"BEYOND DOVER"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 16 May 1939, Page 10

"BEYOND DOVER"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

By

VAL GIELGUD.

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

CHAPTER XIV. (Continued). He took from his pocket book a small star-shaped piece of green paper, licked it on one side, and stuck it carefully to the inside of the lid of tne case. . “That’s just in case you’re ever in a bad jam and want help. You never know who may or may not be one of our people, and you can usually manage to find an excuse for opening a cigarette case. It’s saved my bacon before now! Now, you’ve not forgotten what you told me about yourself and Miss Martin?” “Is it likely?” “Very well. I’ll get you in touch with her again, here in Paris, if it’s possible. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but one pretty accurate source of information tells me that she and Brandon —it must have been Miss Martin from the description —are ” “You needn’t go on,” said Nigel harshly. “All right But don’t blink the facts, Craven. If it’s true that he’s fallen in love with her, it’s vitally important. It gives us a line on him, and if necessary a lever. And you may have to pull that lever.” There was a little silence. “Look here,” said Nigel. “I promised to obey your orders and I will. But I’ll have no hand in using a girl for a political catspaw, let alone. And that’s fiat!” “I'll promise not to ask you to do anything which could hurt her in any way,” said Lutyens gently. "Will that do for you?” Nigel was already rather ashamed of his outburst. His feelings had been genuine enough. Its expression had reminded him of an old melodrama. “Sorry,” he muttered. “But I’m worried to death about her. And after my idiocy in that damned night club, she probably won’t want to have anything more to do with me. I can’t blame her.”

“She may feel like that now,” admitted Lutyens. "But I doubt if she’ll go on feeling like that once shejs in Styria.”

“In Styria?” “Yes. She’ll probably be glad to see a fellow-countryman again.” “But I must stop her. Lutyens. We can’t let her go to that infernal place,| knowing that there’s likely to be a revolution any minute!” “I can do anything,” said Lutyens airly, “but then I’m almost an old man. By all means try and stop her from going. I warn you I don’t think you’ll succeed.” “Can I tell her that Scotland Yard aren’t still on her trail?” “You may. She won’t believe yon. she won’t want to.” “You mean —she’s in love with Brandon?” “She’s probably in love with her idea of Brandon. It’s a fairly ideal romantic situation, you know.” Nigel finished his drink automatically. He felt dazed and unhappy, and desperate for action; and he had not the slightest idea what to do. He saw, too, that for the moment there was no further help to be looked for from the British agent. Lutyens, no doubt —wanted Sally to follow Brandon on some mad expedition to Styria. ' There he could use her, as he would use anyone or anything that might be handy to help him to do his job all very well for Lutyens, with his years- of experience behind him, and an urgent Foreign 'Secretary at the end of his telephone line. For him. Nigel, it was a very different matter. To Lutyens, Sally Martin was just a girl, who had got mixed up in affairs too high for her. To Nigel she was the only girl in the world. He could not get out of his head highly coloured pictures of her in hideous situations—-ill-treated by Brandon, or shot by wild-eyed revolutionaries; or trapped in some burning house in the midst of fire and shooting. ' “Fir go to Styria if you want me to,” he said finally. ‘D’you mind if I go out now for some exercise? I feelstifled!” “By all means —if I didn’t walk you enough just now,” said Lutyens. “Take it easy. Craven, take it easy.” “I’ll'do my best.” Almost opposite the Madeliene Nigel stopped. He realised that sweat was pouring down his face, and he was feeling so dizzy that for an instant he thought he must faint. He sat down outside turning; and ordered a drink. While he was waiting for it, a man at an adjoining table came across and asked if he could be provided with a match. Nigel handed him his lighter. “Most grateful.” said the other. “You are. I believe, MT Craven?” "How the dickens did you know?” "Let that pass for the moment, Mr Craven. Enough that I do know. You are, I believe, interested in a young lady, a Miss Martin?” Nigel stared. He felt he should make some violent gesture, but he was too tired, and too curious. "Very well,” said the stranger. Nigel saw that lie had a neat red beard, and thought he recognised him for one of Brandon's party at the “Chat Gris.” "If that is so, I think I can be of service to you. May I sit down?” “Of course.” “And you will perhaps join me in a vermouth-cassis? We will drink to our better acquaintance. Mr. Craven." CHAPTER XV.

The island of Torcula, looked at on the map. has rather the shape of a gargoyle’s nose and mouth with no face behind them. Like all that coastline it rises sheer out of the sea. grim and forbidding even in sunlight. Out of clear depp glittering water, that in summer is as smooth as deep green or blue glass, tower rugged granite cliffs covered, irregularly with spiky scrub growing knee-high. As in the case of the Dalmatian coast, which il much resembles. mankind seems to cling with a certain desperate ineffectiveness to this constline of Slvria and the Islands, doing little more than scratch painfully the surface of unresponsive savage earth. There is little sustenance except for goats. The houses, often brightly coloured, stand out against the grey locks and brownish scrub like a child's toy village, flimsy and insubstantial. Here men seem interlopers in a region where essentially the earth remains waste and void, as it was in the beginning of time. Th great bay. which is perhaps the most prominent feature of Torcula. faces almost exactly due east towards the mainland of Styria and the navel

base of Krusak. On its southern shore the Venetians in the fifteen century built a stone quay, with a round stone fort at either end and the winged Lion of St Mark carved over the gateways. When the Venetians abandoned the island a little fishing village gradually grew up along the quay. Traders in grapes and melons pitched stalls in the shadow of the lowers. And boats with queerly shaped sails drifted to and fro across the waters of the bay. The local priest, who wore a bowler hat, a slip of bright pink satin beneath his soutane, and button boots, was the principal figure in the place. Then came the War. The Central Powers used Torcula for a submarine base and various people became alive to its strategical possibilities. It was in 1931 that the Styrian Government, like all other Governments which the Peace Treaties had disarmed, began seriously to re-arm with one hand, while protesting in notes written by the other that re-armament was the thing farthest from their imaginations. In that process of rearmament, Torcula appeared as the head-quarters o'.' the new Styrian air force: a force tiny indeed, but since it was trained by Germans and equipped by English firms, of a considerable quality, out of proportion to its size. Torcula had been chosen because, unlike the rest of the Islands, it possessed a plateau, comparatively level, running along the “chin” of iis queer formation. This had been treated and cleared at enormous expense both of labour and money, till it made a very tolerable aerodrome. Some quick firing guns were mounted behind breast-works on the horns of the bay, and a white villa, built some twenty, years before by an eccentric Austrian archaeologist was converted into quarters for the Commandant of the-base.

On the first floor balcony of this villa, looking eastward over the huddled roofs of the fishing village, across the oay to the outline of the Styrian coast, Hugo Brandon and Sally were sitting after dinner. They sat in deep shadow,only broken by the red spark of Brandon’s cigarette. Behind them at the dinner table Casimir Konski, Flanescu and the Commandant were drinking plum brandy. Candlelight threw their shadows, wavering immense and grotesque, upon the bare, white-wash-ed wall. The Commandant, a stiffbacked short man, with a toothbrush moustache and hair cut en brosse —was in.full uniform. The collar of St Tomislav glittered at his throat. Flanescu, least military-looking of men, lounged uncomfortably in a major’s service tunic, half unbuttoned. Casimir, in a dinner jacket with a white flower in the lapel, was nursing a pathetically thin kitten on his knees. They hardly spoke. The bay glowed under a full moon as if with white fire, its surface barely rippled. The eastern sky was a dim silver, flecked with a few pale stars. Against it loomed the peaks and bastions and turrets of the Styrian coast, their outlines starkly jagged, inhospitable, grimly forbidding. Over all hung an immense silence, so that the cry of a child below in the village rang out as startmgly as a trumpet. From the mouth of the bay came the singing of some fishermen hauling in their net, curiously distinct and melancholy and beautiful.

Sally put a hand on Brandon’s knee. “Tired, Hugo?” “At little —these last few days ” “I know. But everything’s gone marvellously well so far.” They spoke very quietly, as if unwilling to violate the silence. “Yes,” said Brandon, "it has. But I’m just wondering ” He broke off. Until that evening he had been too occupied, frankly too excited, to be able to do much thinking. There had been the chartering of the private yacht, which had been run into Krusak with such secrecy to lay a false trail. There had been their own journey on the smallest and most ordinary of coasting steamers and their transhipment at sea to a sailing vessel for the final stage to Torcula. There had been the first landing on Styrian soil; the crisis of the meeting with the Commandant; the speech to the officers of the air squadron—how Brandon had loathed the mummery of his uniform, the trailing .discomfort of his sword; tne first shots of the revolution, when a dozen rigid republi-' cans had attempted to oppose the party sent to cut the cable connecting Torcula with the mainland; the settlement over dinner of the final plans for the morrow ....

“Yes, Sally. It's just that I’m rather tired. Eut at this moment, between that smooth water and those unimpressionable hills. I can’t help wondering a little if it’s all worth while. After all, what difference can a president or a king make to the hills and the sea? And they're the country, Sally. They last. Is it worth while to burn and shoot and cheer, and create confusion on the surface? It seems rather like scratching, at a mountain side with one’s finger nails —ineffective, stupid, perhaps even cruel. I saw that man they shot by the cable station —no doubt a good fellow enough, big and oronzed, a fine type. He, and the little things he cared for, snuffed out, like that! And he won't be the only one!” He moved his head restlessly as if in pain. "Killing’s so stupid when your blood has cooled. Sally. Il’s so —-final. Can it ever be justified?" "You’ve changed. Hugo, haven’t you?" "Perhaps. More likely I’m only tired. That singing—it depresses me. It’s like a dirge.” Sally glanced over his shoulder into the candle lit room. Flanescu was asleep. The Commandant, a rather wolfish smile on his lips, was playing with his new decoration, turning it over and over with his fingers, as if not quite convinced that it was really there safely al his throat. Casimir was feeding the kitten, scratching it gently behind ils ears. She turned back to Brandon, and spoke low and urgently. "You’re right. Hugo. It’s not worth it. I think the whole scheme’s mad. Why not let it go?”. He hardly moved, but through the darkness she imagined that she saw his expression harden. "It’s gambling with people’s lives. Hugo. You said so yourself! To say nothing of your own.” The words were hardly out of her mouth when she realised that she had played a wrong card. (To be Continued.)