He was still considering when the stout landlady announced the visitor.
“Good morning!” said the well-dressed man who came into the shabby little bed sitting room. “Your name is Higgins?”
Mr. Higgins was slightly alarmed. The man didn’t look like a ‘busy’ but you never could tell these days, what with police colleges and things.
“Supposin’ it is, then what?” he demanded noncommittally.
The visitor smiled at his evident uneasiness.
“There is no need to be afraid,” he said easily. “I am not connected with the Police. I have merely come to put a proposition to you which I think you will find profitable.”
Mr. Higgins was by no means reassured. All the suspiciousness of his class came uppermost.
“What you talkin’ about?” he muttered. “Who arc you?”
“Who I am doesn’t matter,” answered the other. “If you wish to call me anything you can call me Mr. Smith. That’s as good a name as my own. What I’ve come for is to ask if you are prepared to earn a hundred pounds for a very simple job?”
Mr, Higgins’ small eyes narrowed.
“Tell us wot it is,” he answered cautiously.
The visitor sat down opposite to him.
“All I want you to do,” he said, “is to break into a certain house at one o’clock next Thursday night. You will make your way to the study—which you will find easily because you will be provided with a plan—and you will proceed to thoroughly ransack the place. You will strew papers about and generally give the place the appearance of being burgled, but you will actually take nothing. You will then go. For that I am prepared to give you a hundred pounds—fifty now and fifty when you have completed your job. What do you say?”
Mr. Higgins could say nothing. Amazement held him dumb. He stared at the man before him with his loose mouth hung open.
“Yer don’t want me to take nothin’?” he managed to gasp at last. “Wot’s the idea?”
“That’s my business,” was the curt reply. “I’ve told you what I want done. You can either accept or refuse just as you like.”
Mr. Higgins hesitated, and was lost.
“Awlright, guv’nor,” he said. “It’s a bet.”
“Good!” The man before him nodded and tossed a bundle of notes on to the table. You’ll find fifty there. Now listen carefully while I give you detailed instructions.”
Mr. Higgins picked up the notes with great alacrity, counted them and stowed them away in his pocket.
“I’m listenin’, guv’nor,” he said. and adopted an attitude of strained attention..
The visitor spoke slowly and carefully, making sure that his audience understood every word, and even getting him to repeat certain portions of his instructions.
At that precise moment, the Angel, unconscious of the plot that was being hatched against her, was puzzling over the photograph of Uncle Ebenezer and trying to discover the reason for its tremendous attraction for the unknown. True to his promise, he had rung up on the following day and suggested that she should meet him in Hyde Park near the bandstand at eight o’clock the same evening, bringing the picture with her. Her answer had been a curt refusal, and she had cut off in the middle of his string of threats.
She was still examining the aged souvenir when Cordelia came in with her morning coffee.
“How’s Brother Bert?” inquired the Angel. “Have you been over to see?”
The maid nodded.
“’E don’t ’alf look a sketch,” she answered. “With ’is face all over black oil an’ grease. You wouldn’t reckernise ’im.”
“That was an idea,” said her mistress. “I hope Harker will find him useful.”
“If ’e do it’ll be the first time Bert’s bin useful ter anybody,” remarked Cordelia, with a sniff. “Any’ow, ’e’s makin’ ’im work, an’ that’s somethin’ ’e ain’t ever done before. ’Ee said ’e ’ad an easier time at Pentonville.”
Angela laughed.
“He’s lucky not to be back there,” she said. “But I don’t think anyone will think of looking for him at the garage. I shouldn’t go over too often if I were you.”
“Me! I don’t want ter go at all,” said Cordelia. “That there Ginger is allus tryin’ ter get fresh. I don’t mind that sort o’ thing with somebody me own class, but not anybody like him.”
“Which reminds me,” said the Angel. “Who was that very respectable man I saw you with yesterday? Looked rather like a retired bishop—if bishops ever do retire.”
Cordelia’s small cheeky face reddened.
“Oh, ’im,” she answered, fingering her apron nervously. “Now ’e is class if you like. Such a nice feller, an’ speaks beautiful. I met ’im in the pictures—”
“I thought he was your father,” said the Angel innocently and untruthfully. Cordelia bridled.
“’E’s not so old,” she said defensively, “round about fifty, I should say, when a man’s in ’is prime: I ain’t got no time fer these bits o’ boys what buys you a twopenny bar of choc’late an’ thinks you’re theirs for life.”
“I see you speak from experience,” remarked Angela.
“An’ I’ve ’ad some, too,” said Cordelia. “If I was to tell you—”
“Don’t,” said the Angel hastily. “Leave me still believing in the innocence of my fellow-creatures. What’s the name of this rare paragon or didn’t he tell you his name?”
“Oh, yes, we properly introduced ourselves,” said Cordelia. “Everything was open an’ above board, as you might say, ’Is name’s Limpet, an’ ’is Christian name’s Octavius.”
“How romantic,” said Angela. The name conveyed nothing to her except that she thought it was peculiar, for she was quite unaware that Jimmy Holland even possessed a servant, and could not appreciate the irony of a fate that had made acquainted the sister of an escaped convict and the manservant of an officer of high rank in the very force that was bending all its endeavours to find him. One day she was to bless the providence that had brought those two together, for it was to be the means of saving her life.
Chapter Twelve
The Frame-Up
Following a grey and chilly day, that Thursday evening developed a thin mist that was half drizzle and half fog. The man who had been detailed to keep watch on the Angel turned up the collar of his coat and eyed the half-invisible block of flats in which she lived, gloomily and a little resentfully. He had just taken over from his brother detective and was not looking forward to his long vigil.
Angela Kesson was at home—he had discovered that from his companion before he had departed—and she looked like stopping there. A big black saloon drew noiselessly up, and a man got out and entered the vestibule. The detective moved idly away to the end of the street. and as he reached it the man knocked at the door of the Angel’s flat.
Angela was reading when Cordelia burst excitedly into the sitting room.
“The police is ’ere again.” She whispered dramatically. “ ’E’s in the ’all.”
“Inspector Holland?” said the Angel.
“No, another feller,” said the maid.
“I’ll see what he wants.” The girl went out into the little hall and found a big, thick-set man waiting by the door.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, miss,” he said respectfully. “But I’ve been asked to take you to the Yard.”
“Do you mean arrest me?” asked Angela.
“No, miss. They want to ask you some questions—about Mr. Webb. I’ve got a car waiting miss, and I was told they wouldn’t keep you long.”
The Angel considered: She could scarcely refuse and she would like to see the inside of the grim building, which she had passed so often.
“Will you wait while I put on a coat?” she said, and he nodded. She was back dressed for the street in five minutes, during which she had explained the circumstances to a scared and suspicious Cordelia.
“They’re goin’ ter pinch yer—you mark my words,” prophesied the mai
d darkly.
“Don’t be silly!” said the Angel, and went to meet her escort.
“This way, miss,” he said, as they reached the vestibule, and led her across a strip of shiny pavement to a big car that was waiting. He opened the door and she stepped in. As the door closed she saw a dim figure huddled in the seat, and instinctively a warning of danger came to her. She turned, but hands gripped her roughly and pulled her down. Something pricked her arm sharply, and her senses swam…
*
Mr. Syd Higgins sat in the car drawn up by the kerb in the deserted side street and felt qualms of misgivings in his heart. His companion in the opposite corner had not spoken for some time, and he might have fallen asleep if the glow from his cigar had not testified otherwise. Thy seemed to have been waiting there hours, and Mr. Higgins was feeling fidgety and impatient. The proposition that had seemed so alluring in his little bed sitting room took on a different aspect the more he thought about it.
“Wot’s the time?” he ventured presently. “Ain’t it gettin’ near?
The man in the corner stirred. There was a little flicker of light, and the face of a gold wristwatch appeared vividly in the darkness and disappeared again as the lighter was flicked out.
“Half an hour yet!” came the laconic reply.
Mr. Higgins grunted.
“’Ave we only been ’ere twenty minutes?” he said. “Blimey, it seems hours!”
The other man said nothing, and Mr. Higgins moved uneasily.
He leaned forward suddenly. The lights of a car had appeared at the end of the little street, and as they came nearer they drew into the side and stopped a few yards, away.
“Stay where you are!” warned Daniel Phelps, and, opening the door, got out. He walked towards the other car, and the curious Mr. Higgins, peering through the window, saw him stop and talk to somebody within. After a little while he came back. “You’d better get started, now,” he said, and reluctantly Mr. Higgins ascended on to the wet and shining pavement.
*
Angela Kesson came out of a pit of impenetrable blackness with throbbing temples and a dry mouth. She could feel a queer vibration and sense of motion, and after a second or two’s hazy speculation, remembered. She was in the car, which had come to take her to Scotland Yard. Of course, that had been a trick. The prick in her arm and the sudden faintness had been due to a drug. She kept very still as her brain rapidly cleared. Where was she being taken to, and who was responsible?
Cautiously she opened her eyes a fraction, so that she could see through tie long lashes, but it was very dark; too dark to distinguish anything clearly. Was this another move on the part of the unknown who was after the photograph? There was certainly a man huddled in the other corner—she could just make out his dim outline—but who he was, it was impossible to tell. She came to the conclusion that her wisest course would be to pretend that she was still under the influence of the drug and see what happened. It would give her a small advantage, and any advantage was a lot in the circumstances.
The car was still speeding through the night, and she wondered where was making for—how long it would be before they reached their destination—wherever it was.
She was feeling better with every passing second. Her head still ached little, but her senses were unclouded. There was one thing she possessed which might prove useful in an emergency. She still wore on her finger the ring which she had used with such good effect on Montgomery Webb—and it was recharged. The drug it contained was harmless, and its effects passed swiftly, but it might be sufficient to give her a start.
The car swung round a corner and slowed. She saw ahead two dim lights that were stationary, and then the machine in which she sat came to a halt. Had they come to the end of the journey? Neither the driver or the man in the corner appeared to have any intention of getting out. A figure came into view beside the window, and her companion let it own.
“That you, Leeming?” whispered a man’s voice; and Angela’s heart leapt. So the man in the car was Oscar Leeming! She had not expected that. It threw a different complexion on the reason for her abduction.
“Yes, I’ve got the girl,” replied Mr. Leeming. “Is Higgins with you?”
“Waiting in the car,” was the reply. “He may as well get busy now. I’ll tell him. It’ll take a little while to get into the house.”
The listening girl was puzzled. Who was Higgins? And what house was he supposed to ‘get into’? And then Leeming made a remark that gave her the clue to the situation.
“She’ll be clever if she gets out of this!” he said, with a chuckle.
“The drug ought to be wearing off soon. She should come round just about the time they find her in old Deeping’s study and the place ransacked. Caught in the act, eh?”
“I said at the time it was a clever scheme!” grunted the other and now she recognised his voice. Daniel Phelps! And they were going to ‘frame’ her! That was to be their revenge for the way she had tricked them; the method they had evolved to render her harmless for the future.
Her brain worked rapidly. She only had the haziest idea of what the plan was, but her nimble wits filled in the blanks sufficiently to tell her roughly what was supposed to happen. The man Higgins would break into this house of old Deeping’s, whoever he was, and set the stage for a burglary. Then she would be discovered in the dismantled study and the evidence would be complete. Unfortunately, they had misjudged the strength of the drug they had administered. That was a miscalculation that would bring about a different ending to the one that was expected
She waited, tying limply back, every sense alert. Phelps went away and Leeming closed the window. There was a long interval, and the man beside her began to move restlessly. Had something gone wrong, she wondered. She heard a hurried step, and saw Phelps at the window.
“lt’s all right,” he whispered excitedly, opening the door of the car. “Higgins is back, and the door’s open. Be quick!”
Leeming got out.
“He hasn’t disturbed the household—” he began.
“No, no! The way’s clear for you. Hurry!” broke in Phelps excitedly.
“Help me get the girl out,” muttered Leeming, and leaned into the car.
The Angel felt hands seize her, and let her muscles relax. An idea had come to her which if she could carry it out—
She was lifted out in Mr Leeming’s strong arms.
“Have you got the tools and the mask?” asked Phelps. ,
“In my pocket,” breathed Leeming heavily. “You’re sure there’s no chance of a patrolling policeman spotting me?”
“There’s another half-hour before he’s due,” answered Phelps “You ought to be through by, then. I’ll get along with Higgins.”
He hurried away, and Mr. Leeming carried his apparently unconscious burden up the street and round the corner into a wider road. A few yards away was an open gate, and into this he turned. Through her half-closed lids the Angel caught a glimpse of an imposing house standing in a strip of garden, and then Leeming had mounted a flight of shallow steps and slipped through a partly open door into a dark hall. Here he paused and set the girl down cautiously. It was the moment that the Angel had counted on and waited for. As he allowed his arms to slide away from her she contrived to press her ring against his hand. She heard him give a little exclamation, and smiled in the darkness. In a few seconds the drug would take effect.
He was fumbling in his pockets. The light of a torch wavered about the hall for a moment and went out. The Angel came noiselessly to her feet. Leeming was staggering now like a drunken man, and as she snatched the torch from his hand he collapsed in a crumpled heap. She flashed the light swiftly round, saw a grandfather clock against the wall and going over pulled at it with all her strength. It toppled and fell with a crash that was noisy enough to wake the dead.
The Angel was out of the front door before the echoes of that appalling din had died away, and, pulling it shut behind her, went swiftly down the short path to th
e gate. As she walked quickly up the wide thoroughfare she wondered what explanation Mr. Oscar Leeming would offer for being found in a strange house, with a mask and a set of burglar’s tools in his pocket, and evidence of his nefarious intentions in a ransacked room upstairs. Whatever it was she was quite certain that nobody would believe him!
Chapter Thirteen
Miss Nobody From Nowhere
The magistrate eyed the dishevelled figure in the steel pen sternly.
“Have you anything to say?” he demanded; and Mr. Oscar Leeming, an unshaven and unprepossessing-looking man after his night in the cell, dazedly shook his head. “Then I shall commit you for trial at the next assizes,” said the grey-faced magistrate tonelessly.
Mr. Leeming’s horrified and scandalised lawyer, whom he had hurriedly summoned, rose hastily to his feet.
“On the question of bail, your worship—” he began; but the magistrate shook his head.
“There can be no question of bail,” he declared emphatically. “The police are under the impression that the prisoner is an exceedingly dangerous criminal, and strongly oppose such a thing. I must say I entirely agree with them.”
“My client has a complete answer to the charge brought against him your worship,” persisted the lawyer. “His presence in Lord Deeping’s house was accidental and entirely innocent, in spite of—”
“He will be able to offer a defence at his trial,” interrupted the magistrate. “From the evidence brought by the police, which I have heard, I cannot agree with you that the prisoner’s presence in Lord Deeping’s house in the middle of the night was either accidental or innocent. There is a black silk mask found in his pocket, together with a complete set of burglarous implements of the latest pattern. Lord Deeping’s study presented the appearance of having been thoroughly searched. And the fact that nothing was stolen does not mitigate the offence.”
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