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

Troupe
    There was a quietude and sedateness about the Public Prosecutor’s office which completely harmonized with the tastes and inclinations of Mr J G Reeder. For he was a gentleman who liked to work in an office where the ticking of a clock was audible and the turning of a paper produced a gentle disturbance.
    He had before him one morning the typewritten catalogue of Messrs Willoby, the eminent estate agents, and he was turning the leaves with a thoughtful expression. The catalogue was newly arrived, a messenger having only a few minutes before placed the portfolio on his desk.
    Presently he smoothed down a leaf and read again the flattering description of a fairly unimportant property, and his scrutiny was patently a waste of time, for, scrawled on the margin of the sheet in red ink was the word Let , which meant that ‘Riverside Bower’ was not available for hire. The ink was smudged, and Let had obviously been written that morning.
    ‘Humph!’ said Mr Reeder.
    He was interested for many reasons. In the heat of July riverside houses are at a premium: at the beginning of November they are somewhat of a drug on the market. And transatlantic visitors do not as a rule hire riverside cottages in a month which is chiefly distinguished by mists, rain and general discomfort.
     
    Two reception: two bedrooms: bath, large dry cellars, lawn to river, small skiff and punt. Gas and electric light. Ten guineas weekly or would be let for six months at eight guineas.
     
    He pulled his telephone towards him and gave the agents’ number.
    ‘Let, is it – dear me! To an American gentleman? When will it be available?’
    The new tenant had taken the house for a month. Mr Reeder was even more intrigued, though his interest in the ‘American gentleman’ was not quite as intensive as the American gentleman’s interest in Mr Reeder.
    When the great Art Lomer came on a business trip from Canada to London, a friend and admirer carried him off one day to see the principal sight of London.
    ‘He generally comes out at lunch time,’ said the friend, who was called ‘Cheep’, because his name was Sparrow.
    Mr Lomer looked up and down Whitehall disparagingly, for he had seen so many cities of the world that one seemed as good as the others.
    ‘There he is!’ whispered Cheep, though there was no need for mystery or confidence.
    A middle-aged man had come out of one of the narrow doorways of a large grey building. On his head was a black hat; his body was tightly encased in an ill-fitting black coat and striped trousers. A weakish man with yellowy-white side-whiskers.
    ‘Him?’ demanded the amazed Art.
    ‘Him,’ said the other, incorrectly but with emphasis. ‘Is that the kind of guy you’re scared about? You’re crazy. Why, that man couldn’t catch a cold! Now, back home in T’ronto–’
    Art was proud of his home town, and in that spirit of expansiveness which paints even the unpleasant features of One’s Own with the most attractive hues, he had even a good word to say about the Canadian Police – a force which normally, and in a local atmosphere, he held in the greatest detestation.
    Art ‘operated’ – he never employed a baser word – from Toronto, which, by its proximity to Buffalo and the United States border, gave him certain advantages. He had once ‘operated’ in Canada itself, but his line at that period being robbery of a kind which is necessarily accompanied by assault, he had found himself facing a Canadian magistrate, and a Canadian magistrate wields extraordinary powers. Art had been sent down for five years. Thereafter he cut out violence and confined himself to the formation of his troupe – and Art Lomer’s troupe was famous from the Atlantic to the Pacific.
    He had been plain Arthur Lomer when he was rescued from a London gutter and a career of crime and sent to Canada, the charitable authorities being under the impression that Canada was rather short of juvenile criminals.
    ‘I’ll tell the