MR. J. G. REEDER SERIES: 5 Mystery Novels & 4 Detective Stories. Edgar Wallace
so great a liberty as I have had taken with me during the past year and nine months,” said Johnny.
As the cab came out into dismal Chapel Street, the greatly daring Parker asked:
“I hope you have not had too bad a time, sir?”
Johnny laughed.
“It has not been pleasant, Parker. Prisons seldom are.”
“I suppose not, sir,” agreed Parker, and added unnecessarily: “I have never been in prison, sir.”
Johnny’s flat was in Queen’s Gate, and at the sight of the peaceful luxury of his study he caught his breath.
“You’re a fool,” he said aloud to himself.
“Yes, sir,” said the obliging Parker.
That night many men came furtively to the flat in Queen’s Gate, and Johnny, after admitting the first of these, called Parker into his small diningroom.
“Parker, I am told that during my absence in the country even staid men have acquired the habit of attending cinema performances?”
“Well, sir, I like the pictures myself,” admitted Parker.
“Then go and find one that lasts until eleven o’clock,” said Johnny.
“You mean, sir — ?”
“I mean I don’t want you here tonight.”
Parker’s face fell, but he was a good servant.
“Very good, sir,” he said, and went out, wondering sorrowfully what desperate plans his master was hatching.
At half-past ten the last of the visitors took his leave.
“I’ll see Peter tomorrow,” said Johnny, tossing the end of his cigarette into the hall fireplace. “You know nothing of this wedding, when it is to take place?”
“No, Captain. I only know Peter slightly.”
“Who is the bridegroom?”
“A swell, by all accounts – Peter is a plausible chap, and he’d pull in the right kind. A major in the Canadian Army, I’ve heard, and a very nice man. Peter can catch mugs easier than some people can catch flies—”
“Peter was never a mug-catcher,” said John Gray sharply.
“I don’t know,” said the other. “There’s one born every minute.”
“But they take a long time to grow up, and the women get first pluck,” said Johnny good-humouredly.
Parker, returning at 11.15, found his master sitting before a fireplace which was choked with burnt paper.
Johnny reached Horsham the next afternoon soon after lunch, and none who saw the athletic figure striding up the Horsham Road would guess that less than two days before he had been the inmate of a convict cell.
He had come to make his last desperate fight for happiness. How it would end, what argument to employ, he did not know. There was one, and one only, but that he could not use.
As he turned into Down Road he saw two big limousines standing one behind the other, and wondered what social event was in progress.
Manor Hill stood aloof from its suburban neighbours, a sedate, redbrick house, its walls gay with clematis. Johnny avoided the front gates and passed down a side path which, as he knew, led to the big lawn behind, where Peter loved to sun himself at this hour.
He paused as he emerged into the open. A pretty parlourmaid was talking to an elderly man, who wore without distinction the livery of a butler. His lined face was puckered uncomfortably, and his head was bent in a listening attitude, though it was next to impossible for a man totally deaf to miss hearing all that was said.
“I don’t know what sort of houses you’ve been in, and what sort of people you’ve been working for, but I can tell you that if I find you in my room again, looking in my boxes, I shall tell Mr Kane. I won’t have it, Mr. Ford!”
“No, miss,” said the butler, huskily.
It was not, Johnny knew, emotion which produced the huskiness. Barney Ford had been husky from his youth – probably squawked huskily in his cradle.
“If you are a burglar and trying to keep your hand in, I understand it,” the girl continued hotly, “but you’re supposed to be a respectable man! I won’t have this underhand prying and sneaking. Understand that! I won’t have it!”
“No, miss,” said the hoarse Barney. John Gray surveyed the scene with amusement. Barney he knew very well. He had quitted the shadier walks of life when Peter Kane had found it expedient to retire from his hazardous calling. Exconvict, ex-burglar and ex-prizefighter, his seamy past was in some degree redeemed by his affection for the man whose bread he ate and in whose service he pretended to be, though a worse butler had never put on uniform than Barney.
The girl was pretty, with hair of dull gold and a figure that was both straight and supple. Now her face was flushed with annoyance, and the dark eyes were ablaze. Barney certainly had prying habits, the heritage of his unregenerate days. Other servants had left the house for the same reason, and Peter had cursed and threatened without wholly reforming his servitor.
The girl did not see him as she turned and flounced into the house, leaving the old man to stare after her. “You’ve made her cross,” said John, coming up behind him. Barney Ford spun round and stared. Then his jaw dropped. “Good Lord, Johnny, when did you come down from college?” The visitor laughed softly.
“Term ended yesterday,” he said. “How is Peter?”
Before he replied the servant blew his nose violently, all the time keeping his eye upon the newcomer. “How long have you bin here?” he asked at length. “I arrived at the tail-end of your conversation,” said Johnny, amused. “Barney, you haven’t reformed!” Barney Ford screwed up his face into an expression of scorn. “They think you’re a hook even if you ain’t one,” he said. “What does she know about life? You ain’t seen Peter? He’s in the house; I’ll tell him in a minute. He’s all right. All beans and bacon about the girl. That fellow adores the ground she walks on. It’s not natural, being fond of your kids like that. I never was.” He shook his head despairingly. “There’s too much lovey-dovey and not enough strap nowadays. Spare the rod and spoil the child, as the good old poet says.”
John Grey turned his head at the sound of a foot upon a stone step. It was Peter, Peter radiant yet troubled. Straight as a ramrod, for all his sixty years and white hair. He was wearing a morning coat and pearl-grey waistcoat – an innovation. For a second he hesitated, the smile struck from his face, frowning, and then he came quickly his hand outstretched.
“Well, Johnny boy, had a rotten time?”
His hand fell on the young man’s shoulder, his voice had the old pleasure of pride and affection.
“Fairly rotten,” said Johnny; “but any sympathy with me is wasted. Personally, I prefer Dartmoor to Parkhurst – it is more robust, and there are fewer imbeciles.”
Peter took his arm and led him to a chair beneath the big Japanese umbrella planted on the lawn. There was something in his manner, a certain awkwardness which the newcomer could not understand.
“Did you meet anybody… there… that I know, Johnny boy?”
“Legge,” said the other laconically, his eyes on Peter’s face.
“That’s the man I’m thinking of. How is he?”
The tone was careless, but Johnny was not deceived. Peter was intensely interested.
“He’s been out six months – didn’t you know?”
The other’s face clouded.
“Out