ANNOUNCER'S HOLIDAY

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXV, Issue 23044, 23 May 1938, Page 17

ANNOUNCER'S HOLIDAY

By VAL GIELGUD Well-known radio dramatiat and author of "Beyond Uover. ete.

(COPYRIGHT)

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 XXVl.—(Continued) To Lucia's immense surprise the end of the voyage stood revealed as that same ramshackle quay from which they had set out. Was it conceivable that Casimir was going back to his house after all? Apparently it was. He clambered ashore, turned round, and beckon -ed to Lucia. "I want you to come with me," ho said. "Barnes can look after the boat. Good-night, Barnes." Barnes merely grunted unamiably, and the boat chugged away up river. Barnes incidentally chugged away out of this story, for within half a mile the boat was stopped by river police for sailing without proper lights, and Barnes found himself in gnol. On inquiry various other facts connected with the Soho arsenal came to light owing to the painstaking efforts of Superintendent Moresby, and Luke Barnes spout many years in the salubrious surroundings. of Dartmoor. . . . Casimir Konski said no word while ho negotiated the dank gloom of the secret passage, Lucia plodding wretchedly at his heels. But at last they emerged into the cellar, climbed the staircase to tho hall, and Casimir threw off his coat and hat. Lucia stood as much in the shadow of the hatstand as she could, dug her chin as far as possible into the collar of tho duffle coat, and wondered how on earth she was going to disguise her voice. "I think, Lucia," said Caaimir, pulling out his cigar-case, "that you'd better take off your coat before we go upstairs. You don't want to get overheated and catch a chill." Lucia stood quite still and quite silent. "Let me help you," said Casimir gently, and took the coat fiom her shoulders. "So you know?" she said at last. "1 knew. 1 usually do. Not at first my dear. Until we started back T had no idea. I had other things to think about. But 011 the way back 1 knew quite soon. I congratulate you on your nerve." "Thank you," said Lucia. "Why? It is something of n compliment. After all I am your father. You should possess nerve." "If you are my father—yes. Why keep it up any longer?" "But I assure you I am," said Casimir. "Why else should I have kept you with me all this time? As a professional vampire on my staff ? Believe me, my dear, you make a very indifferent specimen—" "You might have had another reason," flashed Lucia. "You mean for my own baser purposes ? Alas, I am no longer as young as all that, my dear "Lucia, besides—hew long have you been with me?" "Three years." "Exactly—a little more to be precise. And your virtue is still intact? Rather a long period for seduction, don't you think P"

"I don't understand," said Lucia. She felt suddenly very young, and bewildered, and quite desperately tired. Casimir took her arm, and led her up the staircase to his library. On the threshhold the girl pulled herself together again. "We can't go in there," she said, "it's still full of gas—and Xavior ivas killed—" Casimir turned to face her. yayyas. the; most harmless type of tM dentist variety. D'you think I wanted the 'death of any of those young fools? I'm .not a butcher, Lucia." The girl stammered out how Xavier had met his death, and how she had released Charles and Greta Mahler through the secret door. "You would seem to have done a full night's work," said Casimir with a wry smile. Then he opened the door of the library and walked in. It was empty, so was the secret room when he looked into it. "Your young friends must have called in the police after you left," said Casimir. "After two visits they are unlikely. I feel, to return." And he sat down in his favourite chair by the writing desk that was still disordered from Greta Mahler having been laid upqn it. Lucia flopped down into an armchair. She was almost at the end of her tether, beyond feeling of any kind, even of surprise. "Why didn't you do something about it on the river, if you knew who I was?" she asked after a little. Casimir shrugged slightly. "Our companions were four of the most dangerous criminals in Europe," he said. "You are my daughter." "I see." "Do you? I doubt it, Lucia. You think I've treated you strangely, I suppose. But what was I to do with you once you were grown up? I am like Job's Satan, my dear. I walk up and down the earth, troubling it. Yet I could hardly leave you alone in Italy. You see —I loved your mother;" So that was it, -thought Lucia. The quiet, dispassionate tones carried absolute conviction. She believed Casimir absolutely, perhaps now for the first time since she had known him. So he was human after all—could hate and love like other people, so that at long last he would risk the success of his greatest coup for the sake of a sentimental memory of a woman many years dead. She found that there were tears in her eyes, and that Casimir's face was blurred as she looked at him. She wondered what was really passing behind the broad forehead, beneath the scanty red hair.

And Casimir himself ? He was not thirfking of Lucia at all, and he was many miles from Limehouse and London River. He was back in Naples, sitting on the terrace of a little cafe in the hot southern sunlight, looking out across the bay to the outlino of Capri. And opposite him, across two long glasses of vermouth, sat another woman in a dress long out of fashion; a graceful woman, with a creamy white skin, deep brown eyes, the blackest of black hair, and a pink, frilly parasol—he had always hated that parasol he remembered—and she would never recognise that it really irritated him. A little srnile twjsted his lips as he remembered that in those days he had been a respectable member of society, a member of the Austrian Diplomatic Service, and a coming man. He had loved Lucia's mother — but he had loved his career more, and everyone had assured him that marriage at that period would have spoiled that career. So he had not married, and Lucia s mother had died —of Lucia, and a broken heart, conventionally enough. Yes, it was ironically suitable enough that after all these years the crown of a very different career should be snatched' from him by the hands of that woman's daughter; suitable, and perhaps, just—"l asked yoti to come bnck with me," said Casimir, "because I wanted to sav good-bve to you. Perhaps I even wanted to ask you to forgive me. I expect vou will find the Mahler girl back at'her hotel. And after these last throe years I. think i have taught you how to take care of yourself." "But, father —" * . "No, my dear. We're not going to tell any more lies, or make silly, pretty speeches to each other. I think it is because 1 am rather old and very tired. But I expect to-morrow to see iriy finish —and I don't really care any more. 1 think I have outgrown life, like everything else. 1 am only going to, ask you one thing—not to go out into the streets to watch the procession." "You mean —?"

"I mean just that, Lucia. It would relieve my mind, that is all, if you would promise me that." Lucia stood up. "I promise," she said. It was very difficult to speak somehow, with a great lump in one's throat that would neither move up nor down. "Thank you, my dear," said Casinur. "But what are you going to do?" she asked, as sho stooped and kissed him. "I am going," said Casimir, "to take a little sleep, before I get up early and go to see the procession."

"But you said —" "Ah, but it's different for me, Lucia. You see I have a reserved seat. One should never waste a reserved scat on an historic occasion. Can you lot yourself out? I wish I had persuaded you of my fatherhood before. I think we would have got on rather well." Lucia walked rather unsteadily to the door. "I wish—Oh, I don't know what I wish —" she cried suddenly, and ran out of the room. CHAPTER XXVH. MIXED DOUBLES It was certainly a singular quartet that had been collected in Greta Mahler's former sitting-room at the Cosmopolis Hotel. So queer indeed as far as appearances went, that-'but for the chaperonage of Detective-Superin-tendent Moresby, it is more than doubts fill if the other three would ever have been allowed to remain. It is true, as has been mentioned before, that the Honourable Charles Bland had "a pull" as well as "a way with" the head porters of the more fashionable hotels of the Metropolis. But even the porter of the Cosmopolis—who, believe it or not, has had experiences beside which all the invention of all the writers of fiction pale—was inclined at first sight to draw tho line at re-admitting to her room a young lady connected with the stage, who had quitted that room the previous evening, who seemed almost in a state of collapse, and who was accompanied by two young men, both of them apparently the worse for wear, and one of them whom he suspected—unjustly, owing to tho porter's lack of experience of the after-effects of gas-poisoning—-of being the worse for drink. . . . Moresby actually found the trio in the vestibule. Greta was arguing with the porter. Charles Bland, very grey in the face, was leaning rather helplessly against the back of an armchair, while Geoffrey Allardyce was hovering in the background. "Thank heaven you're here!" exclaimed the latter, as the massive figure of the detectivo appeared through the swing-door.

"How on earth did you work out that you'd find us here?" Moresby grinned. And there was something enormously consoling and heartening—even to Greta —about that grin. "A trifle of that deduction you're bo fond of, Mr. Allardyce," said Moresby, and addressed himself to the porter. That worthy ceased from troubling with a quite remarkable alacrity at sight of Moresby's official card, and almost beforo they had realised it, they found themselves all safely ensconced in Greta's sitting-room, and provided with hot coffee and sandwiches. "Well?" demanded Geoffrey. "Well," repeated Moresby, blandly enough. ... Theresas a Then Greta burst into tears. Moresby, surprisingly enough, went across to her and put a large hand on her Bhoulder. "There, there, Miss Mahler-," he said, with a sincerity that quite outweighed the inadequacy of his words, "you've had a trying time of it, I know. But you've nothing more to worry about. The girl caught at the lapels of his coat. "You're not going, to arrest Geoffrey, are you?" she said pitifully. "He never killed Xavier —it was an accident —we all saw it —" "Of course not," said Moresby brusquely. "I don't want him—l want his information." Greta stopped crying. Geoffrey stared, and Charles Bland laughed a trifle hysterically. "I told you over the telephone," said Geoffrey. "After that I lost him—" "Yes, yes" said Moresby soothingly. "So it was you who spoke over the telephone—that's what I had to confirm." "Great Scott I Didn't you believe me?" "You can't have too much confirmation in this game, believe me, Mr. Allardyce. I think I've got most of the strings in my hands now." "Then what are you going to do?' "I don't think I need bother you with my arrangements. You've done your share. You stay and take care of Miss Mahler—" "That's all very well," said Charles, gulping down the Inst of his coffee. "But I can't stay and look after Miss Mahler. At least I shan't be thanked He glanced from Geoffrey to Greta, who blushed most becomingly. "I'm still on your strength, Moresby, unless you've given nie the air. And isn't to-day the day?" Moresby nodded gravely. "Well,'then—besides, I want to know several things. Who killed Xavier s chauffeur?" . Moresbv rubbed his j^w. "Mr. Bland," lie said, "there's no time for me to go into explanations and such. As you've said, to-day is the day, and I've plenty of work to do. But there's no particular mystery about the chauffeur. Casimir Konski bad a very mixed bag of desperadoes working for him —and at some time he must have let it drop that the prince was on no account to be allowed to leavo London without a show-down. That murder was regular dago-work—-the knife in the back under the shoulder-blade. Crooks always exceed their instructions —that's how we catch ei Hc blew his nose resoundingly. "As soon as Miss Lucia turns up." he concluded. "I'll make myself scarce." Geoffrey groaned. "If she turns up," he said. "That devil Casimir —I daren't think what may have happened to her— 1 " "I think you will find that she'll put in an appearance all right," said Moresby. , , And as he spoke tho telephone rang. Charles answered it. "By George, she's here now! said he.

"Precisely." "Well then—?" "Now listen," said Moresby incisively, "I want to say about three things, and then I'll go. The procession leaves Buckingham Palace at noon precisely. Miss Mahler and Miss Lucia are to remain here. Mr. Allardvce, I want vou to meet me at the Kingsway entrance to Bush House —so that you can identify our scarred friend at the Temple Bar stand—at half-past eleven. Mr. Bland, if you want to be in at the finish, report at Now Scotland Yard a little before ten. Your orders will be waiting for you." "Right," said Charles. "But how are you going to cope with the swine?" asked Geoffrey. "Just leave that to us, Will you ? < retorted Moresby. "Only don't fail to meet me. That's vital." , And he went out of the room, only pausing to shake hands rather clumsily and absurdly with Lucia as she came (To be continued daily)