"BEYOND DOVER"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 9 May 1939, Page 10

"BEYOND DOVER"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

COPYRIGHT.

By

VAL GIELGUD.

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

CHAPTER VIII. (Continued). “I wish to dine, rather better than usual,” he said. “I wish to show Sally that Paris can still be a gay city, in spite of all the ruboish written on the subject. And I suppose I have to get some information from you —you had better give it me elsewhere ” he broke off to glare at Flanescu, “now that every spy in Paris knows that someone is staying incognito in this hotel!” “Are there spies?” murmured Casimir, “Journalists perhaps ” “If mademoiselle permits,” interrupted Flanescu awkwardly, “I will show her to ner room.” “Thank you,” said Sally. “And put on you prettiest frock,” called Brandon, as Flanescu opened the door for her. “Tonight we celebrate.” “And after tonight,” said Casimir Kpnski, when the door had closed, “we work. 1 hope you do not forget that, Hugo.” “I’m never allowed to forget, blast you all! ’ said Brandon genially. He sat down opposite • Casimir, and lighted a cigarette. “Are things really ready—at last?” Casimir stopped lo caress his cat’s ears. “They are,” he said. “Are you?” “What, the devil do you mean, Casimir?” “What I say. But what is that young woman doing here?” Brandon laughed. "I’m not sure that I know,” he said. “What?” “I’m not being needlessly obscure. It’s a queer story, Casimir. My dear mother’s friends, the Bannockburns, seem to have been taken in by some scoundrelly adventurer to whom our jewels—the jewels, Casimir —were entrusted for safe keeping. Why women still mistrust banks ” He shrugged and flicked the ash off his cigarette. Casimir was frowning. “Sally Martin,” Brandon went on, “was in this fellow’s employ. The game was to foist the thefts of the jewels on to her. She was to meet a French accomplice of her employer’s, one Maurois, in the Cosmopolite Hotel yesterday evening. I, as you know was to meet Miss Felicity Harben to discuss the handing over of the jewels to me. I took Sally for Miss Harben. She took me for Maurois. And there you are. It seems that the Harben girl was on that air liner that came down in the North Sea.” "Maurois must have been Phillipe Maurois—one of the biggest crooks in Paris,” murmured Casimir Konski. “He was killed the night before last in a motor accident, not twenty yards from this hotel.” "How do you know?” “How do 1 know anything, Hugo? It’s my business to know things, and it’s lucky for you that I know my business pretty well. I’ve more than one good friend in the Surete —how else do you think I can come and go as I like in Paris? My dossier isn’t exactly a pretty one.” "That,” said Brandon, “I can well imagine, Anyway I thought Miss Martin would be better off with me than in a London police cell. The evidence against ner was carefully laid.” “Um, said Casimar. “What was the name of the man who took the jewels?” “Bastin —Felix Bastin.” “Felix Bastin,” repeated Casimar. “I wonder if he still works with Sebastion Leyland.’” “Why?” “Because if he does the’ jewels will be in Amsterdam. Go and dress, Hugo. I shall come as 1 am —I shan’t be dancing. In the interval I can put through a telephone call to Amsterdam.”. Hu'go Brandon got up. and threw his cigarette into the fireplace. “Where are you going?” he asked, from the doorway. "I think that Chat Gris. The food is good, and the Russians are genuine—not a prince among the lot! They sing quite nicely, and one table can't overhead what is said at the next. It’s on the Left Bank, of course ”

“But how I admire your invariable prudence,” said Brandon from the doorway. He went out. Casimir crossed his legs, sighed, stubbed out his cigar, and picked up his Siamese. With the cat held comfortably in the crook of his arm, he went over to the telephone. Waiting to ask for his call to Holland, he looked down carelessly into the street. His eyes passed unseeing over a rather shabby figure wearing a stained waterproof coat and a battered felt hat, who was leaning with an air of calculated, negligence against the railing of the Tuileries Gardens. From above it was not apparent that the figure’s eyes were unwinkingly directed upon the front door of the Hotel Meurice. Nor in any event, and in spite of all his random accumulated knowledge, could Casimir Konski have blamed himself for not recognising a young m,?n of whom he had never heard.

The figure was that of Nigel Craven. Flanescu had thought of most things, but he had not thought it worth while not to label the luggage to the hotel for which it was destined. Nigel had Seen those labels at Victoria. And, as he had re-passed the barrier after that most unsatisfactory interview with Sally,, he had rerhembersd in addition to the name of the Meurice, that there was a mioday ’plane from Croydon that he had two hundrqd pounds burning a hole in his bank balance; and that his passport was in order. He had caught the plane by the skin of his teeth; reached Le Bourget without mishap; and discovered the whereabouts of the hotel without difficulty. He was now propping himself against the railings and wondering, now that the impulse had been fulfilled, what a little cold deliberation could do for him in tne shape of deciding his next move. For the moment he could think of little except that Paris in July struck him as an overrated city, being both hot and unbelievaby noisy. Also he was worried about Sally also he was hungary also his French was about as fluent as could be expected from a man whose education had been strictly conventional without being at all expensive.

He glanced upwards at the unresponsive facade of the big hotel, wondering which room could be Sally’s, and what she could be doing. He saw a middle-aged red-haired gentleman in in the act of telephoning, and found nothing at all interesting in the spectacle. Could he have heard what that middle-aged gentleman was saying

over that telephone, Nigel Craven would probably have altered his mind. As it was, he continued to watch the front door of the hotel. Casimir Konski finished his conversation with a friend of his in Amsterdam, replaced the. receiver, and lighted another cigar. To do so he placed his cat carefully on an occasional table. The Siamese stretched, flexed his large chocolate paws, and gave tongue harshly. Casimar looked at his watch and pressed the bell. “I spoke about this yesterday,” he said to the waiter, when the latter had knocked and entered. “My cat’s evening meal is late. He objects; so do I. Please do not let it happen again.” “I assure monsier that it shall not,” said the waiter, smiling. Then he noticed Casimir Kenski’s expression, and the smile died off his lips. He left the suite hurriedly, stumbled as he closed the door, and asked himself indignantly as fie walked down the passage why he should have suddenly experienced the extremes! form of alarm —almost of panic. CHAPTER IX. During her previous visits to France Sally Martin has been too young to have been taken to visit boites de nuit. In fact her father would still have disapproved strongly of such a visit. It says sometning for her sense of humcur that Sally could smile to herself at the thought of her parent’s face could he have known that she was spending that night in a French night club —and in such company. Indeed the company considered in reasonably cold blood, speedily turned her imagination from the humorous to the apprehensive. Flanescu, Sally had come rather to like as one might like an exasperatingly fussy, but essentially good-natured, aunt. But Casimir Konski “gave her the creeps,” in spite of his grand manner, his attractive shoes, and his unfailing courtesy. The girl felt that his courtesy would accompany Casimir anywhere: there it was like his monocle; fixed, transparent, and more 'for effect than sheer utility. And then there was Hugo Brandon Sally was wise enough to realise that she was dangerously fascinated by Hugo Brandon. She admitted to herself that she tound him devastatingly good looking; and that his insolent self-sufficiency only added to his undoubted charm. She rebuked herself, but she remained a willing victim. ,And there was no doubt whatever, as dinner went on, and much wine was drunk, though not by her, that Brandon was beginning to tire of his selfimposed chivalric atttitude; that he tended more and more to give his normal instincts tree play. And Sally was honest enough with herself to confess inwardly that she was by no means sure of how to deal with the crisis when it should arise. Some instinct told her that in Casimir Konski, for obscure reasons of his own, she would find an ally, if she announced her intention of returning lo England straight away. She had almost made up her mind so to take the bull by the norns, when Leopold Flanescu handed ner an evening paper and pointed to a leaded paragraph.” ’ “You were, I think, wise to accompany us, mademoiselle,” he said. Sally saw Hugo Brandon smiling. Then she read the paragraph, and drew in her breath sharply. Biting her lips she read it again. It announced, in terms quite curt and unmistakeable, that a Miss Martin was being sought by the London police in connection with a jewel robbery of vast proportions —a robbery, which it was said, might unfortunately have international repercussions. The jewels , were almost priceless . . . the police theory was .... Lady Bannockburn was seriously ill with shock . . . MisS Martin . . . Miss MARTIN . . . The print wavered and swam before Sally’s eyes. It seemed to her hideous, indecent, to have to sit and look at her own name like that; to realise the implications of what Felix Bastin had done. At that moment Sally could have stabbed Felix Bastin to the heart without a pang of remorse or an atom of restraint. And now, quite definitely she could not go back to England. Realising that she was dangerously near to hysteria, Sally drained her coffee cup and set herself determinedly to think of other things. It was not easy, with Casimir facing her across the table, and Hugo Brandon’s right should almost touching her left. But, easy or not, the thing had to | be done, and so Sally proceeding to : pay acute attention to the details of her surroundings, as opposed to her company. In one way the “Chat'Gris" was essentially Russian of the old days. In it all sense of the value, almost of the meaning, of time was lost. As Casimir had said, you ate well there, but you were liable to wait some time before the food you ordered reached your table. The lighting was dim—not with the rose-tinted tinted dimness of discretion, but simply dim. The floor was the usual tiny square common to . such places, so that it was startling to see how twenty people managed to dance upon its surface. It was just possible to make out that the walls were painted, in the conventional Russian fashion, with Tartar warriors carrying huge bows on the backs of improbable horses and troikas whirling across snow against a background of blueish sky broken with gilded domes. The paintings were bad, and the paint fading. The waiters, white-coated and silentfooted, came and went like unhappy ghosts, often seeming to vanish altogether and for good. And at irregular intervals, from the farther end of the room, someone would strum softly on a balalaika, and two or three voices would strike into some melancholy little song, not singing, particularly well, but bringing with startling almost frightening vividness the atmosphere of unhappy far-off things into that shabby little resort. Finally the band arrived —a drummer, a pianist who looked like a Greek Jew and played badly, but with remarkable • feeling, and a gipsy violinist, who, in spite of wearing an obviously unclean shirt, reddening his lips, and polishing ■ his nails, tore the July night to tatters with the fierce passion at,the misery of his music. ! “You will dance with me, Sally?” 1 asked Hugo Brandon. “I know you dance well. As for me, I dance sup- I erbly!” i He smiled disarmingly, and stood up. I (To be Continued.)