The Angel of Terror

by Edgar Wallace

  Chapter XXX

  "Desperate diseases," said Jean Briggerland, "call for desperateremedies."

  Mr. Briggerland looked up from his book.

  "What was that tale you were telling Lydia this morning," he asked,"about Glover's gambling? He was only here a day, wasn't he?"

  "He was here long enough to lose a lot of money," said Jean. "Of coursehe didn't gamble, so he did not lose. It was just a little seed-sowingon my part--one never knows how useful the right word may be in theright season."

  "Did you tell Lydia that he was losing heavily?" he asked quickly.

  "Am I a fool? Of course not! I merely said that youth would be served,and if you have the gambling instinct in you, why, it didn't matter whatposition you held in society or what your responsibilities were, youmust indulge your passion."

  Mr. Briggerland stroked his chin. There were times when Jean's schemesgot very far beyond him, and he hated the mental exercise of catchingup. The only thing he knew was that every post from London bore urgentdemands for money, and that the future held possibilities which he didnot care to contemplate. He was in the unfortunate position of havingnumerous pensioners to support, men and women who had served him invarious ways and whose approval, but what was more important, whoseloyalty, depended largely upon the regularity of their payments.

  "I shall gamble or do something desperate," he said with a frown."Unless you can bring off a coup that will produce twenty thousandpounds of ready money we are going to get into all kinds of trouble,Jean."

  "Do you think I don't know that?" she asked contemptuously. "It isbecause of this urgent need of money that I have taken a step which Ihate."

  He listened in amazement whilst she told him what she had done torelieve her pressing needs.

  "We are getting deeper and deeper into Mordon's hands," he said, shakinghis head. "That is what scares me at times."

  "You needn't worry about Mordon," she smiled. Her smile was a littlehard. "Mordon and I are going to be married."

  She was examining the toe of her shoe attentively as she spoke, and Mr.Briggerland leapt to his feet.

  "What!" he squeaked. "Marry a chauffeur? A fellow I picked out of thegutter? You're mad! The fellow is a rascal who has earned the guillotinetime and time again."

  "Who hasn't?" she asked, looking up.

  "It is incredible! It's madness!" he said. "I had no idea----" hestopped for want of breath.

  Mordon was becoming troublesome. She had known that better than herfather.

  "It was after the 'accident' that didn't happen that he began to get alittle tiresome," she said. "You say we are getting deeper and deeperinto his hands? Well, he hinted as much, and I did not like it. When hebegan to get a little loving I accepted that way out as an easyalternative to a very unpleasant exposure. Whether he would havebetrayed us I don't know; probably he would."

  Mr. Briggerland's face was dark.

  "When is this interesting event to take place?"

  "My marriage? In two months, I think. When is Easter? That class ofperson always wants to be married at Easter. I asked him to keep oursecret and not to mention it to you, and I should not have spoken now ifyou had not referred to the obligation we were under."

  "In two months?" Mr. Briggerland nodded. "Let me know when you want thisto end, Jean," he said.

  "It will end almost immediately. Please do not trouble," said Jean, "andthere is one other thing, father. If you see Mr. Jaggs in the gardento-night, I beg of you do not attempt to shoot him. He is a very usefulman."

  Her father sank back in his chair.

  "You're beyond me," he said, helplessly.

  Mordon occupied two rooms above the garage, which was convenientlysituated for Jean's purpose. He arrived late the next night, and a lightin his window, which was visible from the girl's room, told her all shewanted to know.

  Mr. Mordon was a good-looking man by certain standards. His hair wasdark and glossily brushed. His normal pallor of countenance gave him theinteresting appearance which men of his kind did not greatly dislike,and he had a figure which was admired in a dozen servants' halls, and amanner which passed amongst housemaids for "gentlemanly," and amongstgentlemen as "superior." He heard the foot of the girl on the stairs,and opened the door.

  "You have brought it?" she said, without a preliminary word.

  She had thrown a dark cloak over her evening dress, and the man's eyesfeasted on her.

  "Yes, I have brought it--Jean," he said.

  She put her finger to her lips.

  "Be careful, Francois," she cautioned in a low voice.

  Although the man spoke English as well as he spoke French, it was in thelatter language that the conversation was carried on. He went to a gripwhich lay on the bed, opened it and took out five thick packages ofthousand-franc notes.

  "There are a thousand in each, mademoiselle. Five million francs. Ichanged part of the money in Paris, and part in London."

  "The woman--there is no danger from her?"

  "Oh no, mademoiselle," he smiled complacently. "She is not likely tobetray me, and she does not know my name or where I am living. She is agirl I met at a dance at the Swiss Waiters' Club," he explained. "She isnot a good character. I think the French police wish to find her, butshe is very clever."

  "What did you tell her?" asked Jean.

  "That I was working a coup with Vaud and Montheron. These are twonotorious men in Paris whom she knew. I gave her five thousand francsfor her work."

  "There was no trouble?"

  "None whatever, mademoiselle. I watched her, and saw she carried theletter to the bank. As soon as the money was changed I left Croydon byair for Paris, and came on from Paris to Marseilles by aeroplane."

  "You did well, Francois," she said, and patted his hand.

  He would have seized hers, but she drew back.

  "You have promised, Francois," she said with dignity, "and a Frenchgentleman keeps his word."

  Francois bowed.

  He was not a French gentleman, but he was anxious that this girl shouldthink he was, and to that end had told her stories of his birth whichhad apparently impressed her.

  "Now will you do something more for me?"

  "I will do anything in the world, Jean," he cried passionately, andagain a restraining hand fell on his shoulder.

  "Then sit down and write; your French is so much better than mine."

  "What shall I write?" he asked. She had never called upon him for proofof his scholarship, and he was childishly eager to reveal to the womanhe loved attainments of which he had no knowledge.

  "Write, 'Dear Mademoiselle'." He obeyed.

  "'_have returned from London, and have confessed to Madame Meredith that I have forged her name and have drawn L100,000 from her bank----_'"

  "Why do I write this, Jean?" he asked in surprise.

  "I will tell you one day--go on. Francois," she continued herdictation.

  "'_And now I have learnt that Madame Meredith loves me. There is only one end to this--that which you see----_'"

  "Do you intend passing suspicion to somebody else?" he asked, evidentlyfogged, "but why should I say----?"

  She stopped his mouth with her hand.

  "How wonderful you are, Jean," he said, admiringly, as he blotted thepaper and handed it to her. "So that if this matter is traced toyou----" She looked into his eyes and smiled.

  "There will be trouble for somebody," she said, softly, as she put thepaper in her pocket.

  Suddenly, before she could realise what was happening he had her in hisarms, his lips pressed against hers.

  "Jean, Jean!" he muttered. "You adorable woman!"

  Gently she pressed him back and she was still smiling, though her eyeswere like granite.

  "Gently, Francois," she said, "you must have patience!"

  She slipped through the door and closed it behind her, and even in herthen state of mind she did not slam it, nor did she hurry down thestairs, but went out, taking her time, and was back
in the house withouther absence having been noticed. Her face, reflected in her long mirror,was serene in its repose, but within her a devil was alive, hungry fordestruction. No man had roused the love of Jean Briggerland, but atleast one had succeeded in bringing to life a consuming hate which, forthe time being, absorbed her.

  From the moment she drew her wet handkerchief across her red lips andflung the dainty thing as though it were contaminated through the openwindow, Francois Mordon was a dead man.