Room 13
Reeder,” he said. “I suppose you know that I’m one of those
unfortunate people who, through the treachery of others, have suffered
imprisonment?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Mr. Reeder in his weak voice, his chin
still bent, his pale blue eyes fixed unwaveringly on the other. “Of
course, I remember. You were the man who robbed the strong-room. Of
course you were. Legge, Legge? I seem to remember the name too.
Haven’t you a son?”
“I have a son, the best boy in the world,” said Emanuel fervently.
There was a telephone receiver at Mr. Reeder’s right hand, and
throughout the interview he was polishing the black stem with the cuff
of his alpaca coat, a nervous little trick which first amused and then
irritated the caller.
“He has never been in trouble, Mr. Legge? Ah, that’s a blessing,” he
sighed. “So many young people get into trouble nowadays.”
If there was one person whom Legge did not want to discuss it was his
son. He got off the subject as well as he could.
“I understand, Mr. Reeder, that you’re doing special work for the
Government--in the police department?”
“Not in the police department,” murmured the other. “No, no, certainly
not--not in the police department. I scarcely know a policeman. I see
them often in the streets, and very picturesque figures they are.
Mostly young men in the vigour and prime of youth. What a wonderful
thing is youth, Mr. Legge! I suppose you’re very proud of your son?”
“He’s a good boy,” said Emanuel shortly, and Mr. Reeder sighed again.
“Children are a great expense,” he said. “I often wonder whether I
ought to be glad that I never married. What is your son by occupation,
Mr. Legge?”
“An export agent,” said Emanuel promptly.
“Dear, dear!” said the other, and shook his head.
Emanuel did not know whether he was impressed or only sympathising.
“Being in Dartmoor, naturally I met a number of bad characters,” said
the virtuous Emanuel; “men who did not appeal to me, since I was
perfectly innocent and only got my stretch--lagging--imprisonment
through a conspiracy on the part of a man I’ve done many a good turn
to----”
“Ingratitude,” interrupted Mr. Reeder, drawing in his breath. “What a
terrible thing is ingratitude! How grateful your son must be that he
has a father who looks after him, who has properly educated him and
brought him up in the straight way, in spite of his own deplorable
lapses!”
“Now, look here, Mr. Reeder.” Emanuel thought it was time to get more
definitely to business. “I’m a very plain man, and I’m going to speak
plainly to you. It has come to my knowledge that the gentlemen you are
acting for are under the impression that my boy’s got to do with the
printing of ‘slush’--counterfeit notes. I was never more hurt in my
life than when I heard this rumour. I said to myself: ‘I’ll go
straight away to Mr. Reeder and discuss the matter with him. I know
he’s a man of the world, and he will understand my feelings as a
father.’ Some people, Mr. Reeder”--his elbows were on the table and he
leant over and adopted a more confidential tone--“Some people get
wrong impressions. Only the other day somebody was saying to me: ‘That
Mr. Reeder is broke. He’s got three county court summonses for money
owed----’”
“A temporary embarrassment,” murmured Mr. Reeder. “One has those
periods of financial--er--depression.”
He was polishing the stem of the telephone more vigorously.
“I don’t suppose you’re very well paid? I’m taking a liberty in making
that personal statement, but as a man of the world you’ll understand.
I know what it is to be poor. I’ve had some of the best society people
in my office”--Emanuel invented the office on the spur of the
moment--“the highest people in the land, and if they’ve said: ‘Mr.
Legge, can you oblige me with a thousand or a couple of thousand?’
why, I’ve pulled it out, as it were, like this.”
He put his hand in his pocket and withdrew it, holding a large roll of
money fastened with a rubber band.
For a second Mr. J.G. Reeder allowed his attention to be distracted,
and surveyed the pile of wealth with the same detached interest which
he had given to Emanuel. Then, reaching out his hand cautiously, he
took the note from the top, felt it, fingered it, rustled it, and
looked quickly at the watermark.
“Genuine money,” he said in a hushed voice, and handed the note back
with apparent reluctance.
“If a man is broke,” said Legge emphatically, “I don’t care who he is
or what he is, I say: ‘Is a thousand or two thousand any good to
you?’----”
“And is it?” asked Mr. Reeder.
“Is what?” said Emanuel, taken off his guard.
“Is it any good to him?”
“Well, of course it is,” said Legge. “My point is this: a gentleman
may be very hard pressed, and yet be the most solvent person in the
world. If he can only get a couple of thousand just when he wants
it--why, there’s no scandal, no appearance in court which might injure
him in his job----”
“How very true! How very, _very_ true!” Mr. Reeder seemed profoundly
touched. “I hope you pass on these wise and original statements to
your dear son, Mr. Legge?” he said. “What a splendid thing it is that
he has such a father!”
Emanuel cursed him under his breath.
“Two thousand pounds,” mused Mr. Reeder. “Now, if you had said five
thousand pounds----”
“I do say five thousand,” said Emanuel eagerly. “I’m not going to
spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar.”
“If you had said five thousand pounds,” Mr. Reeder went on, “I should
have known that three thousand was ‘slush,’ or shall we say
‘phoney’--because you only drew two thousand from the City and
Birmingham Bank this morning, all in hundred pound notes, series
GI.19721 to 19740. Correct me if I’m wrong. Of course, you might have
some other genuine money stowed away in your little hotel, Mr. Legge;
or your dear boy may have given you another three thousand as a sort
of wedding present--I forgot, though, a bridegroom doesn’t give
wedding presents, does he? He receives them. How foolish of me! Put
away your money, Mr. Legge. This room is very draughty, and it might
catch cold. Do you ever go to the Hilly Fields? It is a delightful
spot. You must come to tea with me one Sunday, and we will go up and
hear the band. It is a very inexpensive but satisfactory method of
spending two hours. As to those judgment summonses”--he coughed, and
rubbed his nose with his long forefinger--“those summonses were
arranged in order to bring you here. I did _so_ want to meet you, and
I knew the bait of my impecuniosity would be almost irresistible.”
Emanuel Legge sat, dumbfounded.
“Do you know a man named ‘Golden’? Ah, he would be before your time.
Have you ever heard of him? He was my predecessor. I don’t think you
met him. He had a great saying--set a ‘brief’ to catch a thief. We
called a note a ‘brief’ in those days. Good afternoon, Mr. Legge. You
will find your way down.”
Legge rose, and with that the sad-faced man dropped his eyes and
resumed the work he had been at when the visitor had interrupted him.
“I only want to say this, Mr. Reeder----” began Legge.
“Tell my housekeeper,” pleaded Reeder weakly, and he did not look up.
“She’s frightfully interested in fairy stories--I think she must be
getting towards her second childhood. Good afternoon, Mr. Legge.”
CHAPTER XII
Emanuel Legge was half-way home before he could sort out his
impressions. He went back to the Bloomsbury Hotel where he was
staying. There was no message for him, and there had been no callers.
It was now seven o’clock. He wondered whether Jeff had restrained his
impatience. Jeff must be told and warned. Johnny Gray, dead or maimed
in a hospital, had ceased to be a factor. Peter Kane, for all his
cunning and his vengefulness, might be dismissed as a source of
danger. It was Mr. J.G. Reeder who filled his thoughts: the bored
Civil Servant with a weak voice, who had such a surprising knowledge
of things, and whose continuous pointed references to Jeffrey filled
him with unquiet. Jeffrey must clear out of the country, and must go
while the going was good. If he hadn’t been such a fool, he would have
moved that night. Now, that was impossible.
Peter had not arrived at the Charlton, or the men whom Legge had set
to watch would have reported. If it had not been for the disturbing
interview he had had with Reeder, he would have been more worried
about Peter Kane; for when Peter delayed action, he was dangerous.
At eight o’clock that night, a small boy brought him a note to the
hotel. It was addressed “E. Legge,” and the envelope was grimy with
much handling. Emanuel took the letter to his room and locked the door
before he opened it. It was from a man who was very much on the inside
of things, one of Jeff’s shrewd but illiterate assistants, first
lieutenant of the Big Printer, and a man to be implicitly trusted.
There were six closely written pages, ill-spelt and blotted. Emanuel
read the letter a dozen times, and when he finished, there was panic
in his heart.
“Johnny Gray got out of the tunnel all right, and he’s going to squeak
to Reeder,” was the dramatic beginning, and there was a great deal
more.…
Emanuel knew a club in the West End of London, and his name was
numbered amongst the members, even in the days when he had little
opportunity of exercising his membership. It was a club rather unlike
any other, and occupied the third and fourth floor of a building, the
lower floors being in the possession of an Italian _restaurateur_.
Normally, the proprietor of a fairly popular restaurant would not hire
out his upper floors to so formidable a rival; but the proprietors of
the club were also proprietors of the building, the restaurant keeper
being merely a tenant.
It suited the membership of the Highlow Club to have their premises a
little remote. It suited them better that no stairway led from the
lower to the upper floors. Members of the club went down a narrow
passage by the side of the restaurant entrance. From the end of the
passage ran a small elevator, which carried them to the third floor.
The County Council, in granting this concession, insisted upon a very
complete fire escape system outside the building--a command which very
well suited the members. Some there were who found it convenient to
enter the premises by this latter method, and a window leading into
the club was left unfastened day and night against such a contingency.
On the flat roof of the building was a small superstructure, which was
never used by the club members; whilst another part of the building
which also belonged exclusively to the Highlow, was the basement, to
which the restaurant proprietor had no access--much to his annoyance,
since it necessitated the building of a wine storage room in the
limited space in the courtyard behind.
Stepping out of the elevator into a broad passage, well carpeted, its
austere walls hung with etchings, Emanuel Legge was greeted
respectfully by the liveried porter who sat behind a desk within sight
of the lift. There was every reason why Emanuel should be respected at
the Highlow, for he was, in truth, the proprietor of the club, and his
son had exercised control of the place during many of the years his
father had been in prison.
The porter, who was a big ex-prize fighter, expressly engaged for the
purpose for which he was frequently required, hurried from his tiny
perch to stand deferentially before his master.
“Anybody here?” asked Legge.
The man mentioned a few names.
“Let me see the engagement book,” said the other, and the man produced
from beneath the ledge of his desk a small, red book, and Emanuel
turned the pages. The old man’s hand ran down the list, and suddenly
stopped.
“Oh, yes,” he said softly, closing the book and handing it back.
“Are you expecting anybody, Mr. Legge?” asked the porter.