Free Room 13 by Edgar Wallace Page B

“Jeff, you’re kidding. You told me that all you wanted was to get a share of Peter’s money, and Emanuel told me the same. He said he was going to put the ‘black’ on Peter and get away with forty thousand.”
    “In the meantime I’ve got away with the girl,” said Jeffrey comfortably, “and there’s no sense in kicking up a fuss, Lila. We’ve had a good time, and change is everything in life.”
    She was on her feet now, glaring down at him.
    “And have I been six months doing slavey work, nosing for you, Jeffrey Legge, to be told that our little romance is finished?” she asked shrilly. “You’ve double-crossed me, you dirty thief! And if I don’t fix you, my name’s not Lila.”
    “It isn’t,” said Jeffrey. He reached for a cigar and lit it. “And never was. Your name’s Jane – that is, if you haven’t been telling me lies. Now, Lila, be an intelligent human being. I’ve put aside five hundred for you–”
    “Real money, I hope,” she sneered. “No, you are not going to get away with it so easy, Mr Jeffrey Legge. You’ve fooled me from beginning to end, and you either carry out your promise or I’ll–”
    “Don’t say you’ll squeak,” said Jeffrey, closing his eyes in mock resignation. “You’re all squeakers. I’m tired of you! You don’t think I’d give you anything to squeak about, do you? That I’d trust you farther than I could fling you? No, my girl, I’m four kinds of a fool, but not that kind. You know just as much about me as the police know, or as Johnny Gray knows. You can’t tell my new wife, because she knows too. And Peter knows – in fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if somebody didn’t write a story about it in the newspapers tomorrow!”
    He took out his pocket-case, opened it, and from a thick wad of notes peeled five, which he flung on to the table.
    “There’s your ‘monkey’, and au revoir, beauteous maiden,” he said.
    She took up the notes slowly, folded them, and slipped them into her bag. Her eyes were burning fires, her face colourless.
    If she had flown at him in a fury he would have understood, and was, in fact, prepared. But she said nothing until she stood, the knob of the door in her hand.
    “There are three men after you, Jeffrey Legge,” she said, “and one will get you. Reeder, or Johnny, or Peter – and if they fail, you look out for me!”
    And on this threat she took her departure, slamming the door behind her, and Jeffrey settled down again to his newspaper, with the feeling of satisfaction which comes to a man who has got through a very unpleasant task.
     

11
    In a long, sedate road in suburban Brockley lived a man who had apparently no fixed occupation. He was tall, thin, somewhat cadaverous, and he was known locally as a furtive night-bird. Few had seen him in the daytime, and the inquisitive who, by skilful cross-examination, endeavoured to discover his business from a reticent housekeeper learnt comparatively little, and that little inaccurate. Policemen on night duty, morning wayfarers had seen him walking up Brockley Road in the early hours, coming apparently from the direction of London. He was known as Mr J G Reeder. Letters in that name came addressed to him – large blue letters, officially stamped and sealed, and in consequence it was understood in postal circles that he held a Government position.
    The local police force never troubled him. He was one of the subjects which it was not permissible to discuss. Until the advent of Emanuel Legge that afternoon, nobody ever remembered Mr Reeder having a caller.
    Emanuel had come from prison to the affairs of the everyday world with a clearer perception of values than his son. He was too old a criminal to be under any illusions. Sooner or later, the net of the law would close upon Jeffrey, and the immunity which he at present enjoyed would be at an end. To every graft came its inevitable lagging. Emanuel, wise in his generation, had decided upon taking the boldest step