The Angel

by Verner, Gerald

  “If she went to the Holborn Restaurant,” he remarked, “we can easily find out what time she left.” He looked at his watch and pursed his lips. “It’s a bit late, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  He went into his study, and they heard him at the telephone. After a long time he returned, and his face was grave.

  “I think you have good reason for your fears, Miss Smith,” he said. “Miss Kesson left the restaurant this afternoon in the company of Mr. Abel Scarthright and three other men. She had to be helped out of the place, and the general opinion seems to be that she was drunk.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Cordelia indignantly. “She never took enough to—”

  “I don’t believe she was drunk for a moment!” broke in Jimmy, and his voice was hard. “I happen to know something about the men she was with. You look after Miss Smith, Limpet. I’m going to find Abel Scarthright,”

  “And I’ll jolly well come with you, old boy!” said Freddie Babbington determinedly.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Mr. Scarthright Tells The ‘Truth’

  Although he was a confirmed bachelor, Mr. Abel Scarthright lived in a pretentious house on Kingston Hill. The study in which Mr. Scarthright was pacing thoughtfully up and down was a room of comfort—a place of low bookcases and many books, with ancient Persian rugs to blend with the colours of the bindings, and bronzes to tone with the polished floor.

  The chairs were massive and inviting, and the big writing-table impressive. But to these pleasant surroundings Mr. Scarthright was giving no attention. With his brow furrowed and his hands clasped tightly behind him, he walked mechanically back and forth, wrestling with the problem which the Angel’s disappearance from the house at Horsham had set him. His astonishment when, under cover of darkness, he had returned to the derelict building to put the final stage of his plan into execution and found her gone, had been the greatest he had ever experienced in his life.

  He stopped in his perambulation of the room and poured out a drink. It was really useless, trying to conjecture. The only sensible thing to do was to wait and see. He swallowed the neat whiskey and glanced at the clock. Half-past twelve. He would have one more drink and then go to bed.

  The neck of the decanter was tilted over the glass when he heard the knocking, and paused, frowning. Who could it be at that hour? Perhaps one of the others. If so, it must be something urgent—something that couldn’t be telephoned. The knocking came again, imperious, peremptory. He put back the stopper and set the decanter down. The servants were all in bed, and he would have to let the visitor in himself. He went to the door and made his way to the hall, switching on the lights as he passed. The front door was chained and bolted, and he had some difficulty in dealing with the fastenings. At last, however, it was open, and in the light that streamed out over the steps he saw two men.

  “Mr. Abel Scarthright live here?” inquired a pleasant voice, and Scarthright nodded.

  “I am Abel Scarthright,” he said. “Who are you, and what do you want with me at this time of night?”

  “I’m Detective-Inspector Holland, of Scotland Yard,” was the reply, “and I should like a word with you.”

  Mr. Scarthright’s heart gave a sudden, unpleasant leap. So that infernal woman had gone to the police. Well, he would have to bluff it out.

  “It’s very late, inspector,” he said. “I was just going to bed—”

  “I’m sorry, but the matter is urgent,” broke in Jimmy curtly.

  “In that case,” replied Scarthright, “you’d better come in.”

  He stood aside, and Jiminy and Babbington entered the hall.

  “We’ll go up to my study,” said Scarthright, closing the door. “Though I can’t imagine what you wish to see me about—unless,” he added, “it’s in connection with the burglary that happened here some time ago?”

  “It’s nothing to do with that,” answered Jimmy, as they ascended the stairs. “It concerns Miss Angela Kesson.”

  Mr. Scarthright ushered them into the room before he replied, and the interval gave him a moment to collect his thoughts.

  “Miss Angela Kesson?” he repeated, in surprise. “I’m afraid I know nothing about her.”

  “I understood that she was a friend of yours,” said Jimmy, watching the man narrowly.

  Scarthright shrugged his shoulders.

  “I know her, of course,” he announced. “May I inquire the object of these questions, inspector? If Miss Kesson is in any sort of trouble, I’m afraid that I cannot help you.”

  “What sort of trouble do you imagine she’s likely to be in?” asked Jimmy.

  Again Scarthright shrugged his shoulders.

  “I was wondering whether—” He hesitated. “Well you know there have been rumours—”

  “Rumours? What sort of rumours?” said Jimmy, as he stopped.

  “I don’t think you need me to tell you that,” retorted Scarthright. “If this woman is in any trouble with the police, I’m sure it’s what was only to be expected.”

  “Miss Kesson is in no trouble with the police,” replied Jimmy.

  “Then,” said Scarthright easily, “I cannot understand the reason for your questions, inspector.”

  He returned Jimmy’s gaze steadily.

  “I tell you,” said the young inspector quietly. “I am anxious to know Miss Kesson’s whereabouts, and since she was last seen in your company, I have come to you.”

  Scarthright was a little disconcerted. He had not expected this. So the girl hadn’t gone to the police, after all. They apparently had no more idea where she was than he had. The situation required careful handling.

  “Do you mean that she is missing?” he said.

  “She has not returned home or been seen since she left the Holborn Restaurant with you this afternoon.” replied Jimmy.

  The man pursed his thin lips.

  “It was a most unfortunate incident,” he said at last, apparently reluctantly, “and, naturally, I don’t like talking about it. That will explain my hesitancy when you mentioned Miss Kesson’s name. The fact of the matter is, there was a little trouble yesterday afternoon. My friends and I were lunching in a private room in order to discuss business matters, when Miss Kesson forced her way in. We were naturally a little annoyed, but we couldn’t very well be rude, since, of course, Miss Kesson was not a stranger to any of us. We offered her refreshment, and I regret to say that—well, to put it bluntly, she took more brandy than was good for her. We were very distressed, as you can imagine, but we did our best. We managed to get her out of the restaurant and into my car. I drove her a short distance out into the country, hoping that the air would revive her, which it did. When I brought her back to London she had quite recovered and was very apologetic. That’s the whole truth of the matter.” Mr. Scarthright concluded his story with a great show of frankness.

  “And where did she leave you?” asked Jimmy.

  “At Hyde Park Corner!” replied Mr. Scarthright, “and she was perfectly normal, except for a headache—which was hardly to be wondered at.” He added, with a slight smile.

  “What time was it when she left you?” said Jimmy.

  Mr. Scarthright considered.

  “I couldn’t be certain,” he answered. “Roughly, I should say, about a quarter to five.”

  “I see.” Jimmy stared hard at him. “Then why, if this was all that happened, did you tell the head waiter that Miss Kesson was your secretary?”

  For the fraction of a second, Scarthright was taken aback.

  “Well,” he said, recovering himself. “I—I didn’t want them to recognize her. It was not a very nice situation for a girl of Miss Kesson’s class. I said she was my secretary on the spur of the moment.”

  Jimmy was nonplussed. The explanation was sufficiently plausible to be true, and although he felt that Scarthright was lying—and lying very cleverly—there was no means of proving it.

  “Did Miss Kesson mention where she was going before she left you?” he asked.


  “No,” said Scarthright, shaking his head. “I don’t know where she went.”

  Jimmy was in the act of opening his mouth to apologise and take his leave when Freddie Babbington, who had been prowling restlessly about the room, suddenly turned and spoke.

  “I say, old boy,” he said. “You’re a fearful old liar, aren’t you?”

  Mr. Scarthright, to whom the question was addressed, stiffened.

  “I beg your pardon?” he said coldly.

  “A fearful old liar,” repeated the Hon. Freddie cheerfully. “Prevaricator, perverter of the truth, and what-not.”

  “What do you mean, Freddie—” began Jimmy.

  “It’s here you want it,” said Mr. Babbington, tapping his forehead complacently. “You don’t mean to say you were taken in by all that guff? My dear old boy. I’m surprised at you! Hasn’t it seeped into your intelligence, the one weak spot in this fairy tale we’ve been listening to?”

  “Really, sir—” said Scarthright angrily; but the Hon. Freddie stopped him with a gesture.

  “Not your turn, old boy,” he said pleasantly. “You just listen for a bit. This lady is supposed to have gate-crashed your jolly old meeting and got tight—helplessly, speechlessly tight—that’s what you say? I say it’s a lot of drivelling nonsense. She must have mopped up brandy at a hell of a rate to do it, and she wouldn’t. Think it over and see how silly it is. She might have got a little woozy, but she wouldn’t have got in the condition they say she was in at the restaurant.”

  “I assure you—” began Scarthright.

  “You can go on assuring me until you come out in purple spots,” declared Mr. Babbmgton, “and even then I shan’t believe you. I’ve met Miss Kesson, and so’ve you, Jimmy, and I tell you the whole thing’s bunkum, bilge, and blithering!”

  Quite suddenly Jimmy Holland saw how right he was. It was absurd to dream that the Angel would ever have allowed herself to get in such a state.

  “If she was tight,” went on Freddie, “they must have forced the stuff down her throat, that’s all.” He tossed something up in the air and caught it deftly. “What’s this key, old boy?” he said. “The label says Abbey Lodge, Horsham. I found it on your desk. Is this where you took Miss Kesson for the joy ride?”

  “That’s mine!” snarled Scarthright, making an ineffective snatch at it.

  “Thought it might be,” said Babbington. “Take a look at it, Jimmy, old boy; it’s got fresh lipstick on the label!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Bluff

  The Angel lay on a rather lumpy settee and stared up at the low, cream-coloured ceiling that was just visible in the faint grey light of the approaching dawn that was creeping timorously through the curtained windows.

  The gag about her mouth was uncomfortable, and her bound limbs ached. Since the departure of the unknown she had slept a little, thought a lot, and experienced an increasing desire for food and drink. It was the latter which really troubled her most. The quantity of brandy which she had been forced to swallow had engendered a raging thirst which became hourly more acute. Was this, she wondered, what he had meant by the painful alternative? Was it his intention to starve her into submission?

  She twisted over on her left side with difficulty and felt a little easier. He had vouchsafed no other explanation, but after tying her ankles and wrists expertly and rendering her incapable of calling for help, had taken his departure, leaving her, to use his own words, ‘to decide whether she was going to be amiable or not.’ She guessed that he would be coming back during the early hours of the morning to find out—and the morning was fast approaching.

  She rolled on to her back again, found that in this position she was for the moment, a little more comfortable, and remained. He would be coming back soon now, and when he found that she persisted in her refusal to write a letter to the bank he would try the ‘alternative’ with which he had threatened her.

  She could still write the letter as a means to gain time, but she would have to word it in such a way that Mr. Thorpe would only conclude that she had made a mistake. It would save the situation for the moment and in the meanwhile anything might happen.

  She heard the dinghy bump softly against the side of the houseboat half an hour later, and presently the key rasped in the lock, and her captor came in. He was still wearing the mask, and she looked eagerly to see if he had brought her food. He seemed to guess what was in her mind, for he shook his head.

  “You shall eat when you have done what I want,” he said. “I will bring sandwiches back with me. I hope that you have decided not to be obstinate?”

  She nodded, and his eyes gleamed.

  “That is wise of you,” he said. “I should have been loath to have had to use persuasive methods, although I had come prepared. You will write the letter?”

  Again she nodded, and he came over to her, untied her hands, and with a key unlocked the handcuffs.

  “There is paper and pen here.” He pulled open a drawer in the table and took a writing pad, envelopes, and a fountain pen.

  She sat up, and he put the pad on her lap. Her hands were so cramped that it was some time before she could write, but he waited patiently.

  When at last she had written the note, he read it, nodded approvingly, and placed it in the envelope, which she had addressed.

  “It is a few minutes after eight,” he said, as he sealed the flap. “I should be back by eleven with the photograph.” There was an exultant note in his voice. “Meanwhile I’m afraid I shall have to tie your hands.” He did so, calmly and methodically, tested the gag and the cords at her ankles, and walked over to the door.

  “If you had done this in the beginning,” he remarked, “you would have saved yourself a lot of unpleasantness.”

  A moment later he was gone.

  The Angel settled back on the uncomfortable settee. The writing of the letter had gained her a short respite, but it would be a very short one. What would happen when he found out that he had been fooled? That the photograph of Uncle Ebenezer had never been deposited at her bank at all? And suddenly she realised that she had made a mistake. When he found that there was no packet deposited at the bank he would guess that it was still at her flat—that it had always been at her flat, and the knowledge would remove the one safeguard she had had. Knowing where it was he could get it without her assistance. Her heart sank. She had been too clever, and her error of judgment was likely to cost her her life!

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Evidence In The Dust

  “Well here we are,” said Jimmy Holland a trifle gloomily. “Though, personally, I’m inclined to think we’re chasing wild geese.”

  He had stopped the car at the drive gates of Abbey Lodge, and was peering up the dark avenue of gaunt trees as he spoke. After Freddie Babbington's discovery of the key on Abel Scarthright’s desk, there had been nothing for it but to follow the lead that it had given; but they had set out without any great hope that it would result in the finding of Angela Kesson. Scarthright had strenuously and angrily denied all knowledge of the girl’s whereabouts, and stuck to his original story.

  “Well, let’s get on with it,” yawned Babbington. “This is not the pleasantest spot in the world, old boy.”

  He went over to the gate, opened it, and together they walked up the weed-grown drive. The dust loomed up before them dark, gloomy and uninviting.

  They reached the porch, and Jimmy took the key from his pocket and fumbled for the lock. The, door opened easily, and they stepped into the darkness of the hall. The young inspector produced a torch and sent its light flickering about. It showed up the cracked, stained walls and the paper that hung in long, dismal streamers, and the dust that was everywhere.

  “Cheerful hole!” grunted Freddie. “It would be a long time, I should think, before anyone’d want to buy this.”

  “Somebody’s been here recently, all the same,” said Jimmy, and turned the light on to the floor. “Look at those footprints.”


  Mr. Babbington looked and was duly impressed.

  “By Jove, you’re right, old boy!” he answered excitedly. “And I’ll bet it was Scarthright! He was right when he said he drove the girl out into the country. This is where he came to.”

  “Let’s see if we can find any other traces,” said Jimmy, and opened the first of two doors on the right of the square hall. It led into a large room with heavily shuttered windows; but the room was empty and the undisturbed dust on the bare floor showed that nobody had entered it. The other three rooms that opened off the hall proved equally barren.

  “Nothing here,” grunted Jimmy, when he had inspected the last of these. “Let’s try the rest of the place.”

  There was a door at the side of the big staircase, and opening this, he found himself in a huge kitchen. Here there were more footprints—a double lot, as he quickly noticed.

  “Scarthright—if it was him, had a companion,” he said. “But the companion didn’t come in with him by the front door—that’s queer.”

  “Perhaps the second feller was already here, old boy,” suggested Freddie, and Jimmy agreed that it was possible.

  “Hello, what’s this?” he exclaimed suddenly, and pointed to a large oblong patch where the dust had been disturbed. “Looks as though somebody had lain down beside this door—”

  “And that’s just what it is,” said Babbington. “That’s where they laid Miss Kesson, old boy.”

  Jimmy frowned and his mouth set grimly.

  “Then she was brought here!” he muttered. “You were right Freddie. Where does this door lead to?”

  He tried the handle, found it was locked, and turned the key that was projecting on the kitchen side.

  “A scullery,” he said, flashing his light round, “and— by the Lord Harry, look here!”

  “A woman’s high-heeled shoes!” cried Freddie Babbington, peering at the marks in the dust. “That clinches it, old boy!”

  “I think it does,” said Jimmy, “and it about clinches Scarthright, too! He’ll have the devil of a job to explain this away.”