"ADMIT ONE"

Auckland Star, Volume LXII, Issue 151, 29 June 1931, Page 15

"ADMIT ONE"

Sydney Horler

CHAPTER 11. The ]Red Madonna. He had dined well at Vernay's. The head waiter had seemed to make a special point of treating him as a distinguished customer, and the food and wine had been beyond reproach. Lighting a cigar at the match which the maitre d'hotel himself struck, Crane felt that life could scarcely hold a better moment than this. He was on top of the world. A taxi to St. James' Theatre brought him his first disappointment. "Sorry, air, but there's not a seat left." This was a blow. He had been looking forward to seeing the drama, "Wandering 'Men," ever since its first-night performance, which had received such, rapturous notice from the critics. But, of course, he had only himself to blame in this, as in the matter of the hotel, he had not troubled to write beforehand. "I can give you a stall for to-morrow night," suggested the box-office clerk. "Oh, can you?—thanks." He paid his money, took his ticket, and turned away. With so many other places to choose from, the thought of another ehow, however, seemed flat in compareon. He would have a wander through the streets, fascinating at that time of night to a provincial like himself, and return to the hotel, where, possibly, in the smoking room he might get a rubber of bridge. The savour of London was too fine to be gulped. To get its full relish, he must digest it by degrees. It was when he had gone about a dozen yards from the theatre that he suddenly turned. A man following immediately at his heels was unable to avoid the contact, and the two collided. "I should like to know why you're following me," said Crane. "Following you?" repeated the other man. "I'm afraid you've made a mistake, sir. If I have been going in the same direction as yourself, I assure you it is purely coincidence. lam a stranger to London, and just wandering around to kill time." The speaker had a hard, stern face, but it contained a certain likeable quality. Crane was instantly apologetic. "Sorry if I'm wrong," he said; "but, honestly, I imagined you were following me all about the place. Weren't you at Vernay's to-night" "Yes, I was," admitted the other. "But, once again, let me assure you that you are entirely wrong in your surmise." With this Crane was tempted to pal up with the man, but before he could make any advance his companion had turned abruptly and walked quickly away. Had Crane followed him in turn, he would have seen the man go into the nearest underground station telephone booth and make a call. The message he sent was received at Scotland Yard. It was strangely stimulating for a "yokel" like himself to walk through those thronged streets, dazzling to the eye with beautiful women welldressed men. Truro after this! Crane walked on and on, too absorbed to bother about the distance; and he was only agreeably tired upon arrival back at the Mid-Western Hotel. Going to the office for his key he was greeted by an announcement from the night-clerk. "Mr. Crane?" asked the man. "Yes." "A lady has called to see you, Mr. Crane." "A lady" Here was another staggering smprise. He didn't know a single woman in London. But he must play up. This was only another incident in the strange chain of circumstances in which he had become involved. "Did she mention any name?" "No, sir; she merely said that you were expecting her." "Where is she now?" "She was shown up to your suite, sir." Very gratifying, this deference to a mere engineer's draughtsman, and, unconsciously, Philip preened himself. This was undoubtedly the life. A private suite —letters in cypher—unknown women calling. He walked to the lift briskly. He was ready for a surprise. But the woman who rose to meet him fairly took his breath away. At first he did not think she could possibly belong to the ordinary world; there was, a languorous grace about her which bewildered him. She was dressed in a fashion which he knew must denote wealth and what he could only describe as "cosmopolitanism." Instantly a phrase which he imagined he must have borrowed subconsciously from a film title flashed into his mind. There was only one apt description for this mysterious visitor—"The Red Madonna." She was a person of striking contrasts; her deeply red chestnut hair showed off the exquisitely-fair skin of neck and shoulders visible beneath the flung-back opera cloak. Her face was arrestingly beautiful, the features being classical and the line from ear to chin finely moulded. She was in her prime; he imagined her age to be about 26. A glorious creature! So vivid was the personality of this unexpected caller that he was unable to speak, and it was the woman who made the first remark. "I have been waiting here for at least an hour," she stated. . Crane, although stupified, obeyed the instinctive law of courtesy. "I'm most awfully sorry," he replied in a tone of contrition.' Nothing else appeared to matter for the moment; he was a man speaking to a very beautiful woman. "I cannot accept any excuse. You were given definite instructions —you received the letters?" she broke off sharply to inquire. At this early stage in the proceedings Crane came to the conclusion that beauty, standing alone, could be rated too highly; this woman had sufficient good looks to lead an army corps to destruction, but heliind the classical features flamed a devil. She was a virago. "Answer me!" she cried; "did you receivethe letters which were sent to this hotel?" He remembered the cypher communications. "Yes, of course. They were awaiting me." He did not know why he was ■ carrying on this stupid game, except that the woman was temporarily dominating liim. "Then, why weren't you here to keep the appointment? If I told—" She stopped and looked at Crane as though she wanted to read his soul. "You are much younger than I imagined. They said you were thirtyfive and wore a moustache." "So I did until ten days ago. Then I [jot tired of it." He smiled at the silly conceit which had leapt into his mind merely because the first statement happened to be true.

The woman seized on the words. "Were you suspected? Was that why you shaved off your moustache? Come here!" Because he did not obey the command immediately, she stepped forward, and, taking him by the shoulders, drew his face down. At first, Philip had the insane notion that she meant to kiss him. but the fierceness in her face belied any such idea. "Yes, you are speaking the truth," she said. So dynamic was her manner that he actually felt an overwhelming relief. It was as though he was a real player in this mystery-drama, instead of being a mere understudy—and a fraudulent one at that. . . "You know what you are to do?" the interrogation proceeded: "but lam wasting time," she went on in that same tempestuous fashion; "everything was detailed clearly in the letters. By the .way, what have you done with them?" . "I thought it best to lock them up." This, again, was the truth. It seemed somewhat to- calm the storm. "Yee, you can't be too careful. Anything happen on the voyage over?" "No—nothing." The game was begin ning to intrigue him now; and the belief that there was possbly something crooked in it added to the interest. Stupid, perhaps, but he was feeling like a man who had been given a ticket marked: Admit one to Adventure. He was going on. "No-one followed you here?" came the next snapped question. "Not that I know of. A fellow bumped into me in King Street, St. James', to-iiight, but I put the breeze up him properly and he soon cleared off." Time was giving him confidence; he was beginning to feel that A up tih now, he had not done so badly in his 1 totally unrehearsed part. A sense of £ humour made him add sharply: "You 1 ought to have had more sense than to come here dressed like that. With your hair and figure, everyone in tlie hotel ' will remember you." He expected an explosion, but, £ instead, he saw something of the anger ! die down in the beautiful face. "I had to dress —I'm going on to the Rosy Dawn Night Club. Stevensson is ' to be there. Have you met Stevensson yet?" I "No—not yet." It was too much to [ hope that she would put all her remain- [ ing questions in that form, but, so long r as she did; he could stick to the truth without, apparently, any great risk of ! the consequences. , "I expect he'll want me to bring him . back here," she added. Crane considered it time to register , his disapproval. He was on a muchi needed holiday; he couldn't have his i rooms—a'nd a private suite at that! littered up with a lot of mysterious beings who belonged by rights to the films. 1 "But you musn't do that!" "No?" There was a challenge in the monosyllable. "I won't allow it—do you think I want all Scotland Yard prowling roxind?" That was a good one, surely; and when he saw the woman bite her lip and give evident serious consideration to his rebuke, he knew he had -struck a. bull's-eye. "Then you'll have to come with me to the Rosy Dawn." "I can't. "Why not?" He couldn't tell her, he supposed, that he had decided on trying to get a rubber of bridge—he doubted if she would understand. "To-morrow must do," he temporised; "it was a beast of a journey"—which was more or less correct —"and I want to rest—be alone." The latter statement, whilst being possibly ungalla'nt, was, at least, strictly accurate. "Stevensson will want your report." "He must wait for it." He'd have to wait a jolly long time, too. "I can't be bothered with anything to-night. There's not that much hurry." If his eyes had not been fixed on the woman's face he must have grinned. "You seem to have learned independence in America, but I warn you, Crane, that that sort of stuff won't go with Stevensson, or with —" She broke off quickly as, for the third time since this interview had started, a puzzled expression, which seemed to be more than half suspicion flashed into her face. "You don't speak with any American accent , ' she said. "Of couree not; don't you know that I'm a Cornishman and that a Cornishman never acquires any accent but hie own ?" This farce must end. He yawned. "I hate to be rude but I'm going to bed. Make any appointments you like for after eleven to-morrow morning, but you'll have to excuse me now. I want to make up for the sleep I lost." Pretty good he thought. When the woman was gone, he'd roar with laughter and try to speculate what it all meant on his way to the smokingroom. His visitor rose at the unmistakable hint. "All right," she said curtly, "I'll go. I don't know what Stevensson will say, though." Crane yawned again in a most realistic manner. "Let him say what he likes. Goodnight." Crossing to the door, he opened it. She looked at him again in that strangely intent fashion. "I'll tell Stevensson that I think you're too good-looking for the job" she 'said; "the girl may fall, in love with you." The words were accompanied by a short hard laugh. "The girl—?" He had repeated the two words before pulling himself up. A very disturbing mental picture had flashed across his brain; he saw himself looking again into the brown eyes of a ffirl who was sorely troubled —a girl who had whispered the words: "They meant to kill me!" "It's all set down in your instructions —anyone would think you hadn't read them! You're to attend to the .girl —keep her out of mischief!" Another short hard laugh. "Stevensson's looking for her now in his big green car; she's somewhere in London." Another memory stabbed his brain; that juggernaut from whose wheels hs had snatched the girl had been painted green! (To; be continued daily.)