The Casefiles of Mr J. G. Reeder Read online

  ‘It is granted before you ask,’ said the other sardonically.

  ‘I’m going to ask you and Johnny boy to come and have a bit of dinner with me and Jeffrey, and let us fix this thing up. You’re not going to have this girl brought into the divorce court, are you? And you’ve got to get a divorce, whether he’s married or whether he isn’t. As a matter of fact, he isn’t married at all. I never dreamt you’d be such a mug as to fall for the story that Lila was properly married to Jeff. All these girls tell you the same thing. It’s vanity, Peter, a human weakness, if I may so describe it.’

  ‘Perhaps it was the vanity of the registrar who signed their marriage certificate, and the vanity of the people who witnessed the marriage,’ said Peter. ‘Your son was married to this girl at the Greenwich Registry Office; I’ve got a copy of the certificate – you can see it if you like.’

  Still the smile on Emanuel’s face did not fade.

  ‘Ain’t you smart?’ he said admiringly. ‘Ain’t you the quickest grafter that ever grafted? Married or not, Peter, the girl’s got to go into the court for the marriage to be – what do you call it? – annulled, that’s the word. And she can’t marry till she does. And they’ll never annul the marriage until you get my boy caught for bigamy, and that you won’t do, Peter, because you don’t want to advertise what a damned fool you are. Take my advice, come and talk it over. Bring Johnny with you –’

  ‘Why should I bring Johnny? I can look after myself.’

  ‘Johnny’s an interested party,’ said the other. ‘He’s interested in anything to do with Marney, eh?’ He chuckled, and for a second Peter Kane had all his work to maintain his calm.

  ‘I’m not going to discuss Marney with you. I’ll meet you and the Printer, and I don’t suppose Johnny will mind either. Though what you can do that the law can’t do, I don’t know.’

  ‘I can give you evidence that you can’t get any other way,’ said the other. ‘The fact is, Peter, my poor boy has realised he’s made a mistake. He married a girl who was the daughter of a respectable gentleman, and when I broke it to him, Peter, that he’d married into a crook family, he was upset! He said I ought to have told him.’

  ‘I don’t know what funny business you’re going to try,’ said Peter Kane, ‘but I’m not going to run away from it. You want me to meet you and your son – where?’

  ‘What about the old Highlow?’ suggested Emanuel. ‘What about Room 13, where a sad accident nearly occurred?’

  ‘Where you shot your son?’ asked Peter coolly, and only for a second did the man’s self-possession leave him. His face turned a dusky red and then a pale yellow.

  ‘I shot my son there, did I? Peter, you’re getting old and dopy! You’ve been dreaming again, Peter. Shot my son!’

  ‘I’ll come to this fool dinner of yours.’

  ‘And Marney?’ suggested the other.

  ‘Marney doesn’t put her foot inside the doors of the Highlow,’ said Peter calmly. ‘You’re mad to imagine I would allow that. I can’t answer for Johnny, but I’ll be there.’

  ‘What about Thursday?’ suggested the old man.

  ‘Any day will suit me,’ said Peter impatiently. ‘What time do you want us?’

  ‘Half-past eight. Just a snack and a talk. We may as well have a bit of food to make it cheerful, eh, Peter? Remember that dinner we had a few days before we smashed the Southern Bank? That must be twenty years ago. You split fair on that, didn’t you? I’ll bet you did – I had the money! No taking a million dollars and calling it a hundred and twenty thousand pounds, eh, Peter?’

  This time Peter stood by the door, and the jerk of his head told Emanuel Legge that the moment for persiflage had passed.

  ‘I want to settle this matter.’ The earnestness of his manner did not deceive Peter. ‘You see, Peter, I’m getting old, and I want to go abroad and take the boy with me. And I want to give him a chance too – a good-looking lad like that ought to have a chance. For I’ll tell you the truth – he’s a single man.’

  Peter smiled.

  ‘You can laugh! He married Lila – you’ve got a record of that, but have you taken a screw at the divorce list? That takes the grin off your face. They were divorced a year after they were married. Lila got tired of the other man and came back to Jeff. You’re a looker-up; go and look up that! Ask old Reeder –’

  ‘Ask him yourself,’ said Peter ‘He’s in the garden.’

  He had no sooner said the words than he regretted them. Emanuel was silent for a while.

  ‘So Reeder’s here, in the garden, is he? He’s come for a squeak. But you can’t, because you’ve nothing to squeak about. What does he want?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘That fellow spends his life wandering about other people’s gar­dens,’ grumbled Emanuel. A disinterested observer might have imagined that Mr Reeder’s passion for horticulture was the only grievance against him. ‘He was round my garden yesterday. I dare say he told you? Came worrying poor Jeff to death. But you always were fond of busies, weren’t you, Peter? How’s your old friend Craig? I can’t stand them myself, but then I am a crook. Thursday will suit you, Peter? That gives you six days.’

  ‘Thursday will suit me,’ said Peter. ‘I hope it will suit you.’

  As he came back on to the lawn Reeder and the girl were coming into view up the steps, and without preliminary he told them what had passed.

  ‘I fear,’ said Mr Reeder, shaking his head sadly, ‘that Emanuel is not as truthful a man as he might be. There was no divorce. I was sufficiently interested in the case to look up the divorce court records.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I think your dinner party at the Highlow – is that the name? – will be an interesting one,’ he said. ‘Are you sure he did not invite me?’ And again Peter saw that glint of humour in his eyes.

  Chapter 23

  Mr Emanuel Legge had a great deal of business to do in London. The closing of the club had sadly interfered with the amenities of the Highlow, for many of its patrons and members were, not unnatur­ally, reluctant to be found on premises subject, at any moment, to the visitation of inquisitive police officers. Stevens, the porter, had been reinstated, though his conduct, in Emanuel’s opinion, had been open to the gravest suspicion. In other ways he was a reliable man, and one whose services were not lightly to be dispensed with. To his surprise, when he had come to admonish the porter, that individual had taken the wind out of his sails by announcing his intention of retiring unless the staff was changed. And he had his way, the staff in question being the elevator boy, Benny.

  ‘Benny squeaked on me,’ said Stevens briefly, ‘and I’m not going to have a squeaker round.’

  ‘He squeaked to me, my friend,’ said Emanuel, showing his teeth unpleasantly. ‘He told me you tried to shield Johnny Gray.’

  ‘He’s a member, ain’t he?’ asked the porter truculently. ‘How do I know what members you want put away, and what members you want hidden? Of course I helped the Captain – or thought I was trying to help him. That’s my job.’

  There was a great deal of logic in this. Benny, the elevator boy, was replaced.

  Stepping out of the lift, Emanuel saw the prints of muddy boots in the hall, and they were wet.

  ‘Who is here?’ he asked.

  ‘Nobody in particular.’

  Legge pointed to the footprints.

  ‘Somebody has been here recently,’ he said.

  ‘They’re mine,’ said Stevens without hesitation. ‘I went out to get a cab for Monty Ford.’

  ‘Are there any mats?’ snapped Emanuel.

  Stevens did not answer.

  There was a great deal of work for Emanuel to do. For example, there was the matter of a certain house in Berkeley Square to be cleared off. Though he was no longer in active work, he did a lot of crooked financing, and the hou
se had been taken with his money. It was hired furnished for a year, and it was the intention of his assoc­iates to run an exclusive gambling club. Unfortunately, the owner, who had a very valuable collection of paintings and old jewellery, discov­ered the character of the new tenant (a dummy of Legge’s) and had promptly cancelled the agreement. Roughly, the venture had cost Emanuel a thousand, and he hated losing good money.

  It was late that night when he left the club. He was sleeping in town, intending to travel down to his convalescent son by an early train in the morning. It had been raining heavily, and the street was empty when he went out of the club, pulling the collar of his macintosh about his neck.

  He had taken two strides when a man stepped out of the shadow of a doorway and planted himself squarely in his path. Emanuel’s hand dropped to his pocket, for he was that rarest variety of criminal, an English gunman.

  ‘Keep your artillery out of action, Legge,’ said a voice that was strangely familiar.

  He peered forward, but in the shadow he could not distinguish the stranger’s face.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘An old friend of yours,’ was the reply. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten all your pals! Why, you’ll be passing a screw in the street one of these days without touching your hat to him.’

  And then it dawned upon Emanuel.

  ‘Oh . . . you’re Fenner, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m Fenner,’ admitted the man. ‘Who else could I be? I’ve been waiting to see you, Mr Emanuel Legge. I wondered if you would remember a fellow you sent to the triangle . . . fifteen lashes I had. You’ve never had a bashing, have you, Legge? It’s not so nice as you’d think. When they’d took me back to my cell and put that big bit of lint on my shoulder, I laid on my face for a week. Naturally, that interfered with my sleeping, though it helped me a whole lot to think. And what I thought was this, Emanuel, that a thousand a stroke wouldn’t be too much to ask from the man who got it for me.’

  Legge’s lip twisted in a sneer.

  ‘Oh, it’s the black you’re after, is it? Fifteen thousand pounds, is that your price?’

  ‘I could do a lot with fifteen thousand, Legge. I can go abroad and have a good time – maybe, take a house in the country.’

  ‘What’s the matter with Dartmoor?’ snarled Emanuel. ‘You’ll get no fifteen thousand from me – not fifteen thousand cents, not fifteen thousand grains of sand. Get out of my way!’

  He lurched forward, and the man slipped aside. He had seen what was in the old man’s hand.

  Legge turned as he passed, facing him and walking sideways, alert to meet any attempt which was launched.

  ‘That’s a pretty gun of yours, Legge,’ drawled the convict. ‘Maybe I shall meet you one of these days when you won’t be in a position to pull it.’

  A thought struck Emanuel Legge, and he walked slowly back to the man, and his tone was mild, even conciliatory.

  ‘What’s the good of making a fuss, Fenner? I didn’t give you away. Half a dozen people saw you cosh that screw.’

  ‘But half a dozen didn’t come forward, did they?’ asked Fenner wrathfully. ‘You were the only prisoner; there was not a screw in sight.’

  ‘That’s a long time ago,’ said Emanuel after a pause. ‘You’re not going to make any trouble now, are you? Fifteen thousand pounds is out of the question. It is ridiculous to ask me for that. But if a couple of hundred will do you any good, why, I’ll send it to you.’

  ‘I’ll have it now,’ said Fenner.

  ‘You won’t have it now, because I haven’t got it,’ replied Emanuel. ‘Tell me where you’re to be found, and I’ll send a boy along with it in the morning.’

  Fenner hesitated. He was surprised even to touch for a couple of hundred.

  ‘I’m staying at Rowton House, Wimborne Street, Pimlico.’

  ‘In your own name?’

  ‘In the name of Fenner,’ the other evaded, ‘and that’s good enough for you.’

  Emanuel memorised the address.

  ‘It will be there at ten o’clock,’ he said. ‘You’re a mug to quarrel with me. I could put you on to a job where you could have made not fifteen, but twenty thousand.’

  All the anger had died out of the burglar’s tone when he asked: ‘Where?’

  ‘There’s a house in Berkeley Square,’ said Emanuel quickly, and gave the number.

  It was providential that he had remembered that white elephant of his. And he knew, too, that at that moment the house was empty but for a caretaker.

  ‘Just wait here,’ he said, and went back into the club and to his little office on the third floor.

  Opening a drawer of his desk, he took out a small bunch of keys, the duplicates that had been made during the brief period that the original keys had been in his possession. He found Fenner waiting where he had left him.

  ‘Here are the keys. The house is empty. One of our people borrowed the keys and got cold feet at the last minute. There’s about eight thousand pounds’ worth of jewellery in a safe – you can’t miss it. It is in the principal drawing-room – in show cases – go and take a look at it. And there’s plate worth a fortune.’

  The man jingled the keys in his hand.

  ‘Why haven’t you gone after it, Emanuel?’

  ‘Because it’s not my graft,’ said Emanuel. ‘I’m running straight now. But I want my cut, Fenner. Don’t run away with any idea that you’re getting this for nothing. You’ve got a couple of nights to do the job; after that, you haven’t the ghost of a chance, because the family will be coming back.’

  ‘But why do you give it to me?’ asked Fenner, still suspicious.

  ‘Because there’s nobody else,’ was the almost convincing reply. ‘It may be that the jewellery is not there at all,’ went on Emanuel frankly. ‘It may have been taken away. But there is plenty of plate. I wouldn’t have given it to you if I’d got the right man – I doubt whether I’m going to get my cut from you.’

  ‘You’ll get your cut,’ said the other roughly. ‘I’m a fool to go after this, knowing what a squeaker you are, but I’ll take the risk. If you put a point on me over this, Emanuel, I’ll kill you. And I mean it.’

  ‘I’m sick of getting news about my murder,’ said Emanuel calmly. ‘If you don’t want to do it, leave it. I’ll send you up a couple of hundred in the morning, and that’s all I’ll do for you. Give me back those keys.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said the man, and turned away without another word.

  It was one o’clock, and Emanuel went back to the club, working the automatic lift himself to the second floor.

  ‘Everybody gone, Stevens?’ he asked.

  The porter stifled a yawn and shook his head.

  ‘There’s a lady and a gentleman’ – he emphasised the word – ‘in No. 8. They’ve been quarrelling since nine o’clock. They ought to be finished by now.’

  ‘Put my office through to the exchange,’ said Emanuel. Behind the porter’s desk was a small switchboard, and he thrust in the two plugs. Presently the disc showed him that Emanuel was through.

  Mr Legge had many friends amongst the minor members of the Criminal Investigation Department. They were not inexpensive acquaint­ances, but they could on occasion be extremely useful. That night, in some respects, Emanuel’s luck was in, when he found Sergeant Shilto in his office. There had been a jewel theft at one of the theatres, which had kept the sergeant busy.

  ‘Is that you, Shilto?’ asked Legge in a low voice. ‘It’s Manileg.’ He gave his telegraphic address, which also served as a nom de plume when such delicate negotiations as these were going through.

  ‘Yes, Mr Manileg?’ said the officer, alert, for Emanuel did not call up police headquarters unless there was something unusual afoot.

  ‘Do you want a cop – a real one?’ asked Le
gge in a voice little above a whisper. ‘There’s a man named Fenner –’

  ‘The old lag?’ asked Shilto. ‘Yes, I saw him today. What’s he doing?’

  ‘He’s knocking off a little silver, from 973, Berkeley Square. Be at the front door: you’ll probably see him go in. You want to be careful, because he’s got a gun. If you hurry, you’ll get there in front of him. Good-night.’

  He hung up the receiver and smiled. The simplicity of the average criminal always amused Emanuel Legge.

  Chapter 24

  Peter wrote to tell of the invitation which Legge had extended to him. Johnny Gray had the letter by the first post. He sat in his big armchair, his silk dressing-gown wrapped around him, his chin on his fists; and seeing him thus, the discreet Parker did not intrude upon his thoughts until Johnny, reading the letter again, tore it in pieces and threw it into the wastepaper-basket.

  He had a whimsical practice of submitting most of his problems, either in parable form or more directly, to his imperturbable man­servant.

  ‘Parker, if you were asked to take dinner in a lion’s den, what dress would you wear?’

  Parker looked down at him thoughtfully, biting his lip.

  ‘It would largely depend, sir, on whether there were ladies to be present,’ he said. ‘Under those extraordinary circumstances, one should wear full dress and a white tie.’

  Johnny groaned.

  ‘There have been such dinners, sir,’ Parker hastened to assure him in all seriousness. ‘I recall that, when I was a boy, a visiting menag­erie came to our town, and one of the novelties was a dinner which was served in a den of ferocious lions; and I distinctly remember that the lion-tamer wore a white dress bow and a long tail coat. He also wore top boots,’ he said after a moment’s consideration, ‘which, of course, no gentleman could possibly wear in evening dress. But then, he was an actor.’

  ‘But supposing the lion-tamer had a working arrangement with the lions? Wouldn’t you suggest a suit of armour?’ asked Johnny without smiling, and Parker considered the problem for a moment.