The Casefiles of Mr J. G. Reeder

by Edgar Wallace

  ‘Murdered!’ he said unbelievingly. ‘Are you sure? Of course, I’m mad to ask you that.’ He passed his hand wearily across his forehead. ‘No, I know nothing about it. I suppose you suspect me, and I don’t mind telling you that I was willing to murder him if I could have found him.’

  Briefly he related what had happened at the dinner.

  ‘I knew that I was doped, but dope works slowly on me, and the only chance I had was to sham dead. Emanuel gave me a thump in the jaw, and that was my excuse for going out. They got me down­stairs into the yard and put me into the car first. I slipped out the other side as soon as the nigger went up to get Johnny. There were a lot of old cement sacks lying about, and I threw a couple on to the floor, hoping that in the darkness they would mistake the bundle for me. Then I lay down amongst the packing-cases and waited. I guessed they’d brought down Johnny, but I was powerless to help him. When the car had gone, and Pietro had gone up again, I followed. I suppose the dope was getting busy, and if I’d had any sense, I should have got over the gate. My first thought was that they might have taken my gun away and left it in the room. I tried to open the door, but it was locked.’

  ‘Are you sure of that, Peter?’

  ‘Absolutely sure.’

  ‘How long after was this?’

  ‘About half an hour. It took me all that time to get up the stairs, because I had to fight the dope all the way. I heard somebody moving about, and slipped into one of the other rooms, and then I heard the window pulled down and locked. I didn’t want to go to sleep, for fear they discovered me; but I must have dozed, for when I woke up, it was dark and cold, and I heard no sound at all. I tried the door of thirteen again, but could make no impression on it. So I went to Emanuel’s office. I know the place very well: I used to go in there in the old days, before Emanuel went to jail, and I knew all about the spiral staircase to the roof. All along I suspected that the hut they’d put on the roof was the place where the slush was printed. But here I was mistaken, for I had no sooner got into the room than I saw that it was where the engraver worked. There was a plate on the edge of a shaft. I suppose I was still dizzy, because I fumbled at it. It slipped through my hand, and I heard a clang come up from somewhere below.’

  ‘How did you get into this room?’

  ‘The door was open,’ was the surprising reply. ‘I have an idea that it is one of those doors that can only be opened and closed from the inside. The real door of the room is in the room in Emanuel’s office. It is the only way in, and the only way out, both from the basement and the room on the roof. I don’t know what happened after that. I must have lain down, for by now the dope was working powerfully. I ought to let Marney know I’m all right. She’ll be worried . . .’

  He saw something in the detective’s face, something that made his heart sink.

  ‘Marney! Is anything wrong with Marney?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘I don’t know. She went out last night – or rather, early this morning – and has not been seen since.’

  Peter listened, stricken dumb by the news. It seemed to Mr Reeder that he aged ten years in as few minutes.

  ‘Now, Kane, you’ve got to tell me all you know about Legge,’ said Reeder kindly. ‘I haven’t any doubt that Jeffrey’s taken her to the big printing place. Where is it?’

  Peter shook his head.

  ‘I haven’t the least idea,’ he said. ‘The earlier slush was printed in this building; in fact, it was printed in Room 13. I’ve known that for a long time. But as the business grew, young Legge had to find another works. Where he has found it is a mystery to me, and to most other people.’

  ‘But you must have heard rumours?’ persisted Reeder.

  Again Peter shook his head.

  ‘Remember that I mix very little with people of my own pro­fession, or my late profession,’ he said. ‘Johnny and old Barney are about the only crooks I know, outside of the Legge family. And Stevens, of course – he was in jail ten years ago. I’ve lost touch with all the others, and my news has come through Barney, though most of Barney’s gossip is unreliable.’

  They reached Barney by telephone, but he was unable to give any information that was of the slightest use. All that he knew was that the printing works were supposed to be somewhere in the West.

  ‘Johnny knows more about it than I do, or than anybody. All the boys agree as to that,’ said Barney. ‘They told him a lot in boob.’

  Leaving Peter to return home, Mr Reeder made a call at Johnny’s flat. Parker was up. He had been notified earlier in the morning of his master’s disappearance, but he had no explanation to offer.

  He was preparing to give a list of the clothes that Johnny had been wearing, but Reeder cut him short impatiently.

  ‘Try to think of Mr Gray as a human being, and not as a tailor’s dummy,’ he said wrathfully. ‘You realise that he is in very grave danger?’

  ‘I am not at all worried, sir,’ said the precise Parker. ‘Mr Gray was wearing his new sock suspenders –’

  For once Mr Reeder forgot himself.

  ‘You’re a damned fool, Parker,’ he said.

  ‘I hope not, sir.’ said Parker as he bowed him out.

  Chapter 29

  It was five minutes past two in the morning when Marney, sitting in the drawing-room at the front of the house, heard the sound of a motor-car stop before the house. Going into the hall, she opened the door, and, standing on the step, peered into the darkness.

  ‘Is that you, father?’ she asked.

  There was no reply, and she walked quickly up the garden path to the gate. The car was a closed coupé, and as she looked over the gate, she saw a hand come out and beckon her, and heard a voice whisper. ‘Don’t make a noise. Come in here; I want to talk to you. I don’t want Barney to see me.’

  Bewildered, she obeyed. Jerking open the door, she jumped into the dark interior, by the side of the man at the wheel.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  Then, to her amazement, the car began to move toward the main road. It had evidently circled before it had stopped.

  ‘What is the matter, father?’ she asked.

  And then she heard a low chuckle that made her blood run cold.

  ‘Go into the back and stay there. If you make a row, I’ll spoil that complexion of yours, Marney Legge!’

  ‘Jeffrey!’ she gasped.

  She gripped the inside handle of the door and had half turned it when he caught her with his disengaged hand and flung her into the back of the car.

  ‘I’ll kill you if you make me do that again.’ There was a queer little sob of pain in his voice, and she remembered his wound.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m taking you to your father,’ was the unexpected reply. ‘Will you sit quiet? If you try to get away, or attempt to call assistance, I’ll drive you at full speed into the first tree I see and we’ll finish the thing together.’

  From the ferocity of his tone she did not doubt that he would carry his threat into execution. Mile after mile the car sped on, flashing through villages, slowing through the sparsely peopled streets of small towns. It was nearing three o’clock when they came into the street of a town and, looking through the window, she saw a grey façade and knew she was in Oxford.

  In ten minutes they were through the city and traversing the main western road. And now, for the first time, Jeffrey Legge became communicative.

  ‘You’ve never been in boob, have you, angel?’ he asked.

  She did not answer.

  ‘Never been inside the little bird-house with the other canaries, eh? Well, that’s an experience ahead of you. I am going to put you in jail, kid. Peter’s never been in jail either, but he nearly had the experience tonight.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said. ‘My father has not broken
the law.’

  ‘Not for a long time, at any rate,’ agreed Jeffrey, dexterously lighting a cigarette with one hand. ‘But there’s a little boob waiting for him all right now.’

  ‘A prison,’ she said, incredulously. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You’ve said that twice, and you’re the only person living that’s called me a liar that number of times.’

  He turned off into a side road, and for a quarter of an hour gave her opportunity for thought.

  ‘It might interest you to know that Johnny is there,’ he said. ‘Dear little Johnny! The easiest crook that ever fell – and this time he’s got a lifer.’

  The car began to move down a sharp declivity, and, looking through the rain-spattered windscreen, she saw a squat, dark build­ing ahead.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said, as the car stopped.

  Looking through the window she saw, with a gasp of astonish­ment, that he had spoken the truth. They were at the door of a prison. The great, black, iron-studded gates were opening as she looked, and the car passed through under the deep archway and stopped.

  ‘Get down,’ said Jeff, and she obeyed.

  A narrow black door led from the archway, and, following her, he caught her by the arm and pushed her through. She was in a narrow room, the walls of which were covered with stained and discoloured whitewash. A large fireplace, overflowing with ashes, a rickety chair and a faded board screwed to the wall were the only furniture. In the dim light of a carbon lamp she saw the almost indistinguishable words: ‘His Majesty’s Prison, Keytown’, and beneath, row after row of closely set regulations. A rough-looking, powerfully-built man had followed her into the room, which was obviously the gate-keeper’s lodge.

  ‘Have you got the cell ready?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’ said the man. ‘Does she want anything to eat?’

  ‘If she does, she’ll want,’ said Jeff curtly.

  He took off his greatcoat and hung it on a nail, and then, with Jeffrey’s hand gripping her arm, she was led again into the archway and across a small courtyard, through an iron grille gate and a further door. A solitary light that burnt in a bracket near the door, showed her that she was in a small hall. Around this, at the height of about nine feet from the ground, ran a gallery, which was reached by a flight of iron stairs. There was no need to ask what was the meaning of those two rows of black doors that punctured the wall. They were cells. She was in a prison!

  While she was wondering what it all meant, a door near at hand was unlocked, and she was pushed in. The cell was a small one, the floor of worn stone, but a new bedstead had been fitted up in one corner. There was a washstand; and, as she was to discover, the cell communicated with another containing a stone bath and washplace.

  ‘The condemned cell,’ explained Jeffrey Legge with relish. ‘You’ll have plenty of ghosts to keep you company tonight, Marney.’

  In her heart she was panic-stricken, but she showed none of her fear as she faced him.

  ‘A ghost would be much less repulsive to me than you, Jeffrey Legge,’ she said, and he seemed taken aback by the spirit she dis­played.

  ‘You will have both,’ he said, as he slammed the door on her and locked it.

  The cell was illuminated by a feeble light that came through an opaque pane of glass by the side of the door. Presently, when her eyes grew accustomed to the semi-darkness, she was able to take stock of her surroundings. The prison must have been a very old one, for the walls were at one place worn smooth, probably by the back of some condemned unfortunate who had waited day after day for the hour of doom. She shuddered, as her imagination called to her the agony of soul which these four walls had held.

  By standing on the bed she could reach a window. That also was of toughened glass, set in small, rusty frames. Some of the panes were missing, but she guessed that the outlook from the window would not be particularly promising, even supposing she could force the window.

  The night had been unusually cold and raw for the time of year, and pulling a blanket from the bed, she wrapped it about her and sat down on the stool, waiting for the light to grow.

  And so, sitting, her weary eyes closing involuntarily, she heard a stealthy tapping. It came from above, and her heart fluttered at the thought that possibly, in the cell above her, her father was held . . . or Johnny.

  Climbing on to the bed, she rapped with her knuckles on the stone ceiling. Somebody answered. They were tapping a message in Morse, which she could not understand. Presently the tapping ceased. She heard footsteps above. And then, looking by chance at the broken pane of the window, she saw something come slowly downward and out of view. She leapt up, gripping the window pane, and saw a piece of black silk.

  With difficulty two fingers touched it at last and drew it gently in through the window pane. She pulled it up, and, as she suspected, found a piece of paper tied to the end. It was a bank-note. Bewild­ered, she gazed at it until it occurred to her that there might be a message written on the other side. The pencil marks were faint, and she carried the note as near to the light as she could get.

  Who is there? Is it you, Peter? I am up above. Johnny.

  She suppressed the cry that rose to her lips. Both Johnny and her father were there. Then Jeffrey had not lied.

  How could she answer? She had no pencil. Then she saw that the end of the cotton was weighted by a small piece of pencil, the kind that is found attached to a dance programme. With this unsatis­factory medium she wrote a reply and pushed it through the window, and after a while she saw it drawn up. Johnny was there – and Johnny knew. She felt strangely comforted by his presence, impotent though he was.

  For half an hour she waited at the window, but now the daylight had come, and evidently Johnny thought it was too dangerous to make any further communications.

  Exhausted, she lay down on the bed, intending to remain awake, but within five minutes she was sleeping heavily. The sound of a key in the lock made her spring to her feet. It was the man she had seen in the early morning; he was carrying a big tray, set with a clumsy cup and saucer, six slices of bread and butter, and an enormous teapot. He put it down on the bed, for want of a table, and without a word went out. She looked at the little platinum watch on her wrist: it was ten o’clock. Half an hour later the man came and took away the tray.

  ‘Where am I?’ she asked.

  ‘You’re in boob,’ he said with quiet amusement. ‘But it is better than any other boob you’ve ever been in, young lady. And don’t try to ask me questions, because you’ll not get a civil answer if you do.’

  At two o’clock came another meal, a little more tastily served this time. It seemed, from the appearance of the plate, that Jeffrey had sent into Oxford for a new service specially for her benefit. Again she attempted to discover what had happened to her father, but with no more satisfactory result.

  The weary day dragged through; every minute seemed an hour, every hour interminable. Darkness had fallen again when the last of the visits was made, and this time it was Jeffrey Legge. At the sight of his face, all her terror turned to wonder. He was ghastly pale, his eyes burnt strangely, and the hand that came up to his lips was trembling as though he were suffering from a fever. ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  ‘I want you,’ he said brokenly. ‘I want you for the life of my father!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she gasped.

  ‘Peter Kane killed my father last night,’ he said.

  ‘You’re mad,’ she gasped. ‘My father is here – you told me.’

  ‘I told you a lie. What does it matter what I told you, anyway? Peter Kane escaped on the way to Keytown, and he went back to the club and killed my father!’

  Chapter 30

  The girl looked at him, speechless.

  ‘It isn’t true!’ she cried.

  ‘It’s not true, isn’t it?’
Jeffrey almost howled the words. He was mad with hate, with grief, with desire for cruel vengeance. ‘I’ll show you whether it’s not true, my lady. You’re my wife – do you under­stand that? If you don’t, you’re going to.’

  He flung out of the cell, turning to voice his foul mind, and then the door clanged on her, and he strode out of the hall into the little house that was once the Governor’s residence, and which was now the general headquarters of the Big Printer.

  He poured himself out a stiff dose of whisky and drank it undiluted, and the man who had accompanied him watched him curiously.

  ‘Jeff, it looks to me as if it’s time to make a get-away. We can’t keep these people here very long. The men are scared, too.’

  ‘Scared, are they?’ sneered Jeffrey Legge. ‘I guess they’d be more scared if they were in front of a judge and jury.’

  ‘That’s the kind of scare they’re anxious to avoid,’ said his lieu­tenant calmly. ‘Anyway, Jeff, we’re getting near the end, and it seems to me that it’s the time for all sensible men to find a little home on the other side of the water.’

  Legge thought for a long time, and when he spoke his voice was more calm.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said. ‘Tell them they can clear tonight.’

  The other man was taken aback by the answer.

  ‘Tonight?’ he said. ‘Well, I don’t know that there’s that hurry.’

  ‘Tell ’em to clear tonight. They’ve got all the money they want. I’m shutting this down.’

  ‘Who killed your father?’

  ‘Peter Kane,’ snarled Legge. ‘I’ve got the full strength of it. The police are hiding him up, but he did the killing all right. They found him on the premises in the morning.’

  He sat awhile, staring moodily at the glass in his hand.

  ‘Let them go tonight,’ he said, ‘every one of them. I’ll tell them myself.’

  ‘Do you want me to go?’ asked the other.

  Legge nodded.