The Mind of Mr. J. G. Reeder by Edgar Wallace Page B
Authors: Edgar Wallace
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 scrutinized 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 turned round in his seat and was staring open-mouthed 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, and, although there was something in her appearance which was almost repellent, she was handsome in her large way. Deep-set 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 notecase 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 expensive suitcase which he had shown in court and which was now laying on a form.
Most of the outdoor men of the CID knew Mr J G Reeder, and Sergeant Mills grinned a cheerful welcome.
‘What do you think of that one, Mr Reeder? It’s 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 weigh 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 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 flow 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 notecase?’
‘Only the banknotes: they have the stamp of
The magistrate leant back in his chair and scrutinized 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 turned round in his seat and was staring open-mouthed 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, and, although there was something in her appearance which was almost repellent, she was handsome in her large way. Deep-set 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 notecase 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 expensive suitcase which he had shown in court and which was now laying on a form.
Most of the outdoor men of the CID knew Mr J G Reeder, and Sergeant Mills grinned a cheerful welcome.
‘What do you think of that one, Mr Reeder? It’s 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 weigh 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 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 flow 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 notecase?’
‘Only the banknotes: they have the stamp of