The Casefiles of Mr J. G. Reeder

by Edgar Wallace

  ‘And what had you to tell him?’ asked Mr Reeder. She did not answer immediately, and he repeated the question.

  ‘That my father had decided to kill him –’

  Mr Reeder’s eyes almost closed.

  ‘Are you telling me the truth, Olga?’ he asked gently, and she went red and white. ‘I am not a good liar, am I?’ Her tone was almost defiant. ‘Now, I’ll tell you. I met Ravini when I was little more than a child. He meant . . . a tremendous lot to me, and I don’t think I meant very much to him. He used to come down to see me in the country where I was at school . . .’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  She could only nod her head. Her lips were quivering.

  ‘That is the truth,’ she said at last. ‘The horror of it was that he did not recognise me when he came to Larmes Keep. I had passed completely from his mind, until I revealed myself in the garden that night.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ asked Mr Reeder for the second time.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They struck him down outside my room . . . I don’t know what they did with him. They put him through the safe, I think.’ She shuddered.

  J. G. Reeder patted her hand.

  ‘You have your memories, my child,’ he said to the weeping girl, ‘and your letters.’

  It occurred to him after Olga had gone that Ravini must have written rather interesting letters.

  Chapter 21

  Miss Margaret Belman decided to take a holiday in the only pleasure resort that seemed worth while or endurable. She conveyed this intention to Mr Reeder by letter.

  There are only two places in the world where I can feel happy and safe. [she said] One place is London and the other New York, where a policeman is to be found at every corner, and all the amusements of a country life are to be had in an intensified form. So, if you please, can you spare the time to come with me to the theatres I have written down on the back of this sheet, to the National Gallery, the British Museum, the Tower of London (no, on consideration I do not think I should like to include the Tower of London: it is too mediaeval and ghostly), to Kensington Gardens and similar centres of hectic gaiety. Seriously, dear J. G. (the familiarity will make you wince, but I have cast aside all shame), I want to be one of a large, sane mass – I am tired of being an isolated, hysterical woman.

  There was much more in the same strain. Mr Reeder took his engagement book and ran a blue pencil through all his appointments before he wrote, with some labour, a letter which, because of its caution and its somewhat pompous terminology, sent Margaret Bel­man into fits of silent laughter.

  She had not mentioned Richmond Park, and with good reason, one might suppose, for Richmond Park in the late autumn, when chilly winds abound, and the deer have gone into winter quarters – if deer ever go into winter quarters – is picturesque without being comfortable, and only a pleasure to the aesthetic eyes of those whose bodies are suitably clothed in woollen underwear.

  Yet, one drab, grey afternoon, Mr Reeder chartered a taxicab, sat solemnly by the side of Miss Margaret Belman as the cab bumped and jerked down Clarence Lane, possibly the worst road in England, before it turned through the iron gates of the park.

  They came at last to a stretch of grass land and bush, a place in early summer of flowering rhododendrons, and here Mr Reeder stopped the cab and they both descended and walked aimlessly through a little wood. The ground sloped down to a little carpeted hollow. Mr Reeder, with a glance of suspicion and some reference to rheumatism, seated himself by Miss Belman’s side.

  ‘But why Richmond Park?’ asked Margaret.

  Mr Reeder coughed.

  ‘I have – um – a romantic interest in Richmond Park,’ he said. ‘I remember the first arrest I ever made –’

  ‘Don’t be gruesome,’ she warned him. ‘There’s nothing romantic about an arrest. Talk of something pretty.’

  ‘Let us then talk of you,’ said Mr Reeder daringly; ‘and it is exactly because I want to talk of you, my dear Miss – um – Margaret . . . Margaret, that I have asked you to come here.’

  He took her hand with great gentleness as though he were hand­ling a rare objet d’art, and played with her fingers awkwardly.

  ‘The truth is, my dear –’

  ‘Don’t say “Miss”,’ she begged.

  ‘My dear Margaret’ – this with an effort – ‘I have decided that life is too – um – short to delay any longer a step which I have very carefully considered – in fact’ – here he floundered hopelessly into a succession of ‘ums’ which were only relieved by occasional ‘ers’.

  He tried again: ‘A man of my age and peculiar temperament should perhaps be considering matters more serious – in fact, you may consider it very absurd of me, but the truth is –’

  Whatever the truth was could not be easily translated into words.

  ‘The truth is,’ she said quietly, ‘that you think you’re in love with somebody?’

  First Mr Reeder nodded, then he shook his bead with equal vigour.

  ‘I don’t think – it has gone beyond the stage of hypothesis. I am no longer young – I am in fact a confirmed – no, not a confirmed, but – er –’

  ‘You’re a confirmed bachelor,’ she helped him out.

  ‘Not confirmed,’ he insisted firmly.

  She half turned and faced him, her hands on his shoulders, looking into his eyes.

  ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘you think of being married, and you want somebody to marry you. But you feel that you are too old to blight her young life.’

  He nodded dumbly.

  ‘Is it my young life, my dear? Because, if it is –’

  ‘It is.’ J. G. Reeder’s voice was very husky.

  ‘Please blight,’ said Margaret Belman.

  And for the first time in his life Mr J. G. Reeder, who had had so many experiences, mainly unpleasant, felt the soft lips of a woman against his.

  ‘Dear me!’ said Mr Reeder breathlessly, a few seconds later. ‘That was rather nice.’

  THE END