The Mind of Mr. J. G. Reeder by Edgar Wallace Read Free Book Online

evening and, in the act of hiring a cab, had seen Lew Kohl negotiating for another.
    Mr Bride was engaged in the tedious but necessary practice of so cutting a pack of cards that the ace of diamonds remained at the bottom, when his former co-lodger burst in upon him, and there was a light of triumph in Lew’s cold eye which brought Mr Bride’s heart to his boots.
    ‘I’ve got him!’ said Lew.
    Bride put aside the cards and stood up.
    ‘Got who?’ he asked coldly. ‘And if it’s killing, you needn’t answer – just get out!’
    ‘There’s no killing.’
    Lew sat down squarely at the table, his hands in his pockets, a real smile on his face.
    ‘I’ve been trailing Reeder for a week, and that fellow wants some trailing!’
    ‘Well?’ asked the other, when he paused dramatically.
    ‘I’ve found his stocking!’
    Bride scratched his chin, and was half convinced.
    ‘You never have?’
    Lew nodded.
    ‘He’s been going to Maidstone a lot lately, and driving to a little village about five miles out. There I always lost him. But the other night, when he came back to the station to catch the last train, he slipped into the waiting-room and I found a place where I could watch him. What do you think he did?’
    Mr Bride hazarded no suggestion.
    ‘He opened his briefcase,’ said Lew impressively, ‘and took out a wad of notes as thick as that! He’d been drawing on his bank! I trailed him up to London. There’s a restaurant on the station and he went in to get a cup of coffee, with me keeping well out of his sight. As he came out of the restaurant he took out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth. He didn’t see the little book that dropped, but I did. I was scared sick that somebody else would see it, or that he’d wait long enough to find it himself. But he went out of the station and I got that book before you could say “knife”. Look!’
    It was a well-worn little notebook, covered with faded red morocco. Bride put out his hand to take it.
    ‘Wait a bit,’ said Lew. ‘Are you in this with me fifty-fifty, because I want some help?’
    Bride hesitated.
    ‘If it’s just plain thieving, I’m with you,’ he said.
    ‘Plain thieving – and sweet,’ said Lew exultantly, and pushed the book across the table.
    For the greater part of the night they sat together talking in low tones, discussing impartially the methodical book-keeping of Mr J G Reeder and his exceeding dishonesty.
    The Monday night was wet. A storm blew up from the south-west, and the air was filled with falling leaves as Lew and his companion footed the five miles which separated them from the village. Neither carried any impedimenta that was visible, yet under Lew’s waterproof was a kit of tools of singular ingenuity, and Mr Bride’s coat pockets were weighted down with the sections of a powerful jemmy.
    They met nobody in their walk, and the church bell was striking eleven when Lew gripped the bars of the South Lodge gates, pulled himself up to the top and dropped lightly on the other side. He was followed by Mr Bride who, in spite of his bulk, was a singularly agile man. The ruined lodge showed in the darkness. They approached the door and Lew flashed his shielded torch upon the keyhole before he began manipulation with the implements which he had taken from his kit.
    The door was opened in ten minutes and a few seconds later they stood in a low-roofed little room, the principal feature of which was a deep, grateless fireplace. Lew took off his raincoat and stretched it over the window before he uncovered his torch; then he knelt down, brushed the debris from the hearth and examined the joints of the big stone carefully.
    ‘This work’s been botched,’ he said. ‘Anybody could see that.’
    He put the claw of the jemmy into a crack and levered up the stone, and it moved slightly. Stopping only to dig a deeper crevice with his chisel and hammer he thrust the claw of the jemmy farther down. The stone came up above the edge of the