The Missing Angel, Erle Cox [suggested reading TXT] 📗

so that a passing policeman turned a

searching eye on the two. “Good ole Billy. Allers did help a pal.”

 

To Tydvil, the situation was impossible. He felt hot flushes crawling

all over him. He felt he had narrowly escaped meeting the genuine Billy

Brewer. Now, at all costs, he must shake off Billy’s beery friend. “Look

here, Jerry,” he said firmly, “I’ve got an appointment I must keep.

Thanks for the money, but I’ll just have to go.” He jerked his sleeve

from the hand that held it with a curt “Good night!” and walked swiftly

towards Collins Street.

 

The other stood watching the retreating hat bobbing above the crowd. His

world had crashed on him. He had just paid Billy Brewer a debt that was

six months overdue and Billy, who in normal circumstances would have

helped him make a night of it, had walked off and never even asked him

to have a drink—and a bar door within twenty feet of them.

 

Jerry watched Billy till he disappeared, then, still wondering, he

stepped back off the kerb into the roadway where his fate was

accomplished by a heavy limousine. Tydvil Jones was too far off to hear

the cry, or to see the crowd that gathered as the limp figure was lifted

from the blocks.

 

Little dreaming that Jerry had been gathered to the Mercy of Allah,

Tydvil turned into Collins Street in order to avoid pursuit. It had come

home to him with some force that in adopting Billy’s person, he was

adopting with it some no slight risks. However, the risk, whatever it

might be, added spice to the adventure—after all, was he not seeking

adventure?

 

Tydvil had reached Elizabeth Street and turned towards Bourke Street,

when again the words “Saloon Bar” arrested his attention. Then, since

there was no Jerry McCann to intervene, without hesitation he passed

through the multicoloured glass door and along a heavily carpeted

corridor into a small but brilliantly lighted room at the end.

 

To Tydvil’s relief there were no customers at the counter that ran along

the whole of one side. At the further end from where he stood, behind

the counter, were two girls in deep converse. One, with a sleek, black

head, was seated, the other, a blonde of surpassing blondeness, was

standing before her. They were quite oblivious of Tydvil’s presence, so

he had ample time to take in the details at his leisure.

 

The mirrored walls and the close array of bottles and cut glass flashed

under the electric light. So this was the abode of sin against which he

had raised his voice so earnestly on numberless occasions. As he gazed,

the blonde moved slightly and gave him a better view of her companion.

Jones wondered how one so petite could possess such amazing eyes and

such a pink bud for a mouth. Had he but known it, his admiration of the

two presiding angels at the Carillion bar was heartily endorsed by the

leading authorities of the city.

 

Tydvil inwardly raged at the shyness that kept him glued as he stood

staring at the two damsels. It needed all his strength to save him from

taking flight. Then, suddenly the two dazzling eyes of the brunette

turned full on him. As they did so their expression of indifference

turned into evident surprise and pleasure that had a magical effect on

Tydvil’s nerves. His heart gave two big, bumps, and his bashfulness

vanished.

 

The brunette had risen to her feet. “Connie, look!” she exclaimed. “Look

at the villain of the piece.”

 

Then she of the massed blonde hair turned on Tydvil two of the softest

blue smiling eyes he had ever seen, or, at any rate, had ever noticed.

 

“Billy,” she said gently as he stood before them (he never knew how he

crossed the room), “Billy, you’re the quintessence of a disagreeable

piggy. Where have you been all these centuries?” The unflattering

epithet, falling from a perfect cupid’s bow mouth, seemed almost a

caress.

 

“Dooce of a lot of work,” said Tydvil, off-handedly. “Positively could

not get round.”

 

The two exchanged glances, and the smaller shook a white, pink-nailed

finger at him. “Dooce of a lot of work!” she mimicked derisively. “Do

you think we never hear anything? Dooce of a lot of redheaded typist!

That’s your work, Mr. Billy Brewer.”

 

The charge, unexpected as it was, made Jones forget for the moment his

borrowed individuality. He disgraced Billy Brewer by a rich,

all-embracing blush. The two stared at the mounting colour with

amazement, and peals of merry laughter filled the bar. “Billy, you’ve

blushed! Connie and I will get in our breach of promise writs before the

rush sets in. Oh, Billy! You swore you would never love anyone but us.”

 

“Look here!” he objected indignantly, “it’s not true…”

 

“The Lord don’t love liars, Billy,” said Connie shaking her head. Then,

turning, she placed a bottle of whisky and a glass before him. Those

were the days when the customer said “When.”

 

Tydvil had scarcely bargained for that. He was doubtful if Billy

Brewer’s body carried that gentleman’s capacity for absorbing whisky

without calamitous results, or his own incapacity. He determined to play

for safety. “Not that,” he said, glancing at the bottle, “I’ll take

claret and lemonade.” Again the bar rang and rippled with laughter.

 

“Sure you don’t mean milk and soda?” giggled Millie. “You are a

break-up, Billy.” As she spoke, she poured a generous first mate’s

snifter into the tumbler and passed it across to him. At the same time

Connie placed a bubbling bottle of soda water beside it.

 

“Lap it up like a good boy,” Connie laughed, “and forget the redhead a

minute. Jerry McCann was in looking for you a little while ago.”

 

Recognising that the claret and lemonade position was untenable, Tydvil

filled the glass with soda, determined to play his part for the honour

of Billy Brewer—he owed him that much.

 

“I saw Jerry just now in Swanston Street,” he said as he took up his

glass. “I should say he had been here,” he added with meaning.

 

Millie nodded. “He was a bit damp round the edges,” she commented, “so

Connie wouldn’t give him any whisky. You’d have laughed to hear her

‘kidding him to be good and go home. Talked sister stuff to him and

managed to make him swallow two glasses of Spa water.”

 

“He wasn’t too bad when I saw him,” said Tydvil, inwardly amazed that

the girls he thought would be sirens would go to the trouble to protect

Jerry from himself. This was a new angle on barmaids.

 

Connie laughed. “He would have been worse if I hadn’t squeezed out two

big tears and pleaded with him. It was the tears that did it. Look,

Billy.” She blinked her heavy lashed lids quickly and looked into

Tydvil’s eyes. As she did, the big blue orbs swam with an appeal that

might have softened the heart of the Commissioner of Taxes. A little

soft hand fell on the big one of Tydvil that rested on the counted.

“Billy,” she murmured, “lap it up for my sake.”

 

Tydvil, under those appealing eyes, began to feel queer. He, Tydvil

Jones, of all men, felt an irresistible urge to kiss the owner of those

blue eyes. But Connie, evidently diagnosing the symptoms from

experience, withdrew from the danger zone.

 

“Little kidder, isn’t she?” laughed Millie.

 

“Little devil!” retorted Tydvil, and raising the glass to his lips he

sent the C6 0 H + Soda to the ultimate destination of all such mixtures,

in two gulps. The spirit caught his throat and made him feel for the

moment as though he had swallowed a jazz band wrapped in barbed wire. He

concealed is emotions admirably, and replaced the glass on the counter

as though the rite were mere routine.

 

“Good boy,” laughed Connie. “Took his medicine like a little man. Now

he’ll have strength enough to pay over that eleven quid.”

 

Jones gasped. “Eh! Eleven—eh—for a drink! Why I paid you…”

 

“Don’t be silly! Why, you promised you would put that pound on King

Rufus for me…”

 

Jones was no fool, and hastily recognised that with Billy’s

individuality he had assumed his liabilities, and he must meet them so

as to leave no reflection on Billy’s good name. The transaction

evidently demanded immediate settlement. Without a moment’s further

hesitation he pulled out a wad of notes and paid over.

 

“Lucky wog, Connie! Wish I’d invested, too,” remarked Millie.

 

Connie turned aside and lifted a tiny suede-cased foot to the chair.

There was a flirt of skirt, a flashing glimpse of deep red garter, a

snap of elastic, and the notes disappeared.

 

“Huzzy!” said Tydvil, playfully; rather more moved than he had been by

the whisky.

 

The girl’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Shouldn’t have looked, Billy,”

she said. “I notice you didn’t blush that time.”

 

There came a sound of voices from the corridor. Tydvil took fright. “I’m

off,” he said. “Goodnight, girls.” But it was too late. Entered three

jovial souls who hailed him as a brother.

 

Tydvil thought swiftly. “No good, you chaps. One more and I’m off. Got

an appointment; positively! Can’t wait, a fact!” He spoke convincingly.

 

Loud were the protests. They were looking for a game of “draw.” But

Jones did not dare risk more than two drinks. The one he had already was

feeling its way round happily. He paid for one more and, despite their

chaff which imputed scandalous motives for his desertion, he turned and

fled.