The Casefiles of Mr J. G. Reeder

by Edgar Wallace

  ‘I have said nothing to this young lady that a gentleman shouldn’t.’

  Mr Reeder peered at Ravini.

  ‘If you have,’ he said, ‘you may expect to see me some time this evening – and I shall not come alone. In fact’ – this in a most confidential tone – ‘I shall bring sufficient strong men with me to take from you the keys of your box in the Fetter Lane Safe Deposit.’

  That was all he said, and Ravini reeled under the threat. Before he had quite recovered, Mr J. G. Reeder and his charge had disappeared into the throng.

  Chapter 3

  ‘An interesting man,’ said Mr Reeder as the cab crossed Westminster Bridge. ‘He is in fact the most interesting man I know at this partic­ular moment. It was fate that I should walk into him as I did. But I wish he wouldn’t wear diamond rings!’

  He stole a sidelong glance at his companion. ‘Well, did you – um – like the place?’

  ‘It is very beautiful,’ she said, without enthusiasm, ‘but it is rather far away from London.’

  His face fell.

  ‘Have you declined the post?’ he asked anxiously.

  She half turned in the seat and looked at him. ‘Mr Reeder, I honestly believe you wish to see the back of me!’

  To her surprise Mr Reeder went very red. ‘Why – um – of course I do – I don’t, I mean. But it seems a very good position, even as a temporary position.’ He blinked at her. ‘I shall miss you, I really shall miss you, Miss – um – Margaret. We have become such’ – here he swallowed something – ‘good friends, but the – a certain business is on my mind – I mean, I am rather perturbed.’

  He looked from one window to the other as though he suspected an eavesdropper riding on the step of the cab, and then, lowering his voice –

  ‘I have never discussed with you, my dear Miss – um – Margaret, the rather unpleasant details of my trade; but there is, or was, a gentleman named Flack – F-l-a-c-k,’ he spelt it. ‘You remember?’ he asked anxiously, and when she shook her head: ‘I hoped that you would. One reads about these things in the public press. But five years ago you would have been a child –’

  ‘You’re very flattering,’ she smiled. ‘I was in fact a grown-up young lady of eighteen.’

  ‘Were you really?’ asked Mr Reeder in a hushed voice. ‘You sur­prise me! Well . . . Mr Flack was the kind of person one so frequently reads about in the pages of the sensational novelist – who has not too keen a regard for the probabilities and facts of life. A master criminal, the organiser of – um – a confederation, or, as vulgar people would call it, gang.’

  He sighed and closed his eyes, and she thought for one moment he was praying for the iniquitous criminal.

  ‘A brilliant criminal – it is a terrible thing to confess, but I have a reluctant admiration for him. You see, as I have so often explained to you, I am cursed with a criminal mind. But he was mad.’

  ‘All criminals are mad: you have explained that so often,’ she said, a little tartly, for she was not anxious that the conversation should drift from her immediate affairs.

  ‘But he was really mad,’ said Mr Reeder with great earnestness, and tapped his forehead deliberately. ‘His very madness was his salvation. He did daring things, but with the cunning of a madman. He shot down two policemen in cold blood – he did this at midday in a crowded City street and got away. We caught him at last, of course. People like that are always caught in this country. I – um – assisted. In fact, I – well, I assisted! That is why I am thinking of our friend Georgio; for it was Mr Ravini who betrayed him to us for two thousand pounds. I negotiated the deal, Mr Ravini being a criminal . . .’

  She stared at him open-mouthed.

  ‘That Italian man? You don’t mean that?’

  Mr Reeder nodded. ‘Mr Ravini had dealings with the Flack gang, and by chance learnt of Old John’s whereabouts. We took old John Flack in his sleep.’ Mr Reeder sighed again. ‘He said some very bitter things about me. People, when they are arrested, frequently exagger­ate the shortcomings of their – er – captors.’

  ‘Was he tried?’ she asked.

  ‘He was tried,’ said Mr Reeder, ‘on a charge of murder. But, of course, he was mad. “Guilty but insane” was the verdict, and he was sent to Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum.’

  He searched feebly in his pockets, produced a very limp packet of cigarettes, extracted one and asked permission to smoke. She watched the damp squib of a thing drooping pathetically from his lower lip. His eyes were staring sombrely through the window at the green of the park through which they were passing, and he seemed entirely absorbed in his contemplation of nature.

  ‘But what has that to do with my going into the country?’

  Mr Reeder brought his eyes round to survey her.

  ‘Mr Flack was a very vindictive man,’ he said. ‘A very brilliant man – I hate confessing this. And he has – um – a particular grudge against me, and being what he is, it would not be long before he discovered that I – er – I – am rather attached to you, Miss – Margaret.’

  A light dawned on her, and her whole attitude towards him changed as she gripped his arm. ‘You mean, you want me out of London in case something happens? But what could happen? He’s in Broadmoor, isn’t he?’

  Mr Reeder scratched his chin and looked up at the roof of the cab.

  ‘He escaped a week ago – hum! He is, I think, in London at this moment.’

  Margaret Belman gasped.

  ‘Does this Italian – this Ravini man – know?’

  ‘He does not know,’ said Mr Reeder carefully, ‘but I think he will learn – yes, I think he will learn.’

  A week later, after Margaret Belman had gone, with some mis­givings, to take up her new appointment, all Mr Reeder’s doubts as to the location of John Flack were dissipated.

  * * *

  There was some slight disagreement between Margaret Belman and Mr Reeder, and it happened at lunch on the day she left London. It started in fun – not that Mr Reeder was ever kittenish – by a certain suggestion she made. Mr Reeder demurred. How she ever sum­moned the courage to tell him he was old-fashioned, Margaret never knew – but she did.

  ‘Of course, you could shave them off,’ she said scornfully. ‘It would make you look ten years younger.’

  ‘I don’t think, my dear – Miss – um – Margaret, that I wish to look ten years younger,’ said Mr Reeder.

  A certain tenseness followed, and she went down to Siltbury feeling a little uncomfortable. Yet her heart warmed to him as she realised that his anxiety to get her out of London was dictated by a desire for her own safety. It was not until she was nearing her destination that she realised that he himself was in no ordinary danger. She must write and tell him she was sorry. She wondered who the Flacks were; the name was familiar to her, though in the days of their activity she gave little or no attention to people of their kind.

  Mr Daver, looking more impish than ever, gave her a brief inter­view on her arrival. It was he who took her to her bureau and very briefly explained her duties. They were neither heavy nor complic­ated, and she was relieved to discover that she had practically nothing whatever to do with the management of Larmes Keep, That was in the efficient hands of Mrs Burton.

  The staff of the hotel were housed in two cottages about a quarter of a mile from the Keep, only Mrs Burton living on the premises.

  ‘This keeps us more select,’ said Mr Daver. ‘Servants are an abom­inable nuisance. You agree with me? I thought you would. If they are needed in the night, both cottages have telephones, and Grainger, the porter, has a pass-key to the outer door. That is an excellent arrangement, of which you approve? I am sure you do.’

  Conversation with Mr Daver was a little superfluous. He supplied his own answers to all questions.

  He was leaving the bureau when she
remembered his great study.

  ‘Mr Daver, do you know anything about the Flacks?’

  He frowned.

  ‘Flax? Let me see, what is flax –’

  She spelt the name.

  ‘A friend of mine told me about them the other day,’ she said. ‘I thought you would know the name. They are a gang of criminals –’

  ‘Flack! To be sure, to be sure! Dear me, how very interesting! Are you also a criminologist? John Flack, George Flack, Augustus Flack’ – he spoke rapidly, ticking them off on his long, tobacco-stained fingers. ‘John Flack is in a criminal lunatic asylum; his two brothers escaped to the Argentine. Terrible fellows, terrible, terrible fellows! What a marvellous institution is our police force! How wonderful is Scotland Yard! You agree with me? I was sure you would. Flack!’ He frowned and shook his head ‘I thought of dealing with these people in a short monograph, but my data are not complete. Do you know them?’

  She shook her head smilingly.

  ‘No, I haven’t that advantage.’

  ‘Terrible creatures,’ said Mr Daver. ‘Amazing creatures. Who is your friend, Miss Belman? I would like to meet him. Perhaps he could tell me something more about them.’

  Margaret received the suggestion with dismay.

  ‘Oh, no, you’re not likely to meet him,’ she said hurriedly, ‘and I don’t think he would talk even if you met him – perhaps it was indiscreet of me to mention him at all.’

  The conversation must have weighed on Mr Daver’s mind, for just as she was leaving her office that night for her room, a very tired girl, he knocked at the door, opened it at her invitation and stood in the doorway.

  ‘I have been going into the records of the Flacks,’ he said, ‘and it is surprising how little information there is. I have a newspaper cutting which says that John Flack is dead. He was the man who went into Broadmoor. Is he dead?’

  Margaret shook her head.

  ‘I couldn’t tell you,’ she replied untruthfully. ‘I only heard a casual reference to him.’

  Mr Daver scratched his round chin.

  ‘I thought possibly somebody might have told you a few facts which you, so to speak – a laywoman!’ – he giggled – ‘might have regarded as unimportant, but which I –’

  He hesitated expectantly.

  ‘That is all I know, Mr Daver,’ said Margaret.

  She slept soundly that night, the distant hush-hush of the waves as they rolled up the long beach of Siltbury Bay lulling her to dreamless slumber.

  Her duties did not begin till after breakfast, which she had in her bureau, and the largest part was the checking of the accounts. Appar­ently Mrs Burton attended to that side of the management, and it was only at the month’s end, when cheques were to be drawn, that her work was likely to be heavy. In the main her day was taken up with correspondence. There were some hundred and forty applic­ants for her post who had to be answered; there were in addition a number of letters from people who desired accommodation at Larmes Keep. All these had to be taken to Mr Daver, and it was remarkable how fastidious a man he was. For example –

  ‘The Reverend John Quinton? No, no; we have one parson in the house, that is enough. Tell him we are very sorry, but we are full up. Mrs Bagley wishes to bring her daughter? Certainly not! I cannot have children distracting me with their noise. You agree? I see you do. Who is this woman . . . ‘coming for a rest cure’? That means she’s ill. I cannot have Larmes Keep turned into a sanat­orium. You may tell them that there will be no accommodation until after Christmas. After Christmas they can all come – I am going abroad.’

  The evenings were her own. She could, if she desired, go into Siltbury, which boasted two cinemas and a pierrot party, and Mr Daver put the hotel car at her disposal for the purpose. She pre­ferred, however, to wander through the grounds. The estate was a much larger one than she had supposed. Behind, to the south of the house, it extended for half a mile, the boundary to the east being represented by the cliffs, along which a breast-high rubble wall had been built, and with excellent reason, for here the cliff fell sheer two hundred feet to the rocks below. At one place there had been a little landslide, the wall had been carried away and the gap had been temporarily filled by a wooden fence. Some attempt had been made to create a nine-hole golf course, she saw as she wandered round, but evidently Mr Daver had grown tired of this enterprise, for the greens were knee-deep in waving grasses.

  At the south-west corner of the house, and distant a hundred yards, was a big clump of rhododendrons, and this she explored, following a twisting path that led to the heart of the bushes. Quite unexpectedly she came upon an old well. The brickwork about it was in ruins; the well itself was boarded in. On the weather-beaten roof-piece above the windlass was a small wooden notice-board, evidently fixed for the enlightenment of visitors.

  This well was used from 935 to 1794. It was filled in by the present owners of the property in May, 1914, one hundred and thirty-five cartloads of rock and gravel being used for the purpose.

  It was a pleasant occupation, standing by that ancient well and picturing the collar serfs and bare-footed peasants who through the ages had stood where she was standing. As she came out of the bushes she saw the pale-faced Olga Crewe.

  Margaret had not spoken either to the colonel or to the clergyman; either she had avoided them, or they her. Olga Crewe she had not seen, and now she would have turned away, but the girl moved across to intercept her.

  ‘You are the new secretary, aren’t you?’

  Her voice was musical, rather alluring. ‘Custardy’ was Margaret’s mental classification.

  ‘Yes, I’m Miss Belman.’

  The girl nodded. ‘My name you know, I suppose? Are you going to be terribly bored here?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ smiled Margaret. ‘It is a beautiful spot.’

  The eyes of Olga Crewe surveyed the scene critically.

  ‘I suppose it is: very beautiful, yes, but one gets very tired of beauty after a few years.’

  Margaret listened in astonishment.

  ‘Have you been here so long?’

  ‘I’ve practically lived here since I was a child. I thought Joe would have told you that: he’s an inveterate old gossip.’

  ‘Joe?’ She was puzzled.

  ‘The cab-driver, news-gatherer, and distributor.’

  She looked at Larmes Keep and frowned.

  ‘Do you know what they used to call this place, Miss Belman? The House of Tears – the Château des Larmes.’

  ‘Why ever?’ asked Margaret.

  Olga Crewe shrugged her pretty shoulders.

  ‘Some sort of tradition, I suppose, that goes back to the days of the Baron Augernvert, who built it. The locals have corrupted the name to Larmes Keep. You ought to see the dungeons.’

  ‘Are there dungeons?’ asked Margaret in surprise, and Olga nodded. For the first time she seemed amused.

  ‘If you saw them and the chains and the rings in the walls and the stone floors worn thin by bare feet, you might guess how its name arose.’

  Margaret stared back towards the Keep. The sun was setting behind it, and silhouetted as it was against the red light there was something ominous and sinister in that dark, squat pile.

  ‘How very unpleasant!’ she said, and shivered.

  Olga Crewe laughed.

  ‘Have you seen the cliffs?’ she said, and led the way back to the long wall, and for a quarter of an hour they stood, their arms resting on the parapet, looking down into the gloom.

  ‘You ought to get someone to row you round the face of the cliff. It’s simply honeycombed with caves,’ she said. ‘There’s one at the water’s edge that tunnels under the Keep. When the tides are unus­u­ally high they are flooded. I wonder Daver doesn’t write a book about it.’

  There was just the fain
test hint of a sneer in her tone, but it did not escape Margaret’s attention.

  ‘That must be the entrance,’ she said, pointing down to a swirl of water that seemed to run right up to the face of the cliff.

  Olga nodded.

  ‘At high tide you wouldn’t notice that,’ she said, and then, turning abruptly, she asked the girl if she had seen the bathing-pool.

  This was an oblong bath, sheltered by high box hedges and lined throughout with blue tiles; a delightfully inviting plunge.

  ‘Nobody uses it but myself. Daver would die at the thought of jumping in.’

  Whenever she referred to Mr Daver if was in a scarcely veiled tone of contempt. She was not more charitable when she referred to other guests. As they were nearing the house Olga said, apropos of nothing –

  ‘I shouldn’t talk too much to Daver if I were you. Let him do the talking: he likes it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Margaret quietly; but at that moment Olga left her side without any word of farewell and went towards the colonel, who was standing, a cigar between his teeth, watching their approach.

  The House of Tears!

  Margaret remembered the title as she was undressing that night, and, despite her self-possession, shivered a little.

  Chapter 4

  The policeman who stood on the corner where Bennett Street meets Hyde Lane had the world to himself. It was nearing three o’clock on a sultry spring morning, airless, unpleasantly warm. Somewhere in South London there was a thunderstorm; the hollow echoes of it came at odd intervals. The good and bad of Mayfair slept – all, apparently, except Mr J. G. Reeder, Friend of the Law and Terror of Criminals. Police-Officer Dyer saw the yellow light behind the casemented window and smiled bene­vol­ently.

  It was so still a night that when he heard a key turn in a lock he looked over his shoulder, thinking the noise was from the house immediately behind him. But the door did not move. Instead he saw a woman appear on the top doorstep five houses away. She wore a flimsy negligée.