Terror Keep

Rightly speaking, it is improper, not to say illegal, for those sadly privileged few who go in and out of Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum, to have pointed out to them any particular character, however notorious he may have been or to what heights of public interest his infamy had carried him, before the testifying doctors and a merciful jury consigned him to this place without hope. But often had John Flack been pointed out as he shuffled about the grounds, his hands behind him, his chin on his breast, a tall, lean old man in an ill-fitting suit of drab clothing, who spoke to nobody and was spoken to by few.

“That is Flack⁠—The Flack⁠—the cleverest crook in the world.⁠ ⁠… Crazy John Flack⁠ ⁠… nine murders⁠ ⁠…”

In their queer, sane moments, men who were in Broadmoor for isolated homicides were rather proud of Old John. The officers who locked him up at night and watched him as he slept had little to say against him, because he gave no trouble, and through all the six years of his incarceration had never once been seized of those frenzies which so often end in the hospital for some poor innocent devil, and a rubber-padded cell for the frantic author of misfortune.

He spent most of his time writing and reading, for he was something of a genius with his pen, and wrote with extraordinary rapidity. He filled hundreds of little exercise books with his great treatise on crime. The governor humoured him; allowed him to retain the books, expecting in due course to add them to his already interesting museum.

A hand gripped his arm and slowly pulled him round⁠—and this in broad daylight on Waterloo Station, under the eyes of at least two of his own tribe. Mr. Ravini’s dark eyes snapped dangerously.

And yet seemingly his assailant was a most inoffensive man. He was tall and rather melancholy-looking. He wore a frock coat buttoned tightly across his breast and a high, flat-crowned, hard felt hat. On his biggish nose a pair of steel-rimmed pince-nez were set at an awkward angle. A slither of sandy side whiskers decorated his cheek, and hooked to his arm was a lightly furled umbrella. Not that George examined these details with any care: they were rather familiar to him. He knew Mr. J. G. Reeder, detective to the Public Prosecutor’s office, and the fight went out of his eyes.

“Why, Mr. Reeder!” he said, with a geniality that almost sounded sincere. “This is a pleasant surprise. Meet my young lady friend Miss Belman⁠—I was just taking her along⁠—”

“Not to the Flotsam Club for a cup of tea?” murmured Mr. Reeder in a tone of pain. “Not to Harraby’s Restaurant? Don’t tell me that, Giorgio! Dear me! How interesting either experience would be!”

He beamed upon the scowling Italian.

“At the Flotsam,” he went on, “you would have been able to show the young lady where your friends caught young Lord Fallen for three thousand pounds only the night before last⁠—so they tell me. At Harraby’s you might have shown her that interesting little room where the police come in by the back way whenever you consider it expedient to betray one of your friends. She has missed a treat!”

The policeman who stood on the corner where Bennett Street meets Hyde Lane had the world to himself. It was nearing three o’clock on a chilly morning of early fall. The good and bad of Mayfair slept⁠—all, apparently, except Mr. J. G. Reeder, Friend of the Law and Terror of Criminals. Police Officer Dyer saw the yellow light behind the casemented window and smiled benevolently.

The night was so still that when he heard a key turn in a lock, he looked over his shoulder, thinking the noise was from the house immediately behind him. But the door did not move. Instead he saw a woman appear on the top doorstep five houses away.

“Officer!”

The voice was low, cultured, very urgent. He moved more quickly toward her than policemen usually move.

“Anything wrong, miss?”

Her face, he noticed in his worldly way, was “made up”; the cheeks heavily rouged, the lips a startling red for one who was afraid. He supposed her to be pretty in normal circumstances, but was doubtful as to her age. She wore a long black dressing gown, fastened up to her chin. Also he saw that the hand that gripped the railing which flanked the steps glittered in the lights of the street lamps.

“I don’t know⁠—quite. I am⁠—alone in the⁠—house and I⁠—thought I heard⁠—something.”

Three words to a breath. Obviously she was terrified.

“Haven’t you any servants in the house?”

The constable was surprised, a little shocked.

“No. I only came back from Paris at midnight⁠—we took the house furnished⁠—I think the servants I engaged mistook the date of my return. I am Mrs. Granville Fornese.”

It was after an atrocious revoke on the part of his partner, a revoke which gave his opponents the game and rubber, that Mr. Reeder pushed back his chair.

“What a strange world this is!” he remarked sententiously. “How like a game of cards!”

Those who were best acquainted with Mr. Reeder knew that he was most dangerous when he was most philosophical. The three people who sat about the table heard only a boring commonplace, in keeping with their conception of this somewhat dull-looking man.

“There are some people,” mused Mr. Reeder, looking up at the lofty ceiling, “who are never happy unless they have all the aces. I, on the contrary, am most cheerful when I have in my hand all the knaves.”

“You play a very good game, Mr. Reeder.”

It was the girl who spoke, and her voice was husky, her tone hesitant, as though she was forcing herself to speak.

“I play one or two games rather well,” said Mr. Reeder. “Partly, I think, because I have such an extraordinary memory⁠—I never forget knaves.”

There was a silence. This time the reference was too direct to be mistaken.

“There used to be in my younger days,” Mr. Reeder went on, addressing nobody in particular, “a knave of hearts, who eventually became a knave of clubs, and drifted down into heaven knows what other welters of knavery! In plain words, he started his professional⁠—um⁠—life as a bigamist, continued his interesting and romantic career as a tout for gambling hells, and was concerned in a bank robbery in Denver. I have not seen him for years, but he is colloquially known to his associates as ‘the Colonel’: a military looking gentleman with a pleasing appearance and a glib tongue.”

It was the hour after lunch, and Daver was sitting at his desk, twiddling his thumbs, when the door was pushed open unceremoniously and Mr. Reeder came in. He did not recognize the detective, for a man who in a moment of savage humour slices off his side whiskers brings about an amazing change in his appearance. And with the banishing of those ornaments, there had been a remarkable transformation in Mr. Reeder’s demeanour. Gone were his useless pince-nez which had fascinated a generation of lawbreakers; gone the gentle, apologetic voice, the shyly diffident manner.

“I want you, Daver!”

“Mr. Reeder!” gasped the yellow-faced man, and turned a shade paler.

Reeder slammed the door to behind him, pulled up a chair with a crash, and sat down opposite the hotel proprietor.

“Where is Miss Belman?”

“Miss Belman?”

Astonishment was expressed in every feature. “Good gracious, Mr. Reeder, surely you know? She went up to get your dactyloscope⁠—is that the word? I intended asking you to be good enough to let me see this⁠—”

“Where⁠—is⁠—Miss⁠—Belman? Spill it, Daver, and save yourself a lot of unhappiness.”

“I swear to you, my dear Mr. Reeder⁠—”

Reeder leaned across the table and rang the bell.

“Do⁠—do you want anything?” stammered the manager.

“I want to speak to Mrs. Flack⁠—you call her Mrs. Burton, but Mrs. Flack is good enough for me!”

Daver’s face was ghastly now. He had become suddenly wizened and old.