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

you know anything about it?” she asked.

      He hesitated.

      “Yes, I think I did. I wasn’t sure, though I was a fool not to locate it just as soon as Fenner warned me against Keytown Jail. These chaps like to speak in parables, and mystery is as the breath of their nostrils. Besides, I should have been certain that Fenner knew the jail had been taken over from the Government.”

      He made a careful examination of the bars about the window, but without instruments or tools to force them, he knew that escape that way was impossible. When, in the early hours of the morning, he saw the patient figure of Bill, he realised the extent of the impossibility.

      “Good morning, William. I see you’re out,” he greeted the scowling sentry, who immediately jumped to cover, flourishing his long-barrelled weapon.

      “Don’t you show your nose, or I’ll blow it off,” he threatened. “We’ve got you, Mr. Gray.”

      “They’ve got you, alas, my poor William,” said Johnny sadly. “The busies will be here at nine o’clock – you don’t suppose that I should have let myself come into a trap like this? Of course, I didn’t. I squeaked! It was my only chance, William. And your only chance is to sneak away at the earliest opportunity, and turn State’s evidence. I’m addressing you as a friend.”

      “You’ll never get away from here alive,” said the man. “Jeff’s going to fix you.”

      “Indeed?” the prisoner began politely, when a scream made him turn.

      “Johnny!”

      The shutter which hid the grille in the door was swung back, and the muzzle of Jeffrey’s Browning had been pushed through one of the openings. As Johnny dropped flat on the bed, he was stunned by the deafening sound of an explosion. Something hit the wall, ricochetted to the roof, and fell almost at the girl’s feet. Before the pistol could be withdrawn, Johnny Gray had fired. A jagged end of iron showed where his bullet struck.

      “The time for persiflage,” said Johnny cheerfully, “is past. Now you will sit in that corner, young lady, and will not budge without permission.” He pointed to the wall nearest the door, which afforded perfect cover, and, dragging up a stool, he seated himself by her side. “Jeffrey’s got quite a tough proposition,” he said in his conversational tone. “He can’t burn the prison, because there’s nothing to burn. He can’t come in, and he mustn’t go out. If he would only for one moment take away that infernal key—”

      “There is another door going out from the bathroom,” she said suddenly. “I think it leads to an exercise ground. You can just see a little railed-off space through the window.”

      Johnny went into the bathroom and examined the door. Screwing his head, he could see, through a broken pane, ten square yards of space, where in olden times a condemned prisoner took his exercise, removed from the gaze of his fellows. He tried the key, and to his delight, it turned. Another minute and he was in the little paved yard.

      Looking round, he saw a high and narrow gateway, which seemed to be the only exit from the courtyard. And on the other side of that gateway was William, the sentry, well armed and sufficiently terrified to be dangerous. Slipping off his boots, Johnny crept to the gate and listened. The sound of the man’s footsteps pacing the flagged walk came to him. Stooping, he squinted through the keyhole, and saw Bill standing, his back toward him, some six yards away. There was no time to be lost. He inserted the key, and the gate was opened before the man could turn to face the levelled revolver.

      “Don’t shout,” whispered Johnny. “You’re either discreet or dead. Hand over that gun, you unfortunate man.” He moved swiftly toward the terrified criminal, and relieved him of his weapon. With a gesture, Johnny directed him to the exercise yard. “Get in and stay,” he said, and locked the door, and for the second time. Bill (his other name, Johnny never discovered, was Holliss) was a prisoner.

      Skirting the building, he came to the entrance of the hall. The door was open, and with his hand on the uplifted hammer of the gun, and his finger pressing the trigger, Johnny leapt into the building. “Hands up!” he shouted.

      At the words, Jeffrey Legge spun round. There was a boom of sound, something whistled past Gray’s face, and he fired twice. But now the man was running, zigzagging to left and right, and Johnny hesitated to fire. He disappeared through the door at the farther end of the hall, shutting it behind him, and Johnny raced after him.

      He was in the courtyard now, facing the grille-covered archway. As he came into view, Jeffrey disappeared through the lodgekeeper’s door. Johnny tried the grille, but in vain, for a passkey operates on all locks save the lock of the entrance gate of a prison. That alone is distinct, and may not be opened save by the key that was cut for it.

      Covering the lodgekeeper’s door with his gun, Johnny waited, and, waiting, heard a rumbling sound. Something was coming down the centre of the archway. The straight line of it came lower and lower. A hanging gate! He had forgotten that most old country prisons were so equipped. Under the cover of this ancient portcullis, Legge could escape, for it masked the entrance of the lodge.

      He turned back to the girl.

      “Keep out of sight. He’s got away,” he warned her. “This fellow isn’t finished yet.”

      The gate was down. Jeffrey put on the overcoat he had left in the lodge, slipped his pistol into his pocket and opened the great gates. He had at least a dozen hours’ start, he thought, as he stepped into the open…

      “Please do not put your hand in your pocket, Mr. Jeffrey,” said a plaintive voice. “I should so hate to shoot a fellow-creature. It would be a deed utterly repugnant to my finest feelings.”

      Jeffrey raised his hands to their fullest extent, for Mr. Reeder was not alone. Behind him were four armed policemen, a cordon of mounted constabulary, spread in a semicircle, cutting off all avenues of escape. And, most ominous of all, was the deadly scrutiny of Peter Kane, who stood at Reeder’s right hand.

Chapter XXXIII

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      For the first time Jeffrey Legge felt the cold contact of handcuffs. He was led back to the porter’s lodge, whilst two of the policemen worked at the windlass that raised the hanging gate.

      “It’s a cop, Craig,” he said, for the inspector in charge was that redoubtable thief-catcher. “But I’m going to squeak all I know. Johnny Gray is in this. He’s been working my slush for years. You’ll find the presses in the second hall, but the other birds have done some quick flying.”

      “They’ve all flown into the police station at Oxford,” said Craig, “and they’re singing their pretty little songs merrily. The Oxford police took a whole carload of them about eleven o’clock last night. Unfortunately, they weren’t so ready to squeak as you.”

      “Johnny Gray’s in it, I tell you.”

      “Oh, how can you say such a thing?” said the shocked Mr. Reeder. “I’m perfectly sure Mr. Gray is quite innocent.”

      Jeffrey regarded him with a sneer of contempt.

      “You’re a pretty funny ‘busy’. I suppose Craig brought you here?”

      “No,” murmured Mr. Reeder, “I brought myself here.”

      “The only thing I can say about you,” said Jeffrey Legge, “is that you’re smarter than old Golden – and that’s not saying much.”

      “Not very much,” murmured Mr. Reeder.

      “But you’re not smart enough to know that Johnny Gray has been in this business for years.”

      “Even while he was in prison?” suggested Mr. Reeder innocently. “The opportunities are