“We can very well dispense with this fooling,” said Scarthright smoothly, “since you heard what we were discussing, it seems a little futile.”
Angela lifted her shoulders the fraction of an inch and pouted.
“I think you’re very unkind,” she said sadly. “Quite a lot of girls would have been really cross if they’d overheard plans for murdering them. Because I’m broadminded you don’t like it.”
“On the contrary, I’m glad you are treating this situation so—er—sensibly,” retorted Scarthright grimly. “Though I feel that it would be even better if you treated it—seriously.”
“The trouble with all you big, strong, silent men is that you’re so solemn,” said the Angel. “Life is real—life is earnest—you miss such a lot of enjoyment with that outlook. You should cultivate a sense of humour and a carefree attitude, sing in your bath—”
“I believe the woman’s mad,” grunted Bellman disgustedly. “Listen Miss Kesson—or Smith—”
“I prefer Kesson—don’t you?” said Angela. “It’s so much more refined.”
“It’s immaterial to me!” he retorted. “I don’t suppose that either is your real name.” He stared at her pointedly, but she only smiled. “What is material is this. For a long time you’ve been prying into our private affairs. You’ve made fools of us and searched our belongings. You killed Webb because he discovered you in the act of searching his study—”
“Oh, no!” interrupted the Angel. “I would not like you to think that of me. I wouldn’t have hurt a hair on Mr. Webb’s head.”
“Well, that’s as may be,” growled Bellman. “He was bald, anyhow.”
“That’s what I meant,” said Angela sweetly.
“You’ve done all these things,” continued the grey-haired man, ignoring her remark, “and now you come eavesdropping at a private conference. What’s the reason? What’s behind it?”
“As the principal person concerned, I think I was entitled to gatecrash in here,” replied the Angel coolly. “If a girl can’t discuss her own murder, what can she discuss?”
She knew she had them at a disadvantage and was revelling in the knowledge.
Scarthright, who had been frowning thoughtfully in silence, suddenly raised his head.
“If you would condescend to be serious for a moment,” he said sarcastically, “we might get somewhere.”
“I’m afraid I can’t spare any more time now,” said the Angel regretfully looking at her watch. “There’s a sale at Willingtons and they’re absolutely giving things away. Perhaps when you’ve completed your plans we might have another little chat, and I could go over them with you and make suggestions. Give me a ring sometime—”
“Not quite so fast,” said Scarthright, and with a swift movement he slipped between her and the door. “The plans you mention are completed.”
His eyes had gone cold and hard, but even then she did not realise her danger. It never occurred to her that these men would attempt anything in a public restaurant where there was help within call. But she had underestimated the cleverness of Abel Scarthright, whose keen brain had suddenly shown him how to turn her unexpected appearance to his own and his companions’ advantage.
“I wish I had time to hear them—” she began lightly, and that was as far as she got, for Scarthright sprang forward, caught her round the waist and clapped his other hand over her mouth.
“Quick, Phelps—Hathaway! Hold her!” he said breathlessly as she struggled violently in his grasp.
“Are you mad, Scarthright?” cried Julian Hathaway. “What the hell—”
“Do as I tell you and be quick!” snapped Scarthright. “She’s as strong as a—” He gave a gasp of pain as the Angel’s teeth met in his hand, but he kept it pressed over her mouth. Phelps and Hathaway came to his assistance, with alarmed faces.
“You’ll get us all arrested for this,” muttered Daniel Phelps uneasily.
“I shall, if you stop to argue,” snarled Scarthright, his face white with pain. “Grip her legs, Hathaway, you fool! Don’t stand there like a blasted dummy!”
Hathaway obeyed. He seized the Angel’s slim, silk-clad ankles and held, the threshing legs still, while Phelps caught her by the arms and dragged her hands down to her sides. Scarthright shifted his grip suddenly. His lean, strong fingers felt for and found the pulsing arteries in her neck that fed blood to her brain, and pressed cruelly. Her frantic struggles grew less and less as the pressure increased, and then suddenly she went limp. Scarthright loosed his fingers, and his breath escaped from between his teeth in a long sigh of relief.
“Lay her down gently,” he panted, wiping his scratched and bleeding hands with his handkerchief. “She’ll be unconscious for a few minutes anyhow, and that will be time enough.”
“Of all the crazy fools I think you’re the craziest!” said Phelps. “What do you think is going to happen now?”
“I can tell you,” said Bellman angrily. “There’ll be the devil of a row! She’s only got to call the nearest policeman—”
“She’ll call nobody,” broke in Scarthright impatiently. “Don’t you realize that we shall never have another opportunity like this?”
“Of getting gaoled,” put in Hathaway shakily. “I agree with you. Supposing a waiter walks in now—
Scarthright stopped him with a savage gesture.
“I tell you I know what I’m doing!” he snapped. “The whole plan came to me while she was talking. Nobody will come here until we ring. That’s the arrangement, you know that.”
“Yes, that’s all very well,” grunted Phelps. “But what are we going to do with her? We can’t just walk out and leave her here to be found. They know us here. They know we engage this room periodically for business luncheons—”
“We’re not going to leave her here,” said Scarthright. “She’s coming with us.”
They stared at him as though he had suddenly taken leave of his senses, as indeed they were prepared to believe he had.
“I see,” growled Daniel Phelps sarcastically. “We just carry her down to the car and nobody asks any questions.”
“That’s nearly right,” agreed Searthright easily. “But we don’t carry her. She walks.”
Old Jonathan Bellman scowled at him.
“I suppose you do know what you’re doing?” he said. “Personally it looks to me as though we are going to get into serious trouble.”
“We shan’t get into any trouble at all,” asserted Scarthright, with conviction. “Give me that brandy.”
He took the bottle of liqueur brandy that Hathaway gave him and looked at it It was half full, and he nodded. “That should be enough,” he muttered, and, going over to the Angel, he knelt beside her. The others watched him curiously as he forced open her mouth and poured a portion of the neat spirit between her lips.
“What the devil are you playing at?” demanded Phelps. “What are you trying to revive her for?”
Scarthright made no reply. He was too intent upon his task. The unconscious girl swallowed a mouthful of the brandy, and he repeated the dose. When half the contents of the bottle had been disposed of in this way, Bellman grunted.
“She’ll be as tight as an owl if you give her any more,” he remarked, and Scarthright looked up.
“It’s taken you a long time to see the idea,” he retorted. “Of course she’ll be tight. That’s what I want her to be. We’ve nothing here to keep her unconscious, have we? And if we had, an unconscious girl would take a lot of explaining away. But a drunken woman is a different matter. People may be shocked, but they won’t ask questions, and she won’t be capable of saying anything for herself.”
Daniel Phelps drew a long breath.
“It’s a stroke of genius, Scarthright,” he said admiringly.
“How are you going to explain her presence here at all?” demanded Hathaway, a little colour coming back into his cheeks, and his scared look fading.
“I shall mention to the head waiter that she’s my secretary,
” replied Scarthright. “She came to bring me some important documents, and we gave her one or two glasses of brandy. Not being used to it, it affected her.”
“And when she leaves here?” inquired Bellman. “What then?”
“She won’t be a source of anxiety to us any more,” answered Scarthright significantly. “We’ll take her straight to that old house of yours at Horsham, Phelps.”
“Ashley Lodge,” said Daniel Phelps, raising his eyebrows. “It’s in a terrible state of repair. I’ve been trying to sell it for months—”
“She won’t be there long enough to worry about its condition,” retorted Scarthright. “There’s a well in the garden, isn’t there? I remember you telling me once that there was.”
Phelps nodded slowly. He understood then what the Angel’s fate was to be.
Chapter Nineteen
‘Out Of The Frying Pan—’
The Angel’s eyelids flickered, and she moaned, moving restlessly, in a semi-dazed state. Presently she opened her eyes and stared vacantly into a diffused greyness that held no meaning. She felt horribly ill. Her eyes smarted and burned; her head throbbed violently as though thousands of miniature steam hammers were working overtime. Her mouth was dry, and there was a curious half sour, half acrid taste, which puzzled her. Anyone used to the unpleasant symptoms of the ‘morning after the night before’ would have accurately placed these distressing sensations and classified them under the single terse heading ‘hangover’. But the Angel, who was abstemious in all things, took some time to correctly diagnose the reason for her condition.
She opened her eyes again, and for the second time tried to sit up.
The pain in her head was just as severe, but the dizziness was not. Gritting her teeth she succeeded, and discovered she was in a small room with a tiled floor indescribably dirty, and obviously the scullery of a fairly large house. There was a door facing the window, which she supposed led into the kitchen. After several attempts she managed to scramble to her feet and was instantly violently sick in the sink. The effect of this was to make her feel better, and it also gave her a clue to what had been the matter with her. So that’s what they had done! While she had been unconscious they had made her drunk! And she was now getting sober. Whoever had thought of that deserved full credit. It was brilliant.
She steadied herself by the sink, and tried the taps. Nothing happened when she turned one but the other supplied a trickle of water. It was reddish at first, but after a little while it ran clear. She bathed her face and felt refreshed. She would have liked a drink, but concluded that the water probably came from a tank and was not fit. The fact that the warm tap was dry confirmed what the state of the place suggested, that the house was disused.
Where had she been brought to, she wondered, and with difficulty climbed on to the edge of the stone sink. It enabled her to reach the window and she peered out. All she could see was an expanse of weeds and rank grass and thickly growing trees. It looked as if she were somewhere in the country but that was not certain. What was certain was that she was in a very nasty position. These men, having got her, would undoubtedly make the most of this opportunity, and the most in this case meant that she would die just as soon as they were ready.
This was a foregone conclusion. With her own ears she had heard them decide to kill her, and unless she could prevent it they would do so. She took stock of her prison to see if there was any likelihood of her getting out. The window was impassable. The bars were thick and set closely together. She went over to the door. It was stout and solid, and apparently, locked on the outside. There seemed no possibility of escape by either means.
She found her handbag, philosophically took out her cigarette case and lighter, and, hoisting herself on top of the copper, lit a cigarette. It didn’t taste very nice, and she made a grimace, but the smoke was soothing to her nerves, and she inhaled deeply. Her watch told her that it was a few minutes after six, which meant that she must have been unconscious for just over three hours—time enough, she thought, to have been taken a considerable distance.
She finished the cigarette, and pressed out the stub on the stone beside her. Although she was still feeling shaky and ill, her brain was clear, and she began to seek for a means of escape. There seemed to be no one in the house except herself, as she could hear no sound at all. Probably, after making sure that she was securely locked in, the men who had brought her to this place—wherever it was—had gone away until it got dark. Would they come back then to complete whatever they had in mind? Or was the intention to leave her where she was—to starve? She came to the conclusion that it was more likely that they would come back.
The light was fading rapidly from the sky. In a few more minutes it would be quite dark, and then they would come… She raised her head suddenly and listened. Had they come already? Was that a faint sound she had heard? It was not repeated, and she put it down to her imagination—that almost inaudible creak which had reached her ears—most likely it was the squeak of some animal outside. And then, as she once more turned her attention to the problem of escape, it came again louder, and this time, unmistakable—the creak of a raised window-sash. So they had returned.
She braced herself and turned to face the closed door, alert and ready for what might happen. There was still a chance that her wits might save her: that these men would make some false move of which she could take advantage.
She heard a footstep on bare boards. Somebody was crossing the floor of the room beyond, and it was only a single footstep. There was, then, only one of them. The Angel glanced quickly round her in the gloom. If she could find some weapon and wait behind the door—
Her eyes fell on what she wanted—a dusty bottle, which stood under the sink—and, without making a sound, she went swiftly over and picked it up. It was a large stone bottle that, at one time, had contained ginger-beer; the faded label was that of a well-known firm of mineral water manufacturers. Gripping it by the neck, she took up her position near the door, and waited.
The footsteps had stopped, and there was silence. She pictured the person beyond that door listening, and kept as still as though she had come part of the room. If he was careless—if he came quickly through the door, as she hoped he would, there was yet a chance—
It seemed to her that years passed before the key rasped in the rusted lock and the door began to open slowly. She raised her weapon and waited tensely, her eyes fixed on the widening space between door and jamb. Presently, after an eternity, the door stood fully open and she caught a glimpse of the form in the oblong opening. But the man did not cross the threshold, as she had hoped he would, and on which the success of her hasty plan depended. Instead:
“Please move where I can see you,” said a voice. “I have a pistol in my hand, and although I should not shoot to kill, I should have no hesitation in inflicting a painful wound.”
She nearly dropped the stone bottle in her surprise and astonishment, for the voice was the voice of none of the men she had expected. It was the husky muffled tones of the unknown seeker after Uncle Ebenezer’s photograph.
Chapter Twenty
The House Boat
The Angel recovered quickly from the shock of that low, menacing voice, and moved out from beside the door.
“I have gone to a lot of trouble,” he said. “I watched you enter the restaurant, and saw you leave with your escort. From your condition I guessed what had happened, and followed the car in which you were taken away.”
“Then you'll be able to tell me where I am,” remarked Angela. “I’m very curious to know that.”
“You are in an old house on the outskirts of Horsham, which belongs to Daniel Phelps,” he replied. “But we haven’t time to talk further now. The gentlemen who brought you here will be coming back soon, and I have no desire that either you or I should be here when they do."
“Our desires at the moment, then, are mutual,” said the Angel. “Let’s go!”
“Hold out your wrists!" he commanded; and
, since there was no help for it, she dropped the bottle and obeyed. He reached forward, snapping on a pair of handcuffs, and she raised her eyebrows.
“Really, that was done most professionally!” she remarked, eyeing the manacles distastefully. “You’re not a policeman, by any chance, are you?”
“Never mind who or what I am!” he answered curtly. “Come along, we’ll take that journey to Staines which, unfortunately, we had to postpone the other night.”
He made a gesture with the barrel of the pistol he held, and she walked past her into the big kitchen.
“Through that door and along the passage,” he ordered close behind her. “And I warn you. I shall certainly shoot if you try any tricks—and the result will be painful.”
A closed car, almost hidden by bushes, stood near the rotting gates of the old house, and to this he conducted her.
“Get in!” he said, opening the door, and when she was inside took his place beside her. She saw for the first time the muffled figure of another man sitting behind the wheel in front, and then the car moved forward.
The Angel settled back in the cushioned seat and closed her eyes. She had escaped one danger to land into another, from which she would require all her ingenuity to extricate herself. But nothing could be done at the moment, and she took advantage of the interim to relax both mind and body. She would need every atom of energy she could muster later when the crisis came, as she knew it would as soon as they reached Staines and their unknown destination.
It was quite dark when she woke from a refreshing sleep, feeling distinctly better for it. The car was still moving smoothly, and looking through the near side window, she caught a glimpse of trees and hedges as they sped past.
“Are we nearly there now?” she asked politely.
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