Evening Star Newspaper, June 8, 1930, Page 88

THE SUNDAY STAR, WAS SHEER MELODRAMA # s A Complete and Thrilling Story by a Writer Who Ranks High-in This Par- ticular Branch of Fiction— Another Yarn by Edgar Wallace Will Be Featured in the Magazine of Next Sunday’s Star. T was Mr. Reeder who planned the raid on Tommy Fenalow's shop and worked out all the details except the composition of the raiding force. Tommy had a hangout at Golders Green, whither trusted agents came, purchas- ing $5 Treasury notes for $30 per hundred or $250 a thousand. Only experts could detect Tommy's currency and that authorized by and printed for the Government. They were the right shades of green, the numbers were of issued series, the paper was exact. They were printed in Germany at $15 a thousand, and Tommy made thousands per cent profit. Mr. Reeder discovered all about Tommy in his spare time, and reported the matter to his chief. “Take Inspector Greyash with you and super- intend the raid,” were his instructions. He left the inspector to make all the arrange- ments, and among those who learned of the projected coup was a certain detective officer who made more money from questionable asso- ciations than he did from the city. The officer tipped off Tommy, and when Mr. Reeder and his gold men arrived at Golders Green there were Tommy and three friends playing a quiet game of bridge, and the only Treasury notes discoverable were veritable old masters. “It is a pity,” sighed J. G. when they reached the street; “a great pity. Of course, I hadn't the least idea that Detective Wilshore was in our party. He is—er—not quite loyal.” “wilshore?” asked the officer, aghast. “Do you mean he tipped off Tommy?” Mr. Reeder scratched his nose and said gently that he thought so. “He has quite a big income from various sources. By the way, he banks with the Midland & Derbyshire, and his account is in his wife’s maiden name. I tell you this in case—er—it may be useful.” IT was useful enough to secure the summary ejection of the unfaithful Wilshore from the force, but it was not sufficiently useful to catch Tommy, whose parting words were: “You're clever, Reeder, but you've got to be lucky to catch me!” Tommy was in the habit of repeating this scrap of conversation to such as were interested. It was an encounter of which he was justifiably proud, for few dealers in “counterfeit” have ever come up against Mr. J. G. and got away with it. “It's worth a thousand dollars to me—ten thousand! I'd pay that money to make J. G. look sick, anyway, the old dog! I guess they will think twice before they try to shop me again, and that's the real kick in the raid. J. G.’s name is Jonah at headquarters, and if I can do anything to help, it will be mud!” To a certain Ras Lal Punjabi, an honored (and paying) guest, Mr. Fenalow told this story, with curious results. Crime is a quantity which does not bear transplanting. The American safe-blower may flourish in Prance just so long as he acquires by diligent study and confines himself to the Continental method. It is possible for the Eu- ropean thief to gain a fair livelihood in Oriental countries, but there is no more tragic sight in the world than the Eastern mind endeavoring to adapt itself to the complexities of American rackets. Ras Lal Punjabi enjoyed a reputation in In- dian police circles as the cleverest native crimi- nal India had ever produced. Beyond a short term in Poona Jail, Ras Lal had never seen the interior of a prison, and such was his fame in native circles that during this short period of incarceration prayers for his deliverance were offered at certain temples, and it was agreed that he would never have been convicted at all but for some pretty hard swearing on the part of the police commissioner sahib; and, anyway, all sahibs hang together, and it was a European judge who sent him down. He was a general practitioner of crime, with 2 leaning toward specialization in jewel thefts. A man of excellent and even gentlemanly ap- pearance, with black and shiny hair parted at the side and curling up over one brow in an inky wave, he spoke English, Hindustani and Tamil very well indeed, had a sketchy knowl- edge of the law (on his visiting cards was the inscription “Failed LL.B.”), and a very fuil ac- quaintance with the science of precious stones. DURING Mr. Ras Lal Punjabi’s brief rest in Poona the police commissioner sahib, whose unromantic name was Smith, married a not very good looking girl with a lot of money. Snrth sahib knew that beauty was only skin de-p and that she had a kind heart, which is neloriously preferable to the garniture of coro- ts. It was honestly a love match. Her ther owned jute mills in Calcutta, and en stive occasicns, such as the governor general'’s " she earried several lakhs of rupees on her person. But even rich people are loved for themselves alone. Ras Lal owed his imprisonment to an unsuc- cessful attempt he had made upon two strings of pearls, the property of the lady in question, and when he learned on his return to freedom that Smith sahib had married the resplendent girl and had gone to America he very naturally attributed the hatred and bitterness of Smith sahib to purely personal causes, and swore ven- geance. Now, in India the business of every man is the business of his servants. The preliminary inquiries, over which an English or American jewel thief would spend a small fortune, can be made at the cost of a few annas. When Ras Lal came to America he found that he had overlooked this very important fact. Smith Sahib and Memsahib were out of town. They were, in fact, on the high seas en route for New York when Ras Lal was arrested on the conventional charge of “being a suspected person.” Ras had shadowed the Smiths’ butler, and having induced him to drink had offered him immense sums to reveal the place, recep- tacle, drawer, safe, box or casket where “Mrs. Commissioner Smith’'s” jewels were kept. His excuse for asking, namely, that he had had a wager with' his brother that the jewels were kept under the memsahib's bed, showed a la- mentable lack of inventive power. The butler, an honest man, though a drinker of beer, in- formed the police. Ras Lal and his friend and assistant, Ram, were arrested, brought before a magistrate, and would have been discharged but for the fact that J. G. Reeder saw the record of the case and was able to supply from his own files very important particulars of the dark man’s past. Therefore, Ras Lal was sent down to hard labor for six months, but, what was more maddening, the story of his ignominious failure was, he guessed, broadcast throughout India. This was the thought which distracted him in his lonely cell. What would India think of him? He would be the scorn of the bazaars, “the mocking point of third-rate mediocrities,” to use his own expression. And automatically he switched his hate from Smith Sahib to one J. G. Reeder. And his hate was very real; more real because of the insignificance and unimpor- tance of this Reeder Sahib, whom he likened to an ancient cow, a sneaking weasel and other things less translatable. And in the six monthg of his durance he planned desperate and earnest acts of reprisal. Released from prison, he decided that the moment was not ripe for a return to India. He wished to make a close study of J. G. Reeder and his habits, and, being a man with plenty of money, he could afford the time, and, as it happened, could mix business with pleasure. Tommy Fenalow found means of getting in touch with the gentleman from the Orient while he was in prison, and the handsome limousine that me! Ras Lal at the gates when he came out of jail was both hired and occupied by Tommy, a keen business man, who had been offered by his German printer a new line of 100 rupee notes that might easily develop into a most profitable sideline, “You come along and lodge at my expense, boy,” sald the sympathetic Tommy, who was very short, very stout, and had eyes that bulged like & pug dog’s. “You've been badly treated by old Reeder, and I'm going to tell you & way of getting back on him with no risk and a 90 per cent profit. Listen! A friend of mine——" It was never Tommy who had snide for sale; invariably the hawker of forged notes was a mysterious “friend.” So Ras was lodged in an apartment which formed part of a block owned by Mr. Fena- Jow, who was a very rich man indeed. Some weeks after this Tommy crossed Fifth avenue to intercept his old enemy. “Good-morning, Mr. Reeder.” J. G. Reeder stopped and turned back. “Good-morning, Mr. Fenalow,” he said with benevolent soicitude. “I am glad to see that you are out agahm, ,a6id I do trust that you will now find a more—efr—isgitimate outlet for your undoubted talents.” Tommy went angrily red. “I haven't been in ‘stir’ and you know it, Reeder! It wasn't for want of trying on your part. But you've got to be something more than clever to catch me—-you've got to be lucky! Not that there’s anything to catch me over— I've never done a cyooked thing in my life, as you well know.” He had an appointment with Ras Lal, and the interview was entirely satisfactory. Ras Lal made his way that night to an uncomfort- ably situated rendezvous and there met his new friend. “This is the last place in the world old man Reeder would dream of searching,” said Tommy, enthusiastically, “and if he did he would find nothing. Before he could get into the building the stuff would be put out of sight.” *“It is a habitation of extreme convenience,” said Ras Lal. “It is yours, boy,” replied Tommy magnifi- cently. “I only keep this place to get-in and put-out. The stufl’s not here for an hour, and the rest of the time the place’'s empty. As I say, old man Reeder has gotta be something more than clever—he's gotta be lucky!” At parting he handed his client a key, and with that necessary instrument tendered a few words of advice and warning. “Never come here till late. The policeman passes the end of the road at 10, 1 o'clock and 4. When are you leaving for India?” “On the 23d,” said Ras, “by which time I shall have uttered a few reprisals on that cad Reeder.” ’ “I shouldn’t like to be in his shoes,” said Tommy, who could afford to be sycophantic, for he had in his pocket two hundred pounds’ worth of real money which Ras had paid in advance for a vaster quantity of money which was not 30 real. It was a few days after this that Ras Lal went to the Orpheum Theater, and it was no coin- cidence that he went there on the same night- that Mr. Reeder escorted a pretty lady to the same place of amusement, When J. G. Reeder went to the theater (and his going at all was contingent upon his receiv- ing a complimentary ticket) he invariably chose a melodrama, where to the thrill of the actors’ speeches was added the amazing action of wrecked railway trains, hair-raising shipwrecks and terrific horse races, in which the favorite won by a nose. Such things may seem wildly improbable to blase dramatic critics—especially favorites winning—but Mr. Reeder saw actu- ality in all such presentations. Invariably he went unaccompanied, for he had no friends, and 52 years had come and gone without bringing to his life romance or the melting tenderness begot of dreams. In some manner Mr. Reeder had become acquainted with a girl who was like no other girl with whom he had been brought into contact. Her name was Belman—Margaret Belman—and he had saved her life, though this fact did not occur to him as frequently as the recollection that he had imperiled that life before he had saved it. And he had a haunting sense of guilt for quite another reason. He was thinking of her one day—he spent his life thinking about people, though the majority of these were less respectable than Miss Mar- garet Belman. He supposed that she would marry the very good looking young man who met her on her way to work. l MR. REEDER sighed deeply. How much more satisfactory was the stage drama, where all the trouble begins in the first act and is satisfactorily settled in the last? He fin- gered absently the two slips of green paper that had come to him that morning. Row A, seats 17 and 18. They had been sent by a manager who was under some obligation to him. The theater was the Orpheum, and the play was “The Fires of Vengeance.” It looked like being a pleasant evening. . He took an envelope from the rack, addressed it to the box office, and had begun to write the accompanying letter returning the surplus voucher when an idea occurred to him. He owed Miss Margaret Belman something, and the debt was on his conscience. He had once, for reasons of expediency, described her as his wife. This preposterous claim had been made to ap- pease & mad woman, it is true, but it had been made. She was now holding a good position—a secretaryship of one of the political headquar- ters, for which post she had to thank J. G. Reeder, if she only knew it. He took up the phone and ealled her num- ber, and after the normal delay heard her voice. “Er—Miss Belman,” Mr. Reeder coughed, *1 have—er—two tickets for a theater tonight.- I wonder if you would care to go?” » Her astonishment was almost audible. “That is very nice of you, Mr. Reeder. I should love to come with you.” J. G. Reeder turned pale. - “What I meant is, I have two tickets—I thought perhaps that your—er—your—er—that somebody else would like to go—what I mean was " 2 He heard a gentle laugh at the other end of the phone. “What you mean is that you don’t wish to take me,” she said, and for a man of his ex- perience he blundered badly. . “I should esteem it an honor to take you,” he said, in terror that he should offend her,” “but the truth is, I thought——" “I will meet you at the theater—which is 1t? Orpheum—how lovely! At 8 o'clock.” Margaret hardly knew what to expect when she came into the flamboyant foyer of the Orpheum. She would have passed the some- what elegantly dressed gentleman, omly he claimed her attention. “Mr. Reeder!” she gasped. It was indeed Mr. Reeder, with not so much as a shirt stud wrong, with s suit of the latest mode, and shoes glossy and V-toed. For Mr. Reeder, like many other men, dressed according to his inclination in business hours, but ac- cepted blindly the instructions of his tailor in the matter of fancy raiment. Mr. J. G. Reeder was never conscious of his clothing, good or bad—he was, however, very conscious of his strange responsibility. He took her cloak (he had previously pur- chased a large box of chocolates, which he car- ried by its satin ribbon). There was a quarter of an hour to wait before the curtain went up, and Margaret felt it incumbent upon her to offer an explanation. “You spoke about ‘somebody’ else; do you mean Roy—the man who sometimes meets me mornings?” Mr. Reeder had meant that young man. “He and I were good friends,” she said. “no more than that—we aren’t very good friends any more.” She did not say why. She might have ex- plained in a sentence if she had said that Roy’s mother held an exalted opinion of her only saon’s qualities, physical and mental, and that Roy thoroughly indorsed his mother’s judgment, but she did not. “Ah!” said Mr. Reeder unhappily. OON after this the orchestra drowned fur- ther conversation, for they were sitting in the first row near to the noisiest of the brass and not far removed from the shrillest of the woodwind. In odd moments, through the thrilling first act, she stole a glance at her companion. She expected to find this man mildly amused or slightly bored by the absurd contrast between the realities which he knew