"CRASH!"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 27 October 1939, Page 10

"CRASH!"

COPYRIGHT.

PUBLISHED B¥ SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

BY

ARTHUR APPLIN.

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

CHAPTER XVII (Continued)

“Ah, but the Toledo is different, monsieur. We study our clients. This is the only night restaurant in Paris which has a really good chef. Now, il you would try our speciality, homard a I’Americaine ?” Johnny shook nis head. “Then perhaps monsieur would like to dance? I could find him a charming partner —not from the Quarter, but an English girl.” Johnny struck a match and lit a cigarette. “And how much would it cost me to dance with her?” he asked, trying to speak carelessly. The waiter shrugged his shoulders. Johnny looked at him across the cloud of smoke he blew through his lips. Didn’t look a typical French waiter: honest eyes, mouth with a sense of humour and pugnacious chin—and he spoke English perfectly. “Mademoiselle would not expect payment. You see,” he went on quickly, “it is fine publicity for the restaurant to have good dancing, and English ball-room dancing is considered chic—the best in the vforld.” He refilled Johnny’s glass. "If monsieur will wait a moment I will ask mademoiselle; and introduce her.” Johnny-glanced quickly round the room. The place was filling up, waiters hurrying to and fro. It was impossible to distinguish faces more than a few yards away. “All right,” he said. He watched the man walk to the far end of the room and bend over a table there. Of course he had made up his mind that the girl was Peggy—though he began to hope he had jumped to a false conclusion; in any case, he might discover if she really was working here and in what capacity. Now the waiter was coming back, and following him a girl in a black velvet dress, jade ear-rings—and the light caught her hair, deep bronze. “Monsieur —Mademoiselle Peggy.” Johnny stood up with the sentence he had prepared dying on his lips. Peggy was staring at him, wide-eyed, her face bloodless. The maitre d’hotel —the man with a face like a codfish —created a diversion by summoning the wine-waiter. “Table 27 —tin magnum, vite!” Johnny 'looked at her. “Sorry if I have given you a shock. Didn’t expect to see me! Shall we dance?” he said. Nothing seemed to matter now. He had been a fool to come ... but he wished she would say something, or do something instead of standing there looking like death. She was giving the show away—giving herself away. “Sit down for a moment —have some wine!” he suggested. He took her hand; it was icy cold. She dropped on the seat beside him and he poured out some champagne. He watched her as she put the glass to her lips and swallowed a mouthful. “Pull yourself together, Peggy. You needn’t be scared of me. I only came to see if you were all right, and in case I could help you.” He laughed. “Rather funny, eh? But it’s quite O.K. I shan’t give you away.” He hardly knew what he was saying At the touch of her hand, though it was cold and not responsive, he had been thrilled again. He wanted to be calm and reasonable, to tell her all he knew or suspected, to tell her he was willing to take her away and save her from the mess she had got into. But if she belonged to that infernal dago, if she loved him, then he was done for. He looked at the fellow, dancing now with quite a nice American girl. Strange creatures, women —the best and loveliest threw themselves into the arms of the dago type—and married the codfish type. “Johnny! Don’t you understand—? I thought you had been killed, when I read about the plane going down in flames. The shock when I saw you sitting there ” “Sorry! Perhaps I ought to have gone down. I have a suspicion that that was Brooke’s idea.” “Don’t talk like that!” she said’ sharply. “I was going straight back to London, but Dick thought I had better wait until we got further particulars. Johnny! . . .” She bit her lip. “Give me a minute to recover —and then we must dance.” “Who’s Dick?” he asked. “He introduced us. Of course, he hadn’t an idea who you were . . . Yes! We had better dance, or I shall cry or do something silly. Can’t you realise what a relief it is to know you are safe? I have been going through hell in the last 24 hours.” “Yes, let’s dance.” She was lying—of course she was lying. But when he took her in his arms and they began to move across the floor, he didn’t care. They were together again. He had got her —for a moment. For a moment, in a night restaurant off the rue Blanche. Close he hold her, and through the reek of tobacco and wine and hot bodies came the faint smell of acacia blossom . . . And now they were walking through Kensington Gardens again: trim nursemaids with children under the trees; dogs chasing and racing to and fro; golden leaves falling; crunching brown leaves beneath their feet ... His face touched the top of her head. “I love 'you,” he said. “I don't care what you are, or what you have done, or to whom you belong. I love you!” CHAPTER XVIII. Still closer she drew and oven at that moment he knew that he was behaving like a fool —and that he was being fooled. Yet still he told himself it didn’t matter. He knew the worst now. But if only he could hear the truth from her lips, if she would trust him and tell him everything, he could bear it. Or couldn’t ho? Over her shoulder he saw the gigolo, an inane smile on his thick lips. There was the wine 1 waiter, wliom she familiarly called

“Dick,” watching them with a smirk of satisfaction on his face . . And then as the music stopped for a moment, he fet Peggy’s body relax as she drew closer to him.

"Do you mind if I sit down now, Johnny?” she said’in the husky voice he had always found so exciting. He felt the blood throbbing in his temples—if he were not careful he would go off the deep end and say or do something fatal. What hurt him most . . . that she was a crook, or that she had a lover—this dago whom the concierge had said she was going to marry?

He kept his arm round her. “I am not going to let you go, now that I have found you,” he said. “I didn’t come out here just to tell you I loved you, but to make you tell me the truth. I think I know everything. Brooke rather gave himself away, in trying to shield you, and himself. But I have got to hear it from your lips. I think I have the right to know.” He saw her glance round the room. “Not now, Johnny! Not here! Please be careful.”

The music began again. “You needn’t be afraid I shall give you away,” he said, as they moved across the floor. “If your—your lover’s jealous, you can explain afterwards.” "My lover?” She laughed. That didn’t deceive him —it was too obviously forced. And then she said, in a hard voice he scarcely recognised: “Perhaps you will explain how you found that out, and how you knew where I was living?” “I happened to be in the Hotel Magnificent, lunching with Brooke, when your letter arrived. When he had read it he burned it, but I happened to see the address before it was destroyed. So perhaps now you realise that I know I have been used as a cat’s paw, and that you and Brooke and this other man are all working together.” “Please, Johnny!” she cried. “Not now! Even here we are not safe.”

“You are safe enough. Don’t you know that you—Peggy Strong—are dead?” He felt the weight of her body in his arms, thought she was going to faint. He took her back to his table, made her sit down and poured her out some wine. She drank it and asked for a cigarette. Her hands were shaking; the cigarette quivered between her lips. Johnny leaned back on the sofa seat, his arms folded, staring at her. He was not sure now whether he loved her or hated her; there must be a close connection between the two. What, he wondered, were the chemical reactions that took place in a man’s blood when he fell in love? God, what a convention, that “falling in love!” Just what he had done—fallen, like a stone into a pit. When he reached the bottom he would know where he was! And now the infernal wine waiter; the man she called “Dick,” came up beamingly. Johnny wondered if he too was in the racket. Not a bit like a waiter really; spoke English perfectly, too. He refilled their glasses with a flourish, said “Another bottle, monsieur? Perhaps madame will eat something?” He returned to Johnny. “May I recommend the caviare* sir? Specialite de la Maison.” “Yes, bring anything you like,” Johnny said, “and be quick.” “Bien, monsieur.” Johnny watched him as he glided away. He had seen Peggy glance at him; they were in league, of course . . . For the first time he wondered just how this game was going to end. He might easily find himself in a terrible mess, and end up in a very tight corner. He looked at Peggy again. Her eyes were half-closed; she was smoking quickly—acting, probably; he knew what a clever actress gfie was and how easily she could change her personality. He wanted to believe —most dreadfully he still wanted to believe—that the real Peggy was the simple unsophisticated girl he had met in the boarding-house. He remembered the shock he had got when he recognised her as one of the “Lovelies” —beautiful and splendidly defiant in her daring costume. And now, in her black velvet dress, with the long ear-rings swinging from her ears —what did she represent now? Slowly she turned her head and smiled at him, and the expression on his face was wistful, almost child-like in its unhappiness; made him think of a face on the screen . . The waiter returned with the champagne and caviare. What a wonderful game it all was, Johnny thought, and how splendidly they played it, these people of the Underworld. Gosh, he almost admired them —he wasn’t sure he didn’t envy them!

"For heaven's sake take that smile off your face!” he said roughly to Peggy. “Have some caviare and drink your wine . . Oh! I understand everything. I’m sorry, but it rather hurts—because you see. I did love you!” She held up her glass, then put it to her lips: he drank too. Her beauty intoxicated him. wine might act as an antidote!

"I owe you so much, Johnny,” she said softly—“l really owe you my life —that it isn’t easy to say anything. But if you are sure you understand, it wouldn’t matter what I said now. So when we have finished supper you had better go. And please don't ask for the bill; it’s my party.” That took his breath away. Hardly knowing what he said, he shouted: “Thanks! You’re very generous with Michael's money!” That hurt her, as he meant it to. Her cheeks flamed. She sat quite still for a few moments, the cigarette smoking between her fingers; then she crumpled it up on the table and rose: “I don't think there is anything more to be said, Johnny. I'll go.” He caught her wrists and pulled her back. “No, you don’t!” he said. “Take care!” she whispered. “Would you make a scene?”

“Yes, I daresay I shall —if you don’t sit down and tell me exactly what your relations are with Brooke and this other man —how it all began, and where you think it is going to end.” She held her lower lip between her teeth. Curious how that habit of hers affected him —somehow made her look lost and helpless. “There’s nothing to tell you. And any way you’ve no right ” “I have the right, because I love you!”

(To be Continued.)

The gigolo, dancing past, overheard and stared at him. Peggy said: “I thought you were generous once, but you are taking a mean advantage of me now. We can’t talk here: everyone is looking at us already. We had better go back to the flat, and I will tell you everything, if, when you know, you promise to go! Wait a mo- 1 ment, while I get my cloak.” He saw her go back to her table. Almost instantly the wine waiter joined her. That was Dick, Johnny remembered; marvellous name for a French waiter! They were talking earnestly, arguing. Dick seemed excited —perhaps he was the lover, or just another of the gang? Presently Peggy came back. The waiter followed her, beaming now. Without a moment’s hesitation he made out the bill: “Voila, monsieur!” Quite moderate, considering the type of place. Johnny followed Peggy into the street. They walked up to Place Pigalle, where he hailed a taxi. As he opened the door he gave the driver the address. “So you have been to the flat already?” Peggy said as the taxi started. He nodded. “Of course. You see, it was the concierge who gave you away —about your “fiance” I mean. Is it Dick, or the gigolo, or which of them?” She didn’t reply.' She was lying looking very white and very cold, and very far away. It required all his strength now not to pick her up in nis arms. He understood why men sometimes kill the woman they love. “Who is the man you are living with?” he repeated. “The man I am living with,” she said quietly, "is the wine-waiter, Dick.”