"THE RANGE TAXI,”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 25 January 1932, Page 7

"THE RANGE TAXI,”

BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

COPYRIGHT.

CHAPTER I. —MISS SARK GO PS

HOME, IN A TAXI

A tall girl in a flame-coloured evening frock, a costly opera cloak hanging from her hare shoulders, with a fashionably thin figure and a rouged, haggard face, emerged from the lift of the Minerva —that famous women’s club —into the lobby, and addressed the hall porter. “Get me a taxi, please,” she said.

The man saluted, and a few seconds later the warm darkness of Dover Street —it was eleven o’clock towards the end of a June day, but the temperature that of mid-July —heard the signal which to-day signifies that one of the class who rides rather than walks, wishes to travel.

The call was heard by a crawling peripatetic taximan, driving a cab with a bright orange body, looking for a fare, at the moment only a few yards away; hardly had the whistle ceased ere he drew up before the club portals.

Little though the hall porter, or the girl who ordered the taxi, or the man who answered the call knew it, that whistle was the signal for the curtain to rise, and the first act of the drama about to be played to begin. Had the whistle sounded a minute earlier or a minute later, that particular taximan would not have secured the job, and the lives of certain people whose acquaintance we are about to make, would have taken a different turn; so slight, aibitrary and inexorable are the workings of Fate. The hall porter, be-ribboned and warscarred, bronzed by tropical suns, a warrior, who, after half a lifetime devoted to war in the outposts of the had elected to yp@nd the autumn of his days iii ail atmosphere of patchouli and femininity, surely a singular choice, the hall porter, I say, opened the door of the cab, and tiie girl stepped in and flung herself upon the cushions. “Where to, Madam?” “Home,” she murmured sleepily. “Birkenhead Mansions,” said the hall porter to the driver, and shut the door. The taximan, so far as the light allows us to discern him, was young and good looking, his head, as he sat at the wheel, presented a faultless profile to the world. Following the etiquette of his calling, ho had kept “eyes right” and only guessed the sex of the passenger from the fact the journey began at the Minerva.

Birkenhead Mansions was a disappointing address. In Mayfair, well within the shilling radius, it was doubtful, the fare being a lady, if he’d get any more. On the other hand it would soon be over (he thought, but he made a great mistake), and if he made for Charing Cross he would soon pick up another fare from the crowds leaving, or about to leave, the theatres. 1 Some four minutes later he drew up before a big block of mansions, and waited one, two, three minutes. But the lady never emerged, and no one came from the open entrance of the building. He got down. “Here ye are, lydy,” he said to the feminine figure.

There was no answer, ho peered closer, noticing subconsciously that the frock she was wearing was very much the colour of the body of the taxi; he touched her: “Here, lydy,” he said loudly. “What is it?” asked a sleepy voice. “Birkenhead Mansions, lydy.” She stirred and came out. Large eyes, amber-coloured, he guessed, but dark brown in the semi-darkness, blinked at him, lips and cheeks were heavily rouged, eyebrows and eye-lashes darkened. She seemed dazed. He wondered if she' was drunk, but she didn’t smell of it, only of cigarette smoke and scent. Beneath the fine clothes and paint and powder he was subtly aware of her sex; it repelled, yet attracted him. She spoke after a pause and prefunetory seareh in her bag. “I haven't any money.” The taximan crushed the sentimental feelings her youth and propinquity were making on him.

“Well; lydy, s’pose you fetch it. I’m out on business, not pleasure. I’m not givin’ any joy rides to-night.” “Yes, yes, of course, I’ll fetch it.” She walked slowly, indeed like one walking in her sleep, into the building. Waiting is part of a taximan’s work. This one lit a cigarette and began to smoke, but presently threw it away, consigned all women to perdition in one brief sentence, and set out in pursuit. In the lobby he found a hall porter sitting in the box by the entrance. “I’m .after my fare, mate,” he explained, “tall young lydy, yellow frock, opera cloak.”

“That’ll be Miss Sark. I saw ’er come in as I come up from the basement. That’s ’er flat,” the speaker pointed left. Moving in the direction indicated the taximan pushed open a door already ajar, and came into a hall. Nor had he to look further. Opjiosite was an open door giving into a sitting room, and full in view sitting in an armchair sat the girl smoking a cigarette, lie approached. “Hullo,” she said languidly, “what d’you want?” “My fare, lydy, for driving you from the Minerva.”

“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten. There’s some money; help yourself.” On an adjacent table he saw an open note case, full of Treasury notes, he turned to speak, but the girl sat smoking as though in a trance. Evidently she had forgotten his presence. He took a note, and searching his pockets found a ten shilling note and eight shillings which he laid beside the case.

A shilling seemed a reasonable charge

fTo be Continued)

BY CHARLE S D. LESLIE. (Author of “The Mallard Mystery, ” “A Plunge into the Unknown,” “A Wild Wager,” etc).

for the trouble she was giving him. “Good night, lydy.” “Oh, good night,” she responded, and taking another cigarette from a silver box by her side, lit it from the stump she was abandoning. Acting on a sudden impulse, the taximan, instead of leaving, turned back, and coming up to her, caught her wrist. “Steady on! ”he said, in a new authoritative voice. “Haven’t you smoked enough?” “What d’you mean?”

Stooping over her, he asked: “Ilow many cigarette do you smoke a day?” “How many?” site repeated. -“Oh, I don’t count ’em after the first hundred! ’ ’

“You’re killing yourself!” he told her clearly and distinctly. “I thought vou were either drunk or doped you’re neither. You’re suffering from nicotine poisoning; it’s stupefying and poisoning you as though you were inhaling cocaine.” She listened, apparently unimpressed. “You say it’s killing me ” “Ido.” “It’s rather a jolly death, then,” she told him, with an inane titter. “'Don’t be a fool!” he retorted. “Y'ou don’t want to die, do you? Or do you? Is it a love affair gone wrong?” He held her gaze, still retaining a hold on her wrist, and after a long pause his insistence reached her understanding. With an effort she came out of her semi-trance. “Look here,” she said, “you seem a decent sort. Will you make me some tea? The kitchen’§ on the right. J’m feeling too dicky to make it for myself, and my nmtd’s away for the night, and the porter seems to be missing and I’m all alone, ’ ’ He nodded. “But stop smoking! If he insisted, and taking the unlit cigarette from her hand, put it back in the box, which he dropped into his pocket. “Now sit still till I come back.”

Going into the lobby, he switched on the light and found the kitchen. It was small but fully equipped with all the modern gadgets which the shortage of servants has forced builders to instal in modern residences. He set a kettle on the stove, and while the water was boiling, investigated 'the food resources of the flat. Evidently lie possessed the attributes of a handy man. In ten minutes he had made a pot of tea for the girl, and a pot of coffee for himself; he set these and two cups, milk and sugar, on a tray, added a loaf of bread and some tongue he had found in the larder, and carried the whole into the sitting-room. Apparently the girl had not moved; she sat inert, half asleep. He poured out a cup of tea, added milk, and set it before her.

“D’you mind if I have some sup--per?” he asked. “I found some food in the larder when looking for the tea and it reminded me I was hungry.” “Do,” she stirred the tea, gazing at him with black-lustre eyes. Silently he cut a couple of sandwiches, which he placed before her, then began his supper. The girl sipped her tea, ate a sandwich, and then emptied the cup.

“Oh, this is good!” she remarked, pourning herself out a second cup. “I’m feeling alive again.” “Tea,” he said, “to your sex seems to be that elixir of life philosophers in the middle ages spent their lives in seeking. Oddly enough, it hasn’t the same effect on men. A mystery physiology doesn’t explain.” She stared. “l"ou are the man who drove me from the Minerva, are ’nt you?’ ’ ‘ ‘ Yes. ’ ’ “You’re different now. Your speech is different. Your voice has a different inflection.” ‘‘l ’m off duty now, Miss Sark. ’ ’ “How did you get my name?” “The hall porter gave it to me. I’m not a taximan now, and you’re not my fare. We’re man and woman. And I’m going to talk to you like a Dutch uncle. Are you sick of life? Do you want to die?”

“I’m sick of life, but I don’t want to die.”

“Then you must stop smoking.” “But it’s the only thing that makes life bearable. The magic drug. I’ve tried drink, I don’t like it. I’ve tried cocaine, I loath it. But cigarettes ” “Taken in the quantity you’ve been smoking they’re as deadly as drink or drugs. ’ ’

“Very well,” she told him, “I’ll give them up. ’ ’ “Completely?” She nodded, “Honest Injun.” He took the silver cigarette box out of his pocket, and emptying it, placed it on the table, thrusting the contents loose into his pocket, “my fee for consultation and advice,” he explained, and rose. “I wish you good night, Miss Sark. ” “Oh!” she cried, “don’t go yet. I want to know more about you. Who are you, modern equalent of St. George, who went about slaying dragons, and rescuing maidens in distress.” He dropped into his earlier manner. “Taximan, number 45875. Name of Smith, lydy.” “I want your real name. Sit down again. ’ ’

'Complying, ho vocally changed gear. “I prefer to be known as Smith, if you don’t mind. You want my history? It’s unromantic and not uncommon these days, I’ve had the usual public school and university education, and then for two or three years I was supported by my father. He died, leaving his affairs in so involved a state that stern necessity impelled me to work for my living. So I drive a cab; ‘it revolts me, but I do it,’ as the man says in the ‘Mikado.’