The Angel

by Verner, Gerald

  The Angel

  Gerald Verner

  © Gerald Verner 1956, Chris Verner 2015

  Gerald Verner has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1935 by Wight & Brown.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter One

  The Girl In The Box

  Jimmy Holland patted the ends of his tie into position, examined the result in the mirror over the dressing table with a critical eye, and gave a nod of satisfaction.

  He was tall and dark, with the build of an athlete, and the grey eyes that looked back at him held a humorous twinkle in their depths.

  Why, with a yearly income running into five figures, he should ever have chosen to join the Metropolitan Police Force, was a constant source of wonder to those who knew him slightly; less of a mystery to his intimate friends who understood something of the urge which had prompted this step.

  His father, a dignified and respected member of the Cabinet, was horrified when Jimmy had calmly announced his intention, for he had visions of an under-secretaryship and a brilliant political career for his only son.

  “You—you can’t become a—a common policeman!” he expostulated, aghast at the bare idea. “It’s—it’s ridiculous and absurd!”

  “It’s neither ridiculous nor absurd!” retorted his son, “I not only can, but I have become a ‘common policeman’, as you call it.”

  And to prove it, he turned up the next day in a brand new uniform to meet the scandalised old man as he left the House of Commons after a debate.

  Several things contributed to Jimmy Holland’s rapid promotion, the greatest of which was a very real interest in his job. Two years after he had joined the force, he was a sergeant, and a year later was transferred to the C.I.D., owing to the clever way in which he had run to earth and arrested Dan Flecker, of dubious memory, when older and more experienced men had failed to find that cold-blooded murderer. He held the rank of detective-inspector, with the imminent prospect of further promotion. Now he dressed to keep his appointment with the Honourable Freddie Babbington, eldest son of Lord Deeping, and one of his oldest friends.

  He was pulling on his dinner jacket when his servant entered, a portly man, with the benign appearance of an archbishop. He advanced with great dignity and presented a silver tray.

  “Your sherry, sir,” he said, in the low voice of the well-trained servant.

  “Thanks, Limpet. Stick it down somewhere,” said Jimmy. “Have you ordered that taxi?”

  Limpet bowed and carefully set the glass down on the corner of the dressing table,

  “The taxicab, sir,” he replied, “will be at the door in exactly three minutes, I presume, sir, that as you are spending the evening with Mr. Babbington, you will be late.”

  “I should think it is quite likely,” said Jimmy.

  “I have taken the liberty, sir,” continued Limpet tonelessly, “of ordering a fresh supply of aspirin, which I will leave in a conspicuous position on the dining room table. If you will remember, sir, the last time you spent the evening with Mr. Babbington, you consumed a complete bottle of fruit laxative tablets on your return due to a slight misapprehension, and the result was extremely disconcerting.”

  “You talk exactly like an advertisement,” said Jimmy admiringly. “Now get out and let me finish dressing.”

  The imperturbable Limpet bowed and withdrew.

  When Jimmy had first taken the flat in Ryder Street, he had rung up an agency for a manservant. None of the several applicants had appealed to him, and a conference at the Yard had forced him to leave before he could interview the last. On his return late in the evening, the door had been opened, to his astonishment, by the dignified Limpet, and Jimmy discovered that instead of engaging a servant, a servant had engaged him.

  Limpet had apparently arrived soon after he had left for the conference, persuaded the hall porter to open the door of the flat with his pass key, and immediately taken up his duties.

  The outraged Jimmy had at first been extremely annoyed at this high-handed method of obtaining a situation, but his remarks had no effect whatever. And since the man’s references were of the highest, he had eventually capitulated. And he had never had cause to regret it. Limpet ran the small flat with a smooth efficiency that amounted to genius, and was in every respect the ideal servant, even though he was more fictional than real.

  When Jimmy arrived at the Ritz-Carlton, he saw the huge figure of the Honourable Freddie Babbington waiting in the foyer.

  Freddie was a tremendous man. His stature was enormous; his big, red face one huge grin of delight.

  “Cheerio! Well met, and what not!” he roared, in a voice that brought every other occupant of the vestibule to startled attention. “You’re two minutes late, but what does that matter? What’s a couple of minutes between friends?”

  “The same as between anyone else, I presume,” said Jimmy, ruefully rubbing his fingers, which had been almost squashed by the beefy hand of his friend. “Even if it is your birthday, it doesn’t entitle you to assault a police officer of high rank. What’s the programme?”

  “Food!” boomed Babbington. “And then a trifle of light amusement. I’ve got a box at the Mayfair.”

  Jimmy grunted disparagingly.

  “The sort of entertainment you would choose,” he remarked. “Legs and lyrics, and neither very good.”

  “On a man’s birthday,” said the Honourable Freddie, as an obsequious head waiter conducted them to their table, “legs and lyrics are what the doctor ordered.”

  “Oh, well,” said Jimmy resignedly, “you’re paying the bill, so it’s up to you to call the tune.”

  “It’ll do you good,” said his friend. “Take your mind off policewomen with large feet. Froth and frivolity—that’s the keynote of the evening! Frills and fancies and snappy tunes! Wine, women and—damn!”

  In his excitement he had knocked over the vase of flowers that decorated the table.

  Throughout the meal that followed, Freddie babbled continuously, so that Jimmy had little to do but listen and eat the very excellent dishes that were set before him. He continued his ceaseless string of anecdote and gossip on the way to the theatre, and kept it up even after they had taken their places in the box, which he had reserved.

  The orchestra was on the point of beginning the noisy overture which heralded ‘Swing High’, when Babbington stopped abruptly in the middle of his ceaseless chatter and gripped Jimmy by the arm.

  “Look!” he breathed, in what, for Freddie, was a w
hisper, but which in any other man would have been a normal tone of voice. “Oh, boy! Just look!”

  Jimmy followed the direction of his eyes, and saw that two people had, at that moment, entered the box opposite. One was a rather short, fattish man, with an almost completely bald head and an unpleasant face consisting chiefly of rubbery lips and a fleshy nose.

  The other was a girl. She was dressed in white, and was of medium height. Her hair, a gleaming mass of curls, was the colour of sun-kissed honey. Her face, almost a perfect oval, was lovely, with a loveliness that was both warm and ethereal. Her well-shaped head, the slender column of her neck, the creamy whiteness of her arms and shoulders, enhanced by the dark background of the box, was a picture that would have delighted the eye of an artist, and certainly delighted the eye of Freddie Babbington, for he was staring across at the opposite box with an expression on his face that was a cross between a wounded bull and an expiring codfish.

  Jimmy chuckled.

  “The lady appears,” he said, “to have struck you all of a heap.”

  “Who is she? D’you know?” demanded Freddie, coming out of his trance with a gasp.

  “I know her name, if that’s what you mean,” answered Jimmy, “and I’d like to know a lot more about her.”

  “By Jove, so would I!” exclaimed his friend. “Who’s that horrible little man with her? Talk about beauty and the beast—”

  “The gentleman’s name,” said Jimmy, calmly fishing for his cigarette case, “is Montgomery Webb, and he’s not so much of a gentleman. either. As a matter of fact, we’ve been very interested in Mr. Webb for quite a long time. He has an office in the City and is generally supposed to make his living by dabbling in stocks and shares. But we have an idea that he has more profitable and less legal sidelines—”

  “Never mind him,” said Freddie impatiently, as Jimmy paused. “It’s the girl I’m interested in. Who’s she?”

  Jimmy looked at him thoughtfully.

  “She calls herself Angela Kesson,” he answered slow1y.

  “Why do you say, calls herself?” demanded Babbington.

  “Because I’m very doubtful whether that is her real name,” replied Jimmy. “I’m afraid, Freddie, that any romantic ideas that may have crept into your susceptible young heart are in danger of receiving a rude shock.”

  Freddie turned his big face towards him in consternation.

  “You don’t mean—” he mumbled, “—you’re not suggesting that—that girl’s a crook?”

  “I’ve every reason to believe,” answered Jimmy gravely, “that she is one of the cleverest thieves in London.”

  “What, that beautiful creature?” gasped his friend. “I don’t believe it! What proof have you?”

  “That’s the trouble,” said Jimmy. “I haven’t any proof. If she knew what I’d said she could sue me for slander. But at the same time everybody at the Yard is of the same opinion.”

  Freddie shot another glance in the direction of the opposite box. The girl was talking to her companion, presenting a perfect profile towards him.

  “Nobody with a face like that,” he declared, “could be a crook! You’re crazy! Why, she’s like an angel!”

  “Yes,” said Jimmy. “That’s what they call her, The Angel.”

  Chapter Two

  A Midnight Excursion

  Mr. Montgomery Webb was enjoying himself. He had fed well, absorbed a large quantity of wine, and been conscious all the time of the envious glances directed at his lovely companion.

  She had been the greatest stroke of luck that had ever come Mr. Webb’s way; at least, that is how he regarded it in his own mind, being completely unaware how very cleverly the meeting had been arranged.

  It was Mr. Webb’s habit to leave his office in Cannon Street at exactly one o’clock in order to partake of such refreshments as his physical needs required at an exclusive and expensive restaurant in the vicinity. Descending the stairs on the previous Thursday he had come face to face with a vision of loveliness, which took what little breath he had left completely away. The vision was looking about her rather helplessly, and Mr. Webb, who was never averse to seizing an opportunity, particularly if the opportunity was of the feminine gender, gallantly offered his assistance.

  He was rewarded with a slightly pathetic smile, and an inquiry concerning the whereabouts of a firm called Harpole & Simpkins who, according to the fair visitor’s information, should have occupied an office in the building that Mr. Webb graced with his presence. Mr. Webb had never heard of the firm in question, which was not surprising since it existed only in the fertile imagination of Miss Angela Kesson. He did his best, however, to find it, and although his efforts were naturally unsuccessful, she appeared so grateful and was so profuse in her thanks that Mr. Webb was emboldened to suggest that she should join him at lunch.

  She was charmingly hesitant, but eventually accepted his invitation. She proved a thoroughly agreeable companion, and Mr. Webb made sure before the end of the meal that she would not pass into the vagueness of a memory. They met again for tea on the Saturday and it was then that an appointment was arranged for dinner and a show on the Tuesday.

  As the lights dimmed and the curtain rose, he hitched his chair a little nearer to the girl and gave her a sidelong glance from his small, rather pig-like eyes. This time, he thought, he really had struck the ‘goods’. There had been many such adventures m his life, but none had come within a thousand miles of this.

  The interval came, and Mr. Webb, having for the first time in his life behaved with perfect propriety and as near to a gentleman it was possible for him to get, began to search in his own mind for a good opening which would further his own and not at all gentlemanly ends; curiously enough, his companion’s mind was moving on precisely similar lines, though the end in view was not quite the same as Mr. Webb’s.

  “Enjoying yourself?” he inquired.

  Angela nodded

  “Yes,” she answered. “It’s a good show, don’t you think?”

  “I haven’t seen much of it.” Mr. Webb, trying vainly to be subtle, only succeeded in being clumsy. “I’ve been too busy looking at you, m’dear.”

  “Why? What’s the matter with me?" asked Angela innocently.

  “Nothing! Nothing!” said Mr. Webb, a little huskily. “You’re perfect! The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!”

  “Do you think so?” she murmured softly, and Mr. Webb suddenly felt as if a giant hand had gripped him in the middle of his stomach and turned him inside out.

  “Of course I think so,” he breathed. “Who could possibly see you and not think so?”

  He leered at her with what he fondly imagined was a fascinating smile but which reminded Angela of a pig she had once seen contemplating a particularly luscious meal.

  “You and I are going to be friends,” he said. “Good friends, m’dear eh? It was a lucky day for me when you came wandering round Cannon Street.”

  “Was it?” said Angela, and wondered just how long he would continue to think so. “It’s very sweet of you to be so nice to me.”

  “Nonsense, m’dear!” said Mr. Webb, patting her knee with a hot hand. “It’s very easy to be nice to you. My niceness is inexhaustible with anyone I really like, I hope this is going to be the beginning of many pleasant little evenings together.”

  “I hope so, too,” said Angela untruthfully

  What Mr. Webb might have said in answer to this encouragement is debatable, but happily at that moment the curtain went up on the second half of ‘Swing High’, and since the girl appeared to be more interested in what was taking place on the stage than his rather ponderous amorous advances, he reluctantly relapsed into silence. But if he refrained from vocally expressing his feelings, he allowed actions to speak even louder than words. His podgy hand slid out stealthily and rested on the top of Angela’s.

  She made no attempt to pull hers away, and gaining courage from this success Mr. Webb hitched himself a little nearer. He gave a faint squeeze, and
was surprised and delighted to have the gentle pressure returned

  And then he uttered a little sharp exclamation, for something had hurt him.

  The girl turned quickly.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “Something stuck in my hand,” said Mr. Webb.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” said Angela contritely. “It must have been my ring.”

  “My fault, m’dear,” said Mr. Webb.

  “Oh, but I hope I haven’t hurt you?” Her face was concerned as she looked at him.

  “No! No! It’s nothing at all,” he protested. “I’d go through a lot more than that, m’dear, for the pleasure of holding your hand.”

  The latter part of his sentence was slurred and thick. He blinked several times, and licked his thick lips.

  “Queer,” he mumbled. “I feel— It must be the heat—” His voice trailed away, and he suddenly slumped sideways in his chair against the girl.

  She put an arm round him quickly to prevent him falling. The effects of the drug in the ring would pass in a few seconds, and she would have to work quickly.

  Rapidly she searched for the platinum chain and pulled it out of his right-hand trouser pocket. From a ring on the end depended half a dozen keys. She examined them swiftly, her level brows drawn together. Choosing a Yale, she slipped it from the ring, and pulling up her dress, thrust it into the top of her stocking.

  When Mr. Webb recovered, she was leaning solicitously over him her beautiful face creased with anxiety.

  “Oh!” she said as he sat up dazedly. “You did frighten me.”

  “I must have fainted,” he grunted, rubbing his forehead. “Stupid of me—”

  “Would you like to go?” she asked anxiously. “Perhaps the air—”

  “No, no!” he interrupted. “I’m quite all right now, m’dear. I’m very sorry to have alarmed you, although it’s partly your fault you know.”

  She was momentarily startled, but his next words relieved her anxiety.

  “I’m not as young as I used to be, and—well, the society of so charming a girl—”