The Angel

by Verner, Gerald

  “It’s awful, old boy,” he whispered. “That girl—”

  “Well, don’t let’s talk about it!” snapped Jimmy. “We’ll search the rest of the house, and then we’ll get back to London.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Man Who Appeared

  “I’m makin’ a perfect nuisance of meself, ain’t I?” said Cordelia Smith. “Comin’ round ’ere and keepin’ you up all night?”

  “Not at all, Miss Delia, not at all,” answered the weary Mr. Limpet valiantly, stifling a yawn. “It is a pleasure to be of service.”

  Cordelia, a rather pathetic little figure, fell asleep in the big armchair, and Mr. Limpet dozed on the opposite side of the fire. It was half-past nine before Jimmy, haggard-faced and weary, came in, followed by Freddie Babbington, and startled them to sudden wakefulness.

  “Make some coffee, Limpet,” said Jimmy, flinging his hat down on the settee. “Boiling hot, and as strong as you like.”

  Limpet bowed.

  “’Ave you found out wot’s ’appened to Miss Kesson?” asked Cordelia, blinking anxiously with sleep-blurred eyes.

  “No,” replied Jimmy. “She was taken to a house in Horsham belonging to a man called Phelps, but she’s not there now.”

  “An ’ouse at Horsham?” echoed the maid, and he nodded.

  “Yes,” he said—and told her what he and Freddie had discovered at Abbey Lodge.

  He began to pace nervously up and down the room.

  “I wonder,” said Cordelia suddenly, “if that feller ’ad anything to do with it?”

  He swung round on her.

  “What fellow?” he snapped hastily.

  “The chap wot broke into the flat, and wot—” She stopped abruptly. She had been on the point of mentioning ‘Brother Bert’, but had realised in time that it was better to keep silent regarding him.

  “Tell me about him,” said Jimmy quickly. “Somebody broke into Miss Kesson’s flat?”

  “Yes,” answered the maid. “She said he was after the photograph wot—” Again, she checked herself.

  “What photograph?” Jimmy came over and stood looking down at her. Cordelia, a little scared that she had said what she shouldn’t have said, stared up at him with a frightened face.

  “An old pitcher belonging to Miss Kesson,” she replied. “Funny lookin’ thing—an old feller with whiskers—she calls it ‘Uncle Ebenezer’—”

  “And you say somebody broke in to steal it?” interrupted Jimmy. “Why should anybody want to steal an old photograph?”

  “I dunno, but that’s wot she said,” answered Cordelia. “She said he must ’ave been after Uncle Ebenezer.”

  “It can’t have anything to do with her disappearance,” began Freddie, but Jimmy interrupted him. “We don’t know what’s got to do with her disappearance,” he said. “We don’t know what Scarthright has up against her; maybe this photograph’s something to do with it.” He turned again to Cordelia. “Where is it?” he asked. “At the flat?”

  She nodded.

  “Then we’ll go there.” He seized his hat. “Get your things on, Miss Smith, and take us.”

  Jimmy’s car carried them to Wyvern Court in under ten minutes, and it was just after ten when Cordelia admitted them to the Angel’s flat.

  She led the way into the sitting room and went over to the tiny bureau.

  “In this drawer ’ere,” she said, stretching out her hand. “Oh, of course, it’s locked. I never—”

  “I think I can open it.” Jimmy pushed her aside and took a bunch of keys from his pocket. “These locks are usually simple enough, and any key of the right size will fit.”

  But the lock was not as simple as he had expected. It took him nearly twenty minutes before he succeeded in finding a key on Babbington’s bunch that fitted.

  “Is this the photograph?” he said, lifting out the picture, which the Angel had brought away from Montgomery Webb’s house on the night of the murder.

  Cordelia peered over his shoulder.

  “Yes, that’s it,” she declared, and at that moment there came a knock at the front door.

  “’Scuse me, while I see who it is,” she said, and hurried from the room.

  “What an awful looking thing!” said the Hon. Freddie, as Jimmy stared frowning at ‘Uncle Ebenezer’, “There must be a mistake, old boy, nobody would break in for that. It’s shocking! I tell you we’re wasting time—”

  He broke off as they heard a startled cry from the hall, followed by the sound of a fall.

  “Is anything the matter?” called Jimmy, but there was no reply.

  “I’ll go and see,” said Babbington, and crossed to the door. But he never reached it.

  “Don’t move, either of you!” snapped a voice, and a man appeared in the open doorway—a man whose face was covered by a handkerchief, and who carried an ugly looking automatic in his right hand.

  “Who the devil are you?” demanded Freddie angrily. “I—”

  “Keep still and keep quiet,” snarled the newcomer, “otherwise I shall shoot. There will be no noise, so no one would hear.”

  Jimmy saw the silencer on the end of the barrel of the weapon and understood.

  “What are you doing in this flat?” he demanded. “Who are you?”

  “I’ve come to collect some property of mine,” answered the unknown. “I see you have saved me the trouble of looking for it.”

  Jimmy glanced at the photograph in his hand.

  “Is this what you mean?” he asked.

  “Yes,” answered the stranger. “Put it down on that table, and then get over there.”

  “I’ll see you in hell first—” began Jimmy.

  “You’ll be in hell of you don’t!” snarled the other. “Do as I tell you and be quick.”

  Jimmy hesitated, but the pistol moved menacingly, and he decided that discretion was the better part of suicide. “There you are,” he said furiously and threw the picture down. The unknown picked it up with one quick movement.

  “Now I’ll go,” he said, backing towards the door. “I’m afraid I shall have to lock you in, but—”

  A hand came from behind him and snatched the pistol from his grasp. “’Ere, not so fast, mate!” cried a Cockney voice shrilly. “You ain’t a-goin’ just yet. I’ve got a score to settle with you fer that blinkin’ swipe you gave me the other night.” The unknown spun round with a lurid oath to face the overall-clad, grease-covered figure that brandished the pistol. It was Brother Bert!

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Hon. Freddie Follows A Trail

  “You get over there!” said Mr. Albert Smith truculently, waving the pistol recklessly and advancing into the room. “I want to know wot all this ’ere’s abart.”

  “This man took us by surprise—” began Jimmy. “If you will—”

  “An’ who might you be?” demanded Brother Bert suspiciously. “Wot are you a’doin’ in this ’ere flat, that’s what I’d like ter know—forcin’ your way in an’ attacking defenceless gals. Blimey, it’s a lucky thing I ’appened to come across!”

  “I quite agree with you,” remarked Jimmy. “I’m Detective-Inspector Holland, of Scotland Yard, and—”

  Freddie Babbington chose that moment when his attention was fully engaged to slip quietly out into the hall. An idea had occurred to him, which he thought he could make himself more useful then by making himself scarce.

  He passed a dazed and moaning Cordelia, and let himself out by the open front door. Hurrying down the stairs, he crossed the vestibule, and saw as he emerged into the street a large car drawn up a little way. The car in which he and Jimmy had arrived was standing immediately opposite the entrance to Wyvern Court; and, leisurely crossing the strip of pavement, Freddie got in, started the engine, and drove off.

  He sent the car speeding up the street, turned the corner, swung into another street that ran parallel to the one in which the Angel’s flat was situated, and presently came to a stop at the other end, from where he could
see the entrance to the flats and anyone who came out. He was fairly confident that he would recognise the man by his clothes, and, lighting a cigarette, he waited.

  It was a long wait. He smoked two whole cigarettes and half a third before anything happened. In fact, he was just beginning to think that his cleverness was to be unrewarded, and was contemplating returning to the flat to see what had happened, when a man came quickly out of the entrance, hurried to the waiting car, and was driven off. Freddie lifted his gear-lever and let in his clutch. It was the man who had held them up. There was no mistaking the coat and the hat, although he had, naturally, removed the concealing mask.

  Freddie sent the car humming away in the wake of the big saloon tingling with excitement.

  *

  To the Angel, who had no means of telling the time, it seemed an eternity since the unknown had left her. Surely by now he should have returned?

  The splash of oars and the creak of rowlocks broke in on her thoughts, strained her ears to listen. Was it just a passing boat, or was the unknown returning? The rhythmic sounds came nearer, and presently she heard the nose of the boat bump against the landing stage of the houseboat. He had come back. She braced herself for the ordeal that she felt was at hand. The key turned in the lock, and he came in, closing the door behind him. For the moment he stood looking at her in silence, and then he spoke.

  “You have put me to a great deal of trouble, Miss Kesson,” he said, in the familiar muffled, husky whisper. “But I’m sure you will be pleased to know that in spite of your lying and scheming I have been successful.”

  He took an envelope from his pocket, and from it withdrew—the photograph! She stared at it in incredulous surprise, and her face was white. Her one card gone—her last flicker of hope snuffed out. What chance had she now?

  The masked unknown read something of what was passing in the Angel’s mind from her eyes.

  “Yes, the chase is over,” he said, “and now we come to the kill. I am very sorry to have to destroy anything so beautiful, but I’m afraid there is no help for it.”

  He came farther into the small apartment and laid the picture down on the table.

  “You have been a great nuisance, Miss Kesson,” he said, “and it will be a relief to a number of people to know that you can be so no longer. This houseboat in which I spend much of my time during the summer is moored over one of the deepest parts of the river. It is, I believe, nearly sixteen feet to the bottom at this point, and suitably weighted, a person should lie there undisturbed. Luckily the necessary materials for weighting you are within reach—quite a quantity of iron ballast, and several lengths of chain by which it can be attached. I’ll get it without further preamble since there is no point in delaying the inevitable.”

  He turned and went out, and after a little while she heard him moving about at the other end of the boat. Presently he came back staggering under the weight of an armful of rusty lengths of iron, which he deposited on the door. Once more he departed and she guessed he had gone to get the chains he had mentioned. It would not be long now—a few more minutes at the most, and then—

  She took a tight grip of her overstrained nerves. At least, she would face what awaited her without flinching.

  *

  Freddie Babbington saw the big saloon come to a stop along the towpath, and the man he was following get out. This latter part of the long journey had been very nerve-racking, for once they were in the country he had had to take infinite precautions to avoid his shadowing being suspected. It had meant keeping well in the rear of his quarry, and risking losing him altogether; but even that was better than that the suspicions of the unknown should be aroused. Twice he had lost the car in front, but his luck had held, and he had picked it up again.

  When it turned off the main road towards the towpath he had had to think quickly. He knew the country around Staines well, and he guessed where the car was going. He also knew that if he followed it here he could hardly avoid arousing the suspicions of the man ahead.

  He came to the end of the road that gave on to the towpath, and slowed. Standing up he was able to see over some bushes the saloon come to a stop, and the man get out. The car moved off again, and Freddie came to a decision. He got out of his own machine, and watched to see what the other would do.

  He walked a few yards along the bank, and then made his way to the water’s edge. Stooping, he fumbled at something, and then stepped down. Freddie guessed a boat, although he could not see, and this put him in a quandary. If the man was going to take to the river it was likely to prove awkward, for he had no boat in which to follow him. It was true he could keep him in sight from the bank, provided he did not shoot over to the other side and disappear down some backwater.

  The man was pulling out into midstream now, and Babbington was able to get a good view of him—a swarthy-faced individual, with a black moustache. He continued to drive the dinghy towards the middle of the river, making no attempt to turn the prow of the boat either up or down stream, but keeping to a steady, diagonal course towards the opposite bank.

  From the concealment of his clump of bushes the Hon. Freddie continued to watch him, afraid to venture out lest he should be seen and recognised. Presently the man in the boat drew near to a medium-sized houseboat, turned to mark his direction and drew into its landing deck.

  Freddie Babbington fetched a long breath.

  He went to the edge of the towpath and looked up and down stream. Some distance along there was a boat, but it was quite a good way. However, there was nothing else to do unless he swam across, and that did not exactly appeal to him on a cold day. The houseboat would be in sight all the way, so the unknown could scarcely give him the slip.

  He set off, striding briskly along, and evolving a plan of campaign as he went. With the boat he could row over to the other side and drift gently down to the houseboat with the current. His approach would be noiseless, and he would be able to take the man unawares.

  He came to the boat at last and discovered that it was a rather large and decrepit dinghy, sadly in need of baling out. Concluding, however, that he was lucky to find a boat at all, he made the best of it. There was only one oar, and he had to stand and use this as a paddle. He got across to the opposite bank, somehow—though he blessed the fact that he hadn’t got to negotiate the heavy boat against the current in this fashion—and using the oar over the stern as a rudder, let the boat drift.

  It moved quite fast, for the stream was running strongly, and when it got near to the houseboat Freddie set about preventing anything in the nature of a bump. Discarding his makeshift rudder, he leaned over the prow, his hands outstretched ready to catch the edge of the deck before the boat could hit it. He succeeded, and brought the dinghy up against the side without a sound.

  Gingerly he got out, tied the boat up to a wooden rail and took stock of his surroundings. The main structure was rather like a railway carriage to which had been added an upper story, consisting of a closed-in deck. There were many windows and a door, the whole painted in dingy white and red. Freddie eyed the windows interestedly. If he could get a peep through one of them he could find out what was taking place within.

  He began to tiptoe cautiously across the rotten boarding of the lower deck towards a narrow kind of gangway that ran along on the riverside. There was a queer clanking sound going on inside, and he was curious to know what it was. It sounded as though somebody was doing something with chains on bare boards.

  He found a window, and very carefully raised himself from his crouching position until his eyes were just on a level with the side. The glass was so dirty that at first he could see nothing, and then he made out the dim outline of chairs and a settee, and on the settee a girl. He had found the Angel!

  She was lying at full length, and there was something about the lower part of her face that puzzled him until it struck him that she was gagged. He was so pleased with himself and excited at his discovery that he forgot that the man he had followed was also somewh
ere on board.

  The first reminder he had of this was a startled oath and a rush of feet and then, as he turned to defend himself, a heavy blow caught him on the side of the head.

  He staggered back dazed, and half unconscious, against the railing. Next instant, with a crack of splintering wood, it gave way, and he hurtled backwards into the swirling water of the river

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jimmy Adds Two And Two

  “’E ’it me a whack before I knew where I was,” said Cordelia, rubbing her aching head. I jest opened the door, and plonk! That’s all I knew about it.”

  “The perisher,” grunted Brother Bert, scowling. “An’ to think I ’ad him good and proper until you came in and jiggered things up.”

  “’Ow was I ter know?” Cordelia sniffed tearfully.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Miss Smith,” put in Jimmy tactfully. “It’s a thousand pities we lost him, though.”

  The three were in the Angel’s sitting room, and none of them, as may be gathered, in a very pleasant frame of mind.

  The man in the mask had taken advantage of the distraction caused by the unthinking entrance of Cordelia to launch himself on Brother Bert, wrench the pistol from his hand, and make good his escape, locking them in. By the tune, Jimmy had succeeded in breaking open the door and reaching the street he had disappeared. So, also, the young inspector noticed, had his car and Freddie Babbington. This fact toned down to a certain extent his disappointment. If Freddie was on the track of the man there was still a chance of finding him.

  “May I use the telephone?” said Jimmy.

  “Use wot yer like,” answered Cordelia graciously, and signed to Brother Bert to make himself scarce. He took his departure as Jimmy lifted the receiver, and gave the number of Scotland Yard. In a few seconds he was talking to Sergeant Scorby.

  “Notify all stations and patrols to keep a lookout for my car,” he said, when he had explained the situation. “I don’t want it stopped, but I want to be able to trace it. You understand? Ring me back here”—he gave the Angel’s number—“directly you have any news.”