ANNOUNCER'S HOLIDAY

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXV, Issue 23026, 2 May 1938, Page 17

ANNOUNCER'S HOLIDAY

(COPYRIGHT) n ••

By VftL, UItLUUU Well-known radio dramatist and author of "Beyond

A VOICE, KNOWN TO MILLIONS OF 8.8.C. LISTENERS, BELONGS TO A YOUNG MAN WHO HAS BEEN GRANTED A MONTH'S HOLIDAY. ON THAT VACATION MANY THINGS HAPPEN.

SYNOPSIS / S Geoffrey Allardyce, announcer nt the 8.8.C. studio t is on a month's holiday and Starts furnishing a small flat. Requiring a corkscrew, he visits a shop in Soho and finds himself among packing casos containing machine-guns. In Retting out of the place ho meets a slim, dark girl and realises that she is staring at the flower in his buttonhole. CHAPTER ll.—(Continued) The flower in question was a poinsettia of the brightest red. In normal circumstance! Geoffrey would have seen himself dead before wearing such an ostentatious personal adornment. But that morning he had felt that the beginning of his holiday demanded some sort- of symbolio representation. A less ascetic young man would probably have got drunk at lunch. But Geoffrey Allardyce never got drunk. He disapproved of the proceeding on principle, and he was blessed with an excellent head. So he had contented himself with the bright red poinsettia in his buttonhole. And as the elegant young woman continued to stare at the flower with an expression which, to Geoffrey's eye, appeared definitely scornful, he wished exceedingly that he had contented himself with the commonplace carnation. He was just going to ask the girl to make room for him to pass when she spoke. "Hello!" she said. "I wasn't expecting you quite as early as this." jßather surpriningly, coming from between such heavily-painted lips, the voice was low and agreeable. "Er —what?" said Geoffrey stupidly. "It's better to be on time, you know," added the girl. "However, here you are!" She threw a glance over her shoulder, apparently making sure that no one else had entered the shop behind her, and then, with a swift, graceful movement caught Geoffrey's left hand. He felt something slipped into his palm. As he opened it and looked down to see what she had given him, "Don't open it here, you fool!" she said, turned her back, and went out into the street, leaving Geoffrey none the wiser. He jammed the note —he had had one glimpse of a creased and grubby envelope—well- down into one side pocket, took a step toward the doorway, and turned. The fat apple-eater was looking at him across the packing-cases. His expression was unpleasant, and his eyes were disagreeably narrowed and blinking. "Don't you want your -corkscrew after givin' me all that trouble?" he inquired. "I'd given you up for lost," said Geoffrey, pleasantly. "You were some time, you know," "I was as quick as was reasonable! I don't break my neck for no corkscrew."

Observing the thick fleshiness of that neck, Geoffrey found the very idea of its breaking inconceivable. But he did not say so. "Nothing else your lordship requires to-day?" continued the fat man, with appropriately elephantine humour. "No thanks!" said Geoffrey.

He paid for his corkscrew, put it into the same pocket as the mysterious note, nodded to the fat purveyor of submachine guns, and left the shop. Just for the .moment he had to fight down a ridicalojis instinctive fear, centring itself physically plumb in the middle of' his back, that a knife might come, whizzing from behind the packing cases. Needless to say, nothing of the sort occurred. Geoffrey found himself once more amidst the normal circumstances of a Soho street, abusing, not for the first time, his tendency to add a flavour of melodrama to the events of his ordinary existence. But not yet was he to be able to return to his flat and make use of the corkscrew. As he looked both ways along the street, anathematising the persistent rain, and hoping for a last glimpse of the mysterious and elegant young lady, Geoffrey "became aware" —as they say in police reports—of a disturbance. The centre of this disturbance was a rather singular figure; singular at least considering the place and the time of day; a young man, bareheaded, but holding in one hand a silk hat, and wearing full evening dress, making spasmodic and ineffective attempts to free himself from the grip of a police constable. About the pair eddied various interested figures; two or three young women in cheap fur coats, bright hats of exaggeratedly fashionable shape, and imitation silk stockings; a brace of errand boys, whistling; one small girl with her tongue out; a taxi-driver ; and the com'plete staff of an adjacent butcher's shop. > , ■ Geoffrey Allardyce moved slowly toward the group, and then became suddenly, and rather uncomfortably aware of two things. It seemed to him that the face of the young man in even-ing-dress was vaguely familiar to him. It was quite certain that the buttonhole in the young man's tail-coat was a red poinsettia! He almost yielded to the temptation to rub his eyes. The matter seemed to be becoming altogether too much of a good thing. CHAPTER HI. INTRODUCES CHARLES BLAND What was more, there was no doubt about it. The young man in evening dress was Charles Bland—dishevelled, damp, wriggling rather absurdly in the grip of the arm of the Law-but indubitably Charles Bland. And Charles was not normal. He was trying to argue ■with the policeman, and to sing at the same timo. The result was not a good argument, and most deplorable discord, though the bystanders seemed to enjoy the performance quite a good deal. however, did not enjoy it at tTI. He had not seen Charles for the best part of three years. But they had been at school together, and very close friends before Bland had followed so many of the modern aristocracy into the City, and Geoffrey had subsided gently upon the bosom of the British Broadcasting Corporation. Bland was an Honourable; but, far more important, he had been an "good egg." To' see him thus making sport rather disreputably for the dreg! of Soho affected Geoffrey most disagree ably. "What's the trouble, officer? h< inquired diplomatically of the constable "Gentleman creating a disturbance sir," was the reply. "I told him to g( home. We don't want' any violenc* T-rninrl Tiftrp."

"Look here," said Geoffrey, "suppose you leave him to me. I'll look after him." . "Friend of yours, sir?" The policeman sounded surprised, the watching young women giggled, and the butcher's assistants raised a thin cheer "Yes," said Geoffrey, trying to sound firm. , ~ Charles Bland turned a bleary eye upon him. . "Never set eyes on you in m' life." he observed profoundly. "Don't like your face —go 'way'!' "Come on, Charlie, don't be an ass! I'm Geoffrey Allardyce." "Never heard of you," persisted Bland. "Plot —conspiracy, that's what! Prefer police—nice kind constables, like this one."

Ho buried his face against the constabulary overcoat, and the bystanders made appreciative N noises. i Geoffrey took him by the shoulders. I "Look at me, you lunatic 1" he said angrily. Bland shook him off. "Perfect stranger," he complained, 4 and a sob came into his voice, "trying | to kidnap me. Monstrous—demand protection. Ajul he's pinched my flower — nice flower, pretty. Want to charge him—thel't 'n batt—battery, that's it! Constable—do duty!" Whereupon he flung his silk hat into the gutter and jumped on it with both feet. d Restraining a violent impulse to lose f his temper, Geoffrey wijiked at the policeman and hailed a passing taxi-cab. The constable proved himself to possess, like the Shipwrecked Mariner, both resource and sagacity. He pinioned Charles Bland neatly by both arms, and the moment that Geoffrey had opened the cab door, inserted Bland into its interior with all the dexterity of the export. The shock, and perhaps the change of position, had an immediate effect upon Bland. He relapsed into darkness and composure, and made no further effort to prevent Geoffrey from acting the good Samaritan. Once back at the latter's flat he allowed himself I to be undressed; accepted three cups - of tea, as hot and strong as Geoffrey could ipake them; and went to sleep quietly on the divan in the sittingroom, wearing a spare pair of Geoffrey a pyjamas, as though he had not a care, or poinsettia, or a crooked white tie in the world. After which Geoffrey felt that he had earned the right to mako use of his cork-screw, and did so. He also remembered the creased and grubby note beside the corkscrew in hia pocket. He lighted a pipe, poured himself a second drink, looked at Charles Bland sprawling inelegantly on his cushions, propped the envelope up against a candlestick on his desk, and waited. W # * * * Some four hours later Charles Bland grunted, yawned, stretched, sat up, clutched at his head, and demanded apparently of the universe where on earth "he was and what he was supposed to be doing. • » • • • Charles was both subdued and repentant when he heard from Geoffrey of his activities in Soho. He was frankly horrified. He was also embarrassingly grateful for his rescue. "Oh! nonsense," said Geoffrey uneasily. "I cpuld hardly leave you to find out what Bow Street looks like from the inside, could I? Besides, it was quite time I saw you again." "Darn decent of you, all the same," said Charles. "Never again 1" "Never again whatP" "Believe the novelists," said Charles. Ho said it so seriously that Geoffrey laughed. "No, I'm not trying to be funny, Geoff. You see before you an example of the ruined aristocrat!" "Bosh!*' "I .mean it. I todk a toss over some monkey business in the city about a week ago and threw ip. everything' I had in the world to try and pull it round. No good. All down the drain together." "Well? Where do the novelists come in?" "I didn't know what to do, Geoff. There I was last night, in an appalling mess, a brace of tenners in my pocketbook, and a beastly story due to break in the papers about the firm by tomorrow at latest. Well, the novelists always tell you about ruined aristocrats gambling with their" last penny, and all that tosh. I thought I'd try it." "You are a lunatic, Charles." "Probably. But wait till you're in that same fix. It's not easy to make any decision. Well, I knew one of those private house gambling joints behind Curzon Street. You know the sort of place—" "I don't. But go on." "Oh, all chandeliers and gilding, and blondes in clothes they'll never pay for, and men with improbably big cigars, and really good food, and a foreigner or two who really know their way about; the sort of scene the cinema always tries to show you, and never can because their directors have never been in anything nearer the mark, than the baccarat rooms in some forsaken Riviera holiday resort." " But what happened Charlie? " Exactly what you'd expect would happen. I was cleaned out to my last sixpence, and had to walk home. "Was it fair? " " I was skinned —I don't think I was cheated," said Bland grimly. " But it was the finish, so to-pay 1 thought 1 would finish things up in the grand manner. I pawned my studs —they were nice ones, I regret to say—and Btarted out to have one last good dinner. Hence the glad rags, and that revoltingly ostentatious flower in my coat. The ' aristo ' went to this guillotine with an air and a clean shirt —you know the rot they write! Unfortunately I never got to i the dinner. I drank first and frequently. And now you know all." " I wonder," said Geoffrey Allardyee. Charles Bland flushed. " The 8.8.C. has made you too smart, Geoffrey," he said. "\es, there is some more to it, but it s so confoundedly like the middle act of a not very good play—" , , .. Suppose you tell me about it, instead of trying to excuse its improbability. Queer things do happen, Charles—this queer thing has happened to you. That's the only difference." ~ ~ " Quite the little philosopher, aren t y °"Look here," said Geoffrey coldly, " if you think I'm trying to pump you for your blessed secret, you re no end wrong! " "All right—keep your hair on, Geo It. But at the moment I don't much like the idea of being laughed at." "I won't laugh." " Very well, here goes: I came out of that silly gambling place in a pretty odd state of mind. I knew it didn t matter two pins really that la thrown away the rest of my money. I knew that being angry or miserable was simply futile. I was down tfee dram, well and finally. And yet I was angry, furiously angry with myself. I wanted to do something desperate—preferably to someone else. I felt it might help to get on terms with mvself again — "I think I understand that, Baid i Geoffrey slowly. "Go on." " I was about halfway down Curzon , Street," Bland continued, " when a girl spoke to me over my shoulder. ' Needless to .say I walked on a bit 1 quicker. That's all. And then I felt a ' grip on my arm. I tell you, Geoff., I spun round as if I'd been shot, and all ! keyed up to let drive with my fist." " And it was the girl." , " Wonderful, my dear Holmes. Your > tobacco is in the Persian slinper." # > Bland grinned and lighted a cigarette. " I'm going to be more wonderful still, Watson/' Geoffrey went on. "The young person—who should certainly not have been grasping the > arms of young debauched aristocrats in Curzon Street late at night, bad something about her definitely Italian. She had a pale, creamy skin, remarkable dark eyes, too much make-up, and a charming voice." "Good Lord!" said Charles Bland. " She gave you a rendezvous in a shop in a certain street in Soho for this evening, didn't she, Charlie? The street at the corner of which I found you embracing the constabulary? And you were to carry a red poinsettia in your button-hole to show that you "meant business. That's all. I don't know any more." (To be continued daily)