The Missing Angel by Erle Cox (lightest ebook reader TXT) 📕

forgotten.

The furnishing of the charge room is neither lavish nor tasteful. Besides

the counter there is one large plain deal table, and one unsympathetic

chair. On the wall opposite the door is a clock. On the counter is a

telephone, a type-writer, and the charge book. The wall on the right as

you face the counter is hidden by shelves that hold a large library of

photograph albums. The department makes a hobby of preserving the

portraits of all its visitors. They are kindly folk. Fortunately, one is

not detained there long before being conducted to the more homely comfort

of the cells.

The visit of Inspector Kane was by no means usual. Of the two seniors on

duty, one was wondering what the heck he was snooping round for, and the

other was wishing to heck he would clear out. He sat on the corner of the

table whence he had an uninterrupted view down the corridor of approach.

His aspect was sombre and his speech matched his aspect.

“You both should be proud, as I am,” Kane was saying to an inwardly

fuming audience of two, “to belong to an organisation which permits a

common drunk and disorderly to walk out of his cell, to paint the town

red, and to make monkeys of the whole force.”

“I was not on duty when he escaped,” protested one exasperated

subordinate.

The voice went on without heeding the interruption. “And the newspapers!

How they flatter us! How they enjoy Mr. Basil Williams! I don’t know

whether we are more deeply indebted to them or they to us.”

There came the sound of scuffling feet and angry voices from the unseen

vestibule. As the sound was normal none of the three took any notice of

it.

“But perhaps we both should regard your Mr. Basil Williams as our

benefactor. Should you ever see him again…”

The moody monologue was broken by a startled exclamation from one of the

receiving officers.

“Holy smoke! It’s him!”

As he spoke there was propelled into the room, before a large

plain-clothes man, a writhing, dishevelled and protesting figure. At the

sight of him the eyes of the senior constable lit with a savage welcome.

“Basil Williams!” he almost shouted. Then, to the propeller, “Where did

you pick him up?”

“Down at the Casino Club with that redheaded tabby, Elsie Wilson—knew

he’d come back there,” responded the guardian of the captive

triumphantly.

“I insist on knowing the meaning of this outrage?” demanded the capture.

“I protest…”

“Cut that fooling out, Williams,” snapped the senior constable. Then,

over his shoulder to Kane, he added, “This is Williams, sir.”

“How dare you say my name’s Williams,” barked the indignant captive. “My

name is Mark Harding.”

Inspector Kane rose from his seat on the table and, leaning on the

counter, inspected the prisoner with cold satisfaction. “So, you’re not

Mr. Williams, you’re Mr. Mark Harding.”

“Yes!” asserted the prisoner furiously, “and who the (censored) are

you?—you bladder-headed bun-faced son of a gun!”

Kane disregarded the personality and the question, and turned to the

senior. “Quite sure?”

“I could pick him out, and swear to him from ten thousand,” asserted the

senior.

“So could I, sir,” insisted his colleague. “Why, he’s wearing the same

clothes!”

“I tell you my name’s Harding!” shouted the captive. “I protest. I demand

to see a lawyer. You thick heads! How dare you arrest me, you blundering

gang of double-ended baboons?”

“Such language, sir,” put in the senior. “Last time he was here he said I

was the last of a long line of bachelors.”

“Indeed!” commented Inspector Kane, with interest. “I wonder how he found

that out. Still,” he turned to the prisoner, “I think it only fair to

advise you that the bench will not take a lenient view of your

reflections on either my ancestry, which, I assure you, are baseless, or

on that of the senior constable on which I have no information.”

“Oh, shut your head and tell me why I am arrested!”

Kane leaned over the charge book. “Well,” he smiled, “Mr. Williams, for a

start there are charges here of drunk and disorderly, assaulting six

constables, damaging three uniforms, bad language, insulting behaviour,

absconding from custody, destroying government property.” He turned over

a page or two. “Here is another drunk and disorderly, insulting

behaviour…”

“You’re talking absolute rot!” interrupted the captive. “I tell you I

only landed here from Adelaide this morning. I’ve never been in Melbourne

before in my life.”

“Dear me!” responded Kane tartly. “No doubt the bench will be interested

to hear that tomo—.”

The word was snapped off on his lips, and Inspector Kane stood glaring at

the doorway. There, framed, as a picture, stood a large uniformed man

holding in check, with some difficulty, an exact replica of Mr. Mark

Harding.

Taking the staring silence of the group at the counter for delight too

deep for words, the constable announced proudly, “I’ve got him! Senior,

I’ve got him! Picked him up in Swanston Street.”

As he spoke his captive broke from his grasp and hammering an angry fist

on the counter, demanded an explanation for “a preposterous and unheard

of outrage.”

For a moment no one spoke. The three men behind the counter stared from

one prisoner to the other. As they did, the newcomer made a rapid survey

of Mr. Harding and blurted out an astonished, “Who the blazes are you,

sir?”

Mr. Harding returned the stare with a slow “Well—I’m—blowed!”

Kane found his voice. “There seems, Senior, to be some element of doubt.”

Then, to the newcomer, with frozen politeness, “May I venture to enquire

if your name is Basil Williams?”

“No, sir! It is not!” thundered the man.

“I was afraid so,” muttered Kane.

“I, sir, am Norman Gore, of Invercargill, New Zealand—and,” he shook a

finger in Inspector Kane’s face, “perhaps you, sir, you will be good

enough to tell me why the blue blazes I’ve been dragged by that walking

lump of putty”—he pointed to the constable—“to your infernal police

station. Tell me that!” His open palm smashed down on the charge book.

“Perhaps you can enlighten the gentleman,” said Kane, glaring at the

senior beside him.

“I—I…” What the senior might have said was interrupted by a loud,

commanding voice from the corridor.

“Keep your filthy hands off me, sir! How dare you touch me! By Gad, sir!

I’ll have you broke for this!” The uniformed man by the door was thrust

unceremoniously aside as a third edition of Basil Williams strode into

the room, followed by Senior Constable O’Connor.

Number three raged up to the counter: “Who’s in charge of this lunatic

asylum?” he demanded.

“Of course, you’re not Basil Williams, either?” Inspector Kane felt that

his sunny disposition was becoming overclouded.

“Basil—Damme, sir! What do you mean?” Then, as O’Connor laid a detaining

hand on his arm he swung round on him. “Take your hand off me! How dare

you touch me! Damme! Stand to attention when you speak to me ‘Shun!’”

The savage ring of command in the voice brought O’Connor to an

involuntary obedience.

“No,” murmured Kane to himself, “I fear this is not Basil Williams.”

“Now, sir! Who commands here?” He shot the words at Kane’s head.

Kane looked from the volcano to his two predecessors and waved his hand

in introduction.

For the first time number three glanced at his companions in captivity.

“What the dooce is the meaning of this—this, er—beastly

masquerade—this is a plot! A plot! I say!” Then, even more furiously, to

Kane, “Do you know who I am?”

“If you are not Basil Williams,” Kane responded, “I will be pleased to

hear it.”

“My name, sir, is Oliver.” His fingers dived into his vest pocket and

drew forth a gold card-case. “Cyril Courtney Oliver—Sir Cyril Oliver,

late Colonel of His Majesty’s Eighteenth Dragoons.” He thrust a card at

Kane as though presenting an automatic pistol.

“Don’t believe him, sir,” O’Connor intruded excitedly, “he’s nuts. I know

he’s Williams. I found him at the Casino Club talking to that Wilson

dame. She called him Basil.”

“By Gad, sir!” shouted the infuriated Oliver. “You’re mad! You’re not fit

to wear a uniform, sir!”

“Ah! Can it!” growled O’Connor. “You can’t fool me—why, you flaming

cannibal, there’s the mark where you bit me the other night…”

Before his prisoner could retort, he moved aside and O’Connor caught his

first clear view of the two other prisoners. As he did so he stopped

speaking, his jaw stuck on a dead centre. He glared at Messrs. Harding

and Gore and then transferred the glare to Sir Cyril Oliver. There was an

evident attempt on his part to put his thoughts into words, but the only

sound he emitted was something akin to that made by the plug hole of a

lavatory basin as it empties itself.

Said Inspector Kane, very gently and patiently, “Are you prepared to

swear your man is Williams, O’Connor?”

“I—I…” began O’Connor desperately.

“Precisely! O’Connor,” Kane’s smile was neither happy nor amiable.

“But, sir!” O’Connor found his voice. “There’s something crook about

this. One of them’s Williams.”

“Well, since you know more of Mr. Williams than anyone, perhaps you will

pick him out. I may be pessimistic,” Kane paused to wipe his forehead

with his handkerchief, “but it is a matter on which I would not care to

dogmatise.”

At this juncture the three captives, pressing towards Kane, raised their

voices in vigorous and vituperative protest on the indignity of their

position. The three arresting constables joined the group, from which

rose an acrimonious clamour, which was augmented by the earnest

endeavours of the senior constable to silence them.

None noticed for a moment that the riot was smothering a smaller outbreak

at the door. It was the plain-clothes man who announced its advent by a

shout of, “Cripes! Here’s another ruddy Basil Williams!”

And there was.

The new-corner was not taking the situation kindly, for his advance to

the counter, where the spectacle had stilled the tumult, was caused by

his captor urging him forward with one hand grasping his collar and the

other the seat of his pants. He brought up against the counter with “a

dull, sickening thud.”

His face was crimson with fury as he yelped. “Bunch of wise guys, eh! I

want the United States Consul! I’ll show you guys you can’t railroad an

American citizen.”

Inspector Kane raised a restraining hand and interposed soothingly, “You

are not by any means the Duke of Norfolk?”

“Quit kidding, flatfoot!” snorted the latest model of Basil Williams.

“Nor Basil Williams?” Kane’s voice was composed, but a little frayed at

the edges.

“Look yeah! Which of youse guys is the big noise here, or are you all

haywire?”

“Perhaps,” Kane suggested, “an inspection of your three friends will

explain the situation.”

The citizen of “God’s Own Country” goggled at the other three captives,

and shouted: “Frame up! I want the American Consul!”

No one heard Mr. Mark Harding murmur, “Three in a bunch, Nicholas.”

All were too intent on Sir Cyril Oliver, who evidently resented being

classed as the newcomer’s friend, for he exploded in a blazing string of

profanity that more than maintained the traditional reputation of

dragoons for language.

“Hi!” shouted the senior constable. “You can’t talk like that here.”

“By Gad, sir! Can’t I?” snorted Oliver. “– – – – –-.”

The effort wrung an unwilling gasp of admiration even