“It is a terrible business,” said Mr. Enward, throwing off his coat. “He banked with you? I’m in charge of affairs, Kingfether, though heaven knows I am ignorant about ’em! I don’t know how he stands… what is his credit here?”
Mr. Kingfether considered.
“I’ll get the ledger from the safe,” he said.
He locked the centre drawer of his desk, because his letter to Ena Burslem was there and other documents, but Mr. Enward saw nothing offensive in the act of caution; rather was it commendable.
“Here is his account.” Kingfether laid the big ledger on the desk and opened it where his thumb marked a page. “Credit three thousand four hundred pounds.”
Mr. Enward fixed his glasses and looked.
“Has he anything on deposit? Securities—no? Did he come often to the bank?”
“Never,” said Kingfether. “He used the account to pay bills. When he wanted ready money he posted a bearer cheque and I posted back the money. He has, of course, sent people here to cash cheques.”
“That six hundred pounds withdrawn five days ago.” Mr. Enward pointed to the item.
“It is strange that you should point that out—it was paid over the counter four days ago. I didn’t see the person who called for it—I was out. My clerk McKay cashed the cheque. Who is that?”
There was a gentle tapping at the door. Mr. Kingfether went out of the room and came back with the caller.
“How fortunate to find you here!” said J.G. Reeder. He was spruce and lively. A barber had shaved him, somebody had cleaned his boots. “The account of the late Mr. Wentford?” He nodded to the book.
It was generally known that J.G. Reeder acted for the Great Central Bank, and the manager did not question his title to ask questions. Mr. Enward was not so sure.
“This is rather a serious matter, Mr. Reeder,” he said, consciously grave. “I am not so sure that we can take you into our confidence——”
“Hadn’t you better see the police and ask them if they are prepared to take you into their confidence?” asked Mr. Reeder, with a sudden ferocity which made the lawyer recoil.
Once more the manager explained the account.
“Six hundred pounds—h’m!” Mr. Reeder frowned. “A large sum—who was the drawer?”
“My clerk McKay said it was a lady—heavily veiled.”
Reeder stared at him.
“Your clerk McKay? Of course—a fair young man. How stupid of me! Kenneth—or is it Karl—Kenneth, is it? H’m! Heavily veiled lady. Have you the number of the notes?”
Kingfether was taken aback by the question. He searched for a book that held the information, and Mr. Reeder copied them down, an easy task since the tens and the fives ran consecutively.
“When does your clerk arrive?”
Kenneth was supposed to arrive at nine. As a rule he was late. He was late that morning.
Mr. Reeder saw the young man through a window in the manager’s office and thought that he did not look well. His eyes were tired; he had shaved himself carelessly, for his chin bore a strip of sticking plaster. Perhaps that accounted for the spots on the soiled cuff of his shirt, thought Mr. Reeder, when he confronted the young man.
“No, I will see him alone,” said Reeder.
“He is rather an insolent pup,” warned Mr. Kingfether.
“I have tamed lions,” said Mr. Reeder.
When Kenneth came in:
“Close the door, please, and sit down. You know me, my boy?”
“Yes, sir,” said Kenneth.
“That is blood on your shirt cuff, isn’t it? … cut your chin, did you? You haven’t been home all night?”
Kenneth did not answer at once.
“No, sir. I haven’t changed my shirt, if that is what you mean.”
Mr. Reeder smiled.
“Exactly.”
He fixed the young man with a long, searching glance.
“Why did you go to the house of the late Mr. Wentford last night between the hours of eight-thirty and nine-thirty?”
He saw the youth go deathly white.
“I didn’t know he was dead—I didn’t even know his name until this morning. I went there because… well, I was blackguard enough to spy on somebody… follow them from London and sneak into the house——”
“The young lady, Margot Lynn. You’re in love with her? Engaged to her, perhaps?”
“I’m in love with her—I’m not engaged to her. We are no longer… friends,” said Kenneth in a low voice. “She told you I had been there, I suppose?” And then, as a light broke on him: “Or did you find my cap? It had my name in it.”
Mr. Reeder nodded.
“You came down on the same train as Miss Lynn? Good. Then you will be able to prove that you left Bourne End station—”
“No, I shan’t,” said Kenneth. “I slipped out of the train on to the line. Naturally I didn’t want her to see me. I got out through the level crossing. There was nobody about—it was snowing heavily.”
“Very awkward.” Mr. Reeder pursed his lips. “You thought there was some sort of friendship between Mr. Wentford and the young lady?”
Kenneth made a gesture of despair.
“I don’t know what I thought—I was just a jealous fool.”
A very long silence, broken by a coal falling from the fire on to the iron bottom of the fender.
“You paid out six hundred pounds the other day to a lady on Mr. Wentford’s cheque?”
“I didn’t know that Wentford was—” began Ken, but Mr. Reeder brushed aside that aspect of the situation. “Yes, a veiled lady. She came by car. It was a large sum of money, but the day before Mr. Kingfether had told me to honour any cheque of Mr. Wentford’s, no matter to whom money was paid.”
“Will you tell me something about your quarrel with the young lady?” Mr. Reeder asked. “It is, I realize, a delicate subject.”
Kenneth hesitated, then told his story as he had told it to Mr. Machfield.
“Miss Lynn called on you that night—did she ask you to destroy the photograph you had taken?”
The young man was surprised at this query.
“No—I had forgotten all about the photograph till the other day. I must have sent the pack to be developed or put them aside to send them. Would the picture of Mr. Wentford be any good to you?”
J.G. Reeder shook his head. He asked very little more. He was, it seemed, the easiest man in the world to satisfy. Before he left he saw the sub-manager alone.
“Did you tell Mr. McKay that he was to honour any cheque of Mr. Wentford’s, no matter to whom the money was paid?”
The answer came instantly.
“Of course not! Naturally I should expect him to be sure that the person who presented a cheque had authority. And another curious thing which I have not mentioned. I lunch at the inn opposite and I usually have a seat in the window, where I can see these premises, but I have no recollection of any car drawing up to the bank.”
“H’m!” was all that Mr. Reeder said.
He made a few enquiries in Beaconsfield and the neighbourhood and went on to Wentford’s house, where Gaylor had arranged to meet him. The inspector was pacing up and down the snowy terrace before the house and he was in very good spirits.
“I think I’ve got the man,” he said. “Do you know anybody named McKay?”
Mr. Reeder looked at him slyly.
“I know a dozen,” he said.
“Come inside and I’ll show you something.”
Reeder followed him into the room. The carpet had been taken up, the furniture moved. Evidently a very thorough search had been in progress. Gaylor swung back the bookcase: the safe door was ajar.
“We got keys from the maker—quick work! They were down here by eight-thirty.”
He stooped down and pulled out three bundles. The first was made up of bills, the second of used cheques, the third was a thick bundle of French banknotes, each to the value of 1,000 francs.
“That is surprise No. 1,” began the detective, flourishing the money. “French money——”
“I am afraid it doesn’t surprise me,” said Mr. Reeder apologetically. “You see, I’ve been examining the gentleman’s bank book. By the way, here are the numbers of notes drawn from Mr. Wentford’s account.” He handed over a slip of paper.
“Six hundred pounds is a lot of money,” said Gaylor. “I’ll ’phone these through. Well, what else did you find in the bank book?”
“I observed,” said Mr. Reeder, “though I did not emphasize the fact, that all the money he paid was in French bank notes. Number two is——?”
The inspector extracted a sheet of headed paper from one heap. Written in pencil was what was evidently a memorandum from somebody who signed himself “D.H. Hartford.”
“I have found that the man who is employing a private detective to find you is George McKay of Sennet House, Marlow. I don’t know what his intentions are, but they’re not pleasant. There is nothing to worry about: he is employing one of the most incompetent private detectives in the business.”
“Extraordinary!” said Mr. Reeder, and coughed.
“The first thing to do is to find Hartford——” began Gaylor.
“He is in Australia,” Mr. Reeder interrupted. “At the time that letter was written his office address was 327, Lambs Buildings. He became bankrupt and left the country hurriedly.”
“How do you know?” asked Gaylor, astonished.
“Because I—um—was the incompetent private detective engaged to find Mr. Lynn, or, as he called himself, Mr. Wentford. And I did not find him,” said Mr. Reeder.
“Why did McKay wish to find this man?”
“He owed him money. I know no more than that. The search fell off because—um—Mr. McKay owed me money. One has to live.”
“Then you knew about Wentford?”
Mr. Reeder took counsel with himself.
“Um—yes. I recognized him last night—I once had a photograph of him. I thought it was very odd. I also—er—drove over to Marlow and made enquiries. Mr. McKay—Mr. George McKay did not leave his house last night, and at the moment the murder was committed was entertaining the—um—vicar to dinner.”
“You’re a killjoy,” he said, and Mr. Reeder sighed heavily.
“I’m going to have these developed.” He held up a little film pack. “I found them in the old man’s bedroom. I don’t suppose they’ll tell us anything.”
“I fancy they will be very instructive,” said Mr. Reeder, “especially if you are interested in natural history. There will also be a picture of Mr. Wentford or Lynn, with his arm about the shoulder of his niece.”
Gaylor sat down.
“Are you pulling my leg?” he demanded.
“Heaven forbid!” answered Mr. Reeder piously.
Gaylor got up and stood squarely before him.
“What do you know about these murders, Reeder?” he challenged.
Mr. Reeder spread his hands wide. His glasses, set askew, slipped a little farther down his nose; he was not a very imposing figure.
“I am a queer man, Mr. Gaylor; I am cursed, as you are aware, with a peculiarly evil mind. I am also intensely curious—I have always been. I am curious about criminals and chickens—I have perhaps the finest Wyandottes in London, but that is by the way. It would be cruel to give you my theories. The blood on the policeman’s horse: that is interesting. And Henry—I suppose Mr. Enward’s clerk has another name—the blood on his coat, though he did not go near the body of the late Mr. Wentford, that is interesting. Poor Henry is suffering from a severe chill and is in bed, but his mother, an admirable and hardworking woman, permitted me to see him. Then the two aces pinned to the door, all very, very, very interesting indeed! Mr. Gaylor, if you will permit me to interview old George McKay I will undertake to tell you who committed these murders.”
“The girl told you something—the girl Lynn?”
“The girl has told me nothing. She also may be very informative. I purpose spending a night or two in her flat—um—not, I hope, without a chaperon.”
Gaylor looked at him, amazed. Mr. Reeder was blushing.
CHAPTER VII
The last page of the letter which Mr. Eric Kingfether had begun with such ease in the early part of the morning was extremely difficult to compose. It had become necessary to say certain things; it was vital that he should not put his communication into writing.
In desperation he decided to make a break with practice. He would go to town. It was impossible to leave before the bank closed, but he could go immediately afterwards, though there was urgent work which should have kept him on the bank premises until six, and some private work of serious importance that should have occupied him until midnight. When the bank closed he handed over the key of the safe to Kenneth.
“I’ve been called to town. Balance up the books and put them in the safe. I’ll be back by six; I’d like you to wait for me.”
Kenneth McKay did not receive the suggestion favourably. He also wished to get away.
“Well, you can’t!” said the other sharply. “The bank inspector will be in to-morrow to check the Wentford account. It will probably be required as evidence.”
Mr. Kingfether got out his little car and drove to London. He parked his machine in a Bloomsbury square and made his way on foot to a big mansion block behind Gower Street. The elevator man who took him up grinned a welcome.
“The young lady’s in, sir,” he said.
The “young lady” herself opened the door to his ring.
“Look who’s here!” she said in surprise, and stood aside to let him in.
She was dressed in an old kimono and did not look as attractive as usual.
“In another half-hour I’d have been out,” she said. “I didn’t get up till after lunch. These late nights are surely hell!”
She led the way to a sitting-room that was hazy with cigarette smoke. It was a large room, its floor covered with a soft carpet that had once cost a lot of money but was now mottled with stains. Before the fire was a big divan, and on this she had been reclining. The furnishing and appointments of the room were of that style which is believed to be oriental by quite a large number of people. The whole room was half way to blowsiness. It had a stale, sweet scent. Before the fire, in a shallow basket lined with red silk, a Pekingese dog opened his weary eyes to survey the newcomer, and instantly closed them again.
“Well, my dear, what brings you up to town? I told you to snatch a few hours sleep—round about one you looked like a boiled owl, and that’s not the state to be in when you’re chasing money.”
She was dark and good-looking by certain standards. Her figure was robust, and nature had given generously to the amplification of her visible charms. The red of her full lips was a natural red; the clear skin was of fine texture; her face was scarcely powdered.
For a very long time they talked, head to head. She was an excellent listener; her sympathy had a sincere note. At half-past five:
“Now off you pop and don’t worry. The governor will be seeing you to-night—talk it over with him. I think you’d better, in case anything turns up… you know what I mean.”
He took a letter out of his pocket and gave it to her with an air of embarrassment.
“I wrote it, or rather started it, this morning… I couldn’t finish it. I mean every word I say.”
She kissed him loudly.
“You’re a darling!” she said.
Mr. Kingfether came back to his office to find only a junior in charge. McKay, despite instructions to the contrary, had gone, and the sub-manager sat down to a rough examination of important books in no condition to do justice to his task. He possessed one of those slow-starting tempers that gathers momentum from its own weight. A little grievance and a long brooding brought him to a condition of senseless and unrestrainable fury.
He was in this state when Kenneth McKay returned.
“I asked you to stay in, didn’t I?” He glowered at his subordinate.
“Did you? Well, I stayed in until I finished my work. Then the bank inspector came.”
Mr. Kingfether’s face went white.
“What did he want? Redman didn’t tell me he called.”
“Well, he did.” Kenneth passed into the outer office.
Kingfether sat scribbling oddly on his blotting-pad for a moment, and then for the first time saw the letter that had been placed on the mantelpiece. It was marked “Urgent. Confidential. Deliver by hand,” and was from head office.
He took it up with a shaking hand, and, after a long hesitation, tore the seal. There was a little mirror on the wall above the fireplace, and he caught sight of his face and could hardly believe that that ghost of a man was himself.
There was no need to read the letter twice through. Already he knew every word, every comma. He stood blinking at his reflection, and then went into the outer office. He found Kenneth collecting some personal belongings from his desk.
“I suppose the inspector came about the Wentford cheque?” he said.
The young man looked round at him.
“Wentford cheque? I don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t mean the cheque I cashed for the woman?”
It required an effort on the manager’s part to affirm this.
“What was wrong with it?”
“It was forged, that is all.”
“Forged?” Kenneth frowned at him.
“Yes… didn’t the inspector say anything? He left a letter for me, didn’t he?”
Kenneth shook his head.
“No. He was surprised to find that you weren’t here. I told him you had gone up to the head office. I’m getting a bit sick of lying about you. What is the yarn about this cheque?”
Again it required a painful effort on the manager’s part to speak.
“It was forged. You’ve to report to head office to-morrow morning… some of the banknotes have been traced to you… the cheque was out of your office book.”
It was out, yet he felt no relief.
McKay was looking at him open-mouthed.
“You mean the cheque that was changed by that woman?”
The word “woman” irritated Mr. Kingfether.
“A lady was supposed to have called, a veiled lady——”
“What do you mean by ‘supposed’?” demanded Kenneth. “You say that the notes were traced to me—I issued them: is that what you mean?”
“You have them—some of them—in your private possession; that’s all.”
Incredulity showed in Kenneth’s face.
“I? You mean that I stole them?”
Kingfether had reached the limit of endurance.
“How the hell do I know what you did?” he almost shouted. “Head office have written to say that some of the notes you paid over the counter have been traced through a moneylender named Stuart to you.”
The young man’s face changed suddenly.
“Stuart… oh!” was all that he said. A moment later he went blundering out of the side door, leaving Mr. Kingfether to continue his aimless scribblings on his blotting-pad.
Kenneth reached Marlow just before the dinner hour, and he came into the study where old George McKay was usually to be found, working out his eternal combinations. To Kenneth’s amazement, his father greeted him with a smile. Instead of the cards, his table was covered with packages of documents and the paraphernalia of correspondence.
“Hullo, son—we’ve had a stroke of luck. The arbitrators have decided in my favour. I knew jolly well I hadn’t parted with my rights in the dyeing process when I sold out, and the company has to pay close on a hundred thousand back royalties.”
Kenneth knew of this wrangle between his father and his late company that had gone on through the years, but he had never paid very much attention to it.
“That means a steady income for years, and this time I’m going to look after things—here!”
He pointed to the grate. The fireplace was filled with half-burnt playing cards.
“They’ve asked me to rejoin the board as chairman. What is the matter, Kenny?”
Kenneth was sitting on the opposite side of the table, and his father had seen his face.
Briefly he told his story, and George McKay listened without comment until he had finished.
“Wentford, eh? He is going to be a curse to me to the end of my days.”
Kenneth gasped his amazement.
“Did you know him?”
Old George nodded.
“I knew him all right!” he said grimly. “Reeder was here this morning——”
“About me?” asked the other quickly.
“About me,” said his father. “I rather gathered that he suspected me of the murder.”
Kenneth came to his feet, horrified.
“You? But he’s mad! Why should you——”
Mr. McKay smiled dourly.
“There was quite a good reason why I should murder him,” he said calmly; “such a good reason that I have been expecting the police all the afternoon.”
Then abruptly he changed the subject.
“Tell me about these banknotes. Of course I knew that you had borrowed the money from Stuart, my boy. I was a selfish old fellow to let you do it—how did the money come to you?”
Kenneth’s story was a surprising one.
“I had it a couple of days ago,” he said. “I came down to breakfast and found a letter. It was not registered and the address was hand-printed. I opened it, never dreaming what it contained. Just then I was terribly rattled over Stuart—I thought head office might get to know about my borrowing money. And when I found inside the letter twenty ten-pound notes you could have knocked me out.”
“Was there any letter?”
“None. Not even ‘from a friend.’ ”
“Who knew about your being in debt?”
One name came instantly to Kenneth’s mind.
“You told your Margot, did you… Wentford’s niece? His real name was Lynn, by the way. Could she have sent it?”
“It was not she who drew the money, I’ll swear! I should have known her. And though she was veiled, I could recognize her again if I met her. Kingfether’s line is that no woman came; he is suggesting that the cheque was cashed by me. He even says that the cheque was out of a book which I keep in my drawer for the use of customers who come to the bank without their cheque books.”
George McKay fingered his chin, his keen eyes on his son.
“If you were in any kind of trouble you’d tell me the truth, my boy, wouldn’t you? All this worry has come through me. You’re telling me the truth now, aren’t you?”
“Yes, father.”
The older man smiled.
“Fathers have the privilege of asking ‘Are you a thief?’ without having their heads punched! And most young people do stupid things—and most old people too! Lordy! I once carried a quarter of a million bank at baccarat! Nobody would believe that, but it’s true. Come and eat, then go along and see your Margot.”
“Father, who killed that man Wentford?”
There was a twinkle in McKay’s eyes when he answered:
“J.G. Reeder, I should think. He knows more about it than any honest man should know!”
CHAPTER VIII
When her visitor was gone, Ena opened the letter he had left with her, read a few lines of it, then threw letter and envelope into the fire. Funny, the sameness of men… they all wrote the same sort of stuff… raw stuff dressed up poetically… yet they thought they were being different from all other men. She did not resent these stereotypes of passion, nor did she feel sorry for those who used them. They were just normal experiences. She sat clasping her knees, her eyes alternately on the fire and the sleeping dog. Then she got up, dressed quickly, and, going into Gower Street, found a cab.
She was set down at a house in a fashionable Mayfair street, and a liveried footman admitted her and told her there was company. There usually was in the early evening. She found twenty men and women sitting round a green table, watching a croupier with a large green shade over his eyes. He was turning up cards in two rows, and big monies, staked in compartments marked on the green table, went into the croupier’s well or was pushed, with additions, to the fortunate winner.
The usual crowd, she noted. One pretty girl looked up and smiled, then turned her eyes quickly and significantly to the young man by her side.
Ena found the governor in his room. He was smoking alone and reading the evening newspaper when she came in.
“Shut the door,” he ordered. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing much. Only Feathers is a bit worried.” She told him why.
Mr. Machfield smiled.
“Don’t you worry, my pet,” he said kindly. “There has been a murder down his way—did he tell you anything about that? I’ve just been reading about it. I should be surprised if old Reeder didn’t get to the bottom of it—clever fellow, Reeder.”
He picked up his newspaper from the floor and his cigar from the ash-tray where he had laid it.
“Rather a coincidence, wasn’t it, Ena? Feathers pickin’ on that account—Wentford’s?”
She looked at him thoughtfully.
“Was it a coincidence?” she asked. “That is what is worrying me. Did he pick on this poor man’s account because he knew that he was going to be dead in a few days? I got a horrible creepy feeling when he was sitting beside me. I kept looking at his hands and wondering if there was blood on them!”
“Shuh!” said Mr. Machfield contemptuously. “That rabbit!”
He opened a panel in the wall—it was nothing more romantic than a serving hatch when it was built—and glanced at the gamesters.
“They’re playing for marbles!” he said in fine scorn. “But they never do play high in the afternoon. Look at Lamontaine: he’s bored sick!”
And certainly the croupier did not look happy. He closed the panel.
“I suppose you’ll be raided one of these days?” she said.
“Sure!” he answered easily. “But I’ve got another couple of houses ready for starting.”
“What do you think about Feathers? Will he squeal when they find him out?”
“Like a stuck pig,” said Mr. Machfield. “He’ll go down for nine months and get religion. That’s the kind of fellow who gives the prison chaplain an interest in life. Ena, I’ve got a little job for you.”
She was alert, suspicious.
“Nothing much. I’ll tell you all about it. Shall I open a bottle?”
“Yes, if it’s milk,” she said. “What’s the little job and how much does it carry?”
“Would you faint if I said a thousand?” he asked, and opened the hatch again, looking through and closing it.
“Who are you expecting?” she asked. “… all right, don’t be rude. No, thousands never make me faint. Especially when they’re talked about——”
“Now listen.”
Mr. Machfield was too good a talker to be brief. He led from a preamble to sections, into sub-sections.…
“One minute.”
He interrupted his explanation to lift the hatch. She saw him bringing it down; then unexpectedly he raised it again. Was it the effect of odd lighting, or had his face changed colour? He dropped the hatch softly and gaped round at her.
“Who let him in? That doorman has ‘shopped’ me——”
“Who is it?” she asked.
He beckoned her to his side, lifting the panel an inch.
“Stoop!” he hissed. “Look… that fellow with the side-whiskers.”
“Oh—is he anybody?” She did not recognize the visitor. Possibly he was a bailiff; he looked hopelessly suburban, like the people who serve writs. They always wear ready-to-wear ties and coloured handkerchiefs that stick out of their breast pockets.
“Reeder… J.G. Reeder!”
She wanted to raise the hatch and look, but he would not allow this.
“Go out and see what you can do… wait a bit.”
He lifted a house telephone and pressed a knob.
“Who was that fellow… the old fellow with side whiskers? … Got a card… what name… Reeder?”
He put down the ’phone unsteadily. Mr. Machfield gave small membership cards to the right people. They were issued with the greatest care and after elaborate enquiries had been made as to the antecedents of the man or woman so honoured.
“Go and get acquainted… he doesn’t know you. Go round through the buffet room and pretend you’ve just come in.”
When she reached the gaming room, Ena found Mr. Reeder was sitting opposite the croupier. How he got that favoured chair was a mystery. His umbrella was between his knees. In front of him was a pile of Treasury notes. He was “punting” gravely, seemingly absorbed in the game.
“Faites vos jeux, messieurs et mesdames,” said the croupier mechanically.
“What does he mean by that?” asked Mr. Reeder of his nearest neighbour.
“He means ‘Make your bet,’ ” said the girl, who had drawn up a chair by his side.
Mr. Reeder made ten coups and won six pounds. With this he got up from the table and recovered his hat from beneath his chair.
“I always think that the time to—um—stop playing cards is when you’re winning.” He imparted this truth to the young lady, who had withdrawn from the table at the same time.
“What a marvellous mind you have!” she said enthusiastically.
Mr. Reeder winced.
“I’m afraid I have,” he said.
She shepherded him into the buffet room; he seemed quite willing to be refreshed at the expense of the house.
“A cup of tea, thank you, and a little seed cake.”
Ena was puzzled. Had the whole breed of busies undergone this shattering deterioration?
“I prefer seed to fruit cake,” he was saying. “Curiously enough, chickens are the same. I had a hen once—we called her Curly Toes—who could eat fruit and preferred it…”
She listened—she was a good listener. He offered to see her home.
“No—if you could drop me at the corner of Bruton Street and Berkeley Square—I don’t live far from there,” she said modestly.
“Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder, as he signalled to a cab. “Do you live in a mews too? So many people do.”
This was disconcerting.
“Perhaps you will come and see me one day—I am Mrs. Coleforth-Ebling, and my ’phone number—do write this down——”
“My memory is very excellent,” murmured Mr. Reeder.
The cab drove up at that moment and he opened the door.
“Ena Burslem—I will remember that—907, Gower Mansions.”
He waved his hand in farewell as he got into the cab.
“I’ll be seeing you again, my dear—toodle-oo!”
Mr. Reeder could on occasions be outrageously frivolous. “Toodle-oo!” was the high-water mark of his frivolity. It was not remarkable that Ena was both alarmed and puzzled. Brighter intellects than hers had been shaken in a vain effort to reconcile Mr. Reeder’s appearance and manner with Mr. Reeder’s reputation.
She went back into the house and told Mr. Machfield what had happened.
“That man’s clever,” said Machfield admiringly. “If I were the man who had killed Wentworth or whatever his name is, I’d be shaking in my shoes. I’ll walk round to the Leffingham and see if I can pick up a young game-fish. And you’d better dine with me, Ena—I’ll give you the rest of the dope on that business I was discussing.”
The Leffingham Club was quite useful to Mr. Machfield. It was a kind of potting shed where likely young shoots could be nurtured before being bedded out in the gardens of chance. Even Kenneth McKay had had his uses.
When Mr. Reeder reached Scotland Yard, where they had arranged to meet, he found Inspector Gaylor charged with news.
“We’ve had a bit of luck!” he said. “Do you remember those banknotes? You took their numbers… you remember? They were paid out on Wentford’s account!”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” said Mr. Reeder. “To the veiled lady——”
“Veiled grandmother!” said Gaylor. “We have traced two hundred pounds’ worth to a moneylender. They were paid by Kenneth McKay, the bank clerk who cashed the cheque—and here is the cheque!”
He took it from a folder on his desk.
“The signature is a bad forgery; the cheque itself was not torn from Wentford’s cheque-book but from a book kept at the bank under McKay’s charge!”
“Astounding!” said Mr. Reeder.
“Isn’t it?” Mr. Gaylor was smiling. “So simple! I had the whole theory of the murders given to me to-night. McKay forged and uttered the note, and to cover up his crime killed Wentford.”
“And you instantly arrested him?”
“Am I a child in arms?” asked Gaylor reproachfully. “No, I questioned the lad. He doesn’t deny that he paid the moneylender, but says that the money came to him from some anonymous source. It arrived at his house by registered post. Poor young devil, he’s rattled to blazes! What are we waiting for now?”
“A Gentleman Who Wants to Open a Box,” said Mr. Reeder mysteriously.
(“Reeder releases his mysteries as a miser pays his dentist,” said Gaylor to the superintendent. “He knows I know all about the case—I admit he is very good and passes on most of the information he gets, but the old devil will keep back the connecting links!”
“Humour him,” said the superintendent.)
CHAPTER IX
Margot Lynn had spent a wretched and a weary day. The little city office which she occupied, and where she had conducted most of her uncle’s business, had become a place of bad dreams.
She had never been very fond of her tyrannical relative, who, if he had paid her well, had extracted the last ounce of service from her. He was an inveterate speculator, and had made considerable monies from his operations on the Stock Exchange. It was she who had bought and sold on his telephoned instructions, she who put his money into a London bank. Over her head all the time he had held one weapon: she had an invalid mother in Italy dependent on his charity.
All day long, people had been calling at the office. A detective had been there for two hours, taking a new statement; reporters had called in battalions, but these she had not seen. Mr. Reeder had supplied her with an outer guard, a hard-faced woman who held the pressmen at bay. But the police now knew everything there was to know about “Wentford’s” private affairs—except one thing. She was keeping faith with the dead in this respect, though every time she thought of her reservation her heart sank.
She finished up her work and went home, leaving the building by a back door to avoid the patient reporters. They were waiting for her at her flat, but the hard-faced Mrs. Grible swept them away.
Once safely in the flat, a difficulty arose. How could she tactfully and delicately dismiss the guard which Mr. Reeder had provided? She offered the woman tea, and Mrs. Grible, who said very little, embarrassed her by making it.
“I’m greatly obliged to you and Mr. Reeder,” she said after the little meal. “I don’t think I ought to take up any more of your time——”
“I’m staying until Mr. Reeder comes,” said the lady.
Very meekly the girl accepted the situation.
Mr. Reeder did not come until ten o’clock. Margot was half dead with weariness, and would have given her legacy to have undressed and gone to bed.
For his part, he was in the liveliest mood, an astounding circumstance remembering that he had had practically no sleep for thirty-six hours. In an indefinable way he communicated to her some of his own vitality. She found herself suddenly very wide awake.
“You have seen the police, of course?” Mr. Reeder sat on a chair facing her, leaning on the handle of his umbrella, his hat carefully deposited on the floor by his side. “And you have told them everything? It is very wise. The key, now—did you tell them about the key?”
She went very red. She was (thought Mr. Reeder) almost as pretty when she was red as when she was white.
“The key?” She could fence, a little desperately, with the question, although she knew just what he meant.
“At the cottage last night you showed me two keys—one the key of the house, the other, from its shape and make, the key of a safe deposit.”
Margot nodded.
“Yes. I suppose I should have told them that. But Mr. Wentford——”
“Asked you never to tell. That is why he had two keys, one for you and one for himself.”
“He hated paying taxes——” she began.
“Did he ever come up to town?”
“Only on very wet days and foggy days. I have never been to the safe deposit, Mr. Reeder. Anything that is there he placed himself. I only had the key in case of accidents.”
“What was he afraid of—did he ever tell you?”
She shook her head.
“He was terribly afraid of something. He did all his own housework and cooking—he would never have anybody in. A gardener used to come every few days and look after the electric light plant, and Mr. Wentford used to pay him through the window. He was afraid of bombs—you’ve seen the cage round the window in his bedroom? He had that put there for fear somebody should throw in a bomb whilst he was asleep. I can’t tell you what precautions he took. Except myself and the policeman, and once Mr. Enward the lawyer, nobody has ever entered that house. His linen was put outside the door every week and left at the door. He had an apparatus for testing milk and he analysed every drop that was left at the house before he drank it—he practically lived on milk. It wasn’t so bad when I first went to him—I was sixteen then—but it got worse and worse as the years went on.”
“He had two telephones in the house,” said Mr. Reeder. “That was rather extravagant.”
“He was afraid of being cut off. The second one was connected by underground wires—it cost him an awful lot of money.” She heaved a deep, relieved sigh. “Now I’ve told everything, and my conscience is clear. Shall I get the keys?”
“They are for Mr. Gaylor,” said Mr. Reeder hastily. “I think you had better keep them and give them to nobody else. Not even to the person who calls to-night.”
“Who is calling to-night?” she asked.
Mr. Reeder avoided the question. He looked at Mrs. Grible, grim and silent.
“Would you mind—er—waiting outside?”
The obedient woman melted from the room.
“There is one point we ought to clear up, my dear young friend,” said Mr. Reeder in a hushed voice. “How long had you been in your uncle’s house when Mr. Kenneth McKay appeared?”
If he had struck her she could not have wilted as she did. Her face went the colour of chalk, and she dropped into a chair.
“He came through the window into the little lobby—I know all about that—but how long after you arrived?”
She tried to speak twice before she succeeded.
“A few minutes,” she said, not raising her eyes.
Then suddenly she sprang up.
“He knew nothing about the murder—he was stupidly jealous and followed me… and then I explained to him, and he believed me.… I looked through the window and saw you and told him to go… that is the truth, I swear it is!”
He patted her gently on the shoulder.
“I know it is the truth, my dear—be calm, I beg of you. That is all I wanted to know.”
He called Mrs. Grible by name. As she came in, they heard the bell of the front door ring. It was followed by a gentle rat-tat.
“Who would that be?” asked Margot. She was still trembling.
“It may be a reporter—it may not be.” Mr. Reeder rose. “If it is some stranger to see you on urgent business, perhaps you would be kind enough to mention the fact that you are quite alone.”
He looked helplessly round.
“That——” He pointed to a door.
“Is the drawing-room,” she said, hardly noticing his embarrassment.
“Very excellent.” He was relieved. Opening the door, he waved Mrs. Grible to precede him. “If it should be reporters we will deal with them,” he said, and closed the door behind him.
There was a second ring of the bell as Margot hurried to the door. Standing outside was a girl. She was elegantly dressed, was a little older than Margot, and unusually pretty.
“Can I see you, Miss Lynn? It is rather important.”
Margot hesitated.
“Come in, please,” she said at last.
The girl followed her into the sitting-room.
“All alone?” she said lightly.
Margot nodded.
“You’re a great pal of Kenneth’s, aren’t you?”
She saw the colour come into Margot’s face, and laughed.
“Of course you are—and you’ve had an awful row?”
“I have had no awful row,” said Margot quietly.
“He’s a jealous boy—they all are, my dear. I always say there is no better proof that a man is gone on you. He’s a darling boy, and he’s in terrible trouble.”
“Trouble—what kind of trouble?” asked Margot quickly.
“Police trouble——”
The girl swayed and caught at the back of a chair.
“Don’t get upset.” Ena was enjoying her part. “He’ll be able to explain everything——”
“But he said he believed me…” She was on the point of betraying the presence of the hidden Mr. Reeder, but checked herself in time.
“Who said so?” asked Ena curiously. “A copper—policeman, I mean? Don’t take any notice of that kind of trash. They’d lie to save a car fare! We know that Kenneth didn’t forge the cheque——”
Margot’s eyes opened wide in amazement.
“Forge a cheque—what do you mean? I don’t understand what you are talking about.”
For a moment Ena was nonplussed. If this girl did not know about the forgery, what was agitating her? The solution of this minor mystery came in a flash. It was the murder! Kenneth was in it! She went cold at the thought.
“Oh, my God! I didn’t think of that!” she gasped.
“Tell me about this forgery——” began Margot, and then her visitor remembered her errand.
“I want you to come along and see Kenneth. He’s waiting for you at my flat—naturally he can’t come here. He’ll tell you everything.”
Margot was bewildered.
“Of course I’ll come, but——”
“Don’t ‘but’, my dear—just slip into your things and come along. Kenneth told me to ask you to bring all the keys you have—he said they can prove his innocence——”
“Dear, dear, dear!” said a gentle voice, and Ena flung round, to face the man who had come into the room.
She was trapped and knew it. That old devil!
“The key of the larder now, would that be of any use to you?” asked Mr. Reeder in his jocular mood. “Or the key of Wormwood Scrubbs?”
“Hullo, Reeder!” The girl was coolness itself. “I thought you were alone, young lady. I did not know you were entertaining Mr. and Mrs. Reeder.”
Such an outrageous statement made Mr. Reeder blush, but it did not confuse him. Nor did Mrs. Grible seem particularly distressed.
“This lady is Mrs. Grible, of my department,” he said gravely.
“She must have some use,” said Ena. She picked up her coat which she had taken off. “I’ll ’phone you later, Miss Lynn.”
“The cells at Bow Street police station are hygienically equipped, but they have no telephones,” said Mr. Reeder, and for the first time in many years Ena lost her nerve.
“What’s the idea—cells?” she demanded loudly. “You’ve got nothing on me——”
“We shall see—will you step this way?” He opened the door of the drawing-room. “I should like to have a few words with you.”
He heard a knock at the outer door and looked at Margot.
“I shall be on hand,” he said.
She went to the door—and fell back at the sight of her visitor. It was Kenneth McKay. He looked at her gravely, and without a word took her into his arms and kissed her. He had never kissed her that way before.
“Can I see you?”
She nodded and took him back to her room. The other three had disappeared.
“It is only right that you should know, darling, that I’m in terrible trouble. I’ve just come from home, and I suppose the police are after me. They may be after my father, too. He knew Wentford—hated him. I didn’t dream that——”
“Ken—what about you? Why do the police want you?”
He looked at her steadily.
“It is about a forged cheque. Some of the money has been traced to me. Darling, I’ve come to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth. Kingfether as good as told me I was a liar when I said I’d cashed it for a veiled woman. I don’t mind really what he says—he’s a crook, that fellow! Money has been missing from the bank—they sent old Reeder down weeks ago——”
“How did they trace money to you?” she interrupted. “And what do you want me to tell you?”
“You knew that I owed money—I told you.” She nodded. “And how worried I was about it. I can’t remember whether I told you how much I owed——”
She shook her head.
“You didn’t,” she said, and he drew a long breath.
“Then it wasn’t you,” he said.
He described the arrival of the letter containing the banknotes.
“Two hundred pounds, and of course I wanted the money badly.”
“Who else knew that you were short of money?” she asked.
“Oh, everybody.” He was in despair. “I blabbed about it—Kingfether said that he never ordered me to cash any cheque that came, and that the story of a veiled woman who arrived by car from London when he was out at lunch was all moonshine—hullo!”
He saw the door of the drawing-room opening and gasped at the sight of Mr. Reeder.
“It wasn’t moonshine, my young friend,” said Mr. Reeder. “In fact, I—er—have interviewed a garage keeper who filled up the tank of the lady’s car, and incidentally saw the lady.”
He turned to the room and beckoned Ena. Kenneth stared at her.
“Well?” she said defiantly. “Do you think you’ll know me again?”
“I know you now!” he said huskily. “You’re the woman who cashed the cheque!”
“That’s a damned lie!” she screamed.
“S-sh!” said Mr. Reeder, shocked.
“I’ve never seen him before!” she added, and Margot gasped.
“But you told me——”
“I’ve never seen him before,” insisted the woman.
“You’ll see him again,” said Mr. Reeder gently. “You on one side—the wrong side—of the witness box, and he on the other!”
Then she lost her head.
“If there was a swindle, he was in it!” she said, speaking rapidly. “You don’t suppose any clerk would pay out six hundred pounds to somebody he had never seen before unless he had his instructions and got his corner! How did I know the cheque was forged? It seemed all right to me.”
“May it continue to seem all right,” said Mr. Reeder piously. “May you be consoled through the long period of your incarceration with the—er—comfort of a good conscience. I think you will get three years—but if your previous convictions influence the judge, I fancy you will get five!”
Ena collapsed.
“You can’t charge me,” she whimpered. “I didn’t forge anything.”
“There is a crime called ‘uttering’,” said Mr. Reeder. “ ‘Uttering—knowing to be forged.’ Will you take the young lady’s arm, Mrs. Grible? I will take the other—probably we shall meet a policeman en route. And did I say anything about ‘conspiracy?’ That is also an offence. Mind that mat, Mrs. Grible.”
CHAPTER X
There was some rather heavy play at Mr. Machfield’s private establishment—heavier than usual, and this gave the proprietor of the house cause for uneasiness. If Mr. Reeder had reported his visit that afternoon to the police, and they thought the moment expedient, there would be a raid to-night, and in preparation for this all the doors leading to the mews at the back were unfastened, and a very powerful car was waiting with its engine running. Mr. Machfield might or might not use that method of escape. On the other hand, he could follow his invariable practice, which was to appear amongst those present as a guest: a fairly simple matter, because he was not registered as the proprietor of the house, and he could trust his servants.
Certainly the car would have its uses, if everything went right and there was no untoward incident. Just lately, however, there had been one or two little hitches in the smooth running of his affairs, and, being superstitious, he expected more.
He looked at his watch; his appointment with Ena was at midnight, but she had promised to ’phone through before then. At a quarter to nine, as he stood watching the players, there came a newcomer at the tail of three others. He was in evening dress, as were the majority of people round the board, and he looked strangely out of place in those surroundings, though his blue chin was newly shaved and his black hair was glossy with pomade, and in the lapel of his coat he wore a dazzling gardenia.
Mr. Machfield watched him wander aimlessly around the table, and then caught his eye and indicated that he wished to see him. Soon afterwards he walked out of the room and Mr. Kingfether followed.
“You’re rather silly to come to-night, K,” said Mr. Machfield. “There’s just a chance of a raid—Reeder was here this afternoon.”
The manager’s jaw dropped.
“Is he here now?” he asked, and Mr. Machfield smiled at the foolishness of the question.
“No, and he won’t be coming to-night, unless he arrives with a flying squad. We’ll keep that bird out at any rate.”
“Where is Ena?” asked Kingfether.
“She’ll be in later,” lied Machfield. “She had a bit of a headache, and I advised her not to come.”
The bank manager helped himself to a whisky from a decanter on the sideboard.
“I’m very fond of that girl,” said Kingfether.
“Who isn’t?” asked the other.
“To me”—there was a tremor in the younger man’s voice—“she is something outside of all my experience. Do you think she’s fond of me, Machfield?”
“I am sure she is,” said the other heartily; “but she’s a woman of the world, you know, my boy, and women of the world do not carry their hearts on their sleeves.”
He might have added, that, in the case of Ena she carried the business equivalent of that organ up her sleeve, ready for exhibition to any susceptible man, young or old.
“Do you think she’d marry me, Machfield?”
Mr. Machfield did not laugh. He had played cards a great deal and had learned to school his countenance. Ena had two husbands, and had not gone through the formality of freeing herself from either. Both were officially abroad, the foreign country being that stretch of desolate moorland which lies between Ashburton and Tavistock. Here, in the gaunt convict establishment of Princeton, they laboured for the good of their souls, but with little profit to the tax-payers who supported them, and even supplied them with tobacco.
“Why shouldn’t she? But mind, she’s an expensive kind of girl, K,” said Machfield very seriously. “She costs a lot of money to dress, and you’d have to find it from somewhere—five hundred a year doesn’t go far with a girl who buys her dresses in Paris.”
Kingfether strode up and down the apartment, his hands in his pockets, his head on his chest, a look of gloom on a face that was never touched with brightness.
“I realize that,” he said, “but if she loved me she’d help to make both ends meet. I’ve got to cut out this business of the bank; I’ve had a fright, and I can’t take the risk again. In fact, I thought of leaving the bank and setting up a general agency in London.”
Mr. Machfield knew what a general agency was when it was run by an inexperienced man. An office to which nobody came except bill collectors. He didn’t, however, wish to discourage his client; for the matter of that, Kingfether gave him little opportunity for comment.
“There is going to be hell’s own trouble about that cheque,” he said. “I had a letter from head office—I have to report to the general manager in the morning and take McKay with me. That is the usual course.”
Such details were distasteful to Mr. Machfield. He needed all the spare room in his mind for other matters much more weighty than the routine of the Great Central Bank, but he was more than interested in the fate of McKay.
Kingfether came back to Ena, because Ena filled his horizon.
“The first time I ever met her,” he said, “I knew she was the one woman in the world for me. I know she’s had a rough time and that she’s had a battle to live. But who am I to judge?”
“Who, indeed?” murmured Mr. Machfield, with considerable truth. And then, pursuing his thought, “What will happen to Mr. Kenneth McKay?”
Only for a moment did the manager look uncomfortable.
“He is not my concern,” he said loudly. “There is no doubt at all that the signature on the cheque——”
“Oh, yes, yes,” said the other impatiently. “We don’t want to discuss that, do we? I mean, not between friends. You paid me the money you owed me, and there was an end to it so far as I am concerned. I took a bit of a risk myself, sending Ena down—I mean, letting Ena go,” he corrected, when he saw the look on the other’s face. “What about young McKay?”
The manager shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know and I really don’t care. When I got back to the bank this afternoon he’d gone, though I’d left instructions that he was to stay until I returned. Of course, I can’t report it, because I did wrong to go away myself, and it was rather awkward that one of our bank inspectors called when I was out. I shall have to work all night to make up arrears. McKay might have helped me. In fact, I told him——”
“Oh, he came back, did he?”
“For five minutes, just before six o’clock. He just looked in and went out again. That is how I knew the inspector had called. I had to tell this pup about the cheque and the banknotes. By the way, that is a mystery to me how the notes came into his hands at all—I suppose there is no mistake about them? If he was in the habit of coming here he might have got them from the table. He doesn’t come here, does he?”
“Not often.” Mr. Machfield might have added that nobody came to that place unless they had a certain amount of surplus wealth, or the means by which easy money could be acquired.
There were quite a number of his clients who were in almost exactly the same position as Mr. Kingfether—people in positions of trust, men who had the handling of other people’s money. It was no business of Machfield’s how that money was obtained, so long as it was judiciously spent. It was his boast that his game was straight; as indeed it was—up to a point. He had allowed himself throughout life a certain margin of dishonesty, which covered both bad luck and bad investments. Twice in his life he had gone out for big coups. Once he had failed, the other time he had succeeded but had made no money.
He was not persona grata in all the countries of the world. If he had arrived at Monte Carlo he would have left by very nearly the next train, or else the obliging police would have placed a motor-car at his disposal to take him across to Nice, a resort which isn’t so particular as to the character of her temporary visitors.
“I’m sorry for McKay in a way, although he is such an impossible swine, but it’s a case of his life or mine, Machfield. Either he goes down or I go down—and I’m not going down.”
Nothing wearied Mr. Machfield worse than heroics. And yet he should have been hardened to them, for he had lived in an atmosphere of hectic drama, and once had seen a victim of his lying dead by his own hand across the green board of his gaming table. But it was years ago.
“You’d better slide back to the room,” he said. “I’ll come in a little later. Don’t play high: I’ve still got some of your papers, dear boy.”
When he returned to the room, the manager had found a seat at the table and was punting modestly and with some success. The croupier asked a question with a flick of his eyelids, and almost imperceptibly Machfield shook his head, which meant that that night, at any rate, Kingfether would pay for his losses in cash, that neither his I.O.U.’s nor cheques would be accepted.
From time to time the players got up from the tables, strolled into the buffet, had a drink and departed. But there was always a steady stream of newcomers to take their places. Mr. Machfield went back to his study, for he was expecting a telephone message. It came at a quarter past ten. A woman’s voice said: “Ena says everything is O.K.”
He hung up the telephone with a smile. Ena was a safe bet: you could always trust that girl, and he did not question her ability to keep her visitor occupied for at least two hours. After that he would do a little questioning himself. But it must be he, and not that other fool.
There was no sign of raiders. He had special scouts posted at every street corner approaching the house, and a man on the roof (no sinecure this on a night of rain and sleet) to take and transmit their signals in case of danger. If there were a raid he was prepared for it. More likely the police, following their invariable custom, would postpone the visitation until later in the week. And by that time, if all went well, the house would be closed and the keys in the hands of the agents.
Kingfether was winning; there was a big pile of Treasury and five-pound notes before him. He looked animated, and for once in his life pleased. The bank was winning too; there was a big box recessed into the table, and this was full of paper money and every few minutes the pile was augmented.
A dull evening! Mr. Machfield would be glad when the time came for his loud speaking gramophone to play the National Anthem. He always closed down on this patriotic note: it left the most unlucky of players with the comforting sense that at least they had their country left to them.
He was looking at the long folding door of the room as it opened slowly. It was second nature in him to watch that opening door, and until this moment he had never been shocked or startled by what it revealed. Now, however, he stood dumbfounded, for there was Mr. Reeder, without his hat, and even without his umbrella.
Nobody noticed him except the proprietor, and he was frozen to the spot. With an apologetic smile Mr. Reeder came tiptoeing across to him.
“Do you very much mind?” he asked in an urgent whisper. “I find time hanging rather heavily upon my hands.”
Machfield licked his dry lips.
“Come here, will you?”
He went back to his study, Reeder behind him.
“Now, Mr. Reeder, what’s the idea of your coming here? How did you get in? I gave strict instructions to the man on the door——”
“I told him a lie,” said Mr. Reeder in a hushed tone, as though the enormity of his offence had temporarily overcome him. “I said that you had particularly asked me to come to-night. That was very wrong, and I am sorry. The truth is, Mr. Machfield, even the most illustrious of men have their little weaknesses; even the cleverest and most law-abiding their criminal instincts, and although I am neither illustrious nor clever, I have the frailties of my—er—humanity. Not, I would add, that it is criminal to play cards for money—far from it. I, as you probably know, or you may have heard, have a curiously distorted mind. I find my secret pleasures in such places as these.”
Mr. Machfield was relieved, immensely relieved. He knew detectives who gambled, but somehow he had never associated Mr. J.G. Reeder with this peculiar weakness.
“Why, certainly, we’re glad to see you, Mr. Reeder,” he said heartily.
He was so glad indeed that he would have been happy to have given this odd-looking man the money wherewith to play.
“You’ll have a drink on the house—not,” he added quickly, “that I am in any position to offer you a drink. I am a guest the same as yourself, but I know the proprietor would be annoyed if you came and went without having one.”
“I never drink. A little barley water perhaps?”
There was, unfortunately, no barley water in the establishment, but this, as Machfield explained, would be remedied in the future—even now if he wished. Mr. Reeder, however, would not hear of putting “the house” to trouble. He was anxious to join the company, and again by some extraordinary quality of good luck, he managed to insinuate himself so that he sat opposite the croupier. Somebody rose from their chair as he approached, and Mr. Reeder took the vacant seat.
He might have taken a chair on the opposite side of the table, for at the sight of him a pallid Kingfether had whipped out his handkerchief and covered the lower part of his face as though he were suffering from a bad cold.
Stealthily he rose from his seat and melted into the fringe of people standing behind the players.
“Don’t let me drive you away, Mr. Kingfether,” said Reeder’s voice, and everybody heard him.
The manager dropped back till he stood against the wall, a limp helpless figure, and there he remained through the scene that followed.