but Colhomi went on. “While you’ve been in London, McKnight, Bates has not been seen anywhere about the house or grounds.” McKnight stared at him in astonishment. “You mean . . .?” he did not finish his question and the other nodded emphatically. “That’s it for a fiver,” he cried. “He followed you to London. You were geting too hot on his trail. Why don’t you do something about it, man? Have you enough evidence to . No, Gad, of course you haven’t. You haven’t that damned corpse.” McKnight was not listening to him. He was imagining in his mind’s eye, the portly figure of Bates the „.butler, actually shadowing him, the astute McKnight. It almost took his breath away and a savage glint came into his eyes. “The bounder,” he muttered between closed teeth. Then: “I saw him just now as I came through the house. He timed his arrival exactly. I had a bite in the village. Was he serving at lunch?” “No, we had the same man that served dinner last night.” / “He came straight here then. What’s he been doing since he got back? Who has he been reporting to?” He looked keenly at the Commissioner and the big man snorted angrily. “Don't look at me like that, McKnight. I’m not your 'Master-Mind, if that’s what you’re thinking of.” “Of course not, Colonel,” McKnight laughed a little strainedly. “But you see, don’t you, that if Bates is not at the head of this thing, which I don’t for one moment think, he must have been telling his story to someone? Who is this someone? It doesn’t bear thinking of.” “Get on with the game, man,” put in Colhoun testily. “You’re getting nervy. You want fresh air.” They reached the ninth hole in silence and then McKnight put back his bag of clubs and with a brief word, went indoors and straight up to his room where he locked the door and threw himself fully dressed on the bed. For half an hour he lay, his thoughts a maelstrom, as he strove to put the happenings of the last few days into their proper and logical order. So much had happened, so many little things that needed looking at from every side that his head almost throbbed with the effort to keep the min their order. (To be continued)