THE GREEN SHADOW

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 957, 28 April 1930, Page 5

THE GREEN SHADOW

By

HERMAN LANDON

Copyright by Publio Ledger

CHAPTER XVI. “Appropriate! ” Dale laughed after a moment's thought. “Yellow and blue. Mix them and you have green. Creen is the intermediate between yellow and blue in the spectrum. So that's his little game! If you give him the money tomorrow night, he will go to the District Attorney’s office next day and reclaim the envelope. "If you fail, the District Attorney will have not only the transcript, but Dr. Moffett will give him the original documents as well. Was that wha* he threatened to do?” “Y’es; exactly.” “Well,” said Dale, musingly, “I think it is a bluff, at least as far as the nanscript of evidence is concerned; hut we can't be sure. Anyway, it’s a good bluff. Once the transcript leaches the District Attorney’s office, i he thing is final and irrevocable, subject only to your compliance with Dr. Moffett's demands. You agreed, of course?’* “Yes”—she forced a little smile — “with tears in my eyes and a catch in my throat.” “I’ll wager your acting was perfect. Did Dr. Moffett express a willingness to accept fifty thousand on account?” “He said it would be satisfactory, and that in return he will give me half the documents.” “And you will be at the Mummers' Frolic tomorrow night?” “Yes; I got tickets three weeks rtgo." “It’s an odd thing.” Dale’s eyes twinkled. “So did I. Didn’t mean to go; but now—will you reserve a dance for me?” “Two,” she promised. “I’m a lucky beggar,” said Dale, arily. “By the way, is Mr. Ainsworth to be there?” "No.” She looked at him curiously, as if puzzled by the strange quality in his voice. “Paul has another engagement.” Dale's eyes were intent for a moment. “All settled . then.” "Except what I’m going to wear.” Her brow wrinkled as she contemplated the eternal question. “Oh, I know! I shall go as a Spanish gipsy —as Carmen, maybe. And you?” "I?” He smiled whimsically. “I shall go as the Picaroon.” THE MUMMERS’ FROLIC The Roman Emperor had made frequent trips to the punch bowl, and now he was showing the effects of excessive imbibing. He staggered noticeably and his face was a little flushed. There were vine leaves in his hair and he wore a flowing toga with a broad purple border such as Nero might have worn when he fiddled to the burning of Rome. There was a pause in the general dancing while two professional entertainers performed a fandango to the accompaniment of guitar and castanets. The imperial tippler adjusted his mask, squared his shoulders and threw out his chest. He hiccupped and looked irresolute. Thou, with the

I exaggerated erectness of one who can’t trust his legs to behave, he started toward a row of chairs in the rear. For a few paces all went well, and then he collided with a swaggering Caballero with trailing sword and flowing curls. Scush me,” said the Emperor. “Why don’t you look where you are going?” was the churlish response. A wrathful look out of the slits in the mask accompanied the reproach. The emperor sat down, but his eyes followed the Caballero’s haughty progress. A little smile played about his lips. “Thought Ainsworth wasn’t coming,” he mumbled under his breath. “Anyway, he might have left his bad temper at home.” Then, through eyes that looked a little groggy, he fell to watching the gay, colourful revel. A Paul Jones followed the fandango, and then a little baud of Tyroleans in bright native costumes sang several songs. The next number was a jazzy foxtrot which brought the majority of the gathering out on the floor. The emperor’s head slumped down toward his chest, but his eyes missed no detail of the scene. It was a scene full of dash and colour. All the centuries, with their shifting garb, manners and follies, were there, from the shepherds of Arcadia and the languorous princesses of the Nile to the j apaches of Paris and the black shirts of Italy. A dusky Cleopatra flirted outrageously with a fieree-looking' pirate. A furry Eskimo paid court to a veiled charmer from the harem. The inevitable Pierrette was there, coquetting with a gorgeous and aggressive sheik. A mendicant monk hobnobbed with a Russian princess of the old regime. And in the background, apart from the general gaiety, was a Carmen with roses in her hair. The emperor gazed at her for a moment, and again a hint of a smile hovered about his lips. Then his eyes narrowed slightly behind the holes in his mask. A maid in tinsel armor —Joan of Arc, perhaps—had just approached Carmen in a usual sort of way. Soon they were chatting pleasantly. The emperor rose, walked unsteadily to the punch bowl, and refreshed himself again. “Your imperial majesty has a magnificent thirst,” remarked a flowery court attendant of the time of little Louis. The emperor regarded him loftily. “It was Shake —Shakespeth,” he pronounced unsteadily, “who disheovered —hie—that a gen’l’man can drink—hie—himself sober. I am following hish ex—exshellent precept.” He rocked on his feet, took another drink, and moved away. As if to justify the Shakespearean precept, he carried himself more erect now. He did not return to the chair he had previously occupied, but chose one in closer proximity to Carmen and Joan of Arc. The hubbub was too great to permit him to hear whst they were saying, and soon a pluir 1 knight came forward and claimtu Joan for the next dance. The orchestra, concealed behind a wall of exotic foliage, struck up a waltz. The emperor stood up, steadied himself, approached Carmen and bowed. “Will you do me the honour?” he murmured, soberly enough. She regarded him doubtfully through her mask. The vine leaves in his hair were awry and his imperial toga did not hang quite straight. “I am Nero,” he announced while she hesitated. “I am not aqeustomed to being refused anything. I rule the earth. Everybody—blue devils or yellow Chinamen —must obey my desires.” “Oh!” she exclaimed with a start. “Then you are ” “I am Nero,” he interrupted. She smiled vaguely, tremulously. “But I am neither a blue devil nor a yellow Chinaman.” “Y'ou are Carmen,” he said, holding out his hand. She rose reluctantly. “But you are intoxicated,” she objected. “No matter. Y’ou may have observed that a man, even when he is too tipsy to walk straight, can usually dance with no difficulty whatever.” it proved true. His waltzing, as

she discovered after a few graceful glides, was perfect. But for her worry and anxiety she could have surrendered herself wholly to the charm of the dance. “I-don’t believe you are drunk,” she observed presently. “Y’ou are only pretending.” “Your roses are falling out of your hair,” he observed. “Let us step out here where you can arrange them.” They edged their way through the churning, laughing, mirtli-drunken crowd and stepped out on a balcony. 1-Ie handed her a rose he had caught as it fell from her hair. “You were right.” he told her. “I wouldn’t get drunk tonight, of all nights. A semblance of inebriety has its advantages, however. When people see a man drunk, they are not likely to suspect him. What was Joan of Arc talking to you about?” “She wants to get into the movies,” said the girl, absently. “She wanted to know it’ I happened to have any influence with the directors.” He smiled. She had spoken with a trace of caution, hostility and nervousness. In the meagre light out there on the balcony he studied her face. “Weil, Miss Castle,” he murmured, “did you bring the money?” Her slender shoulders shook a little. “How did you recognise me?” she asked, evasively. Oh, that mask you are wearing doesn’t conceal much of your face. Besides, I had received confidential information that you were to appear as a Spanish gipsy.” “Oh, Wambley told you,” she said, contemptuously. “You have bribed him.” “Suppose we don’t stress that point. What about the money?” “What about the papers?” “They are here, inside my imperial toga.” “All of them?” “Halt of them. That was the agreement. You don’t think for a moment that I would cheat you?” “Oh, no!” She tossed her head a little. “I know you are the soul of honour. May I see them?” He laughed derisively. “Not so fast, my charming little gipsy. I have had some experience with feminine wiles. You haven’t answered my question. Did you bring the money?” “It’s here.” With a vague gesture she indicated her silver-trimmed bod ice. “Fifty thousand?” “That was the amount, wasn’t it?” “H’m. That isn’t a direct answer. Did you or did you not bring fifty thousand dollars?” “You are at liberty to count it," said the girl, evenly, “as soon as you have satisfied me that there will be no trickery.” “Splendid!” exclaimed the emperor, in a suddenly altered voice. “I think you will carry it off very well, Miss Castle.” She started. “That voice!” She had removed her mask, and was gazing at him out of dilated eyes. "‘Oh, Mr. Dale!” “Not so loud, Carmen. Some one may hear. Well, our little rehearsal came off in fine shape.” She relaxed. All at once the caution and hostility faded out of her eyes. “But you said you were to appear as the Picaroon.” “And what did you expect the Picaroon to look like?” “I hardly know. I certainly didn't expect to see him in a Roman toga, with a purple border, and with vine leaves in his hair. “Well, you see, the Picaroon isn’t committed to any particular style of apparel. He dresses according to the occasion and the mood he hap pens to be in. Tonight—” He paused, touched her arm, and glanced back over his shoulder. “Call me a drunken bully,” he whispered, “and slap my face—slap it hard. Quick! ” She gasped as he wound his arm about her shoulder endearingly There was a little sound at the door opening on the balcony. Instantly, as he drew her face to him as if to kiss her she caught her cue. “You drunken beast!” she cried indignantly, delivering a smart blow on his cheek. “How dare you? Go away—instantly! ” She pushed him from her. He lurched drunkenly. reaching for he: i

again, but another resounding slap sent him staggering toward the door, almost colliding with a figure that, had just stepped out on the balcony. For a moment he paused, leering at her in the dusk, and then the doo?' slammed and he was gone. “The —the contemptible cad!” she cried, breathing hard from the exertion and the apparent humiliation. “I never was— She stopped. For the first time she appeared to notice the new arrival. “Oh, you!” she exclaimed, recognising Joan of Arc with her blond curls and her intriguing baby features. She had vaguely expected someone else. It seemed Dale had staged a useless piece of mummery, but there was nothing to do but go through with it now. “Did you see what that despicable ruffian tried to do?” she cried hotly. “No, I just missed it,” said Joan in her cooing voice. “But I can guess. Men are so beastly. Tried to steal a kiss, .1 suppose? The wretch!” “He was drunk,” said Adele, growing a little calmer. “Disgustingly drunk. Otherwise I might not have minded so much.” “I understand, dearie.” By the way of showing her sympathy Joan wound her arm around the other girl. “A kiss is rather nice sometimes, especially on a balcony in the moonlight, but who wants to be kissed by a distillery?” Adele laughed. “I’m all right now. It’s foolish to get angry with a drunken man, but I couldn’t help it.” “He seemed to be all right While you were dancing,” Joan observed. “I was watching you two. But then men are funny. They are all right until they get you out in some moonlit nook, and then —look out! My Billy is that way. We had a dreadful spat the other day. Billy is awfully hotheaded, but I know how to manage him.” “How?” asked Adele, mildly amused by the naive chatter. “Give me your recipe, arid I may try it on the next Emperor who comes along.” “Well, I guess men are all alike, whether they are Emperors or just plain citizens. Tt’s the little things that please them most. They like a girl to remember their favourite colours in neckties and socks and such things. It needn’t amount to much, just so it’s something that falls in with their taste. Well, after our quarrel the other day I dashed over to the haberdasher’s and bought Billy the darlingest necktie you ever saw.” “And did he approve of your selection?” asked Adele absently. With so many graver problems on her mind this conversation was becoming a little wearying. “Did he approve?” Joan gushed. “Well, I guess he did! It was a lovely tie, a bright blue with little yellow dots in it.” Of a sudden Adele leaned weakly against the balcony railing. “Blue—yellow,” she mumbled. The words, by contrast with the inconsequential appearance of the speaker, had conveyed a added shock in addition to their intrinsic significance. “Yes, blue and yellow—Billy’s favourite colours,” said Joan. She laughed lightly. And then, with a subtle change in her manner, she came a little closer t~ Adele. Her smile had altered; it was less open and naive. She seemed more mature, even a little taller as she stood with the moon gleaming on her tinsel armour. “Drop it over the railing,” she whispered. “Drop—what?” asked Adele dully. “You know. The monejq of course. You brought it, didn’t you?” There was a vague hint of menace in her voice. Adele nodded. Her mind, stunned by the sudden surprise, was not functioning as yet. “Then let’s hurry and get it over. It has all been arranged in advance. I am to drop a ligl ted match over the railing. That will be the signal.” She produced a small silver case and extracted a match. “The moment the match falls you are to drop the money. Some one is waiting below to catch it.” Adele looked down, but all she could see was a black, yawning depth. Her brain swam a little. She glance I at the door, wondering whether Dale was on the other side, trying to overhear what was being said. She wished he could send her a thought wave advising her how to act. Again her eyes scanned the abyss outside the railing. Who was waiting down there? Whoever he was, he had certainly guarded in a most ingenious way against being caught in the act of receiving blackmail money. She shook herself as if to banish a stupor. “The papers?” she asked feebly. 'They’re here.” Joan loosened her*

flimsy armour at one side and took out a bulky envelope. “Most of them are in Daniel Forrester’s own hand-writ-ing. If you have any doubts, look them over.” Tt sounded candid and aboveboard. Adele removed the contents of the envelope, about a dozen papers of various sizes. It was too dark to see much, and the written characters swam in blurs before her eyes. From the inside came the orchestral din, adding to the confusion in her mind. “Do you want a light?” Joan suggested. She struck a match, cupped her hands over it, and held it so the wavering sheen fell on the papers. “I want you to be satisfied with your purchase.” Adele started to run her eyes over the written lines. The phraseology was strange, full of technical terms and involved meanings and much of it she could not understand. But the broad outlines were clear. They showed plainly that her father was the mysterious Mr. Graves, the accomplice of the notorious Daniel Forrester. Little by little her doubts le**; her. Yes, these must be some of the damning documents to which Dr. Moffett had alluded in the course of that strange interview. CHAPTER XVII. THE SKYROCKET The papers shook in her trembling hand. Indignation, bitterness, a strange, rebellious excitement were growing apace within her. Her poor father! What an inferno of anguish he had passed through on account of the secret guilt which these papers revealed! She read or. and on, turned page after page, while her companion struck match after match. At length she was through. She gazed down at the sheaf of papers. Only papers, filmy, inflammable stuff, yet how devastatingly vital they were! “Satisfied?” Adele looked up. In the dim light she studied the other girl’s face Joan had cast off her alertness and simplicity, and the unmasked portions of her face looked a little hard and cruel, but there was no sign of duplicity. The eyes were gazing at her narrowly, intently, through the openings in the black mask. “Another match, please,” Adele murmured. In the yellow flicker she studied the writing again, but her thoughts raced far beyond the margins. Only a few sheets of paper, yet they were charged with the power to wreck lives! Luridly the light of the match tell on characters penned in a crude, robust hand. Still another match. The yellow sheen seemed to blaze a path through a corner of her mind. If she could only—— Her heart beat a little faster. If she could only thrust a little corner of the sheaf of paper within the flame’s destroying reach! In imagination she saw them wrinkle and became a black flake. Her father’s secret reduced to ashes! Her heart pounded chokingly. The little flame was beginning to dwindle, but there was still time. And then, at an instant’s glance, she caught a look of intent watchfulness out of the holes in Joan’s mask. A little smile, hard and subtly threatening, played about the rouged lips. The match went out. Adele shook herself. A mad hope had died with the match Besides, she suddenly recalled, all tlie papers were not here, only half of them. The remaining ones were probably just as effective. She felt the little packet of money inside her bodice. It was only a little more than 2,000 dollars, but a small fraction of the stipulated amount. To toss it over the railing seemed such a simple thing to do. But surely the woman at her side would not be taken in by such shallow deception. She would insist upon examining the money before the papers were surrendered. At a glance she would see through the ruse and then—what would happen then? “Well, Miss Castle,” said Joan impatiently. “Aren’t you satisfied yet?” Adele tried to play for time. There was nothing else to do. “Are you sure these papers are genuine?” “Genuine? Of course. They are in Forrester’s own handwriting.” Adele felt an ache of indecision. ! Where was Dale? If he would only I transmit a mesasge of some kind! Her wits appeared to have deserted I her in the first'great crisis of her sheltered and soft-cushioned exist- i ence. She must gain a little more ! time.

"Just another match, please.” "It will be the last,” said Joan. “Thero is only one more left, and I must save that for the signal.”

Again Adele bent her eyes to the papers. Daniel Forrester’s kinky signature sprawled beneath her burn ing gaze. A fugitive doubt assailed her again while she tried to make the most of the speeding moments. Xever before had she seen Forrester’s handwriting. For all she knew, this CL'PERFLUOUS HAIR destroyed by “P.USMA” fßegd.l. Signed, stamped, guaranteed cure. £5 12 6d.— Florence Hullen, CAI.D.. 7 Courtenay Place, Wellington. Send stamped addressed envelope for particulars.

might be a forgery. Her stampeding brain steadied to the thought. Just before the match went out she beut i another look or critical scrutiny on the signature. “Just as I thought.” she declared, “this is only a copy—a forgery.” Her companion's short laugh cut clear and hard through the crashing syncopation of the orchestra. “You poor little fool! You are only making a stupid bluff! You never saw Daniel Forrester’s signature. Now I know you did not bring

| the money. You have only been ! playing for time. Now I'm—” She stopped short. From the dark depth below came a little sizzling sound. A little streak of fire immtdi- . ately shot into the air and broke info ' a burst of sparks. Joan snatched the papers away from Adele. “The deal is off,” she declared, a faint hiss in her voice. “That was a . warning. There is something wrong below. Go back to your drinken emperor!” (To be Continued Tomorrow.)