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

the bait. Somehow she sensed that he did not wish her to refer to the

date or the Bill that was so nearly clue. As she left the room he said,

“Oh! Geraldine. I’m expecting Mr. Senior a little after eleven. See we

are not disturbed.”

She was about to make a last plea, but his lifted hand checked her, and

she went to her work with a heavy heart.

All the morning the everyday life of the warehouse buzzed on. She typed

her letters, she answered phone calls and interviewed callers and the

staff almost mechanically Some how she felt she wanted support, and

chased Billy through the warehouse on the house phones, and begged him to

come to her at about eleven-thirty. Understanding, Billy agreed. He, too,

shared her anxiety, but he felt that nothing either she or he could do

would be of any avail.

It was about a quarter after eleven that a clear, vibrant voice beside

her made her aware of Nicholas’s presence.

There was mischief, but friendly mischief in his eyes. “Still war?” he

asked.

“To the last second,” she affirmed.

“Oh! You fighting redheads!” he laughed.

“There are still forty-five minutes,” she said.

“Forty-five years would be no use to you.”

“If I had them, I would try all the time.”

“And fail!”

“Mr. Jones is expecting you,” she said shortly, turning away.

“Goodbye, Geraldine!” he laughed.

“Thank goodness!” she retorted to his back, as he walked towards the

door.

Nicholas strolled into Tydvil’s room and dropped into the armchair. For a

while neither spoke. Nicholas lighted a cigarette and Tydvil took a cigar

from a box that had become part of his table furniture.

“You know, Tydvil,” said Nicholas presently, “I am sorry to be going.

Ours has been a pleasant friendship.”

Tydvil nodded. “I’ll miss you, Nicholas, but I can find my own way now.”

“You certainly have developed in three months, my friend.”

Tydvil glanced at the clock. “What time do you leave?”

“Twelve exactly. There is an escort coming for me.”

“You have finished your investigations?” asked Tydvil.

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, my friend. All I have found out

that is new, is that sin has become mechanised, and has not improved very

much in the process.”

“Our clerics and economists declare the world was never in a worse

state.”

“Umph!” Nicholas said. “To my knowledge the clerics have been saying that

for two thousand years—as for the economists, if they’re agreed on that,

it is the only subject on which I have ever known as many as two of the

breed’: in agreement.”

“So it’s not so bad as they, say?” asked Tydvil.

“No, don’t think that,” Nicholas interposed quickly, “it is infinitely

worse than I imagined.”

“That’s a bad lookout for us, Nicholas.” There was concern in Tydvil’s

voice. “Anything that causes you to become pessimistic does not promise

much for us.”

For a moment an expression flashed into the eyes of Nicholas that sent an

icy chill from the tips of Tydvil’s toes to the roots of his hair. When

he spoke, there was a ring of fury in his voice—fury and despair.

“I had hoped,” he said tensely, “that you poor human fools had learned your

lesson, but that accursed Judas Iscariot has fooled both you and me.”

“Communism?” Tydvil asked.

Nicholas nodded. “Yes, Communism,” replied Nicholas. “I might have known

when he betrayed his first Master, he would betray me also.”

“But,” interrupted Tydvil, “Will not fascism act as an antidote for the

poison?”

Nicholas turned pitying eyes on Tydvil. “My friend, my friend! That was

the most foul and infamous part of Judas’s plot. The two doctrines he

created, which appear diametrically opposed, are one and the same evil

thing. Each bears the seeds of the destruction of humanity. I would not

mind that so much,” he added with a grim smile, “but they will wreck Hell

itself, and you poor fools cannot recognise that fact.”

He sat for a moment, and tossed his head and laughed. “Forgive me Tydvil,

but I feel sore. The only satisfaction is that I have only been betrayed

once, while humanity has been betrayed twice.”

Just then the sound of raised voices outside could be heard indistinctly

through the closed door. Tydvil started up. “Great Scot! That’s Amy!”

Then, to Nicholas, “Please keep her out of here, Nicholas, while you’re

here at any rate.”

Nicholas laughed gently. “No need to worry for the time being, she and

our Miss Brand appear to have a good deal to discuss.”

And so it was. True to his word Billy had made time to come to Geraldine.

Seated on the edge of her table, and close to her, his hand was resting

gently on her shoulder as they talked. It was a secluded backwater of the

building where only those came who had business with Tydvil. It. was not

unnatural, therefore, that as they talked Billy leaned over and pressed

his lips to the richly dowered head.

The gasped “William!” that reached their ears was the first notice they

had of the presence of Amy, who glared in furious unbelief at the one

whom she imagined to be set high above other men.

Geraldine and Billy stared blankly as the fierce apparition bore down on

them. Amy looked, as she was, past discretion.

“Keep cool, Billy,” whispered Geraldine, “she’s fighting mad.”

The estimate was no exaggeration. “Nice behaviour t” Snorted Amy. “You

ought to be ashamed of yourself, Miss Brand.”

“Why?” asked Miss Brand, with provocative innocence.

“You will be good enough to remember to whom you are speaking, your

insolence is insufferable.” Amy was very red of face.

“I should say,” there was frozen vitriol in Geraldine’s voice, “that you

are a better judge of insolence than of behaviour.”

Amy gasped. She turned to Billy, who was wondering just how the situation

could be handled without a catastrophe. “William,” she almost hissed,

“will you try to explain your behaviour, and this dreadful woman’s.”

Billy was prepared to listen to anything within reason, Amy said of him,

but he was not in a humour to hear Geraldine called a dreadful woman.

“As Miss Brand and I are to be married, Mrs. Jones, I object to hearing

you or anyone else speak of her in those terms,” he said warmly.

“You! You dare to tell me that! You dare to tell me that you are going to

marry this shameless creature?” Amy stuttered.

Before Billy could return to the attack, Geraldine’s cool voice broke in:

“I may be shameless to permit my fiance to kiss me here, in this office,

but I am not a married woman, and I have not been shameless enough to

allow another woman’s fiance to kiss me, publicly, in the Botanical

Gardens.”

“Gerry!” gasped Billy, wondering if he heard aright. Amy almost reeled

under the blow. “How dare you utter such an abominable insinuation!” she

raged.

Geraldine laid a restraining hand on Billy’s arm. He was exhibiting

symptoms of detonation. “If you must know, I have always considered you a

canting hypocrite, and I bet Mr. Brewer sixpence that he could not make

love to you and kiss you. I was there when he did it. It was on September

fifth, in the afternoon.”

The crimson face went pale. She glared from one to the other. Billy stood

staring at Geraldine wondering whether he or she had gone crazy. But

there was a flicker in her eye that warned him she was bad rather than

mad.

Amy’s expression as she turned to Billy was fiendish. “Is that—true?”

she snarled.

Only Billy’s utter confidence in Geraldine’s ability to handle the

situation she had created enabled him to bear up and rally to her help.

Said he, quite unabashed, “It was only intended as a joke, Mrs. Jones.”

Geraldine with difficulty repressed a giggle.

Amy made no attempt to repress anything. She opened her mouth and let it

say all it liked. She began with, “You cur! You unspeakable hound! You

cowardly ruffian! There are no words a self-respecting woman can use that

can describe such a dastardly lying brute as you are. You have dared to

conspire with this shameless creature to humiliate a woman who trusted

you—who thought you a man and, heaven forgive me, an honourable

man—I…”

And on she raged while Geraldine, listening, quickly raised her telephone

from its stand, pressed a button, spoke a few words, and replaced the

instrument. Then she started to her feet and interposed herself between

Billy and the fury of Amy, cutting off the tempest of abuse.

“You can keep out of this, Billy,” she commanded. “It’s my affair, and

I’ve been waiting for this for a long, long time.”

“I’m afraid I cannot compete in an argument with a…”

Amy dropped a word that made Billy see red. It filled Geraldine with

cold, implaccable rage. She towered over Amy, silencing Billy with a

glance.

“Now you’ll listen to me.” Her voice was as cold as her wrath. She did

not raise it; in low, level tones, she painted Amy Jones as she saw her

with another woman’s insight and intuition. Savagely she stripped Amy of

her armour of self-satisfaction and conceit. It was merciless and

pitiless. She outlined Amy’s life and works, and hypocrisies, in words

that stung, each a separate hornet, against which there was no defence.

In Tydvil’s office he had listened to Geraldine’s words on the telephone,

and had replaced the instrument with a slight smile. He and Nicholas had

been sitting exchanging desultory sentences, as men will, when all has

been said between them, and they await the moment of parting.

“Geraldine!” he explained to Nicholas as he put down the receiver.

The room had gradually grown darker. A low rumble of thunder came through

the partly opened window.

“Sounds like a storm coming,” remarked Tydvil as he raised his head.

Nicholas laughed. “That is my escort coming, Tydvil.” Tydvil glanced at

him a question.

“Really it is,” Nicholas assured him. “Lucifer, my commander-in-chief,

loves to do these things in style. I expect he’s turned out the entire

black guard with an artillery division to ride back with me.”

“Sounds noisy,” was Tydvil’s comment as another and nearer peal rumbled

overhead.

“She’s having a lively time, I imagine,” Nicholas returned to Geraldine’s

affairs.

“From the suggestion she made, I think you’re right,” agreed Tydvil.

“Suggestion!” Nicholas became alert. It wanted ten minutes to midday.

“Oh, nothing much,” said Tydvil almost indifferently, “but it is one

small last service you can do for me, Nicholas.”

“Delighted, of course,” Nicholas responded warmly. “What is it?”

“Well, I want you to put a curb on Amy’s tongue—say, to reduce her

verbal output to about one-sixteenth of its present flow.” Tydvil was

selecting another cigar as he spoke and did not see the expression in

Nicholas’s eyes.

“Was that Geraldine’s suggestion?” There was a queer ring in Nicholas’s

voice.

“Yes.” Tydvil was intent on his cigar. “I should have thought of it

myself.” He looked up as he spoke. Nicholas was regarding him with

curious intentness. “Great Scott! Nicholas,” he asked in concern, “is

here anything wrong?”

“It entirely depends on the viewpoint,” Nicholas said.

Then he leaned back and laughed without restraint. “What on earth…?”

Tydvil began.

“The redhead wins,” gasped Nicholas at last.

Tydvil looked at him bewildered. “How—wins what?”

Nicholas drew his wallet from his pocket and