ANNOUNCER'S HOLIDAY

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXV, Issue 23034, 11 May 1938, Page 27

ANNOUNCER'S HOLIDAY

(COPYRIGHT)

By VAL GIELGUD „ Well-known radio dramatist and author of * Beyond Dover» etc.

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.

CHAPTER XlV.—(Continued) Charles Bland rubbed his chin, put a consoling hand on Geoffrey's shoulder, and left him to get over it by himself. He did not mention to Geoffrey that he was directing his steps toward the stage-door of the Imperial Theatre, where Miss Greta Mahler was playing at a matinee; nor that ho intended paying that young latly a vi&it. He did not fool that the information would be appreciated. . . . Yet that is what Charles did. Rather to his surprise Miss Mahler made no difficulty about seeing him during the second interval. And Charles, seeing her at close quarters i'or the first time, and wearing the exiguously attractive costume of a Viennese night-club dancer, had to admit to himself that he could well -understand Geoffrey's sudden and violent infatuation. When he came into the dressing-room, he found himself facing a fragile vision of white satin, lace, and soft white fur. The famous big blue eyes ivere very wide and untroubled. The even more famous legs were displayed to their best advantage. Charles explained who he was, mentioned Geoffrey Allardyce as a friend of his, and asked for Lucia Reichenberg's address. "But if you are Mr. Bland, you must know it," said Greta. "She spoke of bringing you to see me before she brought Mr. Allardyce." Charles explained the mistake of identity. The girl's delicately pencilled eyebrows rose on her forehead. "You mean," she said slowly, "that Mr. Allardyce came in your place to do something you had been intending to do —to make love to me for a purpose.-'" "Good heavens, no!" said Charles. "It was just a mistake —one of those things." "It is not the sort of thing I understand," said the actress. "It was simply that we were both ready to help you," began Charles awkwardly. It was only at this moment that he realized just how odd the story sounded —how thin von Reichenberg's motive must appear out of its Limehouse setting, and without the backing of his remarkable personality. Greta Mahler jumped up from her chaise-longue, pulling the fur-trimmed wrap closer around her slim figure. "I think you had better go, Mr. Bland. I do not like tilings or people that 1 don't understand, especially in a foreign country. Perhaps you would say the same to your friend?" Charles thought that he detected the slightest quaver in her voice as she added that last sentence. "You think, Miss Mahler," he said coldly, "that 'my friend,' as you call • him. understoQd your treatment of him at supper last night?" • The girl flushed crimson. And Charles, seeing his arrow shot at a venture hit the target, thought the moment opportune to retire in good order. He should have waited. For then he might have seen the sophisticated ornament of the theatre, her dignity and her eye-black simultaneously forgotten, lying crumpled up on the dressing 1 room sofa, sobbing her heart out lika any hurt child.

CHAPTER XV. 5 =-; X AVTER SPEAKS" OUT When she re-entered the dressing room at the end of the matinee, she found Prince Xavier in possession. That young man was evidently in no pleasant temper. Greta was used to that. She was even used to the way in which he ordered her dresser into the passage. But she was not used to a scene before she had an opportunity of getting rid of her make-up and changing. She was certainly not used to hands being laid anything but gently upon her shoulders. .... And she had a temper of her own. "Stay if you like," she said, "but I'm going on changing, and I want to get behind that screen. What is it?" Xavier flung himself down on the sofa. "That's what you'd better tell mo," ho retorted. "Who are these young men who come to see you?" "Friends of mine," said Greta from behind the screen. "Are you prepared to do without me. Greta?" "Must we talk about this again?" Two stockings coiled lazily over the back of the screen. "Surely last night was enough?" The prin.ee twisted his black walking-stick fiercely in his hand. The handle slid back, drawing with it several inches of shining steel. It was a swordstick. Xavier fingered the blade lovingly, and clicked it home again. "Listen to me. Greta! I've adored you now for three years. It's a long time for an officer and a gentleman to waste on a ballet-girl. For that's all you were, my dear. That's all you'd still be, if your managements hadn't been flattered by my interest in you. If certain money hadn't been found for certain engagements. Even this engagement here in London—" He stopped. Greta had said nothing. She remained silent and invisible be-

hind her screen over which various intimate garments had followed the stockings, one by one. . . "Well?" said Xavier, and the monosyllable was almost a snarl. "I don't think a gentleman talks like that," said the girl, at last. She came out, patting lior hair with neat, clever fingers. "Quite so," agreed the prince, after a pause, "but I'm no longer a gentleman, Greta. I'm in love, so I'm just a poor fool like other fools. Only I've had enough of it!" "I shall be sorry, my dear," said Greta, softly. "You were once a good friend to met" "Friend!" Xavier laughed. "I never made any secret of what I wanted from you." Greta turned round as she sat at licr dressing-table. "I could never marry you," she said. "It would mean ruin for you." "It would mean the end of a silly fairy-tale, Greta. It would mean that we could live abroad and never worry about thrones and politics and dynasties. It would mean that we could be happyJ" "When I don't love youP" "I could make you love me!" And, gazing at his fascinating eyes, at the vitality that flexed every musclo in his lean athletic body, Greta felt for an instant that he might be speaking the truth. Probably something of that feeling showed in her expression. Whatever the cause, the prince's control snapped. His long arms shot out. The wiry fingers caught Greta by the shoulders for the second time, spun her round on the stool where she was sitting, and jerked her savagely into his embrace. Greta, at first merely angry, grew frightened. She twisted and writhed. Then she screamed hoarsely, and the prince clapped a hand across her mouth. The other shifted upwards from her shouldor-blades and moved to her throat. . . Then, as suddenly as that fury had begun,- it died. The horrible, clutching fingers went limp. The desperation went out of the eyes that now ■were dull as unlightcd lamps. Greta slip to her knees. Xavier stood over her, rock-

ing a little on his feet. She flopped helplessly sideways, moaning a little, alid twitching like a shot, rabbit. The prince made no move to help her. Then, moving mechanically like some marionette, he picked up hat, coat, muffler and sword-stick from the sofa, and walked to the door "I do not think I shall come here again," he said, "but you know where you can find me in the. rooms at Clarges Street. You have got to marry me, Greta, or you will never leave London alive. 1 am not being stupid or threatening. I would not wish to hurt you. But I could not help it.l should kill you, as I so nearly killed you just now just because I could npt stop myself. I am mad about you, you see—not as most people understand the term, but in truth and fact. As far as you are concerned I am —not sane." Greta began to sob quietly. She did not look up. Xavier stared at her, his face twisted into a horrible expression. The door slammed behind him. Greta staggered to her feet, locked the dress-ing-room door, and buried her'face in her hands.

CHAPTER XVI. ,-SKCRET AND CONFIDENTIAL The silence of Superintendent Moresby ever since what Charles Bland had called "The Adventure of the Empty Shop," had not been of that enterprising officer's making. Moresby indeed found that ho had put his foot in it. The Assistant Commissioner rebuked him for making any such suggestion to Messrs. Bland and Allardyce in any circumstances.

"But what was I to do, sir?" demanded Moresby. "They were on the spot. They seem decent young fellows. One of them's in the 8.8.C. after all. And they seem to have fluked into the business from another end."

"You ought to have smacked them hard and sent 'em home to mother and bread-and-milk," said Major Cavendish. On the other side of the table, Colonel Frank Boughton, vaguely attached at intervals to the War Office or the Foreign Office staff for convenience, but always and in practice, sub-chief of M.1.5, which is by interpretation that part of the Military Intelligence Department which deals with counter-espionage, and all kindred problems, grinned at the large Superintendent's discomfiture.

"And I don't think it's funny," continued the Assistant Commissioner, with a quelling glance at the soldier's tanned face, with its single immovable eye-glass and air of bored good breeding, which concealed such immense shrewdness and knowledge of the world.

"Sorry not to agree with you," said Boughton, languidly. "Perhaps you don't agree that the matter is at all important?" Boughton affected to ignore the sarcasm. "On the contrary," he replied. "But let's check up—what exactly have we got?" He ticked off his points with the tips of lingers placed with same fastidiousness on the stained and dusty table in Moresby's office. "One—and a very large size in ones— Casimir Konski. If we could only lay our hands on him —"

"Found his hide-out yet, Moresby?' "No, sir. But we shan't be long." "You've been too long already!"

" Secondly," .« Boughton proceeded tranquilly, "this humbug about the prince and the actress. Third, this queer imitation of the Yanka Puzta assassination school, planted in midSoho. Finally, the approaching visits that we wot of, and our business to ensure the safety of the visitors." "And isn't that enough for you, Boughton;'"

"From most points of view—yes. But this isn't just an ordinary police job, Cavendish. And if you won't let Moresby attach Allardyce and Bland temporarily to the Special Branch, I don't mind telling you that I've every intention of taking them into M.I. on my own account." "You rather specialise in amateurs, don't you?" observed Major Cavendish, unamiably.

Frank Boughton took no notice of the offensiveness implied in the other's tone.

"If they aren't roped in on some sort of official basis, they'll play round by their little selves, get in our way, probably get into a fix and have to be got out; and quite possibly complicate the whole business quite needlessly," he said.

"Of course, in that case you must do as you please," said the Commissioner. "Personally I don't think they're very important from any standpoint. My hands are quite full enough as it is." And he glared at Moresby, who looked at the tips of his shoes and said nothing at all. "Very well," said Boughton. "Leave 'em to me. But let's stick to the point. What's the connection between Casimir Konski. tho approaching visit of A. and B. to this country, and the amatory intrigues of Xavier, hereditary prince of Carinthia ?" "Heaven knows," grumbled the Com*-' missioner.

"No doubt. But we want to know. Is it the old game of the double bluff?" Moresby sat up, suddenly. "Meaning?" snapped Major Cavendish. Colonel Eoughton took out a cigarette case and selected a cigarette with elegant fastidiousness. "Merely rather a pet theory," he said at last. "But I've known it practised before and with success. Think a minute, Cavendish. What are the obvious ingredients of the affaire Mahler?" "Do get 011, man!" "Certainly. Everything which means headlines that's the answer. Lovely young actress—foreign prince—thwarted romance—theatrical background and mysterious atmosphere in the midst of which beat a couple of starved hearts! What more could an efficient and popular Press want, to have the time of its life." "Well?" "Well—get the public sufficiently interested in that sort of thing, and you know how much pressure is brought to bear 011 your people to look after it, and neglect things that matter." "And you think I'll be bamboozled by the penny Press?" demanded Major Cavendish angrily. " No. But supposo the said popular young lovely is murdered in sufficiently lurid circumstances, and the Home Secretary is played up—and 110 can be. These old gentlemen are very susceptible to a certain line of approach, and Winstanley has a notable weakness for the stage. Was he, or wns he not, prominent at the first night of "The Girl from Vienna'?" • "Yes, he was," admitted the Assistant Commissioner. "You may not know that he was taken round and introduced to Miss Mahler afterwards ?" "The douce he was!" "Precisely." "Who took him round?" asked Superintendent Moresby. "Good for you, you old war-horse!" said Colonel Boughton, laughing. "Go straight for the ham-bone, don't you? I understand it was his secretary who effected the introduction —so my godson tells me." Moresby picked up a pencil. "Details, please, Colonel." (To bo continued dally)