side of the table, his hands clasped on the cloth, his voice vibrant with pride as he spoke of the breed that he was introducing to the English fowl-house, and, bored to extinction, Mo waited.
‘There is something I wanted to say to you, but I fear that I must postpone that until another meeting,’ said Mr. Reeder, as he helped his visitor on with his coat. ‘I will walk with you to the corner of Lewisham High Road: the place is full of bad characters, and I shouldn’t like to feel that I had endangered your well-being by bringing you to this lowly spot.’
Now, if there is one place in the world which is highly respectable and free from the footpads which infest wealthier neighbourhoods, it is Brockley Road. Liski submitted to the company of his host, and walked to the church at the end of the road.
‘Goodbye, Mr. Liski,’ said Reeder earnestly. ‘I shall never forget this pleasant meeting. You have been of the greatest help and assistance to me. You may be sure that neither I nor the department I have the honour to represent will ever forget you.’
Liski went back to town, a frankly bewildered man. In the early hours of the morning the police arrested his chief lieutenant, Teddy Alfield, and charged him with a motorcar robbery which had been committed three months before.
That was the first of the inexplicable happenings. The second came when Liski, returning to his flat off Portland Place, was suddenly confronted by the awkward figure of the detective.
‘Is that Liski?’ Mr. Reeder peered forward in the darkness. ‘I’m so glad I’ve found you. I’ve been looking for you all day. I fear I horribly misled you the other evening when I was telling you that Leghorns are unsuitable for sandy soil. Now on the contrary-’
‘Look here, Mr. Reeder, what’s the game?’ demanded the other brusquely.
‘The game?’ asked Reeder in a pained tone.
‘I don’t want to know anything about chickens. If you’ve got anything to tell me worth while, drop me a line and I’ll come to your office, or you can come to mine.’
He brushed past the man from the Public Prosecutor’s Department and slammed the door of his flat behind him. Within two hours a squad from Scotland Yard descended upon the house of Harry Merton, took Harry and his wife from their respective beds, and charged them with the unlawful possession of stolen jewellery which had been traced to a safe deposit.
A week later, Liski, returning from a vital interview with El Rahbut, heard plodding steps overtaking him, and turned to meet the pained eye of Mr. Reeder.
‘How providential meeting you!’ said Reeder fervently. ‘No, no, I do not wish to speak about chickens, though I am hurt a little by your indifference to this noble and productive bird.’
‘Then 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