The Angel

by Verner, Gerald

“Nearly,” was the curt answer.

  “I’m glad of that,” said the Angel. “I’m beginning to feel hungry. I hope your programme includes dinner.”

  He made no reply, and, shifting into a less cramped position, she watched the ribbon of road ahead visible in the headlights beyond the broad back of the driver. Suddenly she laughed softly, and her companion turned his head towards her.

  “What’s amusing you?” he asked gruffly.

  “I was just thinking what a shock Mr. Scarthright and his friends must have had when they came back and found I’d gone,” she said.

  “I don’t suppose they will find it very funny,” he retorted. “And I can assure you, you won’t, either, unless you do what I want.”

  “What do you want?” she inquired.

  “I want that photograph.”

  “Oh dear!” she sighed. “Are you going to start that all over again?”

  “If you’re getting tired of it,” he snapped, “you have your remedy.”

  Before she could reply, the car swung suddenly into a side turning, jolting violently over a rutted surface, ran a short distance, and turned again. The Angel saw a gleam of water, a mass of bushes and trees, and a sloping grassy bank.

  “Is this the river?” she said, and the man in the corner nodded.

  “This is the river,” he said, “and this is where we get out.”

  As he spoke the car stopped. The Angel, following him out on to the roadway, saw that they had reached a deserted stretch of what was evidently the towpath.

  The unknown spoke a whispered word to the silent driver, and he drove on leaving them standing side by side in the darkness.

  “Where do we go from here?” inquired Angela.

  Without answering, he gripped her arm and led her to the edge of the bank. Among the reeds was a dark splash of shadow which, as they came nearer, revealed itself to be a small dinghy. His companion pulled on the mooring-rope and drew the little boat close in to the bank.

  “Get in!” he ordered.

  “Oh well, of course, if you insist,” she said, as she stepped down into the swaying craft. “I hope you know more about boats than you do about cars—”

  “Sit down and keep quiet!” he snapped. When he had untied the mooring-rope, he got in beside her, unshipped a pair of sculls, and thrust them into the rowlocks. A couple of powerful strokes sent the tiny dinghy gliding out towards midstream. The Angel, sitting meekly in the stern, wondered where they were making for.

  The boat was heading for a dense patch of blackness on the opposite bank—the shadow thrown by a tall clump of trees—and as they entered the fringe of this she was able to make out the vague outline of a building that to her surprise seemed to rise straight out of the water. The nose of the dinghy bumped softly against the flat side of this peculiar structure, and then she saw that it was a medium-sized houseboat. The masked man hastily shipped his sculls and caught an iron ring, fixed in the platform-like deck that extended a couple of yards beyond the main portion of the building.

  “Get out,” he said.

  The Angel rose wearily.

  “I seem to have done nothing else but get in or get out the whole evening,” she said, pathetically. “It’s very tiring. I hope there isn’t going to be any more of it.”

  “There isn’t,” he retorted curtly.

  He tied up the dinghy skilfully when she had climbed out, and joined her on the flat wooden platform. Then, taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked a door at the end of the houseboat, and pushed her into the dark interior. The place smelt damp and musty.

  He struck a match, and in the feeble glimmer she saw that they were standing in a low-ceilinged, cabin-like apartment, comfortably furnished, but dusty and neglected. There was a lamp on a table in the centre, and this he lighted. .

  “I’ve no doubt it’s very nice here in the summer,” said the Angel. “But at this time of the year I much prefer my flat—”

  “You can go back to your flat as soon as that photograph is in my possession,” he said.

  “Why are you so anxious?” she asked.

  “Why are you so obstinate?” he retorted. “The photograph is no good to you. Why don’t you give it up and save a lot of trouble and unpleasantness?”

  “Because I’m curious,” she replied. “I want to know the secret of Uncle Ebenezer.”

  “You never will!” He caught her by the arm. “That photograph is mine, and its secret is mine, too. You will write a letter to your bank authorising them to hand the photograph to the bearer—”

  She laughed in his face—a musical ripple of sheer amusement

  “Do you really think I’m likely to do that?” she said.

  “I know you’ll do it—” his voice was hoarse “—because the alternative will be so exceedingly painful that you will agree to anything to avoid it.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Cordelia Seeks Advice

  “Coo!” said Miss Cordelia Smith rapturously. “This is a bit of awlright, this is.”

  She helped herself to a third éclair and smiled across the tea table at her escort.

  Mr. Limpet returned the smile benevolently.

  “It gives me great pleasure to see you enjoying yourself, Miss Delia,” he remarked in his slow, stately manner. “Perhaps, however you will forgive me if I point out that ‘coo’ is hardly the correct expression for a lady to signify delight, nor, if I may say so, is ‘a bit of awlright’ de regeur in the best circles.”

  “Wot’s wrong with it?” demanded Miss Smith with difficulty her mouth full of pastry.

  “I would suggest,” said Limpet, “that possibly ‘This is really charming’, or ‘This is delightful’, might be more suitable.”

  Cordelia’s round, black eyes surveyed him with astonishment.

  “Well, wot I said means the same thing, don’t it?” she remarked with a certain amount of truth.

  “Oh, undoubtedly!” agreed Limpet, inclining his head. “But I was merely showing you how the same sentiment could be more happily phrased.”

  Cordelia’s small face crinkled with laughter.

  “You ain’t ’alf a funny one,” she said. “I could die laughing at some of the things you ses.”

  Mr. Limpet’s expression was a little pained as he sipped delicately at his second cup of tea.

  “You’re different to most fellers,” said Cordelia, “There ain’t no sloppy nonsense about you. You don’t try any ’oldin’ and kissin’.”

  “I trust,” said Mr. Limpet, “that I know how to behave myself.”

  “Not that I ain’t partial to a bit of romance,” went on Cordelia. “But it ’as to be the right person, if you know wot I mean.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Mr. Limpet. “That is precisely my own view.” He glanced at his watch. “Dear me,” he continued, “how quickly the time has passed. I’m afraid, Miss Delia, that I shall have to be going. It is nearly six, and I must be back by six.”

  He signalled to a waitress, collected the bill, and rose.

  “I hope,” he said, as they left the little tea shop, “that you will honour me with your company next Wednesday.”

  “If you’d reely like me to,” she murmured coyly.

  “Then we will meet at the usual place at three o’clock,” said Mr. Limpet. “There is, I believe, a very excellent picture featuring Garie Hooper—”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve bin dyin’ ter see that!” exclaimed Cordelia rapturously. “‘Panting Flames’, Mona Languish is in it too; she ought ter be lovely.”

  Mr. Limpet agreed, apologised owing to the lateness of the hour for not seeing her home, and took his dignified departure. Miss Cordelia Smith walked back to Wyvern Court in a mental state that was bordering on ecstasy, so engrossed in her romantic dreams, that she became a source of great irritation to the hurrying throng whose thoughts were centred on the more prosaic problem of catching their various means of transport to their homes. She was surprised to find her mistress out when she reached the flat, for the An
gel had definitely expressed her intention of spending the afternoon and evening at home, but she concluded that something must have happened to make her alter her plans, and went about her duties without thinking much more about it.

  It was not until dinner time came and went without any word or message that she began to feel worried. Her mistress never stopped away without letting her know, and she wondered what could have happened. Her first thought was, that at last her ever-present fears had been realised and that the Angel had been arrested, but when she considered this dire possibility more thoroughly, it occurred to her that if such a thing had happened, she would have heard. The first thing the Angel would do would be to let her know. But perhaps there had not yet been time for that. She waited in an agony of apprehension and uneasiness, but nine o’clock passed, and there was no message. A sudden idea came to her and, picking up the telephone, she called Mr. Harker’s number. He answered her himself, and she put her question.

  “No, Miss Kesson’s car is here,” he said. “She did come for it this morning, but we was puttin’ two new tyres on, and she said it didn’t matter as she’d go by taxi.”

  “D’you know where she went?” asked Cordelia.

  “No, I don’t,” replied Mr. Harker, “but maybe Ginger ’ull know. ’E got the cab for ’er—hold on a minute!”

  He went away, and Cordelia waited impatiently. After what seemed to her to be hours, but was really only three minutes, she heard his voice again.

  “Ginger says Miss Kesson told the driver to go to the ’Olborn Restaurant,” he said.

  “Wot time was that?” demanded the worried maid.

  “Oh, it ’ud be early!” replied Mr. Harker. “Let me see now, about ’alf-past twelve or a quarter to one. What’s the matter?” he added anxiously. “Nothing ain’t ’appened to Miss Kesson, ’as it?”

  “No!” snapped Cordelia. “Only she ain’t come ’ome yet, an’ I was wonderin’ where she was, that’s all.”

  She rang off and helped herself to a cigarette. Had anything happened, or was she just worrying herself unnecessarily? She didn’t want to tell old Harker too much. He was a nosy old devil. There was an element of jealousy in this although she was unconscious of it. With the cigarette drooping between her lips she paced up and down, her eyes constantly turning towards the clock. Ten—half-past, and still no sign of the Angel.

  There was something wrong. If she had intended staying out until this hour, she would have telephoned—she always had telephoned. She hadn’t telephoned because she couldn’t, and if she couldn’t telephone she must be in trouble. The question was, what sort of trouble? She had, as Cordelia very well knew, any amount of enemies—dangerous enemies—and if she’d fallen foul of any of these—

  The maid screwed up her small face in an effort of concentration. What could she do? What ought she to do? If only she knew someone who could advise her—Mr. Limpet! The name sprang up before her as though it had literally been written in letters of fire. He would be able to help her. He was so sensible. And he had given her his address in case she might ever want to get in touch with him. She almost ran into her bedroom and fumbled in her bag. Yes, here it was ‘St. Mark’s Mansions. Ryder Street, W.1’. A posh address, but, of course, he was only employed there. He was servant to a gentleman, he had told her that much about himself. It was a bit late to go worrying him, nearly eleven, perhaps he’d be cross. She hesitated, torn between her reluctance to risk Mr. Limpet’s wrath and her alarm for her mistress’ safety. At least she could ring him up and find out whether he could see her. If he could, she could be at Ryder Street in ten minutes by taxi.

  His slow, rather ponderous voice reached her, inquiring the identity of the caller.

  “This—this is Cordelia, Mr. Limpet,” she stammered hurriedly. “Oh, Mr. Limpet, could I see you for a minute? I’m so worried, and I don’t know what to do. No, I can’t explain over the telephone, but if I could come round for a minute, I can be there in a couple of shakes. Oh, it is kind of you, reely it is!!

  She slammed the telephone back on its rack and scrambled into her coat, jamming a hat recklessly on her head.

  A few seconds later she was in the street looking eagerly for a taxi.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jimmy Is Worried

  Mr. Limpet turned away from the telephone, rubbing his smooth chin thoughtfully, and wondering whether he had been wise. What possible reason could the girl have for wishing to see him at such an hour? There was no doubt that she was worried—he could tell that by her voice—but what was she worried about? Had he been mistaken in his opinion of her, and was she trying to work some trick? Mr. Limpet shook his benevolent head and looked exactly like a bishop refusing to believe in the sins of the world. Such a thing was impossible. She was genuinely in trouble of some kind and had very naturally turned to him for advice.

  A key clicked in the lock as he reached this conclusion, and Jimmy Holland came in. He was followed by the huge figure and smiling red face of Freddie Babbington. Mr. Limpet was a little perturbed. He had not expected his master for another hour, at least, and Cordelia Smith must be already on her way. His face, however, showed only its usual benign expression as he came forward to take their coats and hats.

  “I’m earlier than I thought I should be,” said Jimmy. “Bring the whiskey into the study. Mr. Babbington is going to have one drink, and then I’m going to chuck him out.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Limpet bowed, “I trust you will not be annoyed, but a friend of mine rang up a short while ago asking permission to see me for a few minutes. I agreed. I hope that will be in order, sir?”

  “Of course, Limpet!” said Jimmy.

  “But it’s a young lady, sir.”

  “Good lord!” exclaimed his astonished master.

  “Good for you, Limpet!” cried the Hon. Freddie delightedly.

  There came a timid knock on the front door.

  “There she is,” said the irrepressible Freddie. “Don’t keep her waiting—and give her my love!”

  He suffered himself to be dragged into the study as Limpet went to open the door.

  Babbington sighed.

  “I’m not appreciated,” he said sadly. “What about this drink, James? If I’m only to have one, it ’ud better be a big one.”

  “It’ll be a normal one,” declared Jimmy. “You’re bad enough sober; what you’d be like tight, I should hate to imagine.”

  Freddie took the glass he held out, eyed its contents disparagingly, and with a “Cheerio!” swallowed it at a gulp.

  “And now,” he said, “since you’re so infernally hospitable, old boy, I’ll go.”

  “I’m sorry, but I really am dog tired,” said his friend. “I’ve been hard at it for the last week.”

  “Don’t apologise,” said Babbington. “Dash it all, old boy, if you can’t chuck a fellow out of your own flat, what’s the British Empire coming to?” He chuckled and moved out into the hall.

  “We’ll fix an evening together as soon as I get more time,” said Jimmy, following him. “Probably— Great Scott!”

  He broke off and stared in amazement at the girl whom Limpet was escorting to the door.

  Cordelia Smith saw him at the same instant and stopped dead. Her worried little face changed to astonishment, and then to anger.

  “So that’s the game, is it?” she cried shrilly. “You set this feller to spy on me, did you, hopin’ he’d worm himself into me confidence and get to know things about Miss Kesson—?”

  “Really, Miss Delia, you mustn’t speak to Mr. Holland like that—” The horrified Mr. Limpet was, for once in his life, disconcerted.

  “Mr. ’Olland! Mr. ’Olland!” Cordelia’s eyes blazed with fury. “Detective-bloomin’-Inspector ’Olland, you mean! I know the perisher! Blimey! ’E’s bin ’angin’ round Miss Kesson long enough, pryin’ and pokin’ his long nose where it ain’t wanted—!”

  “Please, Miss Delia—” protested Mr. Limpet faintly.

  “An’ do
n’t you go Miss Deliain’ me!” she flashed furiously. “I thought you was a gentleman, not a copper’s nark—”

  “What is all this about?” demanded Jimmy sternly. “You’re Miss Kesson’s maid, aren’t you?”

  “You know very well who I am!” snapped Cordelia. “A nice dirty trick to play on a girl—I don’t think! Sendin’ your blinkin’ servant to scrape up an acquaintance! Just the sort of lousy trick the p’lice would get up to! ’Ere, let me get out of this place into some clean air!”

  Limpet pulled himself together and cleared his throat. Slowly and carefully he explained how he had become acquainted with Cordelia; and as he concluded, light dawned on Jimmy’s darkness.

  “And she imagines that it was all arranged,” he said, “by me?”

  “Of course it was!” snuffled Cordelia.

  “I give you my word it was nothing of the kind,” declared Jimmy. “I’d no idea you knew Limpet until tonight.”

  “That’s quite true, Miss Delia,” confirmed Mr. Limpet earnestly.

  The girl looked at them doubtfully through her tears. Her ingrained distrust of the police made it very hard for her to accept their word.

  She smiled a watery, uncertain smile. “I—I must look an awful sight,” she said unexpectedly, and groped for a handkerchief. “But wot with being worried about Miss Kesson—”

  “What’s the matter with Miss Kesson? Why are you worried about her?” asked Jimmy, suddenly anxious.

  She hesitated. To her he was an enemy.

  “I think I should tell Mr. Holland, Miss Delia,” said Limpet gently.

  “Well—” Again she hesitated, made up her mind, and plunged into her story. “It’s like this, you see—”

  She poured out the whole of her worry in a flood of words that streamed over one another like water over a waterfall.

  “She’s always let me know,” she concluded breathlessly—“always. An’ I’m sure somethin’s happened to ’er.”

  Jimmy wasn’t at all convinced. He thought that the Angel was very probably staying away for reasons of her own, and there were many explanations for her not having rung up. He did not say what he thought, however, being a tactful man.