Mr. J. G. Reeder Returns (4 page)

This was a Reeder which the Assistant Prosecutor did not know, but of which he had heard – Mr Reeder the imperious, the dictatorial. It was not a pleasant experience.

“There is no reason why you should take that tone, Mr Reeder–” he began.

“That is the tone I invariably employ with any person or persons who interfere in the slightest degree with my private life,” said Mr Reeder.

The Assistant Prosecutor telephoned his chief, who was in the country, and the Public Prosecutor replied very tersely and to the point.

“Let him do as he wishes. For God’s sake don’t interfere with him!” he said testily. “Reeder is quite capable of looking after himself and his own reputation.”

So Mr Reeder went in a sort of mild triumph to the Queen’s Hall, where Larry was waiting for him, and together they sat and listened to a classical programme which was wholly incomprehensible to J G Reeder, but which he suffered rather than offend his companion.

“Wonderful!” breathed Larry, as the last trembling notes of a violin were engulfed in a thunder of applause.

“Extraordinary,” agreed Mr Reeder. “I didn’t recognise the tune, but he seemed to play the fiddle rather nicely.”

“You’re a Philistine, Mr Reeder,” groaned Larry.

Mr Reeder shook his head sadly.

“I’m afraid I shall never he able to appreciate these peculiar sounds which – um – so interest you,” he said. “I have a liking for old songs; in fact, I think ‘In the Gloaming’ is one of the most beautiful pieces I have ever heard–”

“Come and have a drink,” said Larry, in despair.

This was during the interval, and they made their way to the bar at the back of the stalls. It was here that Mr Buckingham made his dramatic entrance.

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, red of face, rough of speech; his hair was unruly, his eye a little wild, and he moved in a nidor of spirituous liquor. He stared glassily at Mr Reeder, reached out a big and ugly hand.

“You’re Mr Reeder, ain’t you?” he said thickly. “I’ve been thinking of coming to see you, and I would have come, only I’ve been busy. Fancy meeting you here! I’ve seen you often in court.”

Mr Reeder took the hand and dropped it. He hated moist hands. So far as he could recall, he had never met the man before, but evidently he was known to him. As though he read his thoughts, the other went on:

“My name’s Buckingham. I used to be in ‘L’ Division.” Leaning forward, he asked confidentially, “Have you ever heard such muck?”

Evidently this disrespectful reference was to the concert.

“I wouldn’t have come, but my girlfriend made me. She’s highbrow!” He winked. “I’ll introduce her.”

He dived into the crowd and returned, dragging a pallid-looking girl with a long, unhealthy face, who was not so highbrow that she despised the source of Mr Buckingham’s inspiration, for her eyes too were a little glassy.

“One of these days I’ll come and talk to you,” said Buckingham. “I don’t know whether I’ll have to, but I may have to; and when I do you’ll have something to talk about.”

“I’m sure I shall,” said Mr Reeder.

“There’s a time to be ’igh and mighty, and a time to be ’umble,” Buckingham went on mysteriously. “That’s all I’ve got to say – there’s a time to be ’igh and mighty, and a time to be ’umble!”

The Oracle of Delphi could not have been more profound.

A second later Mr Reeder saw him talking to a little man with a hard and unprepossessing face. Evidently the man was not a member of the audience, for later Mr Reeder saw him going out through the main entrance.

“Who is he?” asked Larry when the man had gone.

“I haven’t the least idea,” said Reeder, and Larry chuckled.

“You’ve one thing in common at any rate,” he said; “you both think classical music is muck. I’m going to give up trying to educate you.”

Mr Reeder was very apologetic after the concert. He liked music, but music of a kind. He had a weakness for the popular airs of twenty-five years ago, and confessed a little shamefacedly that he occasionally hummed these favourite tunes of his in his bath.

“Not that I can sing.”

“I’m sure of that,” said Larry.

Two days later Mr Reeder saw the two men again. It was on the north side of Westminster Bridge. Immediately opposite the Houses of Parliament there was a traffic block. At this point the road was being repaired and the police were marshalling the traffic into a single line.

Mr Reeder was waiting to cross the road and was examining the vehicles that passed. To say that he was examining them idly would not have been true. He never examined anything idly. He saw a new grey van and glanced up at the driver. It was the thin-faced man he had seen in the Queen’s Hall bar, and by his side sat Buckingham.

Neither of the men saw him as they passed. Mr Reeder could guess by the movement of the body that the van carried a fairly heavy load, for the springs were strained and the strain on the engine was almost perceptible.

Odd, thought Mr Reeder…van drivers and their assistants do not as a rule choose concert halls as meeting places. But then, so many things in life were odd. For example: it was a very curious friendship that had developed between himself and Larry. Reeder was the soul of rectitude. He had never in his life committed one act that could be regarded by the most rigid of moralists as dishonest. He had chosen, for the one friend he had ever had, a man who had only just escaped imprisonment, was undoubtedly a burglar, as undoubtedly the possessor of a large fortune which he had stolen from the interests which it was Mr Reeder’s duty to protect.

Such thoughts occurred to J G Reeder in such odd moments of contemplation as when he shaved himself or was brushing his teeth; but he had no misgiving, was unrepentant. He looked upon all criminals as a normal-minded doctor looks upon patients; they were beings who required specialised attention when they were in the grip of their peculiar malady, and were amongst the normals of life when they were cured.

And to be cured, from Mr Reeder’s point of view, was to undergo a special treatment in Wormwood Scrubbs, Dartmoor, Parkhurst, Maidstone, or whatever prison was adaptable for the treatment of those who suffered from, or caused, social disorders.

The next time Larry called, which was on a Sunday a fortnight later, he had an adventure to tell.

“Respect me as a reformed crook, and salute me as a hero,” he said extravagantly, as he hung up his coat. “I’ve saved a distressed damsel from death! With that rare presence of mind which is the peculiar possession of the O’Ryans, I was able–”

“It wasn’t so much presence of mind as a lamp-post,” murmured Mr Reeder; “though I grant that you were – um – quick on the – shall I say, uptake? In this case ‘uptake’ is the right word.”

Larry stared at him.

“Did you see it?” he asked.

“I was an interested spectator,” said Mr Reeder. “It happened very near to my office, and I was looking out of the window at that moment. I fear I waste a great deal of time looking out of the window, but I find the traffic of Whitehall intensely interesting. A car got out of control and swerved onto the pavement. It was going beyond the ordinary speed limit, and the young lady would, I think, have been severely injured if you had not lifted her aside just before the car crashed into the lamp-post. As it was, she had a very narrow escape. I applauded you, but silently, because the rules of the office call for quiet. But I still think the lamp-post had almost as much to do with it–”

“Of course it had, but she might have been hurt. Did you see her?” asked Larry eagerly. “She’s lovely! God, how lovely!”

Mr Reeder thought she was interesting, and said so. Larry scoffed.

“Interesting! She’s marvellous! She has the face and figure of an angel – and don’t tell me you’ve never met an angel – and she has a voice like custard. I was so knocked off my feet by her that she thought I was hurt.”

Mr Reeder nodded.

“I saw her. In fact, I – er – looked rather closely at her. I keep a small pair of field glasses on my desk, and I’m afraid I was rather inquisitive. Who is she?”

Larry shook his head.

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask her her name, naturally: she was rather upset by what had happened, and she hurried off. I saw her get into a Rolls-Royce that was evidently waiting for her–”

“Yes,” said Mr Reeder. “I saw the Rolls. It is a pity.”

“It
is
a pity. If I’d had any sense I’d have told her my name. After all, the least she can do is to write and thank her brave preserver.”

“She may yet – no, no, I wasn’t thinking of that.”

The housekeeper came in and laid the table, and during the operation Mr Reeder was silent. When she had gone: “I wasn’t thinking of that,” he went on, as though there had been no interruption of his thoughts. “I was thinking that if you had been properly introduced you might have asked her why such a strong safe was ordered.”

Larry looked at him blankly.

“Strong safe? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mr Reeder smiled. It pleased him to mystify this clever young man.

“The lady’s name was Miss Lane Leonard,” he said.

Larry frowned.

“Do you know her?”

“I have never seen her before in my life.”

“Then how the devil do you know she was Miss Lane Leonard? Have you seen her picture–?”

Mr Reeder shook his head.

“I’ve never seen a picture of her. I have neither seen her since nor before; I have received no information from any person immediately concerning her identity.”

“Then how the devil do you know?” asked the astonished Larry.

Mr Reeder chuckled.

“A person who has a car number has also a name. I was interested to discover who she was, ’phoned across to Scotland Yard, and they supplied me with the name that is attached to that particular car number. Miss Lane Leonard, 409 Berkeley Square, and Sevenways Castle, Sevenways, Kent. 409 Berkeley Square, by the way, is an expensive block of residential flats, so that if you feel that she would be happier for knowing the name of her – um – brave deliverer – I think that was the phrase – you might drop her a line and explain, with whatever modesty you can command, just how much she owes to you.”

Larry was very thoughtful.

“That’s queer. Do you remember we were talking about the Lane Leonards’ strongroom only a few weeks ago, and wondering why such an expensive contraption had been ordered. A lady worth a couple of millions.”

“I’m sorry,” Mr Reeder smiled. “I’ve spoilt your romance. You would have preferred that she were poor – um – but honest. That her father, or preferably her mother, was in the grip of a cruel – um – usurer, and that you might have rescued her once more with the magnificent capital which you have acquired by illicit and altogether disreputable means.”

Larry went red. He was a dreamer, and he was annoyed that anybody should know him as such, so annoyed that he abruptly changed the subject.

It was that night for the first time that J G Reeder learned the story of Larry O’Ryan’s boyhood, and the circumstances which had determined him in his career.

“I’m glad you’ve told me, Mr O’Ryan.” (Curiously enough, during all the years he knew Larry he never addressed him in any other way.) “It makes you more understandable than I thought you were, and excuses, as far as abnormal tendencies can be excused, your subsequent – um – behaviour. You should, of course, have gone to the head master and told the truth, and probably in later years, since thinking the matter over, you have come to the same conclusion.”

Larry nodded.

“Have you met the man since – the master who stole the money?”

“No,” said Larry, “but I should have probably met him if I had made Wormwood Scrubbs en route to Dartmoor. Only a born crook could have stolen from Farthingale, who was a good-hearted soul and hadn’t too much money. I sent him a monkey, by the way, last week. His wife’s had an operation, and I know the little man hasn’t a great deal of money.”

“A monkey being twenty-five or five hundred pounds? I have never quite accustomed myself to these sporting terms,” asked Mr Reeder. “Five hundred pounds? Well, well, it is nice to be generous with other people’s money, but we won’t go into that.”

He sat, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Once a crook, always a crook – that is your real belief, Mr O’Ryan? But at heart you’re not a crook. You’re just a young man who thought that he was taking the law into his own hands and was perfectly justified in doing so, which of course is absurd. If everybody thought as you do – but I am getting on to a very old and a tedious subject.”

The telephone bell rang shrilly. Mr Reeder walked to his desk, picked up the receiver and listened, answering monosyllabically. When he had finished: “I’m afraid our evening is going to be spoilt, Mr O’Ryan. I am wanted at the office.”

“It must be something very important to take you up on Sunday evening,” said O’Ryan.

“Everything that comes to me from the office is very important, on Sunday evening or even Monday evening,” said Reeder.

He took up the telephone directory, called a number and gave explicit and urgent instructions.

“If you’re hiring a car, it
is
important!”

Mr Reeder inclined his head.

“It is rather a matter of urgency,” he said. “It is, in fact – um – a murder.”

On this Sunday morning a policeman patrolling the very edge of the Metropolitan area, at that point near Slough where the County of Buckinghamshire and the County of London meet, had seen a foot sticking up apparently from the grass. It was in a place where no foot should have been, a rough, uneven field, crossed by an irrigation ditch which was now dry. The fact that there was a ditch there was unknown to the policeman until he opened a gate leading into the field and investigated.

As he opened the gate he noticed the marks of car wheels leading into the field, and saw that the padlocked chain which fastened the gate to a post had been broken. The policeman noticed this mechanically. He crossed the rough ground, wet with recent rain and came to the ditch, and the mystery of the foot was revealed. A man lay there on his back. He was dressed in his underclothes and a pair of socks, and one glance at the face told the policeman what had happened.