The Casefiles of Mr J. G. Reeder

by Edgar Wallace

  The shock of the fall took away his breath, and for a second he sprawled, half lying, half sitting, on the floor of the cellar into which he had fallen. Looking up, he saw the older of the two leaning over. The square aperture was diminishing in size. There was evidently a sliding panel which covered the hole in normal times.

  ‘We’ll deal with you later, Reeder,’ said Joseph Bracher with a smile. ‘We’ve had quite a lot of clever people here –’

  Something cracked in the cellar. The bullet seared the lawyer’s cheek, smashed a glass chandelier to fragments, and he stepped back with a yell of fear. In another second the trap was closed and Reeder was alone in a small brick-lined cellar. Not entirely alone, for the automatic pistol he held in his hand was a very pleasant companion in that moment of crisis.

  From his hip pocket he took a flat electric hand-lamp, switched on the current and surveyed his prison. The walls and floor were damp; that was the first thing he noticed. In one corner was a small flight of brick steps leading to a locked steel door, and then –

  ‘Mr Reeder.’

  He spun round and turned his lamp upon the speaker. It was Margaret Belman, who had risen from a heap of sacks where she had been sleeping.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve got you into very bad trouble,’ she said, and he marvelled at her calm.

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Since last night,’ she answered. ‘Mr Bracher telephoned me to see him and he picked me up in his car. They kept me in the other room until tonight, but an hour ago they brought me here.’

  ‘Which is the other room?’

  She pointed to the steel door. She offered no further details of her capture, and it was not a moment to discuss their misfortune. Reeder went up the steps and tried the door; it was fastened from the other side, and opened inward, he discovered. There was no sign of a keyhole. He asked her where the door led and she told him that it was to an underground kitchen and coal-cellar. She had hoped to escape, because only a barred window stood between her and free­dom in the ‘little room’ where she was kept.

  ‘But the window was very thick,’ she said, ‘and of course I could do nothing with the bars.’

  Reeder made another inspection of the cellar, then sent the light of his lamp up at the ceiling. He saw nothing there except a steel pulley fastened to a beam that crossed the entire width of the cellar.

  ‘Now what on earth is he going to do?’ he asked thoughtfully, and as though his enemies had heard the question and were determined to leave him in no doubt as to their plans, there came the sound of gurgling water, and in a second he was ankle-deep.

  He put the light on to the place whence the water was coming. There were three circular holes in the wall, from each of which was gushing a solid stream.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked in a terrified whisper.

  ‘Get on to the steps and stay there,’ he ordered peremptorily, and made investigation to see if it was possible to staunch the flow. He saw at a glance that this was impossible. And now the mystery of the disappearances was a mystery no longer.

  The water came up with incredible rapidity, first to his knees, then to his thighs, and he joined her on the steps.

  There was no possible escape for them. He guessed the water would come up only so far as would make it impossible for them to reach the beam across the roof or the pulley, the dreadful purpose of which he could guess. The dead must be got out of this charnel house in some way or other. Strong swimmer as he was, he knew that in the hours ahead it would be impossible to keep afloat.

  He slipped off his coat and vest and unbuttoned his collar.

  ‘You had better take off your skirt,’ he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Can you swim?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered in a low voice.

  He did not ask her the real question which was in his mind: for how long could she swim?

  There was a long silence; the water crept higher; and then: ‘Are you very much afraid?’ he asked, and took her hand in his.

  ‘No, I don’t think I am,’ she said. ‘It is wonderful having you with me – why are they doing this?’

  He said nothing, but carried the soft hand to his lips and kissed it.

  The water was now reaching the top step. Reeder stood with his back to the iron door, waiting. And then he felt something touch the door from the other side. There was a faint click, as though a bolt had been slipped back. He put her gently aside and held his palms to the door. There was no doubt now: somebody was fumbling on the other side. He went down a step and presently he felt the door yield and come towards him, and there was a momentary gleam of light. In another second he had wrenched the door open and sprung through.

  ‘Hands up!’

  Whoever it was had dropped his lamp, and now Mr Reeder focused the light of his own torch and nearly dropped.

  For the man in the passage was Mills, the ex-convict who had brought the tainted letter from Dartmoor!

  ‘All right, guv’nor, it’s a cop,’ growled the man.

  And then the whole explanation flashed upon the detective. In an instant he had gripped the girl by the hand and dragged her through the narrow passage, into which the water was now steadily over­running.

  ‘Which way did you get in, Mills?’ he demanded authoritatively.

  ‘Through the window.’

  ‘Show me – quick!’

  The convict led the way to what was evidently the window through which the girl had looked with such longing. The bars had been removed; the window sash itself lifted from its rusty hinges; and in another second the three were standing on the grass, with the stars twinkling above them.

  ‘Mills,’ said Mr Reeder, and his voice shook, ‘you came here to “bust” this house.’

  ‘That’s right,’ growled Mills. ‘I tell you it’s a cop. I’m not going to give you any trouble.’

  ‘Skip!’ hissed Mr Reeder. ‘And skip quick! Now, young lady, we’ll go for a little walk.’

  A few seconds later a patrolling constable was smitten dumb by the apparition of a middle-aged man in shirt and trousers, and a lady who was inadequately attired in a silk petticoat.

  * * *

  ‘The Mexican company was Bracher & Bracher,’ explained Reeder to his chief. ‘There was no John Baston. His room was a passage-way by which the Brachers could get from one room to the other. The clerk in the Mexican Syndicate’s office was, of course, blind; I spotted that the moment I saw him. There are any number of blind typists employed in the City of London. A blind clerk was necessary if the identity of de Silvo with the Brachers was to be kept a secret.

  ‘Bracher & Bracher had been going badly for years. It will prob­ably be found that they have made away with clients’ money; and they hit upon this scheme of inducing foolish investors to put money into their syndicate on the promise of large dividends. Their victims were well chosen, and Joseph – who was the brains of the organ­isation – conducted the most rigorous investigation to make sure that these unfortunate people had no intimate friends. If they had any suspicion about an applicant, Brachers would write a letter deprec­ating the idea of an investment and suggesting that the too-shrewd dupe should find another and a safer method than the Mexican syndicate afforded.

  ‘After they had paid one or two years’ dividends the wretched investor was lured to the house at Dulwich and there scientifically killed. You will probably find an unofficial cemetery in their grounds. So far as I can make out, they have stolen over a hundred and twenty thousand pounds in the past two years by this method.’

  ‘It is incredible,’ said the Prosecutor, ‘incredible!’

  Mr Reeder shrugged.

  ‘Is there anything more incredible than the Burke and Hare murders? There are Burkes and Hares in every branch of society and in every period of history.’

 
‘Why did they delay their execution of Miss Belman?’

  Mr Reeder coughed.

  ‘They wanted to make a clean sweep, but did not wish to kill her until they had me in their hands. I rather suspect’ – he coughed again – ‘that they thought I had an especial interest in the young lady.’

  ‘And have you?’ asked the Public Prosecutor.

  Mr Reeder did not reply.

  THE END

  TERROR KEEP

  To Leslie Faber

  (‘The Ringer’)

  Terror Keep

  Rightly speaking, it is improper, not to say illegal, for those sadly privileged few who go in and out of Broadmoor Criminal Asylum, to have pointed out to them any particular character, however notor­ious he may have been or to what heights of public interest his infamy had carried him, before the testifying doctors and a merciful jury consigned him to this place without hope. But often had John Flack been pointed out as he shuffled about the grounds, his hands behind him, his chin on his breast, a tall, lean old man in an ill-fitting suit of drab clothing, who spoke to nobody and was spoken to by few.

  ‘That is Flack – the Flack; the cleverest crook in the world . . . Crazy John Flack . . . nine murders . . .’

  Men who were in Broadmoor for isolated homicides were rather proud of Old John in their queer, sane moments. The officers who locked him up at night and watched him as he slept had little to say against him, because he gave no trouble, and through all the six years of his incarceration had never once been seized of those frenzies which so often end in the hospital for some poor innocent devil, and a rubber-padded cell for the frantic author of misfortune.

  He spent most of his time writing and reading, for he was some­thing of a genius with his pen, and wrote with extraordinary rapidity. He filled hundreds of little exercise books with his great treatise on crime. The Governor humoured him; allowed him to retain the books, expecting in due course to add them to his already interesting museum.

  Once, as a great concession, old Jack gave him a book to read, and the Governor read and gasped. It was entitled ‘Method of robbing a bank vault when only two guards are employed’. The Governor, who had been a soldier, read and read, stopping now and then to rub his head; for this document, written in the neat, legible hand of John Flack, was curiously reminiscent of a divisional order for attack. No detail was too small to be noted; every contingency was provided for. Not only were the constituents of the drug to be employed to ‘settle the outer watchman’ given, but there was an explanatory note which may be quoted.

  If this drug is not procurable, I advise that the operator should call upon a suburban doctor and describe the following symptoms . . . The doctor will then prescribe the drug in a minute quantity. Six bottles of this medicine should be procured, and the following method adopted to extract the drug . . .’

  ‘Have you written much like this, Flack?’ asked the wondering officer.

  ‘This?’ John Flack shrugged his lean shoulders. ‘I am doing this for amusement, just to test my memory. I have already written sixty-three books on the subject, and those works are beyond improve­ment. During the six years I have been here, I have not been able to think of a single improvement to my old system.’

  Was he jesting? Was this a flight of a disordered mind? The Governor, used as he was to his charges and their peculiar ways, was not certain.

  ‘You mean you have written an encyclopaedia of crime?’ he asked incredulously. ‘Where is it to be found?’

  Old Flack’s thin lips curled in a disdainful smile, but he made no answer.

  Sixty-three hand-written volumes represented the life work of John Flack. It was the one achievement upon which he prided himself.

  On another occasion when the Governor referred to his extra­ordinary literary labours, he said: ‘I have put a huge fortune in the hands of any clever man – providing, of course,’ he mused, ‘that he is a man of resolution and the books fall into his hands at a very early date – in these days of scientific discovery, what is a novelty today is a commonplace tomorrow.’

  The Governor had his doubts as to the existence of these deplor­able volumes, but very soon after the conversation took place he had to revise his judgment. Scotland Yard, which seldom if ever chases chimera, sent down one Chief-Inspector Simpson, who was a man entirely without imagination and had been promoted for it. His interview with Crazy John Flack was a brief one.

  ‘About these books of yours, Jack,’ he said. ‘It would be terrible if they fell into wrong hands. Ravini says you’ve got a hundred volumes hidden somewhere –’

  ‘Ravini?’ Old John Flack showed his teeth. ‘Listen, Simpson! You don’t think you’re going to keep me in this awful place all my life, do you? If you do, you’ve got another guess coming. I’ll skip one of these odd nights – you can tell the Governor if you like – and then Ravini and I are going to have a little talk.’

  His voice grew high and shrill. The old mad glitter that Simpson had seen before came back to his eyes.

  ‘Do you ever have daydreams, Simpson? I have three! I’ve got a new method of getting away with a million: that’s one, but it’s not important. Another one is Reeder: you can tell J. G. what I say. It’s a dream of meeting him alone one nice, dark, foggy night, when the police can’t tell which way the screams are coming. And the third is Ravini. George Ravini’s got one chance, and that is for him to die before I get out!’

  ‘You’re mad,’ said Simpson.

  ‘That’s what I’m here for,’ said John Flack truthfully.

  This conversation with Simpson and that with the Governor were two of the longest he ever had, all the six years he was in Broadmoor. Mostly when he wasn’t writing he strolled about the grounds, his chin on his chest, his hands clasped behind him. Occasionally he reached a certain place near the high wall, and it is said that he threw letters over, though this is very unlikely. What is more possible is that he found a messenger who carried his many and cryptic letters to the outer world and brought in exchange monosyllabic replies. He was a very good friend of the officer in charge of his ward, and one early morning this man was discovered with his throat cut. The ward door was open, and John Flack had gone out into the world to realise his daydreams.

  Chapter 1

  There were two subjects which irritated the mind of Margaret Bel­man as the Southern Express carried her towards Selford Junction and the branch-line train which crawled from the junction to Silt­bury. The first of these was, not unnaturally, the drastic changes she now contemplated, and the effect they already had had upon Mr J. G. Reeder, that mild and middle-aged man.

  When she had announced that she was seeking a post in the country, he might at least have shown some evidence of regret: a certain glumness would have been appropriate at any rate. Instead he had brightened visibly at the prospect.

  ‘I am afraid I shan’t be able to come to London very often,’ she had said.

  ‘That is good news,’ said Mr Reeder, and added some banality about the value of periodical changes of air and the beauty of getting near to nature. In fact, he had been more cheerful than he had been for a week, which was rather exasperating.

  Margaret Belman’s pretty face puckered as she recalled her dis­app­oint­ment and chagrin. All thoughts of dropping this application of hers disappeared. Not that she imagined for one moment that a six-hundred-a-year secretaryship was going to fall into her lap for the mere asking. She was wholly unsuited for the job, she had no exper­ience of hotel work, and the chances of her being accepted were remote.

  As to the Italian man who had made so many attempts to make her acquaintance, he was one of the unpleasant commonplaces so familiar to a girl who worked for her living that in ordinary circum­stances she would not have given him a second thought.

  But that morning he had followed her to the station, and she was certain that he had heard her
tell the girl who came with her that she was returning by the 6.15. A policeman would deal effectively with him – if she cared to risk the publicity. But a girl, however sane, shrinks from such an ordeal, and she must deal with him in her own way.

  That was not a happy prospect, and the two matters in combin­ation were sufficient to spoil what otherwise might have been a very happy or interesting afternoon. As to Mr Reeder . . .

  Margaret Belman frowned. She was twenty-three, an age when youngish men are rather tiresome. On the other hand, men in the region of fifty are not especially attractive; and she loathed Mr Reeder’s side-whiskers, that made him look rather like a Scottish butler. Of course, he was a dear . . .

  Here the train reached the junction. She found herself at the surprisingly small station of Siltbury before she had quite made up her mind whether she was in love with Mr Reeder or merely annoyed with him.

  The driver of the station cab stopped his unhappy-looking horse before the small gateway and pointed with his whip.

  ‘This is the best way in for you, miss,’ he said. ‘Mr Daver’s office is at the end of the path.’

  He was a shrewd old man, who had driven many applicants for the post of secretary to Larmes Keep, and he guessed that this, the prettiest of all, did not come as a guest. In the first place, she brought no baggage, and then too the ticket-collector had come running after her to hand back the return half of the railway ticket which she had absent-mindedly surrendered.

  ‘I’d better wait for you, miss . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please,’ said Margaret Belman hastily as she got down from the dilapidated victoria.

  ‘You got an appointment?’

  The cabman was a local character, and local characters assume privileges.

  ‘I ast you,’ he explained carefully, ‘because lots of young wimmin have come up to Larmes without appointments, and Mr Daver wouldn’t see ’em. They just cut out the advertisement and come along, but the ad says write. I suppose I’ve made a dozen journeys with young wimmin who ain’t got appointments. I’m telling you for your own good.’