FALSE FACE

Auckland Star, Volume LXII, Issue 305, 26 December 1931, Page 7 (Supplement)

FALSE FACE

CHAPTER I. Mareia Exposes Her Heart. Mareia Soanes invaded her aunt's bedroom at the early hour of half past eight, and Miss Deborah set down her orange juice with a little sigh. "Cleared for action, I see," she remarked resignedly. "What is it now ?" "I've had a letter from Peter," Marck gaid, "He exasperates me beyond endurance. His exhibition of pictures was a flop in New York, and rather worse in Chicago. He Bays so, quite frankly" f

"That sounds to me a matter for sympathy, rather than sheer exasperation," commented Miss Deborah. "But he doesn't want sympathy," Mareia retorted. "He is actually planning a i° n o stay in America. Some people he has met have asked him to decorate their new house; and he writes as though he proposed going on from one house-painting job to another." "You are hard upon your young man," Miss Deborah said reasonably. "The amount of money spent by rich Americans on interior decorating lifts that occupation to the level of one of the high arts. I admire practical common sense when I see it; and I had not credited Peter with the possession of so much of it."

Marcia's firm and beautiful chin set a little more rigidly. She looked as determined as only a gold-haired, blueeyed girl can look, when she is baulked in getting her own way, and is convinced that her way is the right way.

"What's the good of a young man, as you call him, if he arranges for an indeterminate stay in America?" she asked. "I don't want to exchange love letters at a range of three thousand miles, aunt; I want a husband. If I'd been a poor girl, Peter and I would lave been married six months ago."

I've heard about that, Marcia dear," Miss Deborah reminded her.

"He would have accepted all sorts of sacrifices," Marcia went on. "He ■wouldn't have minded how I schemed and intrigued in order to push him along. But because I happen to have j £40,000 a year, he runs out on me, and sets up as a colourman in New York-" "Well, and what ore you going to do fcbont it?" *Tm going after him," Marcia announced, defiantly. "And I'm going to fetch him bock and marry him." Onee more Miss Deborah sighed. **Why do you tell me these things?" she asked apprehensively. _ ■ ■Because you are coming with me, Marcia announced. Miss Deborah sat up in bed. •No, Marcia," she said, and the famous Soanes chin set as firmly as own. "I have been in New York during t3ie winter. It is too warm indoors, and too cold out. There are other disadvantages, I understand. Noise, skyscrapers, and what they term racketeers. I emphatically refuse." "Then I must go by myself," Marcia decided, just as firmly. "11l go and tell Jannine to pack." "Leaving nine hunters eating their heads off in the stables," her aunt said, resignedly* "And you have made engagements, for winter sports, for instance." 'Til leave instructions about the horses, and I'll be back in time for my engagements; and with Peter." "You know very well that Peter Marchant will not be dragged back home like a naughty boy," Miss Deborah said. "If he refuses, I shall know where I am," Marcia argued. "I shall book a return passage by the same boat; and a stateroom for Peter coming back. If he declines to use it, then it will be time for me to resign myself to life without him. I refuse to go on indefinitely in this way, aunt." "Well, it. sweet of you to tell me all about it," Miss Deborah said, with mild sarcasm. "I cannot prevent you from going, of course. Give Peter my love, and tell, him good-bye from me,-as the Americans say." "You are simply brutal, Aunt Deborah."

"I always liked Peter Marchant," the elder lady concluded. "I like him better than ever for refusing to be bought; as he surely will." "I might marry him in New York," Marcia said, with a glint of mischief in her eye. "I know how American girls get married, dear. They take the young man to a night club or a road house, and get him lit up with Tiooch' from their pocket flasks —remind me to take a big flask. Then you knock up a magistrate at'four in the morning and live happily ever afterwards."

"It is sweet of you to tell me your plane," Miss Deborah replied, "Close the door after you, when you go out, please; I can feel one of my headaches coming on."

A fortnight later Peter- Marchant, summoned from Long Island by a telephone call from Marcia, came at her bidding to the Hotel Biltmore to dine with her in the private suite she had engaged at that typically American wavanserai. Marcia came forward to greet him with both hands extended, looking like a beautiful golden lily in the long white dress, all composed of little flounces and frills, that made her look even taller than her five feet eight inches of slim erectness.

Tall as she was, Peter stood four inches taller, and bent his head to kiss her lightly on the lips. He was slight for his height, with rough, ruddy hair, brown eyes, a puggy nose, and a whimsical, sensitive mouth. Miss Deborah said that he always reminded her of a good sort of Airedale terrier; and there *as something of the worried solicitude of an Airedale in his hazel eyes as he surveyed Marcia at arms' length. "This is a surprise, Marcia," he said, hesitating. "But fori look better than ever to me. What on earth brought you over here at this time of the year, and alone?"

"I have my maid Jannine," Marcia *«plied evasively. "And I have come to New York to taste «vhat waffles are like. I've read such a lot about them; but the samples I unearthed in London didn't look like anything to eat. Oh— and Cole slaw. And the mention of food of any kind—if those things are food— reminds me that I'm famishing. Shall *e eat first and talk afterwards?"

Peter drew back Marcia's chair and then slid it forward as she subsided into it.

"Mind you," he said "if you have come over here with the idea of arranging for some unknown art patron to discover my genius, and invest Heavily in my pictures, that shot is not on the board."

Marcia shook her head disdainfully. "Don't talk like a meanie," she advised. "I was never infantile enough to attempt any of those fictional benefits in your interest. Tell me about the

E. C. BULEY

(Author of "Calcutta Hjok," " Sea Urchin,'' etc).

interior decoration. It sounds as if it might be interesting, though, of course, if I asked you to do over Brookridge for me, you'd spurn me with your thickest brogues." v

"These ere Americans," Marchant explained. "The wife is very cultured, and very clear about the value of her time and her money. The husband is merely appreciative. And it is not only interior decoration; they want something original for the bathing pool and surroundings; and for the gardens and grounds. If I can please them, there's a lot of that work waiting for me, and a big income."

There was a note of anxiety in his voice, and Mareia, detecting it, replied loyally:

"I see no reason why a bathing pool and its surroundings should not be made very lovely. And it must be rather fun breaking new ground like that."

Thus encouraged, Peter began to talk, and with a growing enthusiam. Mareia, listening and throwing in a question here and there, felt with an aching heart that his enthusiasm was due as much to the necessity of convincing himself as of convincing her. But the conversation proceeded along those lines until coffee was served, and she dismissed the two waiters.

Then she etuck a cigarette in a long tube and waved it impatiently, as Peter would have continued talking along the same lines. "Please, dear," ehe said, "I came over here to find out what is to become of me." "Must we. . . " Peter began. "Yes, we must," Marcia said firmly. "For the last time, perhaps; but we must go over it again. You see, Peter, I love you; and I have loved you ever since we were kids together. And it is the same with you, there has never been anybody else, with either of us." Marchant nodded, his troubled brown eyes resting on the fair, determined little face opposite his. "I'm keeping myself for you," Marcia went on. "And it is all a woman has to give; just herself, unspoiled. Here I "am, Peter, fully grown, and knowing very well what I want of life. I want you, my dear; I want to make your home, and to bear your children. And nobody else will do, Peter; I want you now." She rose from her chair and went to Marchant, throwing her round, white arms about his neck, and pressing her lips upon his until he put her from him. "I never kissed you like that before, Peter," the girl said—and there was ,a note of reproach in her voice. "I never expected to do so, until we were married. But I want you to understand the point which has been reached in this engagement." "You make me feel as useless as I sometimes think I am," Marchant said huskily. Marcia held up a hand to check him. 'Teter, I know what our engagement has cost you," she said. "You wanted to become famous at once, for my sake. You hurried your work and you rather lost your way, poor Peter. We are farther away from one another than we were two years ago." "Do you think I don't know it?" Marchant asked. "Forget about my money and marry me," Marcia invited. "You can do the work you want to do, and be what you would'have been if you had never known me. If I cannot help you, at least I shall not hinder." "You don't understand, Marcia," Marchant said. "You have no idea of what a man must endure if he is simply the poor and unconsidered husband of a rich wife." "It is you, who do not understand, Peter," Marcia retorted. "Because lam rich, is that any reason why I should waste the best of my youth, and the sweetest years of my life? When you think of what is said by people who do not matter, you sink to the level of a curmudgeon. What is a rich girl to do, if she does not marry? You know what they do and what it makes of them."

"But, Marcia ..." "I suppose I could fly to Timbuctoo," Marcia went on. "Or buy a lot of yearlings, and take to the turf. Or punt in dix-mille bundles at Cannes and Le TouqUet and have my picture published as the girl who broke the bank. But, Peter, While I'm doing these things, and before you consider yourself successful enough to marry me, I shall be spoiled f6r you." "Give me a year," Peter said. Just one year, Marcia, to see whether I can justify myself." "I knew, that you would say tnat, Marcia said, sorrowfully shaking her head. "I can give you just about thirtysix hours, Peter, and no more. Listen, mv dear: I have booked a return passage on the Berlinia, which brought me to America. And I have also reserved a stateroom for you." "For me?" Marchant said. 'Marcia, yOu know it is not possible for me to return in less than two days. "It is not possible that you would let me return alone," Marcia said auietly. "See, Peter, here are what the Americans call your reservations. Put them in your pocket, and go and arrange for your departure. See these people who want to hire my future husband to design swimming pools, and tell tnem that it cannot be done." "But listen, Marcia. . . . "If I listen, Peter, we shall quarrel, as we have very nearly done before. Say good-night to me now; and remember that I shall be waiting for you on the Berlinia the day after to-morrow. And if you do not come, Peter . . . She drew down his head and kissed him again and again. . "If you do not come," Marcie repeated, "you'll never s*e me again. ,But you'll hear of me, Peter, yes, you 11 hear plenty." .... - v--Marcia saw him go, with the feeling that she had won. But When the gangway was pulled aboard the Berhnia, and the gap of water broadened between her great hull and the waving crowd on the quay, Peter Marchant had not come aboard. , CHAPTER 11. " The Bulls " Are Here, It was peak time in the Octagon Club; and everybody who has visited New York in the right spirit knows where and what the Octagon Club is. All the shows had just emptied their unsatisfied pleasureseekers into the streets; and they were arriving at the club in little groups, bent on something to eat and drink, and a few square feet of dancing room. The band was syncopating furiously, and at times the players lifting up brazen voices to sing of Broadway and the white lights. ' From one side of the Octagon,

which composed the clubroom, changing lights were thrown upon the dancers— heliotrope and orange, green and amber, every colour except the white light which the band was eulogising. Among the couples moving rhythmically under this spraying of rainbow tints, the most noticeable composed itself of Lola Lephone, one. of the club's star programme performers, and the tall youth, who was known to the club's more regular patrons as College Boy. Lola was dressed in clinging black, with a red rose stuck jauntily in'her raven hair, Her frock showed arms, back and bosom the colour of old and polished ivory, the tint of which, equally with her large and lustrous eyes, betrayed her Mexican blood. She was thin, with the leanness of the dancer in training; but every languid motion she made was eloquent of grace. Truscott Whalen, or College Boy, was easily the most handsome man present. Like his partner, he was young; broad of shoulder and narrow of hip. Barring the over-emphasis of his chin, his face was almost classic in contour. Tawny hair, with a wave in it, crowned a high forehead, and set off the clear greyness of his long-lashed eyes. He was a husky as well, this College Boy; not a sign of effieminacy about him. He ( moved easily, but with the swift decision of an athlete in condition. A fresh colour mantled in his smooth, cleanshaven cheeks; and when he was smiling, as now, there was something engaging about him which men found it as hard to resist as women—or almost.

"What's the matter, Lola?" he asked. "Something eating you? You'll be missing your step, before you know about it."

"I'm not sitting right on the top of the world, Boy," Lola admitted. "Listen! When I speak to you again, be sure and smile, just like you did just now. I don't know who may be watching us." "That's all right with me," he said. "It sounds bad, though, the way you introduce it."

She danced a few steps before making any reply to this; and then, in a low, guarded voice, ehe made her announcement.

"The High Spot—Braley," she said slowly. "Smile, Boy! He was taken for a ride by Sacchoni just ten minutes ago. That's right, hold that smile."

"Braley!" College Boy repeated presently, in a choking voice. "Well, what of it?"

"What of it?" the girl mocked. "Who comes next ? Think I'm not wise to you ? You poor kid!"

They danced in silence for a full minute, while College Boy digested what he had heard.

"Listen!" Lola went on, in her terrible guarded whisper. "Fingers told me to tell you. Sacchoni aims to be High Spot, and you know what that means for you. Fingers says to pass the word and they'll shoot it out with Sacchoni. What do I tell him?"

The music stopped suddenly and the dancers came to a standstill. The cessation of the mechanical exercise affected College Boy so that he staggered a little, and Lola had to straighten him. "Here," she said, assuming command. "Take me up to room seven, and get in a bottle of wine. Let them say what they like; I'm crazy about you, anyway, and I don't care who else knows it, if you do."

"Same here," Boy said. "Me; I'm crazy about you."

"Don't lie," Lola ordered, as they walked, arm linked in arm, up a stairway softly carpeted. "You're crazy about nobody but your sweet self. Ain't that so?"

An obsequious foreign waiter brought wine, then, with a leer and a gesture indicating discretion, he pussyfooted away.

"What does it matter?" Lola asked simply, answering College Boy's scowl as he shut the inner door. "Talk softly, Boy, and nobody can listen here. What do I say to Fingers ?"

"You've got me wrong," ColJPge Boy said, slipping an arm about her. "I am crazy about you, Lola; and I know nothing about shooting. Nothing at all."

"You poor kid!" Lola repeated, slipping from the circle of his arm. "Think I'm not wise? You've been in the Braley racket ever since you left college, haven't you? Ever since your old man died so suddenly, isn't it?"

"I know nothing about shooting; nothing about killing," the lad repeated. "And I don't want to know."

"No, you only took your cut Out of the money, when the cutting was pretty," Lola sneered. "You've had twelve hundred grand, over a million dollars —in the last eighteen months. Fingers told me. Did it spend any easier, because other bugs attended to the killing?".

"You don't understand, Lola," he said. "My father —I never knew a thing—he was in the racket. He was killed by one of them. I had to pick up the bundle Where he dropped it if I wanted to know who killed him. See? That's how I got in the racket myself, but only for fixing things with the men higher up. If any killing is done, it is nothing to do with me. I don't mean it to have anything to do with me. Tell Fingers that, if he has to know."

"You poof boob!" the girl whispered angrily. "Can't you see ? It's kill, or be killed, now. Braley's been put on the spot, half an hour ago. You're in Sacchino's way, so you come next. But Fingers says there are more of them for you than for Sacchoni. He only wants the word from you. See? You don't have to do the shooting yourself. Have you got that?" Trus Whalen "shook his head, in a whirl of helpless despair. "It's no use, Lola," he groaned. 'I don't want to be the High Spot, and Sacehino does. And I'm no killer; and I give nobody the word to shoot it out. Do you get me? I'm—not—a— killer."

He buried his face in his arms, and Lola smoothed back his tawny hair with gentle, loving fingers. "No, Boy," she said, wistfully. "You're only a ladykiller, I guess. But you've done for me, just the same. I can't see you go on to the spot, loving you like I do." "Maybe they didn't get Braley?" the Boy suggested hoprfully. "Talk sense if you can," Lola commanded. "If you won't pass the word to Fingers, what will you do?" "Take a vanishing powder," College Boy declared. "Look, I've got the kale right under my hand. I can put my fingers on it any minute. I'll get right out of America;,and then. . . "

"What will Sacchino be doing, then?" Lola asked, scornful again. "Do you go in your own name, Mr. Truecott Whalcn? And doesn't Sacchino broadcast it, that otie of the big racketeers is on the ocean making for England, or Paris, or whatever? And then what happens, I nek you? What happened to Jack Diamond when he swallowed a dose of vanishing powder?" College Boy shook his head dismally. He was aware as fully as Lola herself that the rules of the racketeers permit no gang member to withdraw. To "take a vanishing powder" is an offence punishable by death, an offence as dire as "squeaking," or in any way inviting the law's interference in racketeering disputes. "You said it, Lola," he admitted wretchedly. "Sacchino would get me, even if I made the grade as far as Europe. They would not give me the chance of a yellow dog." <

"Suppose," Lola said slowly. "Just suppose, Boy, that I showed you a way of getting out; clean, and no questions asked for a fortnight?"

"What way?" Truscott asked, his eyes lighting again, "Tell me. What way ?"

"What happens to me if I do?" Lola asked. "Me, stuck here, answering all the awkward questions; and you breaking the hearts of all the pretty girls in Paris. And, believe me, there would be some questions to answer. If you ran out on them, Fingers would be worse, almost, than Sacchino himself."

"What happens to you, girl?" the Boy repeated brightly. "Why, I told you I was crazy about you, didn't I? You come with me, that's what happens to you."

"That isn't in the scenario," Lola said dully. "I've got to stick about here, to cover things up, if you get away. That's part of the plan."

"Why—why, then," he said. "You can come away from here just as soon as you think it is safe. I'll be waiting for you over there. Honest, honey; I'll not look at any girl until I have you in my arms again." "Honest to God, Boy?" Truscott Whalen swore a solemn oath, solemnly and convincingly. His own conviction was immense, overpowering. "Then listen," Lola whispered. "You heard about the Engli6hman that was in here last night; the fella that Tony said was a rumdumb? He wasn't that, Boy; he wasn't a regular souse at all. He just got a load last night because he was in trouble with his English girl. But he sure got some bad stuff into him, even before he arrived here. And what Tony gave him out of the yellow flask. ..." "What about him?" Boy interrupted. "What's he got to do with it?" "I've got him in my apartment, with an ice pack at the back of his neck," Lola explained. "My Nellie is watching for when he comeß to, and. . . " "In your apartment!" College Boy sneered. "Sounds as if you were crazy about me, I will say!" "Don't it?" Lola asked cordially. "Want to know why I took him there? Because he looks like you, sort of. Only he is a nice fella, even when he's soused, and wouldn't insult a girl like me, by word or deed. See? And now you can just find your own answer to the question you was asking a couple of minutes ago, because. . . " "Stop, honey, stop," College Boy implored. "I never meant a thing. Naturally, being crazy about you, I was jealous at you taking an Englishman into your apartment. If I took some strange girl in there where I live, I'd have to explain a. bit to you, wouldn't I? Well, where does he come in, this rumdumb ?"

"He's got reservations on the Berlinia, that pulls out at noon," Lola explained. "He's got a passport, and everything; and the picture on it is more like you than he is. See?"

"Well, but if he's got reservations . ." Boy began to argue.

"One minute! He doesn't want to go. He's got work here, and he's only going because his girl says he must. He told me a lot about it; but most of it sounded nuts to me. He doesn't want to go, and he wants to go. But if I snoop his reservations and his passport for you, Boy; he'll not go, whichever it is that he wants."

"Well ?" Boy urged, as Lola paused, "what's the next reel? How does it go, after you snoop the passport?" "I can hold him for 10 days or a fortnight, anyhow," Lola promised. "He'll go to sleep again, if I feed him some of the stuff that sent him out for the count. You'll be in Europe somewhere, with time to cover your tracks before he actually comes to life again." "Let's go," College Boy decided. "It sounds good to me." "But you'll let me know where you are," Lola insisted. "If you leave me cold ..." "I tell you I'm crazy about you," he insisted. "I'm doing this for you, as much as for myself. I'll be waiting, kid; just waiting until you can come." "Then listen,"- Lola said. "You'll have to take my 'turn here; it comes on in a few minutes. Sing to them, Boy, and sing' as good as you know how. I'll go to the apartment and get the passport and stuff from this Marchant. Hold them the best way you know, until I come back."

There was a buzz of murmured satisfaction in the club at the announcement that College Boy would eing—it was not often he condescended in that place. It was one of his natural gifts, and he employed it sparingly, in the contacts which were his department of the gang work in which he shared. But now he appeared with a guitar elung before him and the winning smile which strangers found almost irresistible; and there was a burst of welcoming applause. College Boy began to sing, in the crooning, flexible tenor voice which he managed so easily. As he sang his eyes wandered about the room. There, at one table in a corner, sat Saechoni himself, and by his side the fluffy-haired, narrowchested little man known as Frame—the killer by instinct and choice. At another table were more of "the gangsters; big burly fellows known as "muscle men, who did the bullying and intimidating necessary for the smooth working of the racket. Fingers himself sat with these; and they, like Saechoni, Were' leaning forward with rapt faces, drinking in every note and every word of the sugary song. College Boy crooned on like a man in a dream. He was telling his hearers that he was not really gay, but only "painting the clouds with sunshine." Saechoni brushed a tear from his cheek, and the dopey little killer beside him gulped hard, to swallow his patent emotion. Lola's story of killing seemed, in that moment of easy conquest, the most absurd fable College Boy had ever heard. "Hands up, every one of you," roared a harsh voice, cutting across the crooning melody. "You, Saechoni—just move a finger and you'll never move another." Men in blue uniforms thronged the

Octagon hall. A horrified whisper rose from the tables and rippled across the stillness. "The bulls!" College Boy's voice died away, and his nervelss fingers let slip the guitar. Here was hideous confirmation of Lola's story. The High Spot had surely been taken for a ride! And was he, on the very edge of escape from the racket, to be swept into the police net? (To be continued Saturday next.)