"BEYOND DOVER"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 10 May 1939, Page 10

"BEYOND DOVER"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

COPYRIGHT.

By

VAL GIELGUD.

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

CHAPTER IX. (Continued). Sally joined him. For a little while they had tne tiny floor to themselves, and the girl knew in an instant that in this respect at least Brandon's arrogance was justified. His dancing was magnificent. Indeed, Hugo Brandon’s passion for dancing, like his passion for riding, was one of the most genuine and simple things in nis maKe-up. it was a thing for him complete in itself. And he went on' dancing with Sally, not oecause he found her in other ways attractive, but because she danced nearly as well as ne did. Casimir Konski watched them swaying rhytnmically to and fro across tne narrow floor, and then leaned across the corner of the table to Flanescu. “A charming sight,” he said at last, taking out his monocle, and polishing it with a silk handkerchief. “Now, Leopold, what does it really signify?” The Roumanian shrugged his shoulders. In a double-breasted “smoking” cut rather too tight, he looked more than ever like a highly polished top. One almost expected him at any moment to start spinning 1 . “He is a young man,” was all he could find to reply. “Profound— really profound that, my dear Leopold! Do you realise that he is not only a young man, but the most important young man at present alive in Europe—ever perhaps in the world?” ■ .

Flanescu took out his cigar case. “I wonder,” said he, “if you really believe that, Casimir?” “So do I,’' said Casimir Konski, and smiled as he chose ms cigar. “But for our purposes we believe it, and we must believe it!” ' “You say things are ready?” “Almost too ready, if you ask me, Leopold. The youthful enthusiasm of the new movement— surprising! How fortunate that Hugo is so handsome. It is not considered very astonishing that every young woman in Styria possesses and cherishes his photograph.” Flanescu lowered his voice almost to whisper. “How exactly do we stand, Casimir?” he enquired. Casimir picked up a fork from the table, balanced a knife on it crossways, and watched it sway gently up and down. “Like that,” he said. A puff of wind make the difference between success and failure. And we‘re dealing with history, Leopold. I like the look of the girl, but Hugo can’t start for Styria with one hand tied his" back by that sort oi complication.” “If you interfere," said Flanescu, “you may find him refusing to start for Styria at all!” . , • "That,” said Casimir, pursing his rather thick lips, “had occurred to me.” He looked back at the dance floor. Five more couples had joined Brandon and Sally. The girl’s eyes were three parts closed. She moved as if in some sort of drugged ecstacy. . “Yes” Casimir went on, “I don’t like the look of it. Of course, everything must wait till 1 can get the jewels back, but that’s a question merely of time.” ' “How are you so sure you’ll get them back? And why are they so important?” “My good Leopold, I shall get- them back because gentlemen like Bastin and Leylanci may be used to coping with more or less liide-bound police services, but not with people like myself, who has as little respect for the law as they have, but three times as much efficiency. The jewels are important, because their delivery to the general commanding the garrison at Bratza is the agreed signal for him to raise the monarchist standard. 1 don’t suppose T have to explain to you, Leopold, that if the Bratza Division joins us the capital is automatically at our mercy.” “I’ve an elementary knowledg ol geography, Casimir,” said Flanescu stiffly. “Confound that accident to the Dutch air liner,” continued Casimir irritably. “I needed that Harben girl —and 1 get this complication in exchange!” “Why in heaven’s name did you want her?” “Because I’ve arranged for the delivery of the jewels to Bratza to be made by a woman. I’m not going to risk 'Hugo in the place straight away. The coup may fail. If it does, he mustn’t come to grief, Leopold. Felicity Harben was reliable, and talked good German. Besides she have done anything for the dynasty ” He broke off abruptly, for Sally and Brandon were leading the dance floor, the latter evidently in tearing spirits, the girl with the same expression of content that Casimir had noticed on her face while she was dancing. “For that dance, Sally, had I a kingdom, you could ask of me the proverbal half!” cried Brandon, as he moved the table to let her sit down. Flanescu winced and Casimir trod heavily on his foot under the table. ' “Champagne!” said Brandon. “Nothing less!” Sally shook her head. “I want to go on enjoying myself,” she pleaded. “A soft drink for me.” "As you like,” said Brandon, and stopped to kiss her fingers. “The queen can ao no wrong!” “Certainly,” put in Casimir dryly, “there are advantages about monarchy. ’ . ’ Hugo Brandon sat up with a jerk, as though he had been flicked with a whip. Flanescu thrust out a protesting hand, for the young man looked dangerous. But at that moment came an interruption—the sound of an English voice shouting from the doorway of the “Chat Gris.”

“Sally! I know you’re here! Where are you? I’ve come for you!” Nigel Craven had followed the party from the Meurice to the “Chat Gris,” hoping all the time for some cue in which he could act with some remote show of reason. None had come. In consequence he had sat at a table on the pavement outside a third-rate cafe precisely in face of the entrance to the boite, and drunk indifferent brandy from sheer lack of other occupation. The brandy, though poor, had induced a certain mental bravura.

After all, women were supposed, for all their pose of modernity, to enjoy the strong hand. Sally would be no exception. Nigel Craven proposed to try it. Simple methods often proved far the best. He would simply walk across the road into the “Chat Gris,’’ tell Sally to stop being a silly little fool, and take her out with him. After

which, he thought muzzily, all would oe—wasn’t there some silly phrase about "gas and gaiters?” Most appropriate! He paid his bill,, regarding the little pile of saucers on his table with an eye faintly glazed, rose to his feet, and crossed the road. He took no notice of the fact that ne was nearly killed by a taxi in the process. As the entrance to the "Chat Gris” *he thrust aside the chasseur, a massive bearded giant in Cossack uniform, who addressed him in Russian, made his way stumblingly up the short flight of stairs, removed his hat with a flourish, and cried aloud for Sally. With the exception of Hugo Brandon, none apparently took any notice. The balalaika continued to thrum. The singers continued to sing. Sally Martin flushed crimson, but the action in that dim light went unremarked. Again’Nigel Craven lifted up his voice. The chasseur appeared behind him in die doorway. Two waiters moved across tne floor. And then Hugo Brandon stood up. “Attendez un instant!” he said. He spoke quietly, but he words had steel behind them. The music died. The waiters stood still, The chasseur lowered his great hairy hands. Only Nigel moved. He took a pace forward into the room, and stood, swaying a little on his feet, peering through the haze of cigarette smoke. Brandon walked straight up to him. very conscious of Sally’s eye watching his every move from where she sat at the table. “Craven,” he said. “You remember me —my name is Brandon. Will you join us?” “Brandon,” he repeated, “I should think I do remember you! You’re the fellow 'that took Sally abroad.” “Miss Martin is here with me and some friends,” said Brandon patiently. “And I’m jolly well going to take her away —see?” said Nigel. “I fear she’s hardly ready to go yet, Mr Craven.’’ “She’s coming now—get out of my way!” , • "Listen to me, Craven. You’re overtired after your journey. Let me give you Miss Martin’s address, and come and call on her in the morning.” “To blazes with that for a yarn!” flared Nigel. He lifted his fist, and lashed out at Brandon’s jaw. Brandon hardly seemed to move, so swift and easy was his side-step. Nigel went within an ace of measuring his length. He recovered his balance, swung round to renew the attack, and found himself facing Brandon in the act of opening his cigarette case. "Pull yourself together, man,” said Brandon. Nigel took no notice. Primitive fury vzas boiling in his brain. Once more he lifted his fist. This time Brandon nodded almost imperceptibly. The waiters and the chasseur closed in. Nigel was gripped with the deftness of experience by shoulders and elbows, lifted from the floor, and found himself a little bruised, but otherwise undamaged, and with his hat back on his head, on the pavement. Blocking any possibility of return to the staircase, loomed the big long-coated figure of the chasseur. Further attempts at decisive action were obviously ridiculous. So much was clear to Nigel Craven even in his present state of mental and bodily disturbance. Staggering slightly as he walked, he made his way down the street. He realised suddenly that tears, the tears of baffled rage so well-re-membered from childhood, were trickling down his cheeks; and that he was talking quite loudly to himself. In such undignified manner he walked for perhaps ten minutes. The night sky had clouded over. A thin drizzle began to fall. Nigel Craven leaned against a convenient wall, and began to laugh. Tnen he tried to sing. And then a firm hand took his left elbow, and a voice said to him in English: "Are you an Englishman?” “Yes,” said Nigel, and giggled. “Good, so am I,” said the voice. “Don’t you think you’re making an exhibition of yourself?” “Yes,” said Nigel. “Good," said the voice. “So do I. You're going to let me put you to bed, aren't you?” “Yes,” said Nigel. CHAPTER X. Brandon came back to the table and sat down as if nothing had happened. "I thing, Casimir,” he said quietly, “that now is your moment, if you’ve anything you really want to say to me.” Under the shadow of the tablecloth, Sally put out her hand and pressed ils fingers. “Thank you,” she said, with a little gasp, and added, "Do you think he’ll re all right?” “Perfectly—in the morning, except for being a little ashamed of himself. Well, Casimir?” There was no reply from Casimir Konski; no attempt' by Flanescu to rush into the breach. In the shadow :;f the room’s end the band began to play again, and Brandon laughed. “We’ve all had a fairly tiring day,” he said. "I shall take Miss Martin home. If either of you want to talk io me before 1 sleep, well—you know my bedroom." He gave Sally 7 his hand, and ordered a taxi. “The bill, Leopold,” he said gaily, "it is your affair. Au revoir.” He led Sally away leaving the two older men contemplating the tops of '.heir cigars without much satisfaction. Once comfortably settled in the darkness of the taxi Sally felt she could to let herself relax. Whatever Hugo Brandon might be, she did not believe he was of the type that makes love in vehicles. She was right. What she had failed to recognise was the degree of strain under which she had been labouring for the best part of seventy . hours. Once she relaxed grip, it was at if every nerve and muscle in her body had gone limp simultaneously. She found herself crying, and clinging babyishly to Brandon's sleeve. • • For the second time that night he achieved merit in her eyes by sheer common-sense restraint. (To. be Continued.)