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

his head.

 

“Well,” Nicholas smiled, “there is a full and fairly accurate account of

the court proceeding in them.”

 

“Still, I don’t see…” Tydvil began.

 

“Two things,” Mr. Senior interrupted. “First, she has just discovered she

is really in love with Brewer. Second, she has read the papers and at

this moment she is trying to reconcile your evidence with the fact known

to her that you most certainly did not work back in the office last

night.”

 

“Holy Moses!” Tydvil interjected. “Of course, she would know that from my

table.”

 

“And,” continued Nicholas, “she is this moment trying to work out a

solution of the black eye problem—and so is your wife!”

 

Tydvil ran his hand through his hair. “Two of ‘em!” Then amusement got

the better of his anxiety, and he laughed heartily.

 

“Exactly,” nodded Mr. Senior. “Two of ‘em! And that is why I said just

now that Brewer’s eye was a pivotal point for some explanation.”

 

“Anyway,” Tydvil said, “they can’t do much more than wonder, and they can

wonder as much as they like.”

 

“Um,” Nicholas replied. “They’re wondering all right. In the

circumstances, your wife is a bit handicapped because her explanation

would be rather more difficult than yours.”

 

Here Tydvil again sat erect, staring in front of him. Then his eyes

brightened and a smile of happiness spread over his face.

 

Watching him intently, Nicholas lay back and laughed softly. “Tydvil,” he

said, “I’m no moralist, but would that be wise?”

 

“What do you mean?” asked Tydvil, surprised at the question.

 

“I read your thought. Forgive the intrusion, it was only a natural

curiosity.”

 

“Well,” answered Tydvil defensively, “Amy owes me a good deal, and…”

 

“I see,” Senior grinned. “If anyone is going to alienate your wife’s

affections, you would rather do it yourself—and know exactly what is

going on.”

 

“Ethically…” began Tydvil.

 

Again Nicholas laughed heartily, waving his hand. “No, no, please, no,

Tydvil! No ethics!”

 

“All right,” Tydvil conceded, “no ethics. But if I bring a new interest

into Amy’s life, it might keep her out of mischief.”

 

“Oh, please yourself!” Nicholas said. “I admit the idea appeals to me as

something new for both of you. A good deal depends on what you mean by

‘mischief.’”

 

“Look here!” demanded Tydvil virtuously. “If a man cannot make love to

his own wife, whose wife can he make love to?”

 

“Better, I suppose, than becoming involved with Mr. Cranston’s,” Senior

admitted. “However, have it your own way.”

 

“My plan’s worth considering. It has the virtue of novelty,” said Tydvil.

 

“Well, if you can reconcile it with any form of virtue, don’t let me

interfere. But, remember this,” Nicholas added, “that will not dispose of

your secretary.”

 

“If Brewer were not such a good chap, I might dispose of her in the same

way,’ Tydvil suggested.

 

“Quite a good idea!” laughed Nicholas. “Considering your upbringing,

Tydvil, your capacity for very original sin amazes even me.”

 

“Ah, well,” Tydvil said, a little regretfully, “Brewer deserves better

treatment. I owe it to him, anyway. I’m afraid that Geraldine Brand is

beginning to think that I am not quite the pattern of virtue she imagined

me to be.”

 

“Exactly!” Nicholas agreed. “That is a very, unusual young woman, Tydvil.

She has brains, and knows how to use them. And if you don’t watch your

step, my friend—well, ‘ware red hair.”

 

“Still, I don’t see that she could do much,” contended Tydvil.

 

“Don’t under-rate her,” warned Nicholas. “That girl has got hold of one

fact—that you were not telling the truth in the witness box—and several

suppositions. Now, give a redheaded girl, who is in love and defending

her lover, that much to work on and you, or I, may be astonished at the

things she can do. Believe me, Tydvil, I speak from a long experience. A

brunette on the warpath is bad enough—but the redheads! My boy, a sack

full of wild cats would be more tractable.”

 

Tydvil looked thoughtful. “Suppose,” he asked, “we gave her Billy Brewer

free of encumbrance, so to speak?”

 

“Professionally,” replied Mr. Senior, “it would be against my interests.

Brewer is heavily mortgaged to me. If that girl gets hold of him, he’ll

pay off the mortgage in the first year he’s married. You can’t beat

redheads either as reformers or the reverse when they set about it.

Still, in the circumstances, I would be willing to waive my claim.”

 

“They say marriages are made in heaven,” remarked Tydvil reflectively.

 

Mr. Senior grinned derisively. “That one was started by a bachelor. If

Brewer marries your Geraldine Brand, and does not behave himself

afterwards, you’ll find it difficult to persuade him that his marriage

was made in heaven.”

 

“Well,” said Tydvil, “that’s his risk.”

 

“Oh! Talking of Heaven, that reminds me that I am to have the pleasure of

dining at your home tomorrow evening—to meet Mr. Jones and a few of our

leading social workers.”

 

“You have my deepest sympathy,” Tydvil replied, lighting another cigar.

 

“Really, I am looking forward to it,” Nicholas assured him.

 

“Well, don’t let me discourage you, but I happen to have seen the list of

guests, and an innate sense of hospitality makes me feel rather guilty.”

 

“You need not worry, for I feel sure it will be an enjoyable evening.”

 

Tydvil smiled through the smoke. “If I hear you say that afterwards, I

shall feel greatly relieved.”

 

“And now, what about your own affairs?” asked Nicholas.

 

“I’ve been thinking it over,” Tydvil replied, “and recognise that we

cannot risk a known individuality. Can you turn me out as something new?”

 

“No difficulty whatever,” Nicholas assured him. “Just what would you like

to be?”

 

“Oh, say something fairly good looking and robust. Plenty of

self-assurance. Not exactly entirely a sporting man, but a good all-round

type. Oh, and able to use my hands if necessary!”

 

“Attractive to women,” Nicholas suggested.

 

Tydvil hesitated a moment. “Well, yes, but within reasonable limits. I

suppose that is one highroad to adventure.”

 

“One of the best,” Mr. Senior conceded. “Status? I can put you into the

Metropolitan or the Continental Club if you like.”

 

Tydvil shook his head. “No, I think not,” he said. “I’m afraid they would

cramp my style—make it something prosperous, but not too conspicuous.”

 

Mr. Senior stood up and looked Tydvil over with speculative eyes for a

few moments. Then, after a wave of his hands, “Now look at yourself…”

 

Tydvil rose to his feet and approached the mirror. Looking back at him

was an attractive stranger, about two inches taller than Tydvil Jones,

and broader. Under the sleek, black hair was a shapely, square-chinned

face. The grey eyes above a slightly aquiline nose, had a merry twinkle,

and the rather large, but well-shaped mouth, had a smile an either

corner. Tydvil felt quite pleased with himself.

 

The smile broke into a laugh as he turned to Nicholas. “Ideal!” he

thanked his friend. “The remodelled Tydvil Jones is proud of himself…”

 

“Better give him a remodelled name,” Nicholas suggested.

 

Tydvil picked up the telephone directory from his table and opened it at

random. Running his finger down the page, he looked up. “More than a page

of Williams,” he said. “A nice non-committal name. We’ll make it—let me

think—Bertie—Bernard—no—say, Basil. Yes, permit me to introduce

myself—Basil Williams.”

 

Mr. Senior took the outstretched hand. “I trust, Mr. Williams, you will

have a pleasant evening.”

 

“Too right I will!” grinned Basil Williams. Then his smile disappeared.

“Oh, dash it all, I forgot!”

 

Nicholas raised an enquiring eyebrow.

 

“Amy,” explained Tydvil. “She came in this morning to tell me about our

dinner tomorrow night, and I promised I should be at home this evening. I

wouldn’t put it past her coming to look for me if I didn’t show up.”

 

Then his face brightened. “Nicholas, could you act as a deputy Tydvil

Jones. It’s rather tough on you—but…”

 

“My dear fellow, my bond apart, it will be a pleasure.” Mr. Senior spoke

sincerely.

 

“Well, all I can say it,” said Basil Williams with deep feeling, “that

your conceptions of pleasure are peculiar. Amy has something on her

mind—that Brewer affair I expect—anyhow, I assure you that you will

know all about it before the night is over.”

 

“How is this?” asked Nicholas, and as he spoke a replica of Tydvil Jones

stood where Mr. Senior had stood.

 

Tydvil inspected his deputy, carefully, and admitted he was perfect. “A

word of advice and help,” he said. “When she makes the going too hot for

me, I always make for my own bedroom and lock the door. You may need

sanctuary before the night is over.”

 

Nicholas—Tydvil smiled a superior smile. “My friend. In adopting your

identity I retain the powers of endurance belonging to my office. Your

solicitude is pleasant, but quite unnecessary.”

 

“Maybe,” Basil Williams replied. “But I know Amy, and you don’t.” Then,

remembering, “About my change back to Tydvil?”

 

“Leave it entirely, to me. Just call when you need me, and I will arrange

everything.”

 

“Well, I think that is all,” Tydvil said, helping himself to the contents

of his cash box.

 

Nicholas bade him good luck and good fun, and disappeared about his

business in hand. Basil Williams, taking a hat from its peg, sallied out

into the city, light of heart and full of hope.