PIRATES OF PICCADILLY

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXII, Issue 22142, 22 June 1935, Page 15 (Supplement)

PIRATES OF PICCADILLY

A STORY OF LOVE AND BREATH-TAKING ADVENTURE

CHAPTER I

They looked at each other. The voice had a microphone snarl. Except for the dead man on the carpet they were alone.

THE GIRL OF THI2 GOLDEN ARROW

With apologetic slowness the battered taxicab wheezed into Piccadilly. From the wind-swept Hyde Park Corner the driver glimpsed before him the gentle switch-back way rising to the Ritz. A luxury road, shimmering beneath electric arc-lamps and rumbling to the mighty rhythm of afternoon traffic. Bis boot stamped 011 the accelerator. A white-gloved hand materialised hefore him in the electric mist. Sighing, the taxi-driver reached for his brakes. With the sob of a dying animal the cab came to a stop. The traffic uol'ceman looked back across his outstrefccned arm. " D'you think you're driving fur the Flying Squad?" 110 growled. " Another couple of inches and you'd have had me in hospital." The taxi-driver wheezed. It was a feeble imitation of his own cab in motion.

Quicklv the flunkey inserted a key in the door' and locked it. The rumble of Piccadilly died away to a pianissimo rhythm.

A clock in the hall tinkled four times * * *

" Grey. . . . Everything is grey. A dirty grey!" Arthur Chesham muttered to himself and lit his last cigarette in fitful exasperation. Then he stared moodily out of the window of the Pullman coach in which he was sitting.

The Golden Arrow Limited was stealing away from Dover Pier. Hie murk of a January afternoon smothered even the trailing white smoke of the engine. In the rose-tinted light of the Pullman coach passengers were disposing themselves after a cold, lumpy crossing of the Channel.

It had been a grey sea, a grey sky, and even a grey ship, insisted Arthur Chesham to himself. And nothing could have been more grey than the so-called white cliffs of Dover. Now the train was speeding rhythmically to a grey London. " And a grey future for me, too," concluded the fair-haired young man.

" A miss is as good as a mile —as the bookie said to the earl who'd forgotten to back the favourite," he mumbled in reply. Then he fumbled in the pocket of the tattered overcoat that clung to him for a half-smoked cigarette.

Perhaps young men of 27 arc apt to take life as being bitter-sweet throughout. Arthur Chesham was healthy enough, and possessed of that dogmatic type of'face with blue eyes that caused even other young men to admit, grudgingly, that ho was rather good-looking. There seemed no obvious reason for his present suicidal outlook on life. One man of 57 in that Pullman coach, who had consistently over-eaten for the past 30 years and was now returning from a dismal Continental spa, actually eyed Arthur Chesham with a hungry enviousness. " The world is made for youth," he sighed. Then his podgy hand reached for the bill of fare.

But the policeman didn't smile. " Keep your eyes open in future," he warned.

His gloved hand continued to urge across Piccadilly a stream of traffic debouching from Hamilton Place. Buses, private cars, traders' vans, forming what might have been the tail of some monster mechanical twisted past him. They spluttered in noisy exhaust as they struck the spaciousness of Piccadilly, and charged like an infuriated mechanical army against the granite howitzer of Jagger. Striking a bent match, the taxidriver smouldered his cigarette into life. He was breathing the smoke in luscious draughts down his nose when a voice, shrill and nervous, spoke in his

The real reason for Arthur Chesham's grey outlook was clutched in his hand now in the pocket of his tweed coat. It was a ten-shilling note. That note represented the young man's entire wealth. It was all that remained of £IO,OOO. And only a fortnight previously he had travelled in this same Golden Arrow train from London to Dover, with credit notes to the value of £IO,OOO ill his pocket. In between there had been ten days at Monte Carlo. Ten shillings were all that remained. " This is vour seat, miss."

" For God's sake —move quickly— Why are we stopping here?" The taxi-driver swivelled his head and gazed at the shadowy figure in the cab. It was the man who had spoken through the speaking-tube. All that could be seen of him was a thin, nervous face that had caught a bluish tinge from the electric arc-lamps dangling from the late afternoon sky. " Nothin' to worry about, sir," growled the taxi-driver in reply. "Just a little traffic hold-up. We'll be there in a couple of jiffs." " Don't forget the number —70a, Piccadilly," shrilled the voice in the speaking-tube. " It's —it's a matter of life and death."

Chesham looked up to see an_ attendant ushering a girl in brown into the chair facing him. The girl was about to seat herself when she uttered a cry of dismay.

" But this seat is number thirteen." " Yes, miss." The attendant was non-committal. " But 1 couldn't possibly—" began the girl. " I'm afraid it's the only one available. You came aboard rather lato, miss."

" It'll be death for you and a heavy fine for me if T tries to burst through that traffic," replied the driver. He saw the man with the thin, nervous face put up the enormous collar of his overcoat, and shiver as though with cold. Both windows of the cab were shut tight. " Seems frightened even of 'isself," mused the driver, and then reached for the gears as lie saw the last of that mechanical dragon's tail whisk itself into Piccadilly.

With a sigh, Arthur Chesham rose. " Perhaps you wouldn't mind changing seats with me?" he remarked, dryly.

Up to this moment he had only seen the brown clad hack of the girl. But even backs can be expressive. Chesham had already decided that she was worth a second glance. When she turned she exceeded his expectations. A cool, beautiful face and a pair of grey eyes that regarded him calmly. " That's awfully good of you." Her slightly rouged lips entranced him. " Are you certain that you don't mind? Thirteen is terribly unlucky." " Perhaps only to some people," smiled Chesham, a little ruefully. " Anyhow, I really don't mind." He took the fateful chair. With a blank face the attendant deposited her leather suitcase, pocketed the tip and moved away into that rose-tinted atmosphere. " I suppose it's silly of me to be so superstitious," flashed the girl settling herself in the seat. Chesham, who wa-s admiring the russet red of her hair offset by a charming little hat, smiled encouragingly. " Superstition sometimes pays," he remarked. " I met a fellow at Monte Carlo who insisted upon gambling against every superstition that existed in the Casino." " He was a brave man," smiled the girl. "Ho was a fool," commented Chesham. " Did he win?"

With a grin he< manoeuvred his battered taxi past the policeman and joined a mighty avalanche of traffic that rumbled toward Piccadilly Circus.

On his right was the railed darkness of Green Park. " I've heard tell that ghosts walk there at midnight," mused the taxi-driver honking at a cherubic page-boy, all buttons and legs, sprinting between the traffic lanes. The boy reached the pavement and disappeared into the shade of one of those whitepillared porticoes that arc the entrances to Clubland. "Hurry—for God's sake!"

The driver swivelled his head at the desperate whisper through the speak-ing-tube. But his fare had sunk into the shadows of the cab as though hiding from the dazzling light of Piccadilly. The battered taxi cruised past a flanking glare of light from the luxury hotels. Revolving doors gave a glimpse of a paradise of rich carpets, mirrors and waiters poised like diplomats. The windows of automobile shops revealed their shining mechanical boasts couched, and eyeing balefully through monstrous headlamps this surging, panting stream of traffic. "The Ritz! Who's for the Ritz? Hurry up. lidy!" The cry of a bus conductor reached them as they slurred forward. The taxidriver gave his steering-wheel a vicious twist. The cab spluttered to a standstill alongside the pavement. "This is it, sir! 70a, Piccadilly."

" No, he lost." " Much?" Those grey eyes had a questioning look. They* had a penetrating frankness that insisted upon a frank reply. To his surprise Chesham found himself saving: " About ten thousand pounds, I believe."

The adorable lips pouted. " That was —rather silly," she said. " It was," agreed Chesham. The greyness beyond the windows had merged into black. The train was tearing through the Kentish countryside. Mysterious points of light twinkled in the darkness. A bridge roared above them. Then everything was lost in the steady rhythm of the train. " Will you take tea?" asked the attendant, poised at their side, nt an Einsteinian angle. The girl glanced at Chesham. His hand instinctively sought that solitary ten-shilling note. " I'm sure you'd like some tea," he ventured, desperately. The grey eyes smiled. " I'd love some."

The door of the call was cautiously opened. Enveloped in his overcoat, the collar of which was rich astrakhan, the man with the thin, nervous face stepped out. Without a word he thrust a note into the grimy hand of the driver. Then he ran, like a fox sneaking into a hole, toward the dimlv-lit doorway before him. He collided with a blind man tapping his way along the pavement. But he did not stop The next moment he had disappeared into the doorway. The taxi-driver's ga/.e had followed him for a second, then it was transferred to the note in his hand.

"He's gimme a pound," he muttered, as though to reassure himself of the reality. "Gawd, what luck!" He and his cab lurched forward in the direction of Piccadilly Circus in a state of wheezing happiness. Standing in a pool of yellow light behind the doors ct that house in Piccadilly, the man in the astrakhan coat panted like someone who had been hunted and reached safety at last. Beads of perspiration stood out on his thin, nervous face. Ho was in a luxurious little hall, heavily carpeted and pleasantly warmed. A flunkev in knee-breeches and with powdered wig bowed before him. The big overcoat was helped from his shoulders. The man who had ridden along Piccadilly in the battered taxicab was revealed, a thin figure garbed in evening dress. A blood-red ribbon round his collar dangled a glittering order against his shirt front. " I—l am Prince Serge Lobai," muttered the man. nervously. '• Yes, your highness. You are expected," murmured the flunkey. "Expected, eh?" A grin twisted across the nervous features. " I —I —" A terrified gleam come into his eyes. Ho swayed. The next moment, with a groan he pitched forward on the carpet. The flunke./ dropped the overcoat in his alarm and bent over the figure. The click of a door sounded softly. In a few seconds he was joined by a dark-haired young man in evening dress " Just a moment!" ordered the newcoiner.

" Tea for two," ordered Chesham He wondered vaguely whether ten shillings would be enough for this extravagance. Seat number 13! " Been holidaying?" he asked her.

She shook her head. " No, business. Hurried business. And you?" He hesitated. How could one describe his mad adventure?

" Er —holidaying," he said. "At Monte Carlo?" " Yes." " An amusing place, Monto Carlo." " Very amusing," he agreed, grimly " A place for pigeon fanciers." " Eh?"

" Pigeons to be plucked and pigeons to be shot," she said. " And a little group of pigeon fanciers who indulge in both occupations." A white tea-cloth was fluttered between them. While the blank-faced attendant was setting the little tea-table, Chesham speculated upon this cool, alert beauty who faced him.

Business? Hurried business? Somebody's secretary? Lucky devil. Married? His eyes sought her hands. She was drawing off her gloves. How gracefully some women do that! Slim, cool hands —as beautiful as her face. Not a single ring on any finger. Unmarried, then. Perhaps she worked for a West End dressmaker Buying frocks in Paris. Even he could admire the expensive style of that brown costume. Combined with her russet-brown hair, she had an autumnal beauty about her. A big, red sun rolling drunkenly to rest behind a hill slope in the Chilterns carpeted with red-gold leaves. Cool mist drifting the valleys. Grey eyes and flushed cheeks.

He also bent over the figure slumped on the carpet. His hand strayed toward the heart. Ruthlessly, he tore open the stiff shirt-front. A thin, miserable white chest was revealed. The dark-haired man whistled softlv.

"He's dead! And look!" His hand indicated the shrunken body. " Ho'b not had a decent meal for days. Starved to death." A voice, quiet, but impetuous, came to their ears.

" Have you been far on the Continent? " he asked.

" Central Europe," she replied

" Ueallv! "

" But 1 must insist, sir."

"Lock the doors I Come upstairs, both of you, at once!"

She must be a secretary. One didn't buy frocks in Central Europe. But why a secretary? Well, she looked so beastly

(COPYRIGHT)

By WILLIAM J. MAKIN „ M .. ~p . . _ .. , r Author of " The Murder at Covent Garden." Two Moons. Price of Exile, etc.

competent. Or, rather, admiringly competent. He gazed fascinated at two hands, two red, roughened hands of the attendant depositing all the paraphernalia of ten before them. Then her cool, slim hands took charge of everything in that competent way she had. He released his hold of the ten-shilling note to take the cup of tea she proffered him. The steady rhythm of the train was soothing.

" You know, I'm curious," she began. He looked up. The grey eyes were searching him. " Yes? "

" That fellow whom you met in Monte Carlo, the one who lost ten thousand pounds—what happened to him? "

" Oh, he's all right." " Could ho afford to lose ten thousand pounds? " She was damnably persistent. He stirred his tea reflectively. " Can anyone afford to lose ten thousand pounds nowadays? " he said, evasively.

" Only millionaires," she replied. " Was lie a millionaire? ' " He had only ten thousand pounds in all the world," he muttered. " And he risked everything? "

" Why not? Better to try and make it a. hundred thousand than eke out an existence in a boarding-house on the income of the ten thousand. But perhaps you believe in safety first. In these upside down times everyone talks of safety first. It's become a national slogan. Safety first! " He thrust a whole cake into his mouth, as though lie would stifle the scorn in his voice. The rhythm of the train had risen to a higher key. For the rest, he was aware of silence. Confound the girl! He knew that her grey eyes wero searching him. " I think I would like to meet the man you saw in Monte Carlo," she said, quietly. " I hardly think you will meet him," he said, a "little defiantly, and holding out his cup for more tea. " Why should you say that? " " Well, I shouldn't imagine he would move in—er —good society after this."

She laughed, a cool ripple of delightful laughter that left him devastated.

" Have you ever been to a Pinero play? " she asked, handing him back his cup of tea. " I can't think that I have. Why? "

" Because that remark of yours might have come from a Pinero play. It was so deliciously Edwardian. By the way, have you a cigarette? " " Of course.'

Then he suddenly remembered he handn't. His cigarette case was in that little pawnshop in Beausoleil, behind Monte Carlo. He began to murmur an apology. " Don't worry."

She produced a gold case of her own, and handed it to him. He selected one. His hand trembled a little as he held a match near her lips. " And where is he now? " she asked. " Who? " " The man who lost ten thousand pounds at Monte Carlo." He shrugged his shoulders. " On his way back to England, I expect. The Casino authorities believe in playing the game to the bitter end, you know. In a case of deserving destitution they will gladly give the poor devil a first class return ticket to his home."

" I see." She blew a little cloud of smoke between them as though to screen another attack. " He might even be on this train? "

" He might." Chesliam was nervously cautious. " But of course you would recognise him? " " Of course."

The blank faced attendant materialised like an evil genie through the cigarette smoke. " Your bill, sir."

Chesham did not look at it. Carelessly he brought forth the ten-shilling note, and dropped it on the plate. " K<-ep the change! " he gambled.

A moment's pause. Then: " Thank you, sir. We'll be drawing into Victoria in fifteen minutes, sir."

He disappeared in a further cloud of cigarette smoke 'I hrusting his hands into his empty pockets, Arthur Chesham turned with a grin toward the girl. But the seat was empty *****

The lights of London. The cheery glare of the suburbs, a criss-cross of steel rails, electric trains, and the yellow, red and green lights of the track. The rumble of a bridge beneath. More lights. The Golden Arrow trailing sparks like a comet through this constellation. Then the resonance of some gigantic hall. A platform with porters gliding past. The flash of pale city faces. " Victoria! . . . Stand clear, please. . . . Hi, taxi 1 "

Arthur Chesham gave n last quick glance round for the girl in brown. He thought he saw her step easily from the moving train to the platform. Blithe may have been mistaken. Perhaps it was better so. It would have been embarrassing to stand on that platform with his two suitcases —the last of his possessions—and wonder vaguely what she expected him to do. For now that he was in London he had not the slightest idea where to go or what to do.

As he trailed behind the other passengers toward the door of the Pullman where his two suitcases awaited him, he mentally assessed their value at the nearest pawnshop. Here he was without even the proverbial penny in his pocket. His last ten shillings had gone on two cups of tea and a piece of cake. " Hello, darling' You're just in time to take me to dinner and then to dance at the Embassv."

A woman swathed in furs was greeting the man who had returned from a dismal month at a dismal Continental spa.

Chesham winced. A month ago he had been dancing at the Embassy. Now, he was seeking a pawnbroker, after which it would be a cheap supper and a bed in some back room Savagely, he seized his two suit-cases, ignoring the porter who rushed forward. Ho hadn't even a sou to tip the fellow. Toward the engine, now purring contentedly like a giant cat the man without a penny in his pocket stalked with a suit-case in each hand. He almost collided with a smartly-uniformed chauffeur who stopped his progress. The chauffeur touched his hat. " Allow me, sir." He held out his hands for the suitcases.

" No thanks! " growled Chesham

To his astonishment, Chesham found the suit-cases taken from his hands and carried expeditiously toward a huge, luxurious limousine that throbbed gently at the side of the platform. It was a ear in a thousand. " Look here, you've made a mistake!" protested Chesham. He saw the chauffeur give a quick glance at the two suit-cases that he had stowed by the driver's seat. Chesham followed liis gaze. He saw that each of ihe suit-cases had a strange label pasted on the ends, a label that stood out among even the gaudy collection of Riviera hotels. It was a hlack and white label. And tho design —a skull and crossbones. (To be continued dnily)