The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar Wallace

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      Art ‘operated’-he never employed a baser word-from Toronto, which, by its proximity to Buffalo and the United States border, gave him certain advantages. He had once ‘operated’ in Canada itself, but his line at that period being robbery of a kind which is necessarily accompanied by assault, he had found himself facing a Canadian magistrate, and a Canadian magistrate wields extraordinary powers. Art had been sent down for five years and, crowning horror, was ordered to receive twentyfive lashes with a whip which has nine tails, each one of which hurts. Thereafter he cut out violence and confined himself to the formation of his troupe-and Art Lomer’s troupe was famous from the Atlantic to the Pacific.

      He had been plain Arthur Lomer when he was rescued from a London gutter and a career of crime and sent to Canada, the charitable authorities being under the impression that Canada was rather short on juvenile criminals. By dint of great artfulness, good stage management and a natural aptitude for acquiring easy money, he had gained for himself a bungalow on the islands, a flat in Church Street, a six-cylinder car and a New England accent which would pass muster in almost any place except New England.

      ‘I’ll tell the world you fellows want waking up! So that’s your Reeder? Well, if Canada and the United States was full of goats like him, I’d pack more dollars in one month than Hollywood pays Chaplin in ten years. Yes, sir. Listen, does that guy park a clock?’

      His guide was a little dazed.

      ‘Does he wear a watch? Sure!’

      Mr. Art Lomer nodded.

      ‘Wait-I’ll bring it back to you in five minutes-I’m goin’ to show you sump’n’.’

      It was the maddest fool thing he had ever done in his life; he was in London on business, and was jeopardising a million dollars for the sake of the cheap applause of a man for whose opinion he did not care a cent.

      Mr. Reeder was standing nervously on the sidewalk, waiting for what he described as ‘the vehicular traffic’ to pass, when a strange man bumped against him.

      ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the stranger.

      ‘Not at all,’ murmured Mr. Reeder. ‘My watch is five minutes fast-you can see the correct time by Big Ben.’

      Mr. Lomer felt a hand dip into his coat pocket, saw, like one hypnotised, the watch go back to J.G. Reeder’s pocket.

      ‘Over here for long?’ asked Mr. Reeder pleasantly.

      ‘Why-yes.’

      ‘It’s a nice time of the year.’ Mr. Reeder removed his eyeglasses, rubbed them feebly on his sleeve and replaced them crookedly. ‘But the country is not quite so beautiful as Canada in the fall. How is Leoni?’

      Art Lomer did not faint; he swayed slightly and blinked hard, as if he were trying to wake up. Leoni was the proprietor of that little restaurant in Buffalo which was the advanced base of those operations so profitable to Art and his friends.

      ‘Leoni? Say, mister-’

      ‘And the troupe-are they performing in England or-er-resting? I think that is the word.’

      Art gaped at the other. On Mr. Reeder’s face was an expression of solicitude and inquiry. It was as though the well-being of the troupe was an absorbing preoccupation.

      ‘Say-listen-’ began Art huskily.

      Before he could collect his thoughts, Reeder was crossing the road with nervous glances left and right, his umbrella gripped tightly in his hand.

      ‘I guess I’m crazy,’ said Mr. Lomer, and walked back very slowly to where he had left his anxious cicerone.

      ‘No-he got away before I could touch him,’ he said briefly, for he had his pride. ‘Come along, we’ll get some eats, it’s nearly twel-’

      He put his hand to his pocket, but his watch was gone! So also was the expensive platinum albert. Mr. Reeder could be heavily jocular on occasions.

      ‘Art Lomer-is there anything against him?’ asked the Director of Public Prosecutions, whose servant Mr. J.G. Reeder was.

      ‘No, sir, there is no complaint here. I have come into-er-possession of a watch of his, which I find, by reference to my private file, was stolen in Cleveland in 1921-it is in the police file of that date. Only-um-it seems remarkable that this gentleman should be in London at the end of the tourist season.’

      The Director pursed his lips dubiously.

      ‘M-m. Tell the people at the Yard. He doesn’t belong to us. What is his speciality?’

      ‘He is a troupe leader-I think that is the term. Mr. Lomer was once associated with a theatrical company in-er-a humble capacity.’

      ‘You mean he is an actor?’ asked the puzzled Director.

      ‘Ye-es, sir; a producer rather than actor. I have heard about his troupe, though I have never had the pleasure of seeing them perform. A talented company.’

      He sighed heavily and shook his head. ‘I don’t quite follow you about the troupe. How did his watch come into your possession, Reeder?’

      Mr. Reeder nodded. ‘That was a little jest on my part,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘A little jest.’

      The Director knew Mr. Reeder too well to pursue the subject.

      Lomer was living at the Hotel Calfort, in Bloomsbury. He occupied an important suite, for, being in the position of a man who was after big fish, he could not cavil at the cost of the groundbait. The big fish had bitten much sooner than Art Lomer had dared to hope. Its name was Bertie Claude Staffen, and the illustration was apt, for there was something very fishlike about this young man with his dull eyes and his permanently opened mouth. Bertie’s father was rich beyond the dreams of actresses. He was a pottery manufacturer, who bought cotton mills as a sideline, and he had made so much money that he never hired a taxi if he could take a bus, and never took a bus if he could walk. In this way he kept his liver (to which he frequently referred) in good order and hastened the degeneration of his heart.

      Bertie Claude had inherited all his father’s meanness and such of his money as was not left to faithful servants, orphan homes and societies for promoting the humanities, which meant that Bertie inherited almost every penny. He had the weak chin and sloping forehead of an undeveloped intellect, but he knew there were twelve pennies to a shilling and that one hundred cents equalled one dollar, and that is more knowledge than the only sons of millionaires usually acquire.

      He had one quality which few would suspect in him: the gift of romantic dreaming. When Mr. Staffen was not occupied in cutting down overhead charges or speeding up production, he loved to sit at his ease, a cigarette between his lips, his eyes half closed, and picture himself in heroic situations. Thus, he could imagine dark caves stumbled upon by acident, filled with dusty boxes bulging with treasure; or he saw himself at Deauville Casino, with immense piles of mille notes fore him, won from fabulously rich Greeks, Armenians-in fact, anybody who is fabulously rich. Most of his dreams were about money in sufficient quantities to repay him the death duties on his father’s estate which had been iniquitously wrung from him by thieving revenue officers. He was a very rich man, but ought to be richer-this was his considered view.

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