 36 Mr. Briggerland did not enthuse over any form of sport or exercise. His hobbies were confined to the handsome motorcycle which not only provided him with recreation, but had, on occasion, been of assistance in the carrying out of important plans formulated by his daughter. He stopped at Montaigne for breakfast and climbed the hill to Grimaldi after passing the frontier station at Pont St. Louis. He had all the morning before him and there was no great hurry. At Ventimiglia he had a second breakfast, for the morning was keen and his appetite was good. He loafed through the little town with a cigar between his teeth, bought some curios at a shop and continued his leisurely journey. His objective was San Remo. There was a train at one o'clock which would bring him and his machine back to Monte Carlo where it was his intention to spend the remainder of the afternoon. At Pont St. Louis he had a talk with a customs officer. No I'm sure there are very few travelers on the road in the morning, said the official. It is not until late in the afternoon that the traffic begins. Times have changed on the Riviera and so many people go to Cannes. The old road is almost now deserted. At eleven o'clock Mr. Brigolins came to a certain part of the road and found a hiding place for his motorcycle, a small plantation of olive trees on the hillside. Incidentally it was an admirable resting place, for from here he commanded an extensive view of the western road. Lydia's journey had been no less enjoyable. She too had stopped at Montaigne to explore the town and had left Pont St. Louis an hour after Mr. Brigolins had passed. The road to San Remo runs under the shadow of steep hills through a bleak stretch of country from which even the industrious peasantry of northern Italy cannot win a livelihood. Save for isolated patches of cultivated land the hills are bare and menacing. With these gaunt plateau on one side and the rock-struined seashore on the other there was little to hold the eye save an occasional glimpse of the Italian town in the far distance. There was a wild uncouthness about the scenery which awed the girl. Sometimes the car would be running so near the sea level that the spray of the waves hit the windows. Sometimes it would climb over an out-judding headland and she would look down upon a bouldered beach a hundred feet below. It was on the crest of a headland that the car stopped. Ahead it slipped round the shoulder of a high and overhanging mass of rock through which the road must have been cut. Behind it dipped down to a cove hidden from site. There is the lover's chair, mademoiselle, said Morden. Half a dozen feet beneath the road-level was a broad shelf of rock. A few stone steps led down and she followed them. The lover's chair was carved in the face of the rock and she sat down to view the beauty of the scene. The solitude, the stillness which only the lazy waves broke, the majesty of the setting, brought a strange peace to her. Beyond the edge of the ledge the cliff fell sheer to the water and she shivered as she stepped back from her inspection. Morden did not see her go. He sat on the running board of his car, his pale face between his hands, a prey to his own gloomy thoughts. There must be a development, he told himself. He was beginning to get uneasy and for the first time he doubted the sincerity of the woman who had been to him as a goddess. He did not hear Mr. Brickerland for the dark man was light afoot when he came round the shoulder of the hill. Morden's back was toward him. Suddenly the chauffeur looked round. Mashaire, he stammered and would have risen, but Brickerland laid his hand on his shoulder. Do not rise, Francois, he said pleasantly. I am afraid I was hasty last night. Mashaire, it was I who was hasty, said Morden huskily. It was unpardonable. Nonsense! Brickerland patted the man's shoulder. What is that boat out there? A man of war, Francois? Francois Morden turned his head toward the sea and Brickerland pointed the ivory-handled pistol he had held behind his back and shot him dead. The report of the revolver thrown down by the rocks came to Lydia like a clap of thunder. At first he thought it was a tire burst and hurried up the steps to sea. Mr. Brickerland was standing with his back to the car. At his feet was the tumbled body of Morden. Mr. Brick! she gasped and saw the revolver in his hand. With a cry she almost flung herself down the steps as the revolver exploded. The bullet ripped her hat from her head and she flung up her hands thinking she had been struck. Then the dark face showed over the parapet and again the revolver was presented. She stared for a second into his benevolent eyes. And then something hit her violently and she staggered back and dropped over the edge of the shelf, down, straight down, into the sea below. CHAPTER 37 Probably Jean Brickerland never gave a more perfect representation of shock surprise than when old Jaggs announced that he was Jack Glover. Mr. Glover! she said incredulously. If you'll be kind enough to release my hands, said Jack savagely, I will convince you. Jean all meekness obeyed and presently he stood up with a groan. You've nearly blinded me, he said, turning to the glass. If I'd known it was you. Don't make me laugh, he snapped. Of course you knew who it was. He took off the wig and peeled the beard from his face. Was that very painful, she asked sympathetically, and Jack snorted. How was I to know that it was you, she demanded, virtuously indignant. I thought you were a wicked old man. He thought nothing of the sort, Miss Brickerland, said Jack. You knew who I was and you guessed why I had taken on this disguise. I was not many yards from you when it suddenly dawned upon you that I could not sleep at Lydia Meredith's flat unless I went there in the guise of an old man. Why should you want to sleep at her flat at all, she asked innocently. It doesn't seem to me to be a very proper ambition. That is an unnecessary question, and I'm wasting my time when I answer you, said Jack sternly. I went there to save her life to protect her against your murderous plots. My murderous plots, she repeated aghast. You surely don't know what you're saying. I know this, and his face was not pleasant to see. I have sufficient evidence to secure the arrest of your father, and possibly yourself. For months I have been working on that first providential accident of yours, the rich Australian who'd died with such remarkable suddenness. I may not get you in the Meredith case, and I may not be able to jail you for your attacks on Mrs. Meredith, but I have enough evidence to hang your father for the earlier crime. Her face was blank, expressionless. Never before had she been brought up short with such a threat as the man was uttering, nor had she ever been in danger of detection. And all the time she was eyeing him so steadily, not a muscle of her face moving, her mind was groping back into the past, examining every detail of the crime he had mentioned, seeking for some flaw in the carefully prepared plan which had brought a good man to a violent and untimely end. That kind of bluff doesn't impress me, she said at last. You're in a poor way when you have to invent crimes to attach to me. We'll go into that later. Where is Lydia? He said shortly. I tell you I don't know, except that she has gone out for a drive. I expect her back very soon. Is your father with her? She shook her head. No, father went out early. I don't know who gave you authority to cross-examine me. Why, Jack Glover, you have all the importance of a French examining magistrate. She smiled. You may learn how important they are soon, he said significantly. Where is your chauffeur, Morden? He has gone, too. In fact, he is driving Lydia. Why? She asked with a little tightening of heart. She had only just been in time, she thought. So they had associated Morden with the forgery. His first words confirm this suspicion. There is a warrant for Morden which will be executed as soon as he returns, said Jack. We have been able to trace him in London and also the woman who presented the check. We know his movements from the time he left Nice by airplane for Paris to the time he returned to Nice. The people who change the money for him will swear to his identity. If he expected to start over, he was disappointed. She raised her eyebrows. I can't believe it is possible. Morden was such an honest man, she said. We trusted him implicitly, and never once did he betray our trust. Now, Mr. Glover, she said coolly, might I suggest that an interview with a gentleman in my bedroom is not calculated to increase my servant's respect for me? Will you go downstairs and wait until I come? You'll not attempt to leave this house, he said, and she laughed. Really, you're going on like one of those infallible detectives one reads about in the popular magazines, she said a little contemptuously. You have no authority, whatever, to keep me from leaving this house, and nobody knows that better than you. But you needn't be afraid. Sit on the stairs if you like until I come down. When he had gone, she rang the bell for her maid and handed her an envelope. I shall be in the saloon, talking to Mr. Glover, she said in a low voice. I want you to bring this in and say that you found it in the hall." Yes, Miss, said the woman. Jean proceeded leisurely to her toilet. In the struggle her dress had been torn and she changed it for a pale green silk gown, and Jack pacing in the hall below was on the point of coming up to discover if she had made her escape when she sailed serenely down the stairs. I should like to know one thing, Mr. Glover, she said as she went into the saloon. What do you intend doing? What is your immediate plan? Are you going to spirit Lydia away from us? Of course, I know you're in love with her and all that sort of thing. His face went pink. I am not in love with Mrs. Meredith, you lied. Don't be silly, she said practically. Of course you're in love with her. My first job is to get that money back and you're going to help me," he said. Of course I'm going to help you, she agreed. If Morton has been such a scoundrel he must suffer the consequence. I'm sure that you are too clever to have made any mistake. Poor Morton. I wonder what made him do it because he is such a good friend of Lydia's, and seriously, Mr. Glover, I do think Lydia is being indiscreet. You made that remark before, he said quietly. Not perhaps you'll explain what you mean. She shrugged her shoulders. They are always about together. I saw them strolling on the lawn last night until quite a late hour, and I was so scared lest Mrs. Cole Mortimer noticed it too. Which means that Mrs. Cole Mortimer did not notice it. You're clever, Jean. Even as you invent you make preparations to refute any evidence that the other side can produce. I don't believe a word you say. There was a knock at the door and the maid entered bearing a letter on a salver. This was addressed to you, Miss. She said it was on the whole table. Didn't you see it? No, said Jean in surprise. She took the letter, looked down at the address, and opened it. He saw a look of amazement and horror come to her face. Good God, gasp, Jean. What is it, he said, springing up. She stared at the letter again and from the letter to him. Read it, she said in a hollow voice. Dear Madame Azelle, I have returned from London and have confessed to Madame Meredith that I have forged her name and have drawn one hundred thousand pounds from her bank, and now I have learnt that Madame Meredith loves me. There is only one end to this, that which you see. Jack read the letter twice. It is in his writing, too, he muttered. It's impossible, incredible. I tell you, I've had Mrs. Meredith under my eyes all the time she has been here. Is there a letter from her, he asked suddenly? But no. It's impossible, impossible. I haven't been into her room. Will you come up with me? He followed her up the stairs and into Lydia's big bedroom and the first thing that caught his eye was a sealed letter on a table near the bed. He picked it up. It was addressed to him in Lydia's handwriting and feverishly he tore it open. His face, when he had finished reading, was as white as hers had been. Where have they gone, he asked? They went to San Remo. By car? Of course. Without a word he turned and ran down the stairs out of the house. The taxi that had brought him in the roll of jags had gone, but down the road a dozen yards away was the car he had hired on the day he came to Monte Carlo. He gave instructions to the driver and jumped in. The car sped through Montaugh, stopped only the briefest while at the customs barrier, whilst Jack pursued his inquiries. Yes, a lady had passed, but she had not returned. How long ago? Perhaps an hour perhaps less. At top speed the big car thundered along the sea road, twisting and turning, diving into valleys and climbing steep headlines, and then rounding a corner Jack saw the car and a little crowd about it. His heart turned to stone as he leapt to the road. He saw the backs of two Italian gendarmes and pushing aside the little knot of idlers he came into the center of the group and stopped. Morden lay on his face in a pool of blood, and one of the policemen was holding an ivory-handled revolver. It was with this that the crime was committed, he said in Florida, Italian. Three of the chambers are empty. Now, at home were the other two discharged. Jack reeled and gripped the mug guard of the car for support. Then his eyes strayed to the opening in the wall which ran onto the seaward side of the road. He walked to the parapet and looked over. And the first thing he saw was a torn hat and veil. And he knew it was Lydia's. End of Chapter 37 Chapter 38 of The Angel of Terror. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Angel of Terror by Edgar Wallace Chapter 38 Mr. Briggerland, killing time on the quay at Monaco, saw the jungle queen come into harbour and watched Marcus land carrying his lines in his hand. As Marcus came abreast of him he called and Mr. Stepney looked round with a start. Hello, Briggerland, he said, swallowing something. Well, have you been fishing? Asked Mr. Briggerland in his most paternal manner. Yes, admitted Marcus. Did you catch anything? Stepney nodded. Only one, he said. Hard luck, said Mr. Briggerland with a smile. But where is Mrs. Meredith? I understood she was going out with you today. She went to San Remo, said Stepney shortly, and the other nodded. To be sure, he said, I had forgotten that. Later he bought a copy of the Niswas and learned of the tragedy on the San Remo Road. It brought him back to the house of visibly agitated man. This is shocking news, my dear, he panted into the saloon and stood stock still at the sight of Mr. Jack Glover. Come in, Briggerland, said Jack without ceremony. There was a man with him, a tall, keen Frenchman whom Briggerland recognized as the chief detective of the prefecture. We want you to give an account of your actions. My actions, said Mr. Briggerland indignantly. Do you associate me with this dreadful tragedy? A tragedy, he said, which has stricken me almost dumb with horror and remorse. Why did I ever allow that villain even to speak to poor Lydia? Nevertheless, mature, said the tall man quietly, you must tell us where you have been. That is easily explained. I went to San Remo. By road? Yes, by road, said Mr. Briggerland on my motor bicycle. What time did you arrive in San Remo? At midday, or it might have been a quarter of an hour before. You know that the murder must have been committed at half past 11, said Jack. So the newspapers tell me. Where did you go in San Remo, asked the detective. I went to a cafe and had a glass of wine. Then I strolled about the town and lunched at the Victoria. I caught the one o'clock train to Monte Carlo. Did you hear nothing of the murder? Not a word, said Mr. Briggerland, not a word. Did you see the car? Mr. Briggerland shook his head. I left some time before poor Lydia, he said softly. Did you know of any attachment between the chauffeur and your guest? I had no idea such a thing existed. If I had, said Mr. Briggerland, virtuously, I should have taken immediate steps to have brought poor Lydia to her senses. Your daughter says that they were frequently together. Did you notice this? Yes, I did notice it. But my daughter and I are very democratic. We have made a friend of Morton. And I suppose what would have seemed familiar to you would pass unnoticed with us. Yes, I certainly do remember my poor friend and Morton walking together in the garden. Is this yours? The detective took from behind a curtain an old British rifle. Yes, that is mine, admitted Briggerland, without a moment's hesitation. It is one I bought in Amia, a souvenir of our gallant soldiers. I know I quite understand your patriotic motive in purchasing it, said the detective dryling. But will you tell us how this passed from your possession? I haven't the slightest notion, said Mr. Briggerland, in surprise. I had no idea it was lost. I'd lost sight of it for some weeks. Can it be that Morton? But no, I must not think so evilly of him. What were you going to suggest, asked Jack, that Morton fired at Mrs. Meredith when she was on the swimming raft? If you are, I can save you the trouble of telling that lie. It was you who fired, and it was I who knocked you out. Mr. Briggerland's face was a study. I can't understand why you make such a wild and unfounded charge, he said gently. Perhaps, my dear, you could elucidate this mystery. Jean had not spoken since he entered. She sat bolt upright on a chair, her hands folded in her lap, her sad eyes fixed now upon Jack, now upon the detective. She shook her head. I know nothing about the rifle, and did not even know you possessed one, she said. But please answer all their questions, father. I am as anxious as you are to get to the bottom of this dreadful tragedy. Have you told my father about the letters which were discovered? The detective shook his head. I have not seen your father until he arrived this moment, he said. Letters? Mr. Briggerland looked at his daughter. Did poor Lydia leave a letter? She nodded. I think Mr. Glover will tell you, father, she said. Poor Lydia had an attachment for Morden. It is very clear what happened. They went out today, never intending to return. Mrs. Meredith had no intention of going to the lover's chair until you suggested the trip to her subject quietly. Mrs. Cole Mortimer is very emphatic on that point. Has the body been found? Asked Mr. Briggerland. Nothing has been found, but the chauffeur said the detective. After a few more questions he took Jack outside. It looks very much to me as though it were one of those crimes of passion which are so frequent in this country, he said. Morden was a Frenchman, and I have been able to identify him by tattoo marks on his arm as a man who has been in the hands of the police many times. You think there is no hope? The detective shrugged his shoulders. We're dragging the pool. There is very deep water under the rock, but the chances are that the body has been washed out to sea. There is clearly no evidence against these people except yours. The letters might, of course, have been forged, but you say you are certain that the writing is Mrs. Meredith. Jack nodded. They were walking down the road towards the officer's waiting car when Jack asked. May I see that letter again? The detective took it from his pocketbook, and Jack stopped and scanned it. Yes, it is her writing, he said, and then uttered an exclamation. Do you see that? He pointed eagerly to two little marks before the words, dear friend. Quotation marks, said the detective, puzzled. Why did she write that? I've got it, said Jack. The story. Mademoiselle Briggerlin told me she was writing a story, and I remember she said she had writer's cramp. Suppose she dictated a portion of the story to Mrs. Meredith. And suppose in that story there occurred this letter. Lydia would have put the quotation marks mechanically. The detective took the letter from his hand. It is possible, he said. The writing is very even. It shows no sign of agitation, and of course the character's initials might be LM. It is an ingenious hypothesis, and not wholly improbable, but if this were a part of the story, there would be other sheets. Would you like me to search the house? Jack shook his head. She's much too clever to have them in the house, he said. More likely she's put them in the fire. What fire? Asked the detective dryly. These houses have no fires, they're central heated. Unless she went to the kitchen. Which she wouldn't do, said Jack thoughtfully. No, she'd burn them in the garden. The detective nodded, and they returned to the house. Jean, deep in conversation with her father, saw them reappear, and watched them as they walked slowly across the lawn toward the trees, their eyes fixed on the ground. What are they looking for, she asked with a frown? I'll go and see, said Briggerling, but she caught his arm. Do you think they'll tell you, she asked sarcastically? She ran up to her own room and watched them from behind a curtain. Presently they passed out of sight to the other side of the house, and she went into Lydia's room and overlooked them from there. Suddenly she saw the detective stoop and pick up something from the ground, and her teeth set. The burnt story, she said. I never dreamt they'd look for that. It was only a scrap they found, but it was in Lydia's writing, and the pencil mark was clearly visible on the char dashes. Laura Martin read the detective. L. M. And there are the words tragic and remorse. From the remainder of the charred fragments they collected nothing of importance. Jean watched them disappear along the avenue and went down to her father. I had a fright, she said. You look as if you still got it, he said. He eyed her keenly. She shook her head. Father, you must understand that this adventure may end disastrously. There are ninety-nine chances against the truth being known, but it is the extra chance that is worrying me. We ought to have settled Lydia more quietly, more naturally. There was too much melodrama and shooting, but I don't see how we could have done anything else. Martin was very tiresome. Where did Glover come from, asked Mr. Briggerland? He's been here all the time, said the girl. What? She nodded. He was old Jags. I had an idea he was, but I was certain when I remembered that he had stayed at Lydia's flat. He put down his teacup and wiped his lips with a silk handkerchief. I wish this business was over, he said fretfully. It looks as if we shall have trouble. Of course we shall, she said coldly. You didn't expect to get a fortune of six hundred thousand pounds without trouble, did you? I daresay we shall be suspected, but it takes a lot of suspicion to worry me. We'll be in calm water soon, for the rest of our lives. I hope so, he said, without any great conviction. Mrs. Cole Mortimer was prostrate and in bed, and Jean had no patience to see her. She herself ordered the dinner, and they had finished when a visitor in the shape of Mr. Marcus Stetney came in. It was unusual of Marcus to appear at the dinner hour, except in evening dress, and she remarked the fact, wonderingly. Can I have a word with you, Jean, he asked? What is it? What is it? asked Mr. Brigadine Testily. Haven't we had enough mysteries? Marcus, item without favor. We'll have another one, if you don't mind, he said, unpleasantly, and the girl, whose every sense was alert, picked up a wrap and walked into the garden with Marcus following on her heels. Ten minutes passed, and they did not return. A quarter of an hour went by, and Mr. Brigadine grew uneasy. He got up from his chair, put down his book, and was halfway across the room when the door opened, and Jack Glover came in, followed by the detective. It was the Frenchman who spoke. Monsieur Brigadine, I have a warrant from the prefect of the Alt-Mauri team for your arrest. My arrest? spluttered the dark man, his teeth chattering. What, what is a charge? The willful murder of Francois Morden, said the officer. You lie, you lie! screamed Brigadine. I have no knowledge of any. His words sank into a throaty gurgle, and he stared past the detective. Lydia Meredith was standing in the doorway. End of Chapter 38 Chapter 39 of The Angel of Terror This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Angel of Terror by Edgar Wallace Chapter 39 The morning for Mr. Stepney had been doubly disappointing. Again and again he drew up an empty line, and at last he flung the tackle into the well of the launch. Even the damn fish won't bite, he said, and the humor of his remark cheered him. He was ten miles from the shore, and the blue coast was a dim ragged line on the horizon. He pulled out a big launchin' basket from the cabin, and eyed it with disfavor. It had cost him two hundred francs. He opened the basket, and at the sight of its contents was inclined to reconsider his earlier view that he had wasted his money, the more so since the major de-hotel had thoughtfully included two quart bottles of champagne. Mr. Marcus Stepney made a hearty meal, and by the time he had dropped an empty bottle into the sea he was inclined to take a more cheerful view of life. He threw over the debris of the lunch, pushed the basket under one of the seats of the cabin, pulled up his anchor, and started the engines running. The sky was a brighter blue, and the sea held a finer sparkle, and he was inclined to take a view of even Gene Briggerland more generous than any he had held. Little devil. He smiled reminiscently as he murmured the words. He opened the second bottle of champagne in her honor. Mr. Marcus Stepney was usually an epistemious man, and drank solemnly, if not soberly, her health and happiness. As the sun grew warmer he began to feel an unaccountable sleepiness. He was sober enough to know that to fall asleep in the middle of the ocean was to ask for trouble, and he set the bow of the jungle queen for the nearest beach, hoping to find a landing-place. He found something better as he skirted the shore. The sea and the weather had scooped out a big hollow under a high cliff, a hollow just big enough to take the jungle queen and deep and still enough to ensure her a safe anchorage. A rock barrier interposed between the breakers in this deep pool, which the waves had hollowed in the stony floor of the ocean. As he dropped his anchor he disturbed a school of fish and his angling instincts reawoke. He let down his line over the side, seated himself comfortably in one of the two big basket-chairs, and was dozing comfortably. It was the sound of a shot that woken. It was followed by another, and a third. Almost immediately something dropped from the cliff and fell with a mighty splash into the water. Marcus was wide awake now, and almost sobered. He peered down into the clear depths and saw a figure of a woman turning over and over. Then as it floated upwards it came on its back and he saw the face. Without a moment's hesitation he dived into the water. He would have been wiser if he had waited until she floated to the surface, for now he found a difficulty in regaining the boat. After a great deal of trouble he managed to reach into the launch and pull out of rope, which he fastened around the girl's waist and drew tight to a small stanchion. Then he climbed into the boat himself and pulled her after him. He thought at first she was dead, but listening intently he heard the beating of her heart and searched the luncheon basket for a small flask of liqueurs, which alphonse the head waiter had packed. He put the bottle to her lips and poured a small quantity into her mouth. She choked convulsively and presently opened her eyes. Your amongst friends, said Marcus unnecessarily. She sat up and covered her face with her hands. It all came back to her in a flash and the horror of it froze her blood. What has happened to you, asked Marcus? I don't know exactly, she said faintly. And then—oh, it was dreadful—dreadful! Marcus Stepney offered her the flask of liqueurs, and when she shook her head he helped himself liberally. Lydia was conscious of a pain in her left shoulder. The sleeve was torn and across the thick of the arm there was an ugly, raw wheel. It looks like a bullet mark to me, said Marcus Stepney, suddenly graved. I heard a shot. Did somebody shoot at you? She nodded. Who? She tried to frame the word, but no sound came, and then she burst into a fit of weeping. Not Jane, he asked hoarsely. She shook her head. Briggerland? She nodded. Briggerland! Mr. Stepney whistled, and as he whistled he shivered. Let's get out of here, he said. We shall catch our death of cold. The sun will warm us up. He started the engines going and safely navigated the narrow passage to the open sea. He had to get a long way out before he could catch a glimpse of the road. Then he saw the car and a cycling policeman disbounding and bending over something. He put away his telescope and turned to the girl. This is bad, Mrs. Meredith, he said. Thank God I wasn't in it. Where are you taking me? she asked. I'm taking you out to sea, said Marcus, with a little smile. Don't get scared, Mrs. Meredith. I want to hear that story of yours, and if it is anything like what I fear, then it would be better for you that Briggerland thinks you are dead. She told the story as far as she knew it, and he listened, not interrupting, until she had finished. Morden dead, eh? That's bad. But how on earth are they going to explain it? I suppose, he said with a smile, you didn't write a letter saying you were going to run away with the chauffeur. She sat up at this. I did write a letter, she said slowly. It wasn't a real letter, it was in a story which Jean was dictating. She closed her eyes. How awful, she said. I can't believe it even now. Tell me about the story, said the man quickly. It was a story she was writing for a London magazine, and her wrist hurt, and I wrote it down as she dictated. Only about three pages, but one of the pages was a letter supposed to have been written by the heroine, saying that she was going away as she loved somebody who was beneath her socially. Good God, said Marcus, genuinely shocked. Did Jean do that? He seemed absolutely crushed by the realization of Jean Briggerland's deed, and he did not speak again for a long time. I'm glad I know, he said at last. Do you really think that all this time she's been trying to kill me? He nodded. She has used everybody, even me, he said bitterly. I don't want you to think badly of me, Mrs. Meredith, but I'm going to tell you the truth. I'd provisioned this little yacht today for a 1200-mile trip, and you were to be my companion. I, she said incredulously. It was Jean's idea, really, though I think she must have altered her view, or thought I had forgotten all she suggested. I intended taking you out to sea and keeping you out there until you agreed. He shook his head. I don't think I could have done it, really, he said, speaking half to himself. I'm not really built for a conspirator. None of that rough stuff ever appealed to me. Well, I didn't try anyway. No, Mr. Stepney, she said quietly, and I don't think if you had you would have succeeded. He was in his frankest mood and startled her later when he told her of his profession without attempting to excuse or minimize the method by which he earned his livelihood. I was in a pretty bad way, and I thought there was easy money coming, and that rather tempted me, he said. I know you will think I am a despicable cad, but you can't think too badly of me, really. He surveyed the shore, ahead of them the green tongue of Cap Martin jutted out into the sea. I think I'll take you to Nice, he said. We'll attract less attention there, and probably I'll be able to get in touch with your old Mr. Jags. You've no idea where I can find him? At any rate, I can go to the Villa Casa and discover what sort of yarn is being told. And probably I can get my clothes dry, she said with a little grimace. I wonder if you know how uncomfortable I am. Pretty well, he said calmly. Every time I move a new stream of water runs down my back. It was half past three in the afternoon when they reached Nice, and Marcus saw the girl safely to a hotel, changed himself, and brought the yacht back to Monaco, where Briggerland had seen him. For two hours Marcus Steppany wrestled with his love for a girl who was plainly a murderous, and in the end, love won. When darkness fell he provisioned the Jungle Queen, loaded her with petrol, and heading her out to sea made the swimming-cove of Cap Martin. It was to the boat that Jean flew. What about my father, she asked as she stepped aboard? I think they've caught him, said Marcus. He'll hate prisons, said the girl complacently. Hurry Marcus, I'd hate it too. End of Chapter 39 Chapter 40 OF THE ANGEL OF TERROR This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. THE ANGEL OF TERROR by Edgar Wallace Chapter 40 Lydia took up her quarters in a quiet hotel in Nice, and Mrs. Cole Mortimer agreed to stay on and chaperone her. Though she had felt no effects from her terrifying experience on the first day, she found herself a nervous wreck when she woke in the morning and wisely decided to stay in bed. Jack, who had expected the relapse called in a doctor, but Lydia refused to see him. The next day she received the lawyer. She had only briefly outlined the part which Marcus Stepney had played in her rescue, but she had said enough to make Jack call at Stepney's hotel to thank him in person. Mr. Stepney, however, was not at home. He had not been home all night, but this information, his discreet informant, did not volunteer. Nor was the disappearance of the Jungle Queen noticed for two days. It was Mrs. Cole Mortimer and settling up her accounts with Jack, who mentioned the yacht. The Jungle Queen, said Jack. That's the motor launch, isn't it? I've seen her lying in the harbour. I thought she was Stepney's property. His suspicions aroused. He called again at Stepney's hotel, and this time his inquiry was backed by the presence of a detective. Then it was made known that Mr. Stepney had not been seen since the night of Brigoland's arrest. That is where they've gone. Stepney was very keen on the girl, I think, said Jack. The detective was annoyed. If I'd known before we could have intercepted them, we have several destroyers in the harbour at Villa France. Now I am afraid it is too late. Where would they make for, asked Jack. The officer shrugged his shoulders. God knows, he said, they could get into Italy or into Spain. Possibly Barcelona. I'll telegraph the chief of the police there. But the Barcelona police had no information to give. The Jungle Queen had not been cited. The weather was calm, the sea smooth, and everything favourable for the escape. Inquiries elicited the fact that Mr. Stepney had bought large quantities of petrol a few days before his departure, and had augmented his supply the evening he had left. Also he had bought provisions in considerable quantities. The murder was a week old and Mr. Bergerland had undergone his preliminary examination when a wire came through from the Spanish police that a motorboat answering the description of the Jungle Queen had called at Málaga had provisioned, refilled, and put out to sea again before the police authorities who had a description of the pair had time to investigate. You'll think I have a diseased mind, said Lydia. But I hope she gets away. Jack laughed. If you had been with her much longer, Lydia, she would have turned you into a first-class criminal, he said. I hope you do not forget that she has exactly a hundred thousand pounds of yours, in other words, a sixth of your fortune. Lydia shook her head. That is almost a comforting thought, she said. I know she is what she is, Jack, but her greatest crime is that she was born six hundred years too late, if she had lived in the days of the Italian Renaissance she would have made history. Your sympathy is immoral, said Jack. By the way, Bergerland has been handed over to the Italian authorities. The crime was committed on Italian soil, and that saves his head from falling into the basket. She shuddered. What will they do to him? He'll be imprisoned for life, was the reply, and I rather think that's a little worse than the guillotine. You say you worry for Jean? I'm rather sorry for old man Bergerland. If he hadn't tried to live up to his daughter, he might have been a most respectable member of society. They were strolling to the quaint, narrow streets of Grasse, and Jack, who knew and loved the town, was showing her sights which made her forget that the perfumery factory, the mecca of the average tourist, had any existence. I suppose I'll have to settle down now, she said with an expression of distaste. I suppose you will, said Jack, and you'll have to settle up too. Your legal expenses are something fierce. Why do you say that? She asked, stopping in her walk and looking at him gravely. I am speaking as your mercenary lawyer, said Jack. You are trying to put your service on another level, she corrected. I owe everything I have to you. My fortune is the least of these. I owe you my life three times over. Four, he corrected, and DeMarcus Stepney wants. Why have you done so much for me? Were you interested? She asked after a pause. Barry, he replied. I was interested in you from the moment I saw you step out of Mr. Morton's taxi into the mud, but I was especially interested in you. When, she asked. When I sat outside your door night after night and discovered you didn't snore, he said shamelessly, and she went red. I hope you'll never refer to your old jags as adventures. It was Barry. What? I was going to say horrid, but I shouldn't be telling the truth, she admitted frankly. I liked having you there. Poor Mrs. Morton will be disconsolate when she discovers that we've lost our lodger. They walked into the cool of the ancient cathedral and sat down. There's something very soothing about a church, isn't there? He whispered. Look at that gorgeous window. If I were ever rich enough to marry the woman I loved, I should be married in a cathedral like this, full of old tombs and statues and stained glass. How rich would you have to be? She asked. As rich as she is. She bent over toward him, her lips against his ear. Tell me how much money you have, she whispered. And I'll give away all I have in excess of that amount. He caught her hand and held it fast. And they sat there before the altar of St. Catherine until the sun went down and the disapproving old woman who acted as the cathedral's caretaker tapped them on the shoulder. End of Chapter 40 Chapter 41 of The Angel of Terror This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Angel of Terror by Edgar Wallace Chapter 41 That is Gibraltar, said Marcus Stepney, pointing ahead to a gray shape that loomed up from the sea. He was unshaven, for he had forgotten to bring his razor, and he was pinched with a cold. His overcoat was turned up to his ears, in spite of which he shivered. Jean did not seem to be affected by the sudden change of temperature. She sat on the top of the cabin, her chin in the palm of her hand, her elbow on her crossed knee. You are not going into Gibraltar, she asked. He shook his head. I think not, he said, nor to Elgis Cirrus. Did you see that fellow on the quay yelling for the craft to come back after we left Malaga? That was a bad sign. I expect the police have instructions to detain this boat, and most of the ports must have been notified. How long can we run? We've got enough gas and grub to reach Dhaka, he said. That's roughly an eight days journey. On the African coast? He nodded, although she could not see him. Where could we get a ship to take us to South America, she asked, turning round? Lisbon, he said thoughtfully. Yes, we could reach Lisbon, but there are too many steamers about and we're certain to be sighted. We might run across to Las Palmas, most of the South American boats call there, but if I were you I should stick to Europe. Come and take this helm, Jean. She obeyed without question and he continued the work which had been interrupted by a late meal, the painting of the boat's hull, a difficult business involving acrobatics since it was necessary for him to lean over the side. He had bought the great paint at Malaga and happily there was not much surface that required attention. The stumpy mast of the jungle queen had already gone overboard, he had sawn it off with great labour the day after they had left Cap Martin. She watched him with a speculative eye as he worked and thought he had never looked quite so unattractive as he did within eight days' growth of beard his shirt stained with paint and petrol. His hands were grimy and nobody would have recognised in this scarecrow that elegant habitué of those fashionable resorts which smart society frequents. Yet she had reason to be grateful to him. His conduct toward her had been irreproachable. Not one word of love had been spoken nor until now had their future plans for it affected them both been discussed. Suppose we reach South America safely, she asked. What happens then, Marcus? He looked around from his work in surprise. We'll get married, he said quietly. And she laughed. And what happens to the present, Mrs. Stepney? She has divorced me, said Stepney unexpectedly. I got the papers the day we left. I see, said Jean Softley. We'll get married. Then stopped. He looked at her and frowned. Isn't that your idea, too, he asked? Married? Yes, that's my idea, too. It seems a queer, uninteresting way of finishing things, doesn't it? And yet I suppose it isn't. He had resumed his work and was leaning far over the bow and ten up on his labour. Suddenly she spun the wheel round and the launch healed over to starboard. For a second it seemed that Marcus Stepney could not maintain his balance against that unexpected impetus but by a superhuman effort he kicked himself back to safety and stared at her with a blanched face. Why did you do that, he asked Horsley? You nearly have me overboard! There was a porpoise lying on the surface of the sea asleep, I think, she said quietly. I'm very sorry, Marcus, but I didn't know that it would throw you off your balance. He looked round for the sleeping fish, but it had disappeared. You told me to avoid them, you know, she said apologetically. Did I really put you in any danger? He licked his dry lips, picked up the paint pot, and threw it into the sea. We'll leave this, he said, until we are beached. You gave me a scare, Jean. I'm dreadfully sorry, she said. Come here and sit by me. She moved to allow him room and he sat down by her, taking the wheel from her hand. On the horizon the highlands of northern Africa were showing their saw-edge outlines. That is Morocco, he pointed out to her. I propose giving Gibraltar a wide berth and following the coastline to Tangier. Tangier wouldn't be a bad place to land if there weren't two of us, he went on. It is our being together in this shot that is likely to cause suspicion. You could easily pretend that you'd come over from Gibraltar in the port authority, there are pretty slack. Or if we could land on the coast, he suggested. There's a good landing and we could follow the beach down and turn up in Tangier in the morning. All sorts of odmints turn up in Tangier without exciting suspicion. She was looking out over the sea with a queer expression in her face. Morocco, she said softly. Morocco? I hadn't thought of that. They had a fright soon after. A gray shape came racing out of the darkening east and Stepney put his helm over as the destroyer smashed past on her way to Gibraltar. He watched the stern light disappearing, then it suddenly turned and presented its side to them. They're looking for us, said Marcus. The darkness had come down and he headed straight for the east. There was no question that the destroyer was on an errand of discovery. A white beam of light shot out from her decks and began to feel along the sea and then when they thought it had missed them, it dropped on the boat and held. A second later it missed them again and began a search. Presently it lit the little boat and it did something more. It revealed a thickening of the atmosphere. They were running into a sea fog, one of those thin white fogs that come down in the Mediterranean on windless days. The blinding glare of the searchlight blurred. BANG! That's the gun to signal us to stop, said Marcus between his teeth. He turned the nose of the boat southward, a hazardous proceeding, for he ran into clear water and had only just got back into the shelter of the providential fog bank when the white beam came stealthily along the edge of the mist. Presently it died out and they saw it no more. They're looking for us, said Marcus again. He said that before, said the girl calmly. They've probably warned them at Tangier. We dare not take the boat into the bay, said Stepney, whose nerves were now on edge. He turned again westward, etching toward the rocky coast of northern Africa. They saw little clusters of lights on the shore and he tried to remember what towns they were. I think that big one is Kutra, the Spanish convict station, he said. He slowed down the boat and they felt their way gingerly along the coastline until the flick and flash of a lighthouse gave them an idea of their position. Capespartel, he identified the light, we can land very soon. I was in Morocco for three months and if I remember rightly the beach is good walking as far as Tangier. She went into the cabin and changed and as the nose of the jungle queen slid gently up the sandy beach, she was ready. He carried her ashore and set her down. Then he pushed off the nose of the boat and maneuvered it so that the stern was against the beach, resting in three feet of water. He jumped on board, lashed the helm, and started the engines going. Then, waiting back to the shore, he stood staring into the gloom as the little jungle queen put out to sea. That's that, he said grimly. Now, my dear, we've got a ten-mile walk before us. But he had made a slight miscalculation. The distance between himself and Tangier was twenty-five miles, and evolved several detours inland into a country which was wholly uninhabited. Save at that moment it held the camp of Mulej Hafiz, who was engaged in negotiation with the Spanish government for one of those permanent pieces which frequently lasts for years. Mulej Hafiz sat drinking his coffee at midnight, listening to the strains of an ornate gramophone which stood in a corner of his square tent. A voice outside the silken fold of his tent greeted him, and he stopped the machine. What is it? He asked. Lord, we have captured a man and a woman walking along by the sea. There, riffy people, let them go, said Mulej and Arabic. We are making peace, my man, not war. Lord, these are infidels. I think they are English. Mulej Hafiz twisted his trim little beard. Bring them, he said. So they were brought to his presence, a disheveled man and a girl at the side of whose face he gasped. My little friend of the Riviera, he said, wonderingly, and the smile she gave him was like a ray of sunshine to his heart. He stood up, a magnificent figure of a man, and she eyed him admiringly. I am sorry if my men have frightened you, he said. You have nothing to fear, madame. I shall send my soldiers to escort you to Tangier. And then he frowned. Where did you come from? She could not lie under the steady glance of those liquid eyes. We landed on the shore from a boat. We lost our way, she said. He nodded. You must be she there seeking, he said. One of my spies came to me from Tangier tonight and told me that the Spanish and the French police were waiting to arrest a lady who had committed some crime in France. I cannot believe it is you. Or if it is, then I should say the crime was pardonable. He glanced at Marcus. Or perhaps, he said slowly, it is your companion they desire. Jean shook her head. No, they do not want him, she said. It is I they want. He pointed to a cushion. Sit down, he said, and followed her example. Marcus alone remained standing, wondering how this strange situation would develop. What will you do? If you go into Tangier I fear I could not protect you. But there is a city in the hills. He waved his hand. Many miles from here a city where the hills are green, mademoiselle, and where beautiful springs gush out of the ground. And there I am, Lord. She drew a long breath. I will go to the city of the hills, she said softly. And this man, she shrugged her shoulders. I do not care what happens to him, she said, with a smile of amusement at the pallid Marcus. Then he shall go to Tangier alone. But Marcus Stepney did not go alone. For the last two miles of the journey he had carried a bag containing the greater part of five million francs that the girl had brought from the boat. Jean did not remember this until she was on her way to the city of the hills. And by that time money did not interest her.