The Mind of Mr. J. G. Reeder

The day Mr. Reeder arrived at the Public Prosecutor’s office was indeed a day of fate for Mr. Lambton Green, Branch Manager of the London Scottish and Midland Bank.

That branch of the bank which Mr. Green controlled was situate at the corner of Pell Street and Firling Avenue on the “country side” of Ealing. It is a fairly large building and, unlike most suburban branch offices, the whole of the premises were devoted to banking business, for the bank carried very heavy deposits, the Lunar Traction Company, with three thousand people on its payroll, the Associated Novelties Corporation, with its enormous turnover, and the Laraphone Company being only three of the L.S.M.’s customers.

On Wednesday afternoons, in preparation for the pay days of these corporations, large sums in currency were brought from the head office and deposited in the steel and concrete strongroom, which was immediately beneath Mr. Green’s private office, but admission to which was gained through a steel door in the general office. This door was observable from the street, and to assist observation there was a shaded lamp fixed to the wall immediately above, which threw a powerful beam of light upon the door. Further security was ensured by the employment of a night watchman, Arthur Malling, an army pensioner.

The bank lay on a restricted police beat which had been so arranged that the constable on patrol passed the bank every forty minutes.

Lew Kohl walked into the room to find a middle-aged man in a flamboyant dressing-gown sitting at his desk, a pair of pince-nez set crookedly on his nose.

“Good morning, Kohl.”

Lew Kohl looked at the man who had sent him to seven and a half years of hell, and the corner of his thin lips curled.

“Morning, Mr. Reeder.” His eyes flashed across the almost bare surface of the writing-desk on which Reeder’s hands were lightly clasped. “You didn’t expect to see me, I guess?”

“Not so early,” said Reeder in his hushed voice, “but I should have remembered that early rising is one of the good habits which are inculcated by penal servitude.”

He said this in the manner of one bestowing praise for good conduct.

“I suppose you’ve got a pretty good idea of why I have come, eh? I’m a bad forgetter, Reeder, and a man in Dartmoor has time to think.”

The older man lifted his sandy eyebrows, the steel-rimmed glasses on his nose slipped further askew.

“That phrase seems familiar,” he said, and the eyebrows lowered in a frown. “Now let me think⁠—it was in a melodrama, of course, but was it Souls in Harness or The Marriage Vow?”

He appeared genuinely anxious for assistance in solving this problem.

“This is going to be a different kind of play,” said the long-faced Lew through his teeth. “I’m going to get you, Reeder⁠—you can go along and tell your boss, the Public Prosecutor. But I’ll get you sweet! There will be no evidence to swing me. And I’ll get that nice little stocking of yours, Reeder!”

The legend of Reeder’s fortune was accepted even by so intelligent a man as Kohl.

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 none 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 high, flat-crowned hat, his body was tightly encased in a black frock coat. A weakish man with yellowy-white side-whiskers and eyeglasses, that were nearer to the end than the beginning of his nose.

“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 Royal Canadian Police⁠—a force which normally, and in a local atmosphere, he held in the greatest detestation.

That was the first of the inexplicable happenings. The second came when Liski, returning to his flat off Portland Place, was suddenly confronted by the awkward figure of the detective.

“Is that Liski?” Mr. Reeder peered forward in the darkness. “I’m so glad I’ve found you. I’ve been looking for you all day. I fear I horribly misled you the other evening when I was telling you that Leghorns are unsuitable for sandy soil. Now on the contrary⁠—”

“Look here, Mr. Reeder, what’s the game?” demanded the other brusquely.

“The game?” asked Reeder in a pained tone.

“I don’t want to know anything about chickens. If you’ve got anything to tell me worth while, drop me a line and I’ll come to your office, or you can come to mine.”

He brushed past the man from the Public Prosecutor’s Department and slammed the door of his flat behind him. Within two hours a squad from Scotland Yard descended upon the house of Harry Merton, took Harry and his wife from their respective beds, and charged them with the unlawful possession of stolen jewellery which had been traced to a safe deposit.

A week later, Liski, returning from a vital interview with El Rahbut, heard plodding steps overtaking him, and turned to meet the pained eye of Mr. Reeder.

“How providential meeting you!” said Reeder fervently. “No, no, I do not wish to speak about chickens, though I am hurt a little by your indifference to this noble and productive bird.”