FALSE FACE

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 78, 2 April 1932, Page 8 (Supplement)

FALSE FACE

■? E. C. BULEY (Author of " Calcutta Luck," "Sea Urchin," etc.).

CHAPTER XXll—(Continued.)

After that, the time went very slowly to a man as impatient as Peter was. But at last it was mid-afternoon, and he was dressed in formal clothes, and asking for Miss Leplione at her hotel. There was no delay. "You are expected, sir," said the page toy, as he threw open the sifting room door and announced Peter by name. Lola was on her feet, dressed in a pyjama suit of orange and blue, with very wide pantaloons, and a scanty jumper which left her round arms and lieck' bare. As Peter looked at her sternly, she INted both hands in the air, like the victim of a hold-up. "Don't shoot, colonel," she said cheerfully. "I've come down, long ago." Peter continued to regard her with an immovable face. He was very conscious of the circumstance that no mere words of his were adequate to such a meeting, and besides, he had come to enlist her help, rather than to punish her. It was hard to believe that this glowing little beauty, who looked like some strange exotic insect in her fantastic but becoming dress, had entrapped him and kept him drugged, and allowed him to rot in captivity while his life's happiness went to wreck. "Will you have tea in the English way; or with lemon?" Lola asked. "Or can I shake you a cocktail? For pity's sake sit down and park that shiny liat somewhere. "What on earth are you doing in London?" Peter asked, obeying mechanically. "Yes, tea with cream." "I'm here to make a couple of pictures," Lola announced airily. "Don't think that you are the only one who was hoisted to fame and fortune by that little bit of trouble we had in New York." "A little bit of trouble, you call it?" Peter asked, struggling between indignant anger at the past, and laughter at her audacity and sang froid. "I suppose you know what happened to you?" Lola asked, as she lit a cigar-

"A little bit of trouble, you call it?" Peter asked, struggling between indignant anger at the past, and laughter at her audacity and sang froid.

"I suppose you know what happened to you?" Lola asked, as she lit a cigarette, and after a puff, stuck it between his lips.

"I know something of it, but I'd like to hear you tell it, in your own way," Peter invited.

Lola wanted nothing better. "You see," she concluded at last. "I ■was in love with that man, and I didn't care who had to suffer so long as he got clear. And it came out all right for you, Big' Boy. From what I hear, you cannot paint pictures fast enough to please the nuts in Chicago. And here am I, going to be a star in a year's time; unless you start some trouble about what happened so long ago and bring me into it." "Yes, that's your side of it," Peter agreed. "I suppose nothing else matters ?"

"Don't get me wrong," the girl begged. "I'm here to set things right, as far as it can be done. I want you to believe that, Mr. Marchant. And I'd like to hear—honest, I would—all that you care to tell me. I'm not forgetting that you had a love trouble of your own. Only, it wasn't for me to be inquisitive, was it now ?"

"You made the trouble for me," Peter reminded her. "If it can be set right at all, you. are the only person who can manage it. So you have to know, don't you?" He told his story, in turn, Lola nodding grave understanding of the salient points of it. "You've had a raw deal, Mr. Marchant," Lola said, at the end of it. "I did my share, but I'm not the only one. Tell me, what is he like —this Henry Smitji?" ...... The carelessness of the tone did not mask the fact that the question was her. first comment on. Peter's. story. "I'll show you what he's lik»," Peter said, producing a blank notebook and a pencil.. "He's «asy to remember." • ■ CHAPTER XXTTL Peter Arranges to Paint Lola's Picture. Marchant began with Smith's face, of which he produced a detailed sketch in a few minutes. Lola's eyes opened wide as she inspected the drawing, but she returned the book with the air of one very little interested.

"I never saw anybody like that in my life," she said. "I wouldn't choose to see them, either. Do you mean to tell me that Miss Soanes encourages that to hang about, her? Then let me tell you something. She keeps him on the chain, just to annoy you." But Peter was busy with another sketch, which he executed in a few bold lines. • "That's how he looks when he's swimming," he said, as he finished it. "It gives quite a different impression of him, somehow. You'd hardly expect to see such a face on a man so finely made." _ He was talking idly, as he lined in the little' sketch, and now he handed it to Lola. . "You know him?" he said insistently. "I can see by your face that you do. Tell me." Lola stared at the drawing, without confirming or denying the statement Peter had made. "Say!" she drawled at last. "We are both going nuts, I think. What can anybody say about the picture of a man without a face? This looks to me like any one of a dozen athletic men that I've seen in swimming clothes." "But the first one you thought of was Truscott Whalen," Peter said. "Isn't that so, Lola?" "Well, and who would I be thinking of?" Lola asked, in turn. "He's <never been out of my mind, night oy day, for more than half a year. And seeing you, and talking about the past, makes it seem only yesterday when I said goodbye to him. Yes, big boy; your drawing made me think of him. What of it?" "Oh nothing, if you say so," Peter said, readily enough. "I had a crazy idea, but the whole of this experience has been crazy. You think that Whalen was the man found dead with my passport in Paris?" "Don't I know it," Lola said sadly. "Forget it, like I'm trying to do. The point is, how can I set your girl friend right? How is it to be staged?" "I thought you might write—" Peter began. "Write, nothing,". Lola said contemptuously. "I have to look up too many words in the dictionary. Say; how would it be if I paid you to paint my picture ?" "Just as you are?" Peter cried, with genuine enthusiasm. "I'd like—" "Wait!" Lola said. "I want to be painted in my big scene,, in the picture I just finished in Hollywood. I was one of those Inca .girls, or whatever. Wait until. I show you; I've got a still of it somewhere." She rummaged in a drawer and produced a full length photograph.

"Feathers," she remarked. "And not so many of them, at that. The rest is just me." Peter inspected the photograph, and had to grin as he returned it to its proud owner. "Technically speaking, the picture you want will not be a nude," he said, gravely. "There are sufficient feathers for an alibi. And I shall be glad to paint you, in any way you choose." "That's the plot, then," Lola said. "Where is the scene laid? At this seaside place?" "We might begin the sittings there," Peter agreed. "I have at my disposal a big room, which I could use as a studio. I'll go back tiiere to-night, and make arrangements. I'll write to you when to come down; and then I can present you as a patron." "Don't write, telephone," Lola amended. "I haven't got all the time there is. Any day I may have to start work on a new film." When Peter called at the cottage on the following day to inquire about Marcia he was received by Miss Deborah, who shook her bead at him reprovingly. "You choose the wrong time to absent yourself, Peter," she said. "That girl was in the humour to listen to anything you might care to say to her, after her accident. She even dared to throw out questions at me, but I pulled her up sharp." "You did?" Peter said. "Certainly. I told her that she owed it to you to listen to your explanation, and more. I said that she must ask you for your story, having refused to hear it when you volunteered. I really believe that she had made up her mind to it, and then came your letter. Instantly she had a relapse." "A relapse?" Peter repeated. "Do you mean—" "Not her health," Miss Deborah said. "That is unaffected by her recent experience. I was referring to her unfortunate temper. Will you tell me what business called you away at such a time ? ; ' "I have been offered a commission," Peter said. "I am to paint the portrait of a new cinema star, who promises to become a celebrity . An Amerncan, Miss Deborah, if Marcia should happen to ask." "An American!" Miss Deborah repeated. "And I am to tell Marcia? You are veiy thorough, Peter. Do you realise that the girl lias gone off to the golf course with that man Smith, just as though he had not nearly killed all three of you?"

"I am not altogether surprised," Peter said. I have thought a good deal about it, Miss Deborah. Marcia may have ceased to care for me; or she may be trying to bring me to heel, as she did when she came to New York. But when she asked me to come to Bleringstone, she challenged me. I choose to regard Mr. Henry Smith as a weapon, which she is using against me." "And' you defend yourself with an American actress?" Miss Deborah asked. "I -wonder what will come of it all ! But you may rely upon one thing, Peter. Whatever Marcia may say or do, she is as much in love with you as ever." "And I with her," Peter answered. "We are fighting out our battles before marriage, instead of afterwards, you see. If I were to marry her, while she grudged me the success' which I have won by chance, and the further success I hope to win by decent work, how could I expect any happiness?" "It's the modern way, I suppose," Miss Deborah conceded. "But remember this, Peter Marchant. If you manage this business so badly as to throw her into the arms of that man Smith, I shall never forgive you."

After his lunch he was surprised by a visit from Marcia, who called at his lodgings, unaccompanied. Her manner was cordial, as she invited him to walk with her to-the tennis courts. "I was sorry to miss you this morning, Peter,''-she-said: "It was good of you to inquire after me. As you see, I' am' none ' the ' worse for what' happened." "And I wanted to thank you in person," Peter said, sincerely. "You took an enormous risk, Marcia, in order to avoid running over me." "Shall we forget about it?" Marcia asked. "Henry Smith has told me what passed between you, and I want the whole thing forgotten. He is dreadfully concerned about it, really; and about the foolish things he said to you:" "If you can overlook his recklessness, who am I to hold it against liim?" Peter asked. "I suppose we can take it that he will not repeat' his offence?" "Indeed, Peter, he is very concerned over it." Marcia repeated. "I'll answer for it that nothing of that kind shall happen again. And now tell me about your sitter. A cinema star from America, aunt says. Who is she, Peter?" "No star as yet," Peter replied. "But a very beautiful girl, with a big future, I understand. A Miss Lephone, but the name will mean nothing to you.. In a year's time," perhaps, she may be something of a celebrity." "One of your American friends?" Marcia said, brightly. "And coming here, did you say, for sittings?" ' "Not a friend," Peter corrected, patiently. "An acquaintance. I had no opportunity of making friends in America, Marcia; but that does not interest you. And she is coming here for sittings, because we have not much time for the picture, She may start work at Elstree any day, and have no time to spare for me." "It > sounds interesting," Marcia conceded. "When do you start work?" "I expect her to-morrow morning, for our first sitting," Peter said. "She has arranged to motor down from London." "Will you bring her to the cottage for lunch?" Marcia said. "Oh, perhaps . . . ." "I was hoping that you would ask her, as a matter of fact,"' Peter said. "I'm rather bothered about entertaining her, in a place like this." "Then why paint her here?" Marcia asked. "Why not go up to town, and paint her there?" "Because it is her whim to be painted here," Peter answered. "She is paying an extortionate price, to be painted just how and where she chooses." "How interesting!" Marcia commented. "What is she like, Peter?" "She's as dark as you are fair," Peter said. "A Spanish type in appearance. But when she speaks the illusion is rather destroyed." "She sounds unusual—for a place like Bleringstone," Marcia said, sweetly. "I shall expect her, to-morrow." "Will your friend, Mr. Smith, be one of the party?" Peter asked, as they shook hands. "Not if you have any objection," Marcia said, "(Mith a flash of her blue eyes. i

CHAPTER XXIV. Lola Springs a Surprise.

Lola arrived at Blerfngstone in her big car, in good time, and looking her very best. The primitive simplicity of the little fishing village was something entirely new in her experience, and she asked a dozen questions of the old woman who showed them Peter's impromptu studio. "And that's the swimming beach?" she asked. "Say, Mr. Marchant, just when do you use it" "I like a swim about this time," Peter confessed. "Everybody is doing something else at this hour; golf or tennis. So I have the bay to myself." "Where do I get a suit?" Lola demanded. "Come along. I never knew what it was that I wanted, until I saw those bathing huts." The little village store stocked nothing but the cheapest cotton swimming suits, but Lola did not care. She was ready for her swim as soon as Peter, and raced him over the stretch of soft sand, and waist high into the water. "Gee!" she gasped, as she came up after her first plunge. "Sea water is about the only thing the British keep in an ice box." 'Nice and fresh," Peter agreed. "Fresh, yeah. Wlio breaks the crust of ice first thing in the morning?" But in spite of her criticisms of waters much colder in mid-summer than the sea at Los Angeles in mid-winter, Lola prolonged her water sport. She had worked with a troupe of swimming girls, she said, and exhibited to Peter some of the fancy dives and tricks which they had to rehearse.

The display was still in progress when Henry Smith and Marcia left the golf links in the two-seater, bound for Bleringstone and the cottage. The sloping road provided a bird's-eye view of the bathing place, and Marcia's quick eye detected two people on the platform.

"Peter has company to-day," she said. "I forgot to say that he is painting down here, for lack of nomething better to do. I asked him to bring the lady to lunch." "Who is she?" Smith asked. "An American cinema actress, for whom he predicts great things," Marcia replied. "He did mention her name, but I have forgotten it. Not a celebrity, but he says she is very lovely, in a dark, Spanish way." "I see," Smith reflected. "I think, if you will excuse me, Marcia, I will lunch at the inn to-day. I do not feel much like meeting Marchant and his cinema star to-day." "Nonsense," Marcia replied imperiously. "I am not allowing you to quarrel with Peter. If he and I can forget that incident the other day, surely you can. I want you to behave as though it had never happened." "Marchant will not forget," Smith said morosely. "He hates me, Marcia; and he is not particular how he shows it." "They'll be late," Marcia said as the car wheeled into the village. "Drive to the huts, Henry, and we will hurry them up. Do as I say. You'll forget this nonsense, as soon as you have met Peter again and got the meeting over." The two bathers had left the water when the car drew up at the huts, but Marcia banged noisily on the door of Peter's dressing room and called: "Hurry up, Peter. We will wait for you, if you are quick." Peter emerged a minute later, and, after greeting Marcia, offered his hand to Smith.

"I'm afraid I spoke in rather an outrageous way to you the other day, Mr. Smith," he said. "My only excuse is that I was shaken, of course, by what looked like a bad accident." "We were both upset," Smith replied, as he took Peter's hand. "I have no form of apology for my recklessness, or for my words to you afterwards."

"Then we'll forget it," Peter said. ■ And while Marcia was smiling her satisfaction at this fulfilment of her expressed wishes, Lola came -out of her bathing box. Peter saw her cast one startled look at Smith, who had not happened to see her. Then she dived back «again, and was lost to sight for another half-minute. "Forgotten something?" Marcia asked, for she had seen Lola appear. "I wonder!" Peter said mechanically. But Lola appeared, serene and smiling; she was presented to Marcia, who in turn presented Henry Smith. He bowed very low, in his foreign way, and Peter thought his face looked pale and haggard. But Marcia walked in the direction of the cottage, with Lola by her side, prattling brightly about the novelty of Bleringstone, and the exhilaration of bathing in sea water colder by far than any she had known. "Your sitter provides the opportunity for a striking portrait," Smith remarked, as he fell into step with Peter, some paces behind the two girls. "I did not quite catch her name." "Lola Leplione," Peter said. "Late a dancer at a place called the Octagon Club, in New York; but now a cinema actress of brilliant promise; or so I am told. Do you know New York?" "I have never visited America," Smith replied deliberately. "And I have never heard anything about the country that would provide any inducement to a visit." "Of course, you have just entered upon your exploration of England," Peter remarked. "You are not disappointed, I hope ?" "On the contrary," the other man said. Peter relapsed into silence. He had exploited his great idea, and witnessed a confrontation of Smith by Lola, when Smith had no reason to expect anything of tho sort. Lola's momentary withdrawal had excited Marchant; but now he dismissed his theory as far fetched. Lola had recoiled, for the moment, at the

sight of Smith's strange countenance; — and was not the first person by any means to be disconcerted at the eight of it.

But now she was talking cheerily to Marcia, about her first impressions of England, and her contracts, as though Smith did not exist. And he was quite undisturbed, though labouring hard to be polite to a man he disliked.

And before the lunch was over, Marchant was regretting that he had ever been a party to such a hare-brained scheme as that of bringing Lola and Marcia together. A subtle antagonism developed between the two girls, and was displayed by both, in characteristic fashion. Marcia was just a trifle tjo graciously polite, and Lola was provoked into extremes of slang and wise-cracking.

As soon as was decently possible, Marchant made an excuse to carry Lola off, on the plea that he wanted as much time as possible for his first sitting. They had scarcely got out of ear-shot of the cottage, when Lola began to pour forth her indignation.

"Say, Peter Marcliant," she began. "Do you want to know what I think?"

"Not in the least," Peter said,

"Being a square-sliooter, you wouldn't," Lola agreed. "But you've got to listen to one thing. That ritzy jane is just about good enough for Jo-Jo, the djgfaced boy; and if I were you, I should let him have her."

"I don't mind discussing Mr. Henry Smith," Peter said. "You seemed surprised, at your first sight of him?" "No man ought to be at liberty to Hash a map like his," Lola said, recklessly. "It's sheer cruelty to children, and young girls like me." "I want to ask you something, Lola," Peter said earnestly. "I've had this idea. —never mind liow I got it—that he might be Wlialen." "Didn't you say as much, when you made a drawing of him for me?" Lola asked. "And didn't I tell you to forget

it? College Boy is dead, and I'm trying to forget him. Isn't that good enough for you?" "There's another thing," Lola went on. "We need to re-write the scenario. That plot of ours is just the bunk, Peter, unless you want to lose your prccious Marcia."

"Not paint your portrait?" Peter cried, in real dismay. "But I've set my heart on it now. I've set my heart on painting you; but my own way, not your, Lola." "Any way you like, then," she said, with a quick change of mood. "But don't say I never warned you. I've done you one lousy turn, big boy; and I wouldn't like you to have to blame me for another."

Peter posed liis subject in the cheap scarlet bathing suit which she had bought at the little store. With a helmetshaped cap of duller red, Lola, straight as a dart, made a wonderful splash of colour, with her round olive-tinted limbs, and her great lustrous eyes shining with excitement. "When she saw the lirst rough idea of her portrait, limned by Peter with big lavish splashes of colour, she gave herself to the idea, body and soul. ° During the next week Marchant worked as he had never worked before in his life. Lola had found accommodation in the village, and posed for hours at a sitting, without a word of complaint. "Domino!" Lola asked, relaxing her tense limbs. "For the present," Marchant assurea her. "I may want a couple of sittings when I have transferred this to the background. You understand this is more or less a study?" "Just as you say," Lola agreed. You liked doing it, didn't you? And now you are ready for a bit of foul news? Because your poor little rich girl is wearing a big new diamond on her finger. You might as well know, before she asks you to congratulate her upon her engagement to Mr. Henry Smith." (To be concluded.)