The Angel of Terror

by Edgar Wallace

  Chapter VII

  Miss Jean Briggerland reached her home in Berkeley Street soon afternine o'clock. She did not ring, but let herself in with a key and wentstraight to the dining-room, where her father sat eating his breakfast,with a newspaper propped up before him.

  He was the dark-skinned man whom Lydia had seen at the theatre, and helooked up over his gold-rimmed spectacles as the girl came in.

  "You have been out very early," he said.

  She did not reply, but slowly divesting herself of her sable coat shethrew it on to a chair, took off the toque that graced her shapely head,and flung it after the coat. Then she drew out a chair, and sat down atthe table, her chin on her palms, her blue eyes fixed upon her parent.

  Nature had so favoured her that her face needed no artificialembellishment--the skin was clear and fine of texture, and the coldmorning had brought only a faint pink to the beautiful face.

  "Well, my dear," Mr. Briggerland looked up and beamed through hisglasses, "so poor Meredith has committed suicide?"

  She did not speak, keeping her eyes fixed on him.

  "Very sad, very sad," Mr. Briggerland shook his head.

  "How did it happen?" she asked quietly.

  Mr. Briggerland shrugged his shoulders.

  "I suppose at the sight of you he bolted back to his hiding placewhere--er--had been located by--er--interested persons during the night,then seeing me by the shed--he committed the rash and fatal act. SomehowI thought he would run back to his dug-out."

  "And you were prepared for him?" she said.

  He smiled.

  "A clear case of suicide, my dear," he said.

  "Shot through the left temple, and the pistol was found in his righthand," said the girl.

  Mr. Briggerland started.

  "Damn it," he said. "Who noticed that?"

  "That good-looking young lawyer, Glover."

  "Did the police notice?"

  "I suppose they did when Glover called their attention to the fact,"said the girl.

  Mr. Briggerland took off his glasses and wiped them.

  "It was done in such a hurry--I had to get back through the garden gateto join the police. When I got there, I found they'd been attracted bythe shot and had entered the house. Still, nobody would know I was inthe garden, and anyway my association with the capture of an escapedconvict would not get into the newspapers."

  "But a case of suicide would," said the girl. "Though I don't supposethe police will give away the person who informed them that JamesMeredith would be at Dulwich Grange."

  Mr. Briggerland sat back in his chair, his thick lips pursed, and he wasnot a beautiful sight.

  "One can't remember everything," he grumbled.

  He rose from his chair, went to the door, and locked it. Then he crossedto a bureau, pulled open a drawer and took out a small revolver. Hethrew out the cylinder, glanced along the barrel and the chambers tomake sure it was not loaded, then clicked it back in position, andstanding before a glass, he endeavoured, the pistol in his right hand,to bring the muzzle to bear on his left temple. He found thisimpossible, and signified his annoyance with a grunt. Then he tried thepistol with his thumb on the trigger and his hand clasping the back ofthe butt. Here he was more successful.

  "That's it," he said with satisfaction. "It could have been done thatway."

  She did not shudder at the dreadful sight, but watched him with thekeenest interest, her chin still in the palm of her hand. He might havebeen explaining a new way of serving a tennis ball, for all the emotionhe evoked.

  Mr. Briggerland came back to the table, toyed with a piece of toast andbuttered it leisurely.

  "Everybody is going to Cannes this year," he said, "but I think I shallstick to Monte Carlo. There is a quiet about Monte Carlo which is veryrestful, especially if one can get a villa on the hill away from therailway. I told Morden yesterday to take the new car across and meet usat Boulogne. He says that the new body is exquisite. There is amicraphonic attachment for telephoning to the driver, the electricalheating apparatus is splendid and----"

  "Meredith was married."

  If she had thrown a bomb at him she could not have produced a moretremendous sensation. He gaped at her, and pushed himself back from thetable.

  "Married?" His voice was a squeak.

  She nodded.

  "It's a lie," he roared. All his suavity dropped away from him, his facewas distorted and puckered with anger and grew a shade darker. "Married,you lying little beast! He couldn't have been married! It was only a fewminutes after eight, and the parson didn't come till nine. I'll breakyour neck if you try to scare me! I've told you about that before...."

  He raved on, and she listened unmoved.

  "He was married at eight o'clock by a man they brought down fromOxford, and who stayed the night in the house," she repeated with greatcalmness. "There's no sense in lashing yourself into a rage. I've seenthe bride, and spoken to the clergyman."

  From the bullying, raging madman, he became a whimpering, pitiablething. His chin trembled, the big hands he laid on the tablecloth shookwith a fever.

  "What are we going to do?" he wailed. "My God, Jean, what are we goingto do?"

  She rose and went to the sideboard, poured out a stiff dose of brandyfrom a decanter and brought it across to him without a word. She wasused to these tantrums, and to their inevitable ending. She was neitherhurt, surprised, nor disgusted. This pale, ethereal being was thedominant partner of the combination. Nerves she did not possess, fearsshe did not know. She had acquired the precise sense of a great surgeonin whom pity was a detached emotion, and one which never intruded itselfinto the operating chamber. She was no more phenomenal than they, savethat she did not feel bound by the conventions and laws which governthem as members of an ordered society. It requires no greater nerve toslay than to cure. She had had that matter out with herself, and hadsettled it to her own satisfaction.

  "You will have to put off your trip to Monte Carlo," she said, as hedrank the brandy greedily.

  "We've lost everything now," he stuttered, "everything."

  "This girl has no relations," said the daughter steadily. "Herheirs-at-law are ourselves."

  He put down the glass, and looked at her, and became almost immediatelyhis old self.

  "My dear," he said admiringly, "you are really wonderful. Of course, itwas childish of me. Now what do you suggest?"

  "Unlock that door," she said in a low voice, "I want to call the maid."

  As he walked to the door, she pressed the footbell, and soon after thefaded woman who attended her came into the room.

  "Hart," she said, "I want you to find my emerald ring, the small one,the little pearl necklet, and the diamond scarf pin. Pack them carefullyin a box with cotton wool."

  "Yes, madam," said the woman, and went out.

  "Now what are you going to do, Jean?" asked her father.

  "I am returning them to Mrs. Meredith," said the girl coolly. "They werepresents given to me by her husband, and I feel after this tragic endingof my dream that I can no longer bear the sight of them."

  "He didn't give you those things, he gave you the chain. Besides, youare throwing away good money?"

  "I know he never gave them to me, and I am not throwing away goodmoney," she said patiently. "Mrs. Meredith will return them, and shewill give me an opportunity of throwing a little light upon JamesMeredith, an opportunity which I very much desire."

  Later she went up to her pretty little sitting-room on the first floor,and wrote a letter.

  "_Dear Mrs. Meredith.--I am sending you the few trinkets which James gave to me in happier days. They are all that I have of his, and you, as a woman, will realise that whilst the possession of them brings me many unhappy memories, yet they have been a certain comfort to me. I wish I could dispose of memory as easily as I send these to you (for I feel they are really your property) but more do I wish that I could recall and obliterate the occasion which has made Mr. Glover so bitter an
enemy of mine._

  "_Thinking over the past, I see that I was at fault, but I know that you will sympathise with me when the truth is revealed to you. A young girl, unused to the ways of men, perhaps I attached too much importance to Mr. Glover's attentions, and resented them too crudely. In those days I thought it was unpardonable that a man who professed to be poor James's best friend, should make love to his fiancee, though I suppose that such things happen, and are endured by the modern girl. A man does not readily forgive a woman for making him feel a fool--it is the one unpardonable offence that a girl can commit. Therefore, I do not resent his enmity as much as you might think. Believe me, I feel for you very much in these trying days. Let me say again that I hope your future will be bright._"

  She blotted the letter, put it in an envelope, and addressed it, andtaking down a book from one of the well-stocked shelves, drew her chairto the fire, and began reading.

  Mr. Briggerland came in an hour after, looked over her shoulder at thetitle, and made a sound of disapproval.

  "I can't understand your liking for that kind of book," he said.

  The book was one of the two volumes of "Chronicles of Crime," and shelooked up with a smile.

  "Can't you? It's very easily explained. It is the most encouraging workin my collection. Sit down for a minute."

  "A record of vulgar criminals," he growled. "Their infernal last dyingspeeches, their processions to Tyburn--phaugh!"

  She smiled again, and looked down at the book. The wide margins werecovered with pencilled notes in her writing.

  "They're a splendid mental exercise," she said. "In every case I havewritten down how the criminal might have escaped arrest, but they wereall so vulgar, and so stupid. Really the police of the time deserve nocredit for catching them. It is the same with modern criminals...."

  She went to the shelf, and took down two large scrap-books, carried themacross to the fire, and opened one on her knees.

  "Vulgar and stupid, every one of them," she repeated, as she turned theleaves rapidly.

  "The clever ones get caught at times," said Briggerland gloomily.

  "Never," she said, and closed the book with a snap. "In England, inFrance, in America, and in almost every civilised country, there aremurderers walking about to-day, respected by their fellow citizens.Murderers, of whose crimes the police are ignorant. Look at these." Sheopened the book again. "Here is the case of Rell, who poisons atroublesome creditor with weed-killer. Everybody in the town knew hebought the weed-killer; everybody knew that he was in debt to this man.What chance had he of escaping? Here's Jewelville--he kills his wife,buries her in the cellar, and then calls attention to himself by runningaway. Here's Morden, who kills his sister-in-law for the sake of herinsurance money, and who also buys the poison in broad daylight, and isfound with a bottle in his pocket. Such people deserve hanging."

  "I wish to heaven you wouldn't talk about hanging," said Briggerlandtremulously, "you're inhuman, Jean, by God--"

  "I'm an angel," she smiled, "and I have press cuttings to prove it! The_Daily Recorder_ had half a column on my appearance in the box at Jim'strial."

  He looked over toward the writing-table, saw the letter, and picked itup.

  "So you've written to the lady. Are you sending her the jewels?"

  She nodded.

  He looked at her quickly.

  "You haven't been up to any funny business with them, have you?" heasked suspiciously, and she smiled.

  "My dear parent," drawled Jean Briggerland, "after my lecture on thestupidity of the average criminal, do you imagine I should do anythingso _gauche_?"