The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar Wallace

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      ‘I rather believe that the young woman in the white dress is captured and removed to the harem of an Eastern potentate,’ he said precisely, and this time the girl laughed aloud.

      ‘Have you a parallel for that?’ she asked triumphantly, and Mr. Reeder was compelled to admit that he knew no exact parallel, but —

      ‘It is rather a remarkable coincidence,’ he said, ‘a very remarkable coincidence!’

      She looked at her programme, wondering if she had overlooked anything so very remarkable.

      ‘There is at this moment, watching me from the front row of the dress circle-I beg you not to turn your head-one who, if he is not a potentate, is undoubtedly Eastern; there are, in fact, two dark-complexioned gentlemen, but only one may be described as important.’

      ‘But why are they watching you?’ she asked in surprise.

      ‘Possibly,’ said Mr. Reeder solemnly, ‘because I look so remarkable in evening dress.’

      One of the dark-complexioned gentlemen turned to his companion at this moment.

      ‘It is the woman he travels with every day; she lives in the same street, and is doubtless more to him than anybody in the world, Ram. See how she laughs in his face and how the old so-and-so looks at her! When men come to his great age they grow silly about women. This thing can be done tonight. I would sooner die than go back to Bombay without accomplishing my design upon this such-and-such and so-forth.’

      Ram, his chauffeur, confederate and fellow jailbird, who was cast in a less heroic mould, and had, moreover, no personal vendetta, suggested in haste that the matter should be thought over.

      ‘I have cogitated every hypothesis to its logical conclusions,’ said Ras Lal in English.

      ‘But, master,’ said his companion urgently, ‘would it not be wise to leave this country and make a fortune with the new money which the fat little man can sell to us?’

      ‘Vengeance is mine,’ said Ras Lal in English.

      He sat through the next act which, as Mr. Reeder had truly said, depicted the luring of an innocent girl into the hateful clutches of a Turkish pasha and, watching the development of the plot, his own scheme underwent revision. He did not wait to see what happened in the third and fourth acts-there were certain preparations to be made.

      ‘I still think that, whilst the story is awfully thrilling, it is awfully impossible,’ said Margaret, as they moved slowly through the crowded vestibule. ‘In real life-in civilised countries, I mean-masked men do not suddenly appear from nowhere with pistols and say “Hands up!”-not really, do they, Mr. Reeder?’ she coaxed.

      Mr. Reeder murmured a reluctant agreement.

      ‘But I have enjoyed it tremendously!’ she said with enthusiasm, and looking down into the pink face Mr. Reeder felt a curious sensation which was not entirely pleasure and not wholly pain.

      ‘I am very glad,’ he said.

      Both the dress-circle and the stalls disgorged into the foyer, and he was looking round for a face he had seen when he arrived. But neither Ras Lal nor his companion in misfortune was visible. Rain was falling dismally, and it was some time before he found a cab.

      ‘Luxury upon luxury,’ smiled Margaret, when he took his place by her side. ‘You may smoke if you wish.’

      Mr. Reeder took a paper packet of cigarettes from his waistcoat pocket, selected a limp cylinder, and lit it.

      ‘No plays are quite like life, my dear young lady,’ he said, as he carefully pushed the match through the space between the top of the window and the frame. ‘Melodramas appeal most to me because of their idealism.’

      She turned and stared at him.

      ‘Idealism?’ she repeated incredulously.

      He nodded.

      ‘Have you ever noticed that there is nothing sordid about a melodrama? I once saw a classical drama-”OEdipus”-and it made me feel sick. In melodrama even the villains are heroic and the inevitable and unvarying moral is “Truth crushed to earth will rise again”-isn’t that idealism? And they are wholesome. There are no sex problems; unpleasant things are never shown in an attractive light-you come away uplifted.’

      ‘If you are young enough,’ she smiled.

      ‘One should always be young enough to rejoice in the triumph of virtue,’ said Mr. Reeder soberly.

      They crossed Westminster Bridge and bore left to the New Kent Road. Through the rain-blurred windows J.G. picked up the familiar landmarks and offered a running commentary upon them in the manner of a guide. Margaret had not realised before that history was made in South London.

      ‘There used to be a gibbet here-this ugly-looking goods station was the London terminus of the first railways-Queen Alexandra drove from there when she came to be married-the thoroughfare on the right after we pass the Canal bridge is curiously named Bird-in-Bush Road-’

      A big car had drawn level with the cab, and the driver was shouting something to the cabman. Even the suspicious Mr. Reeder suspected no more than an exchange of offensiveness, till the cab suddenly turned into the road he had been speaking about. The car had fallen behind, but now drew abreast.

      ‘Probably the main road is up,’ said J.G., and at that moment the cab slowed and stopped.

      He was reaching out for the handle when the door was pulled open violently, and in the uncertain light Mr. Reeder saw a broad-shouldered man standing in the road.

      ‘Alight quickly!’

      In the man’s hand was a long, black Colt, and his face was covered from chin to forehead by a mask.

      ‘Quickly-and keep your hands erect!’

      Mr. Reeder stepped out into the rain and reached to close the door.

      ‘The female also-come, miss!’

      ‘Here-what’s the game-you told me the New Cross Road was blocked.’ It was the cabman talking.

      ‘Here is a five-keep your mouth shut.’

      The masked man thrust a note at the driver.

      ‘I don’t want your money-’

      ‘You require my bullet in your bosom perchance, my good fellow?’ asked Ras Lal sardonically.

      Margaret had followed her escort into the road by this time. The car had stopped just behind the cab. With the muzzle of the pistol stuck into his back, Mr. Reeder walked to the open door and entered. The girl followed, and the masked man jumped after them and closed the door. Instantly the interior was flooded with light.

      ‘This is a considerable surprise to a clever and intelligent police detective?’

      Their captor sat on the opposite seat, his pistol on his knees. Through the holes of the black mask a pair of brown eyes gleamed СКАЧАТЬ