“Good morning, Liski,” said Mr. Reeder, almost apologetically. “I was so sorry for that unfortunate contretemps, but believe me, I bear no malice. And whilst I realise that in all probability you do not share my sentiments, I have no other wish than to live on the friendliest terms with you.”
Liski looked at him sharply. The old man was getting scared, he thought. There was almost a tremble in his anxious voice when he put forward the olive branch.
“That’s all right, Mr. Reeder,” said Mo, with his most charming smile. “I don’t bear any malice either. After all, it was a silly thing to say, and you have your duty to do.”
He went on in this strain, stringing platitude to platitude, and Mr. Reeder listened with evidence of growing relief.
“The world is full of sin and trouble,” he said, shaking his head sadly; “both in high and low places vice is triumphant, and virtue thrust, like the daisies, underfoot. You don’t keep chickens, do you, Mr. Liski?”
Mo Liski shook his head.
“What a pity!” sighed Mr. Reeder. “There is so much one can learn from the domestic fowl! They are an object lesson to the unlawful. I often wonder why the Prison Commissioners do not allow the convicts at Dartmoor to engage in this harmless and instructive hobby. I was saying to Mr. Pyne early this morning, when they raided the Muffin Club—what a quaint title it has—”
“Raided the Muffin Club?” said Mo quickly. “What do you mean? I’ve heard nothing about that.”
“You wouldn’t. That kind of institution would hardly appeal to you. Only we thought it was best to raid the place, though in doing so I fear I have incurred the displeasure of a young lady friend of mine who was invited to dinner there tomorrow night. As I say, chickens—”
Now Mo Liski knew that his plan had miscarried. Yet he was puzzled by the man’s attitude.
“Perhaps you would like to come down and see my Buff Orpingtons, Mr. Liski? I live in Brockley.” Reeder removed his glasses and glared owlishly at his companion. “Say at nine o’clock tonight; there is so much to talk about. At the same time, it would add to the comfort of all concerned if you did not arrive—um—conspicuously: do you understand what I mean? I should not like the people of my office, for example, to know.”
A slow smile dawned on Liski’s face. It was his faith that all men had their price, whether it was paid in cash or terror; and this invitation to a secret conference was in a sense a tribute to the power he wielded.
At nine o’clock he came to Brockley, half hoping that Mr. Reeder would go a little farther along the road which leads to compromise. But, strangely enough, the elderly detective talked of nothing but chickens. He sat on one side of the table, his hands clasped on the cloth, his voice vibrant with pride as he spoke of the breed that he was introducing to the English fowl-house, and, bored to extinction, Mo waited.
“There is something I wanted to say to you, but I fear that I must postpone that until another meeting,” said Mr. Reeder, as he helped his visitor on with his coat. “I will walk with you to the corner of Lewisham High Road: the place is full of bad characters, and I shouldn’t like to feel that I had endangered your well-being by bringing you to this lowly spot.”
Now, if there is one place in the world which is highly respectable and free from the footpads which infest wealthier neighbourhoods, it is Brockley Road. Liski submitted to the company of his host, and walked to the church at the end of the road.
“Goodbye, Mr. Liski,” said Reeder earnestly. “I shall never forget this pleasant meeting. You have been of the greatest help and assistance to me. You may be sure that neither I nor the department I have the honour to represent will ever forget you.”
Liski went back to town, a frankly bewildered man. In the early hours of the morning the police arrested his chief lieutenant, Teddy Alfield, and charged him with a motorcar robbery which had been committed three months before.
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.”
“Then
