"BEYOND DOVER"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 8 May 1939, Page 10

"BEYOND DOVER"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

By

VAL GIELGUD.

(Author of “Death at Broadcasting House,” etc.)

; CHAPTER VII. ; To the romantic there must always be a. definite and peculiar fascination about boat trains, air liners and transcontinental expresses. To this rule Sally Martin was no exception. The . hurly-burly of the Continental platI form at Victoria was music to her ears. The sight of, say, the Simplon-Orient Express, with Milan-Trieste-Istanbul plastered along its flank, never failed of its thrill for a nature that had been properly brought up on the Arabian Nights —abridged version, of course — and the. novels of Mr Oppenheim, and Seton Merriman. And the morning after her remarkable experience in the Cosmopolite Hotel, Sally experienced this same I feeling as strongly as ever before, for all that her nerves were fluttered as much with genuine apprehension, as with the mere possibilities of adventure. Oddly enough the fact did much to pull her together. Which was just as well. For by how narrow a margin Sally escaped the eye of the minions of the law, while it does not concern this story, nevertheless remains enshrined in the archives of Scotland Yard as a leading example of how not to handle her type of case. Certainly Leopold Flanescu was far the most nervous of that oddly assorted trio. Hugo Brandon strolled through the crowd and down the very middle of the platform, as if the station, like the rest of the world, were his own. private estate, and one of which he did not feel particularly proud at that. Sally was principally engaged in hiding her face in the deep fur collar of her coat, while simultaneously watching Flanescu. The Roumanian, for so he had confessed Id’s original nationality to have been, was certainly efficient enough, kindly enough, sufficiently imaginative. He had secured travelling clothes for the night —and they were clothes that fitted and looked charming. He had suggested the terms of the letter which had been dispatched to the villa on the North Circular Road to assuage parental uneasiness at the sudden dash to the Continent; and he had delivered ■ it himself. .

He had got Hugo Brandon out of bed in time to catch the boat train, and he had dressed himself with his usual dapper exaggeration. But he had not got proper control of his nerves. He snarled at porters; he glared at fellow passengers. He adjured Sally in stage whispers to keep up her courage. He fiddled with his little moustache. Sally was just wondering how long Brandon would stand it, when they reached the door of the Pullman, and the young man swung round. “Flanescu,” he said. “I like cats —but I’ve not use for hot bricks! You made me hurry my breakfast, and now you’re giving me indigestion. The Roumanian flushed angrily. Sally laughed outright —she could not help it —turned away to spare Flanescu’s feelings, and found herself facing Nigel Craven at a range of about three feet!

Nigel took off his hat. It must be admitted that he did not look at his best. His face looked greyish and unshaven, his eyes bloodshot and strained. It must be urged in his favour that he had no sleep, and only thoughts of the most disquieting kind for company. "Sally!” he said, "Can I talk to you for a minute?” Flanescu wheeled sharply. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he interrupted. “This young lady does not know you, and she is travelling under my escort.” Nigel moved forward. Sally saw him clencing his hands, and gave a startled little cry. Hugo Brandon, who already had one foot on the step of the Pullman, turned round, “A friend of yours?” he asked. Sally nodded. Flanescu gesticulated helplessly, as if washing his pudgy hands of such lunacy. “My name is—er Brandon, Hugo Brandon,” continued Brandon pleasantly, looking Nigel straight in the eyes. “This is Mr Craven,” said Sally hurriedly. “Have 1 time to —to say goodbye to him?” “Of course. Mr Craven is not travelling. I suppose?" "Oh, no! ’ said Sally. “You’ve ten minutes,” sadi Brandon. "I shouldn’t go back to the barrier if

1 were you. Come along, Flanescu!” He disappeared into the Pullman Flanescu, his eyes rolling wildly, followed. One or two people looked curiously at what had promised to be a "scene,” realised that the promise was not to be fulfilled, and looked away again. Nigel and Sally were left staring at each other.

There was a short, rather miserable, silence. Both of them felt immensely conscious of each other, of the inexorable movem'ent of the minute hand of the big station clock, of the hissing of steam from the engine. Then Sally put out a hand, took Nigel by the elbow, and drew him out of earshot of a large family group whose members for some time had been adjuring each other to write regularly. "What is it, Nigel? You look rotten.” "Never mind about mo, Sally. What is all this?’ "I told you." “Just enough to make things—it's no good, Sally. 1 know what you were doing last night." "You —know?" "Yes," said Nigel, savagely. "I followed you, if you want to know." “I see.” “And the odd thing is," Nigel went on bitterly, "that it doesn't make any difference I’m still crazy about you ” “And why not?" asked Sally. "As a matter of fact I was looking quite my best last night." “You certainly were! I suppose it was worth taking some trouble before spending the night m an expensive hotel ” “Nigel!" "Oh, yes, I know Hint 100. I saw you come in, and I watched; all night, to take you home. That’s pretty funny, isn’t it?" He made a cramped, baffled movement with one hand. Sally said nothing. Her instinct was to be extremely angry with his stupidity. But there was real pain stamped on Nigel’s face; a greater intensity of feeling in his voice that she had believed him to be capable of showing. She was touched, yet remained angry, and she did not know what to do. “Sally, listen, please,” Nigel went on, singular feeling of emptiness about the | stomach which most people feel after; seeing a train off.

catching at her wrist. “It doesn’t matter I’ll not speak of it again. You probably got tangled up somehow, and felt you had io go through with it —I don’t care what it was! But chuck it now! Let me get you out of it —I could brain some of these people! Let’s go—let’s go and get married!”

Sally stepped back a pace, and stared. No, it was perfectly genuine; Nigel running true to form; not a bad form, either, except that it was based on utterly false premises. And then real anger glazed up on her, withering utterly her recent feelings of pity. “So that’s what you think of me,” she said, finding her voice. “And you still want to marry me! Well, you must have got enough reward out of such a superb gesture without needing thanks from me, Nigel. And you'll be relieved to hear thatrthe answer is—no!” Sally!”

“And you had better forget about me altogether in the circumstances,” was the girl's parting shot, as she swung herself up into the carriage. “Sally—l didn't mean —Sally, please! Where are you going anyway?’’ “Anyway beyond Dover!” retorted Sally.

A'large gentleman in loud tweeds, a meerschaum pipe dangling from an underhung jaw, pushed Nigel Craven roughly aside and clambered aboard, effectively shutting off his final view of Sally. A whistle shrilled, and then another. Various handkerchiefs were waved. Various others were applied furtively to eyes. The boat train jerked into movement, and rolled slowly out of Victoria.

Nigel Craven was left regarding the unoccupied stretch of line with that

■ It must also be remembered that he had had no breakfast. Wretched, unccmfortaDle in body and mortally weary in mind, ne wandered slowly back along the platform, one hand caressing his bristly chin. So queer indeed was his expression that he roused some curiosity in the breasts of two men in bowler hats and serge suits standing by the Barrier. But their business was not with queer young men however odd they might seem. Their business had been to keep a look-out for a young woman called Sally Martin, in case she tried 'o board the boat train. But then it had not occurred to them to consider Sally Martin vis-a-vis the holder of a foreign Diplomatic Passport, so conveniently provided by that arch-guide, philosopher, and friend, Mr Leopold Flanescu. CHAPTER VIII. On the evening of the same day a middle-aged gentleman was sitting at his ease m an armchair in the drawingroom of a private suite in the Hotel Meurice in Paris. Although both tall and broad he was not fat, yet he gave a definite impression of being fleshy. He had sparse red hair, a dragoon’s moustache, and a neat pointed red beard. He wore a dark blue lounge suit, pin-striped, a dark red tie with a pearl pin, blue silk socks, and elegant buckskin shoes. In his left eye was a i;imless ' eye glass; in his right hand an excellent cigar. His name was Casimir Konski, and before the Great War he had been a member of the Austrian Diplomatic Service. Gazing out of a window that gave upon the Rue de Rivoli, Casimir Kqnski thought of a good many things. In his own singular way he wondered, as it had been his habit all his life to wonder, why he chose to mix himself up with irregular characters, for the most part engaged in ever more irregular occupations. Though the War had deprived him of his job, of his country, and of more than half his income. Casimir none the less remained a gentleman of independent means. Why, therefore', did he. whose principal objects in life could be summed up in the two nicely alliterative words Claret and Cats —why did he, being quite without political convictions, and almost without political ambitions, vex his soul and fatigue his body with the consequences of political intrigue? And, as if demanding an answer, he jerked slightly at a pale blue leather lead which connected his finger with the collar round the neck of a Siamese cat.

The cat looked up, yawned hugely and indifferently after the manner of its kind, uttered a short sharp sound, as of one saying “Let me be. please—digestion!” and settled down again. Casimir grinned.

"I wonder,” he murmured, “if my ?yes were pale blue, and squinted excruciatingly under emotion, if I should achieve that great content which only cats enjoy?"

And he grinned again, for, almost as if in reply, the door of the suite opened, and Hugo Brandon walked in, closely followed by Sally Martin. Some paces behind Leopold Flanescu was conversing anxiously with the Maitre d’hotel.

“But you quite understand,” he was saying. “Incognito of the most complete.”

The maitre d’hotcl signified entire comprehension and withdrew.

‘’And how many people do you wish to inform,” enquired Brandon coldly, "that someone is staying incognito at this hotel?”

It appeared that the journey had not improved his temper. He even failed to present Casimir Konski to Sally, or to explain her presence. Flanescu, as usual, hastened to fill the, breach. Casimir raised his eyebrows, but showed no other sign of surprise, and to Flanescu’s astonishment, none of disapproval. "I am enchanted to make your acquaintance mademoiselle," he said. “You have the pleasure,” said Brandon maliciously, “of making the acquaintance of one of the wickedest men in Europe." "But how perfectly thrilling!" said Sally. Casimir bowed over her hand. "For the sake of such a charming remark," said he, "I should like to be able to live up to that reputation. Alas, mademoiselle wickedness, like the cavalry charge and the Viennese waltz, lias become a period piece. Only dreariness, to use the language of your generation, remains. I find that a pity. Tell me, Hugo, what do you wish to do this evening?” Brandon, who has crossed to the window turned round abruptly. , (To be Continued.)