The Casefiles of Mr J. G. Reeder

by Edgar Wallace

  ‘It’s a posh place, too,’ said Lew. ‘Not like the ordinary boarding-house – only swells go there. They charge twenty guineas a week for a room, and you’re lucky if you get in.’

  Ravini thought on this, fondling his chin.

  ‘This is a free country,’ he said. ‘What’s to stop me staying at – what’s the name of the place? Larmes Keep? I’ve never taken “No” from a woman in my life. Half the time they don’t mean it. Anyway, she’s got to give me a room if I’ve the money to pay for it.’

  ‘Suppose she writes to Reeder?’ suggested Lew.

  ‘Let her write!’ Ravini’s tone was defiant, whatever might be the state of his mind. ‘What’ll he have on me? It’s no crime to pay your rent at a boarding-house, is it?’

  ‘Try her with one of your Luck Rings,’ grinned Lew.

  Ravini looked at them admiringly.

  ‘I couldn’t get ’em off,’ he said, ‘and I’d never dream of parting with my luck that way. She’ll be easy as soon as she knows me – don’t you worry.’

  By a curious coincidence, as he was turning out of Half Moon Street the next morning he met the one man in the world he did not wish to see. Fortunately, Lew had taken his suitcase on to the station, and there was nothing in Mr Ravini’s appearance to suggest that he was setting forth on an affair of gallantry.

  Mr Reeder looked at the man’s diamonds glittering in the daylight. They seemed to exercise a peculiar fascination on the detective.

  ‘The luck still holds, Georgio,’ he said, and Georgio smiled com­placently. ‘And whither do you go on this beautiful September morning? To bank your nefarious gains, or to get a quick visa to your passport?’

  ‘Strolling round,’ said Ravini airily. ‘Just taking a little constit­utional.’ And then, with a spice of mischief: ‘What’s happened to that busy you were putting on to tail me up? I haven’t seen him.’

  Mr Reeder looked past him to the distance.

  ‘He has never been far from you, Georgio,’ he said gently. ‘He followed you from the Flotsam last night to that peculiar little party you attended in Maida Vale, and he followed you home at 2.15 a.m.’

  Georgio’s jaw dropped.

  ‘You don’t mean he’s –’ He looked round. The only person visible was a benevolent-looking man who might have been a doctor, from his frock coat and top hat.

  ‘That’s not him?’ frowned Ravini.

  ‘He,’ corrected Mr Reeder. ‘Your English is not yet perfect.’

  Ravini did not leave London immediately. It was two o’clock before he had shaken off the watcher, and five minutes later he was on the Southern express. The same old cabman who had brought Margaret Belman to Larmes Keep carried him up the long, winding hill road through the broad gates to the front of the house, and deposited him under the portico. An elderly porter, in a smart, well-fitting uniform, came out to greet the stranger.

  ‘Mr – ?’

  ‘Ravini,’ said that gentleman. ‘I haven’t booked a room.’

  The porter shook his head.

  ‘I’m afraid we have no accommodation,’ he said. ‘Mr Daver makes it a rule not to take guests unless they’ve booked their rooms in advance. I will see the secretary.’

  Ravini followed him into the spacious hall and sat down on one of the beautiful chairs. This, he decided, was something outside the usual run of boarding-houses. It was luxurious even for an hotel. No other guests were visible. Presently he heard a step on the nagged floor and rose to meet the eyes of Margaret Belman. Though they were unfriendly, she betrayed no sign of recognition. He might have been the veriest stranger.

  ‘The proprietor makes it a rule not to accept guests without previous correspondence,’ she said. ‘In those circumstances I am afraid we cannot offer you accommodation.’

  ‘I’ve already written to the proprietor,’ said Ravini, never at a loss for a glib lie. ‘Go along, young lady, be a sport and see what you can do for me.’

  Margaret hesitated. Her own inclination was to order his suitcase to be put in the waiting cab; but she was part of the organisation of the place, and she could not let her private prejudices interfere with her duties.

  ‘Will you wait?’ she said, and went in search of Mr Daver.

  That great criminologist was immersed in a large book and looked up over his horn-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘Ravini? A foreign gentleman? Of course he is. A stranger within our gate, as you would say. It is very irregular, but in the circum­stances – yes, I think so.’

  ‘He isn’t the type of man you ought to have here, Mr Daver,’ she said firmly. ‘A friend of mine who knows these people says he is a member of the criminal classes.’

  Mr Daver’s ludicrous eyebrows rose. ‘The criminal classes! What an extraordinary opportunity to study, as it were, at first hand! You agree? I knew you would! Let him stay. If he bores me, I will send him away.’

  Margaret went back, a little disappointed, feeling rather foolish if the truth be told. She found Ravini waiting, caressing his moustache, a little less assured than he had been when she had left him.

  ‘Mr Daver said you may stay. I will send the housekeeper to you,’ she said, and went in search of Mrs Burton, and gave that doleful woman the necessary instructions.

  She was angry with herself that she had not been more explicit in dealing with Mr Daver. She might have told him that if Ravini stayed she would leave. She might even have explained the reason why she did not wish the Italian to remain in the house. She was in the fortunate position, however, that she had not to see the guests unless they expressed a wish to interview her, and Ravini was too wise to pursue his advantage.

  That night, when she went to her room, she sat down and wrote a long letter to Mr Reeder, but thought better of it and tore it up. She could not run to J. G. Reeder every time she was annoyed. He had a sufficiency of trouble, she decided, and here she was right. Even as she wrote, Mr Reeder was examining with great interest the spring gun which had been devised for his destruction.

  Chapter 6

  To do Ravini justice, he made no attempt to approach the girl, though she had seen him at a distance. He had passed her on the lawn the second day after his arrival with no more than a nod and a smile, and, indeed, he seemed to have found another diversion, if not another objective, for he was scarcely away from Olga Crewe’s side. Margaret saw them in the evening, leaning over the cliff wall, and George Ravini seemed remarkably pleased with himself. He was exhibiting his famous Luck Stones to Olga. Margaret saw her exam­ine the rings and evidently make some remark upon them which sent Ravini into fits of laughter.

  It was on the third day of his stay that he spoke to Margaret. They met in the big hall, and she would have passed on, but he stood in her way.

  ‘I hope we’re not going to be bad friends, Miss Belman,’ he said. ‘I’m not giving you any trouble, and I’m ready to apologise for the past. Could a gentleman be fairer than that?’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve anything to apologise for, Mr Ravini,’ she said, a little relieved by his tone, and more inclined to be civil. ‘Now that you have so obviously found another interest in life, are you enjoying your stay?’

  ‘It’s perfectly marvellous,’ he said conventionally, for he was a man who loved superlatives. ‘And say, Miss Belman, who is this young lady staying here, Miss Olga Crewe?’

  ‘She’s a guest: I know nothing about her.’

  ‘What a peach!’ he said enthusiastically, and Margaret was amused.

  ‘And a lady, every inch of her,’ he went on. ‘I must say I’m putty in the hands of real ladies! There’s something about ’em that’s different from shop-girls and typists and people of that kind. Not that you’re a typist,’ he went on hastily. ‘I regard you as a lady too. Every inch of one. I’m thinking about sending for my Rolls to take her for a drive round the
country. You’re not jealous?’

  Anger and amusement struggled for expression, but Margaret’s sense of humour won, and she laughed long and silently all the way to her office.

  Soon after this Mr Ravini disappeared. So also did Olga. Margaret saw them coming into the hall about eleven, and the girl looked paler than usual, and, sweeping past her without a word, ran up the stairs. Margaret surveyed the young man curiously. His face was flushed, his eyes of an unusual brightness.

  ‘I’m going up to town tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Early train . . . you needn’t ’phone for a cab: I can walk down the hill.’ He was almost incoherent.

  ‘You’re tired of Larmes Keep?’

  ‘Eh? Tired? No, by God I’m not! This is the place for me!’

  He smoothed back his dark hair and she saw his hand trembling so much that the Luck Stones flickered and flashed like fire. She waited until he had disappeared, and then she went upstairs and knocked at Olga’s door. The girl’s room was next to hers.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked a voice sharply.

  ‘Miss Belman.’

  The key turned, the door opened. Only one light was burning in the room, so that Olga’s face was in shadow.

  ‘Do you want anything?’ she asked.

  ‘Can I come in?’ asked Margaret. ‘There’s something I wish to say to you.’

  Olga hesitated. Then, ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘I’ve been snivelling. I hope you don’t mind.’

  Her eyes were red, the stains of tears were still on her face.

  ‘This damned place depresses me awfully,’ she excused herself as she dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief. ‘What do you want to see me about?’

  ‘Mr Ravini. I suppose you know he is a – crook?’

  Olga stared at her and her eyes went hard.

  ‘I don’t know that I am particularly interested in Mr Ravini,’ she said slowly. ‘Why do you come to tell me this?’

  Margaret was in a dilemma.

  ‘I don’t know . . . I thought you were getting rather friendly with him . . . it was very impertinent of me.’

  ‘I think it was,’ said Olga Crewe coldly, and the rebuff was such that Margaret’s face went scarlet.

  She was angry with herself when she went into her own room that night, and anger is a bad bedmate, and the most wakeful of all human emotions. She tossed from side to side in her bed, tried to forget there were such persons as Olga Crewe and George Ravini, tried every device she could think of to induce sleep, and was almost successful when . . .

  She sat up in bed. Fingers were scrabbling on the panel of her door; not exactly scratching nor tapping. She switched on the light, and, getting out of bed, walked to the door and listened. Somebody was there. The handle turned in her hand.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she asked.

  ‘Let me in, let me in! . . .’

  It was a frantic whisper, but she recognised the voice – Ravini!

  ‘I can’t let you in. Go away, please, or I’ll telephone . . .’

  She heard a sound, a curious muffled sound . . . sobbing . . . a man! And then the voice ceased. Her heart racing madly, she stood by the door, her ear to the panel, listening, but no other sound came. She spent the rest of the night sitting up in bed, a quilt about her shoulders, listening, listening . . .

  Day broke greyly; the sun came up. She lay down and fell asleep. It was the maid bringing tea that woke her, and, getting out of bed, she opened the door. Something attracted her attention.

  ‘A nice morning, miss,’ said the fresh-faced country girl brightly.

  Margaret nodded. As soon as the girl was gone she opened the door again to examine more closely the thing she had seen. It was a triangular patch of stuff that had been torn and caught in one of the splinters of the old oaken door. She took it off carefully and laid it in the palm of her hand. A jagged triangle of pink silk. She put it on her dressing-table wonderingly. There must be an end to this. If Ravini was not leaving that morning, or Mr Daver would not ask him to go, she would leave for London that night.

  As she left her room she met the housemaid.

  ‘That man in No. 7 has gone, miss,’ the woman reported, ‘but he’s left his pyjamas behind.’

  ‘Gone already?’

  ‘Must have gone last night, miss. His bed hasn’t been slept in.’

  Margaret followed her along the passage to Ravini’s room. His bag was gone, but on the pillow, neatly folded, was a suit of pink silk pyjamas, and, bending over, she saw that the breast was slightly torn. A little triangular patch of pink silk had been ripped out!

  Chapter 7

  When a nimble old man dropped from a high wall at midnight and, stopping only to wipe the blood from his hands – for he had come upon a guard patrolling the grounds in his flight – and walked briskly towards London, peering into every side lane for the small car that had been left for him, he brought a new complication into many lives and for three people at least marked the date of their passing in the Book of Fate.

  Police headquarters were not slow to employ the press to advertise their wants. But the escape from Broadmoor of a homicidal maniac is something which is not to be rushed immediately into print. Not once, but many times had the help of the public been enlisted in a vain endeavour to bring old John Flack to justice. His description had been circulated, his haunts notified, without there being any successful issue to the broadcast.

  There was a conference at Scotland Yard, which Mr Reeder attended; and they were five very serious men who gathered round the super­intendent’s desk, and mainly the talk was of bullion and of ‘noses’, by which inelegant term is meant the inevitable police informer.

  Crazy John ‘fell’ eventually through the treachery of an outside helper. Ravini, the most valuable of gang leaders, had been employed to ‘cover’ a robbery at the Leadenhall Bank. Bullion was John Flack’s speciality: it was not without its interest for Mr Ravini.

  The theft had been successful. One Sunday morning two cars drove out of the courtyard of the Leadenhall Bank. By the side of the driver of each car sat a man in the uniform of the Metropolitan Police – inside each car was another officer. A city policeman saw the cars depart, but accepted the presence of the uniformed men and did not challenge the drivers. It was not an unusual event: transfers of gold or stocks on Sunday morning had been witnessed before, but usually the City authorities were notified. He called Old Jewry station on the telephone to report the occurrence, but by this time John Flack was well away.

  It was Ravini, cheated, as he thought, of his fair share of the plunder, who betrayed the old man – the gold was never recovered.

  England had been ransacked to find John FIack’s headquarters, but without success. There was not an hotel or boarding-house keeper who had not received his portrait – nor one who recognised him in any guise.

  The exhaustive enquiries which followed his arrest did little to increase the knowledge of the police. FIack’s lodgings were found – a furnished room in Bloomsbury which he had occupied at rare inter­vals for years. But here were discovered no documents which gave the slightest clue to the real headquarters of the gang. Probably they had none. They were chosen and discarded as opportunity arose or emergency dictated, though it was clear that the old man had some­thing in the nature of a general staff to assist him.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Big Bill Gordon, Chief of the Big Five, ‘he’ll not start anything in the way of a bullion steal – his mind will be fully occupied with ways and means of getting out of the country.’

  It was Mr Reeder’s head which shook.

  ‘The nature of criminals may change, but their vanities persist,’ he said, in his precise, grandiloquent way. ‘Mr Flack does not pride himself upon his murders, but upon his robberies, and he will signify his return to freedom in the usual manner.’

  ‘His gang
is scattered –’ began Simpson. J. G. Reeder silenced him with a sad, sweet smile.

  ‘There is plenty of evidence, Mr Simpson, that the gang has co­agul­ated again. It is – um – an ugly word, but I can think of no better. Mr FIack’s escape from the – er – public institution where he was confined shows evidence of good team-work. The rope, the knife with which he killed the unfortunate warder, the kit of tools, the almost certainty that there was a car waiting to take him away, are all symptomatic of gang work. And what has Mr Flack –’

  ‘I wish to God you wouldn’t call him “Mr Flack”,’ said Big Bill explosively.

  J. G. Reeder blinked.

  ‘I have an ineradicable respect for age,’ he said in a hushed voice, ‘but a greater respect for the dead. I am hoping to increase my respect for Mr Flack in the course of the next month.’

  ‘If it’s gang work,’ interrupted Simpson, ‘who are with him? The old crowd is either gaoled or out of the country. I know what you’re thinking about, Mr Reeder: you’ve got your mind on what happened last night. I’ve been thinking it over, and it’s quite likely that the man-trap wasn’t fixed by Flack at all, but by one of the other crowd. Do you know Donovan’s out of Dartmoor? He has no reason for loving you.’

  Mr Reeder raised his hand in protest.

  ‘On the contrary, Joe Donovan, when I saw him in the early hours of this morning, was a very affable and penitent man, who deeply regretted the unkind things he said of me as he left the Old Bailey dock. He lives at Kilburn, and spent last evening at a local cinema with his wife and daughter – no, it wasn’t Donovan. He is not a brainy man. Only John Flack, with his dramatic sense, could have staged that little comedy which was so nearly a tragedy.’

  ‘You were nearly killed, they tell me, Reeder?’ said Big Bill.

  Mr Reeder shook his head.

  ‘I was not thinking of that particular tragedy. It was in my mind before I went up the stairs to force the door into the kitchen. If I had done that, I think I should have shot Mr Flack, and there would have been an end of all our speculations and troubles.’