He smiled at her, leaving the sentence unfinished. Inwardly he was a little alarmed, for his doctor had warned him that his heart was as good as it might be. That his attack had had anything to do with the girl he never suspected, and he was only annoyed with himself that such a thing should have happened in the presence of Angela when he was anxious to appear at his best. But he had no intention of allowing such a trifle to interfere with the plan that had been gradually forming in his mind during the evening.
As they came out of the theatre at the end of the show and the commissionaire went to call his car, he made his suggestion.
“The night is yet young,” he said, as they stood amidst the stream of people in the foyer. “What d’you say to running up to my place for a bit of supper? It’s not far. I live at Hampstead, and the car can take you home.”
Angela, who was perfectly well aware that he lived at Hampstead, but had other plans, shook her head.
“Not tonight, if you don’t mind,” she said. “I’m feeling very tired. Some other night I’d love to.”
Mr. Webb tried every means in his power to persuade her, but without result.
He dropped her at her flat near Baker Street, after arranging an appointment for the following evening, and was driven home, a contented and complacent man, his mind full of what he fondly believed was a fresh conquest—and completely unaware that there would be no other night so far as he was concerned.
Angela stepped into the lift and was carried up to the third floor very satisfied, too with her night’s work, or that part of it that was over. As she entered the tiny vestibule of her flat her maid carne out of the kitchen to meet her.
“Well, ’ave a good time?” she greeted nasally.
“Have you ever been to the Zoo, Cordelia?” asked Angela.
Cordelia Smith wrinkled her uptilted nose.
“Can’t say as I ’ave, not since I was a nipper,” she answered. “Why, wot’s the Zoo got ter do with it? You ain’t been to no Zoo, ’ave yer, miss?”
“I feel rather as if I had,” said Angela. “I feel as if I’d spent the evening in the reptile-house!”
She passed into her bedroom, followed by the maid, and began rapidly to divest herself of her white satin gown.
“Bring me my old tweeds,” she said. “And the brown brogues.”
Cordelia’s small black eyes widened.
“Why, wot yer goin’ to do, miss?” she asked. “You surely ain’t goin’ out agin at this time o’ night.”
“I am,” said Angela. “And don’t ask questions, Cordelia—do as you’re told!”
Cordelia went over to the big wardrobe, sniffing her disapproval.
“You’ll get in trouble one of these fine days,” she remarked. “I’ve warned yer before, and I’m warning yer agin. And then wot’ll ’appen? You’ll get nine moons’ in the second division, same as my brother Bert.”
“I’m afraid you were never cut out to be a maid to a burglar,” remarked the Angel, as she pulled off her filmy stockings and drew on a pair of more serviceable woollen ones. “Or should it be burglar-ess?”
“It’s all the same thing when it comes to the indickment, miss,” said Cordelia pessimistically. “The ‘beak’ won’t trouble much.”
“We haven’t reached that stage yet!” retorted the girl.
“But you never knows when we’re goin’ to,” answered Cordelia, crossing over and depositing on the bed the tweed costume. “Whenever you goes off on one of these ’ere jaunts, 1 waits with me ’eart in me mouth fer some blinkin’ ‘flatty’ ter turn up, sayin’ as ’ow you’ve been pinched in the act. My brother Bert was pinched in the act, an’ they locked ’im in a cell and took all ’is clothes away.”
“I hope they’ll do nothing so immodest to me,” said Angela.
“You don’t know wot them policemen ’ull do,” asserted the maid darkly; “I wouldn’t trust none of ’em. When they pinched my brother Bert—”
“Stop talking and make me a cup of tea,” said Angela. “Then phone to the garage and ask them to bring my car round.”
Cordelia departed grumbling, and Angela began to dress herself quickly. By the time the maid had brewed the tea she was ready, a neat figure in a worn tweed costume. A plain felt hat covered her shining head, the brim of which was sufficiently large to partially conceal her face.
She carried the tea into the sitting room, and, setting it down on a small table near the fire, went over to a walnut bureau, and, unlocking a drawer, took out a small automatic. Making certain that there was a fresh clip of cartridges in the butt, she dropped it into her pocket.
“And that’s the greatest madness of all!” said Cordelia watching this proceeding, her small body eloquent of strong disapproval. “Don’t you know that if you was caught with that thing they’d give yer five years? My brother Bert—”
“Let brother Bert rest in Pentonville,” said the Angel, sipping her tea. “Have you phoned the garage?”
“Just goin’ to,” answered Cordelia. “I can’t do ’alf a dozen things at once, can I?” She picked up the telephone and gave a number. “Is that you, George? Miss Kesson wants ’er car. Yes, at once. Make it snappy!”
It was two o’clock when the Angel left the flat, her ears full of further pessimistic warnings from Cordelia Smith, and as she sent the little car speeding through the silent streets in the direction of Hampstead, nobody realised more than she did the danger which lay before her.
But the voice of the dead was calling insistently and it had to be obeyed.
Chapter Three
Murder!
Mr. Montgomery Webb’s house was a pretentious establishment standing in its own grounds, and surrounded by a high brick wall, which was broken only by the gates giving admission to the winding drive.
It stood on the edge of the heath, and had been built at the time when the cheap villa was unknown, and the country had not been divided up into residential estates and thereby denuded of its greatest charm.
A clock was chiming the quarter before the hour when the Angel brought her small car to a halt in a deserted side street, and, getting out, set off to cover the rest of the way to her destination on foot.
It was a dark night, with heavy clouds obscuring moon and stars, and there was a hint of rain in the air, but Angela had explored the neighbourhood on a previous occasion in daylight, and the darkness troubled her not at all. Indeed, she welcomed it as an asset, for there was safety in darkness should anything go wrong.
She came to the drive gates and paused, feeling with a gloved hand for the latch. It rose noiselessly under her fingers, and, pushing open the gate a foot or so, she slipped through, closing it gently behind her.
From where she stood she could see nothing of the house itself, for the gravelled approach curved sharply, and a screen of trees hid it from view.
The dark bulk of the house rose before her as she rounded the bend, and she saw, without surprise, that there were no lights in any of the windows. It was hardly likely there would be at such an hour; the servants had long since retired to bed and she had discovered by judicious questions that it was not Montgomery Webb’s habit to remain up late. He had himself told her that his invariable custom was to go to bed at twelve and he was the type of man who would not let anything interfere with his normal routine.
She came to the porch and stood in the shadow, feeling in her pocket for the key, which she had stolen during Mr. Webb’s short indisposition. There were no bolts or chain to worry about. The lock was a patent one, and Webb relied entirely upon it for the safeguarding of his premises. This she had ascertained during their brief acquaintanceship. There was only one risk and that was that he might have discovered his loss. But she discounted this as almost negligible, concluding, and rightly as it happened, that his butler would hear the car arrive and open the door for his master
Only for a moment did she hesitate at the top of the shallow flight of steps and then, pushing the key into the lock, she twisted it firmly. T
here was a scarcely audible click and under her pressure the big door opened.
A flood of warm air greeted her as she stepped across the threshold into the hall and softly shut the door. It was very dark here and very still. The only sound that broke the silence was the muffled ticking of a clock from somewhere close at hand.
The Angel dropped the key, which she had retained, back into her pocket and drew out an electric torch no bigger than a large fountain pen. Its thin ribbon of light flickered through the darkness moving back and forth as she sought for the position of the stairway. It faced the hall door, a thickly carpeted staircase of black oak that blended with the panelling of the walls and was lost in the shadows above.
Montgomery Webb’s study, and her objective, was on the first floor, a room with a balcony that overlooked the porch. Mr. Webb was fond of boasting about his possessions and it had been ridiculously easy to acquire all the information she wanted.
The door of the room she was seeking was the last on the right and her hand was on the handle when she heard a muffled sound and went rigid. The soft-toned note of a gong reassured her. The noise that had startled her had only been the mechanism of the clock below as it prepared to strike.
She released her suddenly pent breath, and then there came to her ears another sound, this time from within the room she was about to enter. There was no mistaking what it was; that faint rustling could only have been made by somebody sorting papers
Angela stood motionless, every nerve in her body tense. Who was in the room beyond the closed door? Had Montgomery Webb broken his usual rule and sat up late?
Swiftly and noiselessly she stooped until her eyes were on a level with the keyhole, but she could see nothing. Either the room was in darkness or more likely, the key on the inside obstructed the tiny aperture. She knelt on the soft pile of the carpet, but no light came from under the door either, and there was quite an appreciable space. If there had been any normal light in that room it could not have failed to be visible.
Her level brows drew together in a little frown and she pursed her lips. It was queer. If it was Montgomery Webb in that room, he would surely have put on the light. He would scarcely be examining papers in the dark. And if it wasn’t Webb, who was it?
She rose carefully to her feet. Was it an inquisitive or dishonest servant? Or somebody on a similar errand to herself?
She could hear nothing now from the room. Once more there was complete and utter silence. For a moment she considered what she should do. She was reluctant, having come so far, to turn back without having accomplished her object. She came to a decision.
Swiftly she pulled the brim of her hat farther down over her eyes. The fingers of her right hand dipped into her pocket and closed round the hard butt of her tiny automatic as she gently pushed the door open an inch.
In spite of the risk, she felt she must have light. With her left hand she groped frantically for the switch and found it, as she had expected, just inside the doorway. A second later and the room was flooded with light. It was empty. And then, as she saw the chaotic confusion that surrounded her, she drew in her breath quickly.
The large apartment was strewn with papers, papers that had come from the open drawers of the big pedestal desk that stood near the French windows opening on to the balcony. A wall safe was open, and in front of it was a confused litter of account books, documents, and money, banknotes, which had apparently come from a black cashbox, the lid of which had been wrenched ruthlessly open. By a remarkable coincidence she had apparently chosen the same night as another burglar who had marked Mr. Montgomery Webb’s house for his operations. It must have been he whom she had heard. And now she saw that one of the long windows was ajar. That was the way the intruder had made his escape,
The little leather roll against her hip containing the diamond-sharp drill and delicate steel instruments with which she had armed herself would not now be needed. In that confusion on the floor she might find what she was seeking.
She moved forward cautiously with the intention of conducting a swift search. But the intention was never carried out. As she rounded the desk she saw a foot—a slippered foot with six inches of bare ankle protruding from the leg of a gaudy suit of pyjamas. On the floor, hidden from her previous view by the big desk, lay Montgomery Webb. His heavy face was upturned and there was blood on the bald head. She only had to look once to know that he was dead. No man with such a wound could have remained alive. The top of his skull had been crushed like an eggshell.
She stared down at the obese, obscene figure, the blood drained from her face and her eyes wide with horror. And then suddenly, like a douche of cold water, she realised her position. If she were found, nothing could save her being accused of the murder. She had been in Montgomery Webb’s company that evening; she remembered the sight of the man in the opposite box, which had given her a momentary qualm of uneasiness. He would remember. It was his business to remember. Safety lay in getting out of that room and out of that house as quickly as she could.
She forced herself to be calm, and going over to the door switched out the light. The sound of a car coming up the drive reached her ears.
She stood, listening. It came nearer, stopped!
There was a moment’s pause and then a loud, imperative knocking rang through the house.
With swift, noiseless steps the Angel crossed to the window. Peering down, she saw the headlights of the car and the vague figures of several men. She caught the glimpse of a uniform and caught her breath. And then a tall man stepped back from the shadow of the porch and looked up. There was now no doubt. The car contained detectives. She had recognised the man who had looked up. It was the man who had sat in the opposite box—Detective Inspector Holland!
Chapter Four
A Call From The Yard
Coming out of the Mayfair Theatre, Jimmy Holland saw the departure of the Angel and her elderly escort, and remarked upon the fact to Freddie Babbington.
“What a girl like that can see in a bald-headed old baboon with one foot in the grave beats me!” declared that disgusted individual, staring after the expensive car. “It isn’t natural!”
Jimmy grinned as he looked round in search of an empty taxi.
He caught sight of a cab, whistled, and elbowed his way through the crowd in its direction.
“St. Mark’s Mansions, Ryder Street,” he said to the driver, as he pulled open the door.
“Here, what’s the idea?” protested Freddie, in consternation. “You’re not going home yet, surely?”
“I am, my lad,” retorted Jimmy decisively. “I’ve got a hard day’s work before me tomorrow.”
“It is useless,” said Freddie Babbington, apostrophising the world at large, “for a simple and innocent citizen like myself to argue with a man whose finer instincts have become coarsened by constant association with the cunning and unscrupulous machinations of the law. I capitulate!”
He followed Jimmy into the taxi, and the grinning driver let in his clutch. Limpet admitted them when they arrived, and the faintest expression of surprise appeared on his benevolent face.
“I did not anticipate your return at such an early hour, sir, he remarked deferentially, as he took their coats and hats.
“Of course you didn’t, Limpet!” cried Freddie. “And, believe me, it wasn’t my fault. I did my best to persuade Mr. Holland to round off the evening in a manner appropriate to the occasion.”
“I’m sure you did, sir,” said Limpet respectfully.
“But I nobly resisted the temptation,” put in Jimmy. “Your aspirin will not be required. Bring the whiskey and some sandwiches into my study.”
“Very good, sir.” Limpet bowed and moved majestically away as Jimmy took his friend by the arm and led him into the cosy room in which he spent most of his time when he was at home.
“This,” he said, with a sigh of content, when the whiskey had been brought and they were seated comfortably in front of the glowing warmth of the electric radiator—
“this is much better, in my opinion, than a noisy place like the Café de France.”
Freddie Babbington took a prodigious gulp at his drink, and set down his half-empty glass on the small table between them.
“I’m not sure you aren’t right,” he agreed, leaning back in his chair lazily. “Tell me, James, did you mean what you said about that girl in the theatre?”
“I should hardly say a thing like that unless I did mean it,” answered Jimmy gravely.
“It sounds incredible to me!” The other’s round, good-humoured face was unusually serious. “Completely incredible! That a girl with a face like that should be a crook is—unbelievable!”
“Surely you’ve lived long enough to know that looks mean nothing?” said Jimmy. “Especially where women are concerned.”
“Yes, but—” Babbington shook his head. “That girl! What did you say her name was—Angela Kesson? She was lovely, Jimmy. There was nothing hard or calculating about her face. It was almost—almost spiritual!”
“That’s probably her stock-in-trade,” said Jimmy cynically.
“I’d have sworn it wasn’t put on!” declared Freddie. He stretched out an arm and his fingers played with his glass. “What do you know about her?” he continued abruptly. “Not suspect—actually know?”
Jimmy Holland helped himself to a cigar and began to remove the band.
“Well, I actually know very little,” he confessed, after a pause. “I don’t think anybody knows very much about her.”
“You must know something, or you wouldn’t have said she was the cleverest thief in London,” persisted Freddie.
“I didn’t,” said Jimmy, carefully piercing the end of his cigar with a match. “I said I had every reason to believe so.”
The other made an impatient gesture.
“That’s only quibbling!” he said. “It amounts to the same thing.”
“You’re very interested, aren’t you?” remarked his friend, raising his eyebrows quizzically.
“Yes, I am. Jolly interested,” said Babbington. “I’ve never seen any girl who—who made such an impression on me!” His tone was half defiant and half embarrassed.
The Angel Page 2