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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ He had listened for hours to the wise admonitions and warnings of convicts, who would hardly be free from the fusty cell of the prison before they would be planning new villainies, new qualifications for their return.

      He had never heard of Keytown Jail before, but it was not remarkable that Fenner should have some special grudge against a particular jail. The criminal classes have their likes and their dislikes; they loathed Wandsworth and preferred Pentonville, or vice versa, for no especial reason. There were those who swore by Parkhurst; others regarded Dartmoor as home, and bitterly resented any suggestion that they should be transferred to the island prison.

      So musing, he bumped into Craig. The collision was not accidental, for Craig had put himself in the way of the abstracted young man.

      “What are you planning, Johnny – a jewel robbery, or just ringing the changes on the Derby favourite?”

      Johnny chuckled.

      “Neither. I was at that moment wondering what there was particularly bad about Keytown Jail. Where is Keytown Jail, by the way?”

      “Keytown? I don’t remember – oh, yes, I do. Just outside Oxford. Why?”

      “Somebody was telling me it was the worst prison in England.”

      “They are all the worst, Johnny,” said Craig. “And if you’re thinking out a summer holiday, I can’t recommend either. Keytown was pretty bad,” he admitted. “It is a little country jail, but it is no longer in the Prison Commissioners’ hands. They sold it after the war, when they closed down so many of these little prisons. The policy now is to enlarge the bigger places and cut out these expensive little boobs that cost money to staff. They closed Hereford Jail in the same way, and half a dozen others, I should think. So you needn’t bother about Keytown,” he smiled bleakly. “One of your criminal acquaintances has been warning you, I guess?”

      “You’ve guessed right,” said Johnny, and advanced no information, knowing that, if Craig continued his walk, he would sooner or later see the toy pedlar.

      “Mr. Jeffrey Legge is making a good recovery,” said the detective, changing the subject: “and there are great rejoicings at Scotland Yard. If there is one man we want to keep alive until he is hanged in a scientific and lawful manner, it is Mr. Jeffrey Legge. I know what you’re going to say – we’ve got nothing on him. That is true. Jeffrey has been too clever for us. He has got his father skinned to death in that respect. He makes no mistakes – a rare quality in a forger; he carries no ‘slush,’ keeps none in his lodgings. I can tell you that, because we’ve pulled him in twice on suspicion, and searched him from occiput to tendo achilles. Forgive the anatomical terms, but anatomy is my hobby. Hallo!”

      He was looking across the street at a figure which was not unfamiliar to Johnny. Mr. Reeder wore a shabby frockcoat and a somewhat untidy silk hat on the back of his head. Beneath his arm he carried a partially furled umbrella. His hands, covered in grey cotton gloves (at a distance Johnny thought they were suede), were clasped behind him. His spectacles were, as usual, so far down his nose that they seemed in danger of slipping over.

      “Do you know that gentleman?”

      “Man named Reeder, isn’t it? He’s a ‘busy’.”

      Craig’s lips twitched.

      “He’s certainly a ‘busy ‘of sorts,” he said dryly, “but not of our sort.”

      “He is a bank-man, isn’t he?” asked Johnny, watching Mr. Reeder’s slow and awkward progress.

      “He is in the employ of the bank,” said the detective, “and he’s not such a fool as he looks. I happen to know. He was down seeing young Legge yesterday. I was curious enough to put a man on to trail him. And he knows more about young Legge than I gave him credit for.”

      When Johnny parted from the detective, Mr. Reeder had passed out of sight. Crossing Piccadilly Circus, however, he saw the elderly man waiting in a bus queue, and interestedly stood and watched him until the bus arrived and Mr. Reeder boarded the machine and disappeared into its interior. As the bus drew away, Johnny raised his eyes to the destination board and saw that it was Victoria.

      “I wonder,” said Johnny, speaking his thought aloud.

      For Victoria is the railway station for Horsham.

Chapter XXI

       Table of Contents

      Mr. Reeder descended from the bus at Victoria Station, bought a third-class return ticket to Horsham, and, going on to the bookstall, purchased a copy of the Economist and the Poultry World, and, thus fortified for the journey, passed through the barrier, and finding an empty carriage, ensconced himself in one corner. From thence onward, until the train drew into Horsham Station, he was apparently alternately absorbed in the eccentricities of Wyandottes and the fluctuations of the mark.

      There were many cabs at the station, willing and anxious to convey him to his destination for a trifling sum; but apparently Mr. Reeder was deaf to all the urgent offers which were made to him, for he looked through the taximen, or over their heads, as though there were no such things as grim mechanicians or drivers of emaciated horses; and, using his umbrella as a walkingstick, he set out to walk the distance intervening between the station and Peter Kane’s residence.

      Peter was in his snuggery, smoking a meditative cigar, when Barney came in with the news.

      “There’s an old guy wants to see you, Peter. I don’t know who he is, but he says his name’s Reeder.”

      Peter’s brows met.

      “Reeder?” he said sharply. “What sort of man is he?”

      “An old fellow,” said Barney. “Too shaky for a ‘busy’. He looks as if he’s trying to raise subscriptions for the old chapel organ.”

      It was not an unfair description, as Peter knew.

      “Bring him here, Barney, and keep your mouth shut. And bear in mind that this is the busiest ‘busy’ you are ever likely to meet.”

      “A copper?” said Barney incredulously.

      Peter nodded.

      “Where’s Marney?” he asked quickly.

      “Up in her boojar,” said Barney with relish. “She’s writing letters. She wrote one to Johnny. It started ‘Dear old boy’.”

      “How do you know?” asked Peter sharply.

      “Because I read it,” said Barney without shame. “I’m a pretty good reader: I can read things upside down, owing to me having been in the printing business when I was a kid.”

      “Bring in Mr. Reeder,” interrupted Peter ominously. “And remember, Barney, that if ever I catch you reading anything of mine upside down, you will be upside down! And don’t argue.”

      Barney left the room, uttering a mechanical defiance which such threats invariably provoked.

      Mr. Reeder came in, his shabby hat in one hand, his umbrella in the СКАЧАТЬ