The Angel

by Verner, Gerald

  “Take my advice, then,” said Jimmy quietly, “and forget it, Freddie.” He stuck the cigar between his teeth and lit it. “The less interested you are in the Angel, the better for you.”

  “Tell me what you know about her,” said Babbington again, and Jimmy hesitated.

  This big, red-faced man who sprawled opposite him was rather childish in some ways. Unless he was disillusioned at the outset, this sudden infatuation for Angela Kesson might easily lead to a great deal of trouble. And Jimmy was sufficiently fond of him to try to avert any such unpleasant contingency.

  “You’ll have to promise to treat anything I tell you as strictly confidential,” he said, after a pause.

  “Of course—naturally.” Freddie nodded. “Don’t worry about that. Go ahead.”

  “Well, then,” continued his friend, “the reason I advise you to forget all about Angela Kesson is because people who have been friendly with that charming little lady have all been curiously unlucky.”

  “How d’you mean?” demanded Freddie quickly.

  “I’ll tell you if you’ll only keep quiet,” said Jimmy. “We first became interested in Angela Kesson just over eight months ago. We’re naturally interested in anyone who is the least bit mysterious, and mystery and the Angel are as inseparable as Swann & Edgar.” He blew out a cloud of smoke and went on: “Much as you may think to the contrary, Scotland Yard doesn’t like mysteries, and you must admit that there is something mysterious about a girl who chooses her male acquaintances from among men with, to put it mildly, undesirable reputations, and when, in every instance, shortly after they have become friendly with her, their houses have been burgled.”

  “Burgled!” exclaimed Babbington, and Jimmy nodded.

  “Yes,” he answered. “And this isn’t suspicion, it’s fact! Abel Scarthright’s house at Kingston was broken into and two thousand pounds in notes stolen, seven months ago, and he had made the acquaintance of Angela Kesson a week previously. Julian Hathaway lost a lot of jewellery and fifteen hundred pounds from his flat in Montague Street a month later, and he was seen in the company of the Angel a fortnight before the robbery took place. The same thing happened with Oscar Leeming, and also with Daniel Phelps and old Jonathan Bellman. They all became friendly with the Angel, and they were all robbed of varying amounts.”

  “But you’ve no proof she was responsible!” said Babbington. “Dash it all, there’s such a thing as coincidence!”

  “If you believe the same thing could happen five times you’re a goop!” said Jimmy candidly.

  “But I mean to say!” protested Freddie obstinately. “You’ve absolutely no proof that this girl had anything to do with the robberies!”

  “I admitted that at the beginning,” said his friend. “But by all the laws of probability, it’s queer. And there’s another thing that’s also queer. She lives in an expensive flat in Wyvern Court, near Baker Street. She buys the best of everything. She has her clothes made in Paris. Where does the money come from?”

  “She may have a private income?" suggested Freddie.

  “She hasn’t,” answered Jimmy shortly. “We have ways and means of finding out these things, and when she first came under our notice we made inquiries. No, I’m afraid, old man, you’ve got to believe me when I tell you that Angela Kesson is best left severely alone.”

  “Most of what you have said against her could be explained away,” said Babbington.

  “You’re an obstinate old ass, aren’t you?” grunted Jimmy. “Explain why she mixes with these men, who are all on our suspected list. Explain why she consorts with known criminals, who have all been ‘inside’ for some offence or other. Explain why even her maid has a brother who is at present serving a sentence for burglary. Explain all that and reconcile it with innocence and I’ll reconsider my remarks.”

  Freddie’s reply was characteristic.

  “Why do you call her the Angel?” he asked.

  “My sergeant gave her that name for reasons which are obvious,” answered Jimmy, “and the name’s got around.”

  Babbington helped himself to more whiskey.

  “And you seriously think,” he remarked, as he splashed soda into the glass, “that this girl is responsible for all these burglaries?”

  “Yes, indirectly,” affirmed his friend. “I don’t suggest she does them herself, but I believe she’s in with a gang who use her as a decoy.”

  Freddie opened his mouth to continue the argument, but before he had time to speak the telephone bell rang.

  “Excuse me,” muttered Jimmy, and went over to the instrument. For ten minutes he held a rather staccato conversation with the late caller, and then he hung up the receiver and turned.

  “That’s a coincidence, if you like,” he said. “You know that man whom the Angel was with tonight?”

  Freddie nodded.

  “You remember me telling you he was suspected of being a crook?” went on Jimmy. “Well, the suspicion was apparently well founded. He’s a blackmailer, and somebody’s squealed. We’re raiding his house tonight. We’ve been told we shall find all the proof we want there. I’ll have to turn you out now, old man. I’ve got to go along to the Yard.”

  Chapter Five

  The Photograph

  Instinctively the Angel drew back from the window, although the man below could not possibly have seen her.

  Detective-Inspector Holland, of Scotland Yard, and the cleverest man in the C.I.D. What had brought him to this house in the small hours of the morning? He couldn’t be already aware of what lay in the study. There must be some other reason. But there was no time to waste conjecturing. She must get away before his knocking roused the servants.

  She stepped away from the window and turned back into the room in which Montgomery Webb lay dead. The front way was useless as a means of escape—she would be seen immediately—but another window with a balcony at one side offered a possibility.

  She tiptoed across the darkened room, picking her way over the debris of papers that littered the floor, carefully. The long windows were unfastened, and with a gloved hand she pushed the right leaf open, stepping on to the stone balcony.

  As she did so, she trod on something that lay just outside the window. Looking quickly down to see what it was, she made out a dim, square object, and stooping, picked it up. With difficulty she saw it was a mounted photograph. It seemed, from its appearance, to be of the Victorian era and there was some sprawling writing across one corner. Had the killer dropped it?

  The sound of whispering from below attracted her attention, and, mechanically thrusting the photograph into her blouse, she peered over the balustrade. There were men moving in the garden underneath! Escape that way was cut off.

  The house was obviously surrounded, and any attempt to leave it by either back or front was impossible without being seen. But leave it she must—and quickly.

  The booming sound of renewed knocking reached her. At any moment the servants would wake up, and the police would be admitted. They would discover that sprawling thing, stiffening in the study and all the explaining in the world wouldn’t make them believe that she had not been responsible. In spite of her steady nerve, she gave a little shiver.

  She slipped back into the room, took out her tiny torch and being careful to shield the light from the window, sent the ray dancing about the room. Her memory had not been at fault. There was a door opposite the fireplace. She went over quickly and turned the handle. The door opened and she found, as she had hoped and expected, that she was in Montgomery Webb’s bedroom. She closed the communicating door behind her and turned the key. Crossing to another door, which obviously opened into the corridor she made sure that that was locked also, and began to put the plan that had occurred to her into execution.

  By the light of her torch she found the wardrobe and hastily removed a lounge suit and a mackintosh, which she flung on the bed. On a rack were several hats and she selected a grey trilby and threw it beside the other things. Swiftly, working in the
dark, she took off her jacket and skirt, pulled on a pair of trousers and struggled into a coat and waistcoat. Fortunately Montgomery Webb had been stout, and there was ample room in the top of the trousers to thrust her costume. Tucking up her hair under the soft felt hat, she put on the mackintosh, switched on her torch and took a quick peep at herself in the long mirror. She saw a passable representation of a fattish man—passable enough, anyway, in the half dark. Her own scarf she tied round mouth and nose, and gripping her small automatic, unlocked the corridor door and slipped out.

  From somewhere she heard the sound of excited voices and guessed that at last the servants had been roused from their slumbers. The hall, however was still in darkness, and for this she breathed a sigh of thankfulness as she sped quickly down the broad staircase. Heavy footsteps came to her from somewhere above as she hurriedly concealed herself behind a large coat stand and waited. A light suddenly came on, shedding a soft radiance over the hall, and a large, plump man with dishevelled hair, his ample form enveloped in a dressing gown, appeared on the stairs. He descended slowly, crossed the hall, and opened the front door.

  “What is it?” he demanded in a thick voice that was still husky with sleep. “What the dickens do you mean making all this row in the middle of the night?”

  “I’m Detective-Inspector Holland, of Scotland Yard.” The Angel saw the speaker as he stepped into the light. “Is Mr. Montgomery Webb in?”

  “Of course he’s in—in bed,” answered the man in the dressing gown. “Where else do you expect him to be at this hour?”

  He was still angry and evidently by no means awed by the identity of the disturber of his sleep.

  “Fetch him!” was the curt answer.

  “What for—?” began the plump man truculently.

  “I have a warrant to search this house for incriminating evidence,” came the reply. “Please wake Mr. Webb at once!”

  The watching girl saw the plump man’s jaw drop, and his rather large eyes bulge in shocked amazement.

  “Search—search—this house!” he stammered. “Strewth!”

  He turned abruptly and ambled away.

  A hoarse cry came from upstairs, and the Angel stiffened. There was the thudding of feet, and the plump man came flying down the stairs, his face a pasty white, his dressing gown streaming out behind him and revealing a gaudy suit of pyjamas.

  “My God! My God!” he croaked hoarsely.

  “Here, what’s the matter?” The young inspector turned sharply.

  “The master—Mr. Webb!” cried the plump man huskily. “He’s dead—in his study! His head’s all over blood—!”

  “Steady, man!” The detective gripped his arm. What’s all this? Mr. Webb dead?”

  The servant nodded.

  “On the floor by his desk,” he muttered. “And his head—awful—”

  “Take me to him at once!” ordered the detective. “You’d better come,”

  The man to whom he had been speaking appeared in the open doorway—a small, red-faced man with a smear of reddish-gold moustache.

  The Angel held her breath. This was the moment she had been waiting for—hoping for. The three mounted the stairs; leaving the hall empty. She came cautiously from her hiding place, and after a second’s hesitation walked boldly out of the open front door.

  The police car was drawn up near the steps, but there was no one in sight. The other men she had seen were most probably found at the back. She set off down the drive, and was passing the stationary car when a voice hailed her.

  “Here, you! Who are you, and where are you goin’?”

  A man’s head was thrust out from the driving seat.

  “Nobody can’t leave this house without permission—inspector’s orders!”

  The Angel waited to hear no more. She took to her heels and sped down the dark drive as fast as she could run. A shout followed her, and a whistle shrilled. She flew out of the gate and turned towards the place where she had left her car, praying that no suspicious policeman would be waiting near. To her relief, there was nobody. Breathlessly she climbed into the driving seat and started the engine.

  The car moved forward, and as she set its long radiator in the direction of London she let her strained nerves relax. She had just passed through one of the worst hours of her life.

  Cordelia Smith, heavy-eyed and yawning, was waiting up for her

  “So you ’ave got back! That’s a bit o’ luck!” she remarked, as Angela closed the door of the flat; and then her small eyes opened very wide. “Blimey!” she expostulated. “What ’ave yer been doin’ to yerself? Where’d you get them togs?”

  She went into her bedroom and divested herself of her uncomfortable attire. It had served its purpose, and Cordelia could burn the whole outfit in the furnace of the central heating plant that supplied warmth to the block of flats, first thing in the morning. Taking off her blouse, she found the photograph she had picked up on the balcony. It was old-fashioned, as she had thought. An elderly man with side-whiskers was lounging gracefully on the back of a gilt chair. Behind him hung a heavy velvet curtain, draped artistically to reveal a large aspidistra on a marble pedestal. Across the corner in ink that had gone brown with age was an inscription:

  “With love from Uncle Ebenezer.”

  Angela made a grimace at the photograph and dropped it into a drawer of her dressing table, unaware that its possession was to bring into her life a danger that surpassed any she had known and very nearly cause her to share the same fate as that which had overtaken Mr. Montgomery Webb.

  Chapter Six

  The Handkerchief

  Jimmy Holland stood staring down at the ugly figure with its battered head, and his face was stern.

  Whatever Montgomery Webb had been—and Jimmy had heard things that night which suggested he had been pretty bad—this was a dreadful end to come to. That it was murder there was no doubt at all. The state of the room and the gravity of the wound testified to that. It was also fairly easy to guess what had happened. Somebody had broken in, and Webb, sleeping in the adjoining bedroom, had been disturbed, had come to investigate, and had been killed before he could raise an alarm.

  “You’d better get on to the Divisional Police,” said Jimmy to the red-haired sergeant, who was standing at his elbow. “Ask them to bring the police doctor with them. There’s a telephone on the desk.”

  Sergeant Scorby nodded, and went over to the instrument.

  “Police station—and look sharp!” he barked into the mouthpiece. He invariably barked, under the illusion that staccatoism was a sign of efficiency. Just as he had got his connection, a whistle shrilled sharply from outside, and Jimmy turned quickly.

  “Stay where you are!” he snapped to the shivering man in the dressing gown, who was hovering in the open doorway, his fat face a dirty grey and his bulging eyes fearful. “Don’t go into the room until I come back.”

  He pushed past the bulky form, almost cannoned into three partly dressed women, who were huddled together in the corridor, and dashed down the stairs. One of his men met him as he came out of the door.

  “Who blew that whistle?” asked Jimmy sharply.

  “Simmonds, sir,” answered the detective. “I was round at the back with Johnson. What happened—?”

  “Murder!” snapped his superior, and went over to the police car. A glance showed him that it was empty. He stared about, but could see no sign of Detective-Constable Simmonds.

  “What the devil did he blow his whistle for?” be muttered.

  The man with him took the remark for a question addressed to himself

  “I don’t know, sir—” he began, and stopped, for Jimmy was no longer at his side. He had seen a movement near the entrance to the drive and had gone to investigate. He discovered a breathless Simmonds returning.

  “I lost him!” gasped the man disappointedly.

  “Lost him? Lost who?” demanded Jimmy ungrammatically.

  With difficulty, for his sprint had partially winded him, Simmonds
explained.

  “He was a fattish fellow, with his face covered by a coloured scarf,” he concluded. “And lor’—how he could run!”

  “He was also a murderer!” said Jimmy, and the man gaped at him. “Montgomery Webb’s dead, and his study is like a junk-shop. Ten to one that fellow you saw is responsible.”

  He turned away and went back to the death room.

  “The Divisional Inspector is coming right away, sir,” greeted Sergeant Scorby smartly. “Ambulance and doctor with him. What was the racket?”

  Jimmy told him.

  “Murderer was here when we arrived, eh?” grunted the sergeant. “Pity Simmonds missed him, sir.”

  “A great pity,” agreed Jimmy. “While we are waiting for the local men, we might have a look through this mess.”

  They set to work on the chaos, and they had not got very far before Jimmy came to the conclusion that the person who had killed Mr. Webb had done that unpleasant gentleman a good turn. There was enough evidence among that litter to have sent him down for fifteen years. It was obvious that blackmail had been his speciality, though he had apparently dabbled in a little fencing as a profitable sideline. His business in the City appeared to have been used merely as a cloak to cover his real activities—a fact which the police had long suspected. And here was proof, irrefutable roof. Without doubt his death had saved Mr. Montgomery a great deal of trouble and discomfort.

  “Look after all those documents carefully,” said Jimmy, as he made a neat parcel of certain papers relating to the unfortunate people whom the dead man had been squeezing. “We shall have to interview all these people. It’s my opinion that one of them killed him.”

  The divisional-inspector and the doctor arrived at that moment, and Jimmy explained the circumstances of the crime.

  “I’ve always thought there was something fishy about Webb,” remarked Inspector Sharpe, rubbing his long, thin nose. “Blackmailer, was he? Humph! Well, I’m not surprised.”