Read Online Mr. J. G. Reeder Returns by Edgar Wallace - Free Book Online
Authors: Edgar Wallace
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chauffeurs, and I will make you as good a husband as any of these la-di-dah fellows you are likely to meet.”
That had been the proposal, in almost exactly those words. She had been too staggered to make an adequate reply.
She was desperate now. Lidgett made no disguise of his dominant position. He had dared even in the presence of Larry to order her into her car and, even as she was writing, there came a knock at her door and his hateful voice called her. She put the letter hastily between sheets of blotting paper, unlocked the door and opened it.
“What was that fellow saying to you in French?” he asked.
“What he said was unimportant, Lidgett,” she said quietly. “It is what I said that mattered. I told him that I was virtually a prisoner in this house, that you were in control and had asked me to marry you. I told him I was terribly afraid, and asked him to communicate with the police.”
His face went red, livid, then a sickly white.
“Oh, you did, did you?” His voice was high and squeaky. “That’s what you said – told lies about me!”
He was frightened; she recognised the symptoms and her heart leapt.
“The day I nearly had the accident,” she went on, “I was on my way to see Mr Reeder, the detective. I will not be treated as you are treating me. There’s something wrong in this house and I’m going to find out what it is. Major Olbude has no authority; you govern him as you govern me, and there must be some reason. Mr O’Ryan will find out what that reason is.”
“Mr O’Ryan will, will he? You know what he is, I suppose? A lag – he stood his trial for burglary. That’s the kind of friend you want!”
He spoke breathlessly. Between rage and fear he was as near to being speechless as he had ever been.
“Well, we’ll see about that!”
He turned on his heel and walked quickly away. She closed and locked the door. For the first time there came to her a feeling of hope. And who knew what the night would bring? For she had said something else to Larry O’Ryan, something she had not revealed to her gaoler.
Mr Reeder slept soundly, invariably for the same length of time every night. He had gone to bed a little after ten: it was a little after four when he awoke, rose, put on the kettle for his tea, and turned on the water for his bath.
At half-past four he was working at his desk. At this hour his mind was crystal-clear, and he had fewer illusions.
He had an excellent library, dealing with the peculiarities of mankind. There was one volume which he took down and skimmed rapidly. Yes, there were any number of precedents for the gold store. There was the case of Schneider, and Mr Van der Hyn, and the Polish baron Poduski, and the banker Lamonte, and that eccentric American millionaire Mr John G Grundewald – they had all been great hoarders of gold. Two of them had left wills similar to Mr Lane Leonard’s. One had made so many eccentric requests in his will that the court put it aside. There was nothing remarkable, then, about Lane Leonard’s distrust of stock. Mr Reeder had to confess that the latest news from America justified the caution of the dead millionaire.
He tried to reconstruct the business life of Buckingham. Here was a man who acted as a guard for treasure of immense value. It could not be truly said that he had opportunities for stealing, and yet in some way he had obtained immense sums of money, and that money had been paid into the bank in gold. That was the discovery that Reeder had made on the previous afternoon. Large sums of gold had been paid into the account of the Land Development Company, as much as fifty and sixty thousand pounds at a time; so much so that the company had been asked politely to account for its possession of so much bullion, and had retorted, less politely, that if the bank did not wish to act for the directors, other banking accommodation would be found.
When could it have been stolen? The man was found dead on the Sunday, and Major
That had been the proposal, in almost exactly those words. She had been too staggered to make an adequate reply.
She was desperate now. Lidgett made no disguise of his dominant position. He had dared even in the presence of Larry to order her into her car and, even as she was writing, there came a knock at her door and his hateful voice called her. She put the letter hastily between sheets of blotting paper, unlocked the door and opened it.
“What was that fellow saying to you in French?” he asked.
“What he said was unimportant, Lidgett,” she said quietly. “It is what I said that mattered. I told him that I was virtually a prisoner in this house, that you were in control and had asked me to marry you. I told him I was terribly afraid, and asked him to communicate with the police.”
His face went red, livid, then a sickly white.
“Oh, you did, did you?” His voice was high and squeaky. “That’s what you said – told lies about me!”
He was frightened; she recognised the symptoms and her heart leapt.
“The day I nearly had the accident,” she went on, “I was on my way to see Mr Reeder, the detective. I will not be treated as you are treating me. There’s something wrong in this house and I’m going to find out what it is. Major Olbude has no authority; you govern him as you govern me, and there must be some reason. Mr O’Ryan will find out what that reason is.”
“Mr O’Ryan will, will he? You know what he is, I suppose? A lag – he stood his trial for burglary. That’s the kind of friend you want!”
He spoke breathlessly. Between rage and fear he was as near to being speechless as he had ever been.
“Well, we’ll see about that!”
He turned on his heel and walked quickly away. She closed and locked the door. For the first time there came to her a feeling of hope. And who knew what the night would bring? For she had said something else to Larry O’Ryan, something she had not revealed to her gaoler.
Mr Reeder slept soundly, invariably for the same length of time every night. He had gone to bed a little after ten: it was a little after four when he awoke, rose, put on the kettle for his tea, and turned on the water for his bath.
At half-past four he was working at his desk. At this hour his mind was crystal-clear, and he had fewer illusions.
He had an excellent library, dealing with the peculiarities of mankind. There was one volume which he took down and skimmed rapidly. Yes, there were any number of precedents for the gold store. There was the case of Schneider, and Mr Van der Hyn, and the Polish baron Poduski, and the banker Lamonte, and that eccentric American millionaire Mr John G Grundewald – they had all been great hoarders of gold. Two of them had left wills similar to Mr Lane Leonard’s. One had made so many eccentric requests in his will that the court put it aside. There was nothing remarkable, then, about Lane Leonard’s distrust of stock. Mr Reeder had to confess that the latest news from America justified the caution of the dead millionaire.
He tried to reconstruct the business life of Buckingham. Here was a man who acted as a guard for treasure of immense value. It could not be truly said that he had opportunities for stealing, and yet in some way he had obtained immense sums of money, and that money had been paid into the bank in gold. That was the discovery that Reeder had made on the previous afternoon. Large sums of gold had been paid into the account of the Land Development Company, as much as fifty and sixty thousand pounds at a time; so much so that the company had been asked politely to account for its possession of so much bullion, and had retorted, less politely, that if the bank did not wish to act for the directors, other banking accommodation would be found.
When could it have been stolen? The man was found dead on the Sunday, and Major
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