The Mind of Mr. J. G. Reeder

by Edgar Wallace

  The Director was thoughtful.

  ‘Of course, you induced this man Kohl to dig up the hearth by pretending you had money buried there. I presume you revealed that fact in your notebook? But why on earth did he imagine that you had a hidden treasure?’

  Mr Reeder smiled sadly.

  ‘The criminal mind is a peculiar thing,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘It harbours illusions and fairy stories. Fortunately, I understand that mind. As I have often said–’

  The Troupe

  There was a quietude and sedateness about the Public Prosecutor’s office which completely harmonized with the tastes and inclinations of Mr J G Reeder. For he was a gentleman who liked to work in an office where the ticking of a clock was audible and the turning of a paper produced a gentle disturbance.

  He had before him one morning the typewritten catalogue of Messrs Willoby, the eminent estate agents, and he was turning the leaves with a thoughtful expression. The catalogue was newly arrived, a messenger having only a few minutes before placed the portfolio on his desk.

  Presently he smoothed down a leaf and read again the flattering description of a fairly unimportant property, and his scrutiny was patently a waste of time, for, scrawled on the margin of the sheet in red ink was the word Let, which meant that ‘Riverside Bower’ was not available for hire. The ink was smudged, and Let had obviously been written that morning.

  ‘Humph!’ said Mr Reeder.

  He was interested for many reasons. In the heat of July riverside houses are at a premium: at the beginning of November they are somewhat of a drug on the market. And transatlantic visitors do not as a rule hire riverside cottages in a month which is chiefly distinguished by mists, rain and general discomfort.

  Two reception: two bedrooms: bath, large dry cellars, lawn to river, small skiff and punt. Gas and electric light. Ten guineas weekly or would be let for six months at eight guineas.

  He pulled his telephone towards him and gave the agents’ number.

  ‘Let, is it – dear me! To an American gentleman? When will it be available?’

  The new tenant had taken the house for a month. Mr Reeder was even more intrigued, though his interest in the ‘American gentleman’ was not quite as intensive as the American gentleman’s interest in Mr Reeder.

  When the great Art Lomer came on a business trip from Canada to London, a friend and admirer carried him off one day to see the principal sight of London.

  ‘He generally comes out at lunch time,’ said the friend, who was called ‘Cheep’, because his name was Sparrow.

  Mr Lomer looked up and down Whitehall disparagingly, for he had seen so many cities of the world that one seemed as good as the others.

  ‘There he is!’ whispered Cheep, though there was no need for mystery or confidence.

  A middle-aged man had come out of one of the narrow doorways of a large grey building. On his head was a black hat; his body was tightly encased in an ill-fitting black coat and striped trousers. A weakish man with yellowy-white side-whiskers.

  ‘Him?’ demanded the amazed Art.

  ‘Him,’ said the other, incorrectly but with emphasis. ‘Is that the kind of guy you’re scared about? You’re crazy. Why, that man couldn’t catch a cold! Now, back home in T’ronto–’

  Art was proud of his home town, and in that spirit of expansiveness which paints even the unpleasant features of One’s Own with the most attractive hues, he had even a good word to say about the Canadian Police – a force which normally, and in a local atmosphere, he held in the greatest detestation.

  Art ‘operated’ – he never employed a baser word – from Toronto, which, by its proximity to Buffalo and the United States border, gave him certain advantages. He had once ‘operated’ in Canada itself, but his line at that period being robbery of a kind which is necessarily accompanied by assault, he had found himself facing a Canadian magistrate, and a Canadian magistrate wields extraordinary powers. Art had been sent down for five years. Thereafter he cut out violence and confined himself to the formation of his troupe – and Art Lomer’s troupe was famous from the Atlantic to the Pacific.

  He had been plain Arthur Lomer when he was rescued from a London gutter and a career of crime and sent to Canada, the charitable authorities being under the impression that Canada was rather short of juvenile criminals.

  ‘I’ll tell the world you fellows want waking up! So that’s your Reeder? Well, if Canada and the United States was full of goats like him, I’d pack more dollars in one month than Hollywood pays in ten years. Yes, sir. Listen, does that guy park a clock?’

  His guide was a little dazed.

  ‘Does he wear a watch? Sure, a pocket one.’

  Mr Art Lomer nodded.

  ‘Wait – I’ll bring it back to you in five minutes – I’m goin’ to show you sump’n.’

  It was the maddest fool thing he had ever done in his life; he was in London on business, and was jeopardizing a million dollars for the sake of the cheap applause of a man for whose opinion he did not care a cent.

  Mr Reeder was standing nervously on the sidewalk, waiting for what he described as ‘the vehicular traffic’ to pass, when a strange man bumped against him.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the stranger.

  ‘Not at all,’ murmured Mr Reeder. ‘My watch is five minutes fast – you can see the correct time by Big Ben.’

  Mr Lomer felt a hand dip into his coat pocket, saw, like one hypnotized, the watch go back to J G Reeder’s pocket.

  ‘Over here for long?’ asked Mr Reeder pleasantly.

  ‘Why – yes.’

  ‘It’s a nice time of the year,’ said Mr Reeder. ‘But the country is not quite so beautiful as Canada in the fall. How is Leoni?’

  Art Lomer did not faint; he swayed slightly and blinked hard, as if he were trying to wake up. Leoni was the proprietor of that little restaurant in Buffalo which was the advanced base of those operations so profitable to Art and his friends.

  ‘Leoni? Say, mister–’

  ‘And the troupe – are they performing in England or – er – resting? I think that is the word.’

  Art gaped at the other. On Mr Reeder’s face was an expression of solicitude and inquiry. It was as though the well-being of the troupe was an absorbing preoccupation.

  ‘Say – listen–’ began Art huskily.

  Before he could collect his thoughts, Reeder was crossing the road with nervous glances left and right, his umbrella gripped tightly in his hand.

  ‘I guess I’m crazy,’ said Mr Lomer, and walked back very slowly to where he had left his anxious cicerone.

  ‘No – he got away before I could touch him,’ he said briefly, for he had his pride. ‘Come along, we’ll get some eats, it’s nearly twel–’

  He looked at his wrist, but his watch was gone! Mr Reeder could be heavily jocular on occasions.

  ‘Art Lomer – is there anything against him?’ asked the Director of Public Prosecutions, whose servant Mr J G Reeder was.

  ‘No, there is no complaint here. I have come into – er – possession of a watch of his, which I find, by reference to my private file, was stolen in Cleveland five years ago – it’s in the police file of that date. Only – um – it seems remarkable that this gentleman should be in London at the end of the tourist season.’

  The Director pursed his lips dubiously.

  ‘M – m. Tell the people at the Yard. He doesn’t belong to us. What’s his speciality?’

  ‘He’s a troupe leader – I think that is the term. Mr Lomer was once associated with a theatrical company in – er – a humble capacity.’

  ‘You mean he’s an actor?’ asked the puzzled Director.

  ‘Ye-es, sir; a producer rather than actor. I have heard about his troupe, though I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing them perform. A talented comp
any.’

  He sighed heavily and shook his head.

  ‘I don’t quite follow you about the troupe. How did this watch come into your possession, Reeder?’

  Mr Reeder nodded.

  ‘That was a little jest on my part,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘A little jest.’

  The Director knew Mr Reeder too well to pursue the subject.

  Lomer was living at the Hotel Calfort, in Bloomsbury. He occupied an important suite for, being in the position of a man who was after big fish, he could not cavil at the cost of the ground bait. The big fish had bitten much sooner than Art Lomer had dared to hope. Its name was Bertie Claude Staffen, and the illustration was apt, for there was something very fishlike about this young man with his dull eyes and his permanently opened mouth.

  Bertie’s father was rich beyond the dreams of actresses. He was a pottery manufacturer, who bought cotton mills as a sideline, and he had made so much money that he never hired a taxi if he could take a bus, and never took a bus if he could walk. In this way he kept his liver (to which he frequently referred) in good order and hastened the degeneration of his heart.

  Bertie Claude had inherited all his father’s meanness and such of his money as was not left to faithful servants, orphan homes and societies for promoting the humanities, which meant that Bertie inherited almost every penny. He had the weak chin and sloping forehead of an undeveloped intellect, but he knew there were twelve pennies to a shilling and that one hundred cents equalled one dollar, and that is more knowledge than the only sons of millionaires usually acquire.

  He had one quality which few would suspect in him: the gift of romantic dreaming. When Mr Staffen was not occupied in cutting down overhead charges or speeding up production, he loved to sit at his ease, a cigarette between his lips, his eyes half closed, and picture himself in heroic situations. Thus, he would imagine dark caves stumbled upon by accident, filled with dusty boxes bulging with treasure; or he saw himself at Monte Carlo Casino, with immense piles of mille notes before him, won from fabulously rich Greeks, Armenians – in fact, anybody who is fabulously rich. Most of his dreams were about money in sufficient quantities to repay him for the death duties on his father’s estate which had been iniquitously wrung from him by thieving revenue officers. He was a very rich man, but ought to be richer – this was his considered view.

  When Bertie Claude arrived at the Calfort Hotel and was shown into Art’s private sitting-room, he stepped into a world of heady romance. For the big table in the centre of the room was covered with specimens of quartz of every grade, and they had been recovered from a brand-new mine located by Art’s mythical brother and sited at a spot which was known only to two men, one of whom was Art Lomer and the other Bertie Claude Staffen.

  Mr Staffen took off his light overcoat and, walking to the table, inspected the ore with sober interest.

  ‘I’ve had the assay,’ he said. ‘The Johnny who did it is a friend of mine and didn’t charge a penny; his report is promising – very promising.’

  ‘The company–’ began Art, but Mr Staffen raised a warning finger.

  ‘I think you know, and it is unnecessary for me to remind you, that I do not intend speculating a dollar in this mine. I’m putting up no money. What I’m prepared to do is to use my influence in the promotion for a quid pro quo. You know what that means?’

  ‘Something for nothing!’ said Art, and in this instance was not entirely wide of the mark.

  ‘Well, no – stock in the company. Maybe I’ll take a directorship later, when the money is up and everything is plain sailing. I can’t lend my name to a – well, unknown quantity.’

  Art agreed.

  ‘My friend has put up the money,’ he said easily. ‘If that guy had another hundred dollars he’d have all the money in the world – he’s that rich. Stands to reason, Mr Staffen, that I wouldn’t come over here tryin’ to get money from a gentleman who is practically a stranger. We met in Canada – sure we did! But what do you know about me? I might be one large crook – I might be a con man or anything!’

  Some such idea had occurred to Bertie Claude, but the very frankness of his friend dispelled something of his suspicions.

  ‘I’ve often wondered since what you must have thought of me, sittin’ in a game with that bunch of thugs,’ Art went on, puffing a reflective cigar. ‘But I guess you said to yourself, “This guy is a man of the world – he’s gotta mix.” An’ that’s true. In these Canadian mining camps you horn in with some real tough boys – yes, sir. They’re sump’n’ fierce.’

  ‘I quite understood the position,’ said Bertie Claude, who hadn’t. ‘I flatter myself I know men. If I haven’t shown that in Homo Sum then I’ve failed in expression.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Mr Lomer lazily, and added another ‘Sure!’ to ram home the first. ‘That’s a pretty good book. When you give it to me at King Edward Hotel I thought it was sump’n’ about arithmetic. But ’tis mighty good poetry, every line startin’ with big letters an’ the end of every line sounding like the end word in the line before. I said to my secretary, “That Mr Staffen must have a brain.” How you get the ideas beats me. That one about the princess who comes out of a clam–’

  ‘An oyster – she was the embodiment of the pearl,’ Bertie hastened to explain. ‘You mean The White Maiden?’

  Lomer nodded lazily.

  ‘That was great. I never read poetry till I read that; it just made me want to cry like a great big fool! If I had your gifts I wouldn’t be loafin’ round Ontario prospecting. No, sir.’

  ‘It is a gift,’ said Mr Staffen after thought. ‘You say you have the money for the company?’

  ‘Every cent. I’m not in a position to offer a single share – that’s true. Not that you need worry about that. I’ve reserved a few from promotion. No, sir, I never had any intention of allowing you to pay a cent.’

  He knocked off the ash of his cigar and frowned.

  ‘You’ve been mighty nice to me, Mr Staffen,’ he said slowly, ‘and though I don’t feel called upon to tell every man my business, you’re such an honest fellow that I feel sort of confident about you. This mine means nothing.’

  Bertie Claude’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘I don’t quite get you,’ he said.

  Art’s smile was slow and a little sad.

  ‘Doesn’t it occur to you that if I’ve got the capital for that property, it was foolish of me to take a trip to Europe?’

  Bertie had certainly wondered why.

  ‘Selling that mine was like selling bars of gold. It didn’t want any doing; I could have sold it if I’d been living in the Amaganni Forest. No, sir, I’m here on business that would make your hair stand up if you knew.’

  He rose abruptly and paced the room with quick, nervous strides, his brow furrowed in thought.

  ‘You’re a whale of a poet,’ he said suddenly. ‘Maybe you’ve got more imagination than most people. What does the mine mean for me? A few hundred thousand dollars’ profit.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘What are you doing on Wednesday?’

  The brusqueness of the question took Bertie Claude aback.

  ‘On Wednesday? Well, I don’t know that I’m doing anything.’

  Mr Lomer bit his lip thoughtfully.

  ‘I’ve got a little house on the river. Come down and spend a night with me, and I’ll let you into a secret that the newspapers would give a million dollars to know. If you read it in a book you wouldn’t believe it. Maybe one day you can write it. It would take a man with your imagination to put it over. Say, I’ll tell you now.’

  And then, with some hesitation, Mr Lomer told his story.

  ‘Politics, and all that, I know nothing about. But I do know that some of the royalty that’ve been kicked out have been feeling the pinch and there’s one from one country – no names. My interest in the place was about
the same as yours in Piketown, Saskatchewan, but about six months ago I met up with a couple of these people. They came out of the United States in a hurry, with a sheriff’s posse behind them, and I happened to be staying on a farm near the border when they turned up. And what do you think they’d been doing?’

  Mr Staffen shook his head.

  ‘Peddling emeralds,’ said the other soberly.

  ‘Emeralds? Peddling? What do you mean – trying to sell emeralds?’

  Art nodded.

  ‘Yes, sir. One had a paper bag full of ’em, all sizes. I bought the lot for twelve thousand dollars, took ’em down to T’ronto and got them valued at something under a million dollars.’

  Bertie Claude was listening open-mouthed.

  ‘These fellows had been peddlin’ jewellery for four years. Some broken-down Prince was acting as agent for the others – I didn’t ask questions too closely, because naturally I’m not inquisitive.’

  He leant forward and tapped the other’s knee to emphasize his words.

  ‘The stuff I bought wasn’t a twentieth of their stock. I sent them back for the rest of the loot, and they’re due here next week.’

  ‘Twenty million dollars!’ gasped Bertie Claude. ‘What will it cost you?’

  ‘A million dollars – over three hundred thousand pounds. Come down to my place at Marlow, and I’ll show you the best emeralds you ever saw – all that I’ve got left, as a matter of fact. I sold the biggest part to a Pittsburg millionaire for – well, I won’t give you the price, because you’ll think I robbed him! If you like one stone you see – why, I’ll let you buy it, though I don’t want to sell. Naturally, I couldn’t make profit out of a friend.’