The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ to him now, as he sat, after the man’s departure, going over the events of the past week. The three men who had been arrested had been under police suspicion for a long time, and Mo knew that not even he could have saved them. The arrests had been made by arrangement with Scotland Yard to suit the convenience of the artful Mr. Reeder.

      ‘I’ll “artful” him!’ said Mo, and spent the rest of the day making his preparations.

      At ten o’clock that night he passed under the Admiralty Arch. A yellow mist covered the park, a drizzle of rain was falling, and save for the cars that came at odd intervals towards the palace, there was no sign of life.

      He walked steadily past the Memorial, waiting for Mr. Reeder. Ten o’clock struck and a quarter past, but there was no sign of the detective.

      ‘He’s smelt a rat,’ said Mo Liski between his teeth, and replaced the short life-preserver he had carried in his pocket.

      It was at eleven o’clock that a patrolling police-constable fell over a groaning something that lay across the sidewalk, and, flashing his electric lamp upon the still figure, saw the carved handle of a Moorish knife before he recognised the pain-distorted face of the stricken Mo Liski.

      ‘I don’t quite understand how it all came about,’ said Pyne thoughtfully. (He had been called into consultation from headquarters.) ‘Why are you so sure it was the Moor Rahbut?’

      ‘I am not sure,’ Mr. Reeder hastened to correct the mistaken impression. ‘I mentioned Rahbut because I had seen him in the afternoon and searched his lodgings for the emeralds-which I am perfectly sure are still in Morocco, sir.’ He addressed his chief. ‘Mr. Rahbut was quite a reasonable man, remembering that he is a stranger to our methods.’

      ‘Did you mention Mo Liski at all, Mr. Reeder?’ asked the Assistant Public Prosecutor.

      Mr. Reeder scratched his chin.

      ‘I think I did-yes, I’m pretty certain that I told him that I had an appointment with Mr. Liski at ten o’clock. I may even have said where the appointment was to be kept. I can’t remember exactly how the subject of Liski came up. Possibly I may have tried to bluff this indigenous native-“Bluff” is a vulgar word, but it will convey what I mean-into the belief that unless he gave me more information about the emeralds, I should be compelled to consult one who knew so many secrets. Possibly I did say that. Mr. Liski will be a long time in hospital, I hear? That is a pity. I should never forgive myself if my incautious words resulted in poor Mr. Liski being taken to the hospital-alive!’

      When he had gone, the chief looked at Inspector Pyne. Pyne smiled.

      ‘What is the name of that dangerous reptile, sir?’ asked the inspector. ‘“Mamba,” isn’t it? I must remember that.’

Chapter 7

       The Strange Case

       Table of Contents

      In the days of Mr. Reeder’s youth, which were also the days when hansom cabs plied for hire and no gentleman went abroad without a nosegay in the lapel of his coat, he had been sent, in company with another young officer from Scotland Yard, to arrest a youthful inventor of Nottingham who earned more than a competence by methods which were displeasing to Scotland Yard. Not machines nor ingenious contrivances for saving labour did this young man invent-but stories. And they were not stories in the accepted sense of the word, for they were misstatements designed to extract money from the pockets of simple-minded men and women. Mr. Eiter employed no fewer than twentyfive aliases and as many addresses in the broadcasting of his fiction, and he was on the way to amassing a considerable fortune when a square-toed Nemesis took him by the arm and led him to the seat of justice. An unsympathetic judge sent Mr. Eiter to seven years’ penal servitude, describing him as an unconscionable swindler and a menace to society-at which Willie Eiter smiled, for he had a skin beside which the elephant’s was gossamer silk.

      Mr. Reeder remembered the case chiefly because the prosecuting attorney, commenting upon the various disguises and subterfuges which the prisoner had adopted, remarked upon a peculiarity which was revealed in every part which the convict had played-his inability to spell ‘able’ which he invariably wrote as though he were naming the victim of Cain’s envy.

      ‘There is this identity to be discovered in every criminal, however ingenious he may be,’ the advocate had said. ‘Whatever his disguise, no matter how cleverly he dissociates one role or pose from another, there is a distinguishable weakness common to every character he affects, and especially is this observable in criminals who live by fraud and trickery.’

      This Mr. Reeder remembered throughout his useful life. Few people knew that he had ever been associated with Scotland Yard. He himself evaded any question that was put to him on the subject. It was his amiable trait to pretend that he was the veriest amateur and that his success in the detection of wrongdoing was to be traced to his own evil mind that saw wrong very often where no wrong was.

      He saw wrong in so many apparently innocent acts of man that it was well for his reputation that those who were acquainted with and pitied him because of his seeming inadequacy and unattractive appearance did not know what dark thoughts filled his mind.

      There was a very pretty girl who lived in Brockley Road at a boardinghouse. He did not like Miss Margaret Belman because she was pretty, but because she was sensible: two terms which are as a rule antagonistic. He liked her so well that he often travelled home on the cars with her, and they used to discuss the Prince of Wales, the Labour Government, the high cost of living, and other tender subjects with great animation. It was from Miss Belman that he learned about her fellow-boarder, Mrs. Carlin, and once he travelled back with her to Brockley-a frail, slim girl with experience in her face and the hint of tragedy in her fine eyes.

      So it happened that he knew all about Mr. Harry Carlin long before Lord Sellington sent for him, for Mr. Reeder had the gift of evoking confidences by the suggestion rather than the expression of his sympathy.

      She spoke of her husband without bitterness-but also without regret. She knew him-rather well, despite the shortness of their married life. She hinted once, and inadvertently, that there was a rich relation to whose wealth her husband would be heir if he were a normal man. Her son would, in due course, be the possessor of a great title-and penniless. She was at such pains to rectify her statement that Mr. Reeder, suspicious of peerages that come to Brockley, was assured of her sincerity, however great might be her error. Later he learned that the title was that borne by the Right Honourable the Earl of Sellington and Manford.

      There came a slack time for the Public Prosecutor’s office, when it seemed that sin had gone out of the world; and Mr. Reeder sat for a week on end in his little room, twiddling his thumbs or reading the advertisement columns of The Times, or drawing grotesque men upon his blottingpad, varying these performances with the excursions he was in the habit of making to those parts of London which very few people choose for their recreation. He loved to poke about the slum areas which lie in the neighbourhood of the Great Surrey Docks; he was not averse from frequenting the north side of the river, again in the dock areas; but when his chief asked him whether he spent much time at Limehouse, Mr. Reeder replied with a pathetic smile.

      ‘No, sir,’ he said gently, ‘I read about such places-I find them infinitely more interesting in the pages of a-er-novel. Yes, there are Chinese there, and I suppose Chinese are romantic, but even they do not add romance to Limehouse, which is the most respectable and law-abiding corner of the East End.’

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