The Missing Angel - Erle Cox (whitelam books .TXT) 📗
- Author: Erle Cox
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Don’ts at that. You’re right! It is puerile to go out and sock Muskat on
the nose. But if I had had a normal boyhood I would have been able to
slam him on the jaw when we were both kids, and we both would have made
better men for it. Now I have to get it out of my system as a man.
Lawless is right!” Then he went on, “Believe it or not, but if a cop or
two should show up, I’ll feel better for having a turn up with them.”
“It looks as though I am in for a busy night,” was Nicholas’s comment.
“One thing,” Tydvil protested as he slipped off his perch on the table.
“I don’t want you to dry nurse me this time. You needn’t trouble to keep
my friends off the track. I’m willing to take the risks.”
“The risks will be there, my friend,” warned Nicholas. “The sergeant has
offered a reward of five dozen of beer for the man who brings you in.
He’s in a vindictive mood.”
“Let ‘em all come,” Tydvil replied. “You see, Nicholas, swatting Edwin
Muskat’s nose, per se, will provide more satisfaction than excitement.
Dodging the cops, if any, will add the essential ginger.”
“Good!” laughed Nicholas. “I will adopt a policy of strict neutrality.”
“I want to see if I cannot pull through without help,” said Tydvil as he
turned to the door. “I won’t call on you unless I am in extremis. The
meeting should be nearly over by now.”
Although Basil Williams was determined, he was by no means reckless. From
the entrance to the warehouse he made a careful reconnaissance of
Flinders Lane before he stepped on to the footpath. Then he turned west
towards Queen Street keeping well in the shadow, but carefully avoiding
any appearance of stealth. He knew that, though the search would be
mainly confined to the east side of Elizabeth Street, Basil Williams was
not safe anywhere in the Metropolitan Area that night. Still, the almost
deserted business side of the city offered the best protection. Its
devotion to high finance and high buildings provided no attraction for
roysterers.
Twice, before he reached Queen Street, he blessed the system that put the
police in shiny helmets from which the street lights gleamed, and made
them a beacon for evil doers to avoid. Each time he had sufficient notice
in which to pull himself together and pass the danger spot with serene
and unhurried stride that disarmed suspicion.
Turning into Queen Street, he crossed Collins Street, where he slackened
his pace and carefully observed a building on the opposite side of the
street near Little Collins, Street. In three windows on the third floor,
lights were burning. Basil Williams stepped into the shadow of a
convenient doorway, and waited. During the ten minutes he waited,
speculating on the ownership of two cars parked across the road, not more
than three people passed his shelter. Then a policeman on his beat went
by in measured dignity towards, Bourke Street. Basil Williams breathed a
blessing on him as he crossed Little Collins Street, as the lights he was
watching on the third floor opposite vanished.
Two minutes later from the door of the building opposite a group of
people stepped into Queen Street. As they did Basil Williams moved from
his lair and crossed the wide thoroughfare. The group, which consisted of
five men and two women, the Executive Committee of the Society for the
Suppression of Alcohol, paused to say their farewells before separating.
One of the women was Mrs. Tydvil Jones, whom Basil Williams did not
expect to see there because of the absence of her car. More so, as at
breakfast that morning, she had expressed her intention of not attending
the meeting. He was unaware that her colleague, Mrs. Farley, had picked
her up at the last moment, as the meeting threatened to lapse for want of
a quorum.
Her presence added to the joy in the heart of Basil Williams as he
approached the group. A swift glance in either direction showed him that
Queen Street was empty of all but himself and the Committee, except for a
man standing on the corner of Bourke Street, about one hundred yards
away. Every member of the committee was an old and unvalued friend. The
more he saw of them the less he valued their acquaintance, until his
esteem for them had almost reached vanishing point.
The chattering group became silent as a large stranger joined it. Basil
Williams raised his hat courteously and enquired, “May I ask if one of
you gentlemen is Mr. Edwin Muskat?”
“That is my name,” replied the secretary for the Society for the
Suppression of Alcohol, with an oily smile.
“I have been keeping something for you for a long, long time, Mr.
Muskat,” said the stranger with deceptive gentleness, “and this is my
first opportunity to hand it over.”
“Indeed!” replied the now deeply interested Edwin. “That is very pleasant
of you, sir. I will be glad to receive your gift.”
“I sincerely trust and hope you benefit from it.” The voice of the
stranger was still very gentle. “Here it is.”
Wham!!!
Basil Williams had withdrawn half a pace as he spoke. The distance and
direction of his aim were calculated with loving fidelity. It was more
than fifteen minutes before Edwin Muskat returned to a knowledge of
things mundane. When he did the throbbing anguish of a devastated
proboscis made him wish, very heartily, that he could lapse into
unconsciousness again.
But during that fifteen minutes things had been happening things that
Edwin Muskat would have deplored deeply, but things which one less
regenerate than he would have enjoyed immensely.
For a few brief seconds Mr. Muskat’s six colleagues stared
uncomprehending at the collapsed form on the pavement. For the moment
they were, although on their feet, as stunned as Edwin Muskat. It was
Mrs. Farley who first recovered from the trance. Through her dizzy brain
arose to the surface the thought that the occasion demanded screaming. So
she screamed. Mrs. Farley had a good screaming voice, and the sounds she
emitted, confined in the high-walled canyon of the empty street, were of
a good 500 parrot power.
Amy’s contribution was, “Oh! You—you—horrid brute!”
What was of more interest to Basil Williams, however, was the “Infernal
scoundrel!” from one member of the committee as he flung himself on the
assailant with intent to do grievous bodily harm. Spurred on by his
example, the other three barged in, fortunately getting very much in one
another’s way.
Four very unathletic men, unpractised in street brawling would, in
ordinary circumstances, have been small odds against Basil Williams. But
he had noted that the figure at the corner of Bourke Street was bearing
down on the scene at speed that suggested both youth, strength and
endurance. It was for this reason, and somewhat against his better
feelings, that he was obliged to deal swiftly, and in a highly unorthodox
manner with the four old and unvalued friends of Tydvil Jones. He
reinforced his lashing right and left fists with knee action that would
have ensured his disqualification for life from any, boxing stadium. In
as many seconds he had skittled his four opponents across the pavement.
Then he turned and departed—in haste.
There was good cause for his haste.
Mrs. Farley’s vocal efforts continued unabated and had drawn several more
figures from Bourke Street, as well as two from Collins Street. Basil
Williams’s suspicion that the man on the corner was a plain-clothes
constable was only too well grounded. Already he had covered half the
distance and was a bare fifty yards behind when Basil’s flight began,
while his one-track mind made him disregard totally the shrieking woman
and the sprawled group on the footpath to concentrate on the pursuit.
Basil Williams thought as swiftly as he moved. As he met the two men
running towards him from Collins Street he pulled up and panted. “Man
murdered—hurry—I’m running for the police.” He ducked on, and the two
night prowlers increased their pace in a lively curiosity to be among the
first to inspect the corpse.
Luck he did not deserve saw Basil Williams safely across Collins Street,
but here it deserted him. Two uniformed men, attracted by Mrs. Farley’s
high C’s, and who glimpsed the flying figure from Collins Street, sprang
into action. They rounded the corner into Queen Street only a few yards
ahead of the plain-clothes man, and little more than twenty yards behind
Basil Williams. One shouted a peremptory command to halt—a command which
the fugitive was in no mood to obey. Basil thought he was moving on top
gear at the moment, but he almost redoubled his pace when he heard behind
him the vicious report of a revolver and instantaneously beside him, the
more vicious pin-n-g of a bullet striking the pavement.
His long association with Flinders Lane had given Tydvil Jones an
intimate knowledge of the less known geography of the locality. All its
side lanes, dead ends, and bolt holes were clear in his mind; and well
they served Basil Williams in his hour of tribulation. Nevertheless, he
swore fluently and wholeheartedly when he recognised that the knowledge
of his pursuers was equal to his own.
By desperate and devious windings he finally reached Elizabeth Street,
crossing in a flash under the nose of a tram, and expecting every moment
to hear another shot from behind him, where he knew his pursuers now
numbered eight or ten. The risk he had taken with the tram gave him a few
yards extra margin. He darted up Flinders Lane in the hope of reaching
the warehouse.
Then fell calamity.
Not more than twenty feet from the corner he charged fairly into Senior
Constable O’Connor. The recognition was mutual. Basil Williams had a
split second in which to draw up and execute a tactical plan. He slugged
mightily with his left and kicked simultaneously with a hearty right
foot. The two came down in a heap on the narrow footpath. Senior
Constable O’Connor reached out a purposeful hand for the wriggling Basil
Williams, who promptly bit it vigorously.
The constable spat out a three-word character sketch of Basil Williams
that could not be printed even in these liberal days.
Basil was on his feet before the last word was uttered, and, aiming a
hearty kick at the ribs of the half risen O’Connor, sped on his way. But
the game was nearly up, and so were O’Connor and the rest of the
hard-bitten crew of pursuers. Basil Williams felt his legs were losing
their spring while those of O’Connor at least were fresh, and were also
spurred on with not unrighteous wrath.
As he swung into the Centreway with the leading hound not twenty feet
behind him he gasped out an appeal to Nicholas. As he did so he tripped
and fell. The next instant his pursuers were round the corner and on him.
Lying face down as he had fallen, he heard the chase stop beside him.
Then came a voice—an astonished voice: “Cripes! This isn’t the bloke we
were after.”
Enlightenment and gratitude flashed into Tydvil’s mind.
Not unkindly hands turned him face up. He kept his eyes closed and
assumed an expression that he hoped would register pain.
Then came another and solicitous voice: “By Jove! It’s Mr. Tydvil Jones.
That swine must have knocked him out.”
A strong arm went under his shoulder and raised him up. Tydvil’s dazed
eyes looked up into the face of Senior Constable O’Connor.
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