The Missing Angel, Erle Cox [suggested reading TXT] 📗
- Author: Erle Cox
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card about six by four inches in size. To Jones, it looked like a ledger
index card. This he consulted carefully for a moment, and then looked
up. “The exact words you used, Mr. Jones, were, ‘If these be saints, may
Satan himself come and free me from them!’ And, therefore,” he
continued, “I feel myself justified in reiterating that I am here at
your express and urgent invitation.”
Again Tydvil’s face flushed from a mixture of shame and anger. It was
bad enough that his words had been overheard, but worse still that this
quiet and impressive stranger should see fit to make a jest of them.
“Sir!” he insisted angrily, “you have apparently listened to something
that was not intended for other ears than my own. You have seen fit to
use those words against me in a spirit of ill-timed levity and banter. I
find your behaviour intolerable, sir, and I must ask you to leave this
room, instantly!” He emphasised the last word so as to leave no room for
argument.
Instead of being abashed or annoyed at the outbreak, the visitor settled
himself coolly back in his chair. With an elbow on either arm, he joined
the outspread tips of his fingers and thumbs and regarded Jones above
them with a smile twitching at his lips.
“My friend,” he said with gentle suavity, “you will find, as many others
have done before you, that it is far easier to call me up than to
dispose of me. I did not think it likely that you would accept my claim
to the personality, which, for the present, we may define as ‘Satan,’
without hesitation. Still, on reflection, you may not find it so
preposterous after all.”
Tydvil stared at the speaker, with not only wide open eyes, but a
slightly opened mouth. His feelings were a blend of anger and curiosity.
Of course, one could never tell, but insanity takes such strange forms.
The man did not look mad. But it might be as well to humour him.
“Do you mean to affirm,” he asked severely, “that you claim to be the
Prince of Evil in person?”
The other pursed his lips slightly and answered. “Well, I cannot say I
am altogether in love with the title, Mr. Jones, it is not flattering,
and of the two I almost prefer the word ‘Satan,’ but since you choose
it, it may do as well as another. I repeat that you see before you His
Highness in person.”
Jones moved very uneasily in his seat, then his eyes and hands both
sought the button on the table beside him. Before he could press it, the
other intervened, “That line of communication is closed—temporarily.”
He spoke a little incisively.
Then Tydvil began to lose his temper. “Sir!” he said angrily, “I am very
busy and this absurd interview has already lasted too long. I must again
ask you to leave—instantly!”
Had he expected his amazing visitor to obey him at all, he expected him
to do so in a conventional manner, and through the door. His method of
leaving, however, left Tydvil staring blankly at the empty armchair from
which the stranger had vanished as he spoke. He did not fade out; he
just went out like the flame of a candle, leaving no trace of his
presence. Stay, though! There was an expensive, new hat with a glove
lying beside it on the corner of the table to impress upon Jones the
fact that the amazing interview had not been the outcome of an
overwrought nervous system.
Tydvil half rose from his chair and stared around his room, and then at
the empty chair and very inexplicable hat and glove. Then he said,
slowly, and in an awed voice, “Well, I’ll be…”
“Softly! Softly! All in good time, my dear Mr. Jones! All in good time!”
came a mocking voice from the chair, and with the words the stranger
re-appeared as suddenly as he had vanished. Apparently he had never
moved from his place.
“The Duce!” exclaimed Tydvil.
“Precisely!” smiled the claimant to the title.
“You were there all the time?” demanded Jones, sinking back in his
chair.
“Exactly,” the other replied. “Mere gallery play, you know—but—
nothing else would convince you that I had at least some ground for my
claim.”
Jones pressed his hand to his head. “Am I losing my reason?” he
muttered.
“Not at all, my friend, not at all!” came the quick answer, though the
muttered words were scarcely audible. “You are certainly undergoing a
most unusual experience for these days. None the less if you will listen
to me for a few moments I think I can convince you of my bona fides.”
“You wish me to listen to you, assuming your claims to be genuine?”
The other nodded. “Why not? Does not what you have just seen convince
you that I am no ordinary human being?”
Tydvil waved his hands helplessly. “Go on then! Go on!” he said weakly.
“My dear sir,” commenced the claimant to the throne of darkness. “I do
not blame you in the slightest for your scepticism. I must admit that I
have neglected your world very much for the last few centuries, and it
is but natural that you should doubt my existence. You see, I recognise
it is all my own fault. My work has been going on so well without my
personal attention. However, here is the position.” He settled himself
down more comfortably as he spoke.
Jones felt there was no comment he could make.
“It has lately been borne on me,” continued the visitor confidentially,
“that I have become too conservative in my business policies. My methods
of administration of home affairs are rather out of date. I feel I
should move with the times.”
“Of late years there has been a distressing and disturbing intrusion of
terrestrial politics into my kingdom. The new element of Communism is
now almost more numerous than the old aristocracy of my kingdom. My
gentlemen are rather proud and they resent association with these
Communists.”
Jones nodded. There seemed nothing else to do.
“I warned Judas Iscariot,” said the visitor reflectively, “that he was
making a mistake in inventing the Marx doctrines. He thought he was
causing something smart in the way of trouble. He did not see the
probable reaction on our politics as I did. However, the fact remains
and the situation has to be met. You follow me so far?” he enquired.
Jones nodded again. He considered the man, or whatever his visitor was,
was doubtless in earnest. If he were insane, he was an interesting bird.
If, on the other hand, he were what he claimed to be, then he was worthy
of sympathy.
“Well,” continued the stranger, “after turning the matter over, I
thought I could obtain a better grasp of the situation by visiting the
earth and looking into things for myself. There was one difficulty,
however.”
“I should not have thought,” put in Tydvil, “that you would find any
difficulty insuperable.”
“Usually, no,” he replied. “In this instance, however, I was under a
certain disability in that I am unable to make a visit unless especially
called upon by one of the inhabitants; and I have been waiting a
considerable time for the invitation. That alone ought to convince me
times have changed. A few centuries ago there was always some churchman
or scientist invoking my aid. So, my dear Mr. Jones. I am indeed in your
debt for your assistance.”
“I’m afraid it was a quite unconscious service.” In the circumstances
Tydvil was not anxious to assume the credit for his visitor’s presence.
“Nevertheless, my obligation remains,” said the stranger civilly.
Tydvil’s head was whirling with bewilderment. Perhaps, the thought
occurred to him, both he and his visitor were non compos mentis.
However, if the strange creature were a product of a prostrated nervous
system it might be better to play up to him. Especially as the next
question was, “By the way, my friend, will you tell me where on earth I
am?”
“You are, at present,” he replied, “in the city of Melbourne, which is
the capital of the State of Victoria in the Commonwealth of Australia.”
“Melbourne—Australia,” murmured the other thoughtfully. “Er really,
Mr. Jones, you must forgive me, but I do not seem to remember the names.
Have you altered your European or Asiatic nomenclature by any means?”
It was Tydvil’s turn to stare. Strange to say, he felt a little nettled
that, if his visitor were what he professed to be, he should be ignorant
of Australia and, more particularly, of Melbourne. Then he saw a light.
“Perhaps,” he suggested, “your long absence from the world accounts for
your difficulty. You see, the continent has been known to Europeans for
only about two hundred years, and has been occupied for no more than one
hundred and fifty years. Still, it rather surprises me that you have not
heard of it.”
“That would hardly account…” said His Highness thoughtfully. “But—
one moment! Is there a place called Sydney in it!”
“That’s right!” exclaimed Tydvil. “A place with a wonderful harbour!”
“Now I recollect. They do talk about Sydney Harbour in Hell. It is one
of the minor punishments. Yes, we did have some people from Sydney, but
they caused so much trouble that the migration department deported them
and prohibited further imports. I confused Australia with Austria for
the moment. Ah, well! I am sure your country will provide an interesting
study.”
He again consulted the card to which he had before referred. It excited
Tydvil’s curiosity as a businessman. He summoned up his courage. “Would
I be in order,” he asked, “if I enquired the nature of that card you
have twice consulted?’
“Most certainly, Mr. Jones, most certainly!” he responded politely.
“Indeed, as a businessman, I have no doubt you will find it interesting.
One of my recent innovations is a card system for keeping State
accounts. It is necessary for record purposes to keep an account of all
human actions. This is the master card. An improvement of my own. On it,
every record I desire to examine appears immediately. It fades when I
have finished with it.”
Tydvil sat erect. “You mean to say you have a record of the lives of all
living people?” he asked in amazement.
“Well, not exactly. Our records apply only to deeds which should not
have been committed. And, of course, to words and thoughts also. They
are kept to establish our claims when the inevitable occasion arises.”
“I suppose, then,” said Tydvil hesitantly, “you have a card for me in
your system, then?”
“Undoubtedly, my friend.” He had been holding the card in his hand. Then
he looked up, smiling pleasantly. “Just for the sake of curiosity, we
will see how our account stands.”
He turned the master card over and ran his eyes down its columns. Then a
queer expression came over the lean intellectual face. It combined
astonishment with mystification. He stared at the card, then at Jones,
and again at the card. Then he shook it tentatively, as one shakes a
troublesome telephone. Finally he sat up and stared at Tydvil. There was
no mistaking the astonishment of his expression.
“I hope,” he faltered anxiously, “it is not so bad as your looks
indicate?” His Highness paused before speaking. “Whether good or bad,
Mr. Jones, depends on the viewpoint. I am not often surprised at
anything, but I must admit your record is almost unique. I have seldom,
in a
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