Read Online The Mind of Mr. J. G. Reeder by Edgar Wallace - Free Book Online
Authors: Edgar Wallace
Ads: Link
lot for twelve thousand dollars, took ’em down to T’ronto and got them valued at something under a million dollars.’
Bertie Claude was listening open-mouthed.
‘These fellows had been peddlin’ jewellery for four years. Some broken-down Prince was acting as agent for the others – I didn’t ask questions too closely, because naturally I’m not inquisitive.’
He leant forward and tapped the other’s knee to emphasize his words.
‘The stuff I bought wasn’t a twentieth of their stock. I sent them back for the rest of the loot, and they’re due here next week.’
‘Twenty million dollars!’ gasped Bertie Claude. ‘What will it cost you?’
‘A million dollars – over three hundred thousand pounds. Come down to my place at Marlow, and I’ll show you the best emeralds you ever saw – all that I’ve got left, as a matter of fact. I sold the biggest part to a Pittsburg millionaire for – well, I won’t give you the price, because you’ll think I robbed him! If you like one stone you see – why, I’ll let you buy it, though I don’t want to sell. Naturally, I couldn’t make profit out of a friend.’
Bertie Claude listened, dazed, while his host catalogued his treasures with an ease and a shrewd sense of appraisement. When Mr Staffen left his friend’s room, his head was in a whirl, though he experienced a bewildered sense of familiarity with a situation which had often figured in his dreams.
As he strode through the hall, he saw a middle-aged man with a high bowler hat, but beyond noticing that he looked rather like a bailiff’s officer, Bertie Claude would have passed him, had not the old-fashioned gentleman stood in his way.
‘Excuse me, sir. You’re Mr Staffen, are you not?’
‘Yes,’ said Bertie shortly.
‘I wonder if I could have a few moments’ conversation with you on – er – a matter of some moment?’
Bertie waved an impatient hand.
‘I’ve no time to see anybody,’ he said brusquely. ‘If you want an appointment you’d better write for it.’
And he walked out, leaving the sad-looking man to gaze pensively after him.
Mr Lomer’s little house was an isolated stone bungalow between Marlow and the Quarry Wood, and if he had sought diligently, Mr Lomer could not have found a property more suitable for his purpose. Bertie Claude, who associated the river with sunshine and flannelled ease, shivered as he came out of the railway station and looked anxiously up at the grey sky. It was raining steadily, and the taxi which was waiting for them at the station dripped from every surface.
‘Pretty beastly month to take a bungalow on the river,’ he grumbled.
Mr Lomer, who was not quite certain in his mind what was the ideal month for riverside bungalows, agreed.
‘It suits me,’ he said. ‘This house of mine has got the right kind of lonesomeness. I just hate having people looking over me.’
The road from the station to the house followed parallel with the line of the river. Staring out of the streaming windows, Mr Staffen saw only the steel-grey of water and the damp grasses of the meadows through which the road ran. A quarter of an hour’s drive, however, brought them to a pretty little cottage which stood in a generous garden. A bright fire burnt in the hall fireplace, and there was a general air of comfort about the place that revived Bertie’s flagging spirits. A few seconds later they were sitting in a half-timbered dining-room, where tea had been laid.
Atmosphere has an insensible appeal to most people, and Bertie found himself impressed alike by the comfort of the place and the unexpected service, for there was a pretty maid, a sedate, middle-aged butler, and a sober-faced young man who had helped him off with his wet raincoat.
‘No, the house isn’t mine: it is one I always hire when I’m in England,’ said Mr Lomer, who never told a small and unnecessary lie; because small and unnecessary lies are so easily detected. ‘Jenkins, the butler, is my
Bertie Claude was listening open-mouthed.
‘These fellows had been peddlin’ jewellery for four years. Some broken-down Prince was acting as agent for the others – I didn’t ask questions too closely, because naturally I’m not inquisitive.’
He leant forward and tapped the other’s knee to emphasize his words.
‘The stuff I bought wasn’t a twentieth of their stock. I sent them back for the rest of the loot, and they’re due here next week.’
‘Twenty million dollars!’ gasped Bertie Claude. ‘What will it cost you?’
‘A million dollars – over three hundred thousand pounds. Come down to my place at Marlow, and I’ll show you the best emeralds you ever saw – all that I’ve got left, as a matter of fact. I sold the biggest part to a Pittsburg millionaire for – well, I won’t give you the price, because you’ll think I robbed him! If you like one stone you see – why, I’ll let you buy it, though I don’t want to sell. Naturally, I couldn’t make profit out of a friend.’
Bertie Claude listened, dazed, while his host catalogued his treasures with an ease and a shrewd sense of appraisement. When Mr Staffen left his friend’s room, his head was in a whirl, though he experienced a bewildered sense of familiarity with a situation which had often figured in his dreams.
As he strode through the hall, he saw a middle-aged man with a high bowler hat, but beyond noticing that he looked rather like a bailiff’s officer, Bertie Claude would have passed him, had not the old-fashioned gentleman stood in his way.
‘Excuse me, sir. You’re Mr Staffen, are you not?’
‘Yes,’ said Bertie shortly.
‘I wonder if I could have a few moments’ conversation with you on – er – a matter of some moment?’
Bertie waved an impatient hand.
‘I’ve no time to see anybody,’ he said brusquely. ‘If you want an appointment you’d better write for it.’
And he walked out, leaving the sad-looking man to gaze pensively after him.
Mr Lomer’s little house was an isolated stone bungalow between Marlow and the Quarry Wood, and if he had sought diligently, Mr Lomer could not have found a property more suitable for his purpose. Bertie Claude, who associated the river with sunshine and flannelled ease, shivered as he came out of the railway station and looked anxiously up at the grey sky. It was raining steadily, and the taxi which was waiting for them at the station dripped from every surface.
‘Pretty beastly month to take a bungalow on the river,’ he grumbled.
Mr Lomer, who was not quite certain in his mind what was the ideal month for riverside bungalows, agreed.
‘It suits me,’ he said. ‘This house of mine has got the right kind of lonesomeness. I just hate having people looking over me.’
The road from the station to the house followed parallel with the line of the river. Staring out of the streaming windows, Mr Staffen saw only the steel-grey of water and the damp grasses of the meadows through which the road ran. A quarter of an hour’s drive, however, brought them to a pretty little cottage which stood in a generous garden. A bright fire burnt in the hall fireplace, and there was a general air of comfort about the place that revived Bertie’s flagging spirits. A few seconds later they were sitting in a half-timbered dining-room, where tea had been laid.
Atmosphere has an insensible appeal to most people, and Bertie found himself impressed alike by the comfort of the place and the unexpected service, for there was a pretty maid, a sedate, middle-aged butler, and a sober-faced young man who had helped him off with his wet raincoat.
‘No, the house isn’t mine: it is one I always hire when I’m in England,’ said Mr Lomer, who never told a small and unnecessary lie; because small and unnecessary lies are so easily detected. ‘Jenkins, the butler, is my
Similar Books
