"BEYOND DOVER"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 22 May 1939, Page 10

"BEYOND DOVER"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

COPYRIGHT.

By

VAL GIELGUD.

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

CHAPTER XIX. (Continued). . . and therefore while it is unfortunately true that the exiled Arch-Duke has landed, I can assure you confidently, and with every sense of my responsibility in such an assurance that the rising is doomed to failure. In the first place there is no chance of the monarchists succeeding without bloodshed. In the second the young Arch-Duke has neither the experience, the character, nor the advisers, to enable him to succeed. I have taken certain steps, which will settle the matter within the next few days. From the poiiit of view of the royalists in Styria it was unfortunate that the Queen Dowager should have fallen so completely under the influence of Casirfiir Konski. His abilities are unquestionable. His utter lack of principle of any kind —a lack only too widely known —has been responsible more than anything else for -the failure of the royalist party to secure Great Power backing, which, in spite of all rumours, they have not got, and will not now get . . . ” His Majesty’s Secretary of State for League of Nations’ Affairs, took off his horn-rimmed glasses, a,nd pushed tne cumbrous file marked “STYRIA” across his desk.

■ “Thank you, Boughton,” he said, a little wearily, “that will do, I suppose.” “I think, so, sir. ’ Lutyens is extremely reliable; never writes without knowing and generally delivers the goods.” The Secretary of State flicked over the leaves of his calendar. “Ten days still before the next meeting of the Council. D’you think he’ll have it tidied up by then? I don’t want to have that added complication. Geneva will be hotter than ever, and about ten times as tiresome, anyway!” “I don’t think you need bother, sir. I’ll keep yoq informed, of course.” “Who’s this fellow, Casimir Konski?” demanded the Secretary of State. Colonel Boughton grimaced. “An international bad hat of the deepest dye, sir. Always troubling the waters in the nope of landing a fish. Any amount of ability, mixed nationality—largely Polish —no principles, and no regular occupation. I owe him a thing or two, sir.” i The other man nodded.

“Is there anything in this yarn about an English girl being with the ArchDuke, Boughton?’-’ he asked. “If there is, and anything happens to her, and the Press get hold of it, there’ll be the very deuce to pay! Fresh young English girlhood —as opposed to the League—is worth all the bones of all the grenadiers we've got! I suppose it’s the usual canard?”

Colonel Boughton coughed. He was not sure that the Secretary of State would approve wholeheartedly of all the methods employed by Basil Lut--yens and other special agents. At times he was not sure if he approved of them himself. How he regretted the ending of the polo season'. . “I suppose so, sir,” he answered at last. “In any case we can leave it'to Lutyens with every confidence.” The Secretary of State looked up with, a disconcertingly shrewd straight glance. .

“We’re not all such fools as we look, Boughton,” he said. “As we shall have to, we can. Good morning.” No wonder, tnought Boughton, that he makes them sit up and take notice and ask for his autograph and snap him on the steps at Geneva. He knows —and only asks questions to confirm what he' knows. Pity he can’t work for us! With which rather quaint reflection he made his way out into Whitehall. CHAPTER XX. Sally and Nigel stood looking at each other. Then, after a few moments, Sally ran across to the door and wrenched at the handle. But there had been no mistake; it was locked. “How on earth did you get here?” she asked, and her voice was shrill with anger, because she was afraid of bursting into tears. “Is this some silly plot of yours, Nigel? I'll never forgive you if it is!” “I don’t know what you mean,” said Nigel. “If you think I came all the way to Styria for the fun of being locked up with you in about the drear-iest-looking room I’ve ever seen ” Sally stamped her foot. “Why did you come?” she demanded furiously. “Hadn't you made a big enough fool of yourself in Paris” Nigel reddened. “That’s not like you, Sally,” he said. “I behaved vilely—l want to tell you how sorry 1 am about that evening—but —Oh. well, I don’t understand all this business! Why did you stay that night at the Cosmopolite? Why did you go abroad? Was it because you were really afraid of the police, or ?”

He stopped abruptly, sat down on the edge of the table, and took out a packet of Virginian cigarettes. “Have one, Sally?”

The girl took one. They looked straight into each other's eyes as Nigel lighted them. And suddenly they both laughed.

"We were both being a bit silly, weren’t we?” said the girl. "We were.” Nige] agreed. “But it’s all very well. Sally. I may have been behaving like a crimson lunatic in a melodrama. 1 knew really all the time that you uad your reasons—you believe that, don't you?” She nodded gravely. “But why did that man with the red beard get hold of me in Paris?” “In Paris, Nigel!” “Yes—listen, Sally. That night I got tight I had a queer bit of luck. I meta fellow called—well his name doesn’t matter, but he’s some kind of British agent, looking after this Styrian show on behalf of the Government. He promised to help me keep in touch with you. He seemed to think it was important for you to come to Styria, but for me to be on hand.”

“Why?” asked Sally, frowning. “He didn't explain, at least not satisfactorily. I think the idea was that you should compromise Brandon —this Pretender chap—somehow. I lost my temper rather.” “A good thing, too,” said Sally. “Compromise! Am I supposed to be some sort of political vamp with secre documents in my —corsage is the delicious word they use, isn’t it? I haven’t the proper wardrobe fur the job. that's certain.”

“You look very nice as you are,” said Nigel seriously. “Thank you. But what about this gentleman with the red beard?” “Oh, he picked me up in a cafe near the Madeleine. He seemed to want me to follow you to Styria, too. But he was more practical than the Englishman. He gave me the necessary doings, tickets, route, and everything, and this place and date as my rendezvous.” “He would have,” murmured Sally. "Did you tell your spy man about him?” “Yes,” said Nigel, “and that puzzled me a good deal. He only said that suited his ideas nicely, and gave me his blessing!” ■ “And now Casimir has us both locked in, like a couple of naughty children by their wicked uncle,” said Sally. “If only we knew what his real game was!” “Casimir?” “Casimir Konski, your red-bearded friend. Would it surprise you, Nigel, to know that he travelled with me and Hugo Brandon to Torcula, and that he’s the moving spirit behind this royalist movement?” “Then why should he and the Englishman—who wants the movement cut at source —why should they both want you and me together in Styria? Where do we come in, Sally? We’re ordinary insignificant people. What have we got to do with all this revolutionary business?” Sally, who had been sitting beside him on the table, jumped down. “I think,” she said slowly, “I’m beginning to see. It may sound very conceited of me—and incidentally it doesn’t happen to be true—but I think that both Casimir Konski and your Englishman believe that Hugo is in love with me.” “You’re sure he isn’t, Sally?” “Quite —but don’t interrupt. He thought he was for a little. Now he’s in love with an idea, something rather hazy and muddled, but somehow rather fine, about Kingship and Styria. I think he regards me as a sort of mascot, Nigel.” “Good Lord —it sounds crazy to’ me! But go on.” “Your Englishman thought that Hugo would spoil his chances by bringing me to Styria with him. Casimir tried to stop my coming, but Hugo put his foot down. Now you see where their interests coincide. Your man wanted me to come. Casimir had to let me come. Now they both want me to clear out. You see, I expect they think that if I do, Hugo—being supposed to be in love with me —will bolt after me and spoil his' chances. So they bring you along to encourage me to do the bolting, as kidnapping isn’t popular these days.” “I say, Sally,” said Nigel, screwing up his eyes, “it’s devilish complicated.” “Politics are,” said the girl, with a great air of sophistication. “I’ve found that out these last’days.” “But, supposing for the moment that you’re right, Sally. Why should this Konski fellow want to dish his own candidate’s chances?”

“I don’t know, Nigel. But I believe I’m right for all that. I hate Casimir Konski. I feel with him as if somehow I was in a cage with an absentminded tiger, and I keep on wondering what he’ll do when he takes the trouble to realise that I’m there!” “What I want to know,” said Nigel, “is why the devil he wanted to lock us in!” At that moment Sally clutched his arm. From the distance broke out a strange rattling sound, not unlike the irregular tapping ,of the keys of a typewriter. There followed three or four unmistakable explosions, and then a faraway sound of men cheer•ng. “Perhaps that was why,” said Sally. “You mean ne didn't want us to get hurt?” asked Nigel scornfully. “I’d prefer our passports, and the address of the British Consul. Who’s shooting who, I wonder?” The firing broke out again, this time considerably nearer. A bugle sounded, apparently close under their windows. Then came one hideous, nerve-shattering, rending crash, and the noise as ol a thousand cartloads of bricks being tilted simultaneously into a quarry. Isolated rifle-shots cracked out, the feet banged and clattered stumblingly down the corridor outside their door. Sally and Nigel stood very close to each other, holding each other’s hands. They were both very white, and acutely self-conscious over their pretence of courage’ “It was, pretty nice of you to come after me like that,” whispered Sally as the noise outside died away. "Oh, rot!” said Nigel awkwardly, “I bad to come. I —Oh, damn!” The door was opened, revealing hree men wearing black berets, like hose worn by the Chasseurs Alpins. They had black tunics, with red armlets, black breeches and puttees. Two carried rifle and bayonet. The middle of the three had a heavy Mauser pistol in his hand, secured to his wrist by a lanyard. “Come out!” he said brusquely, speaking in German. “We’re British subjects.” said fjigel "What do you want?” “We want you—outside! Quickly! And the pistol jerked significantly. Nigel clenched his fists, but Sally put her arm through his and squeezed his elbow. "It’s no good irritating them, Nigel. Some on.” They went out, and followed the man with the pistol to the courtyard just within the main gateway of the citadel. The gateway itself had dissolved into a rubble of broken bricks where a shell had blown it im Phrought the gap, squatting in the shade of the plane-trees like some monstrous prehistoric beasts, a coupls of tanks were visible, their crews standing beside them, their guns manned and ready. Dust was still drifting upwards, and there was an acrid smell of explosive and what Nigel tried to persuade himself was not burned flesh. Two or three bodies, their faces covered with a ground sheet lay in the furthest corner of the courtyard. (To be Continued.)