CRASH

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 57, Issue 65, 26 December 1936, Page 3

CRASH

By ARTHUR APPLIN.

:: SERIAL STORY ::

:: Copyright : ’•

CHAPTER XVII. , The concierge at the rue <le Clignancourt was not communicative at first: she knew no young lady in the house with the name of Peggy Pensliurst. But Johnny insisted: she might be staying there with a friend; she would have arrived the night before last; it was very important he should find her. The concierge allowed 20 francs to refresh her memory. Yes, it was true; a young lady had arrived the night before last —fiancee of monsieur on the third floor. Johnny described her. . . . Without doubt that was the young lady, and now the concierge came to think of it she remembered monsieur addressing her as “Peggy” —such a sweet English name, Peggy! Johnny said he would go up. The concierge stopped him. “Unfortunately they had both gone out an hour ago.” Over her shoulder she called to her husband. “Yes!” replied the old man with a walrus. moustache, sitting over the stove reading a magazine: “every evening monsieur goes out to his work at the same time —he is very regular in his habits. . . .”

The remainder of the sentence was lost in his moustache. “But then I can find him at —■?” Johnny said interrogatively, and found another 10 franc note.

The concierge smiled: “Why, at the Toledo Restaurant! of course monsieur knew the Toledo? Every visitor to Paris knew it. Just off the rue, Blanche, half-way up the hill.” Johnny thanked her, clattered down the stairs. Madame watched him out of sight, shrugged her shoulders, smoothed out the notes and hid them away.

“And what's he after?” her husband grunted. “You ought to know, if any' man did!” his wife replied, slowly spreading herself into the chair opposite him. “But it’s so long since you were young,” she signed, “that maybe you’ve forgotten.”

Johnny restrained his natural inclination to hurry. He didn’t know what he was going to do when he found Peggy—hadn’t made any plans. He had been trying not to think —lie couldn’t trust his thoughts. At one moment he knew nothing mattered but his love for Peggy, at another moment he almost hated her. In order to stop himself thiuking, he had borrowed one of Pansy Jones’s wretched novels, which he had taken to bed with him the previous night. The thing was in his coat-pocket now—all about crooks and detectives and! murders.

Pie walked quickly, but continually had to stop to ask his way. He didn’t like the look of the rue Blanche when he found it. After the glare of the boulevards it was narrow and dark, with here and there crude red and orange lights advertising a “dancing.” He avoided the men who were touting for customers outside. Blasts of music pursued him. He found himself in the side street leading back up the hill- towards Place Pigalle, and there on the right was the Toledo.

An attendant snatched his hat and coat from him. A door opened and closed behind him, and he entered a room with cleverly-shaded lights. At first he was only conscious of smoke, figures moving mysteriously through it, and white faces. A waiter with a figure like a full moon and a face like a codfish straight off the ice, welcomed him effusively and led him to one of the tables, with a sofa seat against the wall, that surrounded the restaurant.

Of course, the inevitable bottle of champagne bearing the label of a famous maker—but it didn’t mean the maker had had anything to do with the contents! johnny nodded, and the wine-waiter, whose optimistic fingers removed the gold label and wire and gently withdrew the cork, filled his glass. Another waiter flourished a menu in front of him. Thank heaven, it wasn’t necessary to eat! The thought of food now made him feel a little sick. He slipped a note into the wine waiter’s hand—it was always wise to be on good terms with the management and staff in these

places. Taking a drink, he lit a cigarette, and then slowly looked round the room, wondering where he would find Peggy sitting—and with whom, and just what she rvas doing there. There were women’s faces as white as marble, and faces with blots of bright colour on high cheek-bones like painted dolls. On every face there was a red gash which slowly opened to show a row of white teeth in an artificial smile. He was tempted to get up and run away—urged by the knowledge that he loved Peggy—until lie remembered (being young and still romantic) that if he really loved he had nothing to fear. The band began to play. A bored gigolo took the floor with an overdressed tourist from the” Argentine. Johnny hated her —prejudice of course! —hated being reminded of the Argentine. She suggested everything lie wanted to forget—had been trying so bard to forget. He looked at her naked shoulders and coarse hare back, her jewels (diamonds, naturally!) Another couple took the floor—two girls, one fair and one dark —rather attractive seen through the haze of smoke. The band was playing an old-fashion-ed tune. The girls as they passed swaying suggestively smiled at him; the pianist swayed as he hammered the piece on the keyboard; the leader of the band swayed as he blew melancholy blasts from his saxophone. Johnny shivered. In other circumstances he might have been amused and intrigued ; but this was where lie was going to meet Peggy! presumably this was where she worked with her —fiance! Ho couldn’t believe it because lie didn’t want to. He drank some wine—not so bad. A lot of people were dancing now —or rather hugging each other to music. He leant hack and shut his eyes. If Peggy were there he would find her soon

enough—and the precious fiance. The gigolo, of course! Johnny opened his eyes and looked at him again; lie had not the average Englishman’s instinctive loathing of,gigolos, but this man might be anything from a crook to a murderer. Dark hair growing half-way down his cheek-bone, shifty eyes and a sloppy mouth. The wine waiter was standing by his table again: “These cheese biscuits, sir—they go well with the wine.” Johnny nodded his thanks and took one. “The wine is to monsieur’s likJohnny smiled. Evidently he had been marked down—an Englishman, oi course, with money to spend! “Better than I expected,” he said in English. He was too tired and nervy to try to keep up a conversation in French. “In these sort of places---” “Ah, but the Toledo is different, monsieur. We study our clients. This is the only night restaurant in Paris which has a really good chef. Now, if you would try our speciality, homard a l’-Americaine. ?” Johnny shook his head. “Then perhaps monsieur would like to dance? I could find him a charming partner—not from the Quarter hut an English girl.” Johnny struck a match and lit a cigarette. “And how much would it cost me to dance with her?” lie asked, trying to speak carelessly. • The waiter shrugged his shoulders. .Johnny looked at him across the cloud of smoko ho blew through his lips. Didn’t look a typical French waiter; honest eyes, mouth with a sense of humour and pugnacious chin—and he spoke English perfectly. “Mademoiselle would not expect payment. You see,” he went on quickly, “it is fine publicity for the restaurant to have good dancing, and English ballroom dancing is considered chic—the best in the world.” He ■refilled Johnny’s glass. “If monsieur will wait a moment I will ask mademoiselle and introduco her.”

Johnny glanced quickly round the room. The place was filling up, waiters hurrying to and fro. It was impossible to distinguish faces more than a few yards away. “All right!” he said. He watched the man walk to the far end of the room and bend over a table there. Of course he had) made up his mind that the girl was Peggy —though he began to liope lie had jumped to a false conclusion; in any case, lie might discover if she really was working here and in what capacity. Now the waiter was coming back, and following him a girl in a black velvet dress, jade ear-rings—-and the light caught her hair, deep bronze. ‘Mon sieui/—Mademoiselle Peggy. ’ ’ Johnny stood up with the sentence he had prepared dying on his lips. Peggy was staring at him, wide-eyed, her face bloodless. The maitro d’hotel —the man with a face like a codfish — created a diversion by summoning the wine-waiter, “Table 27 —un magnum, vite!” .

Johnny looked at her. “Sorry if 1 have given you a shock. Didn’t expect to see me! Shall we dance?” he said.. Nothing seemed to matter now. He had been a fool to come . . . but he wished she would say something or do something, instead of standing there looking like death. She was giving the show away—giving herself away. “Sit down for a moment —have some wine!” he suggested. He took her hand; it was icy cold. She dropped on the seat beside him and he poured out some champagne. He watched her as she put the glass to her lips and swallowed a mouthful. “Pull yourself to-" gother, Peggy.” “You needn’t be scared of me. I only came to see if you are all right and in ease I could help you.” He laughed. “Rather funny, eh? But it’s quite O.K. I shan’t give you away.” He hardly knew what he was saying. At the touch of her hand, though it was cold and not responsive, he had been thrilled again. He wanted to be calm and reasonable, to toll her all ho knew or suspected, to tell her lie was willing to take her away and save her from the mess she had got into. But if she belonged to that infernal dago, if she loved him, then he was done for.

He looked at the fellow, dancing now with quite a nice American girl. Strange creatures, women—tho best and loveliest threw themselves into the arms of the dago type—and married the codfish type. “Johnny! Don’t you understand —? I thought you had been killed, when I read about the ’plane going down in flames. The shock when I saw you sitting there— —” “Sorry! Perhaps I ought to have gone down. I have a suspicion that that was Brooke’s idea.” “Don’t talk like that!” she said sharply. “I was going straight hack to London, but Dick thought I had better wait until we got further particulars Johnny! . . .” She bit her lip. “Give me a minute to recover —and then we must dance.” “Who’s Dick?” ho asked. “He introduced us. Of course, be hadn’t an idea who you were . . . .

Yes! We had better dance, or I shall cry or do something silly. Can’t you realise what a relief it is to know you are safe? I have been going through bell in the last 24 hours.” “Yes, let’s dance.” She was lying—of course she was lying. But when he took her in his arms and they began to move across the floor, he didn’t care. They were together again. He had got her—for a moment. For a moment, in a night restaurant off the rue Blanche. Close ho held her, and through the ireek of tobacco and wine and hot bodies came the faint smell of acacia blossom . . . And now they were walking through Kensington Gardens again: trim nursemaids with children under tho trees; dogs-chasing and racing to and fro; golden leaves falling; crunching brown leaves beneath their'feet . . . His face touched the top of her head. “I love you,” he said. “I don’t care what you are, or what you have done, or to whom vou belong. I love you!”