Edgar Wallace

“ They were still talking of Flack and his passion for ready gold when Mr. Lew Steyne arrived in the charge of a local detective. No crook, however hardened, can step into the gloomy approaches of Scotland Yard without experiencing some uneasiness, and Lew's attempt to display his indifference was rather pathetic.
"What's the idea, Mr. Simpson?" he asked, in a grieved tone. "I've done nothing."
He scowled at Reeder, who was known to him, and whom he regarded, very rightly, as being responsible for his appearance at this best-hated spot. ”

“ The telephone bell, set in a remote corner of the room, rang sharply. Mr. Reeder took up the instrument with a pained expression. The operator of the office exchange told him that there was a call from Horsham. He pulled a writing-pad toward him and waited. And then a voice spoke, and hardly was the first word uttered than he knew his man, for J. G. Reeder never forgot voices.
"That you, Reeder? ... Know who I am? ..." ”

“ The police had arrived at the post-office, but the bird had flown. The clerk did not remember anybody old or wild-looking booking a call; he thought that the message had not come from the post-office itself, which was also the telephone exchange, but from an outlying call-box.
Mr. Reeder went in to report to the Public Prosecutor, but neither he nor his assistant was in the Office. He rang up Scotland Yard and passed on his information to Simpson.
"I respectfully suggest that you should get into touch with the French police and locate Ravini. He may not be in Paris at all." ”