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

remained

shot. They must have been torn through the frame, but the frame remained

intact.

 

“Je-ru-salem!” whistled Tydvil.

 

“Wait—I promised you something more.”

 

As Jones looked back, something fluttered through the air and landed on

the blotting pad before him. He gasped as he saw it was his private

cheque book. That book, he knew, was locked in a smaller safe in the

strong-room.

 

Jones looked an enquiry at His Highness, who nodded assent. Then he

walked over to the open door and examined the bolts. Entering the

strong-room, he unlocked the smaller safe. His cheque book was not

there. Convinced, he returned to his chair. At a wave of the thin brown

hand, the door closed as quietly as it had opened.

 

“You forgot to put away the cheque book,” laughed Tydvil.

 

“Pardon,” murmured His Highness. Leaning forward, he picked up the book

and tossed it towards the steel door. It disappeared in mid flight.

Jones stood up and opened the door with his keys and the combination. In

the strong-room he found his cheque book back in its place.

 

Returning to his chair once more, he sat with his hands on the edge of

his table, staring blankly at the blotting pad for a long minute. Then

he came to swift decision. “I’ll do it!” he said abruptly.

 

His visitor nodded, smiling. “I am really delighted to hear it. I assure

you I take a great personal interest in you, Mr. Jones, and I feel

certain you will have no cause to regret your determination. Now, let us

arrange the formalities, and I will be in a position to take your

instructions. Have you a promissory note form?”

 

With the air of a man who has burned his boats and enjoyed the process,

Jones opened a small cash-box, from which he drew a small wad of stamped

forms. Bending to select one, he hesitated. “By the way,” he asked,

“what stamps will be necessary?”

 

His Highness shook his head. “I scarcely follow you. Is a stamp

necessary?”

 

“Decidedly! Under the Act,” explained Tydvil, “it is necessary to have a

duty stamp valued at sixpence on each note up to twenty-five pounds in

value, one shilling up to fifty pounds, and an additional shilling for

each further fifty pounds, or part of that amount. I would prefer to

have the note unassailably legal.”

 

The other waved his hand largely. “Why go to unnecessary expense—make

it a sixpenny stamp, my dear fellow.” Then, observing the flush on the

face of Tydvil, he continued, “However, decide for yourself. I am afraid

I was looking at it from my viewpoint rather than yours.”

 

Jones still hesitated.

 

“You see, my friend, I am apt to regard a commodity as of low value when

I can obtain millions of it for nothing—the world market parity for

souls. Still, I see your point of view. Decide for yourself, my dear

sir.”

 

Jones chuckled. “I see, a purely commercial proposition, at ruling

prices. It is not what I value it at, but what it would bring?”

 

“Precisely,” answered his visitor cheerfully.

 

Tydvil drew a form with a sixpenny stamp on it from the wad, and

laughed. “Here goes!” Preparing to write, he said, “Now, this is the

first day of August—shall we say at three months?”

 

The other bowed. “I leave the details entirely in your hands, and with

complete confidence.” A very handsome testimonial coming from such a

quarter.

 

Tydvil blushed with pride. “Very well! Three months, then. That will

make it due on November fourth, allowing for the formal three days’

grace.” He wrote for a moment, and then looked up with a puzzled

expression. “To whom shall I make it payable, you see…” he paused

awkwardly.

 

His Highness smiled. “Of course, it would be hardly—well, a little

unusual to make it payable to the Devil.”

 

Jones nodded. “My idea exactly. And since we are likely to see a good

deal of one another during the next three months, it might be as well to

arrange for some conventional form of address at the same time.”

 

His visitor reflected a moment. “There are so many names—Satan, The

Devil, Lucifer, Ahrimanes, The Tempter, Prince of Darkness, of Evil—

all very uncomplimentary, and even more inaccurate, and quite unsuitable

for modern use, at any rate. Can you suggest anything yourself?”

 

Tydvil tried, but not hopefully. “The Dickens,” he paused and, receiving

no answer, went on, “Old Scratch, Old Nick…”

 

“All most offensive and familiar,” retorted His Highness, somewhat

nettled.

 

“Might I venture to suggest,” Tydvil returned, “that we could use the

last name I mentioned by paraphrasing it. We could change ‘Old Nick’

to Nicholas Senior. I think Mr. Nicholas Senior would be most suitable.”

 

“Excellent, my friend, excellent!” agreed His Highness. “We will

certainly make it Nicholas Senior.”

 

“How about a title,” put in Jones, persuasively. “Say, Sir Nicholas

Senior, K.B.E.”

 

“No,” replied his friend. “On the whole I prefer to remain completely

incog. Put it down to a natural humility.”

 

Jones apologised. He felt there was a rebuke behind the words. Presently

he paused again in his writing.

 

“Provided, when the note falls due, you have fulfilled your side of the

contract, do you take immediate possession of the security?” he asked a

little uneasily.

 

“Not at all! Not at all!” answered Mr. Senior hastily. “The usual terms

apply in full. You retain a life interest in your soul, which I inherit

on your death—that is, when you have no further use for it.”

 

“Very generous,” said Tydvil, looking relieved. Presently he looked up,

and read from the form before him. “Dated August 1st, 1904. Due,

November 4th, 1904. In place of the usual sum in figures I have written

‘Soul.’ Will that suffice?”

 

Mr. Senior nodded agreement.

 

“Three months after date,” continued Jones, “I promise to pay Nicholas

Senior, or order, my Immortal Soul for services to be rendered during

the currency of this note. Payable at my offices in 3973 Flinders Lane,

Melbourne. Signed, Tydvil Jones.”

 

He handed the note across the table to Mr. Senior, who read it

carefully. Then he turned the note face down, and, after writing on the

back of it, he returned it to Jones for inspection.

 

This is the endorsement Jones read. The handwriting was exquisitely neat

and clear. “If, during the currency of this note, I fail to perform any

task or service of any description which I may be called upon to perform

by the maker thereof, I agree that the note shall become automatically

null and void. Nicholas R., et I.”

 

“Very handsome, indeed, Mr. Senior,” said Jones, handing back the note,

“but I assure you, quite unnecessary.”

 

Mr. Senior folded the document carefully, and placed it in his wallet.

“We are both businessmen, my friend, and it is only right that my

obligation should be set out in writing.”

 

Jones stared at him a moment thoughtfully. “I suppose it is entirely

legal. Not that I would think of trying to upset it.”

 

There was a grim smile at the corners of the clean-cut mouth. “Not all

the children of my very numerous family known as the Legal Profession,

together, could upset it.”

 

“It would be interesting to hear it argued,” smiled Tydvil.

 

“Perhaps,” from the still smiling lips. “But, as from the County Courts

to the Privy Council I am represented on every bench…!” He flipped

his fingers carelessly.

 

Then his mood changed. “And now, my friend, I am entirely at your

service. Command me.”

 

“I must think things over a little,” replied Tydvil. “You see, this has

come so suddenly and unexpectedly…” He was interrupted by the

telephone bell.

 

“Excuse me one moment.” He raised the receiver to his ear and listened a

moment. Then he snorted out a curt “Very well!” and slammed it down

again.

 

Then he turned abruptly to Mr. Senior. “My wife will be here in half an

hour. I have no desire to meet her just now. Could you arrange some

means of altering her intention?”

 

“Most certainly. A pleasure indeed,” replied Mr. Senior lightly. “I will

be most interested to meet the lady, who, I feel sure, is responsible

for your own remarkable record—to a great extent. But after?”

 

Jones thought for a moment. “Can you meet me here about seven-thirty

this evening?”

 

In answer to a nod of acquiescence, he went on, “That will suit me

admirably, so, until then, I need not trouble you.” He rose and looked

at the door. “If I let you out by the door, it may cause comment. Miss

Brand is not aware of your presence here.”

 

“No matter,” said Mr. Senior, “my goings and comings may be arranged

otherwise.”

 

“There will be no trouble about my wife?”

 

“Not the slightest! I will arrange to have her fully occupied for the

remainder of the day.” He held out his hand, which Tydvil shook warmly,

and as he released it, Mr. Senior was not. He vanished.

 

For a long time Tydvil sat thinking. Then he took his hat, and leaving

the warehouse, he turned into Elizabeth Street, there made certain

purchases, and returned to his office.