"CRASH!"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 26 October 1939, Page 12

"CRASH!"

COPYRIGHT.

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

BV

ARTHUR APPLIN.

Author of “Adventure for Two,” “Winning Through,” “Cold Cream,” etc.

CHAPTER XVI (Continued)

“That’s all right,” Brooke said, when he was shown into his private sittingroom. “We are lunching here, and it is a cold meal—that was to avoid having a servant running in and out. Let’s sit down at once. I find I can always talk and listen better when I am eating. Before a meal I have no ideas; after a meal, they are purely abstract.”

Johnny sat down: “Looks like a feast to me.” He watched Brooke open a bottle of champagne—he had wonderful hands, anything he did whatever was worth watching. “What’s the idea?” he asked, as Brooke filled his glass.

“I thought we might both like to drink to the health of the Dear Departed,” Brooke replied, with, his whimsical, irritating smile. “And, before you tell me anything, congratulations! It was a very fine effort; of course you must have been lucky” Johnny grinned and emptied his glass: “There was a time when I thought you had loaded the dice against me. Just as I started from Abbeville and ran into a bank of cloud, the infernal engine started missing ” “She never misses. Help yourself to the caviare.” Again Johnny wondered what was the idea at the back of Brooke’s mind. Why was he entertaining him so royally? “Apparently you carried out your programme without a hitch,” Brooke said. “Everything O.K. Seen the evening newspaper? Well, you can look at it later. They have salvaged the plane. I reported its loss to Scotland Yard this morning and expect to be rung up at any moment. They say there is very little hope now of recovering the bodies.” Johnny looked at him and smiled: “Not an earthly!” and Brooke repeated: “Not an earthly!” Before they had finished lunch Johnny told him everything that had happened at the boarding house that morning. Brooke didn’t seem particularly interested; he advised Johnny to forget the whole affair. Peggy’s safety was the only thing that interested them, and now that was assured. “Playing amateur detective, and meddling in other people’s affairs is infernally dangerous.” “But I promised Peggy I’d find out who stole the pearl necklace. I’m going to keep that promise whatever it costs.” Brooke rose, made coffee, gave Johnny a cigar, lit one himself and then drew chairs up to the fire. “The cost may be more than you will like to pay—l’m not thinking in terms of cash. Don’t forget there’s a third person in this, her accomplice—well the person she is working with, or shielding. It might be a clever crook who who's got her in his power; it might be a lover, ever her mother or possibly a brother. And supposing you find the necklace, you’ll have a few awkward questions to answer. You don’t suppose the thief will be obliging enough to hand it over? He’s probably quite aware it’s stolen property; and since you’ve killed Peggy Strong she couldn't explain how they came into her possession!” Johnny had not thought of that; Brooke was tying him up. Before he could reply Brooke said: “I’d like to know how the murder was committed and how you escaped!” “As soon as I got the English coast I took my bearing, then climbed and flew out to sea again. At 2000 feet I unscrewed the cap of the petrol tank, used the “dope” I'd prepared, and jumped. There was' a good southeasterly breeze blowing across the channel and the parachute carried me a few hundred yards ashore, on the Romney marshes. Oh yes, I had luck there. But I meant to be lucky! I dropped the bag that was found, directly I saw the waves breaking on the shingle—it probably fell in shallow water and was washed up. After I’d sunk the parachute in a canal with a few stones, I struck a main road, eventually got a lift on a lorry—and so to bed in the boarding-house!” “A pity you didn't stick to aeronautics instead of chemistry,” Brooke said drily.

Johnny was not listening; he had not come to be entertained by Brooke with expensive wine and cigars, he had come for the definite purpose of finding out what Brooke's reactions were now that he knew Peggy was safe, and to get her address in Paris —supposing he knew it. It was rather funny she had not told it to himself; but after all in the excitement of the moment he had forgotten to ask her. He still suspected Brooke: more than ever now. What sane man in his position would throw away a perfectly good aeroplane and risk being involved in a scandal, for a girl who was nothing more to him than an employee? Johnny looked at him at he sat leaning back in his chair, a cigar between his lips, his long hands folded together. He was staring into the fire. Johnny would have given almost anything to have been able to read his thoughts. And then a sudden suspicion occurred to him. He got up- abruptly. stood with his back to Brooke and poured • himself out another cup of coffee, afraid lest in his excitement he gave himself away. Brooke had got that pearl necklace! Peggy had discovered the police were on her track; she had left the empty case in her room and given the pearls to Brooke; and when she heard that the police were waiting for her at the boarding-house she had used Johnny as a cat's-paw, believing that if he were caught he would never give her away. Clever—damnably clever! He had walked blindly into the trap Brooke had set for him. He could see

it all quite plainly now . . every detail His chance remark about flying

her over, and Michael Brooke’s plane living ready in that mysterious bungalow in Essex; the faked row at the evening performance when Brooke dismissed Peggy. Strangely enough, even now he hardly felt any resentment against her. Of course she was in Brooke’s power —and in the power of this other man in Paris. A gang of international crooks—and here he was, drinking Brooke’s wine and smoking Brooke’s cigars at the Hotel Magnificent! And he was powerless to do anything: his hands were tied; he was incriminated up to the hilt. He glanced anxiously round the luxurious room. His imagination was on fire now. He conjured up all the schemes that might have been elaborated here. Without a doubt all these lovely girls who danced nightly at the hotel were decoys, who learned the secrets of the rich men they met and reported them to Brooke. That apparently chance remark of his now took on the appearance of a threat — “Playing amateur detective and meddling ip other people’s affairs is infernally dangerous.” His cigar had done out; he threw it away and lit a cigarette.

“I am afraid I must be getting back 'to the office,” he said, trying to speak carelessly. He was wondering how to get Peggy’s Paris address out of Brooke: he didn’t intend to let her go. He couldn’t rest until he had proved his suspicions were right, and if they were —even then he meant to save her, if it was not too late.

, There was a knock at the door, and the servant came into the room with some letters. Brooke stretched out his hand, glanced carelessly at the envelopes, then got up. “Excuse me a moment,” he said, standing with his back to Johnny. He threw two of the letters on the mantlepice and opened the third. As he turned the envelope over, Johnny recognised Peggy’s handwriting. He moved away, but kept his eyes on the mirror over the mantleshelf. The letter was brief, and the next moment Brooke tore it in half and threw it into the fire. Johnny went up to him and held <?ut his hand. “Sorry I have got to rush, but we shall meet- again, of course. I haven’t thanked you ”

As he spoke he glanced into the fireplace; the flames had just caught the letter. One of the half-sheets crinkled up, and Johnny saw the address —”87 Clignancourt ...” Boulevard, street, square, he didn’t know, it didn’t matter—that was enough to go upon. Brooke walked with him to the door. “You’ve nothing to thank me for,” he said. “On the contrary, I am grateful to you for having got one of my best girls out of trouble. When we return to Monte Carlo for the season, I hope she will rejoin us. You ought to come out there and look us up.” “I’m not a millionaire, unfortunately,” Johnny said. “By the way, do you know Peggy's address in Paris?” Brooke shook his head. “I didn’t ask, but I expect she’ll write to. you.” That clinched it, Johnny decided. Directly he reached the office he asked his chief for two or three days’ leave of absence on urgent private affairs — and got it. Next day he took the afternoon boat train from Victoria, reached Paris about nine o’clock, and drove straight to the Rue de Clignancourt. CHAPTER XVII. The concierge at the rue de Clignancourt was not communicative at first: she knew no young lady in the house with the name of Peggy Penshurst. But Johnny insisted: she might be staying there with a friend; she would have arrived the night before lastfiancee of monsieur on the third floor. Johnny described her . . Without doubt that was the young lady, and now the concierge came to think of it she remembered monsieur addressing her as “Peggy”—such a sweet English name, Peggy! Johnny said he would go up. The concierge stopped him. “Unfortunately they had both gone out an hour ago.” Over her should she called to her husband. “Yes!” replied the old man with a walrus moustache, sitting over the stove reading a magazine: “every evening monsieur goes out to his work at the same time —he is very regular in his habits . . .” The remainder of the sentence was lost in his moustache. “But then 1 can find him at —?” Johnny said interrogatively, and found another 10 franc note. The concierge smiled: “Why, at the Toledo Restaurant! of course monsieur knew the Toledo? Every visitor to Paris knew it. Just off the rue Blanche, half-way up the hill.” Johnny thanked her, clattered down the stairs. Madame watched him out of sight, shrugged her shoulders, smoother cut the notes and hid them away. “And what's he after?" her husband grunted. “You ought to know, if any man did!" his wife replied, slowly spreading herself into the chair opposite him. “But it’s so long since you were young,” she sighed, “that maybe you've forgotten.” Johnny restrained his natural inclination to hurry. He didn't know what he was going to do when he found Peggy—hadn't made any plans. He had been trying not to think —he couldn’t trust his thoughts. At one moment he knew nothing mattered but his love for Peggy, at another moment he almost hated her. In order to stop himself thinking, he had borrowed one of Pansy Jones’s wretched novels, which he had taken to bed with him the previous night. The thing was in his coat-pocket now —all about crooks and detectives and murders.

He walked quickly, but continually had to stop to ask his way. He didn’t like the look of the rue Blanche when he found it. After the glare of the boulevards it was narrow and dark, with here and there crude red and

orange lights advertising a “dancing.” He avoided the men who were touting for customers outside. Blasts of music pursued him. He found himself in the side street leading back up the hill towards Place Pigalle, and there on the right was the Toledo. An attendant snatched his hat and coat from him. A door opened and closed behind him, and he entered a room with cleverly-shaded lights. At first he was only conscious of smoke, figures moving mysterious through it, and white faces. A waiter with a figure like a full moon and a face like a codfish straight off the ice, welcomed him effusively and led him to one of the tables, with a sofa seat against the wall, that surrounded the restaurant. Of course, the inevitable bottle of champagne bearing the label of a famous maker —but it didn’t mean the maker had had anything to do with the contents! Johnny nodded, and the winewaiter,' whose optimistic fingers removed the gold label and wire and gently withdrew the cork, filled his glass. Another waiter flourished a menu in front of him. Thank heaven, it wasn’t necessary to eat! The thought of food now made him feel a little sick. He slipped a note into the wine waiter’s hand —it was always wise to be on good terms with the management and staff in these places. Taking a drink, he lit a cigarette, and then slowly looked round the room, wondering where he would find Peggy sitting—and with whom, and just what she was doing there. There were women's faces as white as marble and faces with blots of bright colour on high cheek-bones like painted dolls. On every face there was a red gash which slowly opened to show a row of white teeth in an artificial smile. He was tempted to get up and run away —urged by the knowledge that he loved Peggy—until he remembered (being young and still romantic) that if he really loved he had nothing to fear. The band began to play. A bored gigolo took the floor with an overdressed tourist from the Argentine. Johnny hated her —prejudice, of course! — hated being reminded of the Argentine. She suggested everything he wanted to forget—had been trying so hard to forget. He looked at her naked shoulders and coarse bare back, her jewels (diamonds, naturally!) Another couple took the floor —two girls, one fair and one dark —rather attractive seen through the haze of smoke. The band was playing an old-fashion-ed tune. The girls as they passed swaying suggestively smiled at him; the pianist swayed as he hammered the piece on the keyboard; the leader of the band swayed as he blew melancholy blasts from his saxophone. Johnny shivered. In other circumstances he might have been amused and intrigued; but this was where he was going to meet Peggy! presumably this was where she worked with her —fiance! He couldn't believe it because he didn't want to. He drank some wine—not so bad. A lot of people were dancing now —or rather hugging each other to music. He leant back and shut his eyes. If Peggy were there he would find her »soon enough-—and the precious “fiance!” The gigolo, of course! Johnny‘opened his eyes and looked at him again; he had not the average Englishman's instinctive loathing of gigolos, but this man might be anything from a crook to a murderer. Dark hair growing half-way down his cheekbone, shifty eyes and a sloppy mouth. The wine waiter was standing by his table again: “These cheese biscuits, sir —they go well with the wine.” Johnny nodded his thanks and took one. “The wine is to monsieur's liking?” Johnny smiled. Evidently he had been marked down —an Englishman, of course, with money to spend! “Better than I expected,” he said in English. He was too tired and nervy to try to keep up a conversation in French. “In these sort of places—” (To be Continued.)