The Angel

by Verner, Gerald

  Cordelia was setting out the tea things on the low table before the fire in the sitting room when her mistress returned.

  When she had finished her tea she went into her bedroom and brought back the Victorian photograph, which the murderer of Montgomery Webb had dropped in his flight. Why had he bothered to take it at all? It had puzzled her at the time, and it puzzled her now.

  Was it this innocent-looking photograph, which the unknown killer had been seeking? It seemed so, since he had taken it with him. Probably he had thrust it under his coat, and it had dropped without knowing it.

  She studied it with wrinkled forehead. Who was ‘Uncle Ebenezer’, and what secret did that faded print hold? A serious one, and a sinister one, or the person who had killed Webb would not have gone to so much trouble and risk to gain possession of it. And his risk had been for nothing. In his panic he had gone without the thing he had come for.

  She could make nothing of the photograph, however, except that Uncle Ebenezer must be either dead, or a very old man, if the portrait were he, and after a while she locked it away in a drawer of her little desk.

  It continued to occupy her thoughts on and off for the rest of the evening, and she was still wondering when soon after dinner she went to bed.

  Her lack of rest on the previous night had left her very tired, and she fell asleep almost at once.

  What woke her she never knew, but suddenly she found herself sitting up in bed with all her senses alert. A long, unmusical snore came faintly to her ears, and she smiled in the darkness.

  She was slipping down again comfortably when she heard another sound. It came from the adjoining sitting room—a thud, as though someone had knocked over a chair!

  The Angel slid gently out of bed, felt for her dressing gown, and pulled it on over her thin nightdress. She found her slippers, and then noiselessly opened the drawer in her little bedside table and took out her tiny automatic. It was loaded, as she knew, and in spite of its size, capable of doing serious damage at close range. Moving over to the door, she opened it and was stepping out into the hall when there came a muttered oath and a terrific crash from the sitting room. It was followed by the sound of a furious struggle. Something hit the door with a bang, and there was a cry of pain, and then the door was flung open and a man burst through.

  He staggered into the hall, recovered his balance, wrenched open the front door, and went racing down the stairs.

  Angela, paralysed with astonishment, had snapped on the light and was just going after him, when another man appeared from the sitting room—a small, wizened man, in curious-looking clothes.

  “If you move I’ll shoot!” said the Angel grimly. “What are you doing in my flat?”

  She heard a gasp behind her, and out of the corner of her eye saw Cordelia, a sketchy figure in a flannel nightdress.

  “Gaw!” said the maid huskily. “It’s me brother Bert!”

  Chapter Nine

  Danger!

  The Angel looked from the startled maid to the rather scared, shifty-eyed individual by the sitting room door, and laughed softly.

  “So this is brother Bert, is it?” she remarked. “I’ve heard a lot about you, but I never expected to meet you in the flesh—and in the middle of the night.”

  It appeared that he had succeeded in escaping from Pentonville that evening by climbing the wall. Owing to his previous good conduct he had been made an orderly, and getting out of the prison had been fairly easy. He had broken into a lock-up shop, which sold second-hand clothing and exchanged his convict’s garb for the ill-fitting suit be was now wearing. He had hoped to find money as well, but he was disappointed. He had lain low in the garden of an empty house, which had been searched by the police who were looking for him, and he had only escaped this vigilance by climbing a tree and remaining there until the search was over. He knew where to find his sister and had made up his mind to seek her out and obtain the money he required. When he judged that it was safe he had made his way westwards, reaching Wyvern Court at a little after one.

  If was too risky to come to the front entrance, but he had found the fire-escape, which communicated with the stone balcony at each story. He had climbed the wall into the courtyard at the back and ascended the iron stairway as far as the balcony belonging to the flat in which he knew he would find his sister. It had seemed to him a piece of good luck when he had found the windows opening on to this balcony ajar. His first impression was that they had been left open by accident. He had slipped cautiously into the room beyond, his intention being to find his sister’s room and waken her without disturbing her employer. He was inside before he realised that there was someone else in the room. A man was bending over a desk in the comer, searching it by the tiny glimmer of a torch over which something had been stuck to make it very dim. The man had heard him, and before he knew what was happening had jumped at him.

  “The perisher ’it me,” concluded Mr. Smith, rather breathless from his long recital, “but ’e missed me jaw and only caught me on the shoulder. Then ’e ’ooked it like ’ell. An’ that’s the truth, if I never moves from this spot!”

  The Angel’s smooth forehead wrinkled thoughtfully.

  She went over to the sitting-room door, pushed it open, and switched on the light. A small chair lay overturned near the open windows, and the bureau in the corner was littered with bills and other documents, which she kept there, but otherwise the apartment presented its usual appearance. The arrival of ‘brother Bert’ must have disturbed the mysterious visitor before he had had time to get very far in his search. And what had he been searching for? Certainly he had been no ordinary burglar. And then it came to her. The man had been looking for the photograph of ‘Uncle Ebenezer’!

  “This brother of yours is going to be a bit of a problem, Cordelia,” remarked Angela thoughtfully.

  “Bert always was a perishin’ nuisance!” retorted Cordelia candidly. “Wot the fool wanted to come ’ere for, nobody knows.”

  “It was the natural place for him to come,” answered the Angel, “and that’s the trouble. The police know you’re his sister, and this is the first place they’ll look for him.”

  “An’ serve ’im right if they finds ’im,” said the maid viciously. “Did yer ever ’ear of such a fool trick, breakin’ out o’ jug when e’d only got a month or two more to go?”

  “It was rather stupid,” said Angela. “But all the same, we can’t give him up, and I’ve an idea he might be useful.”

  “Now, don’t you go getting’ yourself into no more trouble,” advised Cordelia earnestly. “You’ve got—”

  She broke off with a startled gasp as a loud and peremptory knocking suddenly echoed through the flat.

  “My Gaw’!” she whispered. “It’s the perlice—”

  The Angel rose swiftly and silently to her feet.

  “Put the light out in the hall,” she ordered below her breath, “and take these tea things into the kitchen. Tell your brother to get into the linen cupboard and keep quiet, and then go to bed and stop there. Quickly, now, and don’t make a sound!”

  Cordelia picked up the tray and disappeared silently as Angela’s hand slid along the wall and pushed up the light switch, plunging the room in darkness.

  The knocking came again, louder and more insistent.

  The Angel dropped her hand into the pocket of her dressing gown, drew out the little automatic which she had put there after Cordelia had identified ‘Brother Bert’, and feeling her way to the settee, stuffed it among the cushions. It would be better to get rid of that. The material of her wrap was silk and the bulge of it would show.

  Quietly she stepped out into the darkened hall and waited. For the third time the knocker was plied, and after a slight delay she walked towards the front door noisily, switching on the light, and drew back the catch.

  “Who is it?” she began in the husky voice of one awakened from a sound sleep. “What—”

  Her arm was gripped and something hard was pressed into h
er side.

  “Keep quiet,” whispered a muffled voice menacingly. “If you make a sound, I’ll kill you.”

  She saw the figure that loomed out of the gloom of the landing, and for a second her heart stood still. He stepped into the hall, pushing her before him, and softly closed the door.

  “Now,” he whispered, his voice muffled behind the mask. “Give me the photograph.”

  She had recovered from the shock of his unexpected appearance, and her brain was cool and clear.

  “Who are you?” she began. “I—”

  “Never mind who I am,” he interrupted. “Give me the photograph.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, staring at him with just the right expression of mingled surprise and fear. “What photograph?”

  “You know very well,” he answered roughly. “The photograph I dropped on the balcony of Webb’s house and which you picked up.”

  “Oh!” She smiled faintly and shook her head; “I’m afraid you’re wasting your time, I haven’t got it.”

  “Don’t lie,” he snarled.

  “I’m not lying,” she answered calmly. “I haven’t got it.”

  “Then what have you done with it?” he demanded quickly. “You had it—I saw you pick it up—”

  “Because I had it then is no reason why I should have it now,” she retorted. “Really, you seem to be taking an immense amount of trouble to recover your uncle’s photograph—I presume it is your uncle?”

  “That’s my business!” snapped the other. “I want that photograph, and I mean to have it—even if I have to treat you the same way as I treated Webb.”

  The Angel faced him steadily.

  “Then I’m afraid,” she said evenly, “you will have to go and talk to my bank manager.”

  He started, and the eyes above the handkerchief that covered his face hardened.

  “What do you mean?” he muttered.

  “Surely it was plain enough,” she replied. “That photograph seemed to me such a valuable antique that I decided it ought to be kept in a place of safety—somewhere where burglars and such unpleasant people would find difficulty in stealing it—so I deposited it at my bank.”

  His hand shot out and gripped her arm.

  “What do you know?” he asked harshly. “How did you discover that that photograph was valuable?”

  His fingers hurt her but she did not flinch.

  “To anyone with an artistic eye,” she answered, “its value is obvious. The grouping, the graceful pose of Uncle Ebenezer, the life-like rendering of the aspidistra and the detail of the whiskers. A collector would pay fabulous sums for such a masterpiece.”

  He ground out an oath between his teeth and the pistol in his hand moved menacingly.

  “Stop trying to be funny,” he said. “I’m not playing a game. I’m serious. Perhaps you don’t realise that? I could kill you now and nobody would hear the shot. There’s a silencer fixed to this pistol—”

  “That wouldn’t help you to recover Uncle Ebenezer,” interrupted the Angel. “Perhaps you don’t realise that you are in a more dangerous position than I am?” The remark and her calm attitude disconcerted him.

  “This is your second visit here tonight, isn’t it?” she went on before he could speak. “Your first was even less conventional. You came by way of the fire escape and the windows of my sitting room. Unfortunately for you, you were interrupted by another burglar, and still more unfortunately—again for you—I was awakened by the noise and just before you paid your rather melodramatic return visit I telephoned for the police. I’m expecting them to arrive at any moment.”

  He muttered a smothered exclamation.

  “So you see,” she concluded coolly, “you’re in rather a dangerous position, aren’t you?”

  “Is this true?” his voice was uneasy, and she knew that he was scared. She shrugged her shoulders.

  “If you don’t believe me, wait and see,” she invited. “They’ll probably be very pleased to find you here. They’re rather keen on catching the murderer of Montgomery Webb.” She heard him draw in his breath sharply.

  “You win for the present,” he said thickly. “But we shall meet again—and soon.”

  “Please make it a more convenient time,” murmured the Angel. “Which way will you go? By the front door or the fire escape?”

  “I’ll go by the fire escape,” he snarled furiously. “I suppose you think you’re clever?”

  “I was always considered so at school,” she answered sweetly, and opened the sitting room door. “You know the way, don’t you?”

  He made no reply, but, switching on the light, he backed across the room, keeping her covered until he reached the long windows. Undoing the clasp with his free hand, he paused on the threshold.

  “You’ve beaten me this time,” he said. “Whether you’ve been lying or not I don’t know and I can’t risk waiting to find out. But if you want to avoid further trouble—and bad trouble—you’d better get hold of that photograph. I shall telephone tomorrow and arrange a place and time where you can bring it to me. You understand?”

  “I hear what you say,” she answered.

  “If you don’t,”—his voice was husky with rage—“if you don’t, you’ll be sorry! I’ve warned you!”

  He turned abruptly and was gone.

  Chapter Ten

  The ‘Black Ring’

  The murder of Mr. Montgomery Webb came at a time when the newspapers were particularly lacking in sensation. The Press, therefore, hailed its advent with delight, and devoted more prominence and space to it than might otherwise have been the case. Many people who read of the crime shook in their shoes, although their fear was tempered with relief when they learned that the man who had held them in his clutches and squeezed them dry was dead.

  To them came a quiet man from Scotland Yard, who courteously but firmly questioned them concerning their various movements on the night when the murder had been committed.

  The reports came in to Jimmy Holland, and he read them with disappointment, for there was nothing tangible to advance the inquiry very far.

  “I’m inclined to think, sir,” he said at an interview with the Assistant Commissioner, “that we’re going to have difficulty in finding the person who killed Webb. So many people had a motive. It’s my opinion that Webb was only a cog in the wheel.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Colonel Blair, raising his eyebrows. “You’re not suggesting that there’s a gang at work, are you?”

  “Something of the sort, sir,” answered the other. “I believe there’s a kind of ‘Black Ring’ operating, composed of people like Webb, and working on a big scale,”

  *

  In a private room which he had engaged at the Holborn Restaurant, Mr. Oscar Leeming presided over a luncheon to which he had invited several of his business associates for the so1e purpose of deciding what was to be done about the slim girl who called herself Angela Kessen.

  “We’ve all suffered badly,” said Mr. Leeming, when coffee had been removed and the waiters had taken their departure, “taken in like children because of a pretty face, an’ we’ve got to do something. That girl’s dangerous!”

  “What do you think her game is?” asked Julian Hathaway, his thin, bony fingers stripping the band from a cigar.

  “That’s what worries me,” said Mr. Leeming. “It wasn’t just plain money she was after—I wouldn’t worry if that was all—but all my private papers have been carefully examined.”

  “So were mine,” put in Abel Scarthright, in his thin voice. “Luckily, there was nothing that the whole world wouldn’t have seen. It never crossed my mind that the girl had anything to do with the burglary, not until we began comparing notes.”

  “Exactly.” Mr. Leeming leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table and punctuating his remarks with the stub of his cigar. “I said just now I didn’t know who she was or what she was after. That’s true, I don’t, but I’ve got a shrewd suspicion she’s connected
with somebody who has—er—what shall I say—suffered through one of our little—er—business deals.”

  His listeners became intent.

  “Well,” said Mr. Leeming, “I think—and I’m sure you’ll agree with me —that this girl is a potential danger and, therefore, should be—removed!”

  “You’re not suggesting—” began Hathaway uneasily.

  “I’m suggesting nothing—er—messy,” interrupted his host. “I’m suggesting she should be rendered harmless in a strictly legal and proper manner—by the police.”

  The four men at the table stared at him.

  “How?” muttered Scarthright.

  “By—to use an American expression—a ‘frame-up’,” said Mr. Leeming smoothly. “The police are already suspicious of her—if they could secure irrefutable evi-dence—” He paused and surveyed his companions with an expansive smile.

  “By the Lord Harry, that’s a good idea!” exclaimed Phelps. “But how is it going to be done?”

  “I’ll tell you,” said Mr. Leeming complacently, and proceeded to do so with a great wealth of detail.

  Chapter Eleven

  Syd The Piper

  Mr. Sydney Higgins searched the pockets of his threadbare suit and gazed gloomily at the meagre result in the palm of his none-too-clean hand. Two pennies, a French halfpenny, a battered sixpence, and a shilling represented his entire capital. It was not an inspiring sum, and his low forehead wrinkled in a frown of disgust.

  Something would have to be done, and ‘something’, in Mr. Higgins’s limited vocabulary, meant another ‘job’. The last had been none too profitable. The necklace, which he had with much trouble and labour succeeded in removing from Lady Clinmore’s bedroom had been worth all of £2,000, but old Baumstein had beaten him down to £50. He was a notoriously mean old devil, even for a ‘fence’, but he had the reputation of being safe, which was a consideration.

  Mr. Higgins lowered his skinny form into the chair by the rickety table and despondently turned his attention to the unappetising breakfast, which his shrewish landlady had brought him. He was a skilful larcenist, and was known to the police and his fellow artists as Syd the Piper, from his habit of entering houses by climbing the waste pipes to an upper window.