Evening Star Newspaper, October 11, 1931, Page 82

4 E10 e I THE SUNDAY STAR, WASI] No Questions Asked—.7 neep rys A Story by a Writer Who Has Made a Specialty of This Sort of Fiction—And It Is Another Thrilling Adventure of Peter Hames, Well Known to Readers of The Star’s Sunday Magazine. F Peter Hames had not chanced to remove his hat and deposit upon the table devoted to the use of clients and callers in Mar- tin's Bank, it is probabie that the mystery of the great robbery, which was one of the most dramatic shocks to the Princi- pality of Monaco had experienced for many years, would have gone unsolved. As it was, Hames, standing bare-headed before one of the blackboards upon which were chalked quo- tations from the money market of the previous day, had somewhat the air of an official. He found himself courtecusly accosted by a young man who was a complete stranger to him. “Can you tell me where I should be likely to find Mr. Pontifex, the manager?” the latter inquired. “I.should be glad to see him for a few minutes if possible.” Peter Hames turned to inspect his questioner —a fair, thin young man, with flaxen hair, curiously sandy complexion and wearing a rim- less monocle. He was correctly dressed in Riviera flannels. His tone was pleasantly mod- ulated and his speech itself rendered almost intriguing by a slight stutter. “I haven't seen Pontifex for the last quarter of an hour,” Peter Hames replied, “but I fancy he is in his room there. I am not an official of the bank,” he explained, as he noticed the young man's hesitation, “but they don't stand on ceremony here.” “Thanks very much,” was the amiable re- Jjoinder. “Sorry I made a mistake. Do they close here punctually, do you know?” “On the stroke. But if you're here they don't throw you out into the street. All the same,” Peter Hames added, glancing at the clock, “if you want to see Pontifex you had better look him up now. It’s five minutes to twelve.” HE young man ncdded. He turned away, knocked at the door of the private office and was evidently bidden to enter, for he opened it and disappeared, closing it behind him. Peter Hames remained staring after him, a slight frown upon his face. The stranger had somehow or other created a very curious impression. Hames had the feeling that he had been talking to a dummy. He had an idea that the flaxen hair was false, that the eyeglass and the stutter were the eccentricities of an amateur actor, the complexion unnatural, the easy manners a pose. It was an idea at which he found himself laughing a moment later. There was nothing definite to justify this queer fancy. The young man, except for his vividly flaxen hair, was, in fact, almost a type—as much of a type in his way as the red-cheeked, bustling million- aire yacht owner, Sir Richard Branksome, who had just come hurrying in. “Bless my soul, Peter, I've run ft fine, haven't I?” the latter exclaimed as he drew out u ca- pacious pocketbook and laid a satchel upon the table. “I'm going to touch ’em for a bit this morning, too.” “I hear you're off on Saturday,” Peter Hames observed “Off to Athens and Constantinople,” Sir Richard assented. “Afterward to Port Sudan and overland to Khartoum. If you want any money out of this old bank, you'd better get it quick. I'm going to suck ’em dry. I don't trust these eastern banks. I like a full money chest. What do you think of that, eh?” .- He held out two checks. Peter Hames whis- tled. One was for a million francs, the other for 10,000 pounds. “You den't suppose they'll have that ready for you?” he demanded. Sir Richard smiled. “I gave them a week’s notice,” he confided. “I'll go and collect. Wait for m¢ and we'll go and have a cocktail.” Sir/Richard turned toward one of the paying grilles. Peter Hames lit a cigarette, and, seated on the edge of one of the writing tables, await- ed his friend’s return. He glanced with indif- ferent curiosity around the place from which very nearly all the clients had now departed, exiept for a man at the next table supporting his head in his hands and apparently worrying over a letter. 'A fussy old lady hurried toward the exit, which she barely reached before the clock struck 12. Aimost at the first chime Mr. Ur- guart, the genial submanager of the bank, rame hurrying forward toemeet his distin- ,guished client, Sir Richard, with a great pile ;of notes in his hand. He changed them from / his right to his left to offer the customary | greeting to his client. Precisely at that moment several things happened. The man who had been seated at the writing table, with his head bent forward, suddenly sprang to his feet, disclosing the fact that he was wearing a small black silk mask. A swing of his right arm and a dig in the back, which Urquart, who was an old foot ball player, recognized, and the latter lay gazing at the ceiling with both Lands empty. The stranger, who appeared to be a man of average build, but light-footed, and wearing tennis shoes, gave one spring to the lift, flung out the gasping attendant, snatched his keys and rattled down below. Peter Hames and Sir Richard simultaneously leaped forward, but before they were through the swing-gates the lift had gone to its resting place, the emergency door leading into the street under the main entrance had been opened and the stranger had disappeared. They tore down the steps and tried the front door, only to find it locked. They rushed up the stairs again into the bank. \"Pontifex has a key,” Urquart, who was crawling across the floor, doubled up with agony, called out, “Get down the private way."” IR RICHARD made a dash toward thé private office. Peter Hames, instead, strode over to one of the long windows, flung it open and leaned out. Along the Boulevard des Moulins there was only one car to be seen which could possibly be connected with the robbery—a small two-seater, racing around the corner. In it were seated two men, indistinguishable at such a distance. Peter Hames turned away to find Sir Richard pummeling at the panels of the office door with one hand and trying the handle with the other. “Door locked on the inside,” he shouted. ‘Three cashiers, having got over their first bewilderment, now came into action. One of them assisted Urquart to his feet; another dis- appeared into the back regions, made his way by a circuitous route into the private office and, without waiting even to look around him, unlocked and threw open the door. Seated in his chair, with a vicious-looking gag in his mouth, his arms bound together and his legs tied to the desk, was Pontifex, the manager, pale and exhausted with his struggles. Oppo- site him was the safe, with the door open. Peter Hames wasted no time in demanding useless explanations. He dashed to the door which led to Pontifex's private house. Here again, however, there was a check. It was fastened on the farther side. Urquart, who, sup- ported by the other two clerks, had been dragged in, drew from his pocket a key and flung it across. “I know the way they went,” Peter Hames declared, stooping to pick it up. “Telephone the police and tell them to make for the frontier.” He tore down the stairs, pushing to one side an astonished parlor maid and heedless of the cries of Mrs. Pontifex from the other staircase. A moment later he was out in the street and in his two-seater. Peter Hames drove straight through to Men- tone, and up the hill to the customs. A civil official detained him scarcely a moment, but, as he reached the French passport office he saw a car crawling away. He shcuted madly, but ineffectually. The two men--both dressed in linen dusters, motoring ®aps and glasses— looked around nervously. They drove their car to the side of the road, and climbed into a huge touring car, with a long hcod, which was drawn up in the shade of some trees. In less than a minute they were out of sight . . . Here, perhaps, was where Peter Hames failed. In rapid French he essayed to explain the situation, but he made little progress. The law was the law, and no person without a passport could cross the frcntier. A message was sent to the Italian side. The same reply was received. For half an hour, Peter Hames stormed and argued. At the end of that time a carload of gendarmes came tearing up behind him and the way to Italy was free. Peter Hames, however, made no attempt now to fol- low the chase. He drove back to Monte Carlo. He motored straight to the Royalty bar and found pandemonium. The principal and most popular bank in the principality robbed in day- light by two men, one of whom never even ap- peared upon the scene! The sheer artistry of the thing was thrilling. The lift man was in the hospital, but his injuries were only super- ficial. Mr. Pontifex had an exceedingly sore jaw, and was reported to be locked in a private room of his house with the commissaire of po- lice and his doctor. His coadjutor, Urquart, however, formed the center of one of the little parties, perfectly willing to demonstrate to any one the particular artifice of jiujitsu by which he had been thrown. ETER HAMES was seized upon immediately on his entrance. He was bustled to a chair and surrounded by a curious group of inquirers. “There is very little I have to tell,” he con- fided. “I got a line on the fellows, or I thought - I did, because I rushed to the window and saw a car with two men in it, who looked to me to be likely birds, racing down the boulevard. I guessed they were off to the frontier, so di- rectly I got clear I followed them. “When I arrived there, I was held up, as, of course, I hadn’t a passport with me. They had just slipped through. I saw them drive away, in fact, on the Italian side, jump into a huge aral |!__I| ™ The masked man, the notes clutched in his hand, sprang away. Peter Hames and Sir Richard simultancously leaped forward. car which was waiting for them, and disappear round the bend. The gendarmes came up half an hour too late. If they've ordinary luck and telephone to all stations ahead, they ought to pick them up.” “What were they like?” some one asked eagerly. “One of them might have been the man who threw Urquart,” Peter Hames reported, a little doubtfully. “The other I couldn't even catch a glimpse. He was a smaller man, and he seemed the more terrified of the two. I say, let me ask a question now. What did the young man who got into Pontifex’s office clear up?” “Half a million dollars’ worth of American negotiable bonds,” was the portentous response. “Any other news from this end?” Peter Hames inquired. “How cculd there be?” one of the party re- jolned. “You saw the last of the robbers trek- king through Italy.” “If they were the robbers,” Peter Hames med- itated. Sir Richard came stalking across the little square of garden: His complexion was more rubicund than ever. “So there you are, young fellow!” he greeted Hames. “Where's my money?” “No luck,” was the regretful reply. “I caught up with the two men I was after, though. I watched them drive off, but I was on the wrong side of the frontier.” Sir Richard lifted his hat and wiped the per- spiration from his forehead. “Gad!” he exclaimed. “That was a clcse shave! Do you realize, you fellows, that if Ur- quart hadn't stopped to shake hands with me, those notes would have been in my possession, and then I should have been the loser—a mil- lion francs and 10,000 pounds.” It was Sybil Christian who handed Peter Hames his cocktail that night in the strange bourgeois little restaurant at the end of the shabby street. “After your strenuous day,” she said, “you deserve even better food than they can offer you here. Still, they have done their best.” “Fcod is a good thing,” he replied, “but more than anything else in the world I was looking forward to seeing you again.” “Don’t begin by disappointing me,” she beg- ged. “We are above that—you and I. We have our one consuming hobby which we happen to share, and which is more interesting than any sort of philandering folly.” “I am no philanderer,” he declared indig- nantly. “Don’'t you often pose as ene?” she rejcined. “Now be serious. Tell me—as man to woman— why did you turn back from the frontier and abandon the chase?” His expressicn was one of blank bewilderment. “What else could I do?” he demanded. “I have more respect for the Italians than I had. I do not think that any single man could bluff or fight his way across that frontier. They address you with loaded rifles, those carabinieri. I have no fancy for being on the wrong side of an argument with a man who carries a loaded gun.” “So you watched the prey escape,” she re- figcted. “You could think of no arguments, no words, to melt those uniformed officials? You stood like a good little boy, obeyed orders and watched the criminals drive off to safety.” “I am not of the police,” he reminded her. “The affair was not mine. The gendarmes arrived even while I was there. It was for them to beg or fight their way through. They could learn the truth as easily as 1.” “Good fish, this,” she remarked, sampling her salmon trout. “Excellent,” he agreed. “With it,” she ccnfided, “I have ordered a half bottle of this hock. Try it, believe it is good. The champagne is to follow.” “I admire your taste,” he applauded. “Lieb- fraumilch '21—you have given me of the best. Let us talk of focd and wine. No fish, for in- stance, has such curious habits as the salmon.” 1ITHANK you,” she said coldly. “I did not order you an expensive dinner to discuss the habits of a fish. I wish to talk about the robbery.” “You could scarcely choose,” he told her, “a more fascinating subject. Notwithstanding what you seem to consider my cowardice at the frontier, the affair on the side of the criminals, at any rate, was a triumph in technique. A bank robbery without a shot fired, no roistering villains, no pale-faced thugs shooting holes into defenseless citizens. A huge effort at humor, that is what it might have seemed, with Sir Richard chuckling him- self into an apoplectic fit because by a matter of two seconds the bank lost thé money and not he. That vision, too, of Pontifex tied to a chair and Urquart kicking his heels upon the floor. Monte Carlo, when it has got over the shock, will laugh at this for years.” “I am a weman and I am deficient in a sense of humor,” she declared. “My mind is still engrossed with the details of this amazing outrage. Now tell me what was your honest opinion of the young man whom you directed to Mr. Pontifex’s room?” He was a little taken aback. It was & matter to which he had already given con- siderable thought. “How did you know I did that?” he de- manded. “You weren't there.” “When anything happens in Monte Carlo,” she explained calmly, “I am always there.” “Are you ambitious,” he asked, “to bring to justice the plunderers of Martin's Bank?” “I think it ought to be done,” she acknowl- edged, “and you seem—pardon me—a little lukewarm in the matter.” “Lukewarm?” he remonstrated. “I was the first to see them in the car and realize that they were off to the frontier. If I had hap- pened to have my passport in my pocket I should probably have caught them. When the gendarmes arrived the matter naturally rested with them.” “The commissaire is a friend of yours, isn’t he?” she asked, a little abruptly. “I know him.” “Will you do something for me?” “I will do anything in the world for the hostess who has provided me with such a dinner,” he assented. “Please go to the telephone, ring up head- quarters and ask if any arrest has been made.” Peter Hames rose to his feet at once, ex- ecuted his commission and returned almost immediately. “No arrest has been made,” he reported, “but the Italian and French police are both watching two men at San Remo.” Her face remained inscrutable, but he fancied that her lips twitched as though with the desire to smile. “I suppose,” she reflected, “that there is no