business of every man is the business of his servants. The preliminary inquiries, over which an Englishman or American jewel thief would spend a small fortune, can be made at the cost of a few annas. When Ras Lal came to England 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, receptacle, drawer, safe, box or casket wherein Mrs 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 lamentable lack of inventive power. The butler, an honest man, though a drinker of beer, informed 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 Mr 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 Mr Ras Lal was sent down for six months, and, which 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 at Wormwood Scrubbs. 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 Mr J G Reeder. And his hate was very real, more real because of the insignificance and unimportance of this Reeder Sahib, whom he likened to an ancient sheep, a pariah dog, and other things less translatable. And in the six months 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 Mr 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.
Mr Tommy Fenalow found means of getting in touch with the gentleman from the Orient whilst he was in Wormwood Scrubbs, and the luxurious car that met Ras Lal at the gates of the Scrubbs 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 one-hundred-rupee notes that might easily develop into a most profitable sideline.
‘You come along and lodge at my expense, boy,’ said the sympathetic Tommy, who was very short, very stout, and had eyes that bulged like a pug dog’s. ‘You’ve been badly treated by old Reeder, and I’m going to tell you a way of getting back on him, with no risk and a ninety 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 a service flat which formed part of a block owned by Mr Fenalow, who was a very rich man indeed. Some weeks after this, Tommy crossed St James’s Street to intercept his old enemy.
‘Good morning, Mr Reeder.’
Mr J G Reeder stopped and turned back.
‘Good morning, Mr Fenalow,’ he said, with his benevolent solicitude. ‘I am glad to see that you are out again, and I do trust that you will now find a more – er – legitimate 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 crook thing in my life, as you well know.’
He was so annoyed that the lighter exchanges of humour he had planned slipped
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, receptacle, drawer, safe, box or casket wherein Mrs 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 lamentable lack of inventive power. The butler, an honest man, though a drinker of beer, informed 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 Mr 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 Mr Ras Lal was sent down for six months, and, which 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 at Wormwood Scrubbs. 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 Mr J G Reeder. And his hate was very real, more real because of the insignificance and unimportance of this Reeder Sahib, whom he likened to an ancient sheep, a pariah dog, and other things less translatable. And in the six months 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 Mr 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.
Mr Tommy Fenalow found means of getting in touch with the gentleman from the Orient whilst he was in Wormwood Scrubbs, and the luxurious car that met Ras Lal at the gates of the Scrubbs 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 one-hundred-rupee notes that might easily develop into a most profitable sideline.
‘You come along and lodge at my expense, boy,’ said the sympathetic Tommy, who was very short, very stout, and had eyes that bulged like a pug dog’s. ‘You’ve been badly treated by old Reeder, and I’m going to tell you a way of getting back on him, with no risk and a ninety 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 a service flat which formed part of a block owned by Mr Fenalow, who was a very rich man indeed. Some weeks after this, Tommy crossed St James’s Street to intercept his old enemy.
‘Good morning, Mr Reeder.’
Mr J G Reeder stopped and turned back.
‘Good morning, Mr Fenalow,’ he said, with his benevolent solicitude. ‘I am glad to see that you are out again, and I do trust that you will now find a more – er – legitimate 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 crook thing in my life, as you well know.’
He was so annoyed that the lighter exchanges of humour he had planned slipped
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