“ANNOUNCER’S HOLIDAY”

Wairarapa Times-Age, 26 December 1940, Page 10

“ANNOUNCER’S HOLIDAY”

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

COPYRIGHT.

By

VAL GIELGUD.

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

CHAPTER 111. (Continued i. “Exactly what you’d expect would happen. I was cleaned out to my last sixpence, and had to walk home. "Was it fair?” “I was skinned —I don't think I was cheated,” saici Bland grimly. “But it was the finish, so today I thought I would finish things up in the grand manner. I pawned my studs they were nice ones I regret to say—and started out to have one last good dinner. Hence the glad rags, and that re’voltingly ostentatious flower in my coat. The ‘aristo’ went to the guillotine with an air and a clean shirt—you know the rot they write! Unfortunately I never got to the dinner. I drank first and frequently. And now you know all.”

“I wonder,” said Geoffrey Allardyce. Charles Bland flushed. “The 8.8. C. has made you too smart, Geoffrey,” he said. “Yes, there is some more to it, but it so confoundedly like the middle act of a not very good play “Suppose you tell me about it, instead of trying to excuse its improbability. Queer things do happen. Charlie—this queer thing has happened to you. That’s the only difference.” “Quite the little philosopher aren’t you?”

“Look here,” said Geoffrey coldly, “if you think I’m trying to pump you for your blessed secret, you’re no end wrong!”

“All right —keep your hair on, Geoff. But at the moment I don't much like the idea of being laughed at.” “I won’t laugh.”

“Very well, here goes; I came out of that silly gambling place in a pretty odd state of mind. I knew it didn’t matter two pins really that I’d thrown away the rest of my money. I knew that being angry or miserable was simply futile. I was down the drain, well and finally. And yet I was angry, furiously angry with myself. I wanted to do something desperate —preferably to someone else. I felt it might help to get on terms with myself again—” “I think I understand that,” said Geoffrey slowly. “Go on.” “I was only half way down Curzon Street,” Bland continued, “when a girl spoke to me over my shoulder. Needless to say I walked on a bit quicker, that’s all. And then I felt a grip on my arm. I tell you. Geoff, I spun round as if I’d been shot, and all keyed up to let drive with my fist.” “And it was the girl.” “Wonderful, my dear Holmes. Your tobacco is in the Persian slipper.” Bland grinned, and lighted a cigarette. “I'm going to be more wonderful still, Watson,” Geoffrey went on. “The young person—who should certainly not have been grasping the arms v of young debauched aristocrats in Curzon Street late at night had something about her definitely Italian. She had a pale creamy skin, remarkable dark eyes, too much make-up, and a charming voice.”

‘•Good lord!” said Charles Bland. “She gave you a rendezvous in a shop in a certain street in Soho for this evening, didn’t she, Charlie? The street at the corner of which I found you embracing the constabulary? And you were to carry a red poinsettia in your buttonhole to show that you meant business. That’s all. I don’t know any more.” “Were you trailing me in Curzon Street last night?” demanded Bland. “Are you one of the new university gentlemen cops? Or am I just pleasantly and quietly drunk?” “None of those things,” said Geoffrey. He proceeded to explain his own adventure of the evening: the odd shop with its odder contents; the poinsettia in his own button-hole; the strange dark girl. “My girl!” exclaimed Charles Bland. “Of course. What was her inducement to get you to wear that frightful flower and keep a rendezvous in a dubious quarter of the town?” For the second time Charles Bland reddened. “She said I-’d find a job worth big money, and involving a good deal of risk,” he answered. “And implied that you might see something of her oncb you took it on, eh?” “Confound you, Geoffrey, you’re too quick on to the mark altogether!” “I see. Of course we aren’t unlike in some ways. I presume Curzon Street was pretty dark. And she was looking out for the poinsettia. I imagine ” “You mean—she took you for me.” “It looks like it. Anyway she gave me a note.”

And Geoffrey pointed to the envelope propped against the candle-stick. “What’s in it?” “I haven’t a notion. I thought we might look at it together.” “It’s true that what light there was, was on her face, not mine,” said Bland thoughtfully.

Geoffrey picked up (he note, and slit the envelope with thumb. And the two young men stared at each other, hardly daring to believe their eyes. For what that dirty envelope contained was a Bank of England note for £5OO, and a single sheet of notepaper on which was printed in pencil and block capitals an address in Pennyfields, which is conveniently adjacent to Limehouse Causeway. CHAPTER IV. Like most institutions in this modern world, Limehouse is no longer what it was. One feels somehow that Mr. Thomas Burke must be saddened by the refusal of Limehouse to live up to the reputation he so dexterously ously made for it. The broken Chinese blossom of the slum is as far to seek as the jasmine-scented houris of Doctor Fu Manchu. And yet, about Pennyfields and Limehouse Causeway there hangs a something—an atmosphere, which makes the long trip into London's East worth while. Particu-

larly in a fog. And the evening following upon Geoffrey Allardyce’s quaint experiences in Soho was very foggy indeed. Geoffrey went alone. He went alone, be it clearly understood, much to the disgust of the Honourable Charles Bland.

“After all, Geoff,” the latter had complained, “it's as much my adventure as yours, if not more so. Besides another pair of hands might be useful.” Geoffrey laughed. “To begin with,” he replied firmly, “I got the note, you didn’t, owing to your disgustingly dissolute habits! In the second, from a strictly practical point of view, you will be far more useful here, looking after that significant bank-note, and knowing where I’ve gone than in helping me discover what is almost certainly a mare’s nest in the East End!" So much Charles Bland had been forced to admit, with the worst possible grace. And that was why Geoffrey Allardyce departed alone through a thickening fog towards Charing Cross, the underground railway, and his rendezvous in Pennyfields.

It must be confessed that he approached that rendezvous with a beatnng heart, and rather moist hands. Geoffrey was plucky enough according to the normal criterion of courage. But it is one thing to tackle a bucking horse, or a burglar; even to sit in a trench and be shelled. It is quite another to advance against the unknown, which may take the shape of a knife in the back, the petty theft of your pocket-book, or, perhaps worst of all, a good hearty laugh at you for an all-ends-up fool. Particularly if you are a member of a Great Corporation, and considerably publicised at that. Geoffrey had a hideous vision, as he moved through the thicker fog at the other end of his railway journey, of the inhabitants of the Announcer’s Room at Broadcasting House convulsed with laughter. Julian Caird had never been able to live down his part in the famous Broadcasting House murder case, in spite of the real tragic issues involved. And if this turned out a practical joke, and the enterprising radio correspondent of a newspaper - got hold of it ... In spite of the chill of the all-em-bracing fog, Geoffrey Allardyce felt himself growing hot under the collar at the mere thought.

Nevertheless he set his teeth and forged grimly on his way. After all, he thought, it won’t do, when you have cursed the commonplace aspect of existence, to jib and back out in the race of something very much the reverse. Fate had played a handsome lead the day before in Soho. Surely it was not too much to hope that the game would on in Limehouse?

Geoffrey turned up his collar, and pulled the brim of his hat well down over his eyes. The fog was beginning to make them smart. Curse the fog! He was pretty sure that he had lost his bearings, and F seemed'unreasonably difficult to ask ms way of the weird muffled figures that loomed up occasionally, and faded as swiftly out of sight again as though they were products of nightmare. He had plotted his way from the station most carefully with the aid of a large scale map before he started, but distances count for nothing in fog, and everything he could see seemed monstrously like everything else . . A hand caught his sleeve, and a voice he recognised at once said quietly: “So you’ve turned up, Mr. Bland?” Geoffrey pulled himself together, and remembered that he must expect to be taken for Charles.

“Of course,” he said. “Did you think I’d fail? After seeing you?” The girl laughed. “I’m glad you can make a pretty speech,” she chuckled. “It’ll come in useful.” “It was nice of you to meet me.” “It was nothing of the kind. You’ve been wa'tched, you know.” “The deuce I have,” said Geoffrey, and thought more than that. “How could you have found your way otherwise, Mr. Bland?” “I expect I could have found the address even in this fog. I’m not halfwitted, you know, Miss ” He broke off expectantly. “You can call me Lucia,” said the girl calmly, and laughed again. "You’d have found it difficult all the same. You see, the address was a fake. Suppose you’d left it behind you? To let anyone know where you'd be going?" “I see,” said Geoffrey slowly, thinking that after all he had sold Charles a pup.

“Just obvious precautions, Mr. Bland. Now —are you going to c'ut and run? You can. You’ve only to hand me back that bank note.”

“I couldn't possibly do that.” said Geoffrey, but he omitted to explain why.

“I thought not,” said Lucia. “It’s so convenient when people really manage to get ruined. They're so much easier to handle afterwards.”

“I see that. What I don't see is what earthly good anyone as ruined and as dumb as lam can be to you —or rather your pals. I suppose you've got principals? This isn’t just a game on your own—Lucia?”

She smiled up at him. He noticed that today she had far less make-up on her lips, and was proportionately fat more attractive. “I’m almost sorry it isn’t, she said. To this Geoffrey, who was perhaps unusually modest for a modern young man. could find no immediate reply.

The walked on in silence for perhaps ton minutes, the girl guiding their way until, just beside a church that looked far more like a barracks, appeared a worn and twisting flight of steps. Lucia led on down the steps. Geoffrey, out of sheer curiosity, counted them as he descended. There were thirty-two. Immediately at their base on the left was a grimy archway, and beyond it a door. Above the door the house to which it belonged seemed to tower

immensely into the foggy darkness. The knocker was curiously shaped of two mermaids intertwined. There was a general impression of age, rust and decay.

(To be Continued).