The Casefiles of Mr J. G. Reeder

by Edgar Wallace

  So it happened that he knew all about Mr Harry Carlin long before Lord Sellington sent for him, for Mr Reeder had the gift of evoking confidences by the suggestion rather than the expression of his sympathy.

  She spoke of her husband without bitterness – but also without regret. She knew him – rather well, despite the shortness of their married life. She hinted once, and inadvertently, that there was a rich relation to whose wealth her husband would be heir if he were a normal man. Her son would, in due course, be the possessor of a great title – and penniless. She was at such pains to rectify her state-ment that Mr Reeder, suspicious of peerages that come to Brockley, was assured of her sincerity, however great might be her error. Later he learned that the title was that borne by the Right Honourable the Earl of Sellington and Manford.

  There came a slack time for the Public Prosecutor’s office, when it seemed that sin had gone out of the world; and Mr Reeder sat for a week on end in his little room, twiddling his thumbs or reading the advertisement columns of The Times, or drawing grotesque men upon his blotting-pad, varying these performances with the excurs­ions he was in the habit of making to those parts of London which very few people choose for their recreation. He loved to poke about the slum areas which lie in the neighbourhood of the Great Surrey Docks; he was not averse from frequenting the north side of the river, again in the dock areas; but when his chief asked him whether he spent much time at Limehouse, Mr Reeder replied with a pathetic smile.

  ‘No, sir,’ he said gently, ‘I read about such places – I find them infinitely more interesting in the pages of a – er – novel. Yes, there are Chinese there, and I suppose Chinese are romantic, but even they do not add romance to Limehouse, which is the most respect­able and law-abiding corner of the East End.’

  One morning the Public Prosecutor sent for his chief detective, and Mr Reeder obeyed the summons with a light step and a pleasant sense of anticipation.

  ‘Go over to the Foreign Office and have a talk with Lord Selling­ton,’ said the Prosecutor. ‘He is rather worried about a nephew of his. Harry Carlin. Do you know the name?’

  Mr Reeder shook his head; for the moment he did not associate the pale girl who typed for her living.

  ‘He’s a pretty bad lot,’ explained the Prosecutor, ‘and unfort­un­ately he’s Sellington’s heir. I rather imagine the old gentleman wants you to confirm his view.’

  ‘Dear me!’ said Mr Reeder, and stole forth.

  Lord Sellington, Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, was a bachelor and an immensely rich man. He had been rich in 1912 when, in a panic due to certain legislation which he thought would affect him adversely as a great landowner, he sold his estates and invested the larger bulk of his fortune (against all expert advice) in American industrial stocks. The war had trebled his possessions. Heavy investments in oil lands had made him many times a million­aire. He was a philanthropist, gave liberally to institutions devoted to the care of young children; he was the founder of the Eastleigh Children’s Home, and subscribed liberally to other similar instit­utions. A thin, rather sour-faced man, he glared up under his shaggy eyebrows as Mr Reeder sidled apologetically into his room.

  ‘So you’re Reeder, eh?’ he grumbled, and was evidently not very much impressed by his visitor. ‘Sit down, sit down,’ he said testily, walked to the door as though he were not certain that Mr Reeder had closed it, and came back and flopped into his chair on the other side of the table. ‘I have sent for you in preference to notifying the police,’ he said. ‘Sir James speaks of you, Mr Reeder, as a gentleman of discretion.’

  Mr Reeder bowed slightly, and there followed a long and awkward pause, which the Under-Secretary ended in an abrupt, irritable way.

  ‘I have a nephew – Harry Carlin. Do you know him?’

  ‘I know of him,’ said Mr Reeder truthfully; in his walk to the Foreign Office he had remembered the deserted wife.

  ‘Then you know nothing good of him!’ exploded his lordship. ‘The man is a blackguard, a waster, a disgrace to the name he bears! If he were not my brother’s son I would have him under lock and key tonight – the scoundrel! I have four bills in my possession –’

  He stopped himself, pulled open a drawer savagely, took out a letter and slammed it on the table.

  ‘Read that,’ he snapped.

  Mr Reeder pulled his glasses a little farther up his nose (he always held them very tight when he was really using them) and perused the message. It was headed ‘The Eastleigh Home for Children’, and was a brief request for five thousand pounds, which the writer said he would send for that evening, and was signed ‘Arthur Lassard’.

  ‘You know Lassard, of course?’ said his lordship. ‘He is the gentle­man associated with me in my philanthropic work. Certain monies were due for land which we purchased adjoining the home. As you probably know, there are lawyers who never accept cheques for properties they sell on behalf of their clients, and I had the money ready and left it with my secretary, and one of Lassard’s people was calling for it. That it was called for, I need hardly tell you,’ said his lordship grimly. ‘Whoever planned the coup planned it well. They knew I would be speaking in the House of Lords last night; they also knew that I had recently changed my secretary and had engaged a gentleman to whom most of my associates are strangers. A bearded man came for the money at half-past six, produced a note from Mr Lassard, and that was the end of the money, except that we have discovered that it was changed this morning into American bills. Of course, both letters were forged: Lassard never signed either, and made no demand whatever for the money, which was not needed for another week.’

  ‘Did anybody know about this transaction?’ asked Mr Reeder.

  His lordship nodded slowly.

  ‘My nephew knew. He came to my house two days ago to borrow money. He has a small income from his late mother’s estate, but insufficient to support him in his reckless extravagance. He admitted frankly to me that he had come back from Aix broke. How long he had been in London I am unable to tell you, but he was in my library when my secretary came in with the money which I had drawn from the bank in preparation for paying the bill when it became due. Very foolishly I explained why I had so much cash in the house and why I was unable to oblige him with the thousand pounds which he wanted to borrow,’ he added dourly.

  Mr Reeder scratched his chin.

  ‘What am I to do?’ he asked.

  ‘I want you to find Carlin,’ Lord Sellington almost snarled. ‘But most I want that money back – you understand, Reeder? You’re to tell him that unless he repays –’

  Mr Reeder was gazing steadily at the cornice moulding.

  ‘It almost sounds as if I am being asked to compound a felony, my lord,’ he said respectfully. ‘But I realise, in the peculiar circum­stances, we must adopt peculiar methods. The black-bearded gentle­man who called for the money would appear to have been’ – he hesitated – ‘disguised?’

  ‘Of course he was disguised,’ said the other irritably.

  ‘One reads of such things,’ said Mr Reeder with a sigh, ‘but so seldom does the bearded stranger appear in real life! Will you be good enough to tell me your nephew’s address?’

  Lord Sellington took a card from his pocket and threw it across the table. It fell to the floor, but he did not apologise. He was that kind of man.

  ‘Jermyn Mansions,’ said Mr Reeder as he rose. ‘I will see what can be done.’

  Lord Sellington grunted something which might have been a tender farewell, but probably was not.

  Jermyn Mansions is a very small, narrow-fronted building and, as Mr Reeder knew – and he knew a great deal – was a block of residential flats, which were run by an ex-butler who was also the lessee of the establishment. By great good fortune, as he after­wards learned, Harry Carlin was at home, and in a few minutes the man from the Public Prosecutor’s office was us
hered into a shabby drawing-room that overlooked Jermyn Street.

  A tall young man stood by the window, looking disconsolately into that narrow and lively thoroughfare, and turned as Mr Reeder was announced. Thin-faced, narrow-headed, small-eyed, if he possessed any of the family traits and failings, the most marked was perhaps his too ready irritation.

  Mr Reeder saw, through an open door, a very untidy bedroom, caught a glimpse of a battered trunk covered with Continental labels.

  ‘Well, what the devil do you want?’ demanded Mr Carlin. Yet, in spite of his tone, there was an undercurrent of disquiet which Mr Reeder detected.

  ‘May I sit down?’ said the detective and, without waiting for an invitation, pulled a chair from the wall and sat down gingerly, for he knew the quality of lodging-house chairs.

  His self-possession, the hint of authority he carried in his voice, in-creased Mr Harry Carlin’s uneasiness; and when Mr Reeder plunged straight into the object of his visit, he saw the man go pale.

  ‘It is a difficult subject to open,’ said Mr Reeder, carefully smooth­ing his knees, ‘and when I find myself in that predicament I usually employ the plainest language.’

  And plain language he employed with a vengeance. Half-way through Carlin sat down with a gasp.

  ‘What – what!’ he stammered. ‘Does that old brute dare – ! I thought you came about the bills – I mean –’

  ‘I mean,’ said Mr Reeder carefully, ‘that if you have had a little fun with your relative, I think that jest has gone far enough. Lord Sell­ing­ton is prepared, on the money being refunded, to regard the whole thing as an over-elaborate practical joke on your part –’

  ‘But I haven’t touched his beastly money!’ the young man almost screamed. ‘I don’t want his money –’

  ‘On the contrary, sir,’ said Reeder gently, ‘you want it very badly. You left the Hotel Continental without paying your bill; you owe some six hundred pounds to various gentlemen from whom you borrowed that amount; there is a warrant out for you in France for passing cheques which are usually described by the vulgar as – er – “dud”. Indeed’ – again Mr Reeder scratched his chin and looked thoughtfully out of the window – ‘indeed I know no gentleman in Jermyn Street who is so badly in need of money as your good self.’

  Carlin would have stopped him, but the middle-aged man went on remorselessly.

  ‘I have been for an hour in the Record Department of Scotland Yard, where your name is not unknown, Mr Carlin. You left London rather hurriedly to avoid – er – proceedings of an unpleas­ant char­acter. “Bills”, I think you said? You are known to have been the associate of people with whom the police are a little better acquainted than they are with Mr Carlin. You were also associated with a race-course fraud of a peculiarly unpleasant character. And amongst your minor delinquencies there is – er – a deserted young wife, at present engaged in a City office as typist, and a small boy for whom you have never provided.’

  Carlin licked his dry lips.

  ‘Is that all?’ he asked, with an attempt at a sneer, though his voice shook and his trembling hands betrayed his agitation.

  Reeder nodded.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you something. I want to do the right thing by my wife. I admit I haven’t played square with her, but I’ve never had the money to play square. That old devil has always been rolling in it, curse him! I’m the only relation he has, and what has he done? Left every bean to these damned children’s homes of his! If somebody has caught him for five thousand I’m glad! I shouldn’t have the nerve to do it myself, but I’m glad if they did – whoever they may be. Left every penny to a lot of squalling, sticky-faced brats, and not a bean to me!’

  Mr Reeder let him rave on without interruption, until at last, almost exhausted by his effort, he dropped down into a deep chair and glared at his visitor.

  ‘Tell him that,’ he said breathlessly; ‘tell him that!’

  Mr Reeder made time to call at the little office in Portugal Street wherein was housed the headquarters of Lord Sellington’s various philanthropic enterprises. Mr Arthur Lassard had evidently been in communication with his noble patron, for no sooner did Reeder give his name than he was ushered into the plainly furnished room where the superintendent sat.

  It was not unnatural that Lord Sellington should have as his assist­ant in the good work so famous an organiser as Mr Arthur Lassard. Mr Lassard’s activities in the philanthropic world were many. A broad-shouldered man with a jolly red face and a bald head, he had survived all the attacks which come the way of men engaged in charitable work, and was not particularly impressed by a recent visit he had had from Harry Carlin.

  ‘I don’t wish to be unkind,’ he said, ‘but our friend called here on such a lame excuse that I can’t help feeling that his real object was to secure a sheet of my stationery. I did, in fact, leave him in the room for a few minutes, and he had the opportunity to purloin the paper if he desired.’

  ‘What was his excuse?’ asked Mr Reeder, and the other shrugged.

  ‘He wanted money. At first he was civil and asked me to persuade his uncle; then he grew abusive, said that I was conspiring to rob him – I and my “infernal charities”!’

  He chuckled, but grew grave again.

  ‘The situation is mysterious to me,’ he said. ‘Evidently Carlin has committed some crime against his lordship, for he is terrified of him!’

  ‘You think Mr Carlin forged your name and secured the money?’

  The superintendent spread out his arms in despair.

  ‘Who else can I suspect?’ he asked.

  Mr Reeder took the forged letter from his pocket and read it again.

  ‘I’ve just been on the phone to his lordship,’ Mr Lassard went on. ‘He is waiting, of course, to hear your report, and if you have failed to make this young man confess his guilt, Lord Sellington intends seeing his nephew tonight and making an appeal to him. I can hardly believe that Mr Carlin could have done this wicked thing, though the circum­stances seem very suspicious. Have you seen him, Mr Reeder?’

  ‘I have seen him,’ said Mr Reeder shortly. ‘Oh, yes, I have seen him!’

  Mr Arthur Lassard was scrutinising his face as though he were trying to read the conclusion which the detective had reached, but Mr Reeder’s face was notoriously expressionless.

  He offered a limp hand and went back to the Under-Secretary’s house. The interview was short and on the whole disagreeable.

  ‘I never dreamt he would confess to you,’ said Lord Sellington with ill-disguised contempt. ‘Harry needs somebody to frighten him, and, my God! I’m the man to do it! I’m seeing him tonight.’

  A fit of coughing stopped him and he gulped savagely from a little medicine bottle that stood on his desk.

  ‘I’ll see him tonight,’ he gasped, ‘and I’ll tell him what I intend doing! I’ve spared him hitherto because of his relationship and because he inherits the title. But I’m through. Every cent I have goes to charity. I’m good for twenty years yet, but every penny –’

  He stopped. He was a man who never disguised his emotion, and Mr Reeder, who understood men, saw the struggle that was going on in Sellington’s mind.

  ‘He says he hasn’t had a chance. I may have treated him unfairly – we shall see.’ He waved the detective from his office as though he were dismissing a strange dog that had intruded upon his privacy, and Mr Reeder went out reluctantly, for he had something to tell his lordship.

  It was peculiar to him that, in his more secretive moments, he sought the privacy of his old-fashioned study in Brockley Road. For two hours he sat at his desk calling a succession of numbers – and curiously enough, the gentlemen to whom he spoke were book­makers. Most of them he knew. In the days when he was the greatest expert in the world on forged currency notes, he had been brought into contact with a class which is often the innoc
ent medium by which the forger distributed his handicraft – and more often the instrument of his detection.

  It was a Friday, a day on which most of the principals were in their offices till a late hour. At eight o’clock he finished, wrote a note and, phoning for a messenger, sent his letter on its fateful errand.

  He spent the rest of the evening musing on past experiences and in refreshing his memory from the thin scrap-books which filled two shelves in his study.

  What happened elsewhere that evening can best be told in the plain language of the witness-box. Lord Sellington had gone home after his interview with Mr Reeder suffering from a feverish cold, and was disposed, according to the evidence of his secretary, to put off the interview which he had arranged with his nephew. A tele­phone message had been sent through to Mr Carlin’s hotel, but he was out. Until nine o’clock his lordship was busy with the affairs of his num­erous charities, Mr Lassard being in attendance. Lord Sellington was working in a small study which opened from his bedroom.

  At a quarter-past nine Carlin arrived and was shown upstairs by the butler, who subsequently stated that he heard voices raised in anger. Mr Carlin came downstairs and was shown out as the clock struck half-past nine, and a few minutes later the bell rang for Lord Sellington’s valet, who went up to assist his master to bed.

  At half-past seven the next morning, the valet, who slept in an adjoining apartment, went into his master’s room to take him a cup of tea. He found his employer lying face downward on the floor; he was dead, and had been dead for some hours. There was no sign of wounds, and at first glance it looked as though this man of sixty had collapsed in the night. But there were circumstances which pointed to some unusual happening. In Lord Sellington’s bedroom was a small steel wall-safe, and the first thing the valet noticed was that this was open, papers were lying on the floor, and that in the grate was a heap of paper which, except for one corner, was entirely burnt.