/When/ a nimble old man dropped from a high wall at midnight and,
stopping only to wipe the blood from his hands--for he had come upon a
guard patrolling the grounds in his flight--and walked briskly towards
London, peering into every side lane for the small car that had been
left for him, he brought a new complication into many lives, and for
three people at least marked the date of their passing in the Book of
Fate.
Police headquarters were not slow to employ the press to advertise
their wants. But the escape from Broadmoor of a homicidal maniac is
something which is not to be rushed immediately into print. Not once
but many times had the help of the public been enlisted in a vain
endeavour to bring old John Flack to justice. His description had been
circulated, his haunts notified, without there being any successful
issue to the broadcast.
There was a conference at Scotland Yard, which Mr. Reeder attended;
and they were five very serious men who gathered round the
superintendent’s desk, and mainly the talk was of bullion and of
“noses,” by which inelegant term is meant the inevitable police
informer.
Crazy John “fell” eventually through the treachery of an outside
helper. Ravini, the most valuable of gang leaders, had been employed
to “cover” a robbery at the Leadenhall Bank. Bullion was John Flack’s
specialty: it was not without its interest for Mr. Ravini.
The theft had been successful. One Sunday morning two cars drove out
of the courtyard of the Leadenhall Bank. By the side of the driver of
each car sat a man in the uniform of the Metropolitan Police--inside
each car was another officer. A City policeman saw the cars depart,
but accepted the presence of the uniformed men and did not challenge
the drivers. It was not an unusual event: transfers of gold or stocks
on Sunday morning had been witnessed before, but usually the City
authorities were notified. He called Old Jewry station on the
telephone to report the occurrence, but by this time John Flack was
well away.
It was Ravini, cheated, as he thought, of his fair share of the
plunder, who betrayed the old man--the gold was never recovered.
England had been ransacked to find John Flack’s headquarters, but
without success. There was not an hotel or boarding-house keeper who
had not received his portrait--nor one who recognised him in any
guise.
The exhaustive inquiries which followed his arrest did little to
increase the knowledge of the police. Flack’s lodgings were found--a
furnished room in Bloomsbury which he had occupied at rare intervals
for years. But here were discovered no documents which gave the
slightest clue to the real headquarters of the gang. Probably they had
none. They were chosen and discarded as opportunity arose or emergency
dictated, though it was clear that the old man had something in the
nature of a general staff to assist him.
“Anyway,” said Big Bill Gordon, Chief of the Big Five, “he’ll not
start anything in the way of a bullion steal--his mind will be fully
occupied with ways and means of getting out of the country.”
It was Mr. Reeder’s head which shook.
“The nature of criminals may change, but their vanities persist,” he
said, in his precise, grandiloquent way. “Mr. Flack does not pride
himself upon his murders, but upon his robberies, and he will signify
his return to freedom in the usual manner.”
“His gang is scattered----” began Simpson.
J. G. Reeder silenced him with a sad, sweet smile.
“There is plenty of evidence, Mr. Simpson, that the gang has
coagulated again. It is--um--an ugly word, but I can think of no
better. Mr. Flack’s escape from the--er--public institution where he
was confined shows evidence of good team work. The rope, the knife
with which he killed the unfortunate warder, the kit of tools, the
almost certainty that there was a car waiting to take him away, are
all symptomatic of gang work. And what has Mr. Flack----”
“I wish to God you wouldn’t call him ‘Mr.’ Flack!” said Big Bill
explosively.
J. G. Reeder blinked.
“I have an ineradicable respect for age,” he said in a hushed voice,
“but a greater respect for the dead. I am hoping to increase my
respect for Mr. Flack in the course of the next month.”
“If it’s gang work,” interrupted Simpson, “who are with him? The old
crowd is either gaoled or out of the country. I know what you’re
thinking about, Mr. Reeder: you’ve got your mind on what happened last
night. I’ve been thinking it over, and it’s quite likely that the
man-trap wasn’t fixed by Flack at all, but by one of the other crowd.
Do you know Donovan’s out of Dartmoor? He has no reason for loving
you.”
Mr. Reeder raised his hand in protest.
“On the contrary, Joe Donovan, when I saw him in the early hours of
this morning, was a very affable and penitent man who deeply regretted
the unkind things he said of me as he left the Old Bailey dock. He
lives at Kilburn, and spent last evening at a local cinema with his
wife and daughter--no, it wasn’t Donovan. He is not a brainy man. Only
John Flack, with his dramatic sense, could have staged that little
comedy which was so nearly a tragedy.”
“You were nearly killed, they tell me, Reeder?” said Big Bill.
Mr. Reeder shook his head.
“I was not thinking of that particular tragedy. It was in my mind
before I went up the stairs to force the door into the kitchen. If I
had done that, I think I should have shot Mr. Flack, and there would
have been an end of all our speculations and troubles.”
Mr. Simpson was examining some papers that were on the table before
him.
“If Flack’s going after bullion he’s got very little chance. The only
big movement is that of a hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns which
goes to Tilbury to-morrow morning or the next day from the Bank of
England, and it is impossible that Flack could organise a steal at
such short notice.”
Mr. Reeder was suddenly alert and interested.
“A hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns,” he murmured, rubbing his
chin irritably. “Ten tons. It goes by train?”
“By lorry, with ten armed men--one per ton,” said Simpson humorously.
“I don’t think you need worry about that.”
Mr. J. G. Reeder’s lips were pursed as though he were whistling, but
no sound issued. Presently he spoke.
“Flack was originally a chemist,” he said slowly. “I don’t suppose
there is a better criminal chemist in England than Mr. Flack.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Simpson with a frown.
Mr. Reeder shrugged his shoulders.
“I have a sixth sense,” he said, almost apologetically, “and
invariably I associate some peculiar quality with every man and woman
who--um--passes under review. For example, Mr. Simpson, when I think
of you, I have an instinctive, shadowy thought of a prize ring where I
first had the pleasure of seeing you.” (Simpson, who had been an
amateur welter weight, grinned appreciatively.) “And my mind never
rests upon Mr. Flack except in the surroundings of a laboratory with
test tubes and all the paraphernalia of experimental chemistry. As for
the little affair last night, I was not unprepared for it, but I
suspected a trap--literally a--um--trap. Some evilly disposed person
once tried the same trick with me; cut away the landing so that I
should fall upon very unpleasant sharp spikes. I looked for sawdust
the moment I went into the house, and when that was not present I
guessed the gun.”
“But how did you know there was anything?” asked Big Bill curiously.
Mr. Reeder smiled.
“I have a criminal mind,” he said.
He went back to his flat in Bennett Street, his mind equally divided
between Margaret Belman, safe in Sussex, and the ability of one normal
trolley to carry a hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns. Such little
details interested Mr. Reeder. Almost the first thing he did when he
reached his flat was to call up a haulage contractor to discover
whether such trucks were in use. For somehow he knew that if the Flack
gang were after this shipment to Australia, it was necessary that the
gold should be carried in one vehicle. And why he should think this,
not even Mr. Reeder knew. But he had, as he said, a criminal mind.
That afternoon he addressed himself to a novel and not unpleasing
task. It was a letter--the first letter he had written to Margaret
Belman,--and in its way it was a curiosity.
“My dear Miss Margaret,” it began, “I trust you will not be annoyed
that I should write to you; but certain incidents which disfigured
perhaps our parting, and which may cause you (I say this, knowing your
kind heart) a little unhappiness, induce this letter----”
Mr. Reeder paused here to discover a method by which he could convey
his regret at not seeing her, without offering an embarrassing
revelation of his more secret thoughts. At five o’clock, when his
servant brought in his tea, he was still sitting before the unfinished
letter. Mr. Reeder took up the cup, carried it to his writing-table,
and stared at it as though for inspiration.
And then he saw, on the surface of the steaming cup, a thread-like
formation of froth which had a curious metallic quality. He dipped his
forefinger delicately in the froth and put his finger to his tongue.
“Hum!” said Mr. Reeder, and rang the bell.
His man came instantly.
“Is there anything you want, sir?” He bent his head respectfully, and
for a long time Mr. Reeder did not answer.
“The milk, of course!” he said.
“The milk, sir?” said the puzzled servant, “The milk’s fresh, sir: it
came this afternoon.”
“You did not take it from the milkman, naturally. It was in a bottle
outside the door.”
The man nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good!” said Mr. Reeder, almost cheerfully. “In future, will you
arrange to receive the milk from the milkman’s own hands? You have not
drunk any yourself, I see?”
“No, sir. I have had my tea, but I don’t take milk with it, sir,” said
the servant, and Mr. Reeder favoured him with one of his rare smiles.
“That, Peters,” he said, “is why you are alive and well. Bring the
rest of the milk to me, and a new cup of tea. I also will dispense
with the lacteal fluid.”
“Don’t you like milk, sir?” said the bewildered man.
“I like milk,” replied Mr. Reeder gently, “but I prefer it without
strychnine. I think, Peters, we’re going to have a very interesting
week. Have you any dependants?”
“I have an old mother, sir,” said the mystified man.
“Are you insured?” asked Mr. Reeder, and Peters nodded dumbly.
“You have the advantage of me,” said J. G. Reeder. “Yes, I think we
are going to have an interesting week.”
And his prediction was fully justified.