The Mind of Mr. J. G. Reeder

by Edgar Wallace

  ‘Really?’ Mr Reeder was indeed interested. ‘Very good friends? Well, well!’

  ‘The Yard has put Miss Belman under general observation: there may be nothing to it, but in cases like Billingham’s it is very often a matter of cherchez la femme!’

  Mr Reeder had given his lip a rest and was now gently massaging his nose.

  ‘Dear me!’ he said. ‘That is a French expression, is it not?’

  He was not in court when the marble stealer was sternly admonished by the magistrate and discharged. All that interested Mr J G Reeder was to learn that the woman had paid the mason and had carried away her marble chips in triumph to the little detached residence in the Outer Circle of Regent’s Park. He had spent the morning at Somerset House, examining copies of wills and the like; his afternoon he gave up to the tracing of Mrs Rebecca Alamby Mary Welford.

  She was the relict of Professor John Welford of the University of Edinburgh, and had been left a widow after two years of marriage. She had then entered the service of Mrs Telfer, the mother of Sidney, and had sole charge of the boy from his fourth year. When Mrs Telfer died she had made the woman sole guardian of her youthful charge. So that Rebecca Welford had been by turns nurse and guardian, and was now in control of the young man’s establishment.

  The house occupied Mr Reeder’s attention to a considerable degree. It was a red-brick modern dwelling consisting of two floors and having a frontage on the Circle and a side road. Behind and beside the house was a large garden which, at this season of the year, was bare of flowers. They were probably in warm quarters for the winter, for there was a long greenhouse behind the garden.

  He was leaning over the wooden palings, eyeing the grounds through the screen of box hedge that overlapped the fence, when he saw a door open and the big woman come out. She was bare-armed and wore an apron. In one hand she carried a dust box, which she emptied into a concealed ashbin, in the other was a long broom.

  Mr Reeder moved swiftly out of sight. Presently the door slammed and he peered again. There was no evidence of a marble path. All the walks were of rolled gravel.

  He went to a neighbouring telephone booth, and called his office.

  ‘I may be away all day,’ he said.

  There was no sign of Mr Sidney Telfer, though the detective knew that he was in the house.

  Telfer’s Trust was in the hands of the liquidators, and the first meeting of creditors had been called. Sidney had, by all accounts, been confined to his bed, and from that safe refuge had written a note to his secretary asking that ‘all papers relating to my private affairs’ should be burnt. He had scrawled a postscript: ‘Can I possibly see you on business before I go?’ The word ‘go’ had been scratched out and ‘retire’ substituted. Mr Reeder had seen that letter – indeed, all correspondence between Sidney and the office came to him by arrangement with the liquidators. And that was partly why Mr J G Reeder was so interested in 904, The Circle.

  It was dusk when a big car drew up at the gate of the house. Before the driver could descend from his seat, the door of 904 opened, and Sidney Telfer almost ran out. He carried a suitcase in each hand, and Mr Reeder recognized that nearest him as the grip in which the housekeeper had carried the stolen marble.

  Reaching over, the chauffeur opened the door of the car. Sidney flung in the cases and followed hastily. The door closed, and the car went out of sight round the curve of the Circle.

  Mr Reeder crossed the road and took up a position very near the front gate, waiting.

  Dusk came and the veil of a Regent’s Park fog. The house was in darkness, no flash of light except a faint glimmer that burnt in the hail, no sound. The woman was still there – Mrs Sidney Telfer, nurse, companion, guardian and wife. Mrs Sidney Telfer: the hidden director of Telfers Consolidated, a masterful woman who, not content with marrying a weakling twenty years her junior, had applied her masterful but ill-equipped mind to the domination of a business she did not understand, and which she was destined to plunge into ruin. Mr Reeder had made good use of his time at the Records Office: a copy of the marriage certificate was almost as easy to secure as a copy of the will.

  He glanced round anxiously. The fog was clearing, which was exactly what he did not wish it to do, for he had certain acts to perform which required as thick a cloaking as possible.

  And then a surprising thing happened. A taxi came slowly along the road and stopped at the gate.

  ‘I think this is the place, miss,’ said the driver, and a girl stepped down to the pavement.

  It was Miss Margaret Belman.

  Reeder waited until she had paid the fare and the cab had gone, and then, as she walked towards the gate, he stepped from the shadow.

  ‘Oh! – Mr Reeder, how you frightened me!’ she gasped. ‘I’m going to see Mr Telfer – he is dangerously ill – no, it was his housekeeper who wrote asking me to come at seven.’

  ‘Did she now! Well, I will ring the bell for you.’

  She told him that that was unnecessary – she had the key which had come with the note.

  ‘She is alone in the house with Mr Telfer, who refuses to allow a trained nurse near him,’ said Margaret, ‘and–’

  ‘Will you be good enough to lower your voice, young lady?’ urged Mr Reeder in an impressive whisper. ‘Forgive the impertinence, but if our friend is ill–’

  She was at first startled by his urgency.

  ‘He couldn’t hear me,’ she said, but spoke in a lower tone.

  ‘He may – sick people are very sensitive to the human voice. Tell me, how did this letter come?’

  ‘From Mr Telfer? By district messenger an hour ago.’

  Nobody had been to the house or left it – except Sidney. And Sidney, in his blind fear, would carry out any instructions which his wife gave to him.

  ‘And did it contain a passage like this?’ Mr Reeder considered a moment. ‘“Bring this letter with you”?’

  ‘No,’ said the girl in surprise, ‘but Mrs Welford telephoned just before the letter arrived and told me to wait for it. And she asked me to bring the letter with me because she didn’t wish Mr Telfer’s private correspondence to be left lying around. But why do you ask me this, Mr Reeder – is anything wrong?’

  He did not answer immediately. Pushing open the gate, he walked noiselessly along the grass plot that ran parallel with the path.

  ‘Open the door, I will come in with you,’ he whispered and, when she hesitated: ‘Do as I tell you, please.’

  The hand that put the key into the lock trembled, but at last the key turned and the door swung open. A small nightlight burnt on the table of the wide panelled hall. On the left, near the foot of the stairs, only the lower steps of which were visible, Reeder saw a narrow door which stood open; he took a step forward and saw that it was a tiny telephone-room.

  And then a voice spoke from the upper landing, a deep, booming voice that he knew.

  ‘Is that Miss Belman?’

  Margaret, her heart beating faster, went to the foot of the stairs and looked up.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Welford.’

  ‘You brought the letter with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mr Reeder crept along the wall until he could have touched the girl.

  ‘Good,’ said the deep voice. ‘Will you call the doctor – Circle 7430 – and tell him that Mr Telfer has had a relapse – you will find the booth in the hall: shut the door behind you, the bell worries him.’

  Margaret looked at the detective and he nodded.

  The woman upstairs wished to gain time for something – what?

  The girl passed him: he heard the thud of the padded door close, and there was a click that made him spin round. The first thing he noticed was that there was no handle to the door, the second that the keyhole was covered by a steel disc, which he discovered later was felt-lin
ed. He heard the girl speaking faintly, and put his ear to the keyhole.

  ‘The instrument is disconnected – I can’t open the door.’

  Without a second’s hesitation, he flew up the stairs, umbrella in hand, and as he reached the landing he heard a door close with a crash. Instantly he located the sound. It came from a room on the left immediately over the hall. The door was locked.

  ‘Open this door,’ he commanded, and there came to him the sound of a deep laugh.

  Mr Reeder tugged at the stout handle of his umbrella. There was a flicker of steel as he dropped the lower end, and in his hand appeared six inches of knife blade.

  The first stab at the panel sliced through the thin wood as though it were paper. In a second there was a jagged gap through which the black muzzle of an automatic was thrust.

  ‘Put down that jug or I will blow your features into comparative chaos!’ said Mr Reeder pedantically.

  The room was brightly lit, and he could see plainly. Mrs Welford stood by the side of a big square funnel, the narrow end of which ran into the floor. In her hand was a huge enamelled jug, and ranged about her were six others. In one corner of the room was a wide circular tank, and beyond, at half its height, depended a large copper pipe.

  The woman’s face turned to him was blank, expressionless.

  ‘He wanted to run away with her,’ she said simply, ‘and after all I’ve done for him!’

  ‘Open the door.’

  Mrs Welford set down the jug and ran her huge hand across her forehead.

  ‘Sidney is my own darling,’ she said. ‘I’ve nursed him, and taught him, and there was a million – all in gold – in the ship. But they robbed him.’

  She was talking of one of the ill-fated enterprises of Telfers Consolidated Trust – that sunken treasure ship to recover which the money of the company had been poured out like water. And she was mad. He had guessed the weakness of this domineering woman from the first.

  ‘Open the door; we will talk it over. I’m perfectly sure that the treasure ship scheme was a sound one.’

  ‘Are you?’ she asked eagerly, and the next minute the door was open and Mr J G Reeder was in that room of death.

  ‘First of all, let me have the key of the telephone-room – you are quite wrong about that young lady: she is my wife.’

  The woman stared at him blankly.

  ‘Your wife?’ A slow smile transfigured the face. ‘Why – I was silly. Here is the key.’

  He persuaded her to come downstairs with him, and when the frightened girl was released, he whispered a few words to her, and she flew out of the house.

  ‘Shall we go into the drawing-room?’ he asked, and Mrs Welford led the way.

  ‘And now will you tell me how you knew – about the jugs?’ he asked gently.

  She was sitting on the edge of a sofa, her hands clasped on her knees, her deep-set eyes staring at the carpet.

  ‘John – that was my first husband – told me. He was a professor of chemistry and natural science, and also told me about the electric furnace. It is so easy to make if you have power – we use nothing but electricity in this house for heating and everything. And then I saw my poor darling being ruined through me, and I found how much money there was in the bank, and I told Billingham to draw it and bring it to me without Sidney knowing. He came here in the evening. I sent Sidney away – to Brighton, I think. I did everything – put the new lock on the telephone box and fixed the shaft from the roof to the little room – it was easy to disperse everything with all the doors open and an electric fan working on the floor–’

  She was telling him about the improvised furnace in the greenhouse when the police arrived with the divisional surgeon, and she went away with them, weeping because there would be nobody to press Sidney’s ties or put out his shirts.

  Mr Reeder took the inspector up to the little room and showed him its contents.

  ‘This funnel leads to the telephone box–’ he began.

  ‘But the jugs are empty,’ interrupted the officer.

  Mr J G Reeder struck a match and, waiting until it burnt freely, lowered it into the jug. Half an inch lower than the rim the light went out.

  ‘Carbon monoxide,’ he said, ‘which is made by steeping marble chips in hydrochloric acid – you will find the mixture in the tank. The gas is colourless and odourless – and heavy. You can pour it out of a jug like water. She could have bought the marble, but was afraid of arousing suspicion. Billingham was killed that way. She got him to go to the telephone box, probably closed the door on him herself, and then killed him painlessly.’

  ‘What did she do with the body?’ asked the horrified officer.

  ‘Come out into the hothouse,’ said Mr Reeder, ‘and pray do not expect to see horrors: an electric furnace will dissolve a diamond to its original elements.’

  Mr Reeder went home that night in a state of mental perturbation, and for an hour paced the floor of his large study in Brockley Road.

  Over and over in his mind he turned one vital problem: did he owe an apology to Margaret Belman for saying that she was his wife?

  Sheer Melodrama

  It was Mr Reeder who planned the raid on Tommy Fenalow’s snide shop and worked out all the details except the composition of the raiding force. Tommy had a depot at Golders Green whither trusted agents came, purchasing £1 Treasury notes for £7 10s. per hundred, or £70 a thousand. Only experts could tell the difference between Tommy’s currency and that authorized by and printed for HM Treasury. They were the right shades of brown and green, the numbers were of issued series, the paper was exact. They were printed in Germany at £3 a thousand, and Tommy made thousands per cent profit.

  Mr Reeder discovered all about Tommy’s depot in his spare time, and reported the matter to his chief, the Director of Public Prosecutions. From Whitehall to Scotland Yard is two minutes’ walk, and in just that time the information got across.

  ‘Take Inspector Greyash with you and superintend the raid,’ were his instructions.

  He left the inspector to make all the arrangements, and amongst those who learnt of the projected coup was a certain detective officer who made more money from questionable associations than he did from Government. This officer ‘blew’ the raid to Tommy, and when Mr Reeder and his bold men arrived at Golders Green, there was Tommy and three friends playing a quiet game of auction bridge, and the only Treasury notes discoverable were veritable old masters.

  ‘It is a pity,’ sighed J G when they reached the street; ‘a great pity. Of course I hadn’t the least idea that Detective-Constable Wilshore was in our party. He is – er – not quite loyal.’

  ‘Wilshore?’ asked the officer, aghast. ‘Do you mean he “blew” the raid to Tommy?’

  Mr Reeder scratched his nose and said gently, that he thought so.

  ‘He has quite a big income from various sources – by the way, he banks with the Midland and Derbyshire, and his account is in his wife’s maiden name. I tell you this in case – er – it may be useful.’

  It was useful enough to secure the summary ejection of the unfaithful Wilshore from the force, but it was not sufficiently useful to catch Tommy, whose parting words were: ‘You’re clever, Reeder; but you’ve got to be lucky to catch me!’

  Tommy was in the habit of repeating this scrap of conversation to such as were interested. It was an encounter of which he was justifiably proud, for few dealers in ‘slush’ and ‘snide’ have ever come up against Mr J G and got away with it.

  ‘It’s worth a thousand pounds to me – ten thousand! I’d pay that money to make J G look sick, anyway, the old dog! I guess the Yard will think twice before it tries to shop me again, and that’s the real kick in the raid. J G’s name is Jonah at headquarters, and if I can do anything to help, it will be mud!’

  To a certain Ras Lal, an honoured (
and paying) guest, Mr Fenalow told this story, with curious results.

  A good wine tastes best in its own country, and a man may drink sherry by the cask in Jerez de la Frontera and take no ill, whereas if he attempted so much as a bottle in Fleet Street, he would suffer cruelly. So also does the cigarette of Egypt preserve its finest bouquet for such as smoke it in the lounge of a Cairo hotel.

  Crime is yet another quantity which does not bear transplanting. The American safe blower may flourish in France just so long as he acquires by diligent study, and confines himself to, the Continental method. It is possible for the European thief to gain a fair livelihood in oriental countries, but there is no more tragic sight in the world than the Eastern mind endeavouring to adapt itself to the complexities of European roguery.

  Ras Lal enjoyed a reputation in Indian police circles as the cleverest native criminal India had ever produced. Beyond a short term in Poona Jail, Ras Lal had never seen the interior of a prison, and such was his fame in native circles that, during this short period of incarceration, prayers for his deliverance were offered at certain temples, and it was agreed that he would never have been convicted at all but for some pretty hard swearing on the part of a certain sahib – and anyway, all sahibs hang together.

  Ras Lal was a general practitioner of crime, with a leaning towards a specialization in jewel thefts. A man of excellent and even gentlemanly appearance, with black and shiny hair parted at the side and curling up over one brow in an inky wave, he spoke English, Hindi and Tamil very well indeed, had a sketchy knowledge of the law and a very full acquaintance with the science of precious stones.

  During Mr Ras Lal’s brief rest in Poona, the sahib, whose evidence had been so damning and whose unromantic name was Smith, married a not very good-looking girl with a lot of money. Smith Sahib knew that beauty was only skin-deep and she had a kind heart, which is notoriously preferable to the garniture of coronets. It was honestly a love match. Her father owned jute mills in Calcutta, and on festive occasions, such as the State Governor’s reception, she carried several lakhs of rupees on her person; but even rich people are loved for themselves alone.