The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ been sitting with his head on his arms for the greater part of an hour.

      ‘I say… what do you want?’ he asked feebly. ‘I say… I can’t see anybody… Public Prosecutor’s Department?’ He almost screamed the words. ‘What’s the use of prosecuting him if you don’t get the money back?’

      Mr. Reeder let him work down before he began to ply his very judicious questions.

      ‘I don’t know much about it,’ said the despondent young man. ‘I’m only a sort of figurehead. Billingham brought the cheques for me to sign and I signed ‘em. I never gave him instructions; he got his orders. I don’t know very much about it. He told me, actually told me, that the business was in a bad way-half a million or something was wanted by next week… Oh, my God! And then he took the whole of our cash.’

      Sidney Telfer sobbed his woe into his sleeve like a child. Mr. Reeder waited before he asked a question in his gentlest manner.

      ‘No, I wasn’t here: I went down to Brighton for the weekend. And the police dug me out of bed at four in the morning. We’re bankrupt. I’ll have to sell my car and resign from my club-one has to resign when one is bankrupt.’

      There was little more to learn from the broken man, and Mr. Reeder returned to his chief with a report that added nothing to the sum of knowledge. In a week the theft of Mr. Billingham passed from scare lines to paragraphs in most of the papers-Billingham had made a perfect getaway.

      In the bright lexicon of Mr. J.G. Reeder there was no such word as holiday. Even the Public Prosecutor’s office has its slack time, when juniors and sub-officials and even the Director himself can go away on vacation, leaving the office open and a subordinate in charge. But to Mr. J.G. Reeder the very idea of wasting time was repugnant, and it was his practice to brighten the dull patches of occupation by finding a seat in a magistrate’s court and listening, absorbed, to cases which bored even the court reporter.

      John Smith, charged with being drunk and using insulting language to Police Officer Thomas Brown; Mary Jane Haggitt, charged with obstructing the police in the execution of their duty; Henry Robinson, arraigned for being a suspected person, having in his possession housebreaking tools, to wit, one cold chisel and a screwdriver; Arthur Moses, charged with driving a motorcar to the common danger-all these were fascinating figures of romance and legend to the lean man who sat between the press and railed dock, his square-crowned hat by his side, his umbrella gripped between his knees, and on his melancholy face an expression of startled wonder.

      On one raw and foggy morning, Mr. Reeder, self-released from his duties, chose the Marylebone Police Court for his recreation. Two drunks, a shop theft and an embezzlement had claimed his rapt attention, when Mrs. Jackson was escorted to the dock and a rubicund policeman stepped to the witness stand, and, swearing by his Deity that he would tell the truth and nothing but the truth, related his peculiar story.

      ‘P.C. Ferryman No. 9717 L. Division,’ he introduced himself conventionally. ‘I was on duty in the Edgware Road early this morning at 2.30 a.m. when I saw the prisoner carrying a large suitcase. On seeing me she turned round and walked rapidly in the opposite direction. Her movements being suspicious, I followed and, overtaking her, asked her whose property she was carrying. She told me it was her own and that she was going to catch a train. She said that the case contained her clothes. As the case was a valuable one of crocodile leather I asked her to show me the inside. She refused. She also refused to give me her name and address and I asked her to accompany me to the station.’

      There followed a detective sergeant.

      ‘I saw the prisoner at the station and in her presence opened the case. It contained a considerable quantity of small stone chips-’

      ‘Stone chips?’ interrupted the incredulous magistrate. ‘You mean small pieces of stone-what kind of stone?’

      ‘Marble, your worship. She said that she wanted to make a little path in her garden and that she had taken them from the yard of a monumental mason in the Euston Road. She made a frank statement to the effect that she had broken open a gate into the yard and filled the suitcase without the mason’s knowledge.’

      The magistrate leant back in his chair and scrutinised the charge sheet with a frown.

      ‘There is no address against her name,’ he said.

      ‘She gave an address, but it was false, your worship-she refuses to offer any further information.’

      Mr. J.G. Reeder had screwed round in his seat and was staring openmouthed at the prisoner. She was tall, broad-shouldered and stoutly built. The hand that rested on the rail of the dock was twice the size of any woman’s hand he had ever seen. The face was modelled largely, but though there was something in her appearance which was almost repellent, she was handsome in her large way. Deepset brown eyes, a nose that was large and masterful, a well-shaped mouth and two chins-these in profile were not attractive to one who had his views on beauty in women, but Mr. J.G. Reeder, being a fair man, admitted that she was a fine-looking woman. When she spoke it was in a voice as deep as a man’s, sonorous and powerful.

      ‘I admit it was a fool thing to do. But the idea occurred to me just as I was going to bed and I acted on the impulse of the moment. I could well afford to buy the stone-I had over fifty pounds in my pocketbook when I was arrested.’

      ‘Is that true?’ and, when the officer answered, the magistrate turned his suspicious eyes to the woman. ‘You are giving us a lot of trouble because you will not tell your name and address. I can understand that you do not wish your friends to know of your stupid theft, but unless you give me the information, I shall be compelled to remand you in custody for a week.’

      She was well, if plainly, dressed. On one large finger flashed a diamond which Mr. Reeder mentally priced in the region of two hundred pounds. ‘Mrs. Jackson’ was shaking her head as he looked.

      ‘I can’t give you my address,’ she said, and the magistrate nodded curtly.

      ‘Remanded for inquiry,’ he said, and added, as she walked out of the dock: ‘I should like a report from the prison doctor on the state of her mind.’

      Mr. J.G. Reeder rose quickly from his chair and followed the woman and the officer in charge of the case through the little door that leads to the cells.

      ‘Mrs. Jackson’ had disappeared by the time he reached the corridor, but the detective-sergeant was stooping over the large and handsome suitcase that he had shown in court and was now laying on a form.

      Most of the outdoor men of the C.I.D. knew Mr. J.G. Reeder, and Sergeant Mills grinned a cheerful welcome.

      ‘What do you think of that one, Mr. Reeder? It is certainly a new line on me! Never heard of a tombstone artist being burgled before.’

      He opened the top of the case, and Mr. Reeder ran his fingers through the marble chips.

      ‘The case and the loot weighs over a hundred pounds,’ said the officer. ‘She must have the strength of a navvy to carry it. The poor officer who carried it to the station was hot and melting when he arrived.’

      Mr. J.G. was inspecting the case. It was a handsome article, the hinges and locks being of oxidised silver. No maker’s name was visible on the inside, or owner’s initials on its glossy lid. The lining had once been of silk, but now hung in shreds and was white with marble dust.

      ‘Yes,’ said Mr. Reeder СКАЧАТЬ