Evening Star Newspaper, March 3, 1935, Page 85

The steak was choking him, but he forced it down. No use giving Fay the satisfaction of seein” him quit. He wisht he hadn’t come up here. To hell with what she thought. Anything was better than those cold, mocking eyes. He felt a little sickish . . . *“My brains ain't dead.” he said, shoving his chair back from the table. “I got twenty thousand net from the bout tonight. And I own a little garage over in Jersey. Bought it two years ago to help a guy out, but it'd make money if it was run right. Well, startin’ tomorrow there's gonna be an ex-champ runnin’ that buggy factory. You gotta come over an’ see me some time.” “I dunno,” she said. '‘Jersey’s an awful long way off.” “Yeh. Well it’s just twice as far from there to here."” She rose and moved to the buffet. She poured something into a tall glass, and added ice and seltzer. She said, “Drink?"” “Don’t need it.” He glanced at her out of his one good eye. “It’s been a lot of fun,” he remarked. “But now that you've had your laugh, I'll be goin"."” *“To Jersey?" ‘‘What difference does it make? I'm goin' — that’s the important point — an’ I ain’t comin’ back to bother you.” She said, “That’s okay with me, too. And remember me to the mocking birds when you get there.” He slammed the front door as he went out. He walked down to “the lobby, thus avoiding the eyes of the elevator boy. He hated himself, hated Fay, hated all the men and women who had played along with him when he was sitting on top of the heap. Then he remembered something. He still had the key to Fay’s apart- THIS WEEK HARDBOILED Continued from page five ment. He stopped walking. That had been a funny thing about that key. Nobody knew he had carried one. They’d have thought there was some- thing wrong, when all he ever used it for was to get home ahead of her some afternoons and fix up drinks and sandwiches. ‘Well, it was silly to carry it now. He wasn’t ever going back. He kinda thought he better return it to her. Right now. Then she’d understand that he was checking out permanent. He went back to her apartment. There was the key, right in his hand . .. 80 he used it. Lights still on. From the foyer he could see the corner of the buffet with all that swell delica- tessen stuff fixed up for a roomful. He'd give Fay another laugh on that when he handed her back the key. He'd suggest that, anyhow, she’d eat well for the next coupla weeks. He walked into the living room. He heard her before he saw her. ‘The girl was crumpled on the couch, and she was sobbing. Kinda digging into the cushions with her fingers, and her body was twitching. Just a little. Sorta like he had squirmed once to- night when Tony Sarmetti sunk that right into his body — just over the heart. Jimmy Driggs looked down on her. He listened to the dry sobs, and he kinda envied her. Seemed like he'd been wantin’ to do that himself, all along. Hadn’t he been takin’ it on the chin all during the fight? And then you see her crying and you want to weep with her. It didn't have the least mite of sense to it, but just the same there was Jimmy Driggs on his knees beside the couch and his arms was around her and he was gettin® all worked up himself and askin® her couldn’t she take it, and she was clingin’ tight to him and saying no, she couldn’t, and how glad she was he come back. He said, “Gee, honey — [ figured I was all washed up with you,” and she answered, “You aint got a brain in your head. Couldn't you tell I was puttin’ on an act?” “No, I couldn’t tell,”” he answered. “Well, T was. [ wanted to be nice, but you never give me a chance. Minute you come in you started with that nasty crack about you should of brought Tony Sarmetti with you. You got me sore —"’ “You aint sore now, are you?”’ Her arms clung tightly. He was surprised how strong she was. And he said, “lI was thinkin',”" and she answered, “Now I am surprised. What was you thinkin’, Jimmy?"' He felt all choked up inside. but he tried to laugh it off. You know, on account of bein’ so happy. He said, “‘Jersey ain't such an awful long way off. And I been thinkin’ what a wallop I'd get out of folks drivin’ up to my joint for a gallon of gas an’ sayin’ to each other, ‘Gosh! ain’t that garage- keeper got a swell-lookin’ wife” * Giants in the (ounting House Continued from page three cheeks pressed against his lined face. “It is perhaps for the best,” he acknowledged. . . . “‘Besserley! My heavens, Besserley!” Besserley came from the shadows. His collar was torn, his tie hanging down, and there was blood upon his face. He held out his hand while Grantz poured out some brandy. His voice, when he spoke, was quite firm, and there was a gleam almost of humor in his eyes. “Well, we are through this bit of trouble,” he announced cheerfully. “I say, this brandy is no good to me. T want Scotch and soda — biggest tumbler you can find.” Grantz waited upon him fervently. “I've a Darned Good Mind to Get Caught — Just to Go Up and See the drgument”’ From a Drawing by Dr. Seuss Besserley, with a long sigh of relief, took a huge drink. ‘““What do you mean by the trouble being finished?”’ Anna asked him, with set, wondering eyes. “Oh, I have not been exactly idle the last few days,” ex- plained. “I got to know about tha fellow in Genoa and the men he was sending to La Turbie. The officer in command at Mont Agel has a whole detachment of Chasseurs Alpins and was good enough to remember that I once saved his life. I convinced him that there was going to be an attack upon this house tonight and the mo- ment those blackguards of Bonton's enter the courtyard, if ever they do, “It is not to be believed,” Martinoff faltered. ‘“Where is Bonton?”’ Martinoff clasped his forehead. “Tell me again,” he insisted. ‘““Where did you say Bonton was?” “In the safe,” Besserley replied, “where that box came from.” Seven Million Dollars Continued from page ten suspicion swamped him. He stared, then he glared at the crowds on the sidewalk. “My God, they're not cheering us — they're kidding us! They think we're goats!”’ he trembled. All the dreadful twenty blocks up State Street and back to the station, he marched sturdily, shoulders back, not once looking at the jeerers. But at the station he called the band- leader to him and said softly, *‘Pete, I'm sorrier 'n the dickens, but these big-town hellions think we're just hicks. They think we’re funny. We won'’t have no more parades, nowhere, and no more band music. You boys just put up your instruments and enjoy yourselves, rest of the trip.” Pete Klopot — by vocation a paper- hanger but spiritually a brother of Mozart — snapped, * “Hey? What's that? You mean we ain’t to march up Fifth Avenue, like you promised, and not in Paris, France?"”’ “Nope. No can do.” Cordwood’s lips were unwontedly thinned. ‘““Then by God — you've cheated us! You'll pay our fares back to Jack- rabbit, and you’ll pay for our time —" “I certainly will! Here, you, Red Cap. Bring me Mr. Percy Willoughby from section two of my train, with his check book.” Pete Klopot capitulated with speed. He consented to go take a look at Paris, and so did the rest of the band. But it was altogether a sad business. Throughout the journey, from hotel rooms and from behind lifeboats late at night, on deck, you could hear the wailing of the unwanted zylophone and the moaning of unappreciated drums. i (To Be Continued Next Week) GE3 Toupee...Or No Toupee . ..That is the Question! 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Phillips Oppenheim, or “Oppy," as his friends call him, says: “I'm not what you'd call a literary man; I'm just a yarn spinner.” But those of you who have read the first of these exciting Monte Carlo’ ad- ventures know, if you didn't know before, what a thrilling ‘yarn spinner he is! And this is only the beginning! Next week the second of the General Besserley adventures will be published — a story in which the General keeps a promise to a woman with a past, and saves the life of another. The creator of these Monte Carlo adventures knows his > characters and his background. He himself, a genial young gentleman of sixty-eight, lives on the Riviera with his wife and child, swimming, golfing, | now and then trying his luck at the gaming tables, — and writing. Look next week for “The Butterfly in the Death Chamber." [ T — - kit