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 welterweight, 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 very same trick upon 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 lorry 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. 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.
It began:
“My Dear Miss Margaret:
“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 threadlike formation of froth which had a curious metallic look. 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 the 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.
VIII
London heard the news of John Flack’s escape and grew fearful or indignant according to its several temperaments. A homicidal planner of great and spectacular thefts was in its midst. It was not very pleasant hearing for law-abiding citizens. And the news was more than a week old. Why had Scotland Yard not taken the public into its confidence? Why suppress this news of such vital interest? Who was responsible for the suppression of this important information? Headlines asked these questions in the more sensational sheets. The news of the Bennett Street outrage was public property. To his enormous embarrassment Mr. Reeder found himself an object of public interest.
Mr. Reeder used to sit alone at his desk at the Public Prosecutor’s office and for hours on end do little more than twiddle his thumbs and gaze disconsolately at the virgin white of his blotting pad.
In what private daydreams he indulged, whether they concerned fabulous fortunes and their disposition, or whether they centred about a very pretty pink-and-white young lady, or whether indeed he thought at all and his mind was not a complete blank, those who interrupted his reveries and had the satisfaction of seeing him start guiltily had no means of knowing.
At this particular moment his mind was, in truth, completely occupied by his newest as well as his oldest enemy.
There were three members of the Flack gang originally—John, George, and Augustus. They had begun operations in the
