"BEYOND DOVER"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 12 May 1939, Page 10

"BEYOND DOVER"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

COPYRIGHT.

By

VAL GIELGUD.

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

CHAPTER XI. (Continued). He broke off and looked keenly at Nigel, appraising him. “Listen to me, Craven,” he went on suddenly, “I did you a good turn last night. I’m glad to have done it —but I can’t afford to do good turns entirely for nothing. Will you do something for me?” Nigel looked blank.“Of course, if I can. What is it?” “I want you to tell me,” said Lutyens, leaning forward, “just why you were talking loudly about two people in whom I have a certain interest —a Miss Martin and a Mr Brandon. As you were crying their names aloud for all Paris to hear in the small hours of this morning. 1 can’t imagine you’ll have any objection to talking about them quietly to me now.” Nigel tried to thing, wishing desperately that his head were clearer. He looked down at his! plate, then back at Lutyens, seeking inspiration. But his plate was empty, and his host quietly filling a pipe. “Are you a detective?” demanded Nigel on impulse. “Not quite,” replied Lutyens, pressing in the last of the tobacco with his thumb. There followed an awkward little silence. It was evident that Lutyens had nothing to add to his most unsatisfactory repy. Nigel had no intention of putting any policeman, however unofficial, on the track of Sally Martin. He too, had read an evening paper the night before. “I suppose,” continued Lutyens at last, drawing heavily at his pipe, “that you think I’m bn. Miss Martin’s trail over the affair of that jewel robbery. You can take my word for it that I’m not. I’ve nothing to do with Scotland Yard. Also it may relieve your mind to know that there’s no genuine belief in police circles that she took the things. I happened to be talking to the Assistant Commissioner on the telephone last night, and got that news, apart from a great deal more. Now, will you answer my questions? No, I’m sorry, I forgot. Go and have your bath first!”

Nigel had his bath and shaved and felt better. A sleek and silent little Japanese servant brought him his clothes, so neatly brushed and folded, and his. shoes, so cleaned and polished, that he was hardly recognisable as the same man who had made such a fool of himself' the night before, shabby and rain-soaden. He found Lutyens in his study, tapping away on a portable typewriter. “Oh, there you are, Craven. Just a minute ” he went on tapping briskly for perhaps three minutes; then slid out paper and carbon, closed up the machine, and put what he had written folded into an inner pocket.

“Well? Feel better” “Grand, thanks.” “That’s good. What about the answers to my questions?” “I’ll tell you what I know,” said Nigel slowly, “but it’s not much.” “However little it may be, the betting is that it’s important," said Lutyens. "Go ahead from the beginning." So Nigel went ahead. And whether it was the sunlit room with the gaily coloured things all about it, or whether it was Lutyens' keen eyes, and the eager expression on his lined, worn face which reminded Nigel somehow of faces he had seen on old coins, it seemed easy for him to talk fluently and well. It was simple, accordingly, for Lutyens to stand beside him in front of the villa on the North Circular Road, while Sally first spoke of Felix Bastin’s singular offer; to sit beside him, embarrassed and anxious, in the Cosmopolite Grill Room; with him to walk the pavement of the Haymarket all night, meet Hugo Brandon on the platform at Victoria, fly to Pgris. keep a watch over the entrance to the Meurice; and accompany him to his downfall in the little cafe opposite the “Chat Gris.” “ And you know more about the rest of the night than I do,” Nigel ended. "What does it all mean?” Lutyens disregarded his question. “Who were the others with Miss Martin last night?” he asked. “A fat little beast with a name ending in scu, if I heard rightly at Victoria, was one. I only saw the other man as they went into the “Chat Gris,” He looked fattish too, and I think had a beard —reddish." "Not much to go on. —scu ends half the names in Roumania, and a red beard is as like as not to be false! Now listen to me for a minute. Are you trustworthy?"’ Nigel stiffened in his chair. “I know I was drunk last night, but I don’t see that you need- —-” "I don't care whether I’m hurting your feelings or not!” interrupted Lutyens. "This is too important for that sort of nonsense. But it’s part of my job to take risks, and you’re going to be one of them. Just how interested are you in this young lady?" Nigel hesitated for an instant. "I love her,” he said. "You mean that?” “I certainly do." “You’ll follow her to Jericho or the back of beyond to look after her? As t expect you’ve gathered, she’s in rather a mess.” "Of course I will. But I thought you said the police weren’t ” "They’re not. But there are worse evils than an inquisitive police force. Now Craven, if you trust me, and do as I tell you. I’ll put you in the way jf serving Miss Martin. If you won’t trust me you’ll go back to England today!" "Nonsense!" “I’ve ways and means. 1 promise you. Well? ' i Nigel looked at a print of Foujiyama on the wall, at the crossed swords opposite, at his own wrist-watch. Then he opened his pocket-book and looked at a snapshot of herself that Sally had given him a few weeks before: a snapshot taken in a sailing boat the previous summer. The wind was in her hand, and the sun on her face. She looked like the nicest kind of child. He put it back in his pocket. “I’m on,” he said. "What do I do?" Lutyens crossed one leg deliberately over the other. “Confidence for confidence,” said he. "But what I tell you now must go no further ever or anywhere." Nigel nodded gravely. “Very well. I am one of the men who are seconded from the Foreign Office on special political service. I’m not a spy or a policeman. J don’t I think that Secret Service covers it I either, for I work direct to the Foreign

Secretary and to no one else. I’m in Paris because it has been understood for some time that Mr Hugo Brandon would ultimately arrive in the City of Light. And we are very interested in Mr Hugo Brandon.” “But why?” “I don’t think.” Lutyens went on, ‘that you’d thank me if I gave you a resume of the history of Europe since the signing of the Versailles Treaty. Enough to go on with if I tell you that one of the clauses of the Treaty guaranteed that in no circumstances should the monarchy in Styria be re-establish-ed; that Mr Brandon is the ci-devant Arch-Duke Ottokar Maximilian. Pretender to the Crown of Styria and the Islands; and that our information points to an attempted coup d'etat on his behalf' within the next few weeks, if not days." “Brandon! But, my God, that’s •” “Yes, it opens possibilities, doesn't it?” agreed Lutyens drily. “When I add that any restoration of the monarchy will be regarded by at least three of the minor powers as a casus belli, you can see why the F.O. put a special agent on the affair to see if it can be cut at the root. I’ve no orgEfnisation to help me ready-made, Craven. Money —almost carte blanche; but I have to find men as best and where I can. except for our occasional resident agents, and the back doors of more respectable representatives like Consuls and Ambassadors. You've a personal interest —however little you know of high politics. And there we are.” “I see,” said Nigel. “But what are we going to do? Can’t we get Sally cut of this? They’re at the Meurice, or were last night.” “I’m afraid,” said Lutyens, “that it isn't quite as easy as that. I’ve some telephoning to do, and some calculations to make, and then we’ll see.” But Nigel was sticking firmly to his main line of thought. “If Brandon’s a transparency or archduke or whatever you called him.” he said, “what the dickens does he want with gaily?” Lutyens, who had crossed the room and was unlocking a little despatch ease, turned round with a grin. “His family has always been famous for its romanticism,” he said over his shoulder; and was perhaps more surnrised thar\ he should have been to see Nigel’s youthful features lose all their good humour, and change quite suddenly into a savage elemental mask. CHAPTER XII. Sebastion Leyland climbed into his reserved first-class sleeping-compart-ment, which should take him from Brussels to Paris, tipped his porter generously, and cast a roving eye up and down the platform. For the first time for some days he was breathing easily. He had caught the connection with Amsterdam. The famous Styrian Jewels were in his despatch case. The case was locked; and its key hung on a chain round his neck. He could feel it against his chest every time he breathed —it might almost have been an amulet or scapular. Best of all, he had discovered that in Paris was a safe market for the jewels. Not duly safe, but one that would not stick al the price. Leyland believed that he could trust his informant—a little Dutch Jew, with a lisp' and tinted glasses which concealed the shrewdest jeweller’s eyes in the world. He only wished he could have had a word with Felix Bastin belofe leaving. And at that moment he saw Felix i Bastin. That stout adventurer was I hurrying down the platform at so brisk I a pace that Leyland imagined he must be bringing with him every kind of disastrous intelligence. But no —nothing of the kind. “I telephoned your hotel from the Hook, when I landed early this morning,” cried Felix Bastin, stretching up a hand to grasp his colleague’s at the window of the rapide. “They told me you had left to catch this express to Paris. 1 though I’d chance it!” “Delighted, my dear fellow. We’ve still ten minutes to go. Come inside and we can talk.” Felix Bastin entered the wagon-lit, and sat down. The moment the door was shut, both men abandoned their geniality and become almost histrionically business like. “Well?” snapped Leyland. • “Capital,” retorted Bastin, “Not a breath of suspicion clouds my fair repute. The Martin’s name has been the boon of the placards—they’re after her all right. “Quite Felix—but where is she?” “No doubt with Maurois. Why?” “Then I’ve some news for you. Maurois has been dead for some days.” “What!” “Very dead. You don't look particularly unhappy about it, Felix.” “I’m not. It means one the less in .he know. But 1 wonder what has happened to that girl—but that can wait. Have you got your market. Sebastian?” Leyland winked ponderously. “The best possible,” he said, showing nis teeth —false, but good of their kind, “and one to appeal to your sense of humour, Felix—the- rightful owners!” “Nonsense!” “I mean it—l got the tip from Van Buren himself. Of course I deal with an intermediary. It’s some political racket 1 gather, so they won’t stick at ’.he price.” “Magnificent,” muttered Felix Basi.in; then looked up shewdly at his friend. “No monkey business, mind!” Sebastian Leyland spread out his fat, well-manicured nands. “I play the game,” he said, with dignity. “Of course,” agreed Bastin. “But remember it's for the side, not for yourself.” “The moment I arrive in Paris,” Leyland assured him, “I will put on my old school tie.” They exchanged a dampish handclasp, and Bastin opened the door of the compartment. “Telephone me the moment the deal goes through,” he said. “The Amsterdam address, for a week at least, I propose to remain abroad for the present." "And wisely," murmured Leyland, as the door slid to. He put the despatch case carefully under his pillow and began to undress. On his narrow bed lay a copy of “Secrets and Scandals of Eighteenth Century Court Life.” Under his carefully folded silk pyjamas was revealed a glass, and an imperial pint of champagne. Sebastian Leyland licked his lips. He was looking forward to his journey. , j (To be Continued.)