Henderson Daily Dispatch

One More Wedding
By Helen Welshimer
Central Press Association
Copyright

To the other people in the lunchroom on the quiet London street, Barbara was merely a pretty girl in a yellow dress who suddenly seemed to be ill. The proprietress gave her a glass of water, and flew to measure ammonia drops in a spoon.

"I'm quite all right," Barbara answered the kindly inquiries. "It was a shock, that's all. Some unexpected news."

Holding her hands steady with effort, she picked up the newspaper. No, it had not been a nightmare or a trick of her nerves. She had read that Garry had been kidnaped. In whole sentences and paragraphs the news leaped from the page and swung before her frightened eyes.

A baby had been kidnaped and held for $100,000. She recognized the name of the family as a wealthy and famous one. But what did Garry have to do with that? Had he followed some clue that resulted in his own capture?

The story did not say. A ransom note, addressed to the newspaper for which Garry worked, had said that he was being held and had asked another $100,000 for his release.

The abductors, being caught up in the business of the holdup game, were going the limit.

The story concluded with a statement that the police and the executives of the paper feared for Garry's life. The child, unable to identify his kidnapers, might be returned but hardly a grown man who had looked upon them, it said. Unless the kidnapers had concealed their identity from the newspaper-man, his situation was critical. That was the general tone.

Even now, while the lamps shone so steadily and the people ate sandwiches and drank coffee in the little lunchroom, Garry might be fighting for his life, Barbara whispered to herself. She was so far, far away.

The new, strange picture of danger would not come. They were so foreign that she could not grasp them. That last view of Garry, waving a gray felt hat from the pier and smiling at her, alone remained.

Small good it did to remind herself that it was Garry who turned away from her that night in the old Ninth street apartment. That apartment and that night were 3,000 miles and a century of time away.

In that first hour of which she knew of Garry Page's danger Barbara longed for someone with whom to talk. If Ray had been there, she would have talked to him. But in all of London, in all of the British Empire, there was only Wenda who might be interested. Wenda would be amazed, but not sympathetic.

One thing Barbara knew she could do. She could cable Natalie for any news. She sent the cablegram. Four words sufficed: "Keep me posted Garry."

After that she telephoned the press wire offices but they had no further dispatches.

There was nothing that she could do then but go to her hotel and try to sleep.

Today she had found Garry only to lose him again.

Oh no, it couldn't be that! Something would happen. It always did in stories, in the theater, in the movies. Miserably she realized that this was not a fictitious drama acted on stage or the pages of a book. It was life.

She would wind up her work as fast as she could and sail, that she knew. A day or two more would do it. She had been glad that she was permitted six weeks of absence at first. Then she had wished to lengthen it indefinitely. But now she wanted to go home.

Anyway, in another week her original six weeks would be up.

She slept restively. Once she dreamed that Garry was calling her. Another time she was following him through a labyrinth of rooms, never overtaking him. Her head ached when she wakened in the morning, and her eyes were shadowed with circles. She longed for an American shower where the water would come swift and relentlessly and waken the dormant cells of her mind and body. But a warm tub made her feel some better.

She pushed aside the new suit that she had planned to initiate today. Instead, she found an old black dress, an old black dress that she had bought one day in early September, when a boat from Europe had come in. She knotted the green handkerchief, which had been a gift of Garry's, at the throat, as though its fragile silk would support her today.

During the morning she called the steamship office. A boat was leaving that afternoon.

She would not have time to pack, get to Southampton and catch it. Besides, she was waiting for Natalie's answer. On the ocean it would be more difficult to hear news of Garry, and the next day or two in London might reveal some. She would wait until the next boat which left two days later.

Late in the afternoon an American at the press wire headquarters called her. She had left her telephone number and a request that she be notified if any word came.

"Miss Kingsley?"

From the gravity of the voice she knew the news was not good.

"Is there any clue?" she asked in a tight, small voice.

"There isn't any doubt but that it's Page the abductors have. He seems to have a play manuscript with him. The maniacs who have him mailed that, with a note in Page's own handwriting, to the publisher of his paper. Negotiations are under way to meet the demands of the kidnapers. The cable's brief. I'm awfully sorry."

"Then maybe he'll be released?"

"If he hasn't looked too closely at the faces of the birds who have him! I'll call you if anything turns up."

Garry had seen the faces of his abductors all right. They had had no chance to disguise themselves when they unexpectedly met him.

However, in the room where he had been spending his time since that meeting, he had contact with two of them only.

The whole situation seemed to him like a second act in a melodrama. He didn't even know just where he was. After his inadvertent meeting with the four men who were carrying the kidnaped baby, he had been blindfolded, led to an automobile, and taken for a ride. He did not know where the building was located in which he was held captive. However, he judged it was a couple of miles from the spot where he had met the men.

He had been taken to a fairly comfortable bedroom-living room, whose windows were barred and left.

First, he had been searched for weapons.

Four days had passed and he was growing restless. He welcomed any events that broke the monotony of the hours. When the men hit upon the idea of asking ransom for him, which followed their discovery of his police card and other identification papers, he approved the idea—silently. At least, the world would know he was somewhere.

"What's this?" one of the two examiners queried, picking up the pages of his play.

"Some drivel I was writing. I had a hunch it might be a play."

They left it with him. During the hours that followed he continued to work on it. It was quite remarkable the way that the human mind could function, the clarity and aloofness that it could portray, when it stepped aside from its own living contacts, he mused once in a while. He was doing good work, that he knew. Good work that would be burned probably, in order to destroy all evidence.

Now and then he thought of Barbara. He hoped she would be very happy with Ray.

If he, Garry Page, struggling young playwright who had hit Broadway, by some quirk of fate, were going to have his curtain rung down, it was much better for everyone concerned that Barbara was in love with Ray, and that Wenda was entirely removed from the scene.

His kidnapers came into his room, interrupting his flow of thought.

"Hand over the pages, guy," one of them said.

"A lot of them. They'll make a big bonfire," Garry answered.

"Not on your life. This is proof that we've got you here. We're mailing 'em to your office."

They were taking chances! If these men would go to such risks, they were as desperate as he had imagined.

"Then what?" he asked. He had not heard the baby crying all day. The day before it had been fretful. Apparently it was in a room next to his.

"If those rich bozos come across it will be worth the risk. Take a note."

Garry wrote as they dictated:

"I am certain my release will follow if you comply to agreement. of the men holding me. Garry Page."

"Wouldn't you like to be really certain?" one of the men asked.

"What about the child?" Garry asked. "Any word from his parents?"

"They are leaving the money at a place we told them to, tonight at 12. If it's unmarked money, all ones and fives and tens, we're dropping the kid off in another spot two hours later. You might as well know. You won't be telling anyone."

Under the half smile on Garry's face the muscles of his chin and cheeks were taut. Yet he talked with a gay half drawl: "Thanks for telling me. It gives me something to think about."

"Not so dumb, are you, brother?"

Garry shrugged.

"The cards are stacked against me."

The men closed the door as they went out. They did not lock it.

After a while he heard the chugging of a car and knew that some of the group had gone away. He had a premonition that things were going to happen and happen fast.

(To Be Continued)