The Casefiles of Mr J. G. Reeder

by Edgar Wallace

  ‘He’s a good boy,’ said Emanuel shortly.

  Mr Reeder sighed again. ‘Children are a great expense,’ he said. ‘I often wonder whether I ought to be glad that I never married. What is your son by occup­ation, Mr Legge?’

  ‘An export agent,’ said Emanuel promptly.

  ‘Dear, dear!’ said the other, and shook his head. Emanuel did not know whether he was impressed or only sympathising.

  ‘Being in Dartmoor, naturally I met a number of bad characters,’ said the virtuous Emanuel; ‘men who did not appeal to me, since I was perfectly innocent and only got my stretch – lagging – imprison­ment through a conspiracy on the part of a man I’ve done many a good turn to –’

  ‘Ingratitude,’ interrupted Mr Reeder, drawing in his breath. ‘What a terrible thing is ingratitude! How grateful your son must be that he has a father who looks after him, who has properly educated him and brought him up in the straight way, in spite of his own deplorable lapses!’

  ‘Now, look here, Mr Reeder.’ Emanuel thought it was time to get more definitely to business. ‘I’m a very plain man, and I’m going to speak plainly to you. It has come to my knowledge that the gentlemen you are acting for are under the impression that my boy’s got to do with the printing of slush – counterfeit notes. I was never more hurt in my life than when I heard this rumour. I said to myself: “I’ll go straight away to Mr Reeder and discuss the matter with him. I know he’s a man of the world, and he will understand my feelings as a father.” Some people, Mr Reeder’ – his elbows were on the table and he leant over and adopted a more confidential tone – ‘some people get wrong im­pressions. Only the other day somebody was saying to me: “That Mr Reeder is broke. He’s got three county court summonses for money owed – ”

  ‘A temporary embarrassment,’ murmured Mr Reeder. ‘One has those periods of financial – er – depression.’ He was polishing the stem of the telephone more vigorously.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’re very well paid? I’m taking a liberty in making that personal statement, but as a man of the world you’ll understand. I know what it is to be poor. I’ve had some of the best society people in my office’ – Emanuel invented the office on the spur of the moment – ‘the highest people in the land, and if they’ve said: “Mr Legge, can you oblige me with a thousand or a couple of thousand?” why, I’ve pulled it out, as it were, like this.’

  He put his hand in his pocket and withdrew it, holding a large roll of money fastened with a rubber band.

  For a second Mr J. G. Reeder allowed his attention to be dis­tracted, and surveyed the pile of wealth with the same detached interest which he had given to Emanuel. Then, reaching out his hand cautiously, he took the note from the top, felt it, fingered it, rustled it, and looked quickly at the watermark.

  ‘Genuine money,’ he said in a hushed voice, and handed the note back with apparent reluctance.

  ‘If a man is broke,’ said Legge emphatically, ‘I don’t care who he is or what he is, I say: “Is a thousand or two thousand any good to you?”’

  ‘And is it?’ asked Mr Reeder.

  ‘Is what?’ said Emanuel, taken off his guard.

  ‘Is it any good to him?’

  ‘Well, of course it is,’ said Legge. ‘My point is this; a gentleman may be very hard pressed, and yet be the most solvent person in the world. If he can only get a couple of thousand just when he wants it – why, there’s no scandal, no appearance in court which might injure him in his job –’

  ‘How very true! How very, very true!’ Mr Reeder seemed pro­foundly touched. ‘I hope you pass on these wise and original state­ments to your dear son, Mr Legge?’ he said. ‘What a splendid thing it is that he has such a father!’

  Emanuel cursed him under his breath.

  ‘Two thousand pounds,’ mused Mr Reeder. ‘Now, if you had said five thousand pounds –’

  ‘I do say five thousand,’ said Emanuel eagerly. ‘I’m not going to spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar.’

  ‘If you had said five thousand pounds,’ Mr Reeder went on, ‘I should have known that three thousand was slush, or shall we say phoney – because you only drew two thousand from the City and Birmingham Bank this morning, all in hundred pound notes, series GI.19721 to 19740. Correct me if I’m wrong. Of course, you might have some other genuine money stowed away in your little hotel, Mr Legge; or your dear boy may have given you another three thousand as a sort of wedding present – I forgot, though, a bridegroom doesn’t give wedding presents, does he? He receives them. How foolish of me! Put away your money, Mr Legge. This room is very draughty, and it might catch cold. Do you ever go to the Hilly Fields? It is a delightful spot. You must come to tea with me one Sunday, and we will go up and hear the band. It is a very inexpensive but satisfactory method of spend­ing two hours. As to those judgment summonses’ – he coughed, and rubbed his nose with his long forefinger – ‘those summonses were arranged in order to bring you here. I did so want to meet you, and I knew the bait of my impecuniosity would be almost irresistible.’

  Emanuel Legge sat, dumbfounded.

  ‘Do you know a man named “Golden”? Ah, he would be before your time. Have you ever heard of him? He was my predecessor. I don’t think you met him. He had a great saying – set a brief to catch a thief. We called a note a brief in those days. Good afternoon, Mr Legge. You will find your way down.’

  Legge rose, and with that the sad-faced man dropped his eyes and resumed the work he had been at when the visitor had inter­rupted him.

  ‘I only want to say this, Mr Reeder –’ began Legge.

  ‘Tell my housekeeper,’ pleaded Reeder weakly, and he did not look up. ‘She’s frightfully interested in fairy stories – I think she must be getting towards her second childhood. Good afternoon, Mr Legge.’

  Chapter 12

  Emanuel Legge was half-way home before he could sort out his impressions. He went back to the Bloomsbury Hotel where he was staying. There was no message for him, and there had been no callers. It was now seven o’clock. He wondered whether Jeff had restrained his impatience. Jeff must be told and warned. Johnny Gray, dead or maimed in a hospital, had ceased to be a factor. Peter Kane, for all his cunning and his vengefulness, might be dismissed as a source of danger. It was Mr J. G. Reeder who filled his thoughts, the bored Civil Servant with a weak voice, who had such a surprising knowledge of things, and whose continuous pointed references to Jeffrey filled him with unquiet. Jeffrey must clear out of the country, and must go while the going was good. If he hadn’t been such a fool, he would have moved that night. Now, that was impossible.

  Peter had not arrived at the Charlton, or the men whom Legge had set to watch would have reported. If it had not been for the disturbing interview he had had with Reeder, he would have been more worried about Peter Kane; for when Peter delayed action, he was dangerous.

  At eight o’clock that night, a small boy brought him a note to the hotel. It was addressed ‘E. Legge’, and the envelope was grimy with much handling. Emanuel took the letter to his room and locked the door before he opened it. It was from a man who was very much on the inside of things, one of Jeff’s shrewd but illiterate assistants, first lieutenant of the Big Printer, and a man to be implicitly trusted.

  There were six closely written pages, ill-spelt and blotted. Eman­uel read the letter a dozen times, and when he finished, there was panic in his heart.

  ‘Johnny Gray got out of the tunnel all right, and he’s going to squeak to Reeder,’ was the dramatic beginning, and there was a great deal more . . .

  Emanuel knew a club in the West End of London, and his name was numbered amongst the members, even in the days when he had little opportunity of exercising his membership. It was a club rather unlike any other, and occupied the third and fourth floor of a build­ing, the lower floors being in the possession of an Italian restaurateur. Normally, th
e proprietor of a fairly popular restaurant would not hire out his upper floors to so formidable a rival; but the proprietors of the club were also proprietors of the building, the restaurant keeper being merely a tenant.

  It suited the membership of the Highlow Club to have their prem­ises a little remote. It suited them better that no stairway led from the lower to the upper floors. Members of the club went down a narrow passage by the side of the restaurant entrance. From the end of the passage ran a small elevator, which carried them to the third floor.The County Council, in granting this concession, insisted upon a very com-plete fire escape system outside the building – a command which very well suited the members. Some there were who found it con­ven­ient to enter the premises by this latter method, and a window leading into the club was left unfastened day and night against such a contingency.

  On the flat roof of the building was a small superstructure, which was never used by the club members; whilst another part of the building, which also belonged exclusively to the Highlow, was the basement, to which the restaurant proprietor had no access – much to his annoyance, since it necessitated the building of a wine storage room in the limited space in the courtyard behind.

  Stepping out of the elevator into a broad passage, well carpeted, its austere walls hung with etchings, Emanuel Legge was greeted respect­fully by the liveried porter who sat behind a desk within sight of the lift. There was every reason why Emanuel should be respected at the Highlow, for he was, in truth, the proprietor of the club, and his son had exercised control of the place during many of the years his father had been in prison.

  The porter, who was a big ex-prize fighter, expressly engaged for the purpose for which he was frequently required, hurried from his tiny perch to stand deferentially before his master.

  ‘Anybody here?’ asked Legge.

  The man mentioned a few names.

  ‘Let me see the engagement book,’ said the other, and the man produced from beneath the ledge of his desk a small, red book, and Emanuel turned the pages. The old man’s hand ran down the list, and suddenly stopped.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said softly, closing the book and handing it back.

  ‘Are you expecting anybody, Mr Legge?’ asked the porter.

  ‘No, I’m not expecting anybody . . . only I wondered . . .’

  ‘Mr Jeffrey got married today, I hear, sir. I’m sure all the staff wish him joy.’

  All the staff did not wish Mr Jeffrey Legge joy, for neither he nor his father were greatly popular, even in the tolerant society of the Highlow, and moreover, strange as it may appear, very few people knew him by sight.

  ‘That’s very good of you, very good indeed,’ murmured Emanuel absently.

  ‘Are you dining here, sir?’

  ‘No, no, I’m not dining here. I just looked in, that is all.’ He stepped back into the elevator, and the porter watched it drop with pleasure. It was half-past eight; the glow was dying in the sky, and the lights were beginning to twinkle in the streets, as Emanuel walked steadily towards Shaftesbury Avenue.

  Providentially, he was at the corner of a side street when he saw Peter Kane. He was near enough to note that under his thin overcoat Peter was in evening dress. Slipping into the doorway, he watched the man pass. Peter was absorbed in thought; his eyes were on the ground, and he had no interest for anything but the tremendous problem which occupied his mind.

  Legge came back to the corner of the street and watched him furtively. Opposite the club, Peter stopped, looked up for a while, and passed on. The watcher laughed to himself. That club could have no pleasant memories for Peter Kane that night; it was in the Highlow that he had met the ‘young Canadian officer’ and had ‘rescued’ him, as he had thought, from his dangerous surroundings. There had Peter been trapped, for the introduction of Jeff Legge was most skilfully arranged. Going into the club one night, Peter saw, as he thought, a young, good-looking soldier boy in the hands of a gang of cardsharpers, and the ‘rescued officer’ had been most grateful, and had called upon Peter at the earliest opportunity. So simple, so very simple, to catch Peter. It would be a more difficult matter, thought Emanuel, for Peter to catch him.

  He waited until the figure had disappeared in the gloom of the evening, and then walked back to the Avenue. This comedy over, there remained the knowledge of stark tragedy, of danger to his boy, and the upsetting of all his plans, and, the most dreadful of all possibilities, the snaring of the Big Printer. This night would the battle be fought, this night of nights would victory or defeat be in his hands. Reeder – Johnny – Peter Kane – all opposed him, innocent of their co-operation, and in his hands a hostage beyond price – the body and soul of Marney Legge.

  He had scarcely disappeared when another person known to him came quickly along the quiet street, turned into the club entrance, and, despite the expostulations of the elevator man, insisted upon being taken up. The porter had heard the warning bell and stood waiting to receive her when the door of the elevator opened.

  ‘Where’s Emanuel?’ she asked.

  ‘Just gone,’ said the porter.

  ‘That’s a lie. I should have seen him if he’d just gone.’

  She was obviously labouring under some emotion, and the porter, an expert on all stages of feminine emotionalism, shrewdly diag­nosed the reason for her wildness of manner and speech.

  ‘Been a wedding today, hasn’t there?’ he asked with heavy jocul­arity. ‘Now, Lila, what’s the good of kicking up a fuss? You know you oughtn’t to come here. Mr Legge gave orders you weren’t to be admitted whilst you were at Kane’s.’

  ‘Where is Emanuel?’ she asked.

  ‘I tell you he’s just gone out,’ said the porter in a tone of ponderous despair. ‘What a woman you are! You don’t believe anything!’

  ‘Has he gone back to his hotel?’

  ‘That’s just where he has gone. Now be wise, girl, and beat it. Anybody might be coming here – Johnny Gray was in last night, and he’s a pal of Peter’s.’

  ‘Johnny knows all about me,’ she said impatiently. ‘Besides, I’ve left Peter’s house.’

  She stood undecidedly at the entrance of the open elevator, and then, when the porter was preparing some of his finest arguments for her rapid disappearance, she stepped into the lift and was taken down.

  The Highlow was a curious club, for it had no common room. Fourteen private dining-rooms and a large and elegantly furnished card-room constituted the premises. Meals were served from the restaurant below, being brought up by service lift to a small pantry. The members of the club had not the club feeling in the best sense of the word. They included men and women, but the chief reason for the club’s existence was that it afforded a safe and not unpleasant meeting-place for members of the common class, and gave necess-ary seclusion for the slaughter of such innocents as came within the influence of its more dexterous members. How well its inner secrets were kept is best illustrated by the fact that Peter Kane had been a member for twenty years without knowing that his sometime companion in crime had any official connection with its control. Nor was it ever hinted to him that the man who was directing the club’s activities during Emanuel’s enforced absence, was his son.

  Peter was a very infrequent visitor to the Highlow; and indeed, on the occasion of his first meeting with the spurious Major Floyd, he had been tricked into coming, though this he did not know.

  The porter was busy until half-past nine. Little parties came, were checked off in the book, and then – he looked at his watch.

  ‘Twenty-five to ten,’ he said, and pushed a bell button.

  A waiter appeared from the side passage.

  ‘Put a bottle of wine in No. 13,’ he said.

  The waiter looked at him surprised.

  ‘No. 13?’ he said, as if he could not believe his ears.

  ‘I said it,’ confirmed the po
rter.

  * * *

  Jeffrey ate a solitary dinner. The humour of the situation did not appeal to him. On his honeymoon, he and his wife were dining, a locked door between them. But he could wait.

  Again he tried the queer-shaped pliers upon the key of the second bedroom. The key turned readily. He put the tool into his pocket with a sense of power. The clatter of a table being cleared came to him from the other room, and presently he heard the outer door close and a click of the key turning. He lit his fourth cigar and stepped out on to the balcony, surveying the crowded street with a dispassionate interest. It was theatre time. Cars were rolling up to the Haymarket; the long queue that he had seen waiting at the doors of the cheaper parts of the house had disappeared; a restaurant immediately opposite was blazing with lights; and on a corner of the street a band of ex-soldiers were playing the overture of Lohengrin.

  Glancing down into the street, he distinguished one of the ‘minders’ his father had put there for his protection, and grinned. Peter could not know; he would have been here before. As to Johnny . . . ? Emanuel had been very confident that Johnny presented no danger, and it rather looked as though Emanuel’s view was right. But if Peter knew, why hadn’t he come?

  He strolled back to the room, looked at the girl’s door and walked toward it. ‘Marney!’ he called softly.

  There was no answer. He knocked on the panel.

  ‘Marney, come along. I want to talk to you. You needn’t open the door. I just wanted to ask you something.’

  Still there was no answer. He tried the door; it was locked.

  ‘Are you there?’ he called sharply, but she did not reply.

  He pulled the pliers from his pocket, and, pushing the narrow nose into the keyhole, gripped the end of the key and turned it. Then, flinging open the door, he rushed in.

  The room was empty, and the big bathroom that led out of the suite was empty also. He ran to the passage door: it was locked – locked from the outside. In a sweat of fear he flew through the saloon into the corridor, and the first person he saw was the floor waiter.