During the intervening period since then she had been very busy indeed. There had been long talks with old Harker and his son and with Brother Bert. She had visited her lawyer and explained exactly what she wanted done, and he had agreed to expedite the business she had asked him to attend to as quickly as possible. He would have been horrified had he known what lay at the back of the Angel’s mind and in what an illegal undertaking he was unconsciously involved. Old Harker listened to her proposals with a grave face and certain misgivings.
“It’s a terrible risk you’re taking, miss,” he said, shaking his head. “If anything was to go wrong—”
“It’s the only way,” broke in the Angel. “I’ve tried every other means, and I’ve failed.”
“And there’s no sayin’ you won’t fail this time,” retorted the old man. “An’ wot then?”
“Then I shall have to admit myself beaten or try something else,” she answered. “If you’d rather not be mixed up in it—”
“Whatever you says goes, miss,” interrupted Mr. Harker. “Both me and Ginger ’ull do anythin’ you says. You know that. I was only warnin’ you that it’s a risk.”
“I know that,” she said. “But I’m determined to try it.”
“Then we’re with you, miss,” declared Mr. Harker. “You just say what it is you wants done and we’ll do it.” The outcome of all this was that on the morning following the death of the insignificant Mr. Higgins, Daniel Phelps received a letter from the estate agents who handled his property stating that the dilapidated house at Horsham had at last been sold. A gentleman by the name of Harker had, through his solicitors, purchased it lock, stock, and barrel, and paid over without demur the highest price the estate agents had felt justified in asking. Mr. Phelps would probably have received this piece of news with more pleasure had he been less worried. As it was, he mechanically signed the deeds, which had accompanied the letter, paid the substantial cheque which arrived later into his bank and promptly forgot the transaction. For the terrors of Cain were weighing heavily on his soul and he bitterly regretted that in a moment of blind panic he had allowed himself to take such drastic steps to silence the blackmailing demands of Mr. Higgins.
In the late evening he could stand the house no longer and decided to go for a walk. The exercise might soothe his ragged nerves. He put on his coat and hat and let himself out into the darkness of the almost deserted square. Turning aimlessly to the right he passed a big closed car with dim headlights standing near the kerb a few doors away from his own house. Cars were common enough in that district and he scarcely noticed it as he walked quickly away. It was a fine night. The sky was scattered with brilliant stars. And then it suddenly became dark.
Daniel Phelps uttered a stifled cry as the heavy cloth enveloped his head, and his hands flew up to grip thin, strong wrists. There was a sickly sweet smell and, even while he struggled, his senses swam. By the time the two men had got him into the waiting car, he was unconscious.
Chapter Thirty-One
Four Helpless Men
There were lights in the empty house at Horsham and figures moved about in the hitherto deserted rooms. Mr. Albert Smith, gloomily smoking a cigarette in the kitchen, looked disparagingly about him and finally let his gaze rest on his sister, who was poking the fire, which had been lighted in the big rusty range.
“Wot I want to know.” he said suddenly, “is wot’s the idea? That’s wot I want ter know, see. Wot time did Miss Kesson say she was coming down?”
“Round about ten o’clock,” answered Cordelia. “She ought ter be ’ere any minute now. I’m just goin’ ter make some tea so as it ’ull be ready for ’er when she gets ’ere.”
He raised his head suddenly and listened.
“There’s the car now,” he said. “That’ll be Miss Kesson.”
Cordelia picked up the teapot, which was warming on the hob and began to measure out tea from a packet.
“Don’t stand there doin’ nothin’, Bert!” she called shrilly. “Get them cups and saucers and fetch the milk from the scullery.”
Mr. Smith obeyed clumsily, and the maid was pouring the boiling water into the pot when the Angel entered. Her face was flushed with the keen air and her eyes were bright.
“All the guests comfortable?” she inquired gaily.
“As comfortable as they could be, tied up like they are,” said Mr. Harker. “They ain’t ’ad nuthin’ to eat since me and Ginger brought ’em ’ere.”
“That won’t hurt them,” said the Angel calmly. “I’ll go and see them in a minute. Is that tea you have there, Cordelia?”
“Yes, miss. I’ve just made it fresh. I thought you’d like a cup after your journey.” She brought a steaming cup over and gave it to her mistress.
The Angel sipped it gratefully.
“That was nice,” she said, putting down the empty cup. “Now we’ll attend to business.”
She left the kitchen and returned to the bare hall. Pausing outside a door on the right she turned the handle and entered the large room beyond. It was dusty and devoid of furniture. The shutters had been closed over the windows and blankets hung to avoid any possibly of the light from an oil lamp, which stood on the mantelpiece, showing outside. Leaning against the wall reading a paper was Ginger, and on the floor, their backs resting against the blank wall, sat four men, securely bound and helpless.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the Angel sweetly. “This is not quite so comfortable as a private room at the Holborn Restaurant, but infinitely less public.”
Four pairs of eyes looked at her with varying expressions.
“So you’re responsible for this—this outrage?” croaked Abel Scarthright huskily. “What do you think you’re going to get out of it, eh? What’s the idea?”
“That you will learn in due course,” retorted the Angel. “Presently I am going to tell you a little story, and then quite a lot of things will become clear.”
“Do you think you can get away with this?” demanded Jonathan Bellman. “Sending out thugs to bring us here and then keeping us prisoners in—”
“I have got away with it,” replied the Angel calmly. “You’re here in proof of the fact.”
“But we shall be missed,” snarled Daniel Phelps. “You fool, you don’t imagine that you can kidnap four businessmen and not have the police making enquiries—”
“The police can make as many enquiries as they like,” said the girl, “but they won’t help you.”
“Where have you brought us?” said Scarthright. “What is this beastly place?”
“You ought to know,” answered the Angel. “You brought me here first.”
“I?” cried Scarthright, and then as her meaning dawned on him: “Do you mean that this—that this is—”
“It was Mr. Phelps’s house,” she said. “I bought it the day before yesterday.”
“Good heavens!” There was consternation in Phelps’ voice. “You bought it? But it was a man called Harker—”
“My nominee,” said the Angel.
“Why have you done this?” said Hathaway. “Why have you brought us here?”
“I want information,” snapped the Angel quickly, and her eyes were hard. “I’ve tried other means to get it and now I’m going to try this. I want to know which of you killed Leonard Drake.”
A sharp sound like the sudden release of pent-up steam came from where they were sitting, and the four faces seemed to grow whiter in the dim light.
“You—you’re mad!” It was Scarthright who spoke. “Mad! The man who killed Leonard Drake was tried and found guilty and—hanged.”
“A man was tried, and found guilty and hanged,” said the Angel, and her voice was like chilled steel. “But he was innocent.”
“Nonsense!” snarled Daniel Phelps. “Easthanger was as guilty as hell. You’re crazy, girl! Anyhow, what’s it got to do with you?”
“I’ll tell you,” replied the Angel, “because that is one of the reasons I have had you brought here. Six
years ago a man called Leonard Drake was shot dead in the grounds of Lord Easthanger’s estate in Hampshire. Lord Easthanger was found by a gardener standing over the body with a revolver in his hand. It was proved that the bullet, which had killed Drake, had been fired from that revolver and that Lord Easthanger had had an appointment with Drake, at the place where the murder was committed, for that evening.
“The gardener had heard the shot a few minutes before he made the discovery, and had seen nobody else in the vicinity except his master. There was every reason why Lord Easthanger should have killed Drake, because Drake had been blackmailing him for years. Lord Easthanger was arrested and, as you said just now, tried, found guilty and hanged. He had a wife and child. The shock of his disgraceful death killed his wife, but the child did not die. She swore to clear her father’s name, for she knew, because he told her, that he was innocent. She is here before you now. She was eighteen then, and for six years she has dedicated her life to finding out the truth. You asked the other day who I was. Well, now you know. I am Angela Easthanger, the daughter of the man who was executed for a crime he never committed!”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Mr. Leeming Talks
Mr. Oscar Leeming, in the discomfort or his cell, found ample opportunity for thought. His thoughts were by no means pleasant ones, but since he had very little power over them, he could not help that. He summoned the officer in charge of his temporary prison and declared that he wished to make a statement. And when the formalities had been complied with, a statement he made.
It was a long statement, and it contained, without any omissions whatever, a full and true account of the incidents that had led up to and resulted in Mr. Leeming’s arrest and present incarceration. The whole plot regarding the frame-up against the Angel was laid bare.
Jimmy Holland was brought into conference, since anything appertaining to the activities of the Angel was his particular province and the immediate result was that a visit was paid to the house of Daniel Phelps by Jimmy and the inspector who was inquiring into the death of Mr. Higgins, armed with a warrant for the arrest of Daniel Phelps on a charge of wilful murder
Unfortunately, the warrant could not be executed, for Mr. Phelps was not there.
“He’s bolted!” grunted Inspector Redman, and at first Jimmy agreed that it looked very like it. At Scarthright’s house they were confronted with a similar situation. Abel Scarthright had set out for his office on the previous day and had not returned. Jimmy looked at the puzzled Redman and frowned.
They tried the others, but they did not find them. Hathaway and Bellman had vanished as completely as had Daniel Phelps and Abel Scarthright.
“There can’t be any doubt about it now,” declared Inspector Redman, with conviction.
Jimmy was silent. It looked to him very much as though the Angel had had something to do with these sudden disappearances, but he kept this idea to himself. It was now late in the afternoon, and when he had got rid of Redman, he drove to Wyvern Court and went up to the Angel’s flat.
But there was no reply to his ring, and he had turned disappointedly away when he ran into Freddie Babbington.
“Hello, hello!” greeted that large individual cheerfully. “Have you just arrived or are you just going, old boy?”
“I was just going,” replied Jimmy. “Apparently there is nobody in.”.
As they descended in the lift he briefly told his friend what was worrying him.
“Well, what about going along to your flat for a spot and chew the thing over?” suggested Babbington.
Jimmy thought this was a good idea. They were admitted by the dignified Limpet, and drinks were brought into the little study.
“Maybe this chappie of the houseboat is at the bottom of it,” said Freddie.
This had not occurred to Jimmy.
“I don’t see what he would want with Scarthright and the others,” he said. “He was only after the photograph.”
“There may have been something else as well,” said Freddie. “We know nothing about that nasty piece of work who tried to cut short my young and valuable life. By the way, you’ve got Uncle Ebenezer, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Trot him out old boy, and let me have a look at him,” said Freddie. “I’ve never had a real good worry at him. Perhaps I can wrest the dark and grisly secret from him.”
“You'll be even cleverer than you think you are if you can,” said Jimmy. He unlocked the safe and produced the photograph. “There you are. It will keep you quiet, anyway, and that’s something,”
Freddie Babbington settled himself comfortably in his chair, and stared at the elegant gentleman with his beautiful whiskers, the gilt chair, and the marble pedestal and aspidistra. Jimmy, lighting a cigarette, began to pace up and down the room. He was more worried than he cared to admit, for if the Angel was responsible for the disappearance of these men it might be a serious matter for her. But if, for reasons of her own, Angela had taken the law into her own hands and carried these men off somewhere, she was likely to get into trouble, and Jimmy did not want that to happen. In fact, he would have gone to almost any lengths to prevent it. But perhaps he was imagining things. Even now the girl might be comfortably reading a book in front of her sitting room fire.
He picked up the telephone. That could easily be proved, anyway. He gave her number and waited. After a long delay the voice of the operator informed him that there was no reply.
“No answer, old boy?” asked Freddie, looking round as Jimmy hung up the receiver.
Jimmy shook his head.
“Darned funny!” commented Mr. Babbington. “That maid of hers ought to be in, anyhow.”
Jimmy made no reply, but took up the telephone directory and rapidly turned the pages. An idea had occurred to him, which was easy to test. He found the number of Harker’s garage and tried to get through. But there was no reply from here, either. He was pretty sure now that his idea was right and that the Angel was responsible. She had enlisted the aid of the people in the garage, whom he had every reason to believe to have been in her pay. He made up his mind quite suddenly.
“Come along!” he said. “I’m going to Wyvern Court.”
“But, my dear old boy,” protested Freddie, “what’s the good, if they’re all out?”
“I’m not going to try the front entrance,” said Jimmy. “I’m going up the fire escape. There’s a balcony and french windows, and a penknife will admit us.”
He was out in the hall before he had finished speaking and pulling on his coat. Freddie hesitated for a second, thrust ‘Uncle Ebenezer’ into his breast pocket, and joined him.
They were at Wyvern Court in ten minutes, and in another ten were standing on the balcony.
“In you go!” he said, in a whisper, and Freddie stepped into the darkness beyond. Jimmy followed him, felt his way to the door and pressed the switch. When the lights came on he glanced about him. The place was very neat, and almost the first thing he saw was a legal-looking document lying on the top of the little desk. He went over and picked it up, and his exclamation brought Freddie Babbington to his side.
“What is it?” he asked.
“The title deeds of Abbey Lodge, Horsham,” said Jimmy. “Made out to Harker. I was right. The Angel has bought that old house of Phelps’s, and I’ll bet a pound to a penny that she’s taken those four men there!”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Catastrophe
If the Angel had intended to cause a sensation by the revelation of her identity, she was not disappointed. Incredulity, astonishment, and consternation flitted in swift succession across the faces of the four men in from of her.
“Easthanger’s daughter!” muttered Abel Scarthright. “My God!”
“You never guessed?” said the Angel. “I’m surprised it didn’t occur to you.”
“We thought you’d gone abroad with your mother,” whispered Julian Hathaway hoarsely. “Everybody thought so—”
“And everybo
dy was wrong,” she interrupted. “We went to Camberley when the estate was sold, and lived in a cottage in the name of Smith. Mother died there, and was buried in the churchyard. There is no name on the stone that marks her grave. When my father’s memory has been publicly cleared, her real name will be inscribed there.”
“You’re crazy, girl!” exclaimed Jonathan Bellman angrily. “Your father killed Drake. There’s no doubt of it. The evidence against him was irrefutable—”
“I care nothing for the evidence,” said the Angel. “I went to see my father in prison while he was awaiting execution. I went with my mother; it was the last time we saw him, and he swore then that he was innocent. He would not have lied to us.”
“But why should you think we know anything about it?” said Daniet Phelps. “What do you expect to get from us?”
“The truth,” she answered quietly. “You know how Drake died, and who killed him, and you will tell me. That’s why I’ve brought you here.”
Bellman uttered a short laugh.
“You’ve had your trouble for nothing!” he snarled. “I’ve never heard such nonsense! Of course Easthanger killed Drake—”
“I’m afraid you’ve rather let your imagination get the better of your intelligence,” put in Daniel Phelps smoothly. “I assure you you’ve made a very big mistake, and a mistake that is likely to land you in serious trouble. In forcibly bringing us here and keeping us against our wills you have perpetrated an offence in the eyes of the law. We are, however, reasonable men. Now that we know who you are, we understand something of the feelings that have prompted you to act in this way. We not only understand them, but in a great measure we respect them. I give you my word, however, that you are wrong, and that we know nothing about the death of Drake that is not already public property. He was a business associate of ours, but we had no knowledge of the fact that he was blackmailing your father until it came out in evidence at the trial. Now, why not be sensible: admit that you’ve made a mistake and release us from this unpleasant and intolerable position? I’m sure we shall all be prepared to overlook what you have done and say no more about it.”
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