“ANNOUNCER’S HOLIDAY”

Wairarapa Times-Age, 24 December 1940, Page 10

“ANNOUNCER’S HOLIDAY”

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

By

VAL GIELGUD.

(Author of “Africa Flight,” “Outpost in China,” etc.)

CHAPTER 11. <Continued>.

Geoffrey determined that probably there was no place like home. He scrambled back over the piled pack-ing-cases. wondering whether they, too contained weapons of precision, and in the shop doorway found himself facing a girl; a slim dark girl, with black Italianate eyes, and a mouth whose curves were too good for the make-up that had been sosmearedupon them that they looked jammy. She made no attempt to get out of his way, and Geoffrey suddenly realised that she was staring at him very fixedly—at least, not at him, but at the flower in his button hole. The flower in question was a poinsettia of the brightest red. In normal circumstances Geoffrey would have seen himself dead before wearing such an ostentatious personal adornment. But that morning he had felt that the beginning of his holiday demanded some sort of symbolic representation. A less ascetic young men would probably have got drunk at lunch. But Geoffrey Allardyce never got drunk. He disapproved of the proceeding on principle, and he was blessed with an excellent head. So he had contented himself with the bright red poinsettia in his buttonhole. And as the elegant young woman continued to stare at the flower with an expression which, to Geoffrey's eye, appeared definitely scornful, he wished exceedingly that he had contented himself with the commonplace carnation. He was just going to ask the girl to make room for him to pass when she

spoke. “Hello!” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you quite as. early as this.” Rather surprisingly, coming from between such heavily-painted lips, the voice was low and agreeable. “Er- —what?” said Geoffrey stupidly. “It’s better to be on time, you know,” added the girl. “However, here you are!” She threw a glance over her shoulder, apparently making sure that no one else had entered the shop behind her. and then, with a swift, graceful movement, caught Geoffrey’s left hand. He

felt something slipped into his palm. As he opened it and looked down to see what she had given him, “Don’t open it here, you fool!” she said, turned her back, and went out into the street, leaving Geoffrey none the wiser. He jammed the note —he had had one glimpse of a creased and grubby envelope—well down into one side pocket, took a step towards the doorway, and turned. The fat apple-eater was looking at him across the packing-cases. His expression was unpleasant, and his eyes were disagreeably narrowed and blinking.

“Don’t you want your corkscrew after givin’ m<? all that trouble?” he inquired. “I’d given you up for lost,” said Geoffrey, pleasantly. “You were some time, you know.” “I was as quick as was reasonable! I don’t break my neck for no corkscrew.” Observing the thick fleshiness of that neck, Geoffrey found the very idea of its breaking inconceivable. But he did not say so. “Nothing else your lordship requires today-” continued the fat man, with appropriately elephantine humour. "No thanks!” said Geoffrey. He paid for his corkscrew, put it into the same pocket as the mysterious note, nodded to the fat purveyor of sub-machine guns, and left the shop. Just for the moment he had to fight down a ridiculous instinctive fear, centring itself physically plumb in the

middle of his back, that a knife might come whizzing from behind the packing cases. Needless to say, nothing of the sort occurred. Geoffrey found him- ’ self once more amidst the normal cirJ cumstances of a Soho street, abusing, not for the first time, his tendency to add a flavour of melodrama to the events of his ordinary existence. But not yet was he able to return r to his flat and make use of the corki screw. As he looked both ways along the street, anathematising'the persistent rain, and hoping for a last glimpse J of the mysterious and elegant young lady, Geoffrey “became aware”—as i they say in police reports—of a distur- . bance. The centre of this disturbance was a rather singular figure; singular at least considering the place and the time of day; a young man, bareheaded, but holding in one hand a silk hat, and wearing full evening dress, making spasmodic and ineffective attempts to free himself from the grip of a police constable. About the pair eddied various interested figures; two or three young women in cheap fur coats, bright hats of exaggeratedly fashionable shape, and imitation silk stockings; a brace of errand boys, whistling, one small girl with her tongue out; a taxi-driver, and the complete staff of an adjacent butcher’s shop. Geoffrey Allardyce moved slowly towards the group, and then became suddenly, and rather uncomfortably aware of two things. It seemed to him that the face of the young man in evening-dress was vaguely familiar to him. It was quite certain that the but-ton-hole in the young man’s tail-coat was a red poinsettia! He almost yielded to the temptation to rub his eyes. The matter seemed to be becoming altogether too much of a good thing. CHAPTER 111. . What was more, there was no doubt about it. The young man in evening dress was Charles Eland —dishevelled, damp, wriggling rather absurdly in the grip of the arm of the Law —but indubitably Charles Bland. And Charles was not normal. He was trying to argue with the policeman, and to sing at the same time. The result was not a good argument, and most deplorable discord, though the bystanders seemed to enjoy the performance quite a good deal.

Geoffrey, however, did not enjoy it al all. He had not seen diaries for the

best part of three years. But they had been at school together, and very close friends before Bland had followed so many of the modern aristocracy into the City, and Geoffrey had subsided gently upon the bosom of the British Broadcasting Corporation. Bland was an Honourable; but, far more important, he had been an exceptionally “good egg.” To see him thus making sport rather disreputably for the dregs of Soho affected Geoffrey most disagreeably. “What’s the trouble, officer?” he inquired diplomatically of the constable. “Gentleman creating a disturbance, sir,” was the reply. “I told him'to go home. We don’t want any violence round here.” "Look here,” said Geoffrey, “suppose you leave him to me. I’ll look after him.” “Friend of yours, sir?” The policeman sounded surprised, the watching young woman giggled, and the butcher’s assistants raised a thin cheer. “Yes,” said Geoffrey, trying to sound firm. Charles Bland turned a bleary eye upon him. “Never set eyes on you in m’life,” he observed profoundly. “Don’t like your face —go ’way!” “Come on, Charlie, don’t be an ass! I’m Geoffrey Allardyce.” “Never heard of you,” persisted Bland, “Plot—conspiracy, that’s what! Prefer police—nice kind constables, like this one.” He buried his face against the constabulary overcoat, and the bystanders made appreciative noises. Geoffrey took him by the shoulders. “Look at me. you lunatic!” he said angrily. Bland shook him off. “Perfect stranger,” he complained, and a sob came into his voice, “trying to kidnap me. Monstrous —demand protection. And he’s pinched my flower, pretty. Want to charge him, theft ’n batt—battery, that’s it! Constable —do duty!” Whereupon he flung his' silk hat into the gutter, and jumped on it with both feet.

Restraining a violent impulse to lose his temper, Geoffrey winked at the policeman and hailed a passing taxicab. The constable proved himself to possess, like the Shipwrecked Mariner both resource and sagacity. He pinioned Charles Bland neatly by both arms, and the moment that Geoffrey had opened the cab door, inserted Bland into its interior with all the dexterity of the expert. The shock, and perhaps the change of position, had an immediate effect upon Bland. He relapsed into darkness and composure, and made no further effort to prevent Geoffrey from acting the Good Samaritan. Once back at the latter’s flat, he allowed himself to be undressed; accepted- three cups of tea, as hot and strong as Geoffrey could make them; and went to sleep quietly on the divan in the sitting-room wearing a spare pair of Geoffrey's pyjamas, as though he had not a care, or poinsettia, or a crooked white tie. in the world. After which Geoffrey felt that he had earned the right to make use of his corkscrew, and did so.

He also remembered the creased and grubby note beside the corkscrew in his pocket. He lighted a pipe, poured himself a second drink, looked at Charles Bland sprawling inelegantly on his cushions, propped the envelope up against a candlestick on his desk, and waited.

Some four hours later Charles Bland grunted, yawned, stretched, sat up, clutched at his head, and demanded apparently of the universe where on earth he was and what he was supposed to be doing. Charles was both subdued and repentant, when he heard from Geoffrey of his activities in Soho. He was frankly horrified. He was also embarrasingly grateful for his rescue.

“Oh! nonsense,” said Geoffrey uneasily. I could hardly leave you to And out what Bow Street looks like from the inside, could I? Besides, it was quite time I saw you again.” Dam decent of you all the same,” said Charles. “Never again!” “Never again what?” “Believe the novelists,” said Charles. He said it so seriously that Geoffrey laughed. “No, I’m not trying to be funny, Geoff. You see before you an example of the ruined aristocrat!" “Bosh!” “I mean it. I took a toss over some monkey business in the City about a week ago, and threw in everything 1 had in the world to try and pull it round. No. good. All down the drain together.” "Well? Where do the novelists come in?” “I didn’t know what to do, Geoff. There I was last night, in an appalling mess, a brace of tenners in my pocketbook. and a beastly story due to break in the papers about the firm by tomorrow at latest. Well, the novelists always tell you about ruined aristocrats gambling with their last penny, and all that tosh. I thought I'd try it.” "You are a lunatic, Charles.” “Probably. But wait till you’re in the same fix. It's not easy to make any decision. Well, I knew one of those private house gambling joints behind Curzon Street. Yuo know the sort of place ” “I don't. But go on.” “Oh, all chandeliers and gilding, and blondes in clothes they’ll never pay for, and men with improbably big cigars. and really good food, and a foreigner or two who really know their way about; the sort of scene the cinema always tries to show you, and never can because their directors have never been in anything nearer the mark than the baccarat rooms in some forsaken Riviera holiday resort.” “But what happened, Charlie?”

(To be Continued).