"BEYOND DOVER"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 13 May 1939, Page 12

"BEYOND DOVER"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

COPYRIGHT,

By

VAL GIELGUD.

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

CHAPTER XU

(Continued).

As the train drew out of the station, Felix Bastin wheeled round sharply. He was not of the kind that stays to watch a receding tail-light, and wave a handkerchief. He bumped into a gentleman, who, smoking a thin cigar, and wearing noticeably elegant gloves and buckskin shoes, was leaning on a crutch-handled stick, and looking after the train.

“I beg your pardon a thousand times,” said Mr Bastin, removing his hat.

The other took off his hat in his turn, revealing sparse reddish hair. "Not at all—entirely my fault,” said he.

Both gentleman then exchanged bows and smiles, and Mr Bastin passed upon his way.Casimir Konski watched him go, and smiled amiably. I wonder, he was thinking, if Mr Bastin would have been so excessive in his courtesy, if he had known that a friend of mine was even at this moment ensconced in the compartment adjoining that of the ingenious Mr Leyland. What a blessing these air lines are! How they simplify one’s necessary arrangements! And with the consciousness of hard work well done, Casimir wended his way to a restaurant in Brussels where he knew that the trout was particularly good, and the hock unexceptionable. During the rest of the evening he thought of nothing more exciting than the breeding of a peculiar species of short-haired Russian cat, of which he had recently acquired a female specimen.

Some three hours later, Sebastian Leyland, having finished his last drop of champagne, and absorbed some remarkable and hitherto unpublished details relating to the early private life of Madame Dubarry, switched off the tiny reading lamp behind his head, and turned his face to the wall. The compartment was now quite dark, save for a' dim blue glow from a lamp high up in the ceiling. The steady throb and roar of the express came to his ears only a regular soothing background to thought, like the distant beat of waves against a quay. The bed was comfortable.

The champagne had settled well. Smiling through the darkness Mr Leyland- . touched the despatch case once more, pull up the blanket a trifle and went to sleep. In five minutes he was snoring.

Suddenly, as if in a dream, he heard the click of the door. Leyland was awake in the instant. The train still roared steadily through the night. The blue light still burned. Was it imagation, or was the darkness thicker just next to the door?

He was taking no risks with a fortune under his pillow. His left hand grasped the despatch case, his right a tiny automatic pistol that lay beside it. He hoisted himself on one elbow very very slowly, levelling the weapon in the direction of the door. Then, simultaneously, he felt a knee in the small of his back, a grip of steel about his right wrist. The pistol was twisted so that the muzzle was within a few inches of his own face.

“Cry out or move —and you’ll splash your own brains all over the carriage!” whispered a voice. And Leyland realised sickly that his assailant’s finger was over his own upon the trigger of the pistol. "Despatch case please—and the key! Thanks. Sorry to have troubled you —” They were the last words Sebastian Leyland heard. The finger tightened. A yellow flash sprang out at him, scorching his eyes. The' door of the compartment was opened, first cautiously, then with a crash as the murderer saw that the corridor was empty. Next moment* the handle for stopping the train in an emergency was wrenched down. Officials appeared from all directions, talking with Gallic abandon. They were not at all surprised to find a whitefaced little Englishman, whose papers showed him to be a commercial traveller irreorsetry, cowering in the compartment of a Mr Leyland who had so evidently shot himself. "I was in the next compartment,' said the little Englishman over and over again "I heard the shot. I rushed in. My god, it was a ghastly sight! 1 snail never forget it!” A solicitous wagon-lit conductor offered him brandy, travellers provided genuine sympathy for which ne seemed grateful. Nobody dreamed that the unassuming little case under his arm might have been the property of the late Sebastian Leyland; still less that it contained some of the more valuable of the Crown Jewels of Styria. One of the principal disadvantages of knavery -is that it implies almost complete lack of protection against knaves.

Sebastian Leyland's fingerprints were duly discovered upon his own pistol. The Surete knew something of his record. and were content to let the matter pass, with a few oblique references to that empty bottle of champagne and a conscience indubitably guilty. And Mr Felix Bastin was far too' busy in assuring himself a safe passage to some country wherein extradition warrants did not apply, to be able to lay such information as might have altered the verdict at the enquiry. CHAPTER XIII. It was not at the Hotel Meurice, but to a small apartment overlooking the Parc Monceau, that Casimir Konski made his way from Le Bourget some twelve hours after the sudden death of Sebastian Leyland on the BrusselsParis express. He knew only too well the absurdity of using one of the big hotels as a hide-out for a personality as widely known and as frequently photographed as Hugo Brandon, and Flanescu had been given his instructions accordingly. When Casimir arrived, Sally was playing patience. Brandon and Flanescti were poring over a large-scale map that had been laid out on the floor. Casimir stood in the doorway, and looked about him approvingly. ‘‘Not bad —not bad at all, Leopold.” he said pleasantly. ‘‘Comfort without ostentation; a respectable if hardly fashionable quarter. Yes, you might have done a good deal worse.” "Thank you,” said the Roumanian.

Brandon jumped to his feet. "Well, what about you. Casimir? Hew did you get on?”

Casimir put his hat and stick on a table, and took a small despatch .case from under his arm. From an inner pocket of his coat he took a key. There was a jerk of his wrist, a snap, and the lid of the case opened. Casimir turned its contents out on ■■ to the table. There were seven flat cases, their leather much worn, elaborately stamped with a monogram and crown, and even Casimir’s fingers trembled slightly as he opened them one by one. “You see,” he said.

Flanescu drew in his breath sharply. Brandon stared. Sally cried out with pure pleasure. For the light was flung back from that table in a thousand facets of brilliance and colour, as though from a jeweller’s counter. There was a reviere of diamonds, of emeralds. There were bracelets of sapphires, of diamonds, of rubies. There was a necklace of diamonds, and another of pearls, and a rather oldfashioned tiara and collar of pearls and diamonds, with earrings to match. There was one case filled entirely with loose stones —zircons, opals, black pearls, rubies, amethysts. There were brooches, and rings and earrings, and shoulder-knots.

And among the blaze, the more prominent for its very simplicity, one heavy gold signet ring, set with a much battered coat-of-arms.

“Your father’s ring, Highness,” said Flanescu pointing. And for once he spoke without correction. Brandon took the ring, and put it on the little finger of his left hand. Sally saw that there were tears in his eyes. She put a hand on his sleeve —she could not help it, and then she saw Casimir Konski smiling, and hated him.

"First trick to us. I think," he said. "H’s an unrivalled collection, even this little part of it. If only Bannockburn could have got away a few more while ne was about it. It Seems a pity to have to turn it into cash—but even coups d’etat must be paid for.” "Put them away.” said Brandon hoarsely. "They’re my mother’s and mine. If I see them again, I’ll be damned if I let you dispose of them! Come along—let’s talk business. Flanescu’s a perfect fool with a map!” * Casimir shugged his shoulders. "Very well,” he said, and looked at Sally. “Would it inconvenience mademoiselle to take a little stroll down there in the park?” And he indicated the Parc Monceau through the window, where French children were playing, with strangely little noise and a certain gravity, after their kind. Sally flushed. “Why?” demanded Brandon.

“I hardly think that geographical details are likely to interest mademoiselle. as she will not be making the journey with us.” said Casimir smoothly.

“Of course I’ll go for a walk,” said Sally. “No,” said Brandon. He spoke as if with the assumption of his father’s ring he had also achieved a more conscious sense of authority. “If Miss Martin may not come on this journey, then 1 do not come myself. Nor will I argue the point.” Tie sat down, and Flanescu looked towards Casimir, as if to say, "What did I tell you?” “Suppose,” said Casimir, still speakig quite calmly, but twisting his moustache, “I refuse to play on such terms? That I tell your Styrian adherents that you are throwing away their cause and your birthright for the sake of the beau yeux of a little English stenographer.” "Tell them and be damned to you,” said Brandon. “It’s a lie to begin with. In the second place this is all bluff, Casimir, and you know it. You can’t do without me. And you can’t afford to let the situation in Styria go. It may never be as favourable again. I know that you care nothing for me, nor for Styria as far as that goes. But you want to break the Danubian Alliance, and you can’t do it without a Styrian monarchy, which you can’t have without me! And that’s my last word. You can take it or leave it!” He turned his back on Casimir, put an arm through Sally’s, and led her over to the window.

"He means it, Casimir,” whispered Flanescu.

"I know. It would appear that Hugo has grown up. It may complicate things—however ” he raised his voice, "Bluff called, Hugo. I accept.” "There you are, Sally—now come and watch a miniature General Staff planning a revolution. I hope you can read a map.” They , all knelt down in a semi-cir-fie. Flanescu produced a box of pins with white and red heads. Casimir leaned over and began to stud the map with them, inserting them with the •hick stubby fingers which were a perpetual exasperation to his vanity. "You realise our principal handicap," ne said. "All those islands most agreeably monarchist in feeling, but only a single port, on the mainland, and that as republican as the president's kitchen! We’ve tried tampering with what was left of the Navy. Quite useless.” "Well?” asked Brandon, impatiently. "The result is that we can’t follow the best precedents,’ replied Casimir. "The lonely knot of royalist adventurers. alas! cannot land upon a desolate cliff and raise a standard. There's no cliff.” His voice changed suddenly. "We must strike at the two military centres where we know we’ve good backing—Bratza and Duvornik. And we must strike by air—there’s no'other way.” "Go on. Casimir.”

"There’s a military and naval air base, as you know, on the Island of Torcula. The commandant is ours —or he will be. once you put in an appearance, Hugo. His dream in life is to wear the collar of the Order of St Tomislav—he’ll be cheap at the price. We make that our base. One night there—no more, because even if we cut the cable to the mainland, they're bound to get the news pretty quick. The jewels—oi most of them—go to Bratza, to give old Auffenburg the tip, and provide him with a war-chest. He opens the ball with his division, and moves straight on the capital, if all goes well.

"Meanwhile, Hugo, you go to Duvornik. That's no too far inland, if anything goes wrong, and you have to make a boll for it. And it’s handy for you to fly on to the capital, it Aufl'enburg brings it oil. He should. His men are a crack lot, and he’s got the only tanks the Treaty left to the Army. And then long live King Ottokar Maximilian!” (To be Continued.)