British Agent (Warner Bros.) (1934)

BRITISH AGENT The story of First National’s film hit fiction ized by Arthur Zellner, inspired by R. H. Bruce Lockhart’s book. THE STORY THUS FAR Stephen Locke, young British consular agent, saves the life of Elena, a Russian aristocrat, who has thrown her lot with the Bolshevists, from death at the hands of a Cossack wm a Petrograd street riot in front of the English embassy. CHAPTER Il ITHIN a few minutes after Elena had left Stephen, the street fighting grew in intensity. The crowds were refusing to give way, but found that by massing, they could resist the Cossacks. From nowhere, guns and pistols ap peared. Several stray bullets splintered the woodwork of the Embassy ball-room—one of them struck a picture above the head of Sir Walter. The Ambassador, looked up, unruffled and remarked ‘‘I never liked that picture, anyway.’’ For a moment, his serene calm prevailed, but when pieces of the great glass chandelier were showered over half the room, the nervousness of the women could no longer be masked. Quietly, Sir Walter suggested to his guests that they repair to another part of the Embassy. His guests knew what was happening. In couples and groups, they quietly called for their wraps, with no sign that they understood the seriousness of the situation. Within the hour, word came that Kolinoff had fled and Lenin was in power. The Soviet was born that night. Changes came with the staccato suddenness of machine-gun fire. Ambassadors were recalled and left with their families. Stephen Locke, with his friends Medill, LaFarge and Del Vat were left behind. In the capitals of the world, the news of a Bolshevist victory caused a sensation. The danger of Russia making a _ separate peace with Germany was greater than ever. At 10 Downing Street, the name of Stephen Locke was again discussed. There must be somebody to keep in touch with the Rassian situation. Why not young Stephen Locke? Locke and his friends meanwhile, played poker in the now dismantled Embassy. The floor was denuded of furniture; the oil paintings were covered with drapes; the crystal chandelier was jacketed with linen. Eyans, the old Major Domo remained as caretaker, A five-branch candelabrum threw a fitful light over the little table at which the young men passed the time with cards. “Tt just occurred to me,” said Medill, one night — “what did they leave you fellows behind for?” “Ym waiting to be told,” answered LaFarge. “Somebody’s got to vise passports,” said Del Val. Locke was more impatient than the rest. “It’s enough to give a man nerves sitting here day after day doing nothing when everybody else in the world is either fighting or working for his country. They even let old women knit socks.” After the others had gone, Locke went to his room and stood at the window watching the endless line of soldiers as they passed. Evans came in softly. Locke heard him and without looking around spoke to him. “For days they’ve been going by—Russian soldiers back from the front. Every one of them that leaves makes England’s position that much weaker—and all I can do is stand in a window and watch them go by.” Evans placed a tea tray on the tabouret, quoted quietly — ‘They also serve who stand and wait.’ Locke shrugged. Evan’s philosophy was small comfort to him. He knew that there was work to be done in England’s interest, but he had no authority to do it. So far as he could see Carrister had left him behind just to watch the building. He wandered to the other window overlooking the garden. The great fountain in the center cast weird shadows in the moonlight, forming strange figures as they merged with the distorted patterns of the trees and shrubbery. The garden was silvered by the. moon. He remembered that other night in the garden when that Russian girl thanked him for saving her life. Suddenly he realized that he had often “Let us then drink to our dear guest—’ (Mariana Schubert sings the “Charouchka,” most famous of Russian gypsy drinking songs, to Leslie Howard in a gay gypsy cafe scene in “British Agent.” The film is coming to the Strand Theatre soon.) thought of her. He wondered who she was, where she was. He recalled how soft her hand was, when she held it out to thank him. Petrograd was a big city, but there must be some way to find her. But after all, what good would it do? Most of these rabid little radicals had been converted by some man whom. they followed. The idea oppressed him, strangely. Silly for a chap to get moony over a girl he had only met once. Especially when he did not know a thing about her. Maybe what he needed was a good, healthy binge. Plenty of Scotch and some girls. That was it—girls! And music! And daneing! Some Russian girl who was pert and fiery—one-with an invitation in her smile — who wouldn’t care how close he held her. The phone rang and Evans answered it. “It’s Mr. Medill, sir. They’re going out to the Gypsy Cafe and want to know if you’ll go along.” “Give me the phone,” said Locke. And then—“Hello—Bob. If I go, will you promise all the wine, women, and song I want?” “There’s enough wine and song —but from the way you sound, there may be a shortage of women.” “Don’t worry,” said Locke. “There’s only one girl in Russia and she likes to shoot Cos sacks. See you in ten minutes.” The only girl in Russia was not shoot? >.Cossacks that night— but she might have been less dangerous to Stephen if her only weapon had been a revolver. (Lo Be Continued Tomorrow) BRITISH AGENT The story of First National’s film hit fictionized by Arthur Zellner, inspired by R. H. Bruce Lockhart’s book. THE STORY THUS FAR Having saved the life of a beautiful young Russian girl mm a Petrograd street riot, Stephen Locke, an unofficial agent of the British Empire who is attempting to prevent Russia from making a separate peace with Germany goes, with a few friends, representatives of Allied nations, to spend an evening im a gypsy cafe. CHAPTER IV HE old Gypsy cafe, just outside the city was always a gay place. Maria and her Tsiganes held court nightly for all the young bloods of Petrograd. The haunting chords of the balalaikas, the deep note of Maria’s glorious voice, the lilting harmonies of the other singers more than counteracted the drinks that Medill and Del Val forced upon Stephen. Maria, herself came over to drink a charouchka with Locke. With it was the usual ceremony of finishing the song by emptying all glasses. Maria, after a hundred charouchkas seemed still immune to the effects of them. Stephen’s friends were feeling their drinks, while Locke’s depression seemed to absorb the liquor without effect on him. Long past midnight, there was an unusual stir as a new partr arrived. Stephen did not look up. but Medill’s voice came to him in a whisper. “Hey, Steve, there’s Pavlov of the Secret Police.” Stephen looked up and saw 4 very giant of a man, with gimlet-like eyes. Behind him were several men and two women. A strange thrill shot through Locke as he saw that one of the women in the party was the girl he had saved in the Embassy Garden. He straightened. Pavlov’s serutiny of the room finally reached Stephen and seemed for a second to rest. His gaunt face, was expressionless, but Stephen felt that the man had recognized him. Pavlov turned to the young girl behind him, nodded and led the way toward a table in the far corner. ‘To reach it, they would have to pass Stephen’s table. Within a few feet of Locke’s chair, the girl’s face lit with recognition. Stephen rose, and bowed. The girl stopped and extended her hand — Pavlov, for just a fleeting moment, allowed himself a flash of surprise, a flicker of question in his eye. The girl spoke quietly. “Oh,” she said, “the Englishman.” Stephen bowed again, “and the Lady of the Garden.” The girl turned to introduce her escort. “Comrade Pavlov, Mr. — er — Mr. —.” She hesitated, realizing that she did not know the name. “Locke.” Quickly Pavlov supplied the name. “How do you do sir,” said Locke, “I don’t seem to recall where we met.” “We haven't,’ said Pavlov, “It’s my business to know many people whom [I have not met! Won’t you join us?” “Thank you, but I am with a party.” The girl looked at him, and Pavlov with a nod, moved away to allow her a moment with Locke. Neither realized that they unconsciously moved toward an un bP Elena meets the “British Agent’? again. This time accompanied by Pavlov, head of the Russian Cheka, Secret Police. The tiny flame of love kindled at their first meeting blazes into a searing fire. occupied table through some inner urge to say more to each other. Pavlov pretended not to notice, as he joined the rest of his party. “T thought you had gone back to England with the others,” she began. “No,” Locke said. “The Embassy left in such a hurry they forgot me and an old umbrella.” “Let’s get out of here and get some air,” he continued. “I’m even sick of the smell of this place.” The girl started to say yes and remembered that she should not. “IT know” said Locke — “Of course you can’t.” Suddenly an impulse took possession of the girl. She raised her head and with a quick glance of defiance toward Pavlov’s table, (Kay Francis, Leslie Howard and Irving Pichel in a tense scene from the great screen drama “British Agent,” coming to the Strand.) she rose. “Come on,” she said “We’ll have to hurry. I don’t want to explain.” Stephen led the way to a droshka and helped the girl in. “Is this yours?” she asked. “What’s the difference? Since this red millenium of yours everything belongs to everybody.” He put the robes about her and lighted a cigarette. “T thought you wanted to go somewhere” she said. “What’s the use—we can’t go far enough to get away from Russia.” “Tf I had a job in a country I didn’t like, I would go home” she said. “So would I” said Locke. “But Suppose you had a job in a country you did like and you were anxious to keep from making a mistake but your hands were tied.” “T would be grateful” said the girl, “that my hands were tied, so they could not meddle in other people’s business.” “It isn’t only Russia’s business,” he answered, “it’s the world’s.” “Perhaps we had better talk about something else.” The girl countered. “Us?” she shook her head. “Yes” he said emphatically and kissed her. She neither resisted nor responded. Then, after a moment she spoke. “You do very well for a man whose hands are tied.” “Was I too presumptuous?” He did not seem too sorry. “A little” she admitted, “but at least it served to change the subject. Stephen pretended to be slightly insulted. “Where are we going?” she asked. “Catching up with next Tuesday” he answered. (To Be Continued Tomorrow) Page Nineteen