what in hell do you want?” snapped Liski. “I don’t want anything to do with you, Reeder, and the sooner you get that into your system the better. I don’t wish to discuss fowls, horses—”
“Wait!” Mr. Reeder bent forward and lowered his voice. “Is it not possible for you and me to meet together and exchange confidences?”
Mo Liski smiled slowly.
“Oh, you’re coming to it at last, eh? All right. I’ll meet you anywhere you please.”
“Shall we say in the Mall near the Artillery statue, tomorrow night at ten? I don’t think we shall be seen there.”
Liski nodded shortly and went on, still wondering what the man had to tell him. At four o’clock he was wakened by the telephone ringing furiously, and learnt, to his horror, that O’Hara, the most trustworthy of his gang leaders, had been arrested and charged with a year-old burglary. It was Carter, one of the minor leaders, who brought the news.
“What’s the idea, Liski?” And there was a note of suspicion in the voice of his subordinate which made Liski’s jaw drop.
“What do you mean—what’s the idea? Come round and see me. I don’t want to talk over the phone.”
Carter arrived half an hour later, a scowling, suspicious man.
“Now what do you want to say?” asked Mo, when they were alone.
“All I’ve got to say is this,” growled Carter; “a week ago you’re seen talking to old Reeder in Lewisham Road, and the same night Teddy Alfield is pinched. You’re spotted having a quiet talk with this old dog, and the same night another of the gang goes west. Last night I saw you with my own eyes having a confidential chat with Reeder—and now O’Hara’s gone!”
Mo looked at him incredulously.
“Well, and what about it?” he asked.
“Nothing—except that it’s a queer coincidence, that’s all,” said Carter, his lip curling. “The boys have been talking about it: they don’t like it, and you can’t blame them.”
Liski sat pinching his lip, a faraway look in his eyes. It was true, though the coincidence had not struck him before. So that was the old devil’s game! He was undermining his authority, arousing a wave of suspicion which, if it were not checked, would sweep him from his position.
“All right, Carter,” he said, in a surprisingly mild tone. “It never hit me that way before. Now I’ll tell you, and you can tell the other boys just what has happened.”
In a few words he explained Mr. Reeder’s invitations.
“And you can tell ’em from me that I’m meeting the old fellow tomorrow night, and I’m going to give him something to remember me by.”
The thing was clear to him now, as he sat, after the man’s departure, going over the events of the past week. The three men who had been arrested had been under police suspicion for a long time, and Mo knew that not even he could have saved them. The arrests had been made by arrangement with Scotland Yard to suit the convenience of the artful Mr. Reeder.
“I’ll ‘artful’ him!” said Mo, and spent the rest of the day making his preparations.
At ten o’clock that night he passed under the Admiralty Arch. A yellow mist covered the park, a drizzle of rain was falling, and save for the cars that came at odd intervals towards the palace, there was no sign of life.
He walked steadily past the Memorial, waiting for Mr. Reeder. Ten o’clock struck and a quarter past, but there was no sign of the detective.
“He’s smelt a rat,” said Mo Liski between his teeth, and replaced the short life-preserver he had carried in his pocket.
It was at eleven o’clock that a patrolling police-constable fell over a groaning something that lay across the sidewalk, and, flashing his electric lamp upon the still figure, saw the carved handle of a Moorish knife before he recognised the pain-distorted face of the stricken Mo Liski.
“I don’t quite understand how it all came about,” said Pyne thoughtfully. (He had been called into consultation from headquarters.) “Why are you so sure it was the Moor Rahbut?”
“I am not sure,” Mr. Reeder hastened to correct the mistaken impression. “I mentioned Rahbut because I had seen him in the afternoon and searched his lodgings for the emeralds—which I am perfectly sure are still in Morocco, sir.” He addressed his chief. “Mr. Rahbut was quite a reasonable man, remembering that he is a stranger to our methods.”
“Did you mention Mo Liski at all, Mr. Reeder?” asked the Assistant Public Prosecutor.
Mr. Reeder scratched his chin.
“I think I did—yes, I’m pretty certain that I told him that I had an appointment with Mr. Liski at ten o’clock. I may even have said where the appointment was to be kept. I can’t remember exactly how the subject of Liski came up. Possibly I may have tried to bluff this indigenous native—‘Bluff’ is a vulgar word, but it will convey what I mean—into the belief that unless he gave me more information about the emeralds, I should be compelled to consult one who knew so many secrets. Possibly I did say that. Mr. Liski will be a long time in hospital, I hear? That is a pity. I should never forgive myself if my incautious words resulted in poor Mr. Liski being taken to the hospital—alive!”
When he had gone, the chief looked at Inspector Pyne. Pyne smiled.
“What is the name of that dangerous reptile, sir?” asked the inspector. “ ‘Mamba,’ isn’t it? I must remember that.”
The Strange Case
In the days of Mr. Reeder’s youth, which were also the days when hansom cabs plied for hire and no gentleman went abroad without a nosegay in the lapel of his coat, he had been sent, in company with another young officer from Scotland Yard, to arrest a youthful inventor of Nottingham who earned more than a competence by methods which were displeasing to Scotland Yard. Not machines nor ingenious contrivances for saving labour did this young man invent—but stories. And they were not stories in the
