The Casefiles of Mr J. G. Reeder

by Edgar Wallace

  ‘I didn’t shop you, I tell you. He held me up –’

  Legge went back to his room, found the key, and, taking another stiff dose of whisky, returned and released his man.

  ‘He’s got my gun, too,’ explained Bill. ‘Where are all the fellows? We’ll soon settle with him.’

  ‘They’ve gone,’ said Jeffrey.

  What a fool he had been! If he had had the sense to keep the gang together only for a few hours – But he was safe, unless Johnny found a means of getting through the window.

  ‘In my room you’ll find a pistol; it is in the top right-hand corner of my desk,’ he said quickly. ‘Take it and get outside Johnny’s cell – on the yard side. If he tries to escape that way, shoot. Because, if he escapes, you’re going a long journey, my friend.’

  Inside the cell, a chagrined Johnny Gray sat down on the girl’s bed to consider the possibilities of the position.

  ‘My dear, there’s going to be serious trouble here, and I don’t want you to think otherwise,’ he said. ‘I should imagine there were quite a number of men in this prison, in which case, though I shall probably get two or three of them, they’ll certainly get me in the end.’

  She sat by his side, holding his hand, and the pressure of her fingers was eloquent of the faith she had in him.

  ‘Johnny, dear, does it matter very much what happens now? They can’t come in, and we can’t get out. How long will it take to starve us to death?’

  Johnny had already considered that problem.

  ‘About three days,’ he said, in such a matter-of-fact tone that she laughed. ‘My only hope, Marney, is that your father, who, as I told you, has escaped, may know more about this place than he has admitted.’

  ‘Did you know anything about it?’ she asked.

  He hesitated.

  ‘Yes, I think I did. I wasn’t sure, though I was a fool not to locate it just as soon as Fenner warned me against Keytown Jail. These chaps like to speak in parables, and mystery is as the breath of their nostrils. Besides, I should have been certain that Fenner knew the jail had been taken over from the Government.’

  He made a careful examination of the bars about the window, but without instruments or tools to force them, he knew that escape that way was impossible. When, in the early hours of the morning, he saw the patient figure of Bill, he realised the extent of the impossibility.

  ‘Good morning, William. I see you’re out,’ he greeted the scowl­ing sentry, who immediately jumped to cover, flourishing his long-barrelled weapon.

  ‘Don’t you show your nose, or I’ll blow it off,’ he threatened. ‘We’ve got you, Mr Gray.’

  ‘They’ve got you, alas, my poor William,’ said Johnny sadly. ‘The busies will be here at nine o’clock – you don’t suppose that I should have let myself come into a trap like this? Of course I didn’t. I squeaked! It was my only chance, William. And your only chance is to sneak away at the earliest opportunity, and turn State’s evidence. I’m addressing you as a friend.’

  ‘You’ll never get away from here alive,’ said the man. ‘Jeff’s going to fix you.’

  ‘Indeed?’ the prisoner began politely, when a scream made him turn.

  ‘Johnny!’

  The shutter which hid the grille in the door was swung back, and the muzzle of Jeffrey’s Browning had been pushed through one of the openings. As Johnny dropped flat on the bed, he was stunned by the deafening sound of an explosion. Something hit the wall, ricocheted to the roof, and fell almost at the girl’s feet. Before the pistol could be withdrawn, Johnny Gray had fired. A jagged end of iron showed where his bullet struck.

  ‘The time for persiflage,’ said Johnny cheerfully, ‘is past. Now you will sit in that corner, young lady, and will not budge without per­mission.’ He pointed to the wall nearest the door, which afforded perfect cover, and, dragging up a stool, he seated himself by her side. ‘Jeffrey’s got quite a tough proposition,’ he said in his con­versational tone. ‘He can’t burn the prison, because there’s nothing to burn. He can’t come in, and he mustn’t go out. If he would only for one moment take away that infernal key –’

  ‘There is another door going out from the bathroom,’ she said suddenly. ‘I think it leads to an exercise ground. You can just see a little railed-off space through the window.’

  Johnny went into the bathroom and examined the door. Screw­ing his head, he could see, through a broken pane, ten square yards of space, where in olden times a condemned prisoner took his exercise, removed from the gaze of his fellows. He tried the key, and to his delight, it turned. Another minute and he was in the little paved yard.

  Looking round, he saw a high and narrow gateway, which seemed to be the only exit from the courtyard. And on the other side of that gateway was William, the sentry, well armed and sufficiently terrified to be dangerous. Slipping off his boots, Johnny crept to the gate and listened. The sound of the man’s footsteps pacing the flagged walk came to him. Stooping, he squinted through the key­hole, and saw Bill standing, his back toward him, some six yards away. There was no time to be lost. He inserted the key, and the gate was opened before the man could turn to face the levelled revolver.

  ‘Don’t shout,’ whispered Johnny. ‘You’re either discreet or dead. Hand over that gun, you unfortunate man.’ He moved swiftly toward the terrified criminal, and relieved him of his weapon. With a gest­ure, Johnny directed him to the exercise yard. ‘Get in and stay,’ he said, and locked the door, and for the second time. Bill (his other name, Johnny never discovered, was Holliss) was a prisoner.

  Skirting the building, he came to the entrance of the hall. The door was open, and with his hand on the uplifted hammer of the gun, and his finger pressing the trigger, Johnny leapt into the building. ‘Hands up!’ he shouted.

  At the words, Jeffrey Legge spun round. There was a boom of sound, something whistled past Gray’s face, and he fired twice. But now the man was running, zigzagging to left and right, and Johnny hesitated to fire. He disappeared through the door at the farther end of the hall, shutting it behind him, and Johnny raced after him.

  He was in the courtyard now, facing the grille-covered archway. As he came into view, Jeffrey disappeared through the lodge-keeper’s door. Johnny tried the grille, but in vain, for a pass-key operates on all locks save the lock of the entrance gate of a prison. That alone is distinct, and may not be opened save by the key that was cut for it.

  Covering the lodge-keeper’s door with his gun, Johnny waited, and, waiting, heard a rumbling sound. Something was coming down the centre of the archway. The straight line of it came lower and lower. A hanging gate! He had forgotten that most old country prisons were so equipped. Under the cover of this ancient port­cullis, Legge could escape, for it masked the entrance of the lodge.

  He turned back to the girl.

  ‘Keep out of sight. He’s got away,’ he warned her. ‘This fellow isn’t finished yet.’

  The gate was down. Jeffrey put on the overcoat he had left in the lodge, slipped his pistol into his pocket and opened the great gates. He had at least a dozen hours’ start, he thought, as he stepped into the open . . .

  ‘Please do not put your hand in your pocket, Mr Jeffrey,’ said a plaintive voice. ‘I should so hate to shoot a fellow-creature. It would be a deed utterly repugnant to my finest feelings.’

  Jeffrey raised his hands to their fullest extent, for Mr Reeder was not alone. Behind him were four armed policemen, a cordon of mounted constabulary, spread in a semicircle, cutting off all avenues of escape. And most ominous of all was the deadly scrutiny of Peter Kane, who stood at Reeder’s right hand.

  Chapter 33

  For the first time Jeffrey Legge felt the cold contact of handcuffs. He was led back to the porter’s lodge, whilst two of the policemen worked at the windlass that raised the hanging gate.

  ‘It’s a cop,
Craig,’ he said, for the inspector in charge was that redoubtable thief-catcher. ‘But I’m going to squeak all I know. Johnny Gray is in this. He’s been working my slush for years. You’ll find the presses in the second hall, but the other birds have done some quick flying.’

  ‘They’ve all flown into the police station at Oxford,’ said Craig, ‘and they’re singing their pretty little songs merrily. The Oxford police took a whole carload of them about eleven o’clock last night. Unfortunately, they weren’t so ready to squeak as you.’

  ‘Johnny Gray’s in it, I tell you.’

  ‘Oh, how can you say such a thing?’ said the shocked Mr Reeder. ‘I’m perfectly sure Mr Gray is quite innocent.’

  Jeffrey regarded him with a sneer of contempt.

  ‘You’re a pretty funny busy. I suppose Craig brought you here?’

  ‘No,’ murmured Mr Reeder, ‘I brought myself here.’

  ‘The only thing I can say about you,’ said Jeffrey Legge, ‘is that you’re smarter than old Golden – and that’s not saying much.’

  ‘Not very much,’ murmured Mr Reeder.’

  ‘But you’re not smart enough to know that Johnny Gray has been in this business for years.’

  ‘Even while he was in prison?’ suggested Mr Reeder innocently. ‘The opportunities are rather restricted, don’t you think? But don’t let us quarrel, Mr Jeffrey.’

  The portcullis was raised now, and in a few minutes the girl was in her father’s arms.

  ‘Johnny, you’ve had a narrow squeak,’ said Craig, as he shook the man’s hand, ‘and there’s some talk about you being in this slush business, but I’ll not believe it till I get proof.’

  ‘Who killed old Legge?’ asked Johnny.

  The detective shook his head.

  ‘We don’t know. But Stevens has disappeared, and Stevens was Fenner’s brother. I got it from Mr Reeder, who seems to have remarkable sources of information.’

  ‘Not at all,’ disclaimed the apologetic Reeder. ‘I certainly have a remarkable source of information, and to that all credit must go. But I think you will confirm my statement, John, that Stevens is Fenner’s brother?’

  To Peter’s surprise, Johnny nodded. ‘Yes, I knew they were brothers; and it is unnecessary to say that their name was neither Stevens nor Fenner. It is pretty well established that the old man gave away Fenner – shopped him for the Berkeley Square job – and possibly Stevens got to know of this, and had been waiting his opportunity to settle accounts with Emanuel. Have you caught him?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Craig.

  ‘I hope you won’t,’ said Johnny. ‘What are you going to do about me, Peter?’

  He put his arm round the girl’s shoulder, and Peter smiled. ‘I suppose I’ll have to let her marry you, Johnny, whether you’re a crook or honest. I want you to go straight, and I’ll make it worth while –’

  ‘That I can promise you.’ It was Mr Reeder who spoke. ‘And may I offer an apology. I’m rather a wolf in sheep’s clothing, or a sheep in wolf’s clothing. The truth is, my name is Golden.’

  ‘Golden!’ gasped Craig. ‘But I thought Golden was out of this business?’

  ‘He is out of it, and yet he is in it,’ explained Mr Reeder carefully. ‘I am an excellent office man,’ he confessed, in that mincing manner of his, staring owlishly over his glasses, ‘but a very indifferent seeker of information, and although, when Mr John Gray Reeder was appointed over me as chief inspector of my department –’

  ‘Here, stop!’ said the dazed Craig. ‘John Gray Reeder? Who is Inspector John Gray Reeder?’

  Mr Golden’s hand went out in the direction of the smiling Johnny.

  ‘Johnny! You a busy!’ said the bewildered Peter. ‘But you went to jail sure enough?’

  ‘I certainly went to jail,’ said Johnny. ‘It was the only place I could get any news about the Big Printer, and I found out all I wanted to know. It was a trying two years, but well worth it, though I nearly lost the only thing in the world that made life worth living,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to forgive me, Peter, because I spied on you – a good spy doesn’t play favourites. I’ve been watching you and every one of your pals, and I watched Marney most of all. And now I’m going to watch her for years and years!’

  ‘You see,’ said Mr Golden, who seemed most anxious to exculpate himself from any accusation of cleverness, ‘I was merely the listener-in, if I may use a new-fangled expression, to the information which John broadcasted. I knew all about this marriage, and I was the person who appointed a woman detective to look after her at the Charlton Hotel – but on Johnny’s instructions. That is why he was able to prove his alibi, because naturally, that section of the police which knows him, is always ready to prove alibis for other officers of the police who are mistakenly charged with being criminals.’

  ‘How did you guess about the prison?’

  ‘Fenner squeaked,’ said Mr Golden with a gesture of deprecation. ‘ “Squeak” is not a word I like, but it is rather expressive. Yes, Fenner squeaked.’

  Two happy people drove home together in the car which had brought Marney to Keytown. The country between Oxford and Horsham is the most beautiful in the land. The road passes through great aisles of tall trees, into which a car may be turned and be hidden from the view of those who pass along the road. Johnny slowed the machine at an appropriate spot, and put it toward the thickest part of the wood. And Marney, who sat with folded hands by his side, did not seek any explanation for his eccentricity.

  THE END

  THE MIND OF MR J. G. REEDER

  The Poetical Policeman

  The day Mr Reeder arrived at the Public Prosecutor’s office was indeed a day of fate for Mr Lambton Green, Branch Manager of the London Scottish and Midland Bank.

  That branch of the bank which Mr Green controlled was situate at the corner of Pell Street and Firling Avenue on the ‘country side’ of Ealing. It is a fairly large building and, unlike most suburban branch offices, the whole of the premises were devoted to banking business, for the bank carried very heavy deposits, the Lunar Traction Com­pany, with three thousand people on its pay-roll, the Associated Novelties Corporation, with its enormous turnover, and the Lara­phone Company being only three of the L.S.M.’s customers.

  On Wednesday afternoons, in preparation for the pay days of these corporations, large sums in currency were brought from the head office and deposited in the steel and concrete strong-room, which was immediately beneath Mr Green’s private office, but admission to which was gained through a steel door in the general office. This door was observable from the street, and to assist observ­ation there was a shaded lamp fixed to the wall immediately above, which threw a powerful beam of light upon the door. Further secur­ity was ensured by the employment of a night watchman, Arthur Malling, an army pensioner.

  The bank lay on a restricted police beat which had been so arranged that the constable on patrol passed the bank every forty minutes. It was his practice to look through the window and exchange signals with the night watchman, his orders being to wait until Malling appeared.

  On the night of October 17th Police Constable Burnett stopped as usual before the wide peep-hole and glanced into the bank. The first thing he noticed was that the lamp above the strong-room door had been extinguished. The night watchman was not visible, and, his suspicions aroused, the officer did not wait for the man to put in an appearance as he would ordinarily have done, but passed the window to the door, which, to his alarm, he found ajar. Pushing it open, he entered the bank, calling Malling by name.

  There was no answer.

  Permeating the air was a faint, sweet scent which he could not locate. The general offices were empty and, entering the manager’s room in which a light burnt, he saw a figure stretched upon the ground. It was the night watchman. His wrists were handcuffed, two straps had been tightly buckled a
bout his knees and ankles.

  The explanation for the strange and sickly aroma was now clear. Above the head of the prostrate man was suspended, by a wire hooked to the picture-rail, an old tin can, the bottom of which was perforated so that there fell an incessant trickle of some volatile liquid upon the thick cotton pad which covered Malling’s face.

  Burnett, who had been wounded in the war, had instantly recog­nised the smell of chloroform and, dragging the unconscious man into the outer office, snatched the pad from his face and, leaving him only long enough to telephone to the police station, sought vainly to bring him to consciousness.

  The police reserves arrived within a few minutes, and with them the divisional surgeon who, fortunately, had been at the station when the alarm came through. Every effort to restore the unfortunate man to life proved unavailing.

  ‘He was probably dead when he was found,’ was the police doctor’s verdict. ‘What those scratches are on his right palm is a mystery.’

  He pulled open the clenched fist and showed half a dozen little scratches. They were recent, for there was a smear of blood on the palm.

  Burnett was sent at once to arouse Mr Green, the manager, who lived in Firling Avenue, at the corner of which the bank stood; a street of semi-detached villas of a pattern familiar enough to the Londoner. As the officer walked through the little front garden to the door he saw a light through the panels, and he had hardly knocked before the door was opened and Mr Lambton Green appeared, fully dressed and, to the officer’s discerning eye, in a state of considerable agit­ation. Constable Burnett saw on a hall chair a big bag, a travelling rug and an umbrella.

  The little manager listened, pale as death, whilst Burnett told him of his discovery.

  ‘The bank robbed? Impossible!’ he almost shrieked. ‘My God! this is awful!’

  He was so near the point of collapse that Burnett had to assist him into the street.

  ‘I – I was going away on a holiday,’ he said incoherently, as he walked up the dark thoroughfare towards the bank premises. ‘The fact is – I was leaving the bank. I left a note explaining to the directors.’