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

constable, who imagined until that moment that he had nothing more to

learn in graphic malediction.

But duty is duty. “I’ll book you for that—Colonel or no Colonel,” he

declared grabbing his pen. Then, over his shoulder to his subordinate,

“Answer that phone.”

Inspector Kane was feeling at the moment that his cup was too full to

hold another drop of anguish. But the announcement that the Commissioner

was enquiring if Basil Williams had been caught made him feel that he had

been inflicted with an unfair share of tribulation. As he took the

receiver, the argument between officials and captives broke out with

renewed strength.

Three times did he try to make the irascible voice from wires understand

that four men, identical with Williams, had been brought in. Then, while

he was spelling the word f-o-u-r to an uncomprehending chief, he suddenly

looked towards the door and gasped, “No. I mean seven.” The voice

enquired with freezing sarcasm if he were quite sure he had not

overlooked a few more Basil Williamses. It went on to assure Inspector

Kane that only one Basil Williams was required—the right one. He

appreciated the zeal that had collected seven, but—it went on—doubted

if either the bench or the press would be so favourably impressed by the

industry of the police. The voice would accept it as a kindness if

Inspector Kane would report in due course if Basil Williams should be

arrested, an achievement which seemed at the moment highly improbable.

Gently, replacing the receiver, Kane looked at it with a malevolence it

did not deserve. Softly he repeated what he could remember of Sir Cyril

Oliver’s final outburst, then, feeling a little relieved, he turned on

the riot that raged across the counter. “Silence!” His voice crashed in

on the uproar to which three newcomers were adding their quota.

“Take those men into the inner corridor and shut the door,” he ordered.

“You wait, O’Connor!” he added.

Seven protesting captives and six constables filed out of the charge room

into the gloomy, bare corridor that led to the cells.

Kane watched them until the door closed. Then, hands deep in his trouser

pockets, he paced to and fro with his head bent in thought. Neither the

senior constable in charge nor his colleague cared to break into that

reverie. The silence was broken by another shuffle of steps from the

outer world. Kane paced on unheeding. Then a bright voice broke into his

thoughts. “The beer’s mine, Senior! I’ve got him! I’ve got him!” From the

pitying eyes of the two men behind the counter that juicy young constable

met the basilisk glare from the pale countenance of Inspector Kane.

“Beer—beer—” the voice grated at him, “you’ll get—beer!” There was a

pause between each word as though it were wrenched out. Then, “Take that

man into the corridor,”—the trembling finger pointed—“and stay there

with him.”

He stood while the staggered constable removed his obnoxious presence and

more obnoxious charge. Then he turned to O’Connor.

“O’Connor,”—the Inspector had himself under control—“you saw Williams

on the night of the first riot. You arrested him the time he escaped from

custody. You saw him the other night when he escaped arrest. Is that not

so?”

“Yes, sir!” replied O’Connor.

“Do you honestly think you could pick him out of that gang of humming

birds?” Through the closed door the murmur of voices indicated that the

captives were still protesting.

“I thought, sir,” answered the stolid and bewildered O’Connor, “that I

could swear to him anywhere, but now…” He paused.

“I understand.” Kane nodded with pursed lips. “What about you?” He turned

to the senior and his subordinates.

“No hope, sir,” said one. “Same here,” replied the other.

“If you ask me, sir,” O’Connor ventured, “that Williams bloke’s put

something across us.”

For once the sharp edge of adversity had taken the sting from Kane’s

temper. He looked at O’Connor thoughtfully. “I’m crazy enough to agree

with you, O’Connor, but…” He paused, and almost wailed. “Dammit

all, how could he? Eight of them…”

“Nine!” said the senior, who was looking down the corridor. “There’s

another coming.”

The four watched the entrance of a new candidate in silence; as a

plain-clothes man led him to the counter. Entirely disregarding the pride

of his captor and the wrath of the captive, the four officials examined

the man with eyes trained to miss nothing.

“The dead spit of him, sir!” O’Connor spoke, “and the dead spit of every

one of the others.”

Kane ordered the astonished couple to join the menagerie in the corridor.

“Do you men recognise what this means?” asked Kane as they disappeared.

“Williams had diddled us,” said the senior.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Kane agreed. “But how? It’s

preposterous!”

“Can’t make me believe it’s coincidence,” the senior growled. “Nice fools

we look.”

“And—look here, sir,” O’Connor broke in. “You can bet your life that

swine Williams knows it, and he’s one of them.”

“Hopeless!” muttered Kane. “There isn’t a magistrate in the world who

would convict.”

“It’s a put-up job, all right,” the senior muttered. “Prove it!” snorted

Kane. “I suppose you did not finger-print Williams.”

“Never do it until the morning, sir,” the senior replied.

“Then we’re scuppered!” Kane’s voice almost broke. “And see what a hole

we are in. We can never dare to try to arrest him again that is, unless

he commits another offence and we get him red-handed.”

The others nodded a bitter acknowledgment of the truth. “What’s to be

done, sir?” asked the senior.

“Nothing, it’s a washout! Lord send the press don’t get hold of the

story. Kane walked from behind the counter and followed by O’Connor,

passed into the inner corridor to be greeted by a storm of abuse and

demands for immediate release.

“Line those men up!” Kane ordered.

Nine Basil Williamses shuffled into line and faced him defiantly.

Kane and O’Connor walked slowly down the line in the hope of a possible

clue, but there was none.

He stood before them at last. “One of you,” he said, “I am convinced, is

Basil Williams. It is with profound regret that we cannot positively

identify him. To the other eight, I offer apologies for a mistaken

identity, which any honest (he emphasised the word) man will pardon. You

may all go, as there can be no further reason for detaining you. Though I

am convinced that some of you at least are associated with Basil

Williams. Go!” he hooted, as they paused as if to argue.

Kane watched them till they filed down the entrance corridor into

freedom. Then he addressed the waiting constables: “Don’t bring in

another Basil Williams unless you actually catch him committing an

offence. Warn all other men you see.” Then he, too, departed.

That evening, before midnight, three more samples of Basil Williams were

brought into the watchhouse. They were all rejected as though

plague-stricken by the charge officer—especially the one, Sir Cyril

Oliver, who was arrested for the second time that night. The senior

constable in charge suffered the orderly room dressing down he received

from the Colonel in a seething silence.

One Basil Williams spent what was left of the night at the Casino Club,

enjoying the society of a lively and openly adoring partner whom he

addressed as Elsie.

As Basil Williams said much later that night, in his bedroom, to Nicholas

Senior, he had been given “the freedom of the city.” He went on to relate

that during the evening O’Connor had returned to the Casino and had

glared balefully at Basil Williams, but without attempting to hinder his

movements. “I think,” Tydvil observed, “O’Connor would have given a

month’s pay to bite me. He looked like it, anyway.”