The Casefiles of Mr J. G. Reeder

by Edgar Wallace

  ‘He had two coppers with him all the time, or I’d have coshed him for you, Mo,’ said Teddy Alfield, his chief of staff.

  ‘And I’d have coshed you, Teddy,’ said Mr Liski ominously. ‘I left orders that he wasn’t to be touched, didn’t I? What do you mean by “you’d have coshed him”?’

  Alfield, a big-shouldered man whose speciality was the ‘knocking-off’ of unattended motor-cars, grew incoherent.

  ‘You stick to your job,’ snarled Mo. ‘I’ll fix Reeder. He’s got a girl in Brockley; a young woman who is always going about with him – Belman’s her name and she lives nearly opposite his house. We don’t want to beat him up – yet. What we want to do is to get him out of his job, and that’s easy. They fired a man in the Home Office last week because he was found at the “95” Club after drinking hours.’

  He outlined a simple plan.

  Margaret Belman left her office one evening and, walking to the corner of Westminster Bridge and the Embankment, looked around for Mr Reeder. Usually, if his business permitted, he was to be found hereabouts, though of late the meetings had been very few, and when she had seen him he was usually in the company of two glum men who seated themselves on either side of him.

  She let one car pass, and had decided to catch the second which was coming slowly along the Embankment, when a parcel dropped at her feet. She looked round to see a pretty, well-dressed woman swaying with closed eyes, and had just time to catch her by the arm before she half collapsed. With her arm round the woman’s waist she assisted her to a seat providentially placed hereabouts.

  ‘I’m so sorry – thank you ever so much. I wonder if you would call me a taxi?’ gasped the fainting lady.

  She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, and had the indefinable manner of a great lady, so Margaret thought.

  Beckoning a cab, she assisted the woman to enter.

  ‘Would you like me to go home with you?’ asked the sympathetic girl.

  ‘It would be good of you,’ murmured the lady, ‘but I fear to inconvenience you – it was so silly of me. My address is 105, Great Claridge Street.’

  She recovered sufficiently on the journey to tell Margaret that she was Madame Lemaire, and that she was the widow of a French banker. The beautiful appointments of the big house in the most fashionable part of Mayfair suggested that Madame Lemaire was a woman of some wealth. A butler opened the door, a liveried foot­man brought in the tea which Madame insisted on the girl taking with her.

  ‘You are too good. I cannot be thankful enough to you, madem­oiselle. I must know you better. Will you come one night to dinner? Shall we say Thursday?’

  Margaret Belman hesitated. She was human enough to be im­pressed by the luxury of her surroundings, and this dainty lady had the appeal of refinement and charm which is so difficult to resist.

  ‘We will dine tête-à-tête, and after – some people may come for dancing. Perhaps you have a friend you would like to come?’

  Margaret smiled and shook her head. Curiously enough, the word ‘friend’ suggested only the rather awkward figure of Mr Reeder, and somehow she could not imagine Mr Reeder in this setting.

  When she came out into the street and the butler had closed the door behind her, she had the first shock of the day. The object of her thoughts was standing on the opposite side of the road, a furled umbrella hooked to his arm.

  ‘Why, Mr Reeder!’ she greeted him.

  ‘You had seven minutes to spare,’ he said, looking at his big-faced watch. ‘I gave you half an hour – you were exactly twenty-three minutes and a few odd seconds.’

  ‘Did you know I was there?’ she asked unnecessarily.

  ‘Yes – I followed you. I do not like Mrs Annie Feltham – she calls herself Madame something or other. It is not a nice club.’

  ‘Club!’ she gasped.

  Mr Reeder nodded.

  ‘They call it the Muffin Club. Curious name – curious members. It is not nice.’

  She asked no further questions, but allowed herself to be escorted to Brockley, wondering just why Madame had picked upon her as a likely recruit to the gaieties of Mayfair.

  And now occurred the succession of incidents which at first had so puzzled Mr Liski. He was a busy man, and almost regretted that he had not postponed putting his plan of operation into movement. That he had failed in one respect he discovered when by accident, as it seemed, he met Mr Reeder face to face in Piccadilly.

  ‘Good morning, Liski,’ said Mr Reeder, almost apologetically. ‘I was so sorry for that unfortunate contretemps, but believe me, I bear no malice. And whilst I realise that in all probability you do not share my sentiments, I have no other wish than to live on the friendliest terms with you.’

  Liski looked at him sharply. The old man was getting scared, he thought. There was almost a tremble in his anxious voice when he put forward the olive branch.

  ‘That’s all right, Mr Reeder,’ said Mo, with his most charming smile. ‘I don’t bear any malice either. After all, it was a silly thing to say, and you have your duty to do.’

  He went on in this strain, stringing platitude to platitude, and Mr Reeder listened with evidence of growing relief.

  ‘The world is full of sin and trouble,’ he said, shaking his head sadly; ‘both in high and low places vice is triumphant, and virtue thrust, like the daisies, underfoot. You don’t keep chickens, do you, Mr Liski?’

  Mo Liski shook his head.

  ‘What a pity!’ sighed Mr Reeder. ‘There is so much one can learn from the domestic fowl! They are an object lesson to the unlawful. I often wonder why the Prison Commissioners do not allow the con­victs at Dartmoor to engage in this harmless and instructive hobby. I was saying to Mr Pyne early this morning, when they raided the Muffin Club – what a quaint title it has –’

  ‘Raided the Muffin Club?’ said Mo quickly. ‘What do you mean? I’ve heard nothing about that.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. That kind of institution would hardly appeal to you. Only we thought it was best to raid the place, though in doing so I fear I have incurred the displeasure of a young lady friend of mine who was invited to dinner there tomorrow night. As I say, chickens –’

  Now Mo Liski knew that his plan had miscarried. Yet he was puzzled by the man’s attitude.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to come down and see my Buff Orping­tons, Mr Liski? I live in Brockley.’ Reeder removed his glasses and glared owlishly at his companion. ‘Say at nine o’clock tonight; there is so much to talk about. At the same time, it would add to the comfort of all concerned if you did not arrive – um – conspicuously: do you understand what I mean? I should not like the people of my office, for example, to know.’

  A slow smile dawned on Liski’s face. It was his faith that all men had their price, whether it was paid in cash or terror; and this invitation to a secret conference was in a sense a tribute to the power he wielded.

  At nine o’clock he came to Brockley, half hoping that Mr Reeder would go a little farther along the road which leads to compromise. But, strangely enough, the elderly detective talked of nothing but chickens. He sat on one side of the table, his hands clasped on the cloth, his voice vibrant with pride as he spoke of the breed that he was introducing to the English fowl-house, and, bored to extinction, Mo waited.

  ‘There is something I wanted to say to you, but I fear that I must postpone that until another meeting,’ said Mr Reeder, as he helped his visitor on with his coat. ‘I will walk with you to the corner of Lewisham High Road: the place is full of bad characters, and I shouldn’t like to feel that I had endangered your well-being by bringing you to this lowly spot.’

  Now, if there is one place in the world which is highly respectable and free from the footpads which infest wealthier neighbourhoods, it is Brockley Road. Liski submitted to the company of his host, and walked to the church at the end
of the road.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Liski,’ said Reeder earnestly. ‘I shall never forget this pleasant meeting. You have been of the greatest help and assist­ance to me. You may be sure that neither I nor the department I have the honour to represent will ever forget you.’

  Liski went back to town, a frankly bewildered man. In the early hours of the morning the police arrested his chief lieutenant, Teddy Alfield, and charged him with a motor-car robbery which had been committed three months before.

  That was the first of the inexplicable happenings. The second came when Liski, returning to his flat off Portland Place, was sudd­enly confronted by the awkward figure of the detective.

  ‘Is that Liski?’ Mr Reeder peered forward in the darkness. ‘I’m so glad I’ve found you. I’ve been looking for you all day. I fear I horribly misled you the other evening when I was telling you that Leghorns are unsuitable for sandy soil. Now on the contrary –’

  ‘Look here, Mr Reeder, what’s the game?’ demanded the other brusquely.

  ‘The game?’ asked Reeder in a pained tone.

  ‘I don’t want to know anything about chickens. If you’ve got anything to tell me worth while, drop me a line and I’ll come to your office, or you can come to mine.’

  He brushed past the man from the Public Prosecutor’s Depart­ment and slammed the door of his flat behind him. Within two hours a squad from Scotland Yard descended upon the house of Harry Merton, took Harry and his wife from their respective beds, and charged them with the unlawful possession of stolen jewellery which had been traced to a safe deposit.

  A week later, Liski, returning from a vital interview with El Rah­but, heard plodding steps overtaking him, and turned to meet the pained eye of Mr Reeder.

  ‘How providential meeting you!’ said Reeder fervently. ‘No, no, I do not wish to speak about chickens, though I am hurt a little by your indifference to this noble and productive bird.’

  ‘Then what in hell do you want?’ snapped Liski. ‘I don’t want anything to do with you, Reeder, and the sooner you get that into your system the better. I don’t wish to discuss fowls, horses –’

  ‘Wait!’ Mr Reeder bent forward and lowered his voice. ‘Is it not possible for you and me to meet together and exchange con­fidences?’

  Mo Liski smiled slowly.

  ‘Oh, you’re coming to it at last, eh? All right. I’ll meet you any­where you please.’

  ‘Shall we say in the Mall near the Artillery statue, tomorrow night at ten? I don’t think we shall be seen there.’

  Liski nodded shortly and went on, still wondering what the man had to tell him. At four o’clock he was wakened by the telephone ringing furiously, and learnt, to his horror, that O’Hara, the most trustworthy of his gang leaders, had been arrested and charged with a year-old burglary. It was Carter, one of the minor leaders, who brought the news.

  ‘What’s the idea, Liski?’ And there was a note of suspicion in the voice of his subordinate which made Liski’s jaw drop.

  ‘What do you mean – what’s the idea? Come round and see me. I don’t want to talk over the phone.’

  Carter arrived half an hour later, a scowling, suspicious man.

  ‘Now what do you want to say?’ asked Mo, when they were alone.

  ‘All I’ve got to say is this,’ growled Carter; ‘a week ago you’re seen talking to old Reeder in Lewisham Road, and the same night Teddy Alfield is pinched. You’re spotted having a quiet talk with this old dog, and the same night another of the gang goes west. Last night I saw you with my own eyes having a confidential chat with Reeder – and now O’Hara’s gone!’

  Mo looked at him incredulously.

  ‘Well, and what about it?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing – except that it’s a queer coincidence, that’s all,’ said Carter, his lip curling. ‘The boys have been talking about it: they don’t like it, and you can’t blame them.’

  Liski sat pinching his lip, a far-away look in his eyes. It was true, though the coincidence had not struck him before. So that was the old devil’s game! He was undermining his authority, arousing a wave of suspicion which, if it were not checked, would sweep him from his position.

  ‘All right, Carter,’ he said, in a surprisingly mild tone. ‘It never hit me that way before. Now I’ll tell you, and you can tell the other boys just what has happened.’

  In a few words he explained Mr Reeder’s invitations.

  ‘And you can tell ’em from me that I’m meeting the old fellow tomorrow night, and I’m going to give him something to remember me by.’

  The thing was clear to him now, as he sat, after the man’s depart­ure, going over the events of the past week. The three men who had been arrested had been under police suspicion for a long time, and Mo knew that not even he could have saved them. The arrests had been made by arrangement with Scotland Yard to suit the conven­ience of the artful Mr Reeder.

  ‘I’ll “artful” him!’ said Mo, and spent the rest of the day making his preparations.

  At ten o’clock that night he passed under the Admiralty Arch. A yellow mist covered the park, a drizzle of rain was falling, and save for the cars that came at odd intervals towards the palace, there was no sign of life.

  He walked steadily past the Memorial, waiting for Mr Reeder. Ten o’clock struck and a quarter past, but there was no sign of the detective.

  ‘He’s smelt a rat,’ said Mo Liski between his teeth, and replaced the short life-preserver he had carried in his pocket.

  It was at eleven o’clock that a patrolling police-constable fell over a groaning something that lay across the sidewalk, and, flashing his electric lamp upon the still figure, saw the carved handle of a Moor­ish knife before he recognised the pain-distorted face of the stricken Mo Liski.

  * * *

  ‘I don’t quite understand how it all came about,’ said Pyne thought­fully. (He had been called into consultation from headquarters.) ‘Why are you so sure it was the Moor Rahbut?’

  ‘I am not sure,’ Mr Reeder hastened to correct the mistaken im­pression. ‘I mentioned Rahbut because I had seen him in the after­noon and searched his lodgings for the emeralds – which I am perfectly sure are still in Morocco, sir.’ He addressed his chief. ‘Mr Rahbut was quite a reasonable man, remembering that he is a stranger to our methods.’

  ‘Did you mention Mo Liski at all, Mr Reeder?’ asked the Assistant Public Prosecutor.

  Mr Reeder scratched his chin.

  ‘I think I did – yes, I’m pretty certain that I told him that I had an appointment with Mr Liski at ten o’clock. I may even have said where the appointment was to be kept. I can’t remember exactly how the subject of Liski came up. Possibly I may have tried to bluff this indigenous native – “Bluff” is a vulgar word, but it will convey what I mean – into the belief that unless he gave me more information about the emeralds, I should be compelled to consult one who knew so many secrets. Possibly I did say that. Mr Liski will be a long time in hospital, I hear? That is a pity. I should never forgive myself if my incautious words resulted in poor Mr Liski being taken to the hospital – alive!’

  When he had gone, the chief looked at Inspector Pyne. Pyne smiled.

  ‘What is the name of that dangerous reptile, sir?’ asked the inspector. ‘ “Mamba”, isn’t it? I must remember that.’

  The Strange Case

  In the days of Mr Reeder’s youth, which were also the days when hansom cabs plied for hire and no gentleman went abroad without a nosegay in the lapel of his coat, he had been sent, in company with another young officer from Scotland Yard, to arrest a youthful in­ven­tor of Nottingham who earned more than a competence by methods which were displeasing to Scotland Yard. Not machines nor ingenious contrivances for saving labour did this young man invent – but stories. And they were not stories in the accepted sense of the word, for
they were misstatements designed to extract money from the pockets of simple-minded men and women. Mr Eiter employed no fewer than twenty-five aliases and as many addresses in the broadcasting of his fiction, and he was on the way to amassing a considerable fortune when a square-toed Nemesis took him by the arm and led him to the seat of justice. An unsympathetic judge sent Mr Eiter to seven years’ penal servitude, describing him as an unconscionable swindler and a menace to society – at which Willie Eiter smiled, for he had a skin beside which the elephant’s was gossamer silk.

  Mr Reeder remembered the case chiefly because the prosecuting attorney, commenting upon the various disguises and subterfuges which the prisoner had adopted, remarked upon a peculiarity which was revealed in every part which the convict had played – his inability to spell ‘able’ which he invariably wrote as though he were naming the victim of Cain’s envy.

  ‘There is this identity to be discovered in every criminal, however ingenious he may be,’ the advocate had said. ‘Whatever his disguise, no matter how cleverly he dissociates one role or pose from another, there is a distinguishable weakness common to every character he affects, and especially is this observable in criminals who live by fraud and trickery.’

  This Mr Reeder remembered throughout his useful life. Few people knew that he had ever been associated with Scotland Yard. He himself evaded any question that was put to him on the subject. It was his amiable trait to pretend that he was the veriest amateur and that his success in the detection of wrongdoing was to be traced to his own evil mind that saw wrong very often where no wrong was.

  He saw wrong in so many apparently innocent acts of man that it was well for his reputation that those who were acquainted with and pitied him because of his seeming inadequacy and unattractive appear­ance did not know what dark thoughts filled his mind.

  There was a very pretty girl who lived in Brockley Road at a boarding-house. He did not like Miss Margaret Belman because she was pretty, but because she was sensible: two terms which are as a rule antagonistic. He liked her so well that he often travelled home on the cars with her, and they used to discuss the Prince of Wales, the Labour Government, the high cost of living, and other tender subjects with great animation. It was from Miss Belman that he learned about her fellow-boarder, Mrs Carlin, and once he travelled back with her to Brockley – a frail, slim girl with experience in her face and the hint of tragedy in her fine eyes.