The Missing Angel - Erle Cox (whitelam books .TXT) 📗

CHAPTER XVIII

Tydvil felt that, at this juncture, the rescue of Billy Brewer was the

paramount consideration, and said so. Mr. Senior, however, urged caution.

“I can take him from that policeman without any trouble,” he said, “but

remember, he is known. That will mean his re-arrest on another charge.”

 

“But I must do something,” Tydvil pleaded. “It is all my fault, and he is

innocent.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Senior reassured him. “I will bail him out tonight

and appear for him in court tomorrow. You can come along and give

evidence if you like.”

 

“That,” said Tydvil, “would be very satisfactory, but for the fact that

you and I have not yet met one another.”

 

“Uh,” concurred Nicholas.

 

“The case might reach the papers,” Tydvil explained, “and my wife might

wonder—she’s pretty good at wondering.”

 

“Well,” Nicholas said thoughtfully, “we must have an impressive looking

counsel—let me see—we’ll call him Mr. Olden, K.C. I will contrive to

look legal and will arrange it so that the Court accepts me at face

value.”

 

“Good.” Tydvil’s confidence returned. “But I’m afraid that in future I

must assume a character of my own creation. Duplicates are likely to be

troublesome.”

 

“You must admit, though,” laughed Mr. Senior, “that you are indebted to

Brewer for an excellent night’s entertainment.”

 

“All the more reason why I should not let him suffer for it,” retorted

Tydvil. “You see, he’ll have to do the explaining to Geraldine Brand and

that very insinuating Hilda—I’m afraid he will find it rather difficult,

too,” he added thoughtfully. Then, with a shiver, for a cool wind was

blowing in from the Bay, “I wish I could have another drink.”

 

Senior immediately produced a silver flask into the cup of which he

poured a liberal dose. Swallowed at one gulp, the alluring fluid seemed

to drench Tydvil’s system with courage, optimism and happiness. He felt

that tobacco was the one thing left to complete his satisfaction with

life.

 

In answer to his request Mr. Senior, the obliging, handed him a cigar.

Forgetting his unusual situation on the housetops, and careless of

consequences, Tydvil struck a match that illuminated the two figures on

the parapet.

 

From the street below came an excited voice, “Hi, look!” quickly followed

by another, rather more excited, “What are you men doing up there?”

 

Earlier in the night, the evidence of his discovery in a compromising

situation would have terrified Tydvil Jones. Now he only felt annoyance

at the challenge to his liberty of action as a citizen. Cupping his hands

to his mouth he responded. “I’m the Queen of Sheba with King Solomon, and

we’re taking the air—you mud-headed flat-fish!”

 

“I doubt if they’ll accept your explanation,” remarked Mr. Senior

judicially.

 

Evidently he was right. One of the voices shouted, “Police! Police!”

 

Mr. Senior’s beverage must have been fairly potent, for it was doubtless

that and not Tydvil Jones that replied to the call with a series of

insults, barbaric in their splendour, that could be heard for hundreds of

yards. In a few moments it peopled the quiet of Beaconsfield Parade with

enquiring residents.

 

“I think,” remarked Mr. Senior as the clamour below grew louder, “that we

would be wiser to leave.”

 

“Perhaps you’re right,” conceded Tydvil, “those people don’t seem to like

us.”

 

“Where to?” asked Nicholas.

 

“I think I’ll call it a night—take me home, Nicholas,” replied Tydvil.

 

A second later Tydvil found himself in the drive before his house on St.

Kilda Road. He was ignorant of the fact, that for nearly two hours

afterwards, police and citizen helpers swarmed over the roofs of terraces

on Beaconsfield Parade, searching diligently for two mysterious

malefactors.

 

Promising to meet him at the court next morning at ten o’clock, Nicholas

left Tydvil to his own devices. He marched lightheartedly to his own

door. His mood was one of genial satisfaction and peace and good will.

His resentment against even Amy had vanished. He felt for his latch key,

but his pocket was empty. A moment later he pounded the door vigorously,

with the bronze knocker.

 

Amy had dismissed the maids for the night and was awaiting Tydvil’s

arrival. She, too, for her own purposes, had decided not to re-open

hostilities for the moment. The spell of that charming Mr. Senior was

still strong upon her. Rather surprised at a caller at nearly midnight,

she hastened to answer the summons at the front door.

 

She was still more surprised when she found standing on the mat, none

other than that handsome young Mr. Brewer from the warehouse. Whisky,

cocktails, champagne, liqueurs and then Mr. Senior’s contribution to the

mixture, had conspired to make him entirely oblivious to his altered

identity.

 

Amy gazed at the figure, for once in her life—short of words. Tydvil

accepted her silence as an olive branch. That was why, a moment later,

Amy Jones found herself in the arms of Mr. Brewer, who fervently kissed

the upturned face.

 

Amy struggled loose and gasped. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

 

Tydvil, still innocent of the enormity of his offence, smiled. “Don’t be

angry with me, dear! Why should we quarrel?”

 

“Mr. Brewer! How—oh, how could you!”

 

Enlightenment crashed into Tydvil’s mind. The flushed face expressed more

astonishment than anger. His mind registered the fact automatically, but

for the moment he knew he must carry on.

 

“I—I couldn’t help it!” he stammered apologetically.

 

“I’m astonished, Mr. Brewer! Apart from anything else, what would Mr.

Jones think? He might be home at any moment.”

 

“I left him working at the office.” Tydvil suddenly recognised that he

had registered a water-tight alibi.

 

“But,” Amy insisted, “how could you do such a thing as come here like

this.”

 

“I was walking home, and felt ill—I did not think really. I think it

must have been a heart attack—I…”

 

She looked at him intently. She did not recognise that the cigar in his

hand hardly bore out the statement. “Would you like me to ring for a

doctor?” she asked.

 

Tydvil began to back out. “No, please, no,” he said. “Please forgive

me—I feel better—I must go.”

 

But Amy would not hear of it. “Wait, you must let me get you a little

stimulant—I insist.”

 

Tydvil surrendered. He saw his way out. Amy led the way to the reception

room. “Now just sit down, Mr. Brewer. I won’t be a moment,” and she

bustled away.

 

The instant she disappeared, Tydvil whispered an urgent “Nicholas!

Nicholas!” In a moment Mr. Senior stood before him.

 

“Get me out! Quick! Out into the street.” Curtains parted, a window

opened and closed behind them. And Tydvil found himself in St. Kilda

Road.

 

“Whew!” he gasped breathlessly. Then, “Why on earth didn’t you remind me

I hadn’t changed over?”

 

Mr. Senior raised his brows. “My part, my dear fellow is not advisory.

You must remember. Still, there is no harm done, is there?”

 

After a moment’s reflection, Tydvil admitted that things might be worse.

The change from Billy to his rightful self was effected in a moment.

 

“Sure you’re all right, now?” asked Nicholas. “Absolutely,” replied Mr.

Jones emphatically, turning to his gate.

 

Again he walked swiftly up the drive, and let himself in with his latch

key to meet Amy in the wide hall carrying a tray on which was a glass and

a jug and the bottle of whisky that was kept in the medicine cupboard for

emergencies.

 

Amy’s face expressed consternation rather than welcome. Tydvil pretended

not to notice her uneasiness. “Good gracious! Amy, what are you doing

with that?” he asked.

 

“I felt ill! I was waiting up for you! I…”

 

“By Jove, you do look pale! Come into the sitting-room and I will give

you some of that.” He made as though to take the tray from her hands.

 

“No, no, Tydvil” Amy protested anxiously. “You must be tired. Go up to

your room. I will be quite all right.”

 

But Tydvil insisted. He took the tray from her and, entering the room,

placed it on a table and turned towards her. Amy was standing in the

doorway looking round the room in utter bewilderment.

 

Picking up the bottle and the tumbler, Tydvil paused and sniffed. “That’s

strange!” Another sniff. “Do you know, Amy,” sniff, “this room smells as

though of cigar smoke.” He looked at her enquiringly.

 

“Nonsense, Tydvil!” she said, advancing into the room. “You must be

dreaming. I cannot smell anything unusual.”

 

He poured some whisky into the glass and, adding water, handed it to her.

“Of course I must be wrong,” he admitted, “but I really thought for a

moment that there was an odour of tobacco. Stupid, wasn’t it? Now drink

that at once.”

 

Amy obeyed. For the first time in her life she felt she needed a

stimulant. “Now,” he said, taking a glass from her, “you get along to

bed. I’ll put these things away and put out the lights.”

 

She felt no inclination to argue. The situation was beyond her. There was

as much of relief as of bewilderment in her mind.

 

As for Tydvil, he went about his tidying up cheerfully. But when he

reached his bedroom, he seated himself on the side of his bed and lapsed

into long but silent laughter.