The Missing Angel by Erle Cox (english books to improve english txt) đź“–
- Author: Erle Cox
- Performer: -
Book online «The Missing Angel by Erle Cox (english books to improve english txt) 📖». Author Erle Cox
Five minutes later, Mr. Senior was beside him again. He was laughing
heartily, though quietly.
Tydvil turned an enquiring eye on him.
“Upon my word,” said Nicholas, “had I planned it myself, I could not have
done better. Your late pursuers have found the real William Brewer who
was passing with two friends.”
No words came from Tydvil. He was beyond speech, but his face was a note
of anguished interrogation.
“I left him trying to explain himself, and no one will believe him. He
has been arrested for using abusive language to the policeman. That
policeman is very angry,” added Nicholas as an afterthought.
Tydvil felt that, at this juncture, the rescue of Billy Brewer was the
paramount consideration, and said so. Mr. Senior, however, urged caution.
“I can take him from that policeman without any trouble,” he said, “but
remember, he is known. That will mean his re-arrest on another charge.”
“But I must do something,” Tydvil pleaded. “It is all my fault, and he is
innocent.”
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Senior reassured him. “I will bail him out tonight
and appear for him in court tomorrow. You can come along and give
evidence if you like.”
“That,” said Tydvil, “would be very satisfactory, but for the fact that
you and I have not yet met one another.”
“Uh,” concurred Nicholas.
“The case might reach the papers,” Tydvil explained, “and my wife might
wonder—she’s pretty good at wondering.”
“Well,” Nicholas said thoughtfully, “we must have an impressive looking
counsel—let me see—we’ll call him Mr. Olden, K.C. I will contrive to
look legal and will arrange it so that the Court accepts me at face
value.”
“Good.” Tydvil’s confidence returned. “But I’m afraid that in future I
must assume a character of my own creation. Duplicates are likely to be
troublesome.”
“You must admit, though,” laughed Mr. Senior, “that you are indebted to
Brewer for an excellent night’s entertainment.”
“All the more reason why I should not let him suffer for it,” retorted
Tydvil. “You see, he’ll have to do the explaining to Geraldine Brand and
that very insinuating Hilda—I’m afraid he will find it rather difficult,
too,” he added thoughtfully. Then, with a shiver, for a cool wind was
blowing in from the Bay, “I wish I could have another drink.”
Senior immediately produced a silver flask into the cup of which he
poured a liberal dose. Swallowed at one gulp, the alluring fluid seemed
to drench Tydvil’s system with courage, optimism and happiness. He felt
that tobacco was the one thing left to complete his satisfaction with
life.
In answer to his request Mr. Senior, the obliging, handed him a cigar.
Forgetting his unusual situation on the housetops, and careless of
consequences, Tydvil struck a match that illuminated the two figures on
the parapet.
From the street below came an excited voice, “Hi, look!” quickly followed
by another, rather more excited, “What are you men doing up there?”
Earlier in the night, the evidence of his discovery in a compromising
situation would have terrified Tydvil Jones. Now he only felt annoyance
at the challenge to his liberty of action as a citizen. Cupping his hands
to his mouth he responded. “I’m the Queen of Sheba with King Solomon, and
we’re taking the air—you mud-headed flat-fish!”
“I doubt if they’ll accept your explanation,” remarked Mr. Senior
judicially.
Evidently he was right. One of the voices shouted, “Police! Police!”
Mr. Senior’s beverage must have been fairly potent, for it was doubtless
that and not Tydvil Jones that replied to the call with a series of
insults, barbaric in their splendour, that could be heard for hundreds of
yards. In a few moments it peopled the quiet of Beaconsfield Parade with
enquiring residents.
“I think,” remarked Mr. Senior as the clamour below grew louder, “that we
would be wiser to leave.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” conceded Tydvil, “those people don’t seem to like
us.”
“Where to?” asked Nicholas.
“I think I’ll call it a night—take me home, Nicholas,” replied Tydvil.
A second later Tydvil found himself in the drive before his house on St.
Kilda Road. He was ignorant of the fact, that for nearly two hours
afterwards, police and citizen helpers swarmed over the roofs of terraces
on Beaconsfield Parade, searching diligently for two mysterious
malefactors.
Promising to meet him at the court next morning at ten o’clock, Nicholas
left Tydvil to his own devices. He marched lightheartedly to his own
door. His mood was one of genial satisfaction and peace and good will.
His resentment against even Amy had vanished. He felt for his latch key,
but his pocket was empty. A moment later he pounded the door vigorously,
with the bronze knocker.
Amy had dismissed the maids for the night and was awaiting Tydvil’s
arrival. She, too, for her own purposes, had decided not to re-open
hostilities for the moment. The spell of that charming Mr. Senior was
still strong upon her. Rather surprised at a caller at nearly midnight,
she hastened to answer the summons at the front door.
She was still more surprised when she found standing on the mat, none
other than that handsome young Mr. Brewer from the warehouse. Whisky,
cocktails, champagne, liqueurs and then Mr. Senior’s contribution to the
mixture, had conspired to make him entirely oblivious to his altered
identity.
Amy gazed at the figure, for once in her life—short of words. Tydvil
accepted her silence as an olive branch. That was why, a moment later,
Amy Jones found herself in the arms of Mr. Brewer, who fervently kissed
the upturned face.
Amy struggled loose and gasped. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
Tydvil, still innocent of the enormity of his offence, smiled. “Don’t be
angry with me, dear! Why should we quarrel?”
“Mr. Brewer! How—oh, how could you!”
Enlightenment crashed into Tydvil’s mind. The flushed face expressed more
astonishment than anger. His mind registered the fact automatically, but
for the moment he knew he must carry on.
“I—I couldn’t help it!” he stammered apologetically.
“I’m astonished, Mr. Brewer! Apart from anything else, what would Mr.
Jones think? He might be home at any moment.”
“I left him working at the office.” Tydvil suddenly recognised that he
had registered a water-tight alibi.
“But,” Amy insisted, “how could you do such a thing as come here like
this.”
“I was walking home, and felt ill—I did not think really. I think it
must have been a heart attack—I…”
She looked at him intently. She did not recognise that the cigar in his
hand hardly bore out the statement. “Would you like me to ring for a
doctor?” she asked.
Tydvil began to back out. “No, please, no,” he said. “Please forgive
me—I feel better—I must go.”
But Amy would not hear of it. “Wait, you must let me get you a little
stimulant—I insist.”
Tydvil surrendered. He saw his way out. Amy led the way to the reception
room. “Now just sit down, Mr. Brewer. I won’t be a moment,” and she
bustled away.
The instant she disappeared, Tydvil whispered an urgent “Nicholas!
Nicholas!” In a moment Mr. Senior stood before him.
“Get me out! Quick! Out into the street.” Curtains parted, a window
opened and closed behind them. And Tydvil found himself in St. Kilda
Road.
“Whew!” he gasped breathlessly. Then, “Why on earth didn’t you remind me
I hadn’t changed over?”
Mr. Senior raised his brows. “My part, my dear fellow is not advisory.
You must remember. Still, there is no harm done, is there?”
After a moment’s reflection, Tydvil admitted that things might be worse.
The change from Billy to his rightful self was effected in a moment.
“Sure you’re all right, now?” asked Nicholas. “Absolutely,” replied Mr.
Jones emphatically, turning to his gate.
Again he walked swiftly up the drive, and let himself in with his latch
key to meet Amy in the wide hall carrying a tray on which was a glass and
a jug and the bottle of whisky that was kept in the medicine cupboard for
emergencies.
Amy’s face expressed consternation rather than welcome. Tydvil pretended
not to notice her uneasiness. “Good gracious! Amy, what are you doing
with that?” he asked.
“I felt ill! I was waiting up for you! I…”
“By Jove, you do look pale! Come into the sitting-room and I will give
you some of that.” He made as though to take the tray from her hands.
“No, no, Tydvil” Amy protested anxiously. “You must be tired. Go up to
your room. I will be quite all right.”
But Tydvil insisted. He took the tray from her and, entering the room,
placed it on a table and turned towards her. Amy was standing in the
doorway looking round the room in utter bewilderment.
Picking up the bottle and the tumbler, Tydvil paused and sniffed. “That’s
strange!” Another sniff. “Do you know, Amy,” sniff, “this room smells as
though of cigar smoke.” He looked at her enquiringly.
“Nonsense, Tydvil!” she said, advancing into the room. “You must be
dreaming. I cannot smell anything unusual.”
He poured some whisky into the glass and, adding water, handed it to her.
“Of course I must be wrong,” he admitted, “but I really thought for a
moment that there was an odour of tobacco. Stupid, wasn’t it? Now drink
that at once.”
Amy obeyed. For the first time in her life she felt she needed a
stimulant. “Now,” he said, taking a glass from her, “you get along to
bed. I’ll put these things away and put out the lights.”
She felt no inclination to argue. The situation was beyond her. There was
as much of relief as of bewilderment in her mind.
As for Tydvil, he went about his tidying up cheerfully. But when he
reached his bedroom, he seated himself on the side of his bed and lapsed
into long but silent laughter.
Next morning saw the phenomenon of Amy being first at the breakfast
table. She had decided on a truce, but her decision was almost shattered
when, looking over her paper, the paragraph that Tydvil had dictated to
Geraldine met her eyes. Amy, not only boiled with wrath, she almost
exploded. Fortunately, she had five minutes in which to recover before a
composed and impenitent husband wished her a polite “good morning” as he
took his place.
Although Tydvil was not aware of the blessing, nature had gifted him with
one of those rare but priceless heads that do not impose a drastic
penance for a night out. He was feeling as fit as he looked, and helped
himself generously to grilled kidneys and bacon.
Amy watched him sulkily, and then said sourly, “I think, my dear Tydvil,
you might have refrained from insulting me publicly.”
Waiting to swallow his first mouthful, Tydvil made no pretence of
misunderstanding. The paper beside her told its tale. He shrugged his
shoulders as he spiked another piece of kidney with his fork. “You asked
for it!” was all he said.
She was puzzled at his manner. This new Tydvil required study. Evidently
caution in handling him was demanded. Amy went on, “However, I do not
propose to discuss the matter now…”
“That’s good!” interrupted Tydvil.
“But we will go into it at another time,” Amy concluded without noticing
his interjection.
“Well, if you like rows so much as that, don’t let me stop you,” he
answered.
Amy declined the challenge. “I have some rather important news for you,”
Comments (0)