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

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СКАЧАТЬ Jail,” he said unpleasantly, “and that’s what I propose to do.”

      “On what charge?” Emanuel raised his eyebrows. “Give us a little rehearsal of this squeal of yours, Gray.”

      “He’s the Big Printer,” said Johnny, and the smile slowly dissolved. “The Government has spent thousands to catch him; they’ve employed the best secret service men in the world to pull him down, and I can give them just the information they want. I know where his stuff is planted. I know where it is printed; I know at least four of his agents. You think Jeff’s secret is his own and yours, but you’re mistaken, Emanuel. Craig knows he’s the Big Printer; he told me so at lunch. All he wants is evidence, and the evidence I can give him. Old Reeder knows – you think he’s a fool, but he knows. I could give him a squeak that would make him the cleverest lad in the world.”

      Emanuel Legge licked his dry lips.

      “Going in for the ‘con business, Johnny?” he asked banteringly. There was no amusement in his voice. “What a confidence man you’d make! You look like a gentleman, and talk like one. Why, they’d fall for you and never think twice! But that confidence stuff doesn’t mean anything to me, Johnny. I’m too old and too wide to be bluffed—”

      “There’s no bluff here,” interrupted Johnny. “I have got your boy like that!” He held out his hand and slowly clenched it.

      For fully five minutes Emanuel Legge sat huddled in a corner of the compartment, staring out upon the flying scenery.

      “You’ve got him like that, have you, Johnny boy?” he said gently. “Well, there’s no use deceiving you, I can see. Slush is funny stuff – they call it ‘phoney ‘in America. Did you know that? I guess you would, because you’re well educated. But it’s good slush, Johnny. Look at this. He’s a note. Is it good or bad?”

      His fingers had gone into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a thin pad of paper an inch square. Fold by fold he opened it out and showed a five-pound note. He caressed the paper with finger and thumb. The eyes behind the powerful glasses gleamed; the thin-lined face softened with pride.

      “Is it good or bad, Johnny?”

      Though the day was bright and hot, and not a cloud was in the sky, the four electric lamps in the carriage lit up suddenly. In the powerful light of day they seemed pale ghosts of flame, queerly dim. As the sunshine fell upon them their shadows were cast upon the white cornice of the carriage.

      “There’s a tunnel coming,” said Emanuel. “It will give you a chance of seeing them at their best – feel ‘em, Johnny! The real paper; bankers have fallen for ‘em…”

      With a roar the train plunged into the blackness of the tunnel. Emanuel stood with his back to the carriage door, the note held taut between his hands.

      “There’s only one flaw – the watermark. I’m giving away secrets, eh? Look!”

      He stretched his arms up until he held the note against one of the bracket lamps. To see, John Gray had to come behind him and peer over his shoulder. The thunder of the train in the narrow tunnel was almost deafening.

      “Look at the ‘F’,” shouted Emanuel. “See… that ‘F’ in ‘Five’ – it’s printed too shallow…”

      As Johnny bent forward the old man thrust at him with his shoulder, and behind that lurch of his was all the weight and strength of his body. Taken by surprise, John Gray was thrown from his balance. He staggered back against the carriage door, felt it give and tried to recover his equilibrium. But the thrust was too well timed. The door flew open, and he dropped into the black void, clutching as he did so the window ledge. For a second he swayed with the in and out swinging of the door. Then Legge’s clenched fist hammered down on his fingers, and he dropped…

Chapter VIII

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      He struck a layer of thick sand and turned a complete somersault. The wall of the tunnel caught and almost dislocated his arm, and he rebounded toward the whirling wheels. One wheel flicked him back against the wall, and he slid, his arms covering his face, the flint ballast of the road ripping his sleeves to ribbons…

      He was alive. The train had passed. He saw the red tail-lights closing to one another. Gingerly he moved first one leg and then the other; then he rolled over toward the wall and lay on his back without further movement. His heart was pounding furiously; he felt a soreness working through the numb overlay of shock. Shock… shock sometimes killed men. His heart was going faster yet; he experienced a horrible nausea, and he found himself trembling violently.

      The proper thing to do was to inject a solution of gum-acacia into his veins (his thoughts were curiously well ordered). Doctors did that; he remembered the doctor telling him at Dartmoor.

      But there was no gum-acacia to be had… Ten minutes later he lifted his body on his elbow and struggled to a sitting position. His head swam, but it did not ache; his arms… he felt them carefully. They were very sore, but no bones were broken.

      A roadman at the exit of the tunnel nearly dropped with amazement as a grimy young man whose clothes were in rags emerged, limping.

      “I fell out,” said Johnny. “Can you tell me if there is anywhere I can hire a car?”

      The roadman was going off duty and was willing to act as guide. Johnny hobbled up the steep slopes of the railway cutting, and with the assistance of the interested workman, traversed a wide field to the road. And then came a blessed sportsman on his way back from Gatwick Races, and he was alone in his car.

      At first he looked suspicious at the bruised and ragged figure that had held him up. In the end he flung open the door by his side.

      “Step up,” he said.

      To the railway worker Johnny had a few words to say.

      “Here’s five,” he said. “Two for your help and three to stop your talking. I don’t want this business to be reported, you understand? The truth is, I had been looking on the wine when it was red and gaveth its colour aright.”

      Johnny had evidently touched a sympathetic chord.

      “You mean you was boozed?” said the man. “You can trust me.”

      The angel who drove him to London was not a talkative angel. Beyond expressing the wish that something drastic had happened to him before he went racing, and the advancement of his view that all racing was crooked and all jockeys thieves, he contributed little to the entertainment of his passenger, and the passenger was glad.

      At the first cab-rank they struck – it was in Sutton – Johnny insisting upon alighting.

      “I’ll take you home if you like,” said his gloomy benefactor.

      Gently the other declined.

      “My name is Lawford,” said the motorist in a sudden outburst of confidence. “I’ve got an idea I know your face. Haven’t I seen you on the track?”

      “Not for some time,” said Johnny.

      “Rather СКАЧАТЬ