The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
put aside the cards and stood up.
‘Got who?’ he asked coldly. ‘And if it’s killing, you needn’t answer, but get out!’
‘There’s no killing.’
Lew sat down squarely at the table, his hands in his pockets, a real smile on his face.
‘I’ve been trailing Reeder for a week, and that fellow wants some trailing!’
‘Well?’ asked the other, when he paused dramatically.
‘I’ve found his stocking!’
Bride scratched his chin, and was half convinced.
‘You never have?’
Lew nodded.
‘He’s been going to Maidstone a lot lately, and driving to a little village about five miles out. There I always lost him. But the other night, when he came back to the station to catch the last train, he slipped into the waiting-room and I found a place where I could watch him. What do you think he did?’
Mr. Bride hazarded no suggestion.
‘He opened his bag,’ said Lew impressively, ‘and took out a wad of notes as thick as that! He’d been drawing on his bank! I trailed him up to London. There’s a restaurant on the station and he went in to get a cup of coffee, with me keeping well out of his sight. As he came out of the restaurant he took out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth. He didn’t see the little book that dropped, but I did. I was scared sick that somebody else would see it, or that he’d wait long enough to find it himself. But he went out of the station and I got that book before you could say “knife.” Look!’
It was a well-worn little notebook, covered with faded red morocco. Bride put out his hand to take it.
‘Wait a bit,’ said Lew. ‘Are you in this with me fifty-fifty, because I want some help?’
Bride hesitated.
‘If it’s just plain thieving, I’m with you,’ he said.
‘Plain thieving-and sweet,’ said Lew exultantly, and pushed the book across the table.
For the greater part of the night they sat together talking in low tones, discussing impartially the methodical bookkeeping of Mr. J.G. Reeder and his exceeding dishonesty.
The Monday night was wet. A storm blew up from the southwest, and the air was filled with falling leaves as Lew and his companion footed the five miles which separated them from the village. Neither carried any impedimenta that was visible, yet under Lew’s waterproof coat was a kit of tools of singular ingenuity, and Mr. Bride’s coat pockets were weighted down with the sections of a powerful jemmy.
They met nobody in their walk, and the church bell was striking eleven when Lew gripped the bars of the South Lodge gates, pulled himself up to the top and dropped lightly on the other side. He was followed by Mr. Bride, who, in spite of his bulk, was a singularly agile man. The ruined lodge showed in the darkness, and they passed through the creaking gates to the door and Lew flashed his lantern upon the keyhole before he began manipulation with the implements which he had taken from his kit.
The door was opened in ten minutes and a few seconds later they stood in a low-roofed little room, the principal feature of which was a deep, grateless fireplace. Lew took off his mackintosh and stretched it over the window before he spread the light in his lamp, and, kneeling down, brushed the debris from the hearth, examining the joints of the big stone carefully.
‘This work’s been botched,’ he said. ‘Anybody could see that.’
He put the claw of the jemmy into a crack and levered up the stone, and it moved slightly. Stopping only to dig a deeper crevice with a chisel and hammer he thrust the claw of the jemmy farther down. The stone came up above the edge of the floor and Bride slipped the chisel underneath.
‘Now together,’ grunted Lew.
They got their fingers beneath the hearthstone and with one heave hinged it up. Lew picked up the lamp and, kneeling down, flashed a light into the dark cavity. And then:
‘Oh, my God!’ he shrieked.
A second later two terrified men rushed from the house into the drive. And a miracle had happened, for the gates were open and a dark figure stood squarely before them.
‘Put up your hands, Kohl!’ said a voice, and hateful as it was to Lew Kohl, he could have fallen on the neck of Mr. Reeder.
At twelve o’clock that night Sir James Tithermite was discussing matters with his bride-to-be: the stupidity of her lawyer, who wished to safeguard her fortune, and his own cleverness and foresight in securing complete freedom of action for the girl who was to be his wife.
‘These blackguards think of nothing but their fees,’ he began, when his footman came in unannounced, and behind him the Chief Constable of the county and a man he remembered seeing before.
‘Sir James Tithermite?’ said the Chief Constable unnecessarily, for he knew Sir James very well.
‘Yes, Colonel, what is it?’ asked the baronet, his face twitching.
‘I am taking you into custody on a charge of wilfully murdering your wife, Eleanor Mary Tithermite.’
‘The whole thing turned upon the question as to whether Lady Tithermite was a good or a bad sailor,’ explained J.G. Reeder to his chief. ‘If she were a bad sailor, it was unlikely that she would be on the ship, even for five minutes, without calling for the stewardess. The stewardess did not see her ladyship, nor did anybody on board, for the simple reason that she was not on board! She was murdered within the grounds of the Manor; her body was buried beneath the hearthstone of the old lodge, and Sir James continued his journey by car to Dover, handing over his packages to a porter and telling him to take them to his cabin before he returned to put the car into the hotel garage. He had timed his arrival so that he passed on board with a crowd of passengers from the boat train, and nobody knew whether he was alone or whether he was accompanied, and, for the matter of that, nobody cared. The purser gave him his key, and he put the baggage, including his wife’s hat, into the cabin, paid the porter and dismissed him. Officially, Lady Tithermite was on board, for he surrendered her ticket to the collector and received her landing voucher. And then he discovered she had disappeared. The ship was searched, but of course the unfortunate lady was not found. As I remarked before-’
‘You have a criminal mind,’ said the Director good-humouredly. ‘Go on, Reeder.’
‘Having this queer and objectionable trait, I saw how very simple a matter it was to give the illusion that the lady was on board, and I decided that, if the murder was committed, it must have been within a few miles of the house. And then the local builder told me that he had given Sir James a little lesson in the art of mixing mortar. And the local blacksmith told me that the gate had been damaged, presumably by Sir James’s car-I had seen the broken rods and all I wanted to know was when the repairs were effected. That she was beneath the hearth in the lodge I was certain. Without a search warrant it was impossible to prove or disprove my theory, and I myself could not conduct a private investigation without risking the reputation of our department-if I may say “our,”’ he said apologetically.
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 –’
Chapter 3
The Troupe