MR. J. G. REEDER SERIES: 5 Mystery Novels & 4 Detective Stories. Edgar Wallace

outside the door of the condemned cell. The key trembled as he inserted it in the lock. No sound broke the stillness as the door opened stealthily, and he slipped into the room.

      He waited, holding his breath, not knowing whether she were awake or asleep, and then crept forward to the bed. He saw the outline of a figure.

      “Marney,” he said huskily, groping for her face.

      And then two hands like steel clamps caught him by the throat and flung him backward.

      “I want you, Jeffrey Legge,” said a voice – the voice of Johnny Gray.

Chapter XXXI

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      Johnny Gray came to consciousness with a violent headache and a sense of suffocating restriction, which he discovered was due to his wing collar holding tightly in spite of the rough usage that had been his. This fact would have been pleasing to Parker, but was intensely discomforting to the wearer, and in a minute he had stripped the offending collar from his throat and had risen unsteadily to his feet.

      The room in which he was had a familiar appearance. It was a cell, and – Keytown Jail! He remembered Fenner’s warning. So Fenner knew! Keytown Jail, sold by the Government to – Jeffrey Legge! The idea was preposterous; but why not? A timber merchant had bought a jail at Hereford; a firm of caterers had purchased an old prison in the North of England, and were serving afternoon teas in the cells.

      Now he understood. Keytown Prison was the headquarters of the Big Printer. The one place in the world that the police would never dream of searching, particularly if, as he guessed, Jeffrey Legge had offered some specious excuse for his presence and the presence of his company in this isolated part of the world.

      The sound of voices came faintly up to him, and he heard a door bang and the clicking of locks; and with that sound he recalled the happenings of the evening. It must be Peter: they had got him too. In spite of his discomfiture, in spite of the awful danger in which he knew he was, he laughed softly to himself.

      Above his bed was a window with scarcely a whole pane. But there was no escape that way. A thought struck him, and, leaning down, he tapped a Morse message on the floor. If it was Peter, he could understand. He heard the answering tap which came feebly, and when he signalled again he knew that whoever was in the cell below had no knowledge of the Morse code. He searched his pockets and found a tiny scrap of pencil, but could find no paper, except a bundle of five-pound notes, which his captors had not troubled to remove. Here was both stationery and the means of writing, but how could he communicate with the occupant of the cell below? Presently a plan suggested itself, and he tore off the lapel of his dinner-jacket and unravelled the silk. Tying the pencil to the end to give it weight, he slowly lowered his message, hoping, though it seemed unlikely, that his fellow-prisoner would be able to see the paper.

      To his joy he felt a tug, and when, a few minutes later, he carefully drew up the message, it was to find, written underneath his own, one which left him white and shaking. Marney here! He groaned aloud at the thought. It was too light now to risk any further communication. There was a ewer of water and a basin in the cell, and with this he relieved the aching in his head; and when breakfast came, he was ready.

      The man who brought in the tray was a stranger to him, as also was the man who stood on guard at the door, revolver in hand.

      “What’s the great idea?” asked Johnny coolly, sitting on the bed and swinging his legs. “Has Jeff bought a jail to practise in? Wouldn’t it have been cheaper to have gone over the Alps?”

      “You shut up, Johnny Gray,” growled the man. “You’ll be sorry for yourself before you’re out of here.”

      “Who isn’t?” asked Johnny. “How is Peter?”

      “You know damned well Peter has escaped,” said the other before he could check himself.

      “Escaped!” said the delighted Johnny. “You don’t mean that?”

      “Never mind what I mean,” growled the man, realising he had said too much. “You keep a civil tongue in your head, Gray, and you’ll be treated square. If you don’t, there are plenty of men on the spot to make Dartmoor a paradise compared with Keytown.”

      The door slammed in Johnny Gray’s face, but he was so absorbed in the news which the man had unwillingly given to him that he had to force himself to eat.

      Soon after the man came to take away the tray.

      “What’s your name, bo’, anyway?” said Johnny carelessly. “I hate calling you ‘face’ – it’s low.”

      “Bill’s my name,” said the man, “and you needn’t call me Bill either. You say ‘sir’ to me.”

      “Woof!” said Johnny admiringly. “You’re talking like a real screw!”

      The door slammed in his face. He had further time to consider his plans. They had taken away his watch and chain, his gold cigarette-case and the small penknife he carried, but these losses did not worry him in the slightest. His chief anxiety was to know the exact character of Keytown Prison. And that he determined to learn at the earliest opportunity.

      It was late in the afternoon; he guessed it was somewhere in the neighbourhood of four when his lunch came, and he was quite ready to eat it, though a little suspicious of its possible accessories.

      “No poison in this, Bill?” he asked pleasantly as he took the bread and cheese from the man’s hand.

      “There’s no need to poison you; we could starve you, couldn’t we?” said the other. “If Jeff was here, maybe I’d get a rapping for giving you anything.”

      “Gone away, has he? Well, prisons are more pleasant when the governor’s away. Am I right. Bill? Now, what do you say to a couple of hundred of real money?”

      “For what?” asked the man, stopping at the door. “If you mean it’s for letting you make a getaway, why, you’re silly! You’re going to stay here till Jeff fixes you.”

      All the day Johnny had heard, or rather felt, a peculiar whirr of sound coming from some remote quarter of the prison.

      “Got electric light here, Bill?” he said conversationally.

      “Yes, we have,” said the other. “This is a model boob, this is.”

      “I’ll bet it is,” said Johnny grimly. “Are you running any electric radiators in my cell tonight, or do you want all the power for the press?”

      He saw the man’s face twitch.

      “Of course, you’re running the slush factory here – everybody knows that. Take my advice. Bill – go whilst the going’s good. Or the bulls will have you inside the realest boob you’ve seen.” He had made the guard more than a little uncomfortable, as he saw, and sought to press home the impression he had created. “Jeffrey’s going to shop you sooner or later, because he’s a natural born shopper. And he’s got the money. Bill, to get away with, and the motorcars and aeroplanes. You haven’t got that. You’ll have to walk on your own pads. And the bulls will get you halfway over the field.”

      “Oh, shut up!” said the man uncomfortably, and the conversation ended, as in the morning, with the slamming of the door.

      Presently a little spyhole in the cell door opened.

      “What made you think this is a print-shop?” asked Bill’s voice.

      “I don’t think anything about it; I know,” said Johnny decisively. “If you like to come to me this evening I’ll tell you the name of every worker here, the position of every press, and the length of the lagging you’ll get.”

      The cover of the spyhole dropped.

      Jeffrey was away; that