Night Life Tales
Vol. 1, No. 19 (Winter 1940)
, ed. by
Anonymous
. Unknown.
Unknown
Unknown
Winter 1940
Night Life Tales
Rachel Kruchten
Dickinson College
Carlisle, PA 17013
[TEI XML](http://www.pulpmags.org/xml/nlt1940win.xml)
[Plain Text](http://www.pulpmags.org/txt/nlt1940win.txt)
NIGHT LIFE TALES
25c
Vol. 1.
No. 19
FAUSTIN
"THE WAGES OF GIN"
"YE GADS — NOW I'M SEEING PINK WOMEN."
NIGHT LIFE TALES
Vol. 1.
No. 19
CONTENTS
GYPSY SAL |
By Mary Brown |
2 |
ART MODELS |
|
9 |
SCRAMBLED YEGGS |
By Art Nunce |
17 |
LAUGH AND WE'LL LAUGH WITH YOU |
|
24 |
GYPSY SAL
By MARY BROWN
SALVATIA BERTOVI stood
just under the flap of her
tent watching the droves of
people as they thronged in
through the gates. Every foot of the
circus grounds was crowded now.
Lions roared for the customers' bene-
fit, the merry-go-round churned with
shrill American melodies, men on
platforms bellowed about "the great-
est wonders of creation — fire-eaters,
wild men from Borneo, bearded wo-
men and tattooed men!"
Salvatia watched the opening day
of the Benoit Circus: a girl of nine-
teen in a white tulle ballet skirt with
a glittering rhinestone brassiere
around her high-peaked, jutting
bosom. Always the Benoit Circus
opened on the grounds just a kilo-
NIGHT LIFE TALES 3
meter from Versailles; always her
heart pumped like mad and her big
black eyes widened and her small red
tongue came out to moisten soft red
lips.
And so Salvatia watched and her
heart beat like mad. She did not hear
Pietro come in through the rear of
the tent; she did not know that her
fiance was there until she felt his
arms go around her waist.
He whispered, "Salvatia ! Salvatia !"
And, his mouth touched her cheek,
pressing her head back, seeking her
lips.
Despite herself Salvatia went a lit-
tle stiff. She thought to herself:
"Sometime, when Pietro takes me
in his arms like this, I shall go limp
with joy; I shall go out of my head
with loving him. It will come in time.
I have not made a mistake in promis-
ing to marry him."
But so far it had not come. Nor
could she understand why her blood
stayed so cool when Pietro kissed her
and caressed her lovingly. Pietro was
very handsome and young and gypsy-
dark. His tent, where he managed the
rifle shooting, was always crowded
with women asking to be taught how
to shoot.
For Pietro had fire in his eyes. She,
Salvatia Bertovi, was very lucky in-
deed to have won the love of this
great dark man whom so many wo-
men wanted.
She thought all this as Pietro's
arms drew her closer, as his mouth
closed over her own and as his hands
slid around her waist, pressing her to
him tightly.
Pietro looked down into her slim,
dark face, his black eyes burning over
that soft beauty. He said,
"I shouldn't have come. There is so
little time before your act is on, be-
fore I'm needed at the rifles. Once I
hold you like this I can't let you go."
She understood. She tried to pull
out of his embrace but Pietro held
her, firmly. He said, evenly,
"Salvatia, do you love me? When
I'm with you I think YES. When I'm
away and can see things clearly I
think NO."
Salvatia said coolly, "I love you,
Pietro." But her voice lacked
warmth; her eyes did not glow as
Rosalie Benoit's blue eyes glowed
when she looked upon Pietro. And
Salvatia thought:
"Rosalie really loves Pietro even
though she is ashamed of loving a
gypsy" And Salvatia knew as Pietro
gazed at her that he was mentally
comparing her coolness with Rosalie's
warm emotions; that he was weigh-
ing them both, one against the other,
and that he was finding her, Salvatia,
lacking.
"There's time for a few kisses,
Pietro," she whispered, huskily.
Pietro crushed her to him, put his
4 NIGHT LIFE TALES
mouth on hers with such force that
her lips parted. She was not surprised
then that her heart did thump, that
her knees trembled and that a pulse
throbbed unmercifully in her throat.
The flame of his love swept her up
into a moment where she was blind.
Later, Pietro put Salvatia out of
his arms and hurried back to his con-
cession. His thoughts were of busi-
ness now; not of love.
"Why doesnt' love come to me? I
was made for love !"
But there was no time to wonder.
She hurried out of the tent into the
late summer afternoon. The fair
grounds were as hot as all oven,
steaming with people. The men
stopped short with a clatter of their
wooden shoes as Salvatia sped toward
the main tent and the little groups of
waiting performers behind it. She
felt those masculine eyes upon her
and wondered if, among the peasants
or the Paris gentlemen, there was
one man who could touch off the
spark of her lambent love.
And then suddenly Salvatia stopped
short, her black eyes wide, her mouth
apart and her bosom swelling sud-
denly with an emotion that was
strangely akin to love—for it was
hate. She stood there, tense and stiff,
staring straight in front of her.
At a raised platform facing a tent
where a tall, slim, yellow-haired
giant, in an American cow-boy cos-
tume — chaps, blue polka-dot shirt,
handkerchief knotted at the throat—
was calling to the passer-by, waving
his ten gallon hat at them:
"See the greatest wild bear in the
world! Watch me wrestle with the
wildest bear in captivity. A Rocky
Mountain grizzly! Only ten centimes!
The show begins at once, monsieurs
et mesdames! Only ten centimes!"
The tall blond man on the platform
was Sammy Richards, the American.
And Salvatia hated him. Four years
ago he had been with the Benoit Cir-
cus as a barker; four years ago she
had thought that she loved him. She
had stayed awake nights wondering
how it would feel to be in his arms,
to have him crushing her gypsy lov-
eliness close to him. She had even
gone so far as to make up a pretext
that would take them walking in the
woods in the moonlight.
But even though Sammy's blue eyes
had blazed, even though his breath
had gone short in his throat that love-
ly dance had not made him forget that
she was, after all, a gypsy girl and
therefore a social caste beneath the
other members of the circus. He had
gone away after the season, to
America, his home—to some strange
place called Hollywood where he said
a fortune awaited him.
But before he had gone he had done
the one thing that made Salvatia hate
him. She had gone to his tent that
last night, she had stood there in the
semi-darkness with hunger in her
black eyes, with love trembling on
her full lips. She was his woman. He
had only to reach out and take her
in his arms. Instead, he had looked at
her closely ... at the inward curve
of her waist, her slim perfect legs,
and he had said, unmoved:
"Salvatia, I saw you edging
through the crowd today. Don't pick
pockets. Be content with what Benoit
pays you."
She had stiffened, with hurt pride,
with resentment.
"All the gypsies pick pockets," she
had said, evenly. "There's no harm
in it."
"But there is, Salvatia. One of these
dumb Frenchmen will catch you at it
NIGHT LIFE TALES 5
one of these days and you'll find your-
self in prison . . . you and your father
and Pietro. Just because all the gyp-
sies pick pockets you don't have to.
Promise me that you'll cut it out,
Salvatia.'
And then, without giving her a
chance to answer he had practically
pushed her out of his tent, had said,
"Run along to bed now, Salvatia. Like
a good little girl!"
Because she was too furious to
trust words in her mouth she had
flung herself into a dance . . . wildly,
. . . her hips swaying, her whole body
swaying rhythmically with her agi-
tated steps. Pietro had thrown aside
his accordion. He had come to her
through the moonlight.
"You are my woman," he had said,
huskily. "I did not know it before."
He had slipped his neck beads about her throat,
had kissed them in place in gypsy bethrothal
fashion and had crushed her in his arms.
The next morning Sammy left and as if to
prove to herself how much she hated him,
Salvatia moved
through the circus crowd and picked
every pocket she saw. She had been
picking pockets all the four years of
Sammy's absence, getting satisfaction
out of her nimble fingers and her
defiance of his advice. She hadn't been
caught nor would she be, even though
her father and her mother had been
and were in jail in Paris now. Pietro
had just missed being caught. But
Pietro was too slick . . . slick with
his own cunning technique.
6 NIGHT LIFE TALES
And at night when they emptied
purses and laughed over some of the
contents, Salvatia found a wild satis-
faction in it.
"We're gypsies, Pietro. There is no
law for us. We do what we wish to
do, don't we? We defy whom we
choose!" she would whisper. And
there would be such a fire of hatred
in her eyes that Pietro, seeing that
strange flame, would confuse it with
love and would crush her to him.
And now Salvatia looked at Sammy
Richards who was back after four
years. There was sawdust flecked on
his breeches and on his polka-dot
blouse from the floor of the cage in
which he had wrestled the bear.
There was sawdust in his blonde hair
and on the side of his face. In that
moment he looked over the heads of
the, people and saw her. He nodded
to her, coolly, looking down upon her
. . . a gypsy ... as if from a mountain
top.
Salvatia bit her lip and she seemed
to gasp with indignation. She tossed
her glossy head up, proudly, swung
around on her heel and edged her
way through the crowd picking pock-
ets as she went. Out of the tail of
one dark eye she could see Sammy
watching her, disapproving. Her
heart began to pound and her knees
trembled beneath her as she hurried
on to the big tent. She hated Sammy.
It was fun doing something he
loathed.
That night after her last perform-
ance in the tan bark ring, Salvatia
got into her gypsy costume and min-
gled with the crowd, her nimble fin-
gers busy with pockets. She delighted
in Sammy watching her from his
platform, scowling down at her from
his six-foot-three. And it came to her
as she stood there, even as he yelled
out for customers to watch him wres-
tle with the bear, that she could hurt
him. Not with love—but with hate.
She went quickly over to Sammy's
platform, leaned negligently against
a cypress trunk, and with deep mal-
ice in her eyes, she consistently
NIGHT LIFE TALES 7
laughed at everything he said to the
crowd; she said, derisively, loud
enough for Sammy to hear,
"I've seen that man do his act. It
looks real, almost as if he were act-
ually tussling with that grizzly. It's
a nice act . . . but only an act! That
old bear is as tame as any cat that
ever curled up on a hearth!"
People began to laugh. They looked
up at Sammy and laughed in his face,
and moved to other side-shows.
Sammy climbed down off his plat-
form and came up to Salvatia. His
jaw was grim, his blue eyes furious.
"What sort of a lousy gypsy trick
was that, Salvatia Bertovi?" he de-
manded, evenly. And he stood there
in front of her, tall and blond and
whitely American in his anger.
Salvatia's heart began to pound
beneath the tight blouse of her gypsy
dress, her knees shook one against
the other. Hatred was delicious. She
hadn't felt as alive as this since she
could remember. She threw back her
dark head, her black eyes burned their
hatred against his face.
"You are a fake, Sammy Richards !"
she said, coldly. "Four years ago you
were a barker for Benoit. Now you
come back wrestling a bear! You
have but to look at that old grizzly
to know that he is as tame as any
kitten. You have but to look at YOU
to know that you couldn't even wres-
tle ME!"
Somehow, even hating him as she
did, she couldn't endure him looking
at her like that. He had never looked
at her like that before and so she
said, "Fake! Go back to your cage
and wrestle with that tired old bear!
I think you have two customers wait-
ing!" And then she spun around on
her heel and left him.
With quick little steps she hurried
across the circus lot. She headed
straight for Poetro's rifle range
which was closed now. She thought
wildly,
"I'll go into Pietro's arms. I'll stay
in them for a long while and tomor-
row Pietro and I will be married.
There is no need to wait any longer!"
She slipped around behind Pietro's
tent and would have gone straight
through the opening. But the sound
of whispers inside stopped her, made
her stand there in the moonlight lis-
tening despite herself.
Pietro was saying, softly, in a hurt
voice, "Salvatia does not love me,
Rosalie. For four years I have never
been sure of her. But now I know.
She doesn't care. Perhaps it's be-
cause your yellow hair dazzles my
eyes when I'm with her. Perhaps its
because I've offered her only a part
of my heart since most of it belongs
only to you. Rosalie . . .
Then Salvatia heard Pietro say, in
that throbbing voice, "Rosalie are we
always to hide our love like this?"
Salvatia listened no longer. With
a little sigh she struck out toward
the woods where she could sit in soli-
tude and think; where she could stare
up at the moon and try to puzzle out
why hatred had become so much
more important in her life than love.
Hating Sammy was more important
to her than loving Pietro . . . and so
she had lost Pietro.
She was clear across the circus
. grounds, walking slowly, when she
heard footsteps behind her, when she
heard Sammy Richards say, in a furi-
ous voice, "Salvatia!"
He came up behind her, caught her
slim, bare shoulders in his hands and
swung her around to face him. He
shook her until her teeth rattled in
her head and until her eyes felt as if
8 NIGHT LIFE TALES
they were being wrung from their
sockets. He stormed out.
"You stay away from my platform
tomorrow, do you hear? If you don't
I'll call the gendarmes the first time
I see you slip a finger into a pocket
. . . you or your beloved Pietro. I'm
going to be with Benoit all this sea-
son and I'm not going to have you
starting this fake business on the
road. Do you understand that?"
Salvatia tossed her dark head up-
ward, gypsy chieftain blood stirring
in her veins, proud and hot.
"Fake! Fake!" and her strong
young arms locked themselves be-
hind his back. When he broke that
hold she slid another upon him, back
of his neck. "Wrestle!" she spat at
him. "If you can wrestle wild bears
you can wrestle Salvatia who is only
a woman . . . . "
"Woman?" Sammy cried. "Not a
woman ! A gypsy hell-cat!"
Salvatia gritted her teeth and
tightened her hold. They wrestled
furiously. They tumbled to the
ground, rolled on top of one another,
their legs thrashing in the air. Their
breaths mingled. Their arms locked.
When Salvatia realized that he had
indeed been wrestling that huge bear
in the cage, that he was a far cry
from a fake . . . and when she realized
that the man held on to her even
when he could have easily broken her
hold . . . she went limp in his arms.
Sammy bent nearer her, not speak-
ing. His hand came out from his side
and caressed her thick dark hair. He
moved his palm over her face, feeling
her slim straight nose, her lips, the
soft line of her chin and looked into
Salvatia's wide, burning eyes. He
said,
"I did not want to love you, Sal-
vatia. That is why I went away.
You're a gypsy. Men can not trust
gypsies. Only another gypsy would
know how to manage you ... to tame
you!"
Salvatia whispered, "You manage
and tame that bear, Sammy. I'm not
so strong as he."
"It seems that neither of us knew
our own minds," said Sammy. "For
I went to California to forget you
Salvatia. I made lots of money there,
not with my bear, but with singing.
I trapped that bear in the Rockies.
I wrestled him because I knew that
one day, despite myself, I would come
back to you . . . that I would have to
be strong to be worthy of you . . . . "
Salvatia's lips turned up in a slow
smile. "You understand women,
Sammy . . . especially gypsy women !"
And then she didn't say anything
more. She even ceased to think. For
Sammy had her in his strong young
arms. Sammy's mouth was crushing
down on her own in an endless kiss.
She didn't even think of Pietro in
that exquisite moment; Pietro who
was thinking of her . . . Pietro who
was holding Rosalie in his arms, who
was threading his fingers through
her golden hair and who was listen-
ing to Rosalie saying, softly, breath-
lessly,
"Pietro, we'll run away tonight.
Salvatia won't care. Earlier this even-
ing I saw her hanging around that
American gorgio, telling people what
a fake he is and all the time love
burned in her eyes. Just as I saw it
burning once four years ago when he
was a barker for mon pere. Pietro,
you want me, too, don't you . . . oh,
Pietro, darling, what does it matter
if mon pere will be furious with me
SCRAMBLED YEGGS
By ART NUNCE
A LITTLE Frenchman at the
office of the Bal de Legion
d' Honeur was adamant.
His waxed black mous-
tache danced excitedly on his upper
lip. Indigo eyes sparkled.
"I am sorry, Monsieur," he re-
peated. "I cannot do nossing for
you! Zere is not one ticket to zee
Bal! Zey have all been taken by zee
Legion d' Honeur and zere guests. I
am sorry."
Eddie Quince gave vent to a labial
noise closely approximating the fa-
miliar Bronx cheer. "Nuts !" he mut-
tered.
"I beg your pardon, Monsieur," the
little Frenchman said.
"Forget it, Froggie. You're sure
you can't get me into the shindig?
I'm a gentleman of the press."
A pained expresson floated over the
Frenchman's face. "If I could, Mon-
sieur, I would be tres happy. But, Mon
Dieu, what can I do? Zee members
and zere friends have all zee tickets."
18 NIGHT LIFE TALES
Eddie scratched his head. "How
about letting me see the admission
list so I'll know who's going to be
there? I've got to send some sort of
a story back to my paper."
The "gentleman of the press" label
Eddie had assumed was nothing more
than a label. He had been a news-
paper reporter back in Kansas City,
but it was so long ago he had forgot-
ten what it was all about. His main
purpose in posing as a newspaperman
was to gain admission to the ex-
clusive Bal de Legion d'Honeur.
The little Frenchman brightened.
"Oui, Monsieur, of course! Zat I can
do!" He scuttled off, returning with
counties sheets of typewritten names.
Nine out of ten were prefixed
"Chevalier". Eddie ran his eyes down
the list. They stopped at the impres-
sive cognomen: His Highness Victor
San Remo Vallento et entourage
d'Allsia.
"Who's he?" Eddie queried.
"Zee Crown Prince of Alesia, Mon-
sieur."
"And where is Alesia?"
The Frenchman shrugged. "Zat I
do not know, Monsieur. His Highness
is now at zee Vendome Hotel."
There was a strange glint in
Eddie's eyes. He copies down the
royal dignitary's name. "Thanks a
lot," he said.
The Vendome was one of Paris'
most expensive rococo hostelries.
Bold as brass, Eddie walked up to
the desk, asked for the Crown Prince.
The clerk eyed him. "Who shall I
say is calling, Monsieur?"
"A representative of the Paris edi-
tion of the New York Bulletin."
Ten minutes later, Eddie was ad-
mitted to a suite of rooms on the
sixth floor of the hotel. As he entered
the drawing room, he stopped short,
stared straight ahead of him. There,
reclining on a low, damask-covered
divan, was a gorgeous dark-haired
female! She was wearing a thin,
spun-silver negligee, draped loosely
about her body.
"I—I beg your pardon," he mur-
mured.
The girl looked up from her mag-
azine. Her black eyes flashed from
long curled lashes. Her mouth, car-
mine red and moist, smiled a greeting.
"Bon jour, Monsieur. You have
come to see zee Crown Prince?" She
sat up. Eddie's heart thumped like a
trip-hammer.
A month in France had given Eddie
a pretty fair idea of the local crop of
beauties. They were plenty spiffy, all
things considered. But this gorgeous
creature, French or Alesian (what-
ever that was!) had the Parisian
cuties backed off the map for class.
"Er—yes," Eddie Mumbled. "I —
I'd like to see His Highness."
The girl swung her shapely legs off
the divan.
"Your name, Monsieur?" she
NIGHT LIFE TALES 19
queried, rising.
For a long moment Eddie found it
difficult to reply.
"Your name, Monsieur?" she re-
peated, a faint smile playing about
her voluptuously encarnadined lips.
"Edward Quince," Eddie managed.
She undulated out of the room,
svelt hips swinging. Eddie felt the
palms of his hands beginning to mois-
ten. If, a bare half hour before, some-
one had told him he was going to
rest his eyes on a brunette Venus he
would have laughed in that someone's
face.
Anxious moments went by. Eddie,
possessed of a swell plan for getting
into the Bal, almost forgot the pur-
pose of his visit. Now, with the Stun-
ning femme out of sight, it returned
to mind. Everything would depend on
whether this high-mucky-muck from
Alesia was anywhere near Eddie's
size and build. If he happened to be
short, fat and roly-poly or tall, gaunt
and angular, it would be just too
bad.
The curtains separating the draw-
ing room of the suite from the one
adjoining parted and the beautiful
brunette returned.
"I am sorry, Monsieur," she said,
"but His Highness cannot be dis-
turbed. He is resting in preparation
for zee ball tonight. I am his sister.
Can I help?"
Eddie licked his lips. He made a
mental note to find out where in hell
Alesia was. If this beauty was any
sample of the feminine Alesians, that
was the place for Eddie Quince!
"Er—yes, it's about the Bal," Eddie
gulped. "I just wanted to ask him
about his costume and—well—and
get his viewpoint on things in gen-
eral. You know, we do that with
visiting celebrities."
20 NIGHT LIFE TALES
She nodded. "Oui, I am aware of
zat, Monsieur. I am sorry I cannot
help you. Zee costume is zee secret.
As for anything else, I do not know."
Eddie backed to the door. He was
reluctant to leave, but in a case like
this it paid to be prudent. If luck was
with him he would have ample oppor-
tunity to meet this Venus on an equal
footing.
"Thank you very much," he gasped.
"Goodbye."
She followed him to the door.
Out on the street, Eddie glanced at
his watch. Five o'clock. If anything
was to be accomplished he had very
little time in which to accomplish it.
He looked into his wallet. Almost two
thousand francs. That was $120. in
American money. A hell of a lot to
pay for admission to a masked ball,
but he was determined to crash the
gates of the exclusive shindig, no
matter what the price. And now, too,
there was an added incentive. A dark-
haired incentive.
Eddie doffed his thinking cap for
the time being, stepped into a cafe
for an absinthe frappe.[#]It was six-
thirty when he returned to the lobby
of the Vendome, slumped down in a
chair behind a potted palm, kept his
eyes glued on the elevators. An hour
of watchful waiting brought reward.
The gorgeous brunette, swathed in an
ermine wrap, came out of the elevator
on the arm of a man approximately
Eddie's height and build. He, too, was
wearing a voluminous opera cloak,
but Eddie could see the striped trous-
ers of a colorful uniform and a gold
braided military collar. Both the girl
and the man had black dominoes over
their eyes.
Eddie quivered with excitement. He
was certain this was His Highness,
the Crown Prince of Alesia. He mem-
orized the gold spinach on the mans'
patent leather peaked hat. It had an
old rose crown and was festooned
with garlands of braid. A second man
in uniform, not as gaudy as the Crown
Prince's, followed the royal couple
through the lobby.
Eddie watched them all get into a
cab and drive off. He grinned and
rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipa-
tion. Now it was all up to him!
It is too well known a fact to war-
rant undue explanation. The Parisian
taxi driver will sell his soul and the
soul of each member of his family
for the almighty franc. Acting on this
truism, Eddie sallied forth from the
hotel, picked a likely-looking driver
and engaged him in conversation.
"For how much will you rent me
your uniform and your cab?" he ques-
tioned.
The driver's bushy eyebrows
arched. "For how long, Monsieur?"
"All night."
"Five hundred francs.'
Eddie computed rapidly. That
would be $30. "No, too much. I'll give
you 300 francs."
"Ah, but, Monsieur, it is against
zee law! Supposing I am caught, eh
What zen?"
"I'll get you out. Three hundred
francs. What do you say.
It was five times what the cabbie
would earn. He knew it and Eddie
knew it. A little more bantering, back
and forth, and the deal was closed. A
bare half-hour later, Eddie, in the
driver's gray uniform, slipped behind
the wheel of the cab.
"You will return it to 22 Rue Sabien
by dawn, Monsieur?" the cabbie
questioned anxiously.
"Maybe before then, Frenchie.
Toodle-oo." With a great clatter of
meshing gears, the ancient, squeaking
NIGHT LIFE TALES 21
vehicle rolled away.
Narrowly missing a traffic police-
man and a lumbering omnibus, Eddie
reached the Maison of the Legion of
Honor, drew up before the canopy
stretching to the curb. An epauletted
doorman hurried to the cab. Eddie
leaned out. He pressed a folded hun-
dred franc note into the doorman's
hand. Speaking low and rapidly, he
described the Crown Prince of Ale-
sia's uniform, height, weight and gen-
eral appearance as best he could.
"Tell the gentleman there is some-
one to see him. Make it clear that it
is important. If you succeed in bring-
ing him out I will give you another
hundred francs."
The doorman, blood brother to all
other doormen in every part of the
world, knew his onions. For cash in
hand he would perform miracles. He
nodded and vanished into the maison.
Eddie stepped out of the driver's
seat, put the collar of his coatup
around his face. He opened the back
door of the cab, waited anxiously.
Sure enough, out came the Crown
Prince in full, glittering regalia, three
rows of medals shimmering on his
chest. He paused uncertainly under
the canopy.
"Zis way, Monsieur," Eddie said.
His heart was in his throat.
The Crown Prince stepped forward.
He looked around, puzzled. "Who
wishes to see me?" he questioned.
"A gentleman inside zee cab, Mon-
sieur," Eddie blurted.
The Crown Prince stooped, entered
the open door. Eddie, using his body
as a shield against the doorman,
jerked a leather-covered black-jack
from his pocket swung it, tapped the
unsuspecting Crown Prince on the
back of the head. He slumped into the
seat without a sound. Eddie[t] slammed
the door shut, hurriedly gave the
'doorman his second tip, wrove off.
He stopped the cab on a dark
street. Ten minutes of work and the
Crown Prince was bound hand and
foot with stout rope, his mouth ef-
fectively gagged. Eddie stripped him
of his resplendent uniform, ran the
cab to the bank of the Seine, rolled
the still unconscious Crown Prince
into the grass behind a thick bush. It
was a warm night and he was certain
22 NIGHT LIFE TALES
the royal visitor would suffer no ill effects.
That done, he raced to 22 Rue Sa-
bien and routed out the cabbie who
had rented him the hack. Before the
astounded eyes of the man, he re-
moved the driver's uniform and sub-
stituted the outlt of old rose and
braid, even to the black dominoe over
his eyes.
"Now, drive me to the Maison de
Legion d'Honeur and I will be
through with the cab."
The unsuspecting doorman bowed
Eddie in to the exclusive Bal. No
sooner had he stepped into a room
thronged with brilliantly costumed
people and alive with the rhythmic
strains of music, than a hand fell on
his arm. He turned to look into the
bright masked eyes of the gorgeous
brunette. She was wearing the cos-
tume of a ballet dancer, tight and
scant.
"Where have you been, Hugo?"
she whispered. "I was worried."
Eddie's lips smiled. He made no
reply, preferring to take no chances
of detection. He eased her into his
arms and danced her away.
Suddenly a chilling thought came
to him. She was the Crown Prince's
sister! If he attempted to make love
to her she would know something
was wrong!
"Hugo." She placed her lips close
to his ear. "Francois will be ready
soon. Had we not better go to zee
lounge?"
Eddie nodded. The girl slipped her
arm in his. Together they walked off
the dance floor into the palm-strewn
lounge, seated themselves in an over-
stuffed love seat.
She leaned towards him, offered
her parted red lips.
Eddie had always been taught to
act first and ask questions after. He
acted, kissing her.
"You still care for Marie, don't
you, Hugo, darling?" she murmured.
So that was her name—Marie. Ed-
die disguised his voice and managed
a faint "oui." He was about to con-
tinue where he had left off when an-
other man in uniform hurried up,
dropped something in Marie's lap and
beat a hasty departure.
The girl tensed. "Come! We must
go!" She pulled the bodice of her
costume away, slid something into
the aperture, and rose hurriedly. Ed-
die caught a gleam of white; the
sheen of which looked like pearls.
Why was she secreting pearls.
There was no time to ask questions.
Marie fairly dragged him out to the
coatroom. Before Eddie knew it he
was alone with her in a taxicab and
NIGHT LIFE TALES 23
she had ordered the driver to go to
the Vendome.
Once the cab moved away from the
Maison de Legion d'Honeur Marie
breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Ah,
sucre, I am glad zat is over. I was
so nervous, Hugo."
Before Eddit's gaping eyes, she
shrugged off her wrap, lowered the"\
straps of her costume. Eddie got-1
goggle-eyed when he saw what was
nestling in her bosom. Marie held it
up. It was a stunning pearl necklace,
shimmering with all the pure fire of
its dozens of big pearls.
"Not bad, Hugo eh?" she ques-
tioned. "Is it not worth at least one
million francs?"
Eddie's mind whirled. He hadn't
the faintest idea what this was all
about, but he had a premonition he
was getting himself into plenty of
hot water.
"Francois will meet us at zee
train," Marie said. "We must get rid
of zese costumes immediately. It will
not be long before zee gendarmes will
be looking for us."
Jewel thieves! It hit Eddie smack
in the nose! Jewel thieves! They
weren't members of royalty at all!
They were crooks, posing as mem-
bers of royalty. Right now some weal-
thy dowager was missing that neck-
lace at the Bal!
Eddie had half a mind to stop the
cab and get out. Another look at
Marie's voluptuous beauty changed
his mind. And anyway, the cab was
drawing up before the Vendome. Still
masked, they both walked through
the lobby, took the elevator to the
phony Crown Prince's suite.
"We must hurry, cheri," Marie
said, once they were behind locked
doors.
Eddie caught her in his arms. If
he was taking the chance of being
nabbed as a jewel thief he had to get
something out of it. He bent her back,
kissing her full on the lips.
Timeless minutes later, Eddie re-
moved his mask. The girl's face
drained of color. She sat and stared
like one transfixed.
"I'm a detective," Eddie lied. "It's
too bad you had to get mixed up with
that gang of yeggs."
Open-mouthed, Marie gaped. She
could not utter a sound. Eddie crossed
to a phone. He called police head-
quarters, reported the recovery of
the pearl necklace, told them where
they could find the fake Crown Prince
and his henchman. That done, he
turned to Marie.
"As for you—"
She threw herself at him, pleading.
"Please, Monsieur! Do not have me
arrested! Hugo forced me to do it!"
Eddie held her close. "Shut up," he
said quietly. "There's only one way I
can save you."
"How, Monsieur?"
'By marrying you. Then we can tell
the police that we worked together
to capture those thieves. Other-
wise—"
Marie said nothing, but her actions
shouted her answer!
24 NIGHT LIFE TALES
LAUGH AND WE'LL LAUGH WITH YOU
I must admire girls who know Enough to keep on saying NO! But for a date, I must confess I like the girl who murmurs Yes!
Why must women always wear Funny gadgets in their hair? Metal curlers scratch like heck Little boys who want to neck.
"How come simmering Sally slapped the sculptor she was posing for?" "He wanted to get into the feeling."
Bessie: "You'd better watch out when you go auto riding with that sheik—he's a live wire!" Tessie: "Oh, that's okey—I've been
insulated."
The best way to honor our dead soldiers is to shoot the survivors a living wage.
America shouldn't have to worry about where all the soldiers are coming from to be used for the next war. There ought to be
several million former prohibition agents still available who were trained to shoot at the drop of a hat and who would look
just dandy in a trench.
Cutie (in hotel lobby) : "They tell me that you some- times walk in your sleep?" Sheik: "I do—why do you ask?" Cutie: "Don't
you dare mistake Room 215 for your quarters."
"FIRE"
RESCUED—"I'm Hedy Lovelorn the movie star."
RESCUER—"Yere—so I feel."
"LIVE AND LEARN"
HE—"Do you think you could ever learn to like me a little—baby?"
SHE—"Well—I learned to eat carrots."