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

the thought of what might happen should Amy come into contact with

Geraldine on one of her occasional visits to the office.

He knew that so far as Amy was concerned he had left Geraldine’s

reputation a total wreck. He felt certain, too, that if Amy were to let

herself loose on Geraldine, that astute young woman would, in a second,

convict him of being the source of Amy’s information.

Knowing Geraldine, William’s alter ego regarded the outlook as rather

perilous. What Miss Brand’s reaction to the situation would be, did not

bear contemplation. However, he reflected that a game that did not

involve risks was not worth playing. Certainly, his spurious identities

of Billy and Basil Williams had made the life of Tydvil Jones’ anything

but drab and boring.

The domestic life of Tydvil also became more hectic than usual during the

following week when news reached Amy from sorrowing secretaries of bereft

societies that Mr. Jones had severed his invaluable connection from them.

Life under his own roof became one long battle, into which Amy flung

herself, heart and soul. In the struggle for liberty and independence

Tydvil fought with a patriot’s fervour. The few meals he took at home

sounded like mealtime among the larger carnivora at the Zoo.

His worst experience was when he arrived home late at night to find Amy

in battle array waiting for him. Following his usual tactics he charged

through the enemy’s lines, and, closely pursued, reached his own room. It

was only when he attempted to lock the door he found that the lock had

been removed. The job had been Amy’s own handiwork, and had cost her half

the afternoon to complete.

Under her threat to “scream the house down” if he did not let her in,

Tydvil surrendered. It was not a pleasant interview. The conversation was

almost one-sided, and lasted for three hours. It took Amy every minute of

them to describe Tydvil as he appeared in her eyes. In addition to her

views on his desertion of her causes, his furtive conduct during the past

week, and her suspicions that he was leading a profligate life, she

reasserted her views on that Brand creature, that the girl was not better

than she should be, and that Tydvil knew it.

Finally, some further and more scandalous reflections on Geraldine

spurned Tydvil into reprisals. He fairly blew her out of the room with a

blast of language such as had never before assaulted Amy’s ears. She

retired shaken with sobs that on an earlier day Tydvil would have heard

with an abject sense of guilt and shame. Now they sounded like music in

his ears as he barricaded his door with his bed in case the enemy

counterattacked.

He had one satisfactory sense of superiority in the war. While he was

cherishing his secret of Amy and William, which he was reserving for a

crisis that he knew must come, Amy had nothing on him. He was still the

impeccable Tydvil Jones of the blameless life—on the surface, at any

rate.

Then, from causes beyond his control swift disaster befell him.

Since the night that he had defeated the police on the question of Basil

Williams, he had been careful to keep Basil out of any mischief that

might renew their attentions. As Nicholas had warned him, and as he

himself observed, Tydvil Jones was under quiet but continuous police

surveillance. Inspector Kane was a patient but tenacious man when his own

hunches were concerned. Intuition had linked Basil Williams and Tydvil

Jones in his mind, and he followed that intuition as a ferret follows a

rabbit.

Tydvil had found in Elsie Wilson an entertaining friend. It was a

friendship which to Nicholas’s cynical amusement he kept on a strictly

platonic basis. He recognised, however, that few of Basil Williams’s

friends accepted it at its face value.

One day, as Basil Williams, he kept a luncheon appointment with Elsie

with intent to spend the afternoon at the Moonee Valley. When they met in

Collins Street, Tydvil noticed that she was even more lighthearted and

entertaining than usual. He was not to know that Elsie had already

absorbed more joy-producing fluids than discretion warranted. The bottle

of wine they shared at lunch, preceded by a cocktail, completely

unleashed Elsie’s not tightly bound inhibitions.

Unfortunately, Tydvil did not rightly diagnose the cause of her

spontaneous gaiety until in Collins Street, after lunch, when the fresh

air took immediate effect.

Now, fate decreed that Inspector Kane had paused to speak to a uniformed

man on duty as the two emerged from the restaurant. Elsie’s merry laugh

drew his two narrowed grey eyes on Basil Williams and his partner.

Then, two facts struck Basil with a staggering impact. One was, that

Elsie was far from sober; and the other was that Inspector Kane and a

uniformed man were standing within ten feet of him.

Basil’s thoughts buzzed wildly for a moment and then crystallised. On the

opposite side of the street, and almost in front of the Centreway, stood

a taxi—and refuge.

Gently but firmly he took the now swaying Elsie’s arm and led her across

the street. It was not an easy passage because Elsie’s feet were

manifestly unsteady and the traffic was heavy. But he breathed a sigh of

relief when they reached the taxi in safety. A swift glance warned Tydvil

that Kane and the constable had left the far footpath and were moving

across the road with apparent indifference to his existence.

The taxi-driver regretted he was engaged. Basil quickly offered him

double fare to become disengaged. The man regretfully and respectfully

declined the offer. His obduracy evidently annoyed the lively Elsie,

whose raised voice halted a number of staggered pedestrians on the

footpath. Basil made a desperate but ineffectual attempt to draw her away

through the Centreway. Elsie was beyond reason, and before he could

intervene she struck the taxi-driver in the face.

What happened next occupied two irreparable seconds. The man, in trying

to dodge the infuriated Elsie, bumped into Basil. The girl flew at him,

and clung like a wild cat. Basil tried to pry her off her victim and the

three crashed in a heap to the pavement. He was on his feet in a moment

and lifted Elsie to her feet. He had a glimpse of Kane and the constable

passing through the traffic towards them at increased speed.

Chivalry forbade Basil to desert his disastrous partner. With all speed,

half carrying her, he made for the Centreway. The only idea in his mind

was to escape pursuit. The laughing crowd let him through, but Kane and

his satellite were not more than thirty feet behind him when he was half

way down the short passage to Flinders Lane.

His mind flew to Nicholas for assistance, and at the same instant he saw

advancing towards him no other than Amy, whose eyes were fixed with a

pious glare on the dishevelled Elsie. At the same moment Elsie slipped

from his grasp to a sitting posture on the pavement. Behind Basil

Williams was one disaster, in front of him was another. To assume his

identity of Tydvil Jones would be worse than to remain Basil Williams.

Reason fled before instinct. To save Elsie was impossible. It was a case

of sauve qui peut. Turning, he darted up the blind alley off the passage.

It was happily empty, and in its far corner stood a stack of scaffold

poles, behind which the breathless Basil squeezed himself. But as he did

so he recognised that he was trapped. There were sounds of hurrying feet

and excited voices nearing his refuge.

“We’ve got the beggar this time,” he heard Kane’s triumphant voice.

Strong hands tore the scaffold poles away. To the fugitive was revealed

Inspector Kane and the constable in the immediate foreground. Slightly

behind them was a group of interested spectators such as gather

mysteriously at every unusual event. Among them stood Amy. Two of the

faces bore an expression of undisguised astonishment. One of these

belonged to Inspector Kane, and the other was Amy’s.

The first of the groups to move was Amy. She almost sprang past Kane and

paused with a gasped, “Tydvil! Whatever is the meaning of this?”

Kane stared from one to the other. “Who is this man?” he demanded of Amy.

“He is my husband.” Amy resented the official voice and manner of Kane.

“He is Mr. Tydvil Jones.”

Kane glanced over his shoulder. With the ubiquity of the force a second

uniformed man had joined his colleagues. “Mason! Keep those people away.

You, Burns, take that woman to the watchhouse.” He waved his hand

towards Elsie, who had passed out where she lay.

Tydvil’s heart went out in sympathy for his unhappy little playmate who

was beyond his aid.

Then Kane turned back to run a cold, inquisitive eye over Tydvil Jones,

whose appearance at the moment was anything but dignified.

“So!” growled Kane, “you are Mr. Tydvil Jones?” Tydvil wished very

heartily at the moment that he could deny his identity—but admitted it.

“Then will you please inform me on what you were doing concealed behind

those poles?” The voice was respectful but coldly official, and its tone

indicated that a full and frank answer was required.

Although Amy was silent her eyes demanded explanations even more

eloquently than Kane’s voice.

Tydvil’s trouble at the moment was that an adequate explanation,

impromptu, of the presence of an eminent merchant and philanthropist

behind a pile of poles up an alley off a lane at one-thirty p.m., was not

the easiest thing in the world to provide.

All he could say as he looked into the searching grey eyes was, “Urn!” He

said “Urn!” several times.

At about the fourth repetition of the word, Inspector Kane said, not very

encouragingly, “You have already said ‘Urn,’ Mr. Jones.”

Nevertheless, Tydvil repeated the word and halted again in his speech.

Inspector Kane was about to speak again when a diversion came that made

Tydvil’s blank face light with joy. Round the corner from the Centreway

came Mr. Nicholas Senior, serene, dignified and unhurried.

The expression in Tydvil’s face made Kane turn to survey the newcomer.

Nicholas, however, completely disregarded Kane’s presence. He raised his

hat to Amy, who also hailed his arrival with pleasure, though it was a

pleasure tinged with embarrassment.

Nicholas placed his hand on Tydvil’s shoulder. “Did you get them?” he

asked eagerly.

“Who are you, sir?” demanded Kane irritably.

“You may have heard of Mr. Nicholas Senior,” Tydvil explained, and to

Nicholas, “This gentleman is a police officer.”

“Oh!” Nicholas smiled. “How very fortunate.” Then to Tydvil, “Did you

really get them!”

Bewildered, but trusting Nicholas, Tydvil shook his head. “I’m afraid

not.”

“Will you be good enough to explain to me what this is all about?” Kane’s

patience was evaporating fast.

“Mr. Jones and I,” he said serenely,—“You know he is the Vice-President

of the Anti-Gambling League—having been suspicious that two men are

using this alleyway to conduct starting price gambling…”

“What!” snapped Kane.

“And,” Nicholas went on, unheeding the hostility of the voice, “we

decided that one of us should watch each day to try to procure evidence

of the offence.”

Kane looked from one to the other and the expression in his face was not

flattering to either Nicholas, Tydvil, or the explanation. What he may

have intended to say was cut short by Amy, who broke in with, “But,

Tydvil, you have resigned from the Anti-Gambling League!”

Under his breath Tydvil said something that was not quite nice.

Aloud, Kane gave