it was his practice to brighten the dull patches of occupation by finding a seat in a magistrate’s court and listening, absorbed, to cases which bored even the court reporter.
John Smith, charged with being drunk and using insulting language to Police Officer Thomas Brown; Mary Jane Haggitt, charged with obstructing the police in the execution of their duty; Henry Robinson, arraigned for being a suspected person, having in his possession housebreaking tools, to wit, one cold chisel and a screwdriver; Arthur Moses, charged with driving a motorcar to the common danger-all these were fascinating figures of romance and legend to the lean man who sat between the press and railed dock, his square-crowned hat by his side, his umbrella gripped between his knees, and on his melancholy face an expression of startled wonder.
On one raw and foggy morning, Mr. Reeder, self-released from his duties, chose the Marylebone Police Court for his recreation. Two drunks, a shop theft and an embezzlement had claimed his rapt attention, when Mrs. Jackson was escorted to the dock and a rubicund policeman stepped to the witness stand, and, swearing by his Deity that he would tell the truth and nothing but the truth, related his peculiar story.
‘P.C. Ferryman No. 9717 L. Division,’ he introduced himself conventionally. ‘I was on duty in the Edgware Road early this morning at 2.30 a.m. when I saw the prisoner carrying a large suitcase. On seeing me she turned round and walked rapidly in the opposite direction. Her movements being suspicious, I followed and, overtaking her, asked her whose property she was carrying. She told me it was her own and that she was going to catch a train. She said that the case contained her clothes. As the case was a valuable one of crocodile leather I asked her to show me the inside. She refused. She also refused to give me her name and address and I asked her to accompany me to the station.’
There followed a detective sergeant.
‘I saw the prisoner at the station and in her presence opened the case. It contained a considerable quantity of small stone chips-’
‘Stone chips?’ interrupted the incredulous magistrate. ‘You mean small pieces of stone-what kind of stone?’
‘Marble, your worship. She said that she wanted to make a little path in her garden and that she had taken them from the yard of a monumental mason in the Euston Road. She made a frank statement to the effect that she had broken open a gate into the yard and filled the suitcase without the mason’s knowledge.’
The magistrate leant back in his chair and scrutinised the charge sheet with a frown.
‘There is no address against her name,’ he said.
‘She gave an address, but it was false, your worship-she refuses to offer any further information.’
Mr. J.G. Reeder had screwed round in his seat and was staring openmouthed at the prisoner. She was tall, broad-shouldered and stoutly built. The hand that rested on the rail of the dock was twice the size of any woman’s hand he had ever seen. The face was modelled largely, but though there was something in her appearance which was almost repellent, she was handsome in her large way. Deepset brown eyes, a nose that was large and masterful, a well-shaped mouth and two chins-these in profile were not attractive to one who had his views on beauty in women, but Mr. J.G. Reeder, being a fair man, admitted that she was a fine-looking woman. When she spoke it was in a voice as deep as a man’s, sonorous and powerful.
‘I admit it was a fool thing to do. But the idea occurred to me just as I was going to bed and I acted on the impulse of the moment. I could well afford to buy the stone-I had over fifty pounds in my pocketbook when I was arrested.’
‘Is that true?’ and, when the officer answered, the magistrate turned his suspicious eyes to the woman. ‘You are giving us a lot of trouble because you will not tell your name and address. I can understand that you do not wish your friends to know of your stupid theft, but unless you give me the information, I shall be compelled to remand you in custody for a week.’
She was well, if plainly, dressed. On one large finger flashed a diamond which Mr. Reeder mentally priced in the region of two hundred pounds. ‘Mrs. Jackson’ was shaking her head as he looked.
‘I can’t give you my address,’ she said, and the magistrate nodded curtly.
‘Remanded for inquiry,’ he said, and added, as she walked out of the dock: ‘I should like a report from the prison doctor on the state of her mind.’
Mr. J.G. Reeder rose quickly from his chair and followed the woman and the officer in charge of the case through the little door that leads to the cells.
‘Mrs. Jackson’ had disappeared by the time he reached the corridor, but the detective-sergeant was stooping over the large and handsome suitcase that he had shown in court and was now laying on a form.
Most of the outdoor men of the C.I.D. knew Mr. J.G. Reeder, and Sergeant Mills grinned a cheerful welcome.
‘What do you think of that one, Mr. Reeder? It is certainly a new line on me! Never heard of a tombstone artist being burgled before.’
He opened the top of the case, and Mr. Reeder ran his fingers through the marble chips.
‘The case and the loot weighs over a hundred pounds,’ said the officer. ‘She must have the strength of a navvy to carry it. The poor officer who carried it to the station was hot and melting when he arrived.’
Mr. J.G. was inspecting the case. It was a handsome article, the hinges and locks being of oxidised silver. No maker’s name was visible on the inside, or owner’s initials on its glossy lid. The lining had once been of silk, but now hung in shreds and was white with marble dust.
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Reeder absently, ‘very interesting-most interesting. Is it permissible to ask whether, when she was searched, any-er-document -?’ The sergeant shook his head. ‘Or unusual possession?’
‘Only these.’
By the side of the case was a pair of large gloves. These also were soiled, and their surfaces cut in a hundred places.
‘These have been used frequently for the same purpose,’ murmured Mr. J.G. ‘She evidently makes-er-a collection of marble shavings. Nothing in her pocketbook?’
‘Only the banknotes: they have the stamp of the Central Bank on their backs. We should be able to trace ’em easily.’
Mr. Reeder returned to his office and, locking the door, produced a worn pack of cards from a drawer and played patience-which was his method of thinking intensively. Late in the afternoon his telephone bell rang, and he recognised the voice of Sergeant Mills.
‘Can I come along and see you? Yes, it is about the banknotes.’
Ten minutes later the sergeant presented himself.
‘The notes were issued three months ago to Mr. Telfer,’ said the officer without preliminary, ‘and they were given by him to his housekeeper, Mrs. Welford.’
‘Oh, indeed?’ said Mr. Reeder softly, and added, after reflection: ‘Dear me!’
He pulled hard at his lip.
‘And is “Mrs. Jackson” that lady?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Telfer-poor little devil-nearly went mad when I told him she was under remand-dashed up to Holloway in a taxi to identify her. The magistrate has granted bail, and she’ll be bound over tomorrow. Telfer was bleating like a child-said she was mad. Gosh! that fellow is scared of her-when I took him into the waiting-room at Holloway Prison she gave him one look and he wilted. By the way, we have had a hint about Billingham that may interest you. Do you know that he and Telfer’s secretary were very good friends?’
‘Really?’ Mr. Reeder was indeed interested. ‘Very good friends? Well, well!’
‘The Yard has put Miss Belman under general observation: there may be nothing to it, but in cases like Billingham’s it is very often a matter of cherchez la femme.’
Mr. Reeder had given his lip