"AFRICA FLIGHT"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 3 February 1940, Page 10

"AFRICA FLIGHT"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAT, ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

By

VAL GEILGUD.

(Author of “Announcer's Holiday,” “Beyond Dover,” Etc.

CHAPTER XX.

Sir George winced, and found himself unable to do more than mutter angrily that he was ashamed of his daughter. No one else said anything at all, and Carol found relief from the intolerable strain of the past weeks in .giving vent to her feelings. “How can you all be such silly hypocrites?” she cried. “All of you, except Nigel, were there, when Tony made that silly melodramatic scene with the revolvers. I was ready to let that be decently buried with him —but to have him turned into a hero, a martyr, and a saint! There are limits, even nowadays, to what decent people can stand!”

Otto Flesch was understood to murmur that there was a good deal to be said for the typically English proverb on the subject of leaving sleeping dogs to lie. But Carol was not to be checked or side-tracked.

“Tony was simply a fool!” she said coldly. “A nice fool sometimes—l was very fond of him in the old days. And at the end I think he was a very unhappy fool. But a hero—you all now was well as I do that he ou< it never to have started out with Rupert and me at all; that Rupert warned him that we hadn’t enough water for the three of us; that he’d be bound to be a drag ” She broke off helplessly. For, after all, what was the good of all this? Her essential honesty had revolted against the canonisation of Tony Sothern. But in reality that was not her problem, as she knew very well She was no nearer being able to drag that into the healing light of day.

And then with a certain horror she realised that her father might be going to solve that problem for her. Sir George Manson had more than his fair share of natural shrewdness. And he did not believe for one moment that the adoption of a false point of view about Antony Sothern’s death was the real cause of his daughter's white face, shadowed eyes, and neurotic freedom of speech. “Listen to me, Carol,” he was saying. “Did anything happen out there in the desert which you now, and which the rest of us don’t?”

“I think,” interrupted Hubert mildly, “that we’d far better have dinner, and leave the continuation of this discussion until Rupert Larrimore can be here.”

But he was in a minority of one. “What did happen, Carol?” asked Janet Manson with uncompromising directness.

“Carol was asleep,” said Hubert reasonably. “How could she know exactly what did happen?' “Shall I tel] them to bring in dinner, Sir George?” inquired Cynthia Wright, tactful as ever.

But Sir George had his nose to the trail now, remorseless as any bloodhound.

“Were you asleep, Carol?” he demanded.

Carol swayed a little on her feet. "Yes," she said at last. Sir George glared round him. "Then what is all this nonsense?" he asked comprehensively. Janet Manson took up the inquisition.

“I should like to know, Carol, dear"’’ she said, "exactly how you found out that Antony Sothern had killed himself?” “Oh what does it matter?” retorted the girl wearily. "Rupert heard the shot. He went out and found him. Then he came back and told me. Would you have thought it more suitable if he’d taken rrjo out to look at — the body?” she added, with a suspicion of hysteria. This her aunt ignored. "Rupert heard the shot, you say?” "That’s what I said!” "I see,” said Janet Manson.

“What do you see ?” demanded Sir George angrily. He was not used to the sensation of having his thunder so blatantly stolen from him. Janet Manson bit her lip. Perhaps she was moved by Carol’s white face and twitching lips. Perhaps she remembered at that moment that if it hadn't been for Rupert Larrimore's pluck and endurance, she and Hubert would have for a certainty died out there in the desert beside the “Star of the East.”

"Oh, I don't know," she murmured uneasily. “It was just a rather silly idea that came into my mind. And I dont want to think of it again. After all, even if poor Antony didn’t show up too well at one moment, he paid his bill in the long run —with interest!” "Exactly, exactly,” said Sir George. "What does it matter what happened before he —er made the supreme sacrifice?" And he coughed consequentially.

"I expect you’re right." said Carol listlessly. Sir George squared his heavy shoulders. "Antony died lie a hero—that's all we must remember about him in the future," he said, almost as if he were delivering judgment from the Bench and defying a higher court to reverse the verdict on appeal. “If only you'd leave the poor boy to rest quietly in his grave!" cried Carol, looking desperately from face to face. And then she swayed so that she had to clutch at a corner of the grand piano for support. Rupert Larrimore had walked into the room, unnoticed, with his swift, silent jungle-step, of which Saunders had said that “it always reminded him of a half-tame leopard." He stood just inside the door, looking at Carol with a very queer expression about his lips; half smiling, half pitiful. And he was wearing a lounge suit. “We. were beginning to wonder if

you were coming, Larrimore," said Sir George.

Larrimore apologised carelessly, and walked over toward the piano.

"You might have telephoned, Rupert,” muttered Carol. “I suppose I might,” said Larrimore, looking at her closely. “D'you know it never entered my head?” He lowered his voice: “Carol dear, you look ghastly. What is it?” Behind him he heard Cynthia Wright's maddeningly cool voice: “You must have been extraordinarily occupied Mr Larrimore.” Larrimore always preferred to face his perils. He turned round, pausing a moment as he did so to squeeze Carol’s fingers. “I admit I was rather particularly occupied,” he said insolently. “You see —I’d never been to Scotland Yard before.” "And what on earth " demanded Sir George, not unreasonably, “were you doing at Scotland Yard?” Larrimore shrugged his shoulders. “Just answering a few questions.” Janet Manson drew a sharp, quick breath, and moved closer to Carol. “Was it essential for them to choose my dinner-time?” pursued Sir George ponderously. “They seemed to think,” said Larrimore coldly, “that the answers were a matter of some urgency.” “Well, suppose we talk about it over dinner. We’re rather late, you know.” Larrimore’s ' expression hardened suddenly. “I'd hoped,” said he, “that you wouldn't have waited for me. I really only came along to apologise. 1 didn't mean to scarify your party in these clothes.”

“My dear Larrimore,” Sir George protested, “we have waited so don't let’s stand on any more ceremony. Let’s go in right away.” He started towards the double-doors at the far end of the room, which led to the dinroom, but Larrimore made no move to follow.

“No, Sir George,” he said abruptly. “I can’t.”

“What on earth do you mean, Larrimore?’

Larrimore's chin jerked up characteristically. “I can’t dine with you. And I’m afraid that the breaking off of my engagement to Carol must appear in tomorrow morning’s papers. I propose to draft the announcement now for your approval. “Rupert!” “And what the dickens is the meaning of this?” burst out Sir George. “I insist on some kind of explanation on the spot, Larrimore!” Larrimore put both his hands in his pockets. He did not look at Carol. “I don’t think you need be kept from your dinner by any large-scale explanation,” he said. “I imagine you’re hardly like to wish the engagement of your daughter to stand, when the man to whom she is engaged is likely to have to face a capital charge in the dock!” •

Sir George’s theatrically inflated indignation left him as abruptly as if he had been physically winded. The others began to speak all at once, realised the futility, almost the indecency, of words at such a moment, and fell silent again. Only Carol and her aunt, now standing hand in hand, seemed as if there was something not altogether unexpected in what they had just heard.

"Go on, Rupert.” said Carol al last. But she spoke as if they were back in the Sahara, and her mouth was choked with dust.

“Quite simply, Carol, I mean that I’m suspected of murder. The French police got the Yard to send for me. and put certain questions to me about Antony Sothern’s death. Our friend the Commandant at El Fayoum caused the trouble. One of his patrols found Sothern’s body. You remember how keen he was to give it honourable burial? As a result —of what they found, the French authorities developed a certain curiosity."

Nigel Kerr and Flesch began to stammer excuses, in an endeavour to save the Manson’s embarrassment, but Larrimore stopped them, pointing out that in the long run they would probably find themselves called as witnesses. That last word brought up Sir George “all standing.” "You really mean seriously that there’s a chance of your having to face this charge, Larrimore?” "Every chance, Sir George. There's one consolation —it will be in Franco." Sir George did not appear to be consoled in the least. He sat down rather helplessly, and fumbled with a handkerchief.

Hubert Manson asked how the French patrol had been able to find the body.

"I thought you said you’d buried him. Larrimore.”

Larrimore smiled unpleasantly. "Don’t you remember the Sahara jackals. Professor? I hadn't a spade, you know, and there was only sand to cover him. He was identified by his wrist-watch and his cigarette-case. The only other thing they needed was his skull."

"The skull” repeated Hubert. “I don't, follow.”

"Have I got to put it into words of one syllable?" asked Larrimore impatiently. "Why can’t you all go in to dinner and let me go home?”

"Go home? With this absurd thing hanging over you? Don’t be absurd. Larrimore! ' Sir George was making a valiant effort to recover his grasp of the situation, and nearly succeeding. <To be Continued.)