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

placed his glass on the table and looked up at her. “What there is of

it is perfect,” he said, “but I think I like what there isn’t of it

better.”

 

She took a sip from her glass and held it to his lips. “That’s for paying

pretty compliments…”

 

Of what happened next, Tydvil was never quite sure. There was a sudden

crash of glass and rending of curtains, and across the table he saw three

men confronting him, and the leader and most conspicuous was Mr. Samuel

Cranston, who, according to his own story, should have been six hundred

miles away in Sydney—but who evidently was not.

 

Hilda emitted a startled cry, but Tydvil was, for the moment, too

overcome by the catastrophe to move.

 

The expression of Samuel Cranston was hostile in the extreme. He glared

ferociously as, with two hands clenched on the table, he leaned forward

to deliver himself of speech. Behind him, two unpleasant looking men,

evidently private detectives, stood in support. There was a ring of

triumph in the rage that shook Cranston’s voice. “Got you!” he snarled.

“Got you at last, Mr. so-and-so Brewer! And you’ll pay for it!”

 

Two thoughts flashed through Tydvil’s mind. One was that the situation

presented more grounds for action than argument. There was simply nothing

to be said. The other was that every circumstance of the case demanded

swift and, if possible, masterly retreat. It meant a retreat, too,

encumbered by his baggage, though he, himself, did not regard Hilda in

exactly that light.

 

He sprang to his feet. The whole scene was a matter of seconds from the

moment of the explosion. Hilda, he noted with satisfaction, had slipped

through the door. As Tydvil moved, the two detectives started round the

table with bellicose intent, and Cranston, seizing the empty bottle,

hurled it at his head. Jones ducked with a celerity that surprised even

himself, and the bottle shattered a picture on the wall behind him. An

instant later a glass buzzed past his ear.

 

Attacked in front, and with both flanks menaced, as in all master minds,

thought and action were coincident with Tydvil. He reached forward and,

picking up the lamp, sent it flying at the infuriated Cranston. There was

a crash and a blaze of flame as he turned and reached the door a

hairsbreadth ahead of the nearest man. Swiftly he pulled it to behind

him. He muttered his relief when he found a key on the outside, and the

bolt shot as he turned it. From the sounds within, the inhabitants of the

room were evidently busy beating out the flames.

 

Hilda ran before him and opened the front door. “Don’t mind me, Billy,”

she gasped. “He’s frightened of me. I can manage him easily and am quite

safe. Go quickly!”

 

Tydvil paused a moment to listen to the clamour behind the locked door.

“Sure you will be all right? Better come with me!”

 

“Madness, Billy,” she answered. “I know best. Go!” He stooped and kissed

her on either cheek, and she laughed lightly as he turned and fled,

heading towards Acland Street.

 

Tydvil made the pace fairly smart, but kept something in reserve in case

of pursuit, though he felt sure that the trio would be delayed long

enough to give him a good start. In this, however, he proved a bad judge.

He was within fifty yards of Acland Street when excited noises behind him

warned him the hunt was on.

 

Concealment was out of the question. Both moon and street lights were

against him. There was a shout of “There he goes!” and, with the enemy on

his track, he began to sprint, still feeling confident of escape. But his

confidence received a shock when, as he had almost reached the corner,

two men turned out of Acland Street and came towards him.

 

As they came into view a cry came from his pursuers of, “Stop thief! Stop

him!” and at the cry the newcomers prepared to bar his progress.

 

Tydvil’s thoughts worked even more swiftly than his legs. In the brief

seconds before the impending collision, he measured his chances. The new

forces were apparently both young, and their open coats displayed evening

dress. Their attitudes bespoke determination. Shock tactics were the only

hope, and he charged straight at them. Seeing this they closed. As their

hands shot towards him, he hacked one savagely on the shin—a primitive

and barbaric attack, but effectual. Then he snatched off his hat and

hurled it in the face of the other, and followed it swiftly with his

fist.

 

The momentary dislocation of their line gave him an opportunity to burst

through, and before they could turn on him he was round the corner and

pelting towards Fitzroy Street. He knew from the crude and personal

remarks that reached him, that though he had gained another start, he had

earned the uncompromising hostility of two more pursuers. There was no

mistaking the zeal that urged the footsteps that were pattering swiftly

behind him. Worse still, two other figures detached themselves from the

shadows on the opposite side of the street and joined the hunt,

apparently on general principles.

 

Tydvil’s heart began to fail. Not only were the newcomers gaining, but a

glance over his shoulder showed him that they had been overtaken by

Cranston and his unlovely satellites. Now, the pack, grown to seven, was

pounding along behind him, giving tongue as they ran.

 

Knowing the locality well, it was a plantation on the other side of

Fitzroy Street, that Tydvil made his objective. When he reached the

corner from which his hoped for sanctuary, came into view, the chase was

not much more than one hundred feet behind him.

 

Here, the lights on the corner which revealed him plainly to his

pursuers, showed Jones something that chilled his heart. The corner of

the street had been torn up for some municipal work, and the piled earth

was fenced with hurdles.

 

Standing by them was what appeared to the flying man as the most gigantic

policeman he had ever laid eyes on. Moreover, the approaching riot had

evidently put him on the alert.

 

As Tydvil reached the edge of the upturned earth round which he must race

for the chance of safety that was now in view, the policeman roared a

command to halt, and made at him. Necessity was the mother of Jones as

well as of invention in his hour of peril. Safety or ruin was a matter of

seconds. He dropped to his knees, and as he did so his hand found

something comforting: something cubical and heavy. As the approaching

figure towered over him, Tydvil’s hand shot forward. There was the sound

of an anguished grunt, and the Law incarnate crumpled up and crashed

almost on top of him.

 

At the same instant the chase raged round the corner. Tydvil started up

and fled like a scalded cat across the street to the shadow of the trees

of the plantation, with the howling crew almost on his heels. Leaving the

path, he dashed among the shrubs and sprawled full length over a

surprised couple who were whispering sweet nothings in the privacy of the

shrubbery. The man seized his foot with an exclamation, highly improper

at any time, but unpardonable in the presence of a lady.

 

Tydvil kicked desperately and wrenched his foot free. The girl screamed,

and the two men struggled to their feet. The sound of crashing among the

shrubs told Jones that the scream had brought the pursuit on his track

again. Tydvil drove a purposeful knee to his opponent’s waistcoat, and

the man went to the grass like a log. Again a scream from the girl

brought an answering cry from the hunt. In another moment they would be

on him. In his desperation Tydvil remembered. “Nicholas, help! Help me!”

he gasped.

 

The words were still on his lips when Jones felt himself wrenched from

his feet and swung into the air. There was for a second, a sensation of

breathless flight and he found himself sitting somewhere, high above the

earth, and, he felt assured, in safety. Where he was he neither knew nor

cared. Drawing labouring breaths, he sat with his face in his hands,

listening to excited voices in the distance. Presently he recovered

himself slightly, but still panting from his flight he sat up and looked

round.

 

Had it not been that any refuge was better than capture, Tydvil would

have been rather scared at the situation in which he found himself. The

first glance showed him that he was sitting on the parapet, some fifty

feet from the ground, of a long range of terraces overlooking Hobsons

Bay. His feet were resting on a ledge about two feet wide that formed the

cornice of the building. Beside him was a large, ball-shaped cement

structure that formed one of the architectural adornments. On the other

side sat, regarding him with a smiling countenance, Mr. Nicholas Senior.

 

The moon that had betrayed the fugitive, had disappeared under a friendly

cloud, but Mr. Senior’s countenance was plainly visible. Jones took in

his surroundings for a moment before speaking. Then, still gasping, he

said, “Close shave! Thank goodness you were at hand. I thought I was

gone.”

 

Nicholas laughed. “Goodness had very little to do with any part of it,

I’m afraid. But it was a close shave, as you say. Why didn’t you call

sooner?”

 

“Forgot!” said Mr. Jones shortly. Then he added, anxiously, “I suppose we

are quite safe here?”

 

“Quite,” replied Mr. Senior. “Any port in a storm, you know, my friend.

Of course, I do not wish in any way to interfere in your amusements, but

you seem, for a beginner, to have had a fairly lively night out. That

crowd seemed as angry as a nest of hornets.”

 

Jones paused to listen to the calls that still rose from the plantation

in the near foreground. Then he gave his friend a swift outline of his

adventures.

 

“Not too bad!” commented Nicholas appreciatively. “Not bad at all—rape,

arson and murder, but I’ve known a fourteenth century Archbishop to do

better before breakfast.”

 

“Oh, you know,” protested Tydvil indignantly, “that’s hardly a fair

statement, at all!”

 

“But, don’t you see, Tydvil, in these cases it is the principle that

counts? The intention, rather than its fulfilment.”

 

“But I cannot admit it,” argued Jones a little warmly.

 

“I was certainly injudicious, but the fire caused by the lamp must have

been extinguished without trouble. And the policeman…” He paused a

little doubtfully.

 

“The least of your lapses,” said Nicholas. “You say you only threw a lump

of clay at him. That would not have caused any but a temporary

inconvenience.”

 

Tydvil cleared his throat. “Hum—yes,” he said slowly. “But,

unfortunately, that lump of clay had been baked. In fact, it was half a

brick that checked his advance.”

 

Nicholas Senior chuckled. “Really, I must congratulate you. You have met

serious emergencies with prompt and effectual methods. Don’t worry about

the policeman. Risks of the kind are inseparable from his calling.” Here

he paused, for the tumult and the shouting that had died away were

resumed with renewed vigour. There was a stampede below, and the uproar

broke out again, apparently directly below their perch. Looking

apprehensively at Nicholas, Tydvil’s arm encircled the concrete ball

beside him.

 

Leaning forward, Nicholas listened intently. “They seem to have found

someone. Wait! I won’t be long.” He disappeared as he spoke.

 

The last injunction was unnecessary. Tydvil had not the slightest

intention of moving. He clung affectionately, to the concrete, and stared

out across the dark waters of the Bay, to where the Gellibrand light