MR. J. G. REEDER SERIES: 5 Mystery Novels & 4 Detective Stories. Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
hands. They sold it after the war, when they closed down so many of these little prisons. The policy now is to enlarge the bigger places and cut out these expensive little boobs that cost money to staff. They closed Hereford Jail in the same way, and half a dozen others, I should think. So you needn’t bother about Keytown,” he smiled bleakly. “One of your criminal acquaintances has been warning you, I guess?”
“You’ve guessed right,” said Johnny, and advanced no information, knowing that, if Craig continued his walk, he would sooner or later see the toy pedlar.
“Mr. Jeffrey Legge is making a good recovery,” said the detective, changing the subject: “and there are great rejoicings at Scotland Yard. If there is one man we want to keep alive until he is hanged in a scientific and lawful manner, it is Mr. Jeffrey Legge. I know what you’re going to say – we’ve got nothing on him. That is true. Jeffrey has been too clever for us. He has got his father skinned to death in that respect. He makes no mistakes – a rare quality in a forger; he carries no ‘slush,’ keeps none in his lodgings. I can tell you that, because we’ve pulled him in twice on suspicion, and searched him from occiput to tendo achilles. Forgive the anatomical terms, but anatomy is my hobby. Hallo!”
He was looking across the street at a figure which was not unfamiliar to Johnny. Mr. Reeder wore a shabby frockcoat and a somewhat untidy silk hat on the back of his head. Beneath his arm he carried a partially furled umbrella. His hands, covered in grey cotton gloves (at a distance Johnny thought they were suede), were clasped behind him. His spectacles were, as usual, so far down his nose that they seemed in danger of slipping over.
“Do you know that gentleman?”
“Man named Reeder, isn’t it? He’s a ‘busy’.”
Craig’s lips twitched.
“He’s certainly a ‘busy ‘of sorts,” he said dryly, “but not of our sort.”
“He is a bank-man, isn’t he?” asked Johnny, watching Mr. Reeder’s slow and awkward progress.
“He is in the employ of the bank,” said the detective, “and he’s not such a fool as he looks. I happen to know. He was down seeing young Legge yesterday. I was curious enough to put a man on to trail him. And he knows more about young Legge than I gave him credit for.”
When Johnny parted from the detective, Mr. Reeder had passed out of sight. Crossing Piccadilly Circus, however, he saw the elderly man waiting in a bus queue, and interestedly stood and watched him until the bus arrived and Mr. Reeder boarded the machine and disappeared into its interior. As the bus drew away, Johnny raised his eyes to the destination board and saw that it was Victoria.
“I wonder,” said Johnny, speaking his thought aloud.
For Victoria is the railway station for Horsham.
Chapter XXI
Mr. Reeder descended from the bus at Victoria Station, bought a third-class return ticket to Horsham, and, going on to the bookstall, purchased a copy of the Economist and the Poultry World, and, thus fortified for the journey, passed through the barrier, and finding an empty carriage, ensconced himself in one corner. From thence onward, until the train drew into Horsham Station, he was apparently alternately absorbed in the eccentricities of Wyandottes and the fluctuations of the mark.
There were many cabs at the station, willing and anxious to convey him to his destination for a trifling sum; but apparently Mr. Reeder was deaf to all the urgent offers which were made to him, for he looked through the taximen, or over their heads, as though there were no such things as grim mechanicians or drivers of emaciated horses; and, using his umbrella as a walkingstick, he set out to walk the distance intervening between the station and Peter Kane’s residence.
Peter was in his snuggery, smoking a meditative cigar, when Barney came in with the news.
“There’s an old guy wants to see you, Peter. I don’t know who he is, but he says his name’s Reeder.”
Peter’s brows met.
“Reeder?” he said sharply. “What sort of man is he?”
“An old fellow,” said Barney. “Too shaky for a ‘busy’. He looks as if he’s trying to raise subscriptions for the old chapel organ.”
It was not an unfair description, as Peter knew.
“Bring him here, Barney, and keep your mouth shut. And bear in mind that this is the busiest ‘busy’ you are ever likely to meet.”
“A copper?” said Barney incredulously.
Peter nodded.
“Where’s Marney?” he asked quickly.
“Up in her boojar,” said Barney with relish. “She’s writing letters. She wrote one to Johnny. It started ‘Dear old boy’.”
“How do you know?” asked Peter sharply.
“Because I read it,” said Barney without shame. “I’m a pretty good reader: I can read things upside down, owing to me having been in the printing business when I was a kid.”
“Bring in Mr. Reeder,” interrupted Peter ominously. “And remember, Barney, that if ever I catch you reading anything of mine upside down, you will be upside down! And don’t argue.”
Barney left the room, uttering a mechanical defiance which such threats invariably provoked.
Mr. Reeder came in, his shabby hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, and a look of profound unhappiness on his face.
“Good morning, Mr. Kane,” he said, laying down his impedimenta. “What a beautiful morning it is for a walk! It is a sin and a shame to be indoors on a day like this. Give me a garden, with roses, if I may express a preference, and just a faint whiff of heliotrope…”
“You’d like to see me in the garden, eh?” said Peter. “Perhaps you’re wise.”
Barney, his inquisitive ears glued to the keyhole, cursed softly.
“I was in a garden yesterday,” murmured Mr. Reeder, as they walked across the lawn toward the sunken terraces. “Such a lovely garden! One bed was filled with blue flowers. There is something about a blue flower that brings a lump into my throat. Rhododendrons infuriate me: I have never understood why. There is that about a clump of rhododendrons which rouses all that is evil in my nature. Daffodils, on the other hand, and especially daffodils intermingled with hyacinths, have a most soothing effect upon me. The garden to which I refer had the added attraction of being on the edge of the sea – a veritable Garden of Eden, Mr. Kane, although “ – -he wagged his head from side to side disparagingly – “there were more snakes than is customary. There was a snake in a chair, and a snake who was posting letters in the village, and another official snake who was hiding behind a clump of bushes and had followed me all the way from London – sent, I think, by that misguided gentleman, Mr. Craig.”
“Where were you, Mr. Reeder?”
“At a seaside villa, a beautiful spot. A truly earthly paradise,” sighed Mr. Reeder. “The very place an intelligent man would go to if he were convalescent, and the gentleman on the chair was certainly convalescent.”
“You saw Jeff Legge, eh? Sit down.”
He pointed to the marble bench where Johnny had sat and brooded unhappily on a certain wedding day.
“I think not,” said Mr. Reeder, shaking his head as be stared at the marble seat. “I suffer from rheumatism, with occasional twinges of sciatica. I think I would rather walk with you, Mr. Kane.” He glanced at the hedge. “I do not like people who listen. Sometimes one listens and hears too much. I heard the other day of a very charming man who happened to be standing behind a bush,