The Angel

by Verner, Gerald

  “I don’t know—something seems to have gone wrong,” she replied, and, with a flick of her finger, jerked the ignition control lever on the wheel to full retard. “Do you know anything about cars?”

  She asked the question as casually as possible, though in his answer lay he whole success or failure of her scheme.

  “No, nothing!” he snarled. “Can’t you make it go?”

  “I’ll try!”

  She pressed the starter and the motor whined, but the engine, although it spluttered and coughed, failed to pick up. It would have been a miracle if it had, with the ignition lever in the position it was, as she very well knew. Again and again she tried, recklessly exhausting her batteries, but without success.

  “I’m afraid it’s no good,” she said smoothly. “She seems to be stuck.”

  “Try the thing again,” he interrupted, and she complied.

  “I’m afraid it’s no good,” she said, when this attempt had been equally futile. “We shall have to postpone our little trip until another time.”

  He was disconcerted, and she knew it. He muttered something below is breath, and moved uneasily. “This is a lucky accident for you,” he began, and stopped with an exclamation. The Angel looked round, saw the majestic figure that was crossing tie road under the glare of the light standards and realised why. She heard the door click, and, turning, found her companion had slipped out on lie other side.

  “I’ll see you again!” He snarled and was gone.

  It was nearly four when she reached her flat, tired and cold, but thankful that her second meeting with the unknown had ended so satisfactorily. Luckily for her peace of mind she could not foresee the result of the third. If she had, even her courage might have failed before the ordeal that was in store,

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Cross Without A Name

  In spite of Jimmy Holland’s resentment at the Angel’s reception of his friendly visit, he found it impossible to feel any animosity against her.

  He told himself that his interest was purely academic. That here was a girl who represented a mystery, and that since it was his job to solve mysteries, he must naturally allot her a certain amount of attention in the course of his working day. That he was giving to her far more thought and attention than this conclusion warranted never occurred to him.

  His first meeting with Angela Kesson had caused him to reconsider all the views he had previously held concerning her, and his second had confirmed him in his opinion that she was no ordinary adventuress. Jimmy prided himself on a knowledge of human nature, and was entitled to trust in his judgment considering the number of times he had proved himself right. And his judgment told him that the Angel was not a crook. That the things that had been attributed to her were true he was not prepared to deny, but that there was some mystery other than the obvious one he was certain. There was a mystery surrounding this girl and her actions that was very intriguing, and he was determined to discover what it was.

  He took his first step towards the fulfilment of this project on the morning of the day following the Angel’s excursion to Leadenhall Street. His long open racing car carried him to Camberley and set him down at the gate of the little church. Here, if anywhere, there should be a clue to the mystery he was trying to solve. He had not forgotten the result of his remark concerning that weekly visit of hers to the tiny cemetery—yes, if anywhere, there should be a clue here. The watcher had made his report in detail, and Jimmy had no difficulty in finding the grave. He stood bare-headed gazing down at the neat little mound with its sheaf of blood-red roses beginning to fade and crushed by the rain. Who lay under them? A relative—a friend—a husband? There was no inscription on the plain cross at the head—no tablet to show whose grave this was. But it ought not to be difficult to find out. Probably the sexton would know. Jimmy made his way back to the Church and was lucky, for as he neared the doors a man in a black cassock came out.

  “Good morning,” Jimmy greeted him pleasantly. “Can you tell me where I can find the sexton?”

  “You won’t ’ave to go far, sir,” said the man, with a smile. “I’m the sexton.”

  “I’m fortunate,” said Jimmy. “I want to make an inquiry concerning one of the graves. It’s in the other part of the cemetery, and it has a stone cross but no name on it. Can you tell me whose it is?”

  The good-humoured face before him changed. The smile faded and was replaced by a scowl.

  “Look ’ere, what’s the game?” demanded the sexton angrily.

  Jimmy regarded him in astonishment.

  “There’s no game so far as I am aware,” he retorted curtly. “I merely asked a civil question—”

  “An’ how many more of yer are there?” snapped the man. “Are you doing this for a bet or something?”

  “I really don’t know what you mean,” protested Jimmy. “Am I doing what for a bet?”

  “Puttin’ all these questions about that there grave,” said the sexton. “See here, mister, go an’ ask your friends. They’ll tell you what you wants to know.”

  He began to move away, but Jimmy caught his arm.

  “Listen, my friend,” he said quietly, “you seem to be under a wrong impression. If other people have been making the same inquiries I have no knowledge of them.”

  The man looked at him doubtfully.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve been ’asty,” he muttered, “but I began to think it was some kind o’ joke.”

  “That’s all right,” Jimmy waved aside the half-hearted apology. “How many people have asked the same question?”

  “Two,” answered the sexton. “There was a man ’ere yesterday mornin’ and another in the afternoon, and when you came this mornin’, well, you can’t blame me for gittin’ cross-like. I thought it was a joke.”

  “I’m not blaming you,” said Jimmy, frowning. “What were these men like?”

  The sexton was vague. They were well-to-do—one had come in an expensive car—and they were both middle-aged. Beyond that he was not helpful.

  Jimmy pursed his lips. Who were these men who were making inquiries along the same lines as himself? Not connected with the police, that was certain.

  “I told ’em what they wanted to know,” said the red-faced sexton. “An’ I thought it queer that two people should ask the same thing within a few hours of each other. Then, when you come along—”

  He was apologetic, redundantly so.

  “Well, let’s get back to our original question,” said Jimmy, cutting him short. “Who is buried in that grave?”

  “A lady called Mrs. Smith,” answered the man. “She used to live in the village with her daughter.”

  Jimmy’s surprise showed in his face.

  “Mrs. Smith?” he echoed.

  “That’s right, sir,” the sexton nodded. “Not what you’d call a very uncommon name, is it?”

  “No.” The young inspector shook his head. “When did she die?”

  The sexton wrinkled his forehead.

  “Must be about five years ago,” he answered, after a long effort of memory. “Yes, quite that, sir. She died soon after they came to live ’ere.”

  “And she had a daughter?” asked Jimmy.

  “Yes sir,” replied the sexton. “Very pretty girl, too. You can often see ’er ’ere tendin’ ’er mother’s grave, though after ’er death she went to live in London—the daughter, I mean.”

  So Angela Kesson’s real name was Smith, thought Jimmy. Why had she changed it? Because it was too ordinary, or for some other reason? Or was Smith an alias, too?

  “Where did they come from—Mrs. Smith and her daughter?” he asked, and the sexton looked surprised until he explained what he meant.

  “Oh, I see, sir!” He shook his head. “Well, I don’t rightly know. Maybe Mrs. Bodkin ’ud be able to tell you that. She used to do for ’em.”

  Jimmy obtained the address of Mrs. Bodkin, and leaving the delighted sexton staring at a ten-shilling note, set off to find her.

  Cambe
rley was a very small village, situated sufficiently far from any main road to have remained unspoiled—though there were signs that this would not be for long—and he had no difficulty in finding the house of the woman who had ‘done’ for Mrs. Smith and her daughter. It was a small cottage near the end of the High Street, and Jimmy introduced himself to the buxom, elderly woman who opened the door to his knock.

  “Yes, I remembers ’er well, sir,” she said, nodding her grey head briskly and surveying him with very bright and very curious eyes. “They ’ad the little cottage up by the green, an’ I used to go twice a week to clean up for ’em. The poor lady died six months after they came ’ere, an’ ’er daughter was terrible cut up. Something shocking the way she carried on, poor dear, an’ one of the loveliest girls I ever see, too. She only stayed two months after ’er mother was buried, an’ then she went to live in London, though I’ve bin told she comes regular to bring flowers for the grave.”

  From lack of breath, Mrs. Bodkin paused, and Jimmy seized the opportunity to put a further question.

  “No, sir, I can’t tell you where they came from,” said the woman, “an’ they never mentioned nothin’, neither. I did think it was curious, as they was real gentlefolk, if you know what I mean, and it seemed queer-like to me that they should have suddenly come to live in old Marden’s cottage out of nowhere as you might say.”

  Vividly there came to Jimmy’s mind the phrase that the Angel herself had used— “Miss Nobody from Nowhere.” She had said it was appropriate, and he was beginning to agree with her. There was little doubt, he thought, that ‘Smith’ was an alias. But if Smith was an alias, and there was no such person as Angela Kesson, who was the Angel?

  Jimmy Holland drove back to London with a furrowed brow and a puzzled face. The Angel had supplied him with the greatest enigma he had come up against since he joined the Police Force.

  Chapter Seventeen

  An Interrupted Meeting

  The arrest of Mr. Oscar Leeming on a charge of housebreaking caused a sensation; all the more so since he was known to have been a friend of Montgomery Webb, the mystery of whose murder was still unsolved. It was remembered that burglary had also figured prominently in that crime, and rumours began to spread rapidly to the effect that Leeming was also responsible for this and the murder of his friend. Naturally, neither the police nor the newspapers contributed even a hint towards such a conclusion; the man was still awaiting trial, and British justice is eminently fair, but the general public were less reticent. The possibility was openly discussed in clubs and in trains, in saloon bars and at street corners, with disastrous results to Mr. Leeming’s moral character. These rumours reached the ears of that unfortunate man’s worried lawyer and caused him considerable anxiety.

  “There’s not the slightest doubt that you’re in a very awkward position,” he said, during one of his many interviews with his client. “An extremely awkward position. You knew this man Webb intimately, and— well, it’s an awkward position.”

  “You’ve said that three times, and I knew it before,” growled Mr. Leeming. “It’s altogether preposterous that such an idea should be spread abroad. Why should I want to kill Webb? We were the best of friends—”

  “I’m not saying you killed him!” broke in the grey-haired solicitor. “I’m only saying that people are suggesting you did, and I’m afraid that the police may hold a similar theory, which is going to be a very awkward—”

  “Then what can be done?” demanded Mr. Leeming anxiously. “Damn it, man, we must do something! They can’t imprison me for something I’m not guilty of.”

  “It may be worse than imprisonment,” said the lawyer dispassionately, “if they make out a case of murder against you.”

  Mr. Leeming’s flabby face went grey.

  “You don’t really think they’re likely to do that, do you?” he said huskily. “My heavens, it’s dreadful—dreadful, Pell. You must do something—”

  “I’ll do my best, Leeming. You can be sure of that,” said Mr. Pell, but his tone was not encouraging. “So far as I can see, all we can do is to engage a clever counsel, lay our cards on the table and hope for the best.”

  On this unsatisfactory note, the interview terminated.

  While the stout and misguided Mr. Leeming languished in his uncomfortable cell, Daniel Phelps, Abel Scarthright and the rest of his associates held an uneasy meeting in the private room at the Holborn Restaurant, where the plot against the Angel’s liberty had first seen the light of day.

  “That girl’s clever and dangerous!” grunted Jonathan Bellman round a big cigar. “She’s landed poor Leeming in the soup, and I think he’ll have a devil of a job getting out of it.”

  “It was Leeming’s scheme, and he must bear the brunt of it,” said Abel Scarthright callously. “You’re right about that girl being clever and dangerous, Bellman. My office was broken into the night before last.”

  Every head in the room turned towards him.

  “You don’t keep anything there—” began Hathaway quickly, and Scarthright shook his head.

  “No, I’m not like Webb; I’m satisfied to play safe. The profit’s good enough for me from the syndicate.”

  “How do you know it was the girl who broke in?” asked Phelps. “Was anything stolen?”

  “A little money, but that wasn’t the object,” answered Scarthright. “The safe had been opened and the whole place searched. I found two golden hairs on my desk—it was the Angel all right.”

  Julian Hathaway flicked the ash from his cigar.

  “I wonder who the devil she is, and what she’s after?” he muttered thoughtfully.

  “The point is,” put in Bellman slowly, “that it doesn’t matter whether she’s a common thief or something else. She might be dangerous, and I think she ought to be stopped.”

  “I agree with you,” said Scarthright quickly.

  “How are we going to do it?” demanded Hathaway. “Leeming tried and—”

  “The whole trouble with Leeming’s scheme was that it was too complicated,” interrupted Scarthright. “There’s a better and much simpler way in my opinion.” He looked significantly at the three men before him.

  “I don’t hold with violence,” Hathaway shook his head.

  “You were always squeamish,” said Scarthright contemptuously. “Listen to me.” He leaned forward and ground out the end of his cigar in the ashtray. “We’ve got to look after ourselves; we don’t know what game this girl is playing. She may, as Hathaway suggests, be just an ordinary thief, but she may not. We can’t afford to take the risk. Without making any bones about it, we’re engaged in organised blackmail on a big scale. It’s been very profitable, thanks to the cleverness of our unknown president, and I hope it will continue to be so; but this girl may prove a very big source of danger. She may, for all we know to the contrary, be related to someone whom we’ve fleeced. Personally, that’s what I believe, because you’ve got to remember that she’s concentrated all her attention on our little group. If she was just a plain crook, she would not have done that. So I say that, whatever steps we take—whatever steps—are justified.”

  There was a silence when he had finished speaking.

  “I suppose you’re right, Abel,” said Phelps at last. “What do you propose we should do then?”

  “I propose to take drastic action,” answered Scarthright promptly. “I propose that we eliminate the source of danger, and at once.”

  “Are you suggesting murder?” asked Bellman bluntly.

  “There’s no other certain way, is there?” said Scarthright

  Hathaway moved uneasily in his chair.

  “It’s a risk,” he muttered. “We’ve always drawn the line at anything like that—”

  “Because we’ve never been up against the necessity,” broke in Scarthright. “Now we are, and we’ve got to use emergency methods.”

  Jonathan Bellman removed the cigar from his lips and blew out a cone of smoke. “Have you any suggestion as to how it
should be done?” he inquired unemotionally.

  Scarthright shook his head.

  “No,” he admitted; “but it shouldn’t be difficult—”

  “Perhaps,” interrupted a musical voice gently, “I can help you?”

  Scarthright uttered a startled oath and sprang to his feet, turning in the same movement to face the slim, beautifully dressed lady that stood surveying him calmly, a hint of mockery in her grey eyes.

  It was the Angel!

  Chapter Eighteen

  Drastic Action

  Her eyes danced and her lips twitched with amusement as she saw the consternation that her sudden appearance had evoked.

  “You’re surprised to see me?” she remarked, with a dazzling smile. “Please, don’t trouble to offer me a chair, Mr. Scarthright. I’m not staying very long.”

  “How—how did you get here?” Daniel Phelps found his voice and put the question.

  “On my feet,” she replied calmly. “I’ve been here quite a long time—behind that screen.” She nodded to a tall screen of faded red baize that stood in a corner by the door.

  “Do you mean—” and Scarthright swallowed hard “—do you mean that you’ve been listening?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “It was most interesting. I was a little bored at first, but it got much more interesting after. But don’t let me interrupt you—”

  “How long have you been here?” demanded Bellman roughly.

  She looked towards him and pursed her red lips.

  “I’m afraid I’m not much good at estimating times,” she said. “I slipped in when the waiter brought the coffee. It was really quite easy. Nobody saw me. For desperate conspirators, you’re rather lax, you know.”

  Scarthright breathed hard through his nose. The voice, clear and musical as a bell, flicked like the thin lash of a whip.

  “It’s really very nice to see you all again,” went on the Angel. “And so much nicer to see you all together instead of singly. You’re so apt to get sentimental alone. It’s because you’re all so soft-hearted, I suppose. Isn’t it a pity poor Mr. Leeming isn’t here?— So charming and so naïve. I thought he was looking very queer when I saw him last, so perhaps a nice long rest will do him good—”