world you fellows want waking up! So that’s your Reeder? Well, if Canada and the United States was full of goats like him, I’d pack more dollars in one month than Hollywood pays in ten years. Yes, sir. Listen, does that guy park a clock?’
His guide was a little dazed.
‘Does he wear a watch? Sure, a pocket one.’
Mr Art Lomer nodded.
‘Wait – I’ll bring it back to you in five minutes – I’m goin’ to show you sump’n.’
It was the maddest fool thing he had ever done in his life; he was in London on business, and was jeopardizing a million dollars for the sake of the cheap applause of a man for whose opinion he did not care a cent.
Mr Reeder was standing nervously on the sidewalk, waiting for what he described as ‘the vehicular traffic’ to pass, when a strange man bumped against him.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the stranger.
‘Not at all,’ murmured Mr Reeder. ‘My watch is five minutes fast – you can see the correct time by Big Ben.’
Mr Lomer felt a hand dip into his coat pocket, saw, like one hypnotized, the watch go back to J G Reeder’s pocket.
‘Over here for long?’ asked Mr Reeder pleasantly.
‘Why – yes.’
‘It’s a nice time of the year,’ said Mr Reeder. ‘But the country is not quite so beautiful as Canada in the fall. How is Leoni?’
Art Lomer did not faint; he swayed slightly and blinked hard, as if he were trying to wake up. Leoni was the proprietor of that little restaurant in Buffalo which was the advanced base of those operations so profitable to Art and his friends.
‘Leoni? Say, mister–’
‘And the troupe – are they performing in England or – er – resting? I think that is the word.’
Art gaped at the other. On Mr Reeder’s face was an expression of solicitude and inquiry. It was as though the well-being of the troupe was an absorbing preoccupation.
‘Say – listen–’ began Art huskily.
Before he could collect his thoughts, Reeder was crossing the road with nervous glances left and right, his umbrella gripped tightly in his hand.
‘I guess I’m crazy,’ said Mr Lomer, and walked back very slowly to where he had left his anxious cicerone.
‘No – he got away before I could touch him,’ he said briefly, for he had his pride. ‘Come along, we’ll get some eats, it’s nearly twel–’
He looked at his wrist, but his watch was gone! Mr Reeder could be heavily jocular on occasions.
‘Art Lomer – is there anything against him?’ asked the Director of Public Prosecutions, whose servant Mr J G Reeder was.
‘No, there is no complaint here. I have come into – er – possession of a watch of his, which I find, by reference to my private file, was stolen in Cleveland five years ago – it’s in the police file of that date. Only – um – it seems remarkable that this gentleman should be in London at the end of the tourist season.’
The Director pursed his lips dubiously.
‘M – m. Tell the people at the Yard. He doesn’t belong to us. What’s his speciality?’
‘He’s a troupe leader – I think that is the term. Mr Lomer was once associated with a theatrical company in – er – a humble capacity.’
‘You mean he’s an actor?’ asked the puzzled Director.
‘Ye-es, sir; a producer rather than actor. I have heard about his troupe, though I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing them perform. A talented company.’
He sighed heavily and shook his head.
‘I don’t quite follow you about the troupe. How did this watch come into your possession, Reeder?’
Mr Reeder nodded.
‘That was a little jest on my part,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘A little jest.’
The Director knew Mr Reeder too well to pursue the subject.
Lomer was living at the Hotel Calfort, in Bloomsbury. He occupied an important suite for, being in the position of a man who was after big fish, he could not cavil at the cost of the ground bait. The big fish had bitten much sooner than Art Lomer had dared to hope. Its name was Bertie
His guide was a little dazed.
‘Does he wear a watch? Sure, a pocket one.’
Mr Art Lomer nodded.
‘Wait – I’ll bring it back to you in five minutes – I’m goin’ to show you sump’n.’
It was the maddest fool thing he had ever done in his life; he was in London on business, and was jeopardizing a million dollars for the sake of the cheap applause of a man for whose opinion he did not care a cent.
Mr Reeder was standing nervously on the sidewalk, waiting for what he described as ‘the vehicular traffic’ to pass, when a strange man bumped against him.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the stranger.
‘Not at all,’ murmured Mr Reeder. ‘My watch is five minutes fast – you can see the correct time by Big Ben.’
Mr Lomer felt a hand dip into his coat pocket, saw, like one hypnotized, the watch go back to J G Reeder’s pocket.
‘Over here for long?’ asked Mr Reeder pleasantly.
‘Why – yes.’
‘It’s a nice time of the year,’ said Mr Reeder. ‘But the country is not quite so beautiful as Canada in the fall. How is Leoni?’
Art Lomer did not faint; he swayed slightly and blinked hard, as if he were trying to wake up. Leoni was the proprietor of that little restaurant in Buffalo which was the advanced base of those operations so profitable to Art and his friends.
‘Leoni? Say, mister–’
‘And the troupe – are they performing in England or – er – resting? I think that is the word.’
Art gaped at the other. On Mr Reeder’s face was an expression of solicitude and inquiry. It was as though the well-being of the troupe was an absorbing preoccupation.
‘Say – listen–’ began Art huskily.
Before he could collect his thoughts, Reeder was crossing the road with nervous glances left and right, his umbrella gripped tightly in his hand.
‘I guess I’m crazy,’ said Mr Lomer, and walked back very slowly to where he had left his anxious cicerone.
‘No – he got away before I could touch him,’ he said briefly, for he had his pride. ‘Come along, we’ll get some eats, it’s nearly twel–’
He looked at his wrist, but his watch was gone! Mr Reeder could be heavily jocular on occasions.
‘Art Lomer – is there anything against him?’ asked the Director of Public Prosecutions, whose servant Mr J G Reeder was.
‘No, there is no complaint here. I have come into – er – possession of a watch of his, which I find, by reference to my private file, was stolen in Cleveland five years ago – it’s in the police file of that date. Only – um – it seems remarkable that this gentleman should be in London at the end of the tourist season.’
The Director pursed his lips dubiously.
‘M – m. Tell the people at the Yard. He doesn’t belong to us. What’s his speciality?’
‘He’s a troupe leader – I think that is the term. Mr Lomer was once associated with a theatrical company in – er – a humble capacity.’
‘You mean he’s an actor?’ asked the puzzled Director.
‘Ye-es, sir; a producer rather than actor. I have heard about his troupe, though I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing them perform. A talented company.’
He sighed heavily and shook his head.
‘I don’t quite follow you about the troupe. How did this watch come into your possession, Reeder?’
Mr Reeder nodded.
‘That was a little jest on my part,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘A little jest.’
The Director knew Mr Reeder too well to pursue the subject.
Lomer was living at the Hotel Calfort, in Bloomsbury. He occupied an important suite for, being in the position of a man who was after big fish, he could not cavil at the cost of the ground bait. The big fish had bitten much sooner than Art Lomer had dared to hope. Its name was Bertie
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