# Terror Keep/Chapter 7

pp. 82–92.
TERROR KEEP CHAPTER VII
When a nimble old man dropped from a high wall at midnight and, stopping only to wipe the blood from his hands—for he had come upon a guard patrolling the grounds in his flight—and walked briskly toward London, peering into every side lane for the small car that had been left for him, he brought a new complication into many lives, and for three people at least marked the date of their passing in the Book of Fate.
Police Headquarters were not slow to employ the press to advertise their wants. But the escape from Broadmoor of a homicidal maniac is something which is not to be rushed immediately into print. Not once but many times had the help of the public been enlisted in a vain endeavour to bring Old John Flack to justice. His description had been circulated, his haunts had been watched, without there being any successful issue to the broadcast.
There was a conference at Scotland Yard, which Mr. Reeder attended; and they were five very serious men who gathered round the superintendent's desk, and mainly the talk was of bullion and of "noses," by which inelegant term is meant the inevitable police informer.
Crazy John "fell" eventually through the treachery of an outside helper. Ravini, the most valuable of gang leaders, had been employed to "cover" a robbery at the Leadenhall Bank. Bullion was John Flack's specialty; it was not without its interest for Mr. Ravini.
The theft had been successful. One Sunday morning two cars drove out of the courtyard of the Leadenhall Bank. By the side of the driver of each car sat a man in the uniform of the Metropolitan Police—inside each car was another officer. A City policeman saw the cars depart, but accepted the presence of the uniformed men and did not challenge the drivers. It was not an unusual event: transfers of gold or stocks on Sunday morning had been witnessed before, but usually the City authorities had been notified. He called Old Jewry station on the telephone to report the occurrence, but by this time John Flack was well away.
It was Ravini, cheated, as he thought, of his fair share of the plunder, who betrayed the old man—the gold was never recovered.
England had been ransacked to find John Flack's headquarters, but without success. There was not a hotel or boarding-house keeper who had not received his portrait—or one who recognised him in any guise.
The exhaustive inquiries which followed his arrest did little to increase the knowledge of the police. Flack's lodgings were found—a furnished room in Bloomsbury which he had occupied at rare intervals for years. But here were discovered no documents which gave the slightest clue to the real headquarters of the gang. Probably they had none. They were chosen and discarded as opportunity arose or emergency dictated, though it was clear that the old man had something in the nature of a general staff to assist him.
"Anyway," said Big Bill Gordon, chief of the Big Five, "he'll not start anything in the way of a bullion steal—his mind will be fully occupied with ways and means of getting out of the country."
It was Mr. Reeder's head that shook.
"The nature of criminals may change, but their vanities persist," he said, in his precise, grandiloquent way. "Mr. Flack prides himself not upon his murders but upon his robberies, and he will signify his return to freedom in the usual manner."
"His gang is scattered——" began Simpson.
J. G. Reeder silenced him with a sad, sweet smile.
"There is plenty of evidence, Mr. Simpson, that the gang has coagulated again. It is—um—an ugly word, but I can think of no better. Mr. Flack's escape from the—er—public institution where he was confined shows evidence of good team work. The rope, the knife with which he killed the unfortunate warder, the kit of tools, the almost certainty that there was a car waiting to take him away, are all symptomatic of gang work. And what has Mr. Flack——"
"I wish to God you wouldn't call him 'Mr.' Flack!" said Big Bill explosively.
J. G. Reeder blinked.
"I have an ineradicable respect for age," he said in a hushed voice, "but a greater respect for the dead. I am hoping to increase my respect for Mr. Flack in the course of the next month."
"If it's gang work," interrupted Simpson, "who are with him? The old crowd is either gaoled or out of the country. I know what you're thinking about, Mr. Reeder: you've got your mind on what happened last night. I've been thinking it over, and it's quite likely that the man trap wasn't fixed by Flack at all, but by one of the other crowd. Do you know Donovan's out of Dartmoor? He has no reason for loving you."
Mr. Reeder raised his hand in protest.
"On the contrary, Joe Donovan, when I saw him in the early hours this morning, was a very affable and penitent man who deeply regretted the unkind things he said of me as he left the Old Bailey dock. He lives at Kilburn and spent last evening at a local cinema with his wife and daughter—no, it wasn't Donovan. He is not a brainy man. Only John Flack, with his dramatic sense, could have staged that little comedy which was so nearly a tragedy."
"You were nearly killed, they tell me, Reeder?" said Big Bill.
Mr. Reeder shook his head.
"I was not thinking of that particular tragedy. It was in my mind before I went up the stairs to force the door into the kitchen. If I had done that, I think I should have shot Mr. Flack, and there would have been an end of all our speculations and troubles."
Mr. Simpson was examining some papers that were on the table before him.
"If Flack's going after bullion, he's got very little chance. The only big movement is that of a hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns for Australia which goes by way of Tilbury to-morrow morning or the next day from the Bank of England, and it is impossible that Flack could organise a steal at such short notice."
Mr. Reeder was suddenly alert and interested.
"A hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns," he murmured, rubbing his chin irritably. "Ten tons. It goes by train?"
"By lorry, with ten armed men—one per ton," said Simpson humorously. "I don't think you need worry about that."
Mr. J.G. Reeder's lips were pursed as though he were whistling, but no sound issued. Presently he spoke.
"Flack was originally a chemist," he said slowly. "I don't suppose there is a better criminal chemist in England than Mr. Flack."
"Why do you say that?" asked Simpson with a frown.
Mr. Reeder shrugged his shoulders.
"I have a sixth sense," he said, almost apologetically, "and invariably I associate some peculiar quality with every man and woman who—um—passes under review. For example, Mr. Simpson, when I think of you, I have an instinctive, shadowy thought of a prize ring where I first had the pleasure of seeing you." (Simpson, who had been an amateur welterweight, grinned appreciatively.) "And my mind never rests upon Mr. Flack except in the surroundings of a laboratory with test tubes and all the paraphernalia of experimental chemistry. As for the little affair last night, I was not unprepared for it, but I suspected a trap—literally a—um—trap. Some evilly disposed person once tried the very same trick upon me; cut away the landing so that I should fall upon very unpleasant sharp spikes. I looked for sawdust the moment I went into the house, and when that was not present I guessed the gun."
"But how did you know there was anything?" asked Big Bill curiously.
Mr. Reeder smiled.
"I have a criminal mind," he said.
He went back to his flat in Bennett Street, his mind equally divided between Margaret Belman, safe in Sussex, and the ability of one normal lorry to carry a hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns. Such little details interested Mr. Reeder. Almost the first thing he did when he reached his flat was to call up a haulage contractor to discover whether such trucks were in use. For somehow he knew that, if the Flack gang were after this shipment to Australia, it was necessary that the gold should be carried in one vehicle. Why he should think this, not even Mr. Reeder knew. But he had, as he said, a criminal mind.
That afternoon he addressed himself to a novel and not unpleasing task. It was a letter, the first letter he had written to Margaret Belman, and in its way it was a curiosity.
    "My Dear Miss Margaret," it began, "I trust you will not be annoyed that I should write to you; but certain incidents which disfigured perhaps our parting, and which may cause you (I say this knowing your kind heart) a little unhappiness, induce this letter——"
Mr. Reeder paused here to discover a method by which he could convey his regret at not seeing her without offering an embarrassing revelation of his more secret thoughts. At five o'clock when his servant brought in his tea, he was still sitting before the unfinished letter. Mr. Reeder took up the cup, carried it to his writing-table, and stared at it as though for inspiration.
And then he saw on the surface of the steaming cup a thread-like formation of froth which had a curious metallic look. He dipped his forefinger delicately in the froth and put his finger to his tongue.
"Hum!" said Mr. Reeder, and rang the bell.
His man came instantly.
"Is there anything you want, sir?" He bent his head respectfully, and for a long time Mr. Reeder did not answer.
"The milk, of course!" he said.
"The milk, sir?" said the puzzled servant. "The milk's fresh, sir; it came this afternoon."
"You did not take it from the milkman, naturally. It was in a bottle outside the door."
The man nodded.
"Yes, sir."
"Good!" said Mr. Reeder, almost cheerfully. "In the future will you arrange to receive the milk from the milkman's own hands? You have not drunk any yourself, I see?"
"No, sir. I have had my tea, but I don't take milk with it, sir," said the servant, and Mr. Reeder favoured him with one of his rare smiles.
"That, Peters," he said, "is why you are alive and well. Bring the rest of the milk to me, and a new cup of tea. I also will dispense with the lacteal fluid."
"Don't you like milk, sir?" said the bewildered man.
"I like milk," replied Mr. Reeder gently, "but I prefer it without strychnine. I think, Peters, we're going to have a very interesting week. Have you any dependants?"
"I have an old mother, sir," said the mystified man.
"Are you insured?" asked Mr. Reeder, and Peters nodded dumbly.
"You have the advantage of me," said J. G. Reeder. "Yes, I think we are going to have an interesting week."
And his prediction was fully justified.