Room 13 (15 page)

Johnny shook his head.

“That is what is known as a mystery,” he said, and, seeing the man’s eyes keenly searching his face, he laughed aloud. “It wasn’t me, Fenner. I’ll assure you on that point. And as to me being a friend of Jeff” – he made a wry little face – “that isn’t like me either. How are you off for money?”

“Rotten,” said the other laconically, and Johnny slipped a couple of Treasury notes on to the tray.

He was turning away when the man called him back.

“Keep out of boob,” he said significantly. “And don’t think I’m handing round good advice. I’m not thinking of Dartmoor. There are other boobs that are worse – I can tell you that, because I’ve seen most of them.”

He gathered up the money on the tray without so much as a word of thanks, and put it in his waistcoat pocket.

“Keytown Jail is the worst prison in England,” he said, not looking at his benefactor but staring straight ahead. “The very worst – don’t forget that, Gray. Keytown Prison is the worst boob in England; and if you ever find yourself there, do something to get out. So long!”

The mentality of the criminal had been a subject for vicarious study during Johnny’s stay in Dartmoor, and he mused on the man’s words as he continued his walk along Regent Street. Here was a man offering advice which he himself had never taken. The moral detachments of old lags was no new phenomenon to Johnny. He had listened for hours to the wise admonitions and warnings of convicts, who would hardly be free from the fusty cell of the prison before they would be planning new villainies, new qualifications for their return.

He had never heard of Keytown Jail before, but it was not remarkable that Fenner should have some special grudge against a particular jail. The criminal classes have their likes and their dislikes; they loathed Wandsworth and preferred Pentonville, or vice versa, for no especial reason. There were those who swore by Parkhurst; others regarded Dartmoor as home, and bitterly resented any suggestion that they should be transferred to the island prison.

So musing, he bumped into Craig. The collision was not accidental, for Craig had put himself in the way of the abstracted young man.

“What are you planning, Johnny – a jewel robbery, or just ringing the changes on the Derby favourite?”

Johnny chuckled.

“Neither. I was at that moment wondering what there was particularly bad about Keytown Jail. Where is Keytown Jail, by the way?”

“Keytown? I don’t remember – oh, yes, I do. Just outside Oxford. Why?”

“Somebody was telling me it was the worst prison in England.”

“They are all the worst, Johnny,” said Craig. “And if you’re thinking out a summer holiday, I can’t recommend either. Keytown was pretty bad,” he admitted. “It is a little country jail, but it is no longer in the Prison Commissioners’ hands. They sold it after the war, when they closed down so many of these little prisons. The policy now is to enlarge the bigger places and cut out these expensive little boobs that cost money to staff. They closed Hereford Jail in the same way, and half a dozen others, I should think. So you needn’t bother about Keytown,” he smiled bleakly. “One of your criminal acquaintances has been warning you, I guess?”

“You’ve guessed right,” said Johnny, and advanced no information, knowing that, if Craig continued his walk, he would sooner or later see the toy pedlar.

“Mr Jeffrey Legge is making a good recovery,” said the detective, changing the subject; “and there are great rejoicings at Scotland Yard. If there is one man we want to keep alive until he is hanged in a scientific and lawful manner, it is Mr Jeffrey Legge. I know what you’re going to say – we’ve got nothing on him. That is true. Jeffrey has been too clever for us. He has got his father skinned to death in that respect. He makes no mistakes – a rare quality in a forger; he carries no ‘slush’, keeps none in his lodgings. I can tell you that, because we’ve pulled him in twice on suspicion, and searched him from occiput to
tendo achilles.
Forgive the anatomical terms, but anatomy is my hobby. Hallo!”

He was looking across the street at a figure which was not unfamiliar to Johnny. Mr Reeder wore a shabby frock – coat and a somewhat untidy silk hat on the back of his head. Beneath his arm he carried a partially furled umbrella. His hands, covered in grey cotton gloves (at a distance Johnny thought they were suede)
were clasped behind him. His spectacles were, as usual, so far down his nose that they seemed in danger of slipping over.

“Do you know that gentleman?”

“Man named Reeder, isn’t it? He’s a ‘busy’.”

Craig’s lips twitched.

“He’s certainly a ‘busy’ of sorts,” he said dryly, “but not of our sort.”

“He is a bank-man, isn’t he?” asked Johnny, watching Mr Reeder’s slow and awkward progress.

“He is in the employ of the bank,” said the detective, “and he’s not such a fool as he looks. I happen to know. He was down seeing young Legge yesterday. I was curious enough to put a man on to trail him. And he knows more about young Legge than I gave him credit for.”

When Johnny parted from the detective, Mr Reeder had passed out of sight. Crossing Piccadilly Circus, however, he saw the elderly man waiting in a bus queue, and interestedly stood and watched him until the bus arrived and Mr
Reeder boarded the machine and disappeared into its interior. As the bus drew away, Johnny raised his eyes to the destination board and saw that it was Victoria.

“I wonder,” said Johnny, speaking his thought aloud. For Victoria is the railway station for Horsham.

Mr Reeder descended from the bus at Victoria Station, bought a third-class return ticket to Horsham, and, going on to the bookstall, purchased a copy of the
Economist
and the
Poultry World,
and, thus fortified for the journey, passed through the barrier, and, finding an empty carriage, ensconced himself in one corner. From thence onward, until the train drew into Horsham station, he was apparently alternately absorbed in the eccentricities of Wyandottes and the fluctuations of the mark.

There were many cabs at the station, willing and anxious to convey him to his destination for a trifling sum; but apparently Mr Reeder was deaf to all the urgent offers which were made to him, for he looked through the taxi-men, or over their heads, as though there were no such things as grimy mechanicians or drivers of emaciated horses; and, using his umbrella as a walking-stick, he set out to walk the distance intervening between the station and Peter Kane’s residence.

Peter was in his snuggery, smoking a meditative cigar, when Barney came in with the news.

“There’s an old guy wants to see you, Peter. I don’t know who he is, but he says his name’s Reeder.”

Peter’s brows met.

“Reeder?” he said sharply. “What sort of man is he?”

“An old fellow,” said Barney. “Too shaky for a ‘busy’. He looks as if he’s trying to raise subscriptions for the old chapel organ.”

It was not an unfair description, as Peter knew.

“Bring him here, Barney, and keep your mouth shut. And bear in mind that this is the busiest ‘busy’ you are ever likely to meet.”

“A copper?” said Barney incredulously.

Peter nodded.

“Where’s Marney?” he asked quickly.

“Up in her boojar,” said Barney with relish. “She’s writing letters. She wrote one to Johnny. It started ‘Dear old boy’.”

“How do you know?” asked Peter sharply.

“Because I read it,” said Barney without shame. “I’m a pretty good reader: I can read things upside down, owing to me having been in the printing business when I was a kid.”

“Bring in Mr Reeder,” interrupted Peter ominously. “And remember, Barney, that if ever I catch you reading anything of mine upside down, you
will
be upside down! And don’t argue.”

Barney left the room, uttering a mechanical defiance which such threats invariably provoked.

Mr Reeder came in, his shabby hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, and a look of profound unhappiness on his face.

“Good morning, Mr Kane,” he said, laying down his impedimenta. “What a beautiful morning it is for a walk! It is a sin and a shame to be indoors on a day like this. Give me a garden, with roses, if I way express a preference, and just a faint whiff of heliotrope…”

“You’d like to see me in the garden, eh?” said Peter. “Perhaps you’re wise.”

Barney, his inquisitive ears glued to the keyhole, cursed softly.

“I was in a garden yesterday,” murmured Mr Reeder, as they walked across the lawn toward the sunken terraces. “Such a lovely garden! One bed was filled with blue flowers. There is something about a blue flower that brings a lump into my throat. Rhodo-dendrons infuriate me: I have never understood why. There is that about a clump of rhododendrons which rouses all that is evil in my nature. Daffodils, on the other hand, and especially daffodils intermingling with hyacinths, have a most soothing effect upon me. The garden to which I refer had the added attraction of being on the edge of the sea – a veritable Garden of Eden, Mr Kane, although” – he wagged his head from side to side disparagingly – “there were more snakes than is customary. There was a snake in a chair, and a snake who was posting letters in the village, and another official snake who was hiding behind a clump of bushes and had followed me all the way from London – sent, I think, by that misguided gentleman, Mr Craig.”

“Where were you, Mr Reeder?”

“At a seaside villa, a beautiful spot. A truly earthly paradise,” sighed Mr Reeder. “The very place an intelligent man would go to if he were convalescent, and the gentleman on the chair was certainly convalescent.”

“You saw Jeff Legge, eh? Sit down.”

He pointed to the marble bench where Johnny had sat and brooded unhappily on a certain wedding day.

“I think not,” said Mr Reeder, shaking his head as he stared at the marble seat. “I suffer from rheumatism, with occasional twinges of sciatica. I think I would rather walk with you, Mr Kane.” He glanced at the hedge. “I do not like people who listen. Sometimes one listens and hears too much. I heard the other day of a very charming man who happened to be standing behind a bush, and he heard the direful character of his son-in-law revealed. It was not good for him to hear so much.”

Peter knew that the man was speaking about him, but gave no sign.

“I owe you something, Mr Reeder, for the splendid way you treated my daughter–”

Mr Reeder stopped him with a gesture.

“A very charming girl. A very lovely girl,” he said with mild enthusiasm. “And so interested in chickens! One so seldom meets with women who take a purely sincere interest in chickens.”

They had reached a place where it was impossible they could be overheard. Peter, who realised that the visitor would not have called unless he had something important to say, waited for the next move. Mr Reeder returned to the subject of eavesdropping.

“My friend – if I may call him my friend – who learnt by accident that his son-in-law was an infernal rascal – if you will excuse that violent expression – might have got himself into serious trouble, very serious trouble.” He shook his head solemnly. “For you see,” he went on, “my friend – I do hope he will allow me to call him my friend? – has something of a criminal past, and all his success has been achieved by clever strategy. Now, was it clever strategy” – he did not look at Peter, and his faded eyes surveyed the landscape gloomily – “was it clever of my friend to convey to Mr Emanuel Legge the astounding information that at a certain hour, in a certain room – I think its number was thirteen, but I am not sure – Mr John Gray was meeting Mr J G Reeder to convey information which would result in Emanuel Legge’s son going to prison for a long period of penal servitude? Was it wise to forge the handwriting of one of Emanuel Legge’s disreputable associates, and induce the aforesaid Emanuel to mount the fire-escape at the Highlow Club and shoot, as he thought, Mr John Gray, who wasn’t Mr Gray at all, but his own son? I ask you, was it wise?”

Peter did not answer.

“Was it discreet when my friend went to the hotel where his daughter was staying, and found her gone, to leave a scribbled note on the floor, which conveyed to Mr Jeffrey Legge the erroneous information that the young lady was meeting Johnny Gray in Room 13 at nine-thirty? I admit,” said Mr Reeder handsomely, “that by these clever manoeuvres, my friend succeeded in getting Jeffrey Legge just where he wanted him at the proper time; for Jeffrey naturally went to the Highlow Club in order to confront and intimidate his wife. You’re a man of the world, Mr Kane, and I am sure you will see how terribly indiscreet my friend was. For Jeffrey might have been killed.” He sighed heavily. “His precious life might have been lost; and if the letters were produced at the trial, my friend himself might have been tried for murder.”

He dusted the arm of his frock-coat tenderly.

“The event had the elements of tragedy,” he said, “and it was only by accident that Jeff’s face was turned away from the door; and it was only by accident that Emanuel was not seen going out. And it was only by the sheerest and cleverest perjury that Johnny Gray was not arrested.”

“Johnny was not there,” said Peter sharply.

“On the contrary, Johnny was there – please admit that he was there!” pleaded Mr Reeder. “Otherwise, all my theories are valueless. And a gentleman in my profession hates to see his theories suffer extinction.”

“I’ll not admit anything of the sort,” said Peter sharply. “Johnny spent that evening with a police officer. It must have been his double.”

“His treble perhaps,” murmured the other. “Who knows? Humanity resembles, to a very great extent, the domestic fowl,
gallus domesticus.
One man resembles another – it is largely a matter of plumage.”

He looked up to the sky as though he were seeking inspiration from heaven itself.

“Mr Jeffrey Legge has not served you very well, Mr Kane,” he said. “In fact, I think he has served you very badly. He is obviously a person without principle or honour, and deserves anything that may come to him.”

Peter waited, and suddenly the man brought his eyes to the level of his.