The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
office which completely harmonised with the tastes and inclinations of Mr. J.G. Reeder. For he was a gentleman who liked to work in an office where the ticking of a clock was audible and the turning of a paper produced a gentle disturbance.
He had before him one morning the typewritten catalogue of Messrs. Willoby, the eminent estate agents, and he was turning the leaves with a thoughtful expression. The catawlogue was newly arrived, a messenger having only a few minutes before placed the portfolio on his desk.
Presently he smoothed down a leaf and read again the flattering description of a fairly unimportant property, and his scrutiny was patently a waste of time, for, scrawled on he margin of the sheet in red ink was the word ‘Let,’ which meant that ‘Riverside Bower’ was not available for hire. The ink was smudged, and ‘Let’ had been obviously written that morning.
‘Humph!’ said Mr. Reeder.
He was interested for many reasons. In the heat of July riverside houses are at a premium: at the beginning of November they are somewhat of a drug on the market. And transatlantic visitors do not as a rule hire riverside cottages in a month which is chiefly distinguished by mists, rain and general discomfort.
Two reception: two bedrooms: bath, large dry cellars, lawn to river, small skiff and punt. Gas and electric light. Three guineas weekly or would be let for six months at 2 guineas.
He pulled his table telephone towards him and gave the agents’ number.
‘Let, is it-dear me! To an American gentleman? When will it be available?’
The new tenant had taken the house for a month. Mr. Reeder was even more intrigued, though his interest in the ‘American gentleman’ was not quite as intensive as the American gentleman’s interest in Mr. Reeder.
When the great Art Lomer came on a business trip from Canada to London, a friend and admirer carried him off one day to see the principal sight of London.
‘He generally comes out at lunch time,’ said the friend, who was called ‘Cheep,’ because his name was Sparrow.
Mr. Lomer looked up and down Whitehall disparagingly, for he had seen so many cities of the world that none seemed as good as the others.
‘There he is!’ whispered Cheep, though there was no need for mystery or confidence.
A middle-aged man had come out of one of the narrow doorways of a large grey building. On his head was a high, flat-crowned hat, his body was tightly encased in a black frock coat. A weakish man with yellowy-white sidewhiskers and eyeglasses, that were nearer to the end than the beginning of his nose.
‘Him?’ demanded the amazed Art.
‘Him,’ said the other, incorrectly but with emphasis.
‘Is that the kind of guy you’re scared about? You’re crazy. Why, that man couldn’t catch a cold! Now, back home in T’ronto-’
Art was proud of his home town, and in that spirit of expansiveness which paints even the unpleasant features of One’s Own with the most attractive hues, he had even a good word to say about the Royal Canadian Police-a force which normally, and in a local atmosphere, he held in the greatest detestation.
Art ‘operated’-he never employed a baser word-from Toronto, which, by its proximity to Buffalo and the United States border, gave him certain advantages. He had once ‘operated’ in Canada itself, but his line at that period being robbery of a kind which is necessarily accompanied by assault, he had found himself facing a Canadian magistrate, and a Canadian magistrate wields extraordinary powers. Art had been sent down for five years and, crowning horror, was ordered to receive twentyfive lashes with a whip which has nine tails, each one of which hurts. Thereafter he cut out violence and confined himself to the formation of his troupe-and Art Lomer’s troupe was famous from the Atlantic to the Pacific.
He had been plain Arthur Lomer when he was rescued from a London gutter and a career of crime and sent to Canada, the charitable authorities being under the impression that Canada was rather short on juvenile criminals. By dint of great artfulness, good stage management and a natural aptitude for acquiring easy money, he had gained for himself a bungalow on the islands, a flat in Church Street, a six-cylinder car and a New England accent which would pass muster in almost any place except New England.
‘I’ll tell the world you fellows want waking up! So that’s your Reeder? Well, if Canada and the United States was full of goats like him, I’d pack more dollars in one month than Hollywood pays Chaplin in ten years. Yes, sir. Listen, does that guy park a clock?’
His guide was a little dazed.
‘Does he wear a watch? Sure!’
Mr. Art Lomer nodded.
‘Wait-I’ll bring it back to you in five minutes-I’m goin’ to show you sump’n’.’
It was the maddest fool thing he had ever done in his life; he was in London on business, and was jeopardising a million dollars for the sake of the cheap applause of a man for whose opinion he did not care a cent.
Mr. Reeder was standing nervously on the sidewalk, waiting for what he described as ‘the vehicular traffic’ to pass, when a strange man bumped against him.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the stranger.
‘Not at all,’ murmured Mr. Reeder. ‘My watch is five minutes fast-you can see the correct time by Big Ben.’
Mr. Lomer felt a hand dip into his coat pocket, saw, like one hypnotised, the watch go back to J.G. Reeder’s pocket.
‘Over here for long?’ asked Mr. Reeder pleasantly.
‘Why-yes.’
‘It’s a nice time of the year.’ Mr. Reeder removed his eyeglasses, rubbed them feebly on his sleeve and replaced them crookedly. ‘But the country is not quite so beautiful as Canada in the fall. How is Leoni?’
Art Lomer did not faint; he swayed slightly and blinked hard, as if he were trying to wake up. Leoni was the proprietor of that little restaurant in Buffalo which was the advanced base of those operations so profitable to Art and his friends.
‘Leoni? Say, mister-’
‘And the troupe-are they performing in England or-er-resting? I think that is the word.’
Art gaped at the other. On Mr. Reeder’s face was an expression of solicitude and inquiry. It was as though the well-being of the troupe was an absorbing preoccupation.
‘Say-listen-’ began Art huskily.
Before he could collect his thoughts, Reeder was crossing the road with nervous glances left and right, his umbrella gripped tightly in his hand.
‘I guess I’m crazy,’ said Mr. Lomer, and walked back very slowly to where he had left his anxious cicerone.
‘No-he got away before I could touch him,’ he said briefly, for he had his pride. ‘Come along, we’ll get some eats, it’s nearly twel-’
He put his hand to his pocket, but his watch was gone! So also was the expensive platinum albert. Mr. Reeder could be heavily jocular on occasions.
‘Art Lomer-is there anything against him?’ asked the Director of Public Prosecutions, whose servant Mr. J.G. Reeder was.
‘No, sir, there is no complaint here. I have come into-er-possession of a watch of his, which I find, by reference to my private file, was stolen in Cleveland in 1921-it is in the police file of that date. Only-um-it seems remarkable that this gentleman should be in London at the end of the tourist season.’
The Director pursed his lips dubiously.
‘M-m. Tell the people at the Yard. He doesn’t belong to us. What is his speciality?’
‘He is a troupe leader-I think that is the term. Mr. Lomer was once associated with a theatrical company in-er-a humble