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

the day we met, I have been ruled by a despotism of Don’ts—Women’s

Don’ts at that. You’re right! It is puerile to go out and sock Muskat on

the nose. But if I had had a normal boyhood I would have been able to

slam him on the jaw when we were both kids, and we both would have made

better men for it. Now I have to get it out of my system as a man.

Lawless is right!” Then he went on, “Believe it or not, but if a cop or

two should show up, I’ll feel better for having a turn up with them.”

 

“It looks as though I am in for a busy night,” was Nicholas’s comment.

 

“One thing,” Tydvil protested as he slipped off his perch on the table.

“I don’t want you to dry nurse me this time. You needn’t trouble to keep

my friends off the track. I’m willing to take the risks.”

 

“The risks will be there, my friend,” warned Nicholas. “The sergeant has

offered a reward of five dozen of beer for the man who brings you in.

He’s in a vindictive mood.”

 

“Let ‘em all come,” Tydvil replied. “You see, Nicholas, swatting Edwin

Muskat’s nose, per se, will provide more satisfaction than excitement.

Dodging the cops, if any, will add the essential ginger.”

 

“Good!” laughed Nicholas. “I will adopt a policy of strict neutrality.”

 

“I want to see if I cannot pull through without help,” said Tydvil as he

turned to the door. “I won’t call on you unless I am in extremis. The

meeting should be nearly over by now.”

 

Although Basil Williams was determined, he was by no means reckless. From

the entrance to the warehouse he made a careful reconnaissance of

Flinders Lane before he stepped on to the footpath. Then he turned west

towards Queen Street keeping well in the shadow, but carefully avoiding

any appearance of stealth. He knew that, though the search would be

mainly confined to the east side of Elizabeth Street, Basil Williams was

not safe anywhere in the Metropolitan Area that night. Still, the almost

deserted business side of the city offered the best protection. Its

devotion to high finance and high buildings provided no attraction for

roysterers.

 

Twice, before he reached Queen Street, he blessed the system that put the

police in shiny helmets from which the street lights gleamed, and made

them a beacon for evil doers to avoid. Each time he had sufficient notice

in which to pull himself together and pass the danger spot with serene

and unhurried stride that disarmed suspicion.

 

Turning into Queen Street, he crossed Collins Street, where he slackened

his pace and carefully observed a building on the opposite side of the

street near Little Collins, Street. In three windows on the third floor,

lights were burning. Basil Williams stepped into the shadow of a

convenient doorway, and waited. During the ten minutes he waited,

speculating on the ownership of two cars parked across the road, not more

than three people passed his shelter. Then a policeman on his beat went

by in measured dignity towards, Bourke Street. Basil Williams breathed a

blessing on him as he crossed Little Collins Street, as the lights he was

watching on the third floor opposite vanished.

 

Two minutes later from the door of the building opposite a group of

people stepped into Queen Street. As they did Basil Williams moved from

his lair and crossed the wide thoroughfare. The group, which consisted of

five men and two women, the Executive Committee of the Society for the

Suppression of Alcohol, paused to say their farewells before separating.

One of the women was Mrs. Tydvil Jones, whom Basil Williams did not

expect to see there because of the absence of her car. More so, as at

breakfast that morning, she had expressed her intention of not attending

the meeting. He was unaware that her colleague, Mrs. Farley, had picked

her up at the last moment, as the meeting threatened to lapse for want of

a quorum.

 

Her presence added to the joy in the heart of Basil Williams as he

approached the group. A swift glance in either direction showed him that

Queen Street was empty of all but himself and the Committee, except for a

man standing on the corner of Bourke Street, about one hundred yards

away. Every member of the committee was an old and unvalued friend. The

more he saw of them the less he valued their acquaintance, until his

esteem for them had almost reached vanishing point.

 

The chattering group became silent as a large stranger joined it. Basil

Williams raised his hat courteously and enquired, “May I ask if one of

you gentlemen is Mr. Edwin Muskat?”

 

“That is my name,” replied the secretary for the Society for the

Suppression of Alcohol, with an oily smile.

 

“I have been keeping something for you for a long, long time, Mr.

Muskat,” said the stranger with deceptive gentleness, “and this is my

first opportunity to hand it over.”

 

“Indeed!” replied the now deeply interested Edwin. “That is very pleasant

of you, sir. I will be glad to receive your gift.”

 

“I sincerely trust and hope you benefit from it.” The voice of the

stranger was still very gentle. “Here it is.”

 

Wham!!!

 

Basil Williams had withdrawn half a pace as he spoke. The distance and

direction of his aim were calculated with loving fidelity. It was more

than fifteen minutes before Edwin Muskat returned to a knowledge of

things mundane. When he did the throbbing anguish of a devastated

proboscis made him wish, very heartily, that he could lapse into

unconsciousness again.

 

But during that fifteen minutes things had been happening things that

Edwin Muskat would have deplored deeply, but things which one less

regenerate than he would have enjoyed immensely.

 

For a few brief seconds Mr. Muskat’s six colleagues stared

uncomprehending at the collapsed form on the pavement. For the moment

they were, although on their feet, as stunned as Edwin Muskat. It was

Mrs. Farley who first recovered from the trance. Through her dizzy brain

arose to the surface the thought that the occasion demanded screaming. So

she screamed. Mrs. Farley had a good screaming voice, and the sounds she

emitted, confined in the high-walled canyon of the empty street, were of

a good 500 parrot power.

 

Amy’s contribution was, “Oh! You—you—horrid brute!”

 

What was of more interest to Basil Williams, however, was the “Infernal

scoundrel!” from one member of the committee as he flung himself on the

assailant with intent to do grievous bodily harm. Spurred on by his

example, the other three barged in, fortunately getting very much in one

another’s way.

 

Four very unathletic men, unpractised in street brawling would, in

ordinary circumstances, have been small odds against Basil Williams. But

he had noted that the figure at the corner of Bourke Street was bearing

down on the scene at speed that suggested both youth, strength and

endurance. It was for this reason, and somewhat against his better

feelings, that he was obliged to deal swiftly, and in a highly unorthodox

manner with the four old and unvalued friends of Tydvil Jones. He

reinforced his lashing right and left fists with knee action that would

have ensured his disqualification for life from any, boxing stadium. In

as many seconds he had skittled his four opponents across the pavement.

Then he turned and departed—in haste.

 

There was good cause for his haste.

 

Mrs. Farley’s vocal efforts continued unabated and had drawn several more

figures from Bourke Street, as well as two from Collins Street. Basil

Williams’s suspicion that the man on the corner was a plain-clothes

constable was only too well grounded. Already he had covered half the

distance and was a bare fifty yards behind when Basil’s flight began,

while his one-track mind made him disregard totally the shrieking woman

and the sprawled group on the footpath to concentrate on the pursuit.

 

Basil Williams thought as swiftly as he moved. As he met the two men

running towards him from Collins Street he pulled up and panted. “Man

murdered—hurry—I’m running for the police.” He ducked on, and the two

night prowlers increased their pace in a lively curiosity to be among the

first to inspect the corpse.

 

Luck he did not deserve saw Basil Williams safely across Collins Street,

but here it deserted him. Two uniformed men, attracted by Mrs. Farley’s

high C’s, and who glimpsed the flying figure from Collins Street, sprang

into action. They rounded the corner into Queen Street only a few yards

ahead of the plain-clothes man, and little more than twenty yards behind

Basil Williams. One shouted a peremptory command to halt—a command which

the fugitive was in no mood to obey. Basil thought he was moving on top

gear at the moment, but he almost redoubled his pace when he heard behind

him the vicious report of a revolver and instantaneously beside him, the

more vicious pin-n-g of a bullet striking the pavement.

 

His long association with Flinders Lane had given Tydvil Jones an

intimate knowledge of the less known geography of the locality. All its

side lanes, dead ends, and bolt holes were clear in his mind; and well

they served Basil Williams in his hour of tribulation. Nevertheless, he

swore fluently and wholeheartedly when he recognised that the knowledge

of his pursuers was equal to his own.

 

By desperate and devious windings he finally reached Elizabeth Street,

crossing in a flash under the nose of a tram, and expecting every moment

to hear another shot from behind him, where he knew his pursuers now

numbered eight or ten. The risk he had taken with the tram gave him a few

yards extra margin. He darted up Flinders Lane in the hope of reaching

the warehouse.

 

Then fell calamity.

 

Not more than twenty feet from the corner he charged fairly into Senior

Constable O’Connor. The recognition was mutual. Basil Williams had a

split second in which to draw up and execute a tactical plan. He slugged

mightily with his left and kicked simultaneously with a hearty right

foot. The two came down in a heap on the narrow footpath. Senior

Constable O’Connor reached out a purposeful hand for the wriggling Basil

Williams, who promptly bit it vigorously.

 

The constable spat out a three-word character sketch of Basil Williams

that could not be printed even in these liberal days.

 

Basil was on his feet before the last word was uttered, and, aiming a

hearty kick at the ribs of the half risen O’Connor, sped on his way. But

the game was nearly up, and so were O’Connor and the rest of the

hard-bitten crew of pursuers. Basil Williams felt his legs were losing

their spring while those of O’Connor at least were fresh, and were also

spurred on with not unrighteous wrath.

 

As he swung into the Centreway with the leading hound not twenty feet

behind him he gasped out an appeal to Nicholas. As he did so he tripped

and fell. The next instant his pursuers were round the corner and on him.

 

Lying face down as he had fallen, he heard the chase stop beside him.

 

Then came a voice—an astonished voice: “Cripes! This isn’t the bloke we

were after.”

 

Enlightenment and gratitude flashed into Tydvil’s mind.

 

Not unkindly hands turned him face up. He kept his eyes closed and

assumed an expression that he hoped would register pain.

 

Then came another and solicitous voice: “By Jove! It’s Mr. Tydvil Jones.

That swine must have knocked him out.”

 

A strong arm went under his shoulder and raised him up. Tydvil’s dazed

eyes looked up into the face of Senior Constable O’Connor.