The Missing Angel by Erle Cox (lightest ebook reader TXT) đź“•
Two incidents occurred about this time that made him resolve on emancipation. In both of these he was an unwilling eavesdropper.
One night, while returning home from a meeting, he entered an empty railway compartment. At the next station, two men, well known to him, took the adjoining compartment. When he recognised their voices, he was prevented from makin
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the old religious animosities, and the growth of sentiment against
war—both serious factors from our point of view.”
“They would be,” commented Tydvil.
“Well, I appointed a Royal Commission to enquire. But you know what Royal
Commissions are. They sent in a report of one hundred and thirty-five
thousand volumes. The only value it had was a punishment to Royal
Commissioners from earth. I made them read it. But Judas Iscariot, who
was chairman, sent in a minority report on one sheet of foolscap. I read
it, and that is where I made the blunder.”
“I shouldn’t think one sheet of foolscap could offer more than one
hundred and thirty-five thousand volumes report,” commented Tydvil.
“You don’t know Judas Iscariot,” answered Nicholas grimly. “Mind you, it
was a magnificent piece of constructive hellishness. I admit that. It was
such a thoroughly damnable idea, that I accepted it without weighing the
consequence to ourselves. It backfired.”
“It must have been a nasty piece of work,” Tydvil said sympathetically.
“It was,” Nicholas continued. “He planned nothing less than a second
great betrayal. In his preamble he emphasised the necessity for a
doctrine that would not only turn race against race and nation against
nation, but one which would also create internecine strife and inflame
fratricidal hatred.”
“A pretty doctrine,” commented Tydvil dryly.
“There was more in it than that. The creed had to be, apparently, simple
to gull fools and superficially beneficial to blind wiser men. Aimed at
the destruction of religion, it had to win the support of churchmen—or
some of them. But it had to be strong enough to wreck civilisation in a
tempest of bloodshed.”
“Pleasant mind your friend Judas must have.” Tydvil was profoundly
interested.
“Yes,” Nicholas admitted, “and he built better than he knew. In half a
dozen lines below the preamble, he set out the doctrine of Communism. And
I—may I be pardoned for it—let him do it.”
“So that is how it began.” Tydvil was awestricken.
“That is how it began,” Nicholas echoed. “Judas claimed that it needed
his personal attention for propagation, so I let him loose on earth. He
took the name—let me see—the name…” He drew his master card from
his pocket. “Yes, that’s it—the name he took was Karl Marx.”
“What! Karl Marx was…” gasped Tydvil.
Nicholas nodded. “Judas Iscariot none other. As we expected, the creed
spread like a disease. Look at the state of the world today because of
it. And this is only the beginning.”
“But,” Tydvil was puzzled, “isn’t that what Judas and you planned.”
“True,” Nicholas sighed, “but we did not foresee the effects on our own
Empire. For years now eighty per cent of our new population has been
Communists, and they are keeping my dominions in a state of turmoil. We
are never exactly peaceful, but our gentlemen have always observed
certain decencies. These fellows don’t recognise any, and are demanding a
republic not that they have any chance of getting it.”
Tydvil laughed.
“Nothing to laugh at,” said Nicholas a little sourly.
“Forgive me,” Tydvil said contritely, “I was merely thinking there was
something of poetic justice in the reaction.”
“Nothing poetic in it, believe me,” growled Nicholas. “You see, we have a
very largely Conservative population—the fox hunting and old port type;
to say nothing of a very populous colony of Royalties. You cannot expect
gentlemen to tolerate these fellows. They don’t either,” he added.
“Ructions?” asked Tydvil, still amused.
“There are, and believe me, civil war in Hell is no joke.” Nicholas spoke
as one with a genuine grievance.
“Hard luck.” Tydvil felt that his friend deserved sympathy;
“The trouble is, too, that my people are inclined to blame me, and I have
to recognise they have cause for their loss of confidence.” Nicholas
spoke glumly. “Would you believe it! Just before I left home some new
arrival organised a sit-down strike.”
“Characteristic,” Tydvil observed.
Nicholas nodded. “But I soon settled that. I sent a five million volt
charge through every fire-bar in Hell, and there will never be another
sit-down strike at any rate—for obvious reasons.”
“There does not seem to be any remedy for your trouble,” Tydvil said
thoughtfully.
“There is,” replied Nicholas decisively, “and I am going to enforce it
the moment I return home. You see, Tydvil, a Communist is not worth
damning even, and I am not going to have them cluttering up Hell and
creating a nuisance. Not only that, but they are going to suffer the
punishment they deserve—and so is Judas Iscariot. He has it coming to
him.”
“Is this going to be poetic justice?” Tydvil asked, laughing.
“It is,” Nicholas responded. “I am creating a new Dominion to which every
Communist will be transported. In it the Communists will live with all
their Communist doctrines rigidly enforced—and if that will not be a
merry Hell, my name is not Nicholas Senior.”
“And Judas Iscariot?” asked Tydvil curiously.
“He will be my Viceroy and will administer the doctrines he created.
Don’t think I am vindictive, my friend. It is my duty to administer
impartial justice in my realms, and the fact that Judas is an old and
valued friend is no reason for mitigation of his punishment. Eternity
with Communism is the worst I can think of.”
It was Tydvil who broke the silence in which Nicholas sat brooding.
“Look, Nicholas,” he enquired hesitantly, “would there be any objection
to my repeating what you have told me?”
Nicholas came out of his reverie. “No—none,” he said after a moment’s
thought. “But it will be too late to do any good. That infernal doctrine
of Iscariot’s has too strong a hold. But tell the story if you like.”
“Tell me,” asked Tydvil, “are Parlour Pinks included with the
Communists?”
An expression of disgust came into Nicholas’s eyes. He waved his hand
curtly. “I’m not interested,” he said shortly. “A Parlour Pink is a lower
creature than a Communist.”
Tydvil had gained his heart’s desire with Edwin Muskat’s nose, but he had
to recognise that his adventure had not improved the standing of Basil
Williams in the community. In reporting the story the morning papers
unanimously demanded the suppression of the now notorious roysterer.
Their criticism of the police for another failure to lay their hands on
him stirred Russell Street to its depths. Several scalp hunting members
of the Opposition ragged the Chief Secretary in the Legislative Assembly
on the way in which his department was mismanaged. Next morning he had a
heart to heart talk with the Commissioner of Police. The Commissioner
left the Ministerial presence with thoughts as red as his close shaven
cheeks.
That heart to heart talk, as it filtered down to the lower ranks of the
Metropolitan Police Force, lost nothing of its scathing satire. Each
subordinate as he received it from his immediate chief added to and
embroidered it as an outlet for his own bruised amour propre. By the time
it reached the rank and file, both uniformed and plain-clothed, it had
assumed the proportions of a hurricane of vituperative malediction.
Boiled down, however, it amounted to only three words: “Get Basil
Williams!”
All this was reported faithfully to Tydvil by an amused Nicholas, who
pointed out that he thought that there was not sufficient room in the
Commonwealth of Australia for both the Commissioner and Basil Williams.
“You know, Tydvil,” he added, “giving good advice is not my forte, though
I indulge in it more often than churchmen would allow. Still, I do think
you would be wise to adopt some less conspicuous individuality. I’ll
admit, of course, that Basil Williams becomes an increasing source of
high enterprise, but you will always be liable to have your amusements
curtailed by a brawl. Besides, there is always the risk of a bullet.”
A stubborn expression came into Tydvil’s eyes. “Dash it all, Nicholas,”
he exclaimed, “why should I be driven off the streets? I like Basil
Williams. He has some jolly good friends, too. I’d lose them all as
anyone else.”
A slow smile spread from Nicholas’s clean-cut lips. “Cherchez la femme,”
he murmured.
“Nothing of the kind, you wicked old ruffian,” Tydvil laughed. “Except
for his relation with the police, Basil Williams is eminently
respectable.”
“You may not be aware of it, Tydvil, but that festive young woman named
Elsie, who introduced you to the night life of the city, would be very
sorry, to hear that assertion.”
Tydvil looked up sharply. “Nonsense!” he said. “She’s quite a nice girl.”
“Much more so than some of her more conventional sisters,” Nicholas
agreed. “But at the present moment the police are using her as bait for
you, my boy.”
Tydvil expressed an opinion about the police in terms that he would not
have dreamed of using a few weeks earlier. They were ripe, fruity and
concise. He was sitting at his table and, cupping his face in his hands,
he stared at the wall opposite, his brow wrinkled in concentrated
thought.
Nicholas from his armchair sat watching him. Presently the smile he wore
broke into a hearty laugh. “Magnificent, Tydvil! Magnificent! You’re a
credit to me.”
The words brought Tydvil erect. “You…?” He broke off, staring at
Nicholas.
“Understand? Yes!” Nicholas was still laughing. “I was wondering if you
could find a way out.”
“Did I really think of that myself, Nicholas,” he asked, “without your
prompting?”
“Word of honour, yes,” Nicholas replied. “I’m proud of you, Tydvil.”
“But can it be done?” Mr. Jones asked anxiously.
“It can be, and will be,” Nicholas assured him. “How many will you want?”
“I think a dozen would be enough,” said Tydvil after a moment’s thought.
“Twenty if you like,” Nicholas promised.
“Keep them in reserve. If I need more than a dozen I’ll call for them.”
“Are you going to be in it yourself?” enquired Nicholas.
Tydvil nodded. “The first I think. It should be perfectly safe. You can
send the others along at about three-minute intervals.”
“Good,” Nicholas replied, “depend on me.”
Tydvil glanced at the clock on his desk. “Nine fifteen,” he said. “I’ll
make straight for the Casino Club. Is Elsie there?” he paused to ask.
“Expecting you.”
“Right!” Tydvil responded briskly as he stood up. “Keep them away from me
till I get there. They can pick me up at the Casino.”
Two minutes later, Basil Williams, with his hat at its usual insolent
angle, was striding along Swanston Street. He had the bearing of a man
who was going places to do things.
At nine forty-five all was quiet at the Russell Street Police Station. A
few minutes earlier Inspector Kane had dropped in. Inspector Kane was a
sore man. He knew Basil Williams only by name, but there was no man in
the city whom he disliked more. Inspector Kane had thirty years of
blameless service behind him, and Basil Williams had clouded its
brightness. His sentiments towards Basil Williams at the moment were
positively ferocious, but as he discussed that dissolute ruffian with the
senior constable on duty his voice and bearing were coldly official.
The watchhouse at Russell Street can hardly be described as cosy. Those
of my readers who have been arrested will remember that after staggering
up the steps into a cheerless vestibule, they turned down a corridor to
the left, to arrive before the counter of an office at its end. If it was
not their first appearance they, of course, received a more or less
cordial reception from
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