“S.O.S.”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 22 July 1935, Page 7

“5.0.5.”

BY SYDNEY lIORLER. (Author of “The Spider’s Web,” “The Dream Girl,” “Sporting Chance,” etc.)

(COPYRIGHT.) PUBLISHED B Y SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

CHAPTER ll Continued,

The breezy note brought a smile to the reader’s lips. Dick Vivian, who, in spite of his clamorous modesty, was carving a way to huge success as a popular novelist, was a likeable lad, and he reproduced this charm in the fugitive epistles that he dashed off to his old school chum every now and then.

Vivian, like himself, was a bachelor. Although how he had remained in single bliss was something of a mystery, for wherever he appeared, ho became the centre of attraction. Young, extremely good-looking, successful, it was small wonder that this enviable state of affairs existed. But, with all the temptations of the world open to him, he preferred to spend the greater part of the year in a small, four-roomed bungalow not far from the 'Kentish coast, which the author had had built specially for him. It was here that he wroto the novels that had brought him fame—and no small fortune. “The Hutch,” the place was called, and, sitting back in his chair, Thorp had pleasurable memories of the two visits he had paid there during the past three years. And now, he could become the temporary owner. The idea certainly held possibilities — Pushing the note on one side, he picked up the other letter. The address being typewritten, he could form no conjecture of what was inside. Idly curious, he pulled out the sheet of white paper. The few typewritten lines in the centre of the page caught his eye: “Clear out, or you’ll be cleared out. You’ve been messing about too long. We’ve got tired. If vou’ve any sense left, you’ll heed this warning.” Below, was the single initial. “D. ’ The Danton business! Signed by the principal himself, it armeared.. The Secret Service man jumped up, his blood boiling. Clear out! He’d see them damned first! Clear out —before lie gained any real success? Not a chance! Ho began to pace quickly ixp and down the room, and only stopped when he felt that sense of breathlessness return which he had first experienced in Piccadilly linlf-an-hour before. He sat down again and propped his face in the palms of his hands. During the next 10 minutes. lie fought the most bitter battle of his life. But in the end, commonsense won. He was a sick man; there was no longer any doubt about that. . Tempting as the inclination was to ignore tins insulting message, to put it behind him, he must get fit first. But, once he was fit again, he would plunge back hotfooted into this grim game. CHAPTKR IT.—S.O.S. “Yes, Mr Forbes, things be terrible quiet down ’ore —you did say your name was ‘Forbes,’ didn’t you? “Thorp, Mrs Pilchard.” “Dear, dear! What am I thinking of?”

“You were saying l that things were quiet clown here,” prompted the recent-Iv-arrived visitor. ‘ “Oh, so I was. Nothing much for agen’l’man from London to do and you might as well know that now as later. Nov,', of course, until Mr Vivian, ’e’s got ’is writing. Sits for hour after hour ’e do, scribbling away . . . The wonder to me is what ’e can fin cl to write about —because nothing ever . ap•pens down at Plymchurch. Not since that Mr Meyers drowned ’is wife m the ’orse-nond.” “How long ago was that, Mrs Pilchard?’’

“Oh, gettin’ on for three years now —most excitin’ it was, while it lasted. We ’ad the police ’ere, and a Coroner,j and a. lot or newspaper fellers from London: I alwavs says Plymcliurch ain’t never been the same place since. But T mustn’t go rattling on; there’s YP’ir dinner to cook.” Whilst the voluble “daily woman clattered kitcher.wnrds. Thorp took up a position near the window. Twilight was just settling in: but he was still able 'to see the majestic line of the weald a mile or so away. The sight was comforting to his eyes, just as the rniiet soothed his nerves. He coulci well believe that nothing much did happen in this dreamy hamlet of Kent, tucked away behind ' the sheltering hills, yet situated so near the coast that he could hear the slumbrous murmuring of the evening tide. A longing to see something of his, surroundings seized him. “'l’m going out for a ouarter of an hour, Mrs Pilchard,” he called. “That do,” camo the reply: that do. You’ll be getting an appetite: but don’t be late, because I likes to dish up all nice an’ hot.” “T won’t be more than a quarter of an hour.” And, without daring to risk r-" further exchange of words with the relief of the once local gravedigger (Mrs Pilchard had vouchsafed this fact during the first five minutes), he took his hat and stick and went out quickly. T , . m What a change from London! the silence was so intense it seemed to wrap him about. Nothing broke in upon the tranquillitv which settled upon his mind. Getting over the stile on the opposite side of the country road, ho followed the track, guided by the sound, until he reached the sea. Here, seated on the shingle, he waited until darkness came. If Stephen Bnssiter, neurologist, could have seen him. he would have been more than satisfied, he reflected, as he got- up to wend his way back to the cottage and the evening meal. There were compensations m the simplo life, apparently; the rest to his nerves had already represented _ one, whilst the excellently cooked dinner (or “supper” as Mrs Pilchard preferred to call it) was another. Boast neck of mutton, potatoes cooked in their iackcts, and turnip tons—whv, his appetite was already prodigious! Mrs Pilchard waited until lie had consumed a liberal portion of the apple tart set out invitingly before him. and then announced her departure. “I could stop to make vou a cup of coffee, if you like, Mr Forbes,” she stated —"you did sav your name was 'Forbes.’ now didn’t you?” “Thorp. Mrs Pilchard.”

“Drat it! Once I start calling anvono bv their wrong name, I can’t get out of it. There was old Mr Silversmith now — ’ini what kept the forage

shop in the ’lglx Street. And what do you think I called ’im? Why, ‘Goldmine!’ I couldn’t get it right nohow. What time would you like me to be ’ere in the morning, Mr Thorpes?” “Oh, don’t- hurry; I’m supposed to be having a holiday. What about S o’clock?”

“I eould just manage eight—but not much before,” she decided, weighing the matter judiciously.

“Then make it eight. Good-night, Mrs Pilchard, and thank you very much indeed for all your kindness.”

“Bless you, Mr Forbes, it’s a pleasure. I’ve been doing now for Mr Vivian for over two years, and I don’t know as either of us ’as got much to complain about. Certainly I ’aven’t. Ido ’ope ’e won’t be sea-sick too much. . .” Rambling on, she reached the door, and the sound of her heavy shoes could be heard walking down the stone-flagged path.

It was not until he had reach a couple of chapters of a novel and found it deadly uninteresting, that Thorp turned his attention to the portable wireless. Even then, ho was undecided; so great had been the relief of finding himself in this peaceful haven, that he did not want to be reminded of the outside world. In that world, which heknow so well, was trouble of all kinds—even at this moment, he reflected, murders were being .done, suicides committed.—Horrible!

Yet, habit is an exacting mistress, and before ho quite realised what he had done, he had switched on. Immediately, a voice filled the room. “Before I read the news, there is one S.O.S.:— Missing from her home at 27,. Barnburv Street. London, W.l, Venetia Delvey, aged twenty-three, 5 feet 7 inches in height, slim build, clear complexion, good teeth, brown eyes. Miss Delvey, who has been living alone in a- fiat at the above address, has been missing for two days, and it. is feared that some harm has befallen her. When last seen, she was wearing a beige tweed coat, brown shoes and beige silk stockings, yellow gloves— ’ ’

Thorp switched off angrily. To the devil with trouble! He’d come down here to forget—and he was going to forget. This new life suited him. He didn’t know li'ow long the mood would last, but for the moment,, he wanted nothing more than that walk down to the sea, there to find relief from himself. Ah! Why hadn’t he thought of that before? .Tust over the portable wireless was a built-in bookcase, and there, resting modestly behind a curtain, were a number of blue-clad volumes. Dick’s own books! Now he.would have something decent to read. . . .

Seizing the nearest, which happened to be a story he had not read, he returned to the easy chair by the log fire, and, lighting a pipe—to the deuce with Rossiter; he was determined to have a smoke before going to bed —-he opened a page and started to read. But here again, he found annoyance instead of relief. Dick Vivian was probably the most exciting of all living novelists, and this present story not merely started with a bang, but continued amidst a series of explosions. Why. Dick had anticipated his own case! This book dealt with a detective who had been ordered a holiday and who came down into the country for a rest! But no sooner had he arrived at the place, which was at the Back of Beyond, than a most startling thing happened. A girl broke in on his solitude. Thorp looked up.

What was that? The sound of someone running down the path. Somebody who appeared frightened . . . That was a cry of some kind . . .

Pushing the book aside, he crossed the floor—just as a heavy knocking was heard outside.

Thorp hesitated. The thought crossed his mind that he might have been traced to Plymcliurch by a member of the Danton Organisation. Then, reaction, coming, he asked the conventional question.

“Who is it?” “Let me in,” came the reply; “please let me in!” A girl’s voice, cultured and charming, in spite of the note of fear it held.

He delayed no longer, turning the >kev in the lock and opening the door.

A girl dressed in a beige tweed coat stood looking at him. “Do you mind if I come in?” she asked. Her tone was still somewhat breathless. “Of course not,” he replied, and stood aside.

The next moment, used to shocks as he was, Thorp was staring incredulously at the visitor. For this total stranger, who had come out of the night from nowhere, appeared to tally exactlv with the description of the girl given by the 8.8. C. announcer in the S.O.S. only a few minutes before!

Here was mystery! Thorp broke the spell by speaking. “You’re Miss Venctia Delvey,” ho stated.

She stared at him. “Yes —but how do you know? V r e haven’t met before.” It was principally because he wished to reassure her that he smiled. “Oh, yes. we have,” he replied. “Where?” He pointed to the corner where the portable set rested on a table. “Over the wireless,” he said, "ten minutes ago; I was listening to an S.O.S. You were the missing girl.” Whilst he had been speaking, he had studied her face. The promise held out bv the culture of her voice was confirmed by the girl herself. She was labouring under some sense of fear that was evident—but equally obvious was the fact that she was endeavouring to fight this terror. In other words, she had courage—courage and a beauty that, passer-bv of women as he usually was, made him catch his breath. Ilei clothes, too, had been fashioned bv a West End conturiere: in short, she looked thoroughbred. (To be Continued.)