MR. J. G. REEDER SERIES: 5 Mystery Novels & 4 Detective Stories. Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
owe you something, Mr. Reeder, for the splendid way you treated my daughter—”
Mr. Reeder stopped him with a gesture.
“A very charming girl. A very lovely girl,” he said with mild enthusiasm. “And so interested in chickens! One so seldom meets with women who take a purely sincere interest in chickens.”
They had reached a place where it was impossible they could be overheard. Peter, who realised that the visitor would not have called unless he had something important to say, waited for the next move. Mr. Reeder returned to the subject of eavesdropping.
“My friend – if I may call him my friend – who learnt by accident that his son-in-law was an infernal rascal – if you will excuse that violent expression – might have got himself into serious trouble, very serious trouble.” He shook his head solemnly. “For you see,” he went on, “my friend – I do hope he will allow me to call him my friend? – has something of a criminal past, and all his success has been achieved by clever strategy. Now, was it clever strategy” – he did not look at Peter, and his faded eyes surveyed the landscape gloomily – “was it clever of my friend to convey to Mr. Emanuel Legge the astounding information that at a certain hour, in a certain room – I think its number was thirteen, but I am not sure – Mr. John Gray was meeting Mr. J.G. Reeder to convey information which would result in Emanuel Legge’s son going to prison for a long period of penal servitude? Was it wise to forge the handwriting of one of Emanuel Legge’s disreputable associates, and induce the aforesaid Emanuel to mount the fire-escape at the Highlow Club and shoot, as he thought, Mr. John Gray, who wasn’t Mr. Gray at all, but his own son? I ask you, was it wise?”
Peter did not answer.
“Was it discreet, when my friend went to the hotel where his daughter was staying, and found her gone, to leave a scribbled note on the floor, which conveyed to Mr. Jeffrey Legge the erroneous information that the young lady was meeting Johnny Gray in Room 13 at ninethirty? I admit,” said Mr. Reeder handsomely, “that by these clever manoeuvres, my friend succeeded in getting Jeffrey Legge just where he wanted him at the proper time; for Jeffrey naturally went to the Highlow Club in order to confront and intimidate his wife. You’re a man of the world, Mr. Kane, and I am sure you will see how terribly indiscreet my friend was. For Jeffrey might have been killed.” He sighed heavily. “His precious life might have been lost; and if the letters were produced at the trial, my friend himself might have been tried for murder.”
He dusted the arm of his frockcoat tenderly.
“The event had the elements of tragedy,” he said, “and it was only by accident that Jeff’s face was turned away from the door; and it was only by accident that Emanuel was not seen going out. And it was only by the sheerest and cleverest perjury that Johnny Gray was not arrested.”
“Johnny was not there,” said Peter sharply.
“On the contrary, Johnny was there – please admit that he was there?” pleaded Mr. Reeder. “Otherwise, all my theories are valueless. And a gentleman in my profession hates to see his theories suffer extinction.”
“I’ll not admit anything of the sort,” said Peter sharply. “Johnny spent that evening with a police officer. It must have been his double.”
“His treble perhaps,” murmured the other. “Who knows? Humanity resembles, to a very great extent, the domestic fowl, gallus domesticus. One man resembles another – it is largely a matter of plumage.”
He looked up to the sky as though he were seeking inspiration from heaven itself.
“Mr. Jeffrey Legge has not served you very well, Mr. Kane,” he said. “In fact, I think he has served you very badly. He is obviously a person without principle or honour, and deserves anything that may come to him.”
Peter waited, and suddenly the man brought his eyes to the level of his.
“You must have heard, in the course of your travels, a great deal about Mr. Legge?” he suggested. “Possibly more has come to you since this unfortunate – indeed, dastardly – happening, of which I cannot remind you without inflicting unnecessary pain. Now, Mr. Kane, don’t you think that you would be rendering a service to human society if—”
“If I squeaked,” said Peter Kane quietly. “I’ll put your mind at rest on that subject immediately. I know nothing of Jeffrey Legge except that he’s a blackguard. But if I did, if I had the key to his printing works, if I had evidence in my pocket of his guilt—” he paused.
“And if you had all these?” asked Mr. Reeder gently.
“I should not squeak,” said Peter with emphasis, “because that is not the way. A squeak is a squeak, whether you do it in cold blood or in the heat of temper.”
Again Mr. Reeder sighed heavily, took off his glasses, breathed on them and polished them with gentle vigour, and did not speak until he had replaced them.
“It is all very honourable,” he said sadly. “This – er – faith and – er – integrity. Again the poultry parallel comes to my mind. Certain breeds of chickens hold together and have nothing whatever to do with other breeds, and, though they may quarrel amongst themselves, will fight to the death for one another. Your daughter is well, I trust?”
“She is very well,” said Peter emphatically, “surprisingly so. I thought she would have a bad time – here she is.” He turned at that moment and waved his hand to the girl, who was coming down the steps of the terrace. “You know Mr. Reeder?” said Peter as the girl came smiling toward the chicken expert with outstretched hand.
“Why, of course I know him,” she said warmly. “Almost you have persuaded me to run a poultry farm!”
“You might do worse,” said Mr. Reeder gravely. “There are very few women who take an intelligent interest in such matters. Men are ever so much more interested in chickens.”
Peter looked at him sharply. There was something in his tone, a glint of unsuspected humour in his eyes, that lit and died in a second, and Peter Kane was nearer to understanding the man at that moment than he had ever been before.
And here Peter took a bold step.
“Mr. Reeder is a detective,” he said, “employed by the banks to try and track down the people who have been putting so many forged notes on the market.”
“A detective!”
Her eyes opened wide in surprise, and Mr. Reeder hastened to disclaim the appellation.
“Not a detective. I beg of you not to misunderstand, Miss Kane. I am merely an investigator, an inquiry agent, not a detective. ‘Detective’ is a term which is wholly repugnant to me. I have never arrested a man in my life, nor have I authority to do so.”
“At any rate, you do not look like a detective, Mr. Reeder,” smiled the girl.
“I thank you,” said Mr. Reeder gratefully. “I should not wish to be mistaken for a detective. It is a profession which I admire, but do not envy.”
He took from his pocket a large notecase and opened it. Inside, fastened by a rubber band in the centre, was a thick wad of banknotes. Seeing them, Peter’s eyebrows rose.
“You’re a bold man to carry all that money about with you, Mr. Reeder,” he said.
“Not bold,” disclaimed the investigator. “I am indeed a very timid man.”
He slipped a note from under the elastic band and handed it to his wondering host. Peter took it.
“A fiver,” he said.
Mr. Reeder took another. Peter saw it was a hundred before he held it in his hand.
“Would you cash that for me?”
Peter Kane frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“Would