The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ together,’ grunted Lew.

      They got their fingers beneath the hearthstone and with one heave hinged it up. Lew picked up the lamp and, kneeling down, flashed a light into the dark cavity. And then:

      ‘Oh, my God!’ he shrieked.

      A second later two terrified men rushed from the house into the drive. And a miracle had happened, for the gates were open and a dark figure stood squarely before them.

      ‘Put up your hands, Kohl!’ said a voice, and hateful as it was to Lew Kohl, he could have fallen on the neck of Mr. Reeder.

      At twelve o’clock that night Sir James Tithermite was discussing matters with his bride-to-be: the stupidity of her lawyer, who wished to safeguard her fortune, and his own cleverness and foresight in securing complete freedom of action for the girl who was to be his wife.

      ‘These blackguards think of nothing but their fees,’ he began, when his footman came in unannounced, and behind him the Chief Constable of the county and a man he remembered seeing before.

      ‘Sir James Tithermite?’ said the Chief Constable unnecessarily, for he knew Sir James very well.

      ‘Yes, Colonel, what is it?’ asked the baronet, his face twitching.

      ‘I am taking you into custody on a charge of wilfully murdering your wife, Eleanor Mary Tithermite.’

      ‘The whole thing turned upon the question as to whether Lady Tithermite was a good or a bad sailor,’ explained J.G. Reeder to his chief. ‘If she were a bad sailor, it was unlikely that she would be on the ship, even for five minutes, without calling for the stewardess. The stewardess did not see her ladyship, nor did anybody on board, for the simple reason that she was not on board! She was murdered within the grounds of the Manor; her body was buried beneath the hearthstone of the old lodge, and Sir James continued his journey by car to Dover, handing over his packages to a porter and telling him to take them to his cabin before he returned to put the car into the hotel garage. He had timed his arrival so that he passed on board with a crowd of passengers from the boat train, and nobody knew whether he was alone or whether he was accompanied, and, for the matter of that, nobody cared. The purser gave him his key, and he put the baggage, including his wife’s hat, into the cabin, paid the porter and dismissed him. Officially, Lady Tithermite was on board, for he surrendered her ticket to the collector and received her landing voucher. And then he discovered she had disappeared. The ship was searched, but of course the unfortunate lady was not found. As I remarked before-’

      ‘You have a criminal mind,’ said the Director good-humouredly. ‘Go on, Reeder.’

      ‘Having this queer and objectionable trait, I saw how very simple a matter it was to give the illusion that the lady was on board, and I decided that, if the murder was committed, it must have been within a few miles of the house. And then the local builder told me that he had given Sir James a little lesson in the art of mixing mortar. And the local blacksmith told me that the gate had been damaged, presumably by Sir James’s car-I had seen the broken rods and all I wanted to know was when the repairs were effected. That she was beneath the hearth in the lodge I was certain. Without a search warrant it was impossible to prove or disprove my theory, and I myself could not conduct a private investigation without risking the reputation of our department-if I may say “our,”’ he said apologetically.

      The Director was thoughtful.

      ‘Of course, you induced this man Kohl to dig up the hearth by pretending you had money buried there. I presume you revealed that fact in your notebook? But why on earth did he imagine that you had a hidden treasure?’

      Mr. Reeder smiled sadly.

      ‘The criminal mind is a peculiar thing,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘It harbours illusions and fairy stories. Fortunately, I understand that mind. As I have often said –’

Chapter 3

       The Troupe

       Table of Contents

      There was a quietude and sedateness about the Public Prosecutor’s office which completely harmonised with the tastes and inclinations of Mr. J.G. Reeder. For he was a gentleman who liked to work in an office where the ticking of a clock was audible and the turning of a paper produced a gentle disturbance.

      He had before him one morning the typewritten catalogue of Messrs. Willoby, the eminent estate agents, and he was turning the leaves with a thoughtful expression. The catawlogue was newly arrived, a messenger having only a few minutes before placed the portfolio on his desk.

      Presently he smoothed down a leaf and read again the flattering description of a fairly unimportant property, and his scrutiny was patently a waste of time, for, scrawled on he margin of the sheet in red ink was the word ‘Let,’ which meant that ‘Riverside Bower’ was not available for hire. The ink was smudged, and ‘Let’ had been obviously written that morning.

      ‘Humph!’ said Mr. Reeder.

      He was interested for many reasons. In the heat of July riverside houses are at a premium: at the beginning of November they are somewhat of a drug on the market. And transatlantic visitors do not as a rule hire riverside cottages in a month which is chiefly distinguished by mists, rain and general discomfort.

      Two reception: two bedrooms: bath, large dry cellars, lawn to river, small skiff and punt. Gas and electric light. Three guineas weekly or would be let for six months at 2 guineas.

      He pulled his table telephone towards him and gave the agents’ number.

      ‘Let, is it-dear me! To an American gentleman? When will it be available?’

      The new tenant had taken the house for a month. Mr. Reeder was even more intrigued, though his interest in the ‘American gentleman’ was not quite as intensive as the American gentleman’s interest in Mr. Reeder.

      When the great Art Lomer came on a business trip from Canada to London, a friend and admirer carried him off one day to see the principal sight of London.

      ‘He generally comes out at lunch time,’ said the friend, who was called ‘Cheep,’ because his name was Sparrow.

      Mr. Lomer looked up and down Whitehall disparagingly, for he had seen so many cities of the world that none seemed as good as the others.

      ‘There he is!’ whispered Cheep, though there was no need for mystery or confidence.

      A middle-aged man had come out of one of the narrow doorways of a large grey building. On his head was a high, flat-crowned hat, his body was tightly encased in a black frock coat. A weakish man with yellowy-white sidewhiskers and eyeglasses, that were nearer to the end than the beginning of his nose.

      ‘Him?’ demanded the amazed Art.

      ‘Him,’ said the other, incorrectly but with emphasis.

      ‘Is that the kind of guy you’re scared about? You’re crazy. Why, that man couldn’t catch a cold! Now, back home in T’ronto-’

      Art was proud of his home town, and in that spirit of expansiveness which paints even the unpleasant features of One’s Own СКАЧАТЬ