Room 13
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 detachment 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 _suède_) 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.
CHAPTER XXI
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 may
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. Rhododendrons 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 intermingled 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 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