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

his hesitation. “You think you saw me speaking to her. I

swear I was not. I haven’t seen her for months. And I haven’t the vaguest

idea what Mrs. Jones was talking about. Please believe me, Geraldine.”

 

Geraldine laid down the paper knife and, for the first time, looked Billy

in the face. At the moment she did not care what he could read in it. The

misery in his voice hurt. Then, as calmly as her voice would permit, she

said, “I know now that it was all some dreadful mix up. And I want to

apologise for what I said—I am sorry, really—Billy.” That “Billy”

slipped out before she could stop it.

 

In the one active eye of Billy Brewer, rose a sudden light. He half stood

up, but a peremptory gesture of her hand sent him back to the seat.

“But,” he exclaimed breathlessly, “you called me Billy!”

 

Geraldine’s attempt to compose her face into lines of severity was not

altogether successful. “That slip was no reason for you to be silly.” But

she knew she had lost her grip.

 

“Call me Billy again,” he demanded.

 

“I’ll call you something that will astonish you in a moment if you’re not

serious. Don’t you see we have to talk this thing over?”

 

“But…”

 

“No, stop!” she half pleaded. “You must tell me everything, can’t you see

how important it is? Please—Billy!”

 

Billy resigned himself to her voice. There was a note in it that made him

feel a little dizzy. “All right, I’ll be a good boy, mamma. What do you

want to know?”

 

“Everything,” she insisted.

 

“It’s all so crazy,” he said a little doubtfully. “That I’m afraid you’ll

think I’m the world’s Olympic liar.”

 

She laughed. “Not this time, Billy. Come—everything!”

 

“Well, here goes!” he said. “But, remember I warned you it’s absolutely

barmy.” And Billy unfolded his story as it appeared to him.

 

Geraldine listened intently. She was one of the rare women who could

refrain from interruption. It was only when he had described Tydvil’s

surprising appearance in court that she said emphatically, “And that

evidence was flat perjury.”

 

“You knew that?” Billy asked in wonder.

 

“Of course I did. I knew as well as you did he was not working back. I

can always tell from his table. This man Mr. Olden, who is he?”

 

“Don’t know him from a bar of soap. A most impressive looking bird. But

Tyddie…”

 

“No—don’t stop,” she insisted.

 

She heard the Jerry McCann episode with a little wrinkle in the smooth

forehead. “You’re perfectly sure he said ten o’clock?” she asked.

 

“Absolutely,” Billy asserted. “And the amazing part of it is that Jerry

knew his reputation as a wowser too well to go near him, dead or alive.”

 

When Billy had closed his narrative with an account of the eleven pounds

that someone had paid on his behalf, he continued with a sigh. “All I can

make of it is that I must have a double. What do you think?”

 

“Double!” Geraldine sniffed. “It would take a treble to account for all

that. Billy, there is only, one thing about it I am sure of, and that is

that Mr. Tydvil Jones is the most unmitigated fibber on earth—and that

is understating it.”

 

“But,” protested Billy, “he only did it to get me out of a mess.”

 

“Um-m!” murmured Miss Brand. “That doesn’t account for that Jerry McCann

whopper.” Then she smiled at him. “Tell me, Billy, you ought to know, why

do men tell their biggest fibs?”

 

“Firmly disregarding the implied libel,” said Billy, “I should say it is

because they have something to hide.”

 

“Yes…”

 

At that moment a knock at the open door cut her short. Both stared

towards it. Framed in the doorway, and occupying most of its space, was a

policeman.

 

“Mr. Tydvil Jones?” enquired the apparition that made Billy wonder if

some fresh calamity were about to overtake him.

 

Geraldine stood up. “This is his office, but he has not come in yet. Is

there anything wrong? I am his secretary.”

 

Constable O’Connor advanced two steps into the room. His official voice

lost its edge as he met the frank eyes of the tall damsel who spoke.

“I’ve been sent down from Russell Street about this hat, Miss.” He held

out a grey felt to her.

 

Taking it, Geraldine turned it over. “Why!” she exclaimed, “this is Mr.

Jones’s hat! Where did you get it?”

 

“Exhibition Street, last night. Eleven forty-five p.m. Believed to be

stolen.” He spoke as though from the witness box.

 

“But how…?” Her voice trailed off as she looked from the hat to

Billy, who was now on his feet.

 

“There was a big brawl, Miss. You might have seen about it in the papers.

We arrested fourteen of them. The man who was wearing the hat seemed to

be ringleader—he escaped. We thought Mr. Jones might be able to identify

him.”

 

“Do you know what he was like?” asked Billy, taking the hat from

Geraldine.

 

“About six feet or a little more. Dark suit, black hair, broad shoulders,

rather prominent nose. When I saw him first he was trying to out another

man with a leg of a table. Fought like a bear cat. Got away from six of

us. Just vanished!”

 

Seeing the astonishment in Billy’s eyes, he went on. “Just as I said,

sir. Just vanished. We thought you might have seen someone like him

hanging round the place.”

 

The eyes of Geraldine and Billy met in bewilderment over the grey felt.

“Have you?” she asked.

 

Billy was equally mystified, and said so.

 

“We’d be glad to get him,” the constable said with some feeling.

 

“Well,” said Geraldine, “if you like to leave it here I’ll enquire from

Mr. Jones as soon as he comes in.” Constable O’Connor left with the

assurance that if Mr. Jones could throw any light on the matter he would

communicate with Russell Street at once.

 

When the uniform had disappeared, Geraldine placed the hat on the table,

and the two stared at it as though at some strange portent.

 

Said Geraldine, “Queer? That hat was hanging on its peg when I left the

office last night.”

 

“Well, that’s queer,” was all Mr. Brewer could find to say.

 

“Must have been pinched,” ventured Billy. Then, after a moment, “It

doesn’t seem to make sense.”

 

“It makes as much sense as the Jerry McCann business and all the rest of

it. I wish the thing could speak,” she said, taking up the hat again.

 

“But surely you don’t think…?” Billy did not like to put the amazing

question into words.

 

“That Tyddie has taken to rioting and assaulting the police?” Geraldine

had not such fine scruples. “The other Billy Brewer did,” she added.

 

“It’s mad—mad!” insisted Billy.

 

“So’s the whole business,” averred Miss Brand, “but I’m perfectly

certain, without any evidence but his preposterous stories, that he could

explain everything.”

 

“And what then?”

 

She tossed the hat back on to the table. “I don’t know. But,” and her

voice took on a note of determination, “I’m going to find out.”

 

“But Tyddie—impossible!”

 

“Why impossible?” she demanded. “He’s a man, isn’t he? Where was he the

night before last? He was not here.”

 

“But Geraldine,” he persuaded, “why should you get yourself mixed up in

it?”

 

“If it comes to that,” she answered, not looking up, “why should you be

blamed for something you didn’t do?”

 

Billy was standing beside her. “Geraldine—do you really care if I am

unfairly blamed?” he almost whispered.

 

Then Geraldine Brand, very incautiously, looked up. He gave her no time

to reply. She did not know how it happened, but the next moment she found

herself in his arms, feeling quite at home and deliriously happy.

 

When, perhaps thirty seconds later, Mr. Tydvil Jones entered his office,

he stopped abruptly. The spectacle that greeted his eyes was that of his

senior city representative standing with one arm round the waist of Miss

Geraldine Brand, and the other about her shoulders. Miss Geraldine

Brand’s very conspicuous head was resting on the shoulder of Mr. William

Brewer and both her arms were round his neck. The two were evidently

utterly insensible to any outside impressions.

 

Tydvil felt slightly embarrassed, but, after all, it was his office.

After giving them what he considered ample time to come out of their

trance, he said, a little apologetically, “Pardon me, if I am intruding.”

 

The only effect of his voice was that the group relaxed slightly. One of

Billy’s arms fell from her shoulder, and one of Geraldine’s came from his

neck. Her head remained in situ, though she turned it slightly to look at

him.

 

There was that in her eyes which made Tydvil Jones envy William Brewer.

That they had settled their differences gave him a feeling of

satisfaction. Billy, deserved some compensation, and he felt that this

was ample. A wide smile broke on his face. Said he, “Guard with your

left, Brewer, or you’ll have a pair of them.”

 

The only response of the unabashed Geraldine was to turn her lips

deliberately to Brewer’s.

 

Mr. Jones threw back his head and laughed heartily at the gesture of

defiance. “You win, Miss Brand. Congratulations, Brewer!” He held out his

hand.

 

Billy’s spare hand took it and shook it warmly.

 

“What are you going to do about it?” asked Geraldine uncompromisingly.

 

“I?” laughed Tydvil. “Nothing! I should say that Billy has done

everything necessary.”

 

It was the first time either of them had known Tydvil so far unbend as to

use the Christian name of one of his staff. It made them both realise

that all was well.

 

“But still,” Tydvil went on, unfastening his overcoat, “if you could

possibly unwrap yourselves, we might think about the mail. I only offer

it as a suggestion.” He wriggled himself out of the coat.

 

Geraldine’s arms relaxed slowly, and she smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Jones.”

Then, after a pause, she added, “But it would have been nicer if you had

come in a little later.”

 

Geraldine’s contribution to the conversation rather startled Billy, who

did not quite know whether he stood right side up or inverted. Tyddie did

not usually take kindly to airy persiflage.

 

But Tydvil looked from one to the other in evident amusement. “Don’t take

any notice of what she says, Brewer. You know, when people are coming

from under an anaesthetic they often talk queerly.”

 

She patted her somewhat disordered copper helm, now perfectly

self-possessed. “I don’t like you to call him an anaesthetic,” she smiled

at Tydvil. “I find him a stimulant.”

 

“Oh,” he held up his hands, “have it your own way! I am not going to

argue.” Then, in mock anger, “Are you, or are you not, going to begin

work this morning.”

 

Here Billy found his voice for the first time. He felt some sort of

apology or explanation was due to Tydvil. “I would like to say, sir…”

 

Tydvil cut him short with a laugh. “Save it, Brewer, you duffer! Let us

get on with our work now, and come back and take her to lunch. If you

don’t, I will.”

 

Billy caught Geraldine’s eye and obeyed without further attempt at

explanations. Geraldine’s thoughts had been working at something like

three thousand revolutions a minute. As the door closed behind him, she

turned to Tydvil who was putting his coat on a hanger. “Can you tell me

anything of how your hat was stolen, Mr. Jones?”