The Missing Angel - Erle Cox (whitelam books .TXT) 📗
- Author: Erle Cox
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the thought of what might happen should Amy come into contact with
Geraldine on one of her occasional visits to the office.
He knew that so far as Amy was concerned he had left Geraldine’s
reputation a total wreck. He felt certain, too, that if Amy were to let
herself loose on Geraldine, that astute young woman would, in a second,
convict him of being the source of Amy’s information.
Knowing Geraldine, William’s alter ego regarded the outlook as rather
perilous. What Miss Brand’s reaction to the situation would be, did not
bear contemplation. However, he reflected that a game that did not
involve risks was not worth playing. Certainly, his spurious identities
of Billy and Basil Williams had made the life of Tydvil Jones’ anything
but drab and boring.
The domestic life of Tydvil also became more hectic than usual during the
following week when news reached Amy from sorrowing secretaries of bereft
societies that Mr. Jones had severed his invaluable connection from them.
Life under his own roof became one long battle, into which Amy flung
herself, heart and soul. In the struggle for liberty and independence
Tydvil fought with a patriot’s fervour. The few meals he took at home
sounded like mealtime among the larger carnivora at the Zoo.
His worst experience was when he arrived home late at night to find Amy
in battle array waiting for him. Following his usual tactics he charged
through the enemy’s lines, and, closely pursued, reached his own room. It
was only when he attempted to lock the door he found that the lock had
been removed. The job had been Amy’s own handiwork, and had cost her half
the afternoon to complete.
Under her threat to “scream the house down” if he did not let her in,
Tydvil surrendered. It was not a pleasant interview. The conversation was
almost one-sided, and lasted for three hours. It took Amy every minute of
them to describe Tydvil as he appeared in her eyes. In addition to her
views on his desertion of her causes, his furtive conduct during the past
week, and her suspicions that he was leading a profligate life, she
reasserted her views on that Brand creature, that the girl was not better
than she should be, and that Tydvil knew it.
Finally, some further and more scandalous reflections on Geraldine
spurned Tydvil into reprisals. He fairly blew her out of the room with a
blast of language such as had never before assaulted Amy’s ears. She
retired shaken with sobs that on an earlier day Tydvil would have heard
with an abject sense of guilt and shame. Now they sounded like music in
his ears as he barricaded his door with his bed in case the enemy
counterattacked.
He had one satisfactory sense of superiority in the war. While he was
cherishing his secret of Amy and William, which he was reserving for a
crisis that he knew must come, Amy had nothing on him. He was still the
impeccable Tydvil Jones of the blameless life—on the surface, at any
rate.
Then, from causes beyond his control swift disaster befell him.
Since the night that he had defeated the police on the question of Basil
Williams, he had been careful to keep Basil out of any mischief that
might renew their attentions. As Nicholas had warned him, and as he
himself observed, Tydvil Jones was under quiet but continuous police
surveillance. Inspector Kane was a patient but tenacious man when his own
hunches were concerned. Intuition had linked Basil Williams and Tydvil
Jones in his mind, and he followed that intuition as a ferret follows a
rabbit.
Tydvil had found in Elsie Wilson an entertaining friend. It was a
friendship which to Nicholas’s cynical amusement he kept on a strictly
platonic basis. He recognised, however, that few of Basil Williams’s
friends accepted it at its face value.
One day, as Basil Williams, he kept a luncheon appointment with Elsie
with intent to spend the afternoon at the Moonee Valley. When they met in
Collins Street, Tydvil noticed that she was even more lighthearted and
entertaining than usual. He was not to know that Elsie had already
absorbed more joy-producing fluids than discretion warranted. The bottle
of wine they shared at lunch, preceded by a cocktail, completely
unleashed Elsie’s not tightly bound inhibitions.
Unfortunately, Tydvil did not rightly diagnose the cause of her
spontaneous gaiety until in Collins Street, after lunch, when the fresh
air took immediate effect.
Now, fate decreed that Inspector Kane had paused to speak to a uniformed
man on duty as the two emerged from the restaurant. Elsie’s merry laugh
drew his two narrowed grey eyes on Basil Williams and his partner.
Then, two facts struck Basil with a staggering impact. One was, that
Elsie was far from sober; and the other was that Inspector Kane and a
uniformed man were standing within ten feet of him.
Basil’s thoughts buzzed wildly for a moment and then crystallised. On the
opposite side of the street, and almost in front of the Centreway, stood
a taxi—and refuge.
Gently but firmly he took the now swaying Elsie’s arm and led her across
the street. It was not an easy passage because Elsie’s feet were
manifestly unsteady and the traffic was heavy. But he breathed a sigh of
relief when they reached the taxi in safety. A swift glance warned Tydvil
that Kane and the constable had left the far footpath and were moving
across the road with apparent indifference to his existence.
The taxi-driver regretted he was engaged. Basil quickly offered him
double fare to become disengaged. The man regretfully and respectfully
declined the offer. His obduracy evidently annoyed the lively Elsie,
whose raised voice halted a number of staggered pedestrians on the
footpath. Basil made a desperate but ineffectual attempt to draw her away
through the Centreway. Elsie was beyond reason, and before he could
intervene she struck the taxi-driver in the face.
What happened next occupied two irreparable seconds. The man, in trying
to dodge the infuriated Elsie, bumped into Basil. The girl flew at him,
and clung like a wild cat. Basil tried to pry her off her victim and the
three crashed in a heap to the pavement. He was on his feet in a moment
and lifted Elsie to her feet. He had a glimpse of Kane and the constable
passing through the traffic towards them at increased speed.
Chivalry forbade Basil to desert his disastrous partner. With all speed,
half carrying her, he made for the Centreway. The only idea in his mind
was to escape pursuit. The laughing crowd let him through, but Kane and
his satellite were not more than thirty feet behind him when he was half
way down the short passage to Flinders Lane.
His mind flew to Nicholas for assistance, and at the same instant he saw
advancing towards him no other than Amy, whose eyes were fixed with a
pious glare on the dishevelled Elsie. At the same moment Elsie slipped
from his grasp to a sitting posture on the pavement. Behind Basil
Williams was one disaster, in front of him was another. To assume his
identity of Tydvil Jones would be worse than to remain Basil Williams.
Reason fled before instinct. To save Elsie was impossible. It was a case
of sauve qui peut. Turning, he darted up the blind alley off the passage.
It was happily empty, and in its far corner stood a stack of scaffold
poles, behind which the breathless Basil squeezed himself. But as he did
so he recognised that he was trapped. There were sounds of hurrying feet
and excited voices nearing his refuge.
“We’ve got the beggar this time,” he heard Kane’s triumphant voice.
Strong hands tore the scaffold poles away. To the fugitive was revealed
Inspector Kane and the constable in the immediate foreground. Slightly
behind them was a group of interested spectators such as gather
mysteriously at every unusual event. Among them stood Amy. Two of the
faces bore an expression of undisguised astonishment. One of these
belonged to Inspector Kane, and the other was Amy’s.
The first of the groups to move was Amy. She almost sprang past Kane and
paused with a gasped, “Tydvil! Whatever is the meaning of this?”
Kane stared from one to the other. “Who is this man?” he demanded of Amy.
“He is my husband.” Amy resented the official voice and manner of Kane.
“He is Mr. Tydvil Jones.”
Kane glanced over his shoulder. With the ubiquity of the force a second
uniformed man had joined his colleagues. “Mason! Keep those people away.
You, Burns, take that woman to the watchhouse.” He waved his hand
towards Elsie, who had passed out where she lay.
Tydvil’s heart went out in sympathy for his unhappy little playmate who
was beyond his aid.
Then Kane turned back to run a cold, inquisitive eye over Tydvil Jones,
whose appearance at the moment was anything but dignified.
“So!” growled Kane, “you are Mr. Tydvil Jones?” Tydvil wished very
heartily at the moment that he could deny his identity—but admitted it.
“Then will you please inform me on what you were doing concealed behind
those poles?” The voice was respectful but coldly official, and its tone
indicated that a full and frank answer was required.
Although Amy was silent her eyes demanded explanations even more
eloquently than Kane’s voice.
Tydvil’s trouble at the moment was that an adequate explanation,
impromptu, of the presence of an eminent merchant and philanthropist
behind a pile of poles up an alley off a lane at one-thirty p.m., was not
the easiest thing in the world to provide.
All he could say as he looked into the searching grey eyes was, “Urn!” He
said “Urn!” several times.
At about the fourth repetition of the word, Inspector Kane said, not very
encouragingly, “You have already said ‘Urn,’ Mr. Jones.”
Nevertheless, Tydvil repeated the word and halted again in his speech.
Inspector Kane was about to speak again when a diversion came that made
Tydvil’s blank face light with joy. Round the corner from the Centreway
came Mr. Nicholas Senior, serene, dignified and unhurried.
The expression in Tydvil’s face made Kane turn to survey the newcomer.
Nicholas, however, completely disregarded Kane’s presence. He raised his
hat to Amy, who also hailed his arrival with pleasure, though it was a
pleasure tinged with embarrassment.
Nicholas placed his hand on Tydvil’s shoulder. “Did you get them?” he
asked eagerly.
“Who are you, sir?” demanded Kane irritably.
“You may have heard of Mr. Nicholas Senior,” Tydvil explained, and to
Nicholas, “This gentleman is a police officer.”
“Oh!” Nicholas smiled. “How very fortunate.” Then to Tydvil, “Did you
really get them!”
Bewildered, but trusting Nicholas, Tydvil shook his head. “I’m afraid
not.”
“Will you be good enough to explain to me what this is all about?” Kane’s
patience was evaporating fast.
“Mr. Jones and I,” he said serenely,—“You know he is the Vice-President
of the Anti-Gambling League—having been suspicious that two men are
using this alleyway to conduct starting price gambling…”
“What!” snapped Kane.
“And,” Nicholas went on, unheeding the hostility of the voice, “we
decided that one of us should watch each day to try to procure evidence
of the offence.”
Kane looked from one to the other and the expression in his face was not
flattering to either Nicholas, Tydvil, or the explanation. What he may
have intended to say was cut short by Amy, who broke in with, “But,
Tydvil, you have resigned from the Anti-Gambling League!”
Under his breath Tydvil said something that was not quite nice.
Aloud, Kane gave
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