QUERY

By ASHLEY SMITH MERRICK was a pocket-sized man, but every inch of his small, wrinkled face showed acute displeasure when he saw Johnson standing in front of him.

" Well? " he snapped. " What have you got to say about Pinnering's cheque? The audit tell me it's been outstanding a month. A cheque for two hundred pounds comes in and you just sit on it."

" That's not true, Mr. Merrick," Johnson said stoutly. " I've moved heaven and earth to fmd out what it's all about. I've been round to the collectors. I've 'phoned Pinnering. I've asked the cashier to send a letter. You know what it's been like since we've been here. All my records have been lost. I've got nothing to refer back to. It's just been like hitting my head against a brick wall."

" What happened when you 'phoned Pinnering? "

" He gave me some figures and I thought the whole garden was lovely. But they weren't correct. Didn't take me an inch further—and since then I've never been able to get a line."

" What happened about the letter? "

" I don't know," said Johnson, pathetically.

" Well, it's not good enough," said Merrick, frowning. " You're the query-wallah and it's your pigeon. You'd better go and see Pinnering himself."

" Shall I go straightaway, Mr. Merrick? "

" Sure," said Merrick. " And don't forget to smarm old Pinnering up a bit. You know—tell him what a mess we're in over here."

" Right-o," said Johnson. " Leave it to me."

But he was awed by his task. Pinnering was a name to conjure with.

" And don't forget," Merrick called after him, " that I shall want a proper explanation when you come back. The trouble with you, Johnson, is that you're a bit of a lazy hound."

Johnson went out, muttering under his breath, but privately he admitted that Merrick, as far as he knew the facts, was justified. Even he, himself, now that the matter was sharply present in his mind, saw how unsatisfactory it was. There was some unaccountable element, something weird in the way any solution of this particular query had baffled him.

Pinnering's was on the top floor of an ancient block of buildings in a backwater of the city. Johnson paused to recover his breath before pushing open the semi-glazed door which bore the redoubtable name.

" H'm—good morning," said a harsh voice.

There was an outer waiting-room, but he could see directly into the inner office. There was only one occupant—an elderly man, spectacled, baldish, tall, and with a deeply lined, strong-looking face.

" I come from Casters," said Johnson. " I want to try to get the details of that cheque you sent us some time ago. We don't seem able to straighten it out ourselves."

" Ah. Well, we'll see what we can do for you.'1 The harshness had disappeared from the aged voice. Johnson had the impression that Pinnering had thought him a tenant, ripe for intimidation.

He was certain he was speaking to Pinnering. The strong face belonged to a wealthy, powerful man, but he was sur- prised to find Pinnering alone. Where were his clerks?

Pinnering fitted his glasses on his nose and peered at the notes Johnson had brought with him.

" Alva Street—Damson Street—and Oakley Street," he said immediately.

Johnson was gratified—astonished at the old man's grasp of his business.

" I'll have to get out my ledgers."

Pinnering stood up and hustled round the office with extra- ordinary energy. From a small safe he brought out half a dozen brown, patched, worn books, and bundled them on to his desk. He selected one of the ledgers and turned the pages over swiftly.

" Ah—Alva Street." He peered down keenly. " See that. See the way the payments stop. Three pounds four one week and thirteen shillings the next. Not only the property / manage but my own property as well. Smashed up. pa)iDg no rent."

He straightened himself.

" This time last year," he said solemnly. I called myself comfortably off. Now—I'm a poor man."

Johnson wondered if this were the reason why he was aloof in his office. He knew that the many wrecked houses and evacuated properties on Pinnering's estates must have affect him to some extent.

" Yes," said Pinnering firmly. Then he sat down at his desk and began to write. He totalled up figures, then shook hi head. He looked up at Johnson. He seemed inclined for coo- versation.

" I haven't done this for years," he said. " I've been ott doing probate work for years. My boys used to do this They're both in the army now. I miss them a lot. With fr adjustments to be made every day. And my phone not workir half the time."

He paused, and then continued, without any change of tot —merely adding to his list of misfortunes: " And I've lost my private secretary, too. She was killed' " Killed?" said Johnson.

" Yes. With her mother, her father, and her maid. I rr,,, her a lot."

He made a dismissive gesture; peered down again at ledger.

" Ah—here it is," he said, " Number ra. I remember now.' He added to his figures.

" There you are. I think that's right."

Johnson leaned over the table and took the sheet of pace from Pinnering's hand. He had been shocked by the bk tragedy of Pinnering's words, and one word, the cruellest them all, had cut into his consciousness like a knife, but moment's reflection had shown him that there was no real re why he should have been startled. Why should he h thought, even in that first startled moment, that these pros surroundings, the sober business talk in which he had engaged, were any barrier to the blood-drenched Moloch wh men had loosed?

He still felt faintly horrified, but he had to concentrate on the figures Pinnering had collated.

" This is right," he said, looking up.

" Good. Well, I'll be saying good-day. I've plenty to do.' Johnson folded up the slip of paper and placed it tha in his pocket.

" Good afternoon, Mr. Pinnering," he said. " And th you very much."

He had been dismissed a little abruptly, but, on the wh' he felt pleased. The Great Man had been absolutely confid tial; treated him almost as an equal.

Pinnering's was not far from his office, and Johnson a brisk walker. He had almost reached his office steps w suddenly he slowed down. His flattering interview Pinnering had ousted the thoughts of his own difficulties his mind, but now, with the office looming before him, returned in all their perplexity. There was still fussy h. Merrick to deal with. Johnson sought round for what he • to say. He had his query settled. That was one good t But where was his explanation for the delay?

And then Johnson, still worried, with his step bcco more and more hesitant, realised suddenly where his expl tion lay. For another moment he could not fully the understanding that had come to him. The fault was really his—not really his at all. The puzzling, baffling. natural obstinacy of his query had wider causes than an! had hitherto contemplated. There were other reasons any he had thought to conjure up to satisfy Merrick. source of his query was all around him: in sorrow and c without end: in wrecked houses, draggled wires, men ing at their country's call: and a girl, who had been ing's secretary stricken suddenly amongst all who were her—stricken suddenly dead. . . .