“ANNOUNCER’S HOLIDAY”

Wairarapa Times-Age, 27 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». Lucia banged three times with the knocker. The door opened almost at once. The door opened almost at once, revealing only a black void beyond. “Frightened?” demanded the girl. “I warned you of risk, surely? “Not a bit,” lied Geoffrey valiantly, and sliding his hands out of his pockets. “Then came into my parlour,” laughed Lucia, ran lightly in, and pressed a light switch. The door closed behind Geoffrey as soon as he had followed her in. It was worked apparently by some agency from the interior of the house, for there was no servant beside it. “Well?” said the girl. “Well,” retorted Geoffrey. He could find nothing more to say. The hall, which for a moment he had suspected of revealing monstrous horrors, was as conventionally respectable as the hall of a country vicarage. It contained early Victorian furniture, a large coat and umbrella stand, well filledwith such prosaic things as mackintoshes and umbrellas, steel engravings on the shabby wallpaper, and a motheaten stuffed hare in a glass case on a tea chest in one corner. Lucia ran to the foot of the staircase which faced the tea chest. “Still time to bolt!” she mocked. “Put me out of my misery!” said Geoffrey. “Admit it’s all rather an elaborate joke—a treasure hunt oisomething.” Her face changed. “I don’t think you’ll find it a joke,” she said. “Make up your mind. Are you coming up or not?” She started up the stairs. Geoffrey followed her slowly, conscious now of little but a supreme sensation of unreality.

By the time he reached the landingon the first floor, the girl was out of sight. But he found himself facing an open door though which brilliant light poured out towards the staircase. He had just time to take in the fact that on this landing the furnishing and decoration were very different from those of the hall. The carpet was deep and soft under foot. The wallpaper was new and plain, and adorned with some admirable Japanese prints of cats. Above the open door hung a pair of crossed Samurai swords. Geoffrey sensed the suspicion of a faintly clinging odour of incense.

“Come in, Mr. Biand. You’ve had a long tiresome journey. I am sure you could do with a drink,” said a voice through the doorway. Geoffrey went in. Then he gasped, and sat down on an arm of the nearest chair. For this room fulfilled the promise of the landing. It was warm, brilliantly lighted, luxuriously furnished in a manner that was modern without being oppressively given over to chromium plating and queer angles. But it was less the room, unexpected though that had been, which staggered Geoffrey, than the owner of the voice which had invited him in. There was a writing desk at the far end of the room. Lucia stood beside it, and in a swivel chair now swung so as to face the doorway, sat a gentleman wearing a crimson wadded smoking jacket, evening trousers, silk socks and crimson leather slippers. In his left eye he wore a rimless monocle. He was smoking a small cigar. He was a big, broad man, with a fine forehead which looked even finer than it was owing to his little hair. What hair there was was red. A red moustache and small imperial concealed the outlines of a rather large, fleshy mouth. His nose and hands were short and wide. His expression was amiability itself. Geoffrey would have set him down at a guess as a Continental aristocrat aping a Scottish laird. Nor would he have been so desperately wide of the mark in so doing. “Forgive me if I present myself,” said the monocled gentleman, standing up, and showing that his height was quite proportionate to his breadth. “My name is Otto von Reichenberg.” He held out his hand. Geoffrey took it mechanically. “And this," added von Reichenberg, ‘is my daughter, Lucia. You may find it hard to believe. Perhaps it will be easier for you if I explain that her dear mother was an Italian.”

“Delighted,” muttered Geoffrey. “Please sit down, Mr. Bland. Help yourself from that tray on the corner table, take a cigar if you are wise enough to smoke cigars, and then pray give me your attention. I think I hoard you mention the word 'joke' on the staircase as you came up with my daughter. I will assure you of one thing at once. This is a matter of serious importance. It’s conquences may well be—international.” Von Richonberg sat down again, patted Lucia’s hand, and looked quizzically at the end of his cigar. “Why on earth bring me here?” asked Geoffrey, fumbling rather inexpertly with a siphon.

Because,” said von Reichenberg, smiling and showing excellent teeth, “1 need a young Englishman of good family to perform a service for the cause to which I bear allegiance.” why particularly me?" You have looks, manners, and a certain esprit—or so my daughter thinks. nndA lS ( a J y dg ° 01 SUeh things - Also 1 unJeistand you to be ruined, and in consequence ” He spread out his big hands eloquently. "In consequence." repeated Geoffrey a little breathlessly, "you expect me to have got rid of most of the scruples which I may once have possessed Is that it?”

“Mr. Bland," said von Reichenberg, “you fulfil my expectations perfectly. You really are intelligent.” "Thank you,” said Geoffrey, and added mentally to himself in the American manner, "so what?”

CHAPTER V. "The story I must tell you is, I am afraid, a sufficiently conventional one, ’ von Reichenberg began, leaning back comfortably in his chair, and sending a long spiral of blue smoke to the ceiling. “First of all about myself ” Geoffrey leaned forward eagerly, and the other smiled.

“I am by birth,” he went on, “an Austrian Pole. I was formerly in the Austrian Diplomatic Service. I knew a good many people in London in the old days, when I served here. Plenty of them are still alive. That is why I live in this quaint old house in this rather unsavoury neighbourhood. I will admit frankly that if I were known to be in London, certain people might draw conclusions. I have lived the life of something of a stormy petrel since the war.” Lucia patted his cheek affectionately. Von Reichenberg looked down at his slippers, and crossed one foot over the other. “There is a certain dynasty in Central Europe, which I have the honour . to serve,” continued the Austrian slowI ly, as if picking his words w’ith great I care. “I do not think I need specify more exactly, but the country lies east of the Rhine, and west of the Vistula. Now the hope of that dynasty is a young man of twenty-three, a prince in his own right, the descendant of a proud line which has had some considerable say in the making of Europe in the past and may well have more to say on that subject in the future.” He paused impressively. Geoffrey contented himself with nodding. The story convinced him as little as its teller fascinated him, which was considerably.

“Ah, si jeunesse savait,” quoted von Reichenberg, and it seemed as if one eye winked behind his monocle. “This young man —suppose we speak of him as Xavier? It is not his name—this young Prince Xavier is what you would call rather vulgarly in English ‘a bit of a lad with the girls’!” Geoffrey shuddered. “Quite so. You are appalled at the phrase. Consider then how appalled must be Xavier’s family by the fact; a family, I may add, bred in a tradition of royalty almost Spanish in its strictness and aloofness from the common herd. It would have been traditional and accepted if the young man had confined himself to the sowing of a quantity of wild oats ‘on the side.’ Most of his house have done likewise. But Xavier must needs not only get entangled with a young Viennese actress, but actually propose marriage to her.”

“I see the difficulty,” murmured Geoffrey, “but where do I come in?” Von Reichenberg sat up straight, and thrust out an emphatic forefinger. “At the stage-door I hope,” he rapped out, “early and often! This Viennese girl, her name by the way is Greta Mahler —is now in England. She is rehearsing for a new musical comedy, called appropriately enough ‘The Girl from Vienna,’ which opens at the Imperial Theatre the day after tomorrow. The business for which I need you is to take steps which shall ensure that the young lady cannot return to Vienna and marry young Xavier. I believe he has been fool enough to find financial backing for the play. In any event I am assured that it has been guaranteed a run of three months. Besides, 1 believe Miss Mahler has a certain talent. So you have three months, Mr. Bland. I have paid you £5OO on account. When your job is done I can promise you a further payment of one thousand pounds. In the interval —” and he shrugged his shoulders, “well, expenses within reason.” Geoffrey Allardyce sat very still in his chair. “Is that all?" he asked.

“I think so. You can choose your own method. Make love to the girl and fascinate her, if she is sympathetic to you. Marry her if you must. But finish this other affair for good and all!” And he added, “Not only for- Xavier's sake —for the girl’s.” “The girl’s, Herr von Reichenberg?” “Count von Reichenberg, if you will forgive me.”

“I beg your pardon.” “Yes, Mr. Bland, for Miss Mahler’s sake. My instructions are definite, and I do not allow myself failure in any work that I undertake. It is the one luxury I do not appreciate.” “What exactly do you mean, Count?” “Just this, Mr. Bland; that you must find some means of dissuading Miss Mahler from wishing further to link her life with Prince Xavier’s, or that life will come to an untimely and regrettable conclusion. I am sorry. But there is it.” “Are you talking about—murder?” “I mean murder, Mr. Bland. Don t misunderstand me. I dislike murder. I am far from wishing the death of a charming and talented young actress. I That is why I am putting her life in your hands. She will be in no danger if you carry out your work properly. Well?"

Geoffrey got out of his chair, and walked restlessly up and down the room. He was wondering what the devil to do? And for the life of him he could not see. His natural instinct was to hurl every heavy object in sight at von Reichenberg’s head, and depart homewards in a riot of wrathful and virtuous exultation. ’ But somehow as a solution it failed to fill he bill. Two could play at violence—and von Reichenberg, for all his foppery, looked a pretty efficient person. And then there was the girl. Whatever else of of the yarn had rung false, the end of it had sounded quite hideously true. For the moment it seemed to him that there was no possible alternative to pretending to acquiesce in von Richenbergs monstrous proposal. If nothing else, he must get in touch with the Viennese girl, and warn her . . , (To be Continued),