The Casefiles of Mr J. G. Reeder

by Edgar Wallace

  The taxi did not take him to Siltbury. Instead, he followed a road which ran parallel to the sea coast, and which eventually landed him in an impossible sandy track, from which the ancient taxi was extric­ated with some difficulty.

  ‘I told you this led nowhere, sir,’ said the aggrieved driver.

  ‘Then we have evidently reached our destination,’ replied Mr Reeder, applying his weight to push the machine to a more solid foundation.

  Siltbury was not greatly favoured by London visitors, the driver told him on the way back. The town had a pebbly beach, and people preferred sand.

  ‘There are some wonderful beaches about here,’ said the driver, ‘but you can’t reach ’em.’

  They had taken the left-hand road, which would bring them event­ually to the town and had been driving for a quarter of an hour when Mr Reeder, who sat by the driver, pointed to a large scar in the face of the down on his right.

  ‘Siltbury quarries,’ explained the cabman. ‘They’re not worked now: there are too many holes.’

  ‘Holes?’

  ‘The downs are like a sponge,’ said the man. ‘You could lose your-self in the caves. Old Mr Kimpon used to work the quarries many years ago, and it broke him. There’s a big cave there you can drive a coach-and-four into! About twenty years ago three fellows went in to explore the caves and never come out again.’

  ‘Who owns the quarry now?’

  Mr Reeder wasn’t very interested, but when his mind was occupied with a pressing problem he had a trick of flogging along a convers­ation with appropriate questions, and if he was oblivious of the answers they produced, the sound of the human voice had a sedative effect.

  ‘Mr Daver owns it now. He bought it after the people were lost in the caves, and had the entrance boarded up. You’ll see it in a minute.’

  They were climbing a gentle slope. As they came to the crest he pointed down a tidy-looking roadway to where, about two hundred yards distant, Reeder saw an oblong gap in the white face of the quarry. Across this, and filling the cavity except for an irregular space at the top, was a heavy wooden gate.

  ‘You can’t see it from here,’ said the driver, ‘but the top hole is blocked with barbed wire.’

  ‘Is that a gate or a hoarding he has fixed across?’

  ‘A gate, sir. Mr Daver owns all the land from here to the sea. He used to farm about a hundred acres of the downs, but it’s very poor land. In those days he kept his wagons inside the cave.’

  ‘When did he give up farming?’ asked Mr Reeder, interested.

  ‘About six years ago,’ was the reply, and it was exactly the reply Mr Reeder had expected. ‘I used to see a lot of Mr Daver before then,’ said the driver. ‘In the old times I had a horse cab, and I was always driving him about. He used to work like a galley slave – on the farm in the morning, down in the town buying things in the afternoon. He was more like a servant than a master. He used to meet all the trains when visitors arrived – and they had a lot of visitors in those days, more than they have now. Sometimes he went up to London to bring them down – he always went to meet Miss Crewe when the young lady was at school.’

  ‘Do you know Miss Crewe?’

  Apparently the driver had seen her frequently, but his acquaint­ance with her was very limited.

  Reeder got down from the cab and climbed the barred gate on to the private roadway. The soil was chalky and the road had the appearance of having been recently overhauled. He mentioned this fact to the cabman, and learnt that Mr Daver kept two old men constantly at work making up the road, though why he should do so he had no idea.

  ‘Where would you like to go now, sir?’

  ‘To a quiet place where I can telephone,’ said Mr Reeder.

  These are the facts that he carried with him, and vital facts they were. During the past six years the life of Mr Daver had undergone a considerable change. From being a harassed man of affairs, ‘more like a servant than a master’, he had become a gentleman of leisure. The mystery of the Keep was a mystery no longer. He got Inspector Simp-son on the telephone and conveyed to him the gist of his discovery.

  ‘By the way,’ said Simpson at the finish, ‘the gold hasn’t been sent to Australia yet. There has been trouble in the docks. You don’t seriously anticipate a Flack “operation”, do you?’

  Mr Reeder, who had forgotten all about the gold convoy, made a cautious and noncommittal reply.

  By the time he returned to Larmes Keep the other guests had returned. The hall porter said they were expecting a ‘party’ on the morrow, but as he had volunteered that information on the previous evening, Mr Reeder did not take it very seriously. He gathered the man spoke in good faith, without any wish to deceive, but he saw no signs of unusual activity; nor, indeed, was there accommodation at the Keep for more than a few more visitors.

  He looked round for the aggrieved servant and missed her. A discreet enquiry revealed the fact that she had left that afternoon.

  Mr Reeder went to his room, locked the door, and busied himself in the examination of two great scrap-books which he had brought down with him. They were the official records of Flack and his gang. Perhaps ‘gang’ was hardly a proper description, for he seemed to use and change his associates as a theatrical manager uses and changes his cast. The police knew close on a score of men who from time to time had assisted John Flack in his nefarious transactions. Some had gone to prison, and had spent the hours of their recovered liberty in a vain endeavour to re-establish touch with so generous a paymaster. Some, known to be in his employ, had vanished, and were generally supposed to be living in luxury abroad.

  Reeder went through the book, which was full of essential facts, and jotted down the amounts which this strange man had acquired in the course of twenty years’ depredations. The total was a staggering one. Flack had worked feverishly, and though he had paid well he had spent little. Somewhere in England was an enormous reserve. And that somewhere, Mr Reeder guessed, was very close to his hand.

  For what had John Flack worked? To what end was this accum­ulation of money? Was the sheer greed of the miser behind his thefts? Was he working aimlessly, as a madman works, towards some visionary objective? Flack’s greed was proverbial. Nothing satisfied him. The robbery of the Leadenhall Bank had been followed a week later by an attack upon the London Trust Syndicate, carried out, the police discovered, by an entirely new confederation, gathered within a few days of the robbery and yet so perfectly rehearsed that the plan was carried through without a hitch.

  Mr Reeder locked away his books and went downstairs in search of Margaret Belman. The crisis was very near at hand, and it was necessary for his peace of mind that the girl should leave Larmes Keep without delay.

  He was half-way down the stairs when he met Daver coming up, and at that moment he received an inspiration.

  ‘You are the very gentleman I wished to meet,’ he said. ‘I wonder if you would do me a great favour?’

  Daver’s careworn face wreathed in smiles.

  ‘My dear Mr Reeder,’ he said enthusiastically, ‘do you a favour? Command me!’

  ‘I have been thinking about last night and my extraordinary exper­i­ence,’ said Mr Reeder.

  ‘You mean the burglar?’ interrupted the other quickly.

  ‘The burglar,’ agreed Mr Reeder. ‘He was an alarming person, and I am not disposed to let the matter rest where it is. Fortunately for me, I have found a finger-print on the panel of my door.’

  He saw Daver’s face change.

  ‘When I say I have found a finger-print, I have found something which has the appearance of a finger-print, and I can only be sure if I examine it by means of a dactyloscope. Unfortunately, I did not imagine that I should have need for such an instrument, and I am wondering if you could send somebody to London to bring it down for me?’

  ‘With all the
pleasure in life,’ said Daver, though his tone lacked heartiness. ‘One of the men –’

  ‘I was thinking of Miss Belman,’ interrupted J. G. Reeder, ‘who is a friend of mine and would, moreover, take the greatest possible care of that delicate piece of mechanism.’

  Daver was silent for a moment, turning this over in his mind. ‘Would it not be better if a man . . . and the last train down –’

  ‘She could come down by car: I can arrange that.’ Mr Reeder fumbled his chin. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I brought down a couple of men from the Yard.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Daver quickly. ‘You can send Miss Belman. I haven’t the slightest objection. I will tell her.’

  Mr Reeder looked at his watch. ‘The next train is at eight thirty-five, and that is the last train, I think. The young lady will be able to get her dinner before she starts.’

  It was he who brought the news to the astonished Margaret Belman.

  ‘Of course I’ll go up to town; but don’t you think somebody else could get this instrument for you, Mr Reeder? Couldn’t you have it sent down –’

  She saw the look in his eyes and stopped.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked in a lower voice.

  ‘Will you do this for – um – me, Miss – um – Margaret?’ said Mr Reeder, almost humbly.

  He went to the lounge and scribbled a note, while Margaret tele­phoned for the cab. It was growing dark when the taxi drew up before the hotel and, J. G. Reeder, who accompanied her, opened the door.

  ‘There’s a man inside,’ he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘Please don’t scream: he’s an officer of police, and he’s going with you to London.’

  ‘But – but –’ she stammered.

  ‘And you’ll stay in London tonight,’ said Mr Reeder. ‘I will join you in the morning – I hope.’

  Chapter 12

  Mr Reeder was in his room, laying out his moderate toilet require­ments on the dressing-table, and meditating upon the waste of time involved in conforming to fashion – for he had dressed for dinner – when there came a tap at the door. He paused, a well-worn hairbrush in his hand, and looked round.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, and added: ‘if you please.’

  The little head of Mr Daver appeared round the opening of the door, anxiety and apology in every line of his peculiar face.

  ‘Am I interrupting you?’ he asked; ‘I am terribly sorry to bother you at all, but Miss Belman being away, you quite understand? I’m sure you do . . .’

  Mr Reeder was courtesy itself.

  ‘Come in, come in, sir,’ he said. ‘I was merely preparing for the night. I am a very tired man, and the sea air –’

  He saw the face of the proprietor fall.

  ‘Then, Mr Reeder, I have come upon a useless errand. The truth is’ – he slipped inside the door, closed it carefully behind him, as though he had an important statement to make which he did not wish to be overheard – ‘my three guests are anxious to play bridge, and they deputed me to ask if you would care to join them?’

  ‘With every pleasure in life,’ said Mr Reeder graciously. ‘I am an indifferent player, but if they will bear with me, I will be down in a few minutes.’

  Mr Daver withdrew, babbling his gratitude and apologies. The door was hardly closed upon him before Mr Reeder crossed the room and locked it. Stooping, he opened one of the trunks, took out a long, flexible rope ladder, and dropped it through the open window into the darkness below, fastening one end to the leg of the four-poster. Leaning out of the window, he said something in a low voice, and braced himself against the bed to support the weight of the man who came nimbly up the ladder into the room. This done, he replaced the rope ladder in his trunk, locked it, and, walking to a corner of the room, pulled at one of the solid panels. It hinged open and revealed the deep cupboard which Mr Daver had shown him.

  ‘That is as good a place as any, Brill,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I must leave you for two hours, but I have an idea that nobody will disturb you there. I am leaving the lamp burning, which will give you enough light.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said the man from Scotland Yard, and took up his post.

  Five minutes later Mr Reeder locked the door of his room and went downstairs to the waiting party.

  They were in the big hall, a very silent and preoccupied trio, until his arrival galvanised them into something that might pass for light conversation. There was, indeed, a fourth present when he came in: a sallow-faced woman in black, who melted out of the hall at his approach, and he guessed her to be the melancholy Mrs Burton. The two men rose at his approach, and after the usual self-deprecatory exchange which proceeded the cutting for part­ners, Mr Reeder found himself sitting opposite the military-looking Colonel Hoth­ling. On his left was the pale girl; on his right the hard-faced Rev. Mr Dean.

  ‘What do we play for?’ growled the Colonel, caressing his mous­tache, his steely blue eyes fixed on Mr Reeder.

  ‘A modest stake, I hope,’ begged that gentleman. ‘I am such an indifferent player.’

  ‘I suggest sixpence a hundred,’ said the clergyman. ‘It is as much as a poor parson can afford.’

  ‘Or a poor pensioner either,’ grumbled the Colonel, and sixpence a hundred was agreed.

  They played two games in comparative silence. Reeder was sens­itive of a strained atmosphere, but did nothing to relieve it. His partner was surprisingly nervous for one who, as he remarked casu­ally, had spent his life in military service.

  ‘A wonderful life,’ said Mr Reeder in his affable way. Once or twice he detected the girl’s hand, as she held the cards, tremble ever so slightly. Only the clergyman remained still and unmoved, and, incid­entally, played without error.

  It was after an atrocious revoke on the part of his partner, a revoke which gave his opponents the game and rubber, that Mr Reeder pushed back his chair.

  ‘What a strange world this is!’ he remarked sententiously. ‘How like a game of cards!’

  Those who were best acquainted with Mr Reeder knew that he was most dangerous when he was most philosophical. The three people who sat about the table heard only a boring commonplace, in keeping with their conception of this somewhat dull-looking man.

  ‘There are some people,’ mused Mr Reeder, looking up at the lofty ceiling, ‘who are never happy unless they have all the aces. I, on the contrary, am most cheerful when I have in my hand all the knaves.’

  ‘You play a very good game, Mr Reeder.’

  It was the girl who spoke, and her voice was husky, her tone hesitant, as though she were forcing herself to speak.

  ‘I play one or two games rather well,’ said Mr Reeder. ‘Partly, I think, because I have such an extraordinary memory – I never forget knaves.’

  There was a silence. This time the reference was too direct to be mistaken.

  ‘There used to be in my younger days,’ Mr Reeder went on, addressing nobody in particular, ‘a Knave of Hearts, who eventually became a Knave of Clubs, and drifted down into heaven knows what other welters of knavery! In plain words, he started his professional – um – life as a bigamist, continued his interesting and romantic career as a tout for gambling hells, and was concerned in a bank robbery in Denver. I have not seen him for years, but he is colloquially known to his associates as “The Colonel”; a military-looking gentleman with a pleasing appearance and a glib tongue.’

  He was not looking at the Colonel as he spoke, so he did not see the man’s face go pale.

  ‘I have not met him since he grew a moustache, but I could recognise him anywhere by the peculiar colour of his eyes and by the fact that he has a scar at the back of his head, a souvenir of some unfortunate fracas in which he was engaged. They tell me that he became an expert user of knives – I gather he sojourned a while in Latin America – a knave of clubs and a knave of hearts
– hum!’

  The Colonel sat rigid, not a muscle of his face moving.

  ‘One supposes,’ Mr Reeder continued, looking at the girl thought­fully, ‘that he has by this time acquired a competence which enables him to stay at the very best hotels without any fear of police super­vision.’

  Her dark eyes were fixed unwaveringly on his. The full lips were closed, the jaws set.

  ‘How very interesting you are, Mr Reeder!’ she drawled at last. ‘Mr Daver tells me you are associated with the police force?’

  ‘Remotely, only remotely,’ said Mr Reeder.

  ‘Are you acquainted with any other knaves, Mr Reeder?’

  It was the cool voice of the clergyman, and Mr Reeder beamed round at him.

  ‘With the Knave of Diamonds,’ he said softly. ‘What a singularly appropriate name for one who spent five years in the profitable pursuit of illicit diamond-buying in South Africa, and five unprofit­able years on the Breakwater in Capetown, becoming, as one might say, a knave of spades from the continuous use of that necessary and agricultural implement, and a knave of pickaxes too, one supposes! He was flogged, if I remember rightly, for an outrageous assault upon a warder, and on his release from prison was implicated in a robbery in Johannesburg. I am relying on my memory, and I cannot recall at the moment whether he reached Pretoria Central – which is the colloquial name for the Transvaal prison – or whether he escaped. I seem to remember that he was concerned in a banknote case which I once had in hand. Now what was his name?’

  He looked thoughtfully at the clergyman.

  ‘Gregory Dones! That is it – Mr Gregory Dones! It is beginning to come back to me now. He had an angel tattooed on his left forearm, a piece of decoration which one would have imagined sufficient to keep him to the narrow paths of virtue, and even to bring him eventually within the fold of the church.’

  The Rev. Mr Dean got up from the table, put his hand in his pocket and took out some money.