Mr. J. G. Reeder Returns

by Edgar Wallace

  She looked at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.

  “But who were they?”

  Mr Reeder smiled.

  “I know two of them. The third may, of course, be the most dangerous of the trio, but I really don’t think he matters.”

  That morning there was a swift raid on the premises at 297 Lincoln’s Inn Fields, but the raiders arrived too late. They had to break open the door – the room was empty. Apparently there had been a considerable amount of destruction going on, for the gas fire had been dragged out of the hearth, and the original grate behind it was full of black paper. The test tubes had gone, and so had the manuscript which Mr Reeder had seen on the desk. Inquiries made on the premises produced very little in the way of information. Mr Jones had occupied his office for four years. He was believed to be a Swede, and he gave no trouble to anybody. Very few callers came. He paid his rent and his rates regularly and the only adverse criticism that was offered was that occasionally he used to sing in a strange language and in a stranger voice to the annoyance of the solicitor’s clerks who occupied an office immediately below him.

  Undoubtedly he drank. They found ten empty gin bottles in one cupboard and fourteen earthenware bottles in another.

  After the raid Mr Reeder took counsel with himself, and examined his motives in the most candid of lights. He had, he realised, sufficient evidence to produce most of the effects which were desirable. He sent for a file dealing with the bank crimes that had been recorded in the past two years, and very carefully he went over the names of the men who had vanished, and with them considerable sums of money.

  From his pocket he took the two keys which he had found in Reigate’s pocket. If he could find the lock for these, the matter would be developed to its end. Mr Reeder was very anxious that he himself should fit these keys to the right locks, the more so since he had seen, as he thought, a very likely lock in the shop building immediately behind the Strangers Club.

  He fought with himself for a long time. Starkly he arraigned his dramatic instincts before the bar of sane judgement, and in the end he condemned himself and sought an interview with the Chief Constable to detail his theories.

  The Chief Constable had eaten something which had not agreed with him. It was a prosaic explanation for a fall of a great man, but he was at home, in the doctor’s hands, and the Deputy Chief Constable occupied his chair.

  It was unfortunate that Mr Reeder and the Deputy Chief Constable had never seen eye to eye, and that there was between them an antagonism which can only be understood by those fortunate people who have worked in or watched the work of a great government department.

  The Deputy Chief was due for retirement. He had a grievance against the world, and every Superintendent and Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard had a grievance against him.

  He was a little man, very bald, thin of face, and thinner of mind, and it was his boast that he belonged to the old school. It was so old that it had fallen down – if the truth be told.

  When Mr Reeder had detailed his theories, “My dear fellow,” said the Deputy Chief Constable, “up to a point I am with you. But I will not accept – I never have accepted – the master criminal theory in any case with which I have been associated. There is a great temptation to fall for that romantic idea, but it doesn’t work out. In the first place, there’s no loyalty between criminals and therefore there can be no discipline, as we understand discipline. If the man is what you think, he could not command implicit obedience, and certainly in this country he could not find people to carry out his instructions without regard to their own safety. The other idea is, of course, fantastical. I happen to know all about the Strangers Club. It is extraordinarily well conducted and every Thursday there is a series of lectures in the basement lecture hall: they have been given by some of the greatest scientists in this country. Dr Jansen has an international reputation–”

  Mr Reeder was staring at him owlishly. In his soul there was a fierce, malignant joy.

  “There can be no question or doubt that there is quite a lot in your theory,” the Deputy Chief Constable went on; “but I could not advise action being taken until we have made very careful observations and there’s no chance of our making a mistake. Personally, the fact that two men who were defaulting cashiers have been killed, suggests to me that there was a little gang operating in each case, and that somebody has tried to double-cross them.”

  “And the silk pyjamas?” murmured Mr Reeder.

  The Deputy Chief was not prepared to explain the silk pyjamas.

  It seemed to Mr Reeder that the two Chief Inspectors, who were present at this interview, were not so completely happy about the matter as was their superior.

  “As it is,” that gentleman went on (he was the type of man who always had an afterthought, and insisted upon expressing it), “we may have got into very serious trouble in raiding the office of Mr Jones. I’ve been inquiring into the Benevolent Brotherhood, and they are most highly recommended by bishops and other important persons of the church. No, Mr Reeder, I don’t think I can go any further in this matter in the lamentable absence of the Chief Constable and, anyhow, a day or two more or less isn’t going to make any difference.”

  “Does it occur to you,” asked Mr Reeder gently, “that two men have been killed, there is quite a possibility of another seven going the way of all flesh?”

  The Deputy smiled. That was all – he just smiled.

  Outside, in the corridor, one of the Chief Inspectors overtook Mr Reeder.

  “Of course he’s all wrong,” he said, “and I’m going to take the responsibility of covering whatever work you do.”

  Mr Reeder made an appointment for the Chief Inspector to meet him after dinner, and alone he went back to the Strangers Club, carefully avoiding the front. There was nobody in sight and he moved carefully along the wall, until he came to a small door, inserted first one key and then the other. At the twist of the second the door opened noiselessly.

  Mr Reeder drooped his head and listened. There was no sound. He had expected at least to hear a bell. Taking a torch from his trousers pocket, he sent a beam into the dark corridor. It was a little wider than he had expected and terminated, so far as he could see, with a flight of stairs which led up round a bend out of sight. On the left-hand side there was a wide door in the wall. He shone the torch upwards and saw a powerful light fixed to the ceiling, but there was no sign of a switch; presumably the light was operated from upstairs. He closed the door carefully, tried the second key on the bigger door, but this time without success.

  At the appointed time he met Chief Inspector Dance and told him what he had discovered. They sat for over an hour in Mr Reeder’s room, discussing plans. At nine o’clock the Inspector left, and Mr Reeder opened the safe in the office, took out a heavy Browning and loaded it with the greatest care. He pushed every cartridge into the chamber and out again, added a touch of oil here and there and finally, slipping a spare magazine into his waistcoat pocket, he pressed up the safety catch of the Browning and pushed the pistol behind the lapel of his tightly fitting coat.

  The night commissionaire saw him go out, wearing one big yellow glove on his left hand and carrying the other. His hat was set at a jaunty angle and there was about him that liveliness which was only discernible in this very quiet man when trouble was in the offing. To his left wrist he had strapped a large watch, and as the hands pointed to twenty minutes to ten he walked almost jauntily up the steps of the Strangers Club, passed through the swing door and smiled genially at the porter.

  That functionary was tall and broad-shouldered; he had a large round head and a wooden expression.

  “Whom do you want?” he asked curtly.

  Evidently the servants at the Strangers Club, though they might be handpicked for some qualities, were not chosen either for their good manners or their finesse.

  “I would l
ike to see Dr Jansen. He did me the honour to call at my office – my name is Reeder.”

  7

  For a perceptible moment of time he saw a light dawn and die in the dull eyes of the hall porter.

  “Why, surely!” he said. “I think the doctor is dining here tonight, Mr Reeder, and he’ll be glad to see you.”

  He went to a telephone and pressed a knob.

  “It’s Mr Reeder, doctor… Yeh? He just dropped in to see you.”

  What the man at the other end of the ’phone said – and he said it at some length – it was impossible to overhear, but Reeder saw the man step back a little so that he could look through the glass doors into the street outside.

  “No, that’s all right, doctor,” he said. “Mr Reeder is by himself. You haven’t got a friend, Mr Reeder? Maybe you’d like to invite him in?”

  Mr Reeder shook his head.

  “I have no friend,” he said sadly. “It’s one of the tragedies of my life that I have never been able to make friends.”

  The man was puzzled. Obviously he had heard a great deal of this redoubtable gentleman from the Public Prosecutor’s office, and he was not quite sure of his ground. He gave Mr Reeder a long, scrutinising glance, in which any antagonism there might have been was swamped by genuine curiosity. It was almost as though he doubted the evidence of his eyes.

  Evidently somebody called him urgently at the other end of the wire, for he turned suddenly.

  “That’s all right, doctor. I’ll bring him right up. Will you leave your coat here?”

  Mr Reeder regarded him with a pained expression.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I fear I might be cold.”

  At the far end of the hall there was a door. The janitor opened it, switched on the light and disclosed a comfortable little elevator. Mr Reeder stepped in and turned so quickly that he might have gone in backwards. He had expected the porter to follow. Instead the man closed the door. There was a click and a gentle whirr and the lift shot upwards. It went up two storeys and then stopped, and the doors opened automatically – and there was Dr Jansen, very genial, very prosperous-looking in his evening dress and his heavy gold watch guard, with an outstretched hand like a leg of mutton.

  “I am most pleased to meet you again, Mr Reeder. It is a great honour. You will follow me, sir?”

  He went ahead, down a narrow passage, then, turning to the right, descended two flights of stairs, which, so far as Reeder could judge, brought him to the first floor. It was obvious that from the first floor which the elevator had passed there was no communication with this part of the building. It was almost unnecessary for the doctor to explain this.

  He opened a door and disclosed a beautifully furnished room. It was long and narrow. A heavy pile carpet was laid over a rubber foundation, and the visitor had the sensation that he was walking on springs.

  “My little sanctum,” said Dr Jansen. “What do you drink, Mr Reeder?”

  Mr Reeder looked round helplessly.

  “Milk?” he suggested, and not a muscle of the big man’s face moved.

  “Why, yes, we can give you that even.”

  Raising his voice:

  “Send a glass of milk for Mr Reeder,” he said. “I have a microphonic telephone in my room. It saves much trouble,” he added. “But you would maybe like me to shut it off?”

  He turned a switch near the big Empire desk which stood in an alcove.

  “Now you can talk and say just what you like, and nobody is going to listen to you. You will take your glove off, Mr Reeder?”

  “I’m only staying a few minutes,” said Mr Reeder gravely. “I wanted to see you about certain statements that have been made and which in some way suggest that this club is associated with a benevolent society run by an old gentleman called Jones.”

  Jansen chuckled. Whatever else he was, he was a good actor.

  “Why, ’ow strange!” he said. “I know this Jones. In fact, I ’ave kept the old man alive. Is crazy, that benevolent society! But you know, Mr Reeder, it is quite genuine. Some people get a lot of money out of those poor men who live in the south of France.”

  Mr Reeder inclined his head gravely.

  “It has that appearance. In fact, I was speaking with the Chief Constable tonight. We were discussing whether there was anything sinister – if I may use that expression – about the society, and he took the view that it was quite genuine. I am perfectly satisfied in my own mind that the brotherhood is responsible for giving quite a lot of money to people who felt an urgent need for it.”

  Jansen was watching him, projecting his mind into Reeder’s, taking his point of view – Mr Reeder knew it.

  “The whole thing arose out of a discovery of an unfortunate young man named Reigate,” Mr Reeder continued. “He was shot at my door and after his death there was found in a notebook an advertisement of this brotherhood. That, and one or two other curious circumstances… Oh, yes, I remember, two keys we found in his desk, gave the case a rather mysterious aspect.”

  Mr Reeder was suffering under a great disadvantage. By a curious trick of mind he had entirely forgotten the excuse on which Jansen had called at the Public Prosecutor’s office. Such a thing had happened once before, and he was as a man who was walking over a bridge from which one plank was missing.

  “This man Hallaty now,” began Jansen, and in a flash the reason for the call was revealed. “You remember, Mr Reeder, the man who owes me money, and who is in Holland.”

  “He returned,” said Mr Reeder gravely. “He was found shot in Essex. Probably he had come back from the Hook of Holland to Harwich, and now–”

  There was a tinkle of a bell and Dr Jansen opened a panel in the wall which hid a small service lift, and took out a glass of milk.

  Mr Reeder sipped at it gently. He had a palate of extraordinary keenness, and would have detected instantly the presence in that harmless fluid of any quantity which was not so harmless, but the milk tasted like milk. He took a longer sip and put it down, and he thought he saw in the face of Dr Jansen just a hint of relief.

  “And now, doctor, I am going to ask you a great favour. I am going to ask you to show me round your club, about which I have heard so much.”

  The smile left the doctor’s face.

  “That I’m afraid I cannot do. In the first place, it is not my club, and in the second, it is one of the rules of this establishment, Mr Reeder, that there should be no intrusion on the privacy of members.”

  “Of whom you have how many?”

  “Six hundred and three.”

  Mr Reeder nodded.

  “I have seen the list,” he said. “They are mainly honorary members who are admitted to the ground floor for your lectures. I’ve yet to have the satisfaction of seeing a list – um – of your members.”

  Jansen looked at him thoughtfully.

  “Why then,” he said, “come along and meet them.” He walked past Mr Reeder, opened the door and stood aside for his guest to pass.

  “Maybe you would like me to go first?” he said, with a smile, and Reeder knew that war had been declared, and followed him up the stairs. Again they were in the long corridor, and presently the doctor stood by the door of the lift, and pressed a bell. When the lift came up it was to all appearances the same elevator that he had seen before. It had the same black and white tiled floor, and yet Mr Reeder had a feeling that it was a little newer, a little cleaner than when he had seen it last.

  As his foot touched the floor, he felt it give under him. Throwing the full weight upon his right leg, he sprang backwards. He heard something swish past his head. There was a crash where the short leaden club struck, and, recovering his balance, Reeder lashed out with his gloved hand. Dr Jansen went down like a log, no remarkable circumstance – for under Mr Reeder’s glove was a knuckleduster.

  Fo
r a moment he stood, automatic in hand, looking down at the dazed man at his feet. Jansen blinked up at him, and made a movement to rise.

  “You can get up,” said Reeder; “but you’ll keep your hands away.”

  Then all the lights went out.

  The detective stepped back quickly, so quickly that he collided with somebody, who was behind him. Again he struck out, but this time missed. He was deafened by the bang of an explosion. He was so close to the pistol that the powder stung his cheek. Twice he fired in the direction of the flash and then he suddenly lost consciousness. He did not feel the blow that hit him, but went painlessly down into oblivion.

  “Put on the lights now, Jansen. Has he hit anybody?”

  The lights went up suddenly. The bullet-headed porter was looking stupidly at a wrist and arm that were red with blood.

  A shorter edition of the porter came into view round the angle of the corridor, and looked at the senseless detective.

  “Help me get him into the cubby, Jansen.”

  Jansen only stopped to inspect the wound of the hall porter.

  “There’s nothing to it,” he said. “Bind it up with your handkerchief. It’s just a scratch. Gee, you’re lucky, Fred!”

  He turned his attention to the senseless man. There was neither malice nor anger, but rather admiration in his glance.

  “Help me get him into the cubby,” he said.

  In reality he needed no help. He was a man of extraordinary strength. Stooping, he lifted the unconscious Reeder, dragged him through the passage into a little room, and dropped him into a chair.

  “He’s OK,” he said.

  The little man, who had come from the passage, looked at the detective with an expression of amazement.

  “Is that the bull?” he said incredulously.

  Jansen nodded.

  “That’s the bull,” he said grimly. “And don’t laugh, Baldy. That guy’s got more men in stir than any other fellow that ever broke from the pen.”