Evening Star Newspaper, September 13, 1931, Page 82

E» 10 ONE TERR Hlustrated by Armstrong Sperry 7 ETER HAMES, who had pushed open the door of the cafc and made abrupt en- trance, paused within a yard or two of the threshold to shake the rain from Lis dripping mackintoch and gaze about him with indificrent curiosity. The interior of the place was like the in- terior of many of the other Beausoleil bars. The staging, however, was unusual. For some rezson or other, the clec supply in the im- mediate vicinity had failed. The lights were dim and inconstant, and, to amplify them, somc one had lit an oil lJamp which stood upon the edge of the counter. In the whole place there were only four people. Toby, the popular barman, was seated on the low stool into which he sometimes sub- sided when waiting for clients, completzly out of sight, except for the top of his head. Oid man Delous, the crazy saddler from across the way, coatless and collarless, sat in a distant corner, mumbling to himself. A drunken man sprawled upon a bench on the opposite side. Perched on a high stocl at the end of the bar was a girl whose too lavish use of cosmetics and lipstick disguised hcr so effectually that one could only say she was young, and had good features. She wore hat which was be- tween & berct and a jockey's cap, and she was smoking a cigaretie from a holder of unusual length. She scrutinized the newcomer wearily and apparently without interest. “Wazake up, Toby!" the latter enjoined, ad- vancing a step or two nearer the bar. “My car is broken down at the bottom of the hill, and I am wet through tinkering with it. A glass of the best brandy, quickly!™ OBY, who appeared to be sleeping, made no reply, nor did he attempt to rise to his feet. From the old man in the corner came a long, mirthless chuckle. Peter Hames, who had recovered his breath, took even closer note of his surroundings. The place was like some horrible study in still life. Some one had recently spilt liquor across the boarded floor: a chair was over- turned; the sickly and indistinet illumination of the place became absolutely ghastly with the glimmering of a steely twilight, which found its way in through the uncurtained win- dow, precursor of the leaden dawn. “What's wrong with this”place tonight?” the newcomer demanded. “Wake up, Toby! I want some brandy, I tell you.” The young man made no movement. He seemed to have fallen asleep leaning forward on his stool. The girl knocked the ash from her cigarette and gazed down the length of the counter in insolent silence. Peter Hames lifted the lamp above his head with one hand, and with the other shook the recumbent figure. Again the old man in the distant corner chuckled. “What's the matter with yvou. Toby!” the would-be customer inquired sharply. ‘“Are you drunk or what?” Almost as he spoke Peter Hames was con- scious of that queer sensation about his fingers. He snatched his hand away, and held it under the lamp. Blood was dripping from his fingers onto the counter. He stood staring at it, the horror sealing his lips, paralyzing even his nerves. The lamp slipped from his grasp, and fell crashing onto the fioor. “Fool!” the girl exclaimed, as she flung a mat upon the thin flames, “Have you never seen a dead man before?” A spiral of thick, black smoke was mounting to the low ceiling. With the extinguishing of the lamp, the sole illumination now was the streak of gray, forbidding light from that parting between the lowering clouds. The drunken man snoring on his bench, old man Delous chuckling hideously in his corner, and the girl, back again on her stool with the cigarette holder once more between her lips, were all alike, grotesque and vaguely realized figures, phantasies in some hideous nightmare. The smoke recoiling from the ceiling filled the place with an evil-smelling vapor. Through it Peter Hames stepped swiftly to the door, recrossed the threshold, and vanished into the lampless night. VERY dignified-looking manservant of Franco-Italian extraction entered his master’s studio one afternoon a few days later with an announcement upon his lips. Peter Hames, in blue jean overalls and the flowing tie of his professional confreres, was painting rapidly in oils upon a small canvas. “A young lady desires to see monsieur.” Peler Hames went on painting. “You know very well, Vittorio,” he said re- proachfully, “that I do not see strange young ladies.” Vittorio was apologetic, and fluent. “The young lady is not of the type of mon- sieur’s undesired visitors,” he declared. “She is chic, and a young lady of the world. I will undertake to promise monsieur she is not a model.” “Is rhe by chance possessed of a name?” Peter asked, still painting. “It is to be expected, monsieur,” the man agrecd, “but not knowing that I was mon- sieur’s servant of many years, and a person of discretion, she preferred to keep it to herself.” His master, after stepping a little way back to inspect his work, continued to paint. “I am intrigued, Vittorio,” he admitted, “but I do not wish to see the young lady. Use all your arts of diplemacy, and get rid of her for me.” Vittorio’s cheerful face became clouded. “It will be a difficult matter, monsieur,” be eonfessed. “It will be impossible,” a very lazy, but pleasant feminine voice intervened. “I owe you all the apologies in the world, Mr. Hames, for this intrusion. Stiil, I had to see you, and I thought it might save time to follow your servant.” She came slowly forward across the rush- carpeted studio with its simple, almost primitive furnishings. Peter Hames stood for a moment watching her in silence—a slim, elegant figure in severely cut coat and skirt of some dark material. She was fair, with gray eyes, which from the moment of her entrance held his, and the faint insolence of which marched with the lines of her mouth. Her complexion was innocent of all cosmetics; her lips were untouched. Even the fierce sunlight which surrounded her, streaming through the high windows, could show her no disfavor save for the slightest lines of fatigue or sleeplessness under her eyes. Petcr Hames accepted fate, but first he wheeled his canvas around, and turned it to the wall. “What can I have the pleasure of doing for you, mademoiselle?” he asked, pashing a chair into an adjacent corner of the studio. Vitorrio, in response to a gesture from his master, left the room. The young lady sank into the chalr, and smiled up at her host. “Well, to begin with,” she said, “you can tell me why you left the Cafe Regal so abruptly the other morning?” He looked at her in puzzled fashion. “The Cafe Regal?” he repeated. *“I was afraid when I was informed of your visit, mademoiselle, that you were making some mis- take. I know of no such place.” “And I thought,” she murmured, “that Anglo-Saxons only lied—forgive the melodra- matic touch—for the honor or the safety of their lady friends.” “Are you so far removed from the Anglo- Saxon race?” he asked. “Touche,” she admitted. *“You can fence with me just as long as you wish, though. I like your studio, and I am quite content to pay you a long visit. May I smoke?” “By all means,” he asscnted. “I am afraid I can't offer you anything very choice in the way of tobacco,” he added, producing a case. She shook her head. “Please don't trouble,” she begged. “I smoke my own.” From a plain suede bag, with a very beauti- ful clasp, she drew out a holder of exceptional length, fitted a cigarette into it, accepted a light from her host’s lighter, and leaned =& little farther back in her chair. “So you did not call for a glass of brandy at the Cafe Regal that night,” she murmured, “and stumble upon a tragedy? I rather envied vou your entrance. An almost Rembrandtesque interior, wasn't it?” “Some day, when you have discovered your mistake,” he suggested, ‘I shall ask you to take me there. Then I may be able to answer your question.” HE studied him pensively. Then an idea scemed to strike her, and she leaned to- ward the wall. Easily anticipating his attempt at interference, with a swift turn of the wrist, she swung around the easel. They both looked at the picture together— at the sordid cafe, with its somber, melancholy lighting effects, the girl, typical cocotte of the region, sprawling on her stool, the drunken man in his corner, a shape only, old Pere Delous with his idiotic but terrible face, show- ing his yellow fangs in that meaningless laugh. Behind the counter—nothing. “A marvelous effort, from memory only,” she declared. “'Did I really look like that?” “Worse,” he answered tersely. “For all I know, vou are. Appearances either way are deceitful. In any case, what do you want with me?” She sighed. “You are annoyed,” she complained *“and that is unreasonable. I was quite content to leave you out of it until it became impossible. Why did you steal away from that place? Didn't your chivalry prompt you to stay and see me through it?” “It certainly did not,” he assured her. “When I recognized you, I knew that you had the case in hand, and I probably wasm't wanted.” “A certain amount of common sense in that,* she admitted, with uplifted eyebrows. *“But are you sure that you recognized me?” “Perfectly. You looked like a vulgarly at- tractive little cocotte of the poorer regions—as you intended, I suppose. Your real name, I believe, is Miss Sybil Christian, once of Daly's Theater, London, later a very important per- sonage for a brief period at that sinister build- ing upon the Embankment, from which I think you—er—disappeared, for a short time, to do your duty by society, and now a free lance, with a taste for interfering in other people’s business.” “Not so bad,” she acknowledged. *“Miss Sybil “That is your correct name, except that, as the younger daughter of a peer, I presume that you could demand to be addressed as the Honorable Sybil Christian, if it afforded you any satisfaction.” She knocked the ash from her cigarette. “What a horrible disillusion,” she sighed. “I thought that I was a creature of mystery to you.” She laughed, almost naturally. “You have always hated the sound of my name,” she remarked, “and I do not know why. I have never interfered with you in any way. Now for my retaliation. Your name is Peter J. Hames. You are an American, born in New York, educated at Harvard fnd Oxford, and swallowed up in the war. Yeu emerged penni- less. Your people were ruined, weren't they?” He nodded. “Amazingly correct,” he answered. “You had to earn your own living, and you didn’t know how,” she went on. “Your only friend was the then police commissioner of New York, and he gave you & job. You were transferred almost at once to the detective service, where you did remarkably well, until the Fraser fiasco.” “Don’t” he begged. “I shali finish,” she insisted ruthlessly. “You worked that out all right on the facts that you had. The trouble arose because your sub- < ordinates had deceived you. They wanted to see Fraser in the chair, and there was a certain amount of ‘framing’ the case against him, of which you had no knowledge. “The man escaped by a miracle, and the rumor is that you very nearly killed one of the detectives who committed perjury. Aa any rate, you threw up your job, marched out of the place, and woke up the next morning to find that you had inherited a million dollars. Some people have that kind of Juck. I haven't.” He was intenscly interested now. “This is marvelous,” he declared. “You were temporarily fed up with your country,” she continued, fitting another cigar- ette into her holder, “and you came over here. You painted a little, you gambled a little, you explored this country as I should think it has never been explored before, and you probably flirted a little, although of that I know nothing. “Then the old passion reasserted itself. Two unsolved crimes were elucidated by you, and the results handed over to the local police on condition that you remained anonymous. I know you, though. The thing is in your blood. You follow crime like a blodhound, just be- cause you can't help it. You don't want any credit; you do not want to be paid. You just love the work. “The call was in your blood when you swung open the door of the Cafe Regal that night and found that murder had been done. You were very harsh, though, to the poor little eocotte who sat upon the stool.” There was a long and pregnant silence—to Peter Hames, the silence of humiliation. “Mademoiselle—" he began at last, and his tone was almost humble. “Please don't,” she interrupted impatiently. “We are in a foreign country, but you are American, and I am English. Don't lets for- get it. And please don't bear me any ill will because I really have the knack of finding out about things—what you call the detective in- stinct, I suppose.” “I think you are wonderful,” he confessed. “I have heard of you, of course. I had never dreamed, though, that you had such sources of information, or could use them so intelligently. Having admitted that, do you mind telling me why you came to visit me?” “I want your help,” she confided. “My answer to that is quickly given,” he re- plied, with a certain, almost passionate stiff- ness. “Do you mind going away, as soon as you have finished that cigarette?” T was many a long day before she looked at him again as she looked at him at that moment. Her eyes were soft with the tears which never came. “You will think that I am showing off,” she observed. “Indeed, I know why you say that. You say it because the people who were re- sponsible for your failure on the Fraser case, and who nearly brought that poor fellow to the chair, were women—two women—vampires. I know all about them. “You have been a woman hater ever since. In your heart, I know that you have sworn that you would never work again with a wom- an. Very well, keep your word. Only help me this time. I want to save » man's life, and] it is better done through you.” THE SUNDAY STAR, W IBLE NIGHT — Murder at Dag He looked at her steadfastly. Somel other, sheer amazement had creased o lines of his face. He was almost a boy full of wonder and repressed admiration “You were right in what you said just he declared. “Women are the callous liars of the world. I have sworn——" “It is to save a man’'s life,” she pleaded old man.” It was then he vielded. It was an hour before dawn, and & “Call It An ' AS‘I] 4 ELL, all I know is just what I r the papers. Lot of Prime Mi have passed under the Bridge I last broke news with you. Mr. Ramsey McDonald he is still in therd under another uniform. He was a very conscientious man. But just like all the le everywhere, the Victim of the slump. President or Leacer of any Country durin last two years was just like arriving ay crossing just as the stop signal was ag vou. There is nothing you can do but stand and watch your predecessor get thr a-flying, and you wait till somebody swi something over which you have no col I dont suppose there is a Leader today if he had known what was in store for wouldent have thrown the job right bac your face when offered it. Its just an off se for Leaders. The Labor Government come in when lJooked bad over in England. and the p4g thought that they could do something for ) Well, Mr. McDonald and Mr. Hoover cany you a job if nobody wants to hire you. havent any personal positions to put yo So when things went Fluey, why they were Goats. You see, over in England when vou your Cabinet cant agree on some Major and everything is all cockeyed, why the Minister is supposed to have lest control off Party and he resigns and sends his resigna to the King. In fact, I think he takes it. generally means another election to put in § other party, but a general election costs & of money, and besides it is sometimes un on account of conditions to leave a thing to| people. They might not be in the mbod to! ceive it like you would like to have them ceive it. They cant have an election mnov England for there is so many unemployed, so many dissatisfied that they are liable to 4 vote further than for Labor and go almost sheviki. A hungry man is looking for im diate results and not caring for future co tions. You see the whole thing eome about over amount of the “Dole.” They were run short of money and wanted to cut down on amount given to the unemployed. Well t have been getting that so long that its like s ing, “Now here, you been eating three meal day but we go to cut you to two.” The : ployed are not working, but they are in a p tion to dictate. Well Ramsey wanted to the Dole in half. So instead they just cut authority in half. Then they said in orde: give him a kind of a dignified exit, *You form a Co-lition Cabinet, and see what you (