THE LORD OF TERROR

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 56, Issue 286, 15 September 1936, Page 3

THE LORD OF TERROR

: SERIAL STORY ::

By SYDNEY HORLER.

: Copyright :

CHAPTER lI—A GIRL NAMED MARY. The circumstance that Johnny did not live up to his promised threat oi becoming very, very drunk was due principally to his meeting The Girl Who Smiled. From the first glimpse he had of her the reporter knew that she didn’t rightly “belong” in that rackety crowd. She was there in the flesh, but not in the spirit. Although she pretended to be interested in the proceedings she had no real sympathy with what was going on. So much was plain. When he entered tlie room, festooned by quart beer bottles, to be greeted with shrieks of merrimeiit which were too strident to be genuine, he had seen this stranger smile. Perhaps, strictly speaking, “smile” was not the proper term to describe that mere twitching of the shapely lips. The twitching had not been caused by any sense of merriment; no, it ha'd been actuated by contempt —a contempt that was all the more pronounced because of the effort the girl had made to hide it. The sight had pulled him up short; he had received sufficient contempt for that night. If there was anything more than another Johnny Cardell required at that particular moment it was the sympathetic acclamation of the populace. He wanted everyone to smile on him and not to twitch lips in slightly-veiled blit yet unmistakable disdain.

After the first shock, however, he realised that this stranger might be right. He could not have presented a very aesthetic spectacle with bottles of beer hanging like garlands around his neck. Still, because of his manhood, he scowled back. Hie girl looked away. He took the first chance available of speaking to his hostess. When Ina Best came sauntering up he took her by the arm, and led her into a comparatively quiet spot. “Who’s the new kid?” he demanded, sharply. Ina’s muddy eyes darkened. “Caught already, Johnny?” He retorted with warmth:

“What do you mean ‘caught’P She grinned at me as I came in and naturally enough I want to know who sho

“Carruthers—Mary Carruthers.” “What’s she doing here?” “Ada Lusty brought her along ; but I don’t think she’s very happy. Since you’re so struck you’d better go and hold her hand.”

Johnny grinned in the way which endeared him to the majority of mankind.

“That’s just what I thought of proposing to myself. Thanks.” He was off before she could attempt to stop him. She stood staring after him, stamping her foot in rage. As for Johnny, he walked straight over to the girl whose lips had twitched. There was some lout bending over, trying to do the unpleasant, hut he pushed him aside. Crudely. Forcibly. Brutally. He felt like it. “Your name’s Mary Carruthers, 1 understand. Mine’s Johnny Cardell. I’m a reporter on the “Dajly Whim” — or, rather, I was; I’ve just been sacked. Now you know pretty well all about me. Do you mind if I sit down?”

Before she could give her consent he was by her side. “I daresay,” he went on, “that you thought me a bit or a fool, coming in just now garlanded with those beer bottles. In fact,” he continued, “I am pretty sure you did, because you smiled. No, not that kind of smile,” as her lips lengthened; “a smile of pure contempt Well, no doubt 1 deserved it.” “I’m sorry I smiled, Mr Cardell ” “ ‘Johnny,’ ” he amende^, She shook her head. “Why not ‘Johnny’?” “Because I’m not used to calling people by their Christian names within a minute of knowing them.” “Everybody here calls each other by their Christian names, so,why not fall in with the fashion? . . . Cigarette?” She declined. , “I think the atmosphere is thick enough already; and, talking about fashion, I don’t know that I can acclimatise myself so quickly. You see, this is the first party of the kind that I have ever attended.” He was quick to follow up her thought. “And you don’t like it?” She looked at him straightly. “Not very much, I must confess.” “I knew you didn’t —that’s why I came over. That —and another reason which can wait for the moment . .

Yes, I agree; this air is perfectly foul. What about a walk round the square?” She took some time in replying, and during this interval Cardell made a mental picture. He saw a girl 21-ish, slim and soignee. Candour showed in her cool grey eyes. She was simply and rather poorly dressed, he went on to notice, although both stockings and shoes were of good quality. Her hair, a deep chestnut in colour, was arranged in exactly the manner that Johnny decided a girl’s hair should be arranged. Altogether a top-hole girl. “What about the walk round the square?” he prompted again. “We shall get some fresh air and be able to talk. This racket is deafening.” The grey eyes twinkled momentarily. “I mustn’t take you away from your friends.”

Johnny turned from her to look at the scene before him. The roysterers had now r approached the stupidly drunken stage. “Come out into the air,” he .urged.

She obeyed the touch on her arm and walked by his side across the crowded room to the door. Their prospective exit excited considerable comment. Much of it was cheap and nasty. “I’m sorry for this,” Johnny said, very lamely. “As a matter of fact, I hate to think of you being hero at all.” “I shan’t come again. It’s not that I’m a prude,” Mary Carruthers went on. “It’s just that I don’t think this sort of thing is worth while. There

are so many other better ways of spending an evening.” By this time Ina Best had crossed to them.

“Where are you two going?” she inquired. Her voico was sharp. “Out to get some air; this room is a dreadful fug. It smells like a fourpenny doss.” The hearer’s always prominent nose appeared to take on extra size. “If you don’t like it you re always *fc liberty to go,” she said—and was sorry a moment afterwards. Ina Best had fancied herself in love with Johnny Cardell for some time.

“Don’t be a parboiled ass, Worse,” Johnny retorted; and then, to his companion: “Come along, Mary.” . It was not until they were out in the quiet square that Mary Carruthers realised that she had been addressed by her Christian name, but what was the good of protesting? This young man seemed able to carry everything before him. “Oh, this air!” she exclaimed, breathing it ecstatically. Johnny threw away the cigarette he had been smoking. “Have you ever—no, its quite evident you haven’t,” he added, • hastily. “Haven’t—what ?”

“I’ll tell you. Have you ever wakened suddenly to the realisation that something youve been in the habit of doing is most terribly stupid?” Ho didn’t wait for an answer, but hastened on: “Hiat’s just how I feel about to-night. Here have I been going to these infernal parties, being bored stiff by nine out of every ten of them, and all fcfr what? God knows—l don’t!” He spoke gloomily. “And by the way,” he continued, “what were you doing in that gallery? Ina told me something about you being brought up by the Lusty wench.” “Yes. We have the same digs; she said it would be fun to take me. I’m afraid, however, I’ve proved very disappointing. She was looking at me just before you came in as though I were some strange kind of animal.” They were talking now as though they had known each other for years instead of for just over a quarter of an hour. Perhaps it was the soothing quiet and the tonic quality of the air after that pestilential atmosphere she had just left-that made Mary feel happier than she had done since coming to London. “I’m sorry you’ve had such bad luck,” she stated after a pause. Johnny turned to her eagerly. “That’s awfully nice of you; ahcl, by the way, I think this is a very good opportunity to ask you to forgive me if I become a little emotional. You see, this is the first time I’ve been sacked in my life. What is more, I promised myself that I would get very very drunk to-night —and I haven’t.”

“Sorry?” “Sorry? Not a bit. And, talking about being sacked, I shall soon got another job.” / “I hope you will. I’m only a very ordinary typist, not a biilliant journalist —” “Stop it; I won’t have it!” ho cried peremptorily, and at the same time took her arm. “Mary,” he said, in a tone that she knew to be sincere, “you and I were meant, I think, to be pals. Give me a trial, won’t you?” Mary Carruthers hated being “pawed.” * Yet there was something about the speaker that appealed to her. She did not free her arm. “Tell me things about yourself,” said Johnny Cardell. “There isn’t much to tell,” she replied, as they fell into step once again. “I’ve been in London only six weeks. I lived in Bournemouth until my father —who was a doctor —died, and then it was necessary for me to get some kind of work. I had some sketchy shorthand and some rather poor typing ability—those were my sole assets —and I was awfully lucky to get my present job.” “What is it?”

“I’m a typist in the office of Mr James van Dressier, the American millionaire.”

She felt Cardell’s hand tighten on he arm —tighten so suddenly that the flesh was hurt.

“You’re not in that man’s office?” The reporter’s tone was not ’polite; on the contrary, it was harsh and peremptory. He spoke like a man who had heard disquieting news. “Don’t you believe me?” she demanded.

“Of course I believe you; it’s not that; it’s —look here, I’ll tell you,” he went on, in the manner to which she was now becoming accustomed, “van Dressier is a hound. He’s got a perfectly rotten reputation. I hate to think of you working in his office.” (To be continued.)