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- Herausgeber: Charles River Editors
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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KENNEDY THE CON MAN
Edgar Wallace
KYPROS PRESS
Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please show the author some love.
This book is a work of fiction; its contents are wholly imagined.
All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.
Copyright © 2015 by Edgar Wallace
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Kennedy the Con Man
Kennedy the Con Man
By
Edgar Wallace
KENNEDY THE CON MAN
First published in The Thriller, Feb 23, 1929
THE man who stood with such an air of ease in the dock of the North-West London Police Court bore himself with a certain insolent dignity. There was a smile which was half contemptuous, half amused, on his bearded face.
If, from time to time, his long white fingers thrust through the mass of golden-brown hair that was brushed back from his high and narrow forehead, the gesture revealed neither nervousness nor embarrassment. Rather was this a trick of habit.
Though he wore no collar or tie, and his clothes and shoes were daubed with last night’s mud, the clothes were new and well cut; the diamond ring which he wore, and which now sparkled offensively in the early morning light, hinted most certainly at an affluence which might be temporary or permanent.
He had in his possession when arrested—quote the exact itemization of the constable who had given evidence on the matter—the sum of eighty-seven pounds ten shillings in notes, fifteen shillings in silver coinage, a gold and platinum cigarette case, a small but expensive bottle of perfume—unopened—and a few keys.
His name was Vladimir Litnoff; he was a Russian subject and his profession was that of an actor. He had appeared in Russian plays, and spoke English with the faintest trace of an accent.
Apparently, when he was in wine, as he had been on the previous evening, he spoke little but Russian, so that the two policemen who supported the charge of being drunk, and guilty of insulting and disorderly behaviour, could adduce no other than the language of offensive gesture to support their accusation.
The magistrate took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair wearily.
‘While you are living in this country you must behave yourself,’ he said conventionally. ‘This is the second time you have been charged with disorderly conduct, and you will pay two pounds.’
Mr Litnoff smiled, bowed gracefully and stepped lightly from the dock.
Chief Inspector Gaylor, who was waiting in the corridor to give evidence on a much more serious charge, saw him pass and returned his smile good- humouredly. The policeman who had ‘picked up’ the Russian followed from the court.
‘Who is that man?’ asked Gaylor.
‘A Russian, sir. He was properly soused—drunk, in the Brompton Road. He was quiet enough but wouldn’t go away. Him and his brooches!’
‘His whatses?’ asked the Inspector.
‘That’s what he said when I took him—about the only English thing he did say: “You shall have my beautiful brooch—worth ten thousand!” I don’t know what he was talking about. Another thing he said was that he’d got property in Monro—he shouted this out to the crowd as me and PC Leigh was taking him away.’
‘Monro—that’s in Scotland somewhere.’
Just then Gaylor was called into court.
Later in the evening, as he glanced through his evening newspaper, he read an account of the police court proceedings. It was headed:
DRUNKEN MAN’S BRIBE OFFER TO POLICE.
TEN THOUSAND POUND BROOCH THAT WAS DECLINED.
PC Smith stated that the prisoner had offered him a ten thousand pound brooch to let him go.
The Magistrate: Did he have this brooch in his possession?
Witness: No, your Worship. In his imagination.
(Laughter).
‘Now Reeder would see something very peculiar about that,’ said Gaylor to his young wife, and she smiled.
She liked Mr J.G. Reeder and, quite mistakenly, was sorry for him. He seemed so pathetically inefficient and helpless compared with the strong, capable men of Scotland Yard. Many people were sorry for Mr Reeder—but there were quite a number who weren’t.
Jake Alsby, for example, was sorry for nobody but himself. He used to sit in his cell during the long winter evenings on Dartmoor and think of Mr Reeder in any but a sympathetic mood. It was a nice, large, comfortable cell with a vaulted roof. It had a bed, with gaily coloured blankets, and was warm on the coldest day. He had the portrait of his wife and family on a shelf. The family ranged from a hideous little boy of ten to an open-mouthed baby of six months. Jake had never seen the baby in the flesh. He did not mind whether he saw his lady wife or family again, but the picture served as a stimulant to his flagging animosities. It reminded Jake that the barefaced perjury of Mr J.G. Reeder had torn him from his family and cast him into a cold dungeon. A poetical fancy, but none the less pleasing to a man who had never met the truth face to face without bedecking the reality with ribbons of fiction.
It was true that Jake forged Bank of England notes, had been caught with the goods and his factory traced; it was true that he had been previously convicted for the same offence, but it was not true—as Mr Reeder had sworn—that he had been seen near Marble Arch on the Monday before his arrest. It was Tuesday. Therefore Mr Reeder had committed perjury.
To Jake came a letter from one who had been recently discharged from the hospitality of HM Prison at Princetown. It contained a few items of news, one of which was:
saw your old pal reeder yesterday he was in that machfield case him that done in the old boy at born end reeder don’t look a day older he asked me how you was and I said fine and he said what a pity he only got seven he oughter got ten and I said…
What his literary friend said did not interest the enraged man. There and then he began to think up new torments for the man who had perjured an innocent man—it was Tuesday, not Monday—into what has been picturesquely described as a ‘living hell.’
Three months after the arrival of this letter Jake Alsby was released, a portion of his sentence having been remitted for good conduct: that is to say, he had never once been detected in a breach of prison regulations. The day he was released, Jake went to London to find his family in the care of the local authority, his wife having fled to Canada with a better man. Almost any man was better than Jake.
‘This is Reeder’s little joke!’ he said.
He fortified himself with hot spirits and went forth to find his man.
He did not follow a direct path to Mr Reeder’s office, because he had calls to make, certain acquaintances to renew. In one of these, a most reputable hostelry, he came upon a bearded man who spoke alternately in English and in a strange elusive language. He wore no collar or tie—when Vladimir reached his fourth whisky he invariably discarded these—and he spoke loudly of a diamond clasp of fabulous value. Jake lingered, fascinated. He drank with the man, whose language might be Russian but whose money was undoubtedly English, as was his language occasionally.
‘You ask me, my frien’, what profession am I? An actor, yes! But it pays nothing. This, that, the other impresario rob—all rob. But my best work? I am ill! That is good work! Delirium—what-you-call-it? Swoons? Yes, swoons—voice ‘usky, eh?’
‘I know a graft like that,’ said Jake, nodding wisely. ‘You chews soap.’
‘Ah—nasty—no… ty durak!’[* You fool]
Jake did not know that he was being called a fool, would not have been very upset if he had known. He was sure of one thing, that he was hooked up with a generous spender of money—a prince of fellows, seen in the golden haze of alcohol. He had not yet reached the stage where he wanted to kick anybody. He was in that condition when he felt an inward urge to tell his most precious secrets.
‘Ever ‘eard feller call’ Reeder?’ he asked profoundly. ‘Reg’lar old ‘ound—goin’ to get him!’
‘Ach!’ said his new-found friend.
‘Gonna get ‘im!’ said Jake gravely.
The bearded man tilted up his glass until no dreg remained in the bottom. He seized Jake’s arm in a fierce friendliness and led him from the bar. The cold air made Jake sag at the knees.
‘Le’s go ‘n bump ‘um,’ he said thickly.
‘My frien’—why kill, eh?’ They were walking unsteadily along arm in arm. Once Jake was pushed into the gutter by an unanticipated lurch. ‘Live—drink! See my beautiful brooch my farm… vineyards… mountains… I’ll tell you, my frien’—somebody must know.’
This street through which they were passing was very dark and made up of small shops. Jake was conscious that he had passed a dairy when he became aware that a man was standing squarely in their path.
‘Hub!… You want me… gotta brooch?’
It was Vladimir who spoke; he also was very drunk. The stranger did not speak.
The crash of the explosion made Jake Alsby reel. He had never heard a gun fired at close quarters. He saw the Russian swaying on his feet, his head bent as though he were listening… he was fumbling at his waistcoat with both hands. ‘Here… what’s the game?’ Jake was sober now. The man came nearer, brushed past him, thrusting his shoulder forward as he passed. Jake staggered under the impact. When he looked round, the shooter had melted into the thick darkness—there was a narrow opening of a mews hereabouts.
‘Hurt, mate?’
The Russian had gone down to his knees, still gripping at his waistcoat. Then he pitched forward and hit the pavement horribly.
Jake himself went white… he looked round, and, turning, fled. He wanted to be out of this—murder! That’s what it was, murder.
He raced round the corner of the street and into the arms of a policeman. Whistles were blowing. Even as he fought to escape, he knew the impossibility of such a hope: policemen were running from everywhere.
‘All right—I done nothin’… there’s a guy shot round the corner… some feller did it.’
Two officers took him to the station, and as a precautionary measure he was searched.
In the right hand pocket of his overcoat was found an automatic that had been recently fired.
Mr J.G. Reeder rang his bell and sighed. He sighed because it was the fourth time he had rung the bell without anything happening.
There were moments when he saw himself walking into the next room and addressing Miss Gillette in firm but fatherly tones. He would point out to her the impossible situation which was created when a secretary ignored the summons of her employer; he would insist that she did not bring into the office, or, if she brought, should not in business hours read the tender or exciting fiction which she favoured; he would say, in the same firm and fatherly way, that perhaps it would be better for everybody concerned if she found a new occupation, or a similar occupation in the service of somebody who had less exacting views on the question of duty. But always, when he rose from his chair after ringing four times, determined to settle the matter there and then, he sat down again and rang a fifth time.
‘Dear, dear!’ said Mr Reeder; ‘This is very trying.’
At that moment Miss Gillette came into the room. She was pretty and slight and small. She had a tip-tilted nose and a faultless complexion, and her dully golden hair was a little untidy.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Did you ring?’
Between her fingers she held a long, jade-green cigarette holder. Mr Reeder had once asked her not to come into his office smoking: she invariably carried her cigarette in her hand nowadays, and he accepted the compromise.
‘I think I did,’ he said gently.
‘I thought you did.’
Mr Reeder winced as she put her cigarette holder on the mantelpiece and, pulling a chair forward, sat down at his desk. She carried a book under her arm, and this she opened and laid on the table.
‘Shoot,’ she said, and Mr Reeder winced again.
