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

and the day the busies come for Legge I’ll come for you, and I’ll shoot you stone dead, Johnny, as God’s my judge!”

      “Beat it!” said Johnny tersely.

      He waited till she was gone through one of the openings in the box hedge, then passed along to the other and stopped. Peter Kane was standing in the open, shielded from view by the thin box bush, and Peter’s face was inscrutable.

Chapter VI

       Table of Contents

      “Hallo, Johnny! Running for the compensation stakes?”

      Johnny laughed.

      “You mean the maid? She is rather pretty, isn’t she?”

      “Very,” said the other.

      Had he heard? That was a question and a fear in Johnny’s mind. The marble bench was less than six feet from the bush where Peter Kane stood. If he had been there any time –

      “Been waiting long for me, Peter?” he asked.

      “No! I just saw you take a farewell of Lila – very nice girl, that, Johnny – an extraordinarily nice girl. I don’t know when I’ve seen a nicer. What did you find to talk about?”

      “The weather, dicky-birds and the course of true love,” said Johnny, as Kane took his arm and led him across the lawn.

      “Everything variable and flighty, eh?” said Peter with a little smile. “Come and eat, Johnny. These people are going away soon. Marney is changing now. What do you think of my new son-in-law, eh?”

      His old jovial manner held. When they came into the big reception-room, and Peter Kane’s arm went round his son-in-law’s shoulder, Johnny breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God he did not know! He had sweated in his fear of what might follow a discovery.

      Thirty-six people sat down in the diningroom, and, contrary to convention, Marney, who sat at the head of the table, was wearing her going-away dress. John shot a quick glance at her as he came in, but she averted her eyes. Her father sat on her left; next to him was the clergyman who had performed the ceremony. Next came a girl friend, and then a man, by whose side Johnny sat.

      He recognised the leathery features instantly.

      “Been away, Johnny?” Detective-Superintendent Craig asked the question in a voice so carefully pitched that it did not reach any farther than the man to whom he spoke.

      The chatter and buzz of conversation, the little ripples of laughter that ran up and down the table, did something to make the privacy of their talk assured.

      As Old Barney bent over to serve a dish, Craig gave a sidelong glance at his companion.

      “Peter’s got old Barney still – keeping honest, Barney?”

      “I’m naturally that way,” said Barney sotto voce. “It’s not meeting policemen that keeps me straight.”

      The hard features of the detective relaxed.

      “There are lots of other people who could say that, Barney,” he said, and when the man had passed to the next guest: “He’s all right. Barney never was a bad man. I think he only did one stretch – he wouldn’t have done that if he’d had Peter’s imagination, Johnny.”

      “Peter’s imagination?”

      “I’m not referring to his present imagination, but the gift he had fourteen – fifteen years ago. Peter was the cleverest of them all. The brilliant way his attack was planned, the masterly line of retreat, the wonderful alibis, so beautifully dovetailed into one another that, if we had pinched him, he’d not only have been discharged, but he would have got something from the poor box! It used to be the life ambition of every young officer to catch him, to find some error of judgment, some flaw in his plan. But it was police-proof and foolproof.”

      “He’d blush to hear you,” said the other dryly.

      “But it’s true, Johnny! The clever letters he used to write, all to fool us. He did a lot of work with letters – getting people together, luring ’em to the place he wanted ’em and where their presence served him best. I remember how he got my chief to be at Charing Cross under the clock at ten-past nine, and showed up himself and made him prove his alibi!” He laughed gently.

      “I suppose,” said Gray, “people would think it remarkable that you and he are such good friends?”

      “They wouldn’t say it was remarkable; they’d say it was damned suspicious!” growled the other. “Having a drink?” he said suddenly, and pulled a wine bottle across the table.

      “No, thanks – I seldom drink. We have to keep a very clear head in our business. We can’t afford to dream.”

      “We can’t afford anything else,” said Craig. “Why ‘our business,’ old man? You’re out of that?”

      Johnny saw the girl look toward him. It was only a glance – but in that brief flash he saw all that he feared to see – the terror, the bewilderment, the helplessness. He set his teeth and turned abruptly to the detective.

      “How is your business?” he asked.

      “Quiet.”

      “I’m sorry to hear that,” said John Gray with mock concern, “But trade’s bad everywhere, isn’t it?”

      “What sort of time did you have – in the country?” asked Craig, and his companion grinned.

      “Wonderful! My bedroom wanted papering, but the service was quite good.”

      Craig sighed.

      “Ah well, we live and learn,” he said heavily. “I was sorry about it, Johnny, very sorry. It’s a misfortune, but there’s no use grieving about it. You were one of the unlucky ones. If all the people who deserved prison were in prison – why, there wouldn’t be any housing problems. I hear there were quite a lot of stars there,” Craig went on. “Harry Becker, and young Lew Storing – why, old Legge must have been there in your time. And another fellow – now, what’s his name? The slush man – ah. Carper, that’s it. Ever see him?”

      “Yes; he and I were once harnessed to the same cart.”

      “Ah!” said Craig encouragingly. “I’ll bet you heard a few things. He’d talk to you.”

      “He did.”

      Craig bent toward him, lowering his voice.

      “Suppose I told you a certain party coppered you, and suppose I said I’ve reason to believe that your copper is the man I want. Now couldn’t we exchange confidences?” he asked.

      “Yes, we might squeak together, and it would sound like one of those syncopated orchestras. But we won’t. Honestly, Craig, I can’t tell you about the Big Printer. Reeder ought to know all about him!”

      “Reeder!” said the other scornfully. “An amateur! All this fal-de-lal about secret service men gets my goat! If they’d left the matter to the police, we’d have had the Big Printer – ever seen him, Johnny?”

      “No,” said Johnny untruthfully.

      “Reeder, eh?” said the thoughtful detective. “They used to have an office man named Golden once, an old fellow that thought he could catch slushers by sitting in an office and thinking hard. Reeder isn’t much better by all accounts. I saw him once, a soft fellow on the edge of senile decay!”

      Craig sighed deeply, looked up and down the happy board with a bleak and grudging glance, and then: “Just for a little heart-to-heart talk, I know where you could get an easy ‘monkey,’ Johnny,” he said softly.

      Johnny did not smile.

      “It