The lawyer bowed and Mr. Leeming was taken back to his cell. Angela Kesson, seated in the well of the little police court, rose as the next case was called and made her way to the exit. She had come to see the result of the recoil of Mr. Leeming’s cleverness against himself, and was satisfied.
The proceedings had been briefer than she had expected. Evidence of arrest had been given; a statement by the Hon. Freddie Babbington, Lord Deeping’s son, concerning how he had been awakened by a loud noise, had gone to investigate, and found the prisoner in a dazed state by the side of an overturned clock in the hall, and telephoned for the police, was listened to, and that was practically all.
The Hon. Freddie had seen her, to his great surprise, and spent the rest of the time after he left the witness box debating what she was doing there, and how he could, with circumspection, make her acquaintance. When he saw her leaving he hurriedly made for the same exit, racking his brains for an excuse to speak. One of those accidents, which do occasionally occur at the psychological moment, gave him one.
The seats in that particular police court were set up on a raised dais. It was only a slight step—little more than four inches—but the Angel, in her hurry, failed to notice it. One of her high heels caught in the step, and she stumbled. There was nothing to save her, and she would have fallen heavily if Freddie had not jumped forward and caught her.
“Oh!” she exclaimed breathlessly, as she hung in his arms. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t notice the step! Thank you!”
“Luckily, I was near enough to catch you, Miss Kesson,” said Freddie Babbington; and she looked at him in surprise as she disengaged herself.
“You know me?” she asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” he replied—“at least, I didn’t, but I hope I do now—”
“Silence!” The voice of the usher interrupted him peremptorily.
“Come outside,” he whispered hurriedly. “We seem to be annoying them.” He took her arm and led her out into the passage beyond the door. “Now,” he went on, “we can talk without danger of being arrested for contempt of court.”
“What have we got to talk about?” asked the Angel.
“Oh, anything,” replied Freddie vaguely. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you ever since I saw you at the theatre with that old monstrosity. I was in the opposite box—”
“With Inspector Holland,” she broke in. “I remember. So that’s how you knew my name. Is Mr. Holland a friend of yours?”
“Went to school together,” said Freddie, his large face beaming at the unexpected stroke of luck that had come his way.
“Did he tell you anything else about me besides my name?” said the Angel; and he was instantly embarrassed.
“Well—er—he did say one or two things,” he stammered. “But, of course, there’s some mistake—”
He shifted uneasily, looked at her, looked at the little groups of people who were waiting about until their cases were called, and back again.
“Jimmy’s an obstinate old devil,” he said at last. “Good fellow—one of the best—but obstinate—always was. He’s got a bee in his bonnet—”
“You do your friend an injustice,” said the Angel coolly. “Obstinate he may be, but so far as I am concerned he has no bee in his bonnet. I advise you to heed his warning, Mr. Babbington. Goodbye!”
She was gone before the bewildered Freddie could gather his scattered wits and put the invitation that had been at the back of his mind.
She reached home to find an indignant and slightly apprehensive Cordelia hovering about the tiny hall.
“They’re ’ere again,” whispered the maid hoarsely.
“Who?” demanded the Angel ungrammatically, loosening her fur.
“The perlice,” answered Cordelia, jerking her head towards the closed door of the sitting room.
“What, all of them?” said the Angel, her lips twitching.
“No that feller wot came the other day—’Olland,” replied Cordelia. “I told ’im you was out, but ’e would wait—”
“It’s my popularity,” remarked Angela, and, twisting the handle walked into the room.
Jimmy Holland, who was standing by the window, looking out, turned as she came in.
“I hope I’m not being a nuisance,” he began apologetically. “But I wanted to see you rather particularly. You’ve been playing the fool for a long time. Unless you’re sensible, you’ll go on playing it once too often and find yourself in the hands of the police. I want to prevent that if I can.”
“You have strange ideas for a detective,” she remarked, with a smile.
“Possibly I have,” he replied. “Until I had that interview with you the other day, I had even stranger ideas. I was under the impression that you were just a clever adventuress, out to get all you could, legally or otherwise. I don’t mind admitting that 1 agreed with the general view at the Yard that you were one of the cleverest women thieves we’d ever come up against!”
“I’d no idea I was so notorious,” she said calmly. “What made you change your mind?”
“You did!” said Jimmy Holland. “I’ve met a good many female crooks since I joined the Police Force, and they run to type. You’re not the type. And I haven’t reached that conclusion because you’re pretty but because I’m a sufficiently good policeman to detect the difference!”
She laughed—a little gurgling sound that thrilled him strangely.
“You’re not real—you’re like a detective out of a storybook!” she said. “And have you come here just to tell me that?”
He looked at her steadily and nodded
“To tell you that and to warn you,” he replied. “I don’t know what idiotic reason you have for behaving as you do—you must have one, I suppose—but whatever it is, it’s not worth the risks you’re taking. Sooner or later you’ll make a mistake, and then it will be too late. Even I shan’t be able to help you then!”
For the fraction of a second her eyes softened, and then she laughed
“I shan’t want anyone to help me,” she said. “What I’m doing, I’m doing with my eyes open. Nobody knows better than I do the risks I’m taking. But I shall go on taking them until I have achieved my object.”
“Or landed yourself with a long term of imprisonment,” he put in.
“Yes, or that,” she answered coolly.
“What is your object?” he asked, after a moment’s pause.
She threw the end of her cigarette into the fire and watched it consumed with a little spurt of flame.
“That’s my business,” she said; and his lips compressed.
“I’m sorry,” he said simply. “I hoped that you would tell me.”
She turned her face towards him.
“How do you know there is anything to tell?” she asked. “Don’t you think it’s conceivable that perhaps you have made a mistake—that Scotland Yard is right, and that you are wrong?”
Jimmy Holland said nothing, but turned and picked up his hat
“Must you go?” asked the Angel, in exaggerated disappointment.
“There seems to be no point in my staying,” he said curtly. “Goodbye!”
“Hadn’t it better be au revoir?” she said sweetly. “You’re sure to be coming back, you know.”
“You’ll be wise if you see that I don’t have to!” he retorted, and walked to the door. On the threshold he paused and looked back.
“Who are you?” he asked suddenly; and she stared at him.
“Are you serious?” she said. “Or is this another joke?”
“Quite serious!” he replied gravely. “Who are you?”
“My name is Angela Kesson—you know that very well,” she said.
He shook his head.
“There is no such person as Angela Kesson,” he answered. “All the records of such things have been searched both in this and other countries, and there is no record of such a person as Angela Kesson ever having been born.”
“Then I must be a ghost!” she said lightly
; but her face was pale. “How very—industrious—you have been, Inspector Holland!”
“I have been interested in you for a long time,” said Jimmy. “Whose grave do you visit once a week in the little cemetery at Camberley?”
A faint sound escaped her lips, and now her face was ashen—dead white, with two great eyes that blazed angrily.
“You have interfered enough with my private affairs,” she whispered. “I refuse to answer any of your questions!”
She looked so ill that Jimmy felt a wave of contrition come over him.
“I’m sorry,” he said penitently. “I shouldn’t have asked that!”
“You can go on asking—go on prying and probing. It’s your business; you’re paid for it. But you won’t find out anything.” She recovered herself. “If you’re not satisfied with Angela Kesson, I’ll give you another name!”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Miss Nobody from Nowhere,” she answered. “Perhaps, after all, that’s more appropriate!”
Chapter Fourteen
The Unknown Strikes
On a night shortly after her interview with Jimmy Holland, when the rain was descending in sheets and the shining streets were deserted, the Angel, clad in a tight-fitting raincoat and an oilskin hat, drove her little car out of Mr. Harker’s garage and headed towards the City. She had no fear of being followed, for the watcher, to his relief, had been withdrawn. At that period the police were conducting a series of raids on suspected gaming houses in the West End, and every available man was required for this duty. Angela had made certain that the detective was no longer lurking in the vicinity of Wyvern Court before putting into operation the idea that had been maturing in her mind, and she came into the deserted region of Leadenhall Street without misgivings.
There was nobody in sight as she slowed down, and crawling along the sidewalk, peered through the blurred window of the car, seeking the narrow turning which she had previously noted as suitable for her purpose. She almost missed it even though she was looking for it, and had to run back in reverse before she could turn the car into the lane. High office buildings towered on either side as she ran the machine into the ill-lighted alley and brought it to a halt opposite a dark entry on her right. Getting out she switched off the headlights, and taking a key from her pocket crossed the strip of pavement and inserted it in the lock of the main door. It was stiff and difficult to turn, but she managed it after an effort, and pushed the door open. Slipping into the little passage beyond, she closed the door behind her, took out her tiny torch, and switched it on.
Before her was a flight of stairs leading upwards to the various offices into which the building had been divided.. She had waited patiently for one of these to fall vacant, and had received the agreement constituting her the tenant on the morning of the day that had proved so unfortunate for Mr. Oscar Leeming. The two tiny rooms that she had succeeded in renting were on the top floor, but she made no effort to climb the gloomy stairs. She was not interested in her new acquisition, except inasmuch as it gave her the right of entry and a key to the main door.
Passing through to the back of the building, she produced another key unlocked a second door, and found herself in a small, dirty yard. It was still raining heavily, a steady downpour that looked as if it was likely to continue for the rest of the night. The ray of her torch scarcely made any impression on the darkness, but it was sufficient to augment her memory.
The yard was divided from the next by a low wall, and this she climbed, dropping into another enclosed square of concrete that was as much like the first as two peas. She negotiated four walls in all before, a little breathless and very wet and grimy, she reached her objective. After a moment’s pause to rest she found a door similar to the one in the block from which she had started, and flashed her light on the lock. It looked a fairly simple one, and taking a leather roll from her pocket, she selected a curious little steel instrument and worked silently. In a moment or two the door was open.
Gathering up her roll of tools, she entered the building, shut the door and made her way to the front. This time she began to ascend the stairs and mounted until she came to the third floor, where a door bearing the inscription ‘Abel Scarthwright’ in black lettering on white painted glass told her she had reached her destination.
Again the leather roll appeared, and a diamond neatly cut a circle out of the glass. The Angel inserted a gloved hand, pulled back the catch, and the next second was inside the office.
It was not a very large room, but the furnishing was comfortable. She stood for a moment taking stock of its contents, and then going over to the big desk that occupied the centre began methodically to search it.
Drawer after drawer she opened and examined, but she failed to find what she was seeking. She did the same with the filing cabinet, but with little result. Mr. Scarthright’s business was apparently completely open and above-board. She bit her lip in disappointment. His private house she had already searched. If there was nothing here—
Then she saw the safe.
It was not very large, and a quick examination showed her that it was not very modern, either. Stripping off her coat, she knelt in front of it and began to work on the massive door, utilising all the skill that an expert safebreaker had patiently taught her. It took her an hour and a half to get the door open, and she went through the contents eagerly. Nothing!
Nothing, that is, that was of much use to her. There was a roll of money, which she put in her pocket without counting, but what she had hoped to find was not there. Perhaps Scarthright was clever enough to keep such dangerous things in a safe deposit or at his bank.
It was with a sense of disappointment that she eventually found herself at the door of the block from which she had set out.
Her car still stood where she had left it. She got in and pressed the, starter with her foot. As the engine picked up and she reached towards the gear lever, a cold circle pressed suddenly in the back of her neck and a voice whispered menacingly:
“I thought you were never coming, Miss Kesson.”
The Angel went rigid, for the voice was the voice of the unknown who was so anxious to obtain possession of Uncle Ebenezer’s photograph!
Chapter Fifteen
“Either, Or—”
“I’m afraid my unexpected presence has given you rather a shock!” went on the whispering voice behind the Angel. “But I’ve been watching you all the evening, and this seemed to be too good an opportunity to miss.”
“You seem to have gone to a great deal of trouble,” retorted the Angel calmly. “Can I drop you anywhere?”
She had recovered from the momentary fear, which that icy touch on her neck had induced.
“You can. You can take me exactly where I tell you!” he replied.
“I’m rather tired, and I’m going home,” she remarked. “If you’re going the same way—”
“I’m going the same way as you are,” he said. “But, unfortunately, it’s not to Wyvern Court. Unfortunately for you, I mean.”
“In that case, I think you’d better get out and walk,” she said, “or, alternatively, try to find a taxi—”
“You’re talking foolishly,” he interrupted curtly. “You’ll do as you’re told, otherwise—” The pistol pressed a trifle harder. “Well, otherwise it may be unpleasant.”
“It’s unpleasant, anyway!” she retorted. “Please don’t fidget about with that thing. It tickles!”
“It can do worse,” he replied meaningfully. “You know what I want? I want that photograph, and this time I mean to have it.”
“Do you imagine that I carry it next to my heart?” asked the Angel.
“Wherever it is, you can get it,” he answered grimly, “and if you want to save a lot of trouble for yourself, you will.”
“You certainly are a man with one idea,” she remarked. “How long do we stop here? I’m rather wet, and very tired—”
“We’ll go now,” he said. “Back out of this lane a
nd then follow my directions.” She obeyed, since for the moment at least there was nothing else to do, and the car glided smoothly out into the still deserted stretch of Leadenhall Street.
“Now make for Staines!” ordered the unknown as she brought the machine to a halt and slid the lever out of reverse.
“I’d much rather go home,” answered the Angel. “It’s not the best night to choose for a joy ride, and—”
“You’ll go to Staines,” he answered. “And I can assure you that this is no joy ride.”
“I was beginning to think so myself,” she agreed calmly. “As a hilarious companion, you haven’t exactly got everything. Perhaps you’ll improve on acquaintance.”
“You will have ample opportunity for discovering that,” he retorted.
“Well, if you’re determined to go to Staines, I suppose we’d better go,” said the Angel resignedly. “What do we do when we get there? Turn round and come back again?”
She was beginning to enjoy herself. The threat of the pistol resting lightly against her back no longer disturbed her. The man dared not shoot to kill her would, so far as he knew, put the photograph he was so anxious to obtain beyond his reach for ever. His only chance was to try to terrorise her into complying with his demands, and she refused to be terrorised. Equally, she had no intention of going to Staines. She was perfectly well aware of what awaited her there. The unknown’s object was to keep her a prisoner somewhere until he had forced her to send for the photograph. She knew this as certainly as if he had said so in so many words; knew also that once they arrived at this unknown destination there were many ways and means by which he could achieve his object. The car was running along the Embankment when she put the idea that had occurred to her into execution. There was a coffee-stall at the corner of Northumberland Avenue, and as they passed it she saw that several people were standing under the shelter, eating and drinking. She made an almost imperceptible movement with her foot, and the steady hum of the engine changed, there was a jolt, and the car stopped.
“What are you doing? Why have you stopped?” snapped the man behind her harshly.
The Angel Page 7