Dr. Ingham was silent.
* * * * * *
Mr. Reeder wrote in his case book:
Dr. Ingham’s real name was Casius Kennedy. He was born in England, convicted at the age of seventeen for obtaining money under false pretences. He afterwards became a reformed character and addressed many revival meetings, and he was known as a boy preacher. He was again convicted on a charge of obtaining money by a trick, sentenced to nine months’ imprisonment, and on his discharge emigrated to America, where he fell in with Pizarro and assisted him in most of his swindles.
He was very useful to Pizarro, gaining, as he did, the confidence of victims by his appeals in various pulpits. He either acquired, or assumed, the title of doctor of divinity.
After the biggest of the Pizarro swindles he escaped to California and in some way, which is not known, acquired a very considerable fortune, most of which he lost in speculation subsequent to his arrival in England.
In his statement to me he was emphatic on this one point: that after he had built Grayne Hall on the foundations of the old castle, and he discovered the commodious dungeons which, I can testify, were in a remarkable state of preservation beneath the house, he had no intention of making illicit use of them until his heavy losses compelled him to look around for a method of replenishing his exchequer.
Five years ago he met a Russian actor named Litnoff, a drunkard who was on the point of being arrested for debt, and who was afraid that he might be deported to his own country, where he was wanted by the Tcheka for a number of political offences.
Kennedy and his wife, with the approval and assistance of Litnoff, evolved a scheme whereby big money could be made. Litnoff took a small flat in London mansions, which was cheaply furnished, and it was here that the swindle was worked. Very carefully and with all his old cleverness, Kennedy got into touch with the likely victims, and naturally he chose the credulous people who would subscribe money to the Pizarro Syndicate. One by one the “doctor” made their acquaintance. He studied their habits, their methods of life, found out at what hotels they stayed when they were in London, their hobbies and their weaknesses. In some cases it took three months to establish confidence, and when this was done, Kennedy mentioned casually the story of the dying Russian who had escaped from Petrograd with a chest full of jewellery looted from the palaces of the nobility.
Mr. Ralph’s statement may be taken as typical of them all:
“I met Dr. Ingham, or Kennedy, after some correspondence. He was very charming and obviously well-to-do. He was staying at the best hotel in London, and I dined with him twice—on one occasion with his wife.
“He told me he was engaged in voluntary mission work, in the course of which he had attended a dying Russian, who put up a most extraordinary proposition, namely: that he should buy a small farm in Switzerland, the property of Litnoff, on which he had buried half a million pounds’ worth of jewellery. The story, though seemingly far-fetched, could be confirmed. His brother was living on the farm. Both men had been chased and watched until life had become unendurable.
“ ‘There is something in this story,’ said the clergyman. ‘This fellow, Litnoff, has in his possession a piece of jewellery which must be worth at least a thousand pounds. He keeps it under his pillow.’
“I was intrigued by the story. It appealed to my romantic fancy, and when the doctor asked me if I would like to see the man, I agreed to meet him one night, promising not to mention to a soul the Russian’s secret.
“Dr. Ingham called for me at midnight. We drove to a place in Bloomsbury and I was admitted to a very poorly furnished flat. In one of the rooms was a very sick-looking man, who spoke with difficulty in broken English. He told me of all the espionage to which he and his brother were subjected. He was in fear of his life, he said. He dared not offer the jewels for fear that the agents of the Russian government traced him. The scheme he had seemed, from my point of view, to be beyond risk to myself. It was that I should go out to Montreux, see his brother, inspect the jewels and buy the farm, the purchase money to include the contents of the chest. If I was not satisfied, or if I thought there was any trick, I needn’t pay my money until I was sure that the deal was genuine.
“He showed me a diamond clasp, bid me to take it away with me and have it valued.
“This conversation took a very long time: he spoke with great difficulty, sometimes we had to wait for ten minutes whilst he recovered his breath. I took the clasp with me and had it valued, returning it to Dr. Ingham the same night.
“It was he who suggested that my safest plan was to carry no money at all, but buy a letter of credit. He was most anxious, he said, that I should take no risk.
“I was much impressed by the seeming genuineness of the scheme and by the fact that the risk was apparently negligible. He asked me to respect the Russian’s urgent plea that I should not speak a word to a soul either about my intentions or my plans. I bought the letter of credit, and it was arranged that I should travel to Dr. Ingham’s house by car, spend the night there and go on by the mid-day boat to Calais and Switzerland.
“I arrived at Grayne Hall at about six o’clock in the evening, and I was impressed by the luxury of the place. I hadn’t the slightest suspicion that anything was wrong.
“At half past seven I joined Dr. Ingham and his wife at dinner. I didn’t drink anything until the port came round, but after that I have no recollection of what happened until I woke and found myself in a small stone chamber. There was a candle fixed to a stone niche, with half a dozen other candles and a box of matches to supply the light, the only light I saw until I was rescued. There was an iron bed, a patch of carpet on the floor, and a washing set, but no other furniture. Twice in the twenty-four hours the two men, who are known as Thomas and Leonard, and whom I remember having seen wearing the livery of servants, took me out for exercise up and down a long stone corridor which ran the length of the house. I did not see any other prisoner, but I knew they were there because I had heard one shouting. My letter of credit had been taken from me. I only saw the man Kennedy once, when he came down and asked me to write a letter on the notepaper of a foreign hotel, addressed to my daughter, and telling her I was well and that she was not to worry about me.”
It was clear that the success of the scheme depended upon the discretion of Litnoff. The man was a drunkard, but so long as he gave no hint as to where his money came from, there was no danger to the gang. It was when he began to talk about the diamond clasp that the Kennedys decided that, for their own safety, they must silence him. They knew the game was up and made preparations for a getaway, but to the end they hoped they might avoid this. I discovered by enquiry that a small yacht had been chartered provisionally a week before their arrest. It was at the time in Dover Harbour, and if their plans were carried out, they were leaving a few days after my arrival at Grayne Hall.
A new complication arose when Kennedy went down to carry food to the prisoners on the night of Gelpin’s death. The two servants were away in London. They had been commissioned to stop Edelsheim from seeing me. It is possible that Kennedy over-rated his strength, or placed too much reliance upon the revolver which he carried—one which he had taken from another prisoner—Frank Seafield.
Kennedy states that Gelpin, who was a very strong man, attacked him without provocation, but as to this we shall never know the truth; but he was killed in the corridor, because the other prisoners heard the shot.
In the early hours of the morning the two servants returned, and the body was driven straight away to London and deposited in Epping forest.
I cannot exactly state when my own suspicions concerning Dr. Ingham were aroused. I rather think it was on the occasion of his first visit to me. His obvious anxiety to anticipate the arrival of Joan Ralph, Alsby’s statement, my talk with the chemist, and Edelsheim’s narrative all pointed to one conclusion: obviously here was a confidence trick on a large scale, and, after I had seen the survey map of the district in which Grayne Hall is situated, and made a few enquiries about the old castle, the possibility that this was a case of wholesale kidnapping became a certainty.
I had to be sure that “Dr. Ingham” was Kennedy, and on the last occasion we met in my office, I was compelled, I regret to say, to slander his mother. Though he was livid with rage, he kept control of himself, but he showed me enough to satisfy me that my suspicions were correct.
I tried the same trick at Grayne Hall, but I only did it after lighting a magnesium match, which was a signal agreed upon between myself and the police who, I knew, were outside the house, that it was time for them to make a move.
Underneath he wrote:
Casius Kennedy, convicted of murder at the C.C.C. Executed at Pentonville Prison. (Elford—executioner.)
Elsa Kennedy, convicted at C.C.C. Life.
Thomas J. Pentafard, convicted at C.C.C. Criminal conspiracy and accessory to murder. Life.
Leonard Polenski, convicted at C.C.C. Criminal conspiracy and accessory to murder. Life.
THE CASE OF JOE ATTYMAR
CHAPTER I
In the dusk of the evening the rower brought his skiff under the overshadowing hull of the Baltic steamer and rested on his oars, the little boat rising and falling gently in the swell of the river. A grimy second officer looked down from the open porthole and spat thoughtfully into the water. Apparently he did not see the swarthy-faced waterman with the tuft of grey beard, and as apparently the waterman was oblivious of his appearance. Presently the unshaven man, with the faded gold band on the wrist of his shabby jacket, drew in his head and shoulders and disappeared.
A few seconds later a square wooden case was heaved through the port and fell with a splash in the water. For a moment one sharp corner was in sight, then it sank slowly beneath the yellow flood. A small black buoy bobbed up and the waterman watched it with interest. To the buoy was attached a stout cord, and the cord was fastened to the case. He waited, moving his oars slowly, until the buoy was on the point of being sucked out of sight—then, with a turn of his wrist, he hooked an oar under the cord—literally hooked, for at the end of the short blade was a little steel crook.
Pushing the boat forward, he reached for the buoy and drew this into the stern sheets, fastened the cord round a wooden pin, and, lifting his oars, allowed the tide to carry him under the steamer’s stern. Anchored in midstream was a dingy-looking barge and towards this he guided the skiff.
A heavily built young man came from the aft deck, and, reaching down a boat-hook, drew the skiff alongside. The swarthy man held on to the side of the barge whilst the boat-hook was transferred to the taut line astern. The younger man did no more than fasten the soaking cord to a small bight. By this time the occupant of the skiff was on board.
“Nobody about, Ligsey?” he asked gruffly.
“Nobody, cap’n,” said the younger man.
The captain said nothing more, but walked to the deck-house astern and disappeared down the companionway, pulling the hatch close after him. There he stayed till the estuary was a black void punctured with dim ships’ lights.
Ligsey went forward to where his youthful assistant sat on an overturned bucket, softly playing a mouth-organ. He stopped being musical long enough to remark that the tide was turning.
“We going up to-night?” he asked.
Ligsey nodded. He had already heard the chuff-chuff of the motor in the stern of the barge, where the skipper was starting it.
“What we hangin’ around here for?” asked the youth curiously. “We’ve missed one tide—we could have been up to Greenwich by now. Why don’t Captain Attymar——”
“Mind your own business,” growled the mate.
He heard the swarthy man calling him and went aft.
“We’ll get that case in and stow it,” he said in a low voice. “I left a place in the bricks.”
Together they pulled gingerly at the cord and brought the square, soaked packing-case to sight. Ligsey leaned over and gripped it with an instrument like a pair of huge ice-tongs, and the dripping case was brought to the narrow deck and stowed expeditiously in the well of the barge.
The Allanuna invariably carried bricks between a little yard on the Essex coast and Tenny’s Wharf. Everybody on the river knew her for an erratic and a dangerous-steering craft. The loud chuffing of her engine was an offence. Even nippy tugboats gave her yawing bows a wide berth.
The boy was called aft to take charge of the engine, and Ligsey took the tiller. It was five o’clock on a spring morning when she came to Tenny’s Wharf, which is at Rotherhithe.
As a wharfage it had few qualities attractive to the least fastidious of bargees. It consisted of a confined space with room for two builder’s lorries to be backed side by side (though it required some manœuvring to bring them into position) and the shabby little house where Joe Attymar lived.
Through the weather-beaten gate which opened at intervals to admit the builders’ carts was Shadwick Lane. It had none of the picturesque character of the slum it used to be, when its houses were of wood, and water-butts stood in every backyard. Nowadays it consists of four walls, two on either side of the street. Bridging these is an inverted V of slate, which is called a roof, and at frequent intervals there are four red chimney-pots set on a small, square, brick tower. These denote roughly where lateral walls divide one hutch from another. Each partition is called a “house,” for which people pay rent when they can afford it. The walls which face the street have three windows and a doorway to each division.
Joe Attymar’s house did not properly stand in the lane at all, and Shadwick Lane was only remotely interested in the barge-master, for the curious reason that he could reach his house and yard by Shadwick Passage, a tortuous alley that threaded a way between innumerable back-yards, and, under the shadow of a high warehouse, to Tooley Street. Year after year the swarthy man with the little iron-grey beard and the shaggy eyebrows brought his barge up the river, always with a cargo of bricks. And invariably the barge went down empty and without his presence—for, for some reason, there was neither passenger nor crew on the down-river trip.
This fact was unknown to the people of Shadwick Lane. They were even unaware that Joe Attymar did not sleep in his house more than one night every month. They knew, of course, from the muddy old motor-car, that he drove through the wide gates occasionally, that he went abroad, but guessed that he was engaged in the legitimate business of lighterman.
There are certain minor problems which from time to time cause the chiefs of Scotland Yard to move uneasily and impatiently in their padded chairs, and say to their immediate subordinates: “Do something.” Mr. Attymar, though he was blissfully unaware of the fact, was one of these minor problems.
There are gaming houses which harass the police, queer little clubs, and other establishments less easy to write about in a reputable magazine, but Mr. Attymar was not associated with one of these. Such problems are, in one shape or another, perennial! Occasionally they grow acute, and just at that moment the question of systematic smuggling was worrying Scotland Yard considerably.
Chief Constable Mason sent for Inspector Gaylor.
“They’ve pulled in a fellow who was peddling dope in Lisle Street last night,” he said. “You might see him after his remand. I have an idea he will squeak.”
But the man in question was no squeaker, though he had certainly given that impression when he was taken red-handed. He said enough, however, to the patient detective to suggest that he might say more.
“All that I could find out,” said Gaylor, “is that this selling organization is nearly fool-proof. The gang that we rushed last year isn’t handling the output, but I’m satisfied that it still has the same governor.”
“Get him,” said the chief, who was in the habit of asking for miracles in the same tone as he asked for his afternoon tea.
And then a thought struck him.
“Go along and see Reeder. The Public Prosecutor was telling me to-day that Reeder is available for any extra work. He may be able to help, anyway.”
Mr. Reeder heard the request, sighed and shook his head.
“I’m afraid it is rather—um—outside my line of business. Dope? There used to be a man named Moodle. It may not have been his name, but he had associations with these wretched people——”
“Moodle, whose name was Sam Oschkilinski, has been dead nearly a year,” said Gaylor.
“Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder, in a hushed voice appropriate to one who has lost a dear friend. “Of what did he die?”
“Loss of breath,” said Gaylor vulgarly.
Mr. Reeder knew nothing more that he could recall about dope merchants.
“Haven’t you some record on your files?” suggested Gaylor.
“I never keep files, except—um—nail-files,” said Mr. Reeder.
“Perhaps,” suggested Gaylor, “one of your peculiar friends——”
“I have no friends,” said Mr. Reeder.
But here he did not speak the exact truth.
He was cursed with a community spirit and he had a tremendous sense of neighbourly obligations. Especially would he give up valuable time to diagnosing and curing the mysterious diseases which attacked the chickens in Brockley Road.
Mr. Reeder was an authority on poultry; he knew exactly why hens droop and cockerels’ combs go pink. He had a marvellous chicken farm in Kent—not large, but rare. Noble lords and ladies consulted him before they exhibited their birds. He could wash and dry living chickens for the bench: the Poultry Show at the Crystal Palace was an event to which Mr. Reeder looked forward for eleven months and two weeks.
He would stand in his back garden for hours discussing with the man next door the eccentricities of laying hens, and his acquaintance with Johnny Southers began in a fowl-house. Johnny lived three doors from Mr. Reeder. He was rather a nice young man, fair-haired and good-looking. He had in Mr. Reeder’s eyes the overwhelming advantage of being a very poor conversationalist.
Anna Welford lived in the house opposite, so that it may be said that the scene was set, for the curious tragedy of Joe Attymar, on a very small stage.
It was through the unromantic question of a disease which attacked Johnny Southers’ prize Wyandottes that Mr. Reeder met Anna. She happened to be in the Southers’ back garden when Mr. Reeder was engaged in his diagnosis. She was a slim girl, rather dark, with amazing brown eyes. Her father was a retired fish merchant, who had made a lot of money and had sent her to a high-class school at Brighton, where girls are taught to ride astride, use lipstick and adore the heroes of Hollywood.
In some respects her education had been neglected, for she returned to the dullness of Brockley a very sane, well-balanced young lady.
She did not find Brockley a “hole.” She did not smoke or do anything which made life worth living, but settled down to the humdrum of a stuffy home as though she had never shared a room with an earl’s daughter or played hockey against an all-England team.
Johnny did not fall in love with her at first sight. He had known her since she was so high: when he was a boy she was endurable to him. As a young man he thought her views on life were sound. He discovered he was in love with her as he discovered he was taller than his father. It was a subject for surprise.
It was brought home to him when Mr. Clive Desboyne called in his glittering coupé to take Anna to a dinner-dance. He resented Mr. Desboyne’s easy assurance, the proprietorial way he handed Anna into the car. He thought it was appalling bad manners for a man to smoke a cigar when he was driving a lady. Thereafter Johnny found himself opening and examining packing-cases and casks and barrels at the Customs House with a sense of his inferiority and the hopelessness of his future.
In such a mood he consulted his authority on poultry, and Mr. Reeder listened with all the interest of one who was hearing a perfectly novel and original story that had never been told before by or to any human being.
“I know so very little—um—about love,” said Mr. Reeder awkwardly. “In fact—er—nothing. I would like to advise you to—um—let matters take their course.”
Very excellent, if vague, advice. But matters took the wrong course, as it happened.
CHAPTER II
On the following Saturday night, as Mr. Reeder was returning home, he saw two men fighting in Brockley Road. He had what is called in Portuguese a repugnancio to fighting men. When the hour was midnight and the day was Saturday, there was a considerable weight of supposition in favour of the combat being between two gentlemen who were the worse for intoxicating drink, and it was invariably Mr. Reeder’s practice to cross like the Philistine, to the other side of the road.
But the two young men who were engaged in such a short, silent and bitter contest were obviously no hooligans of lower Deptford. They were both wearing evening dress, and gentlemen in evening dress do not as a rule wage war in the streets of Brockley. Nevertheless, Mr. Reeder hardly felt it was the occasion to act either as mediator or timekeeper.
He would have passed them by, and did in fact come level with them, when one walked across the road, leaving his companion—though that hardly seems the term to apply to one who had been so bruised and exhausted that he was hanging on to the railings—to recover as best he could. It was then that Mr. Reeder saw that one of the contestants was Mr. John Southers. He was husky and apologetic.
“I’m terribly sorry to have made a fuss like this,” he said. “I hope my father didn’t hear me. This fellow is intolerable.”
The intolerable man on the other side of the street was moving slowly towards where a car was parked by the sidewalk. They watched him in silence as he got in, and, turning the car violently, went off towards the Lewisham High Road, and, from the direction he took, London.
“I’ve been to a dance,” said the young man, a little inconsequently.
“I hope,” said Mr. Reeder with the greatest gentleness, “that you enjoyed yourself.”
Mr. Southers did not seem disposed at the moment to offer a fuller explanation. As they neared Reeder’s gate he said:
“Thank God, Anna was inside before it started! He has been beastly rude to me all the evening. As a matter of fact, she asked me to call and take her home, otherwise I shouldn’t have met him.”
There had been a dance somewhere in the City, at a livery hall. Anna had gone with Mr. Clive Desboyne, but the circumstances under which Johnny called for her were only vaguely detailed. Nor did Mr. Reeder hear what was the immediate cause of the quarrel which had set two respectable young men at fisticuffs in the reputable suburban thoroughfare.
To say that he was uninterested would not be true. The matter, however, was hardly pressing. He hoped that both parties to the little fracas might have forgotten the cause of their quarrel by the following morning.
He did not see Johnny again for the remainder of the week. Mr. Reeder went about his business, and it is doubtful whether Johnny occupied as much as five minutes of his thoughts, until the case of Joe Attymar came into his purview.
He was again called to Scotland Yard on a consultation. He found Gaylor and the Chief Constable together, and they were examining a very dingy-looking letter which had come to the Yard in the course of the day.
“Sit down, Reeder,” said the chief. “Do you know a man called Attymar?”
Mr. Reeder shook his head. He had never heard of Joe Attymar.
“This is a thing we could do ourselves without any bother at all,” interrupted the chief, “but there are all sorts of complications which I won’t bother you with. We believe there’s a member of the staff of one of the Legations in this business, and naturally we want this fact to come out accidentally, and not as the result of any direct investigation by the police.”
Mr. Reeder then learned about Joe Attymar, the barge-master, of the little wharf at the end of Shadwick Lane, and the barge Allanuna that went up and down the Thames year in and year out and brought bricks. He did not hear at that moment, or subsequently, what part the Legation played, or which Legation it was, or if there was any Legation at all. In justice to his acumen it must be said that he doubted this part of the story from the first, and the theory at which he eventually arrived, and which was probably correct, was that the part he was called upon to play was to stampede Attymar and his associates into a betrayal of their iniquity. For this was at a period when Mr. Reeder’s name and appearance were known from one end of the river to the other, when there was hardly a bargee or tug-hand who could not have drawn, and did not draw, a passable caricature of that worthy man who had been instrumental in breaking up one of the best-organized gangs of river thieves that had ever amalgamated for an improper purpose.
Mr. Reeder scratched his nose and his lips drooped dolefully.
“I was hoping—um—that I should not see that interesting stream for a very long time.”
He sat down and listened patiently to a string of uninteresting facts. Joe Attymar brought bricks up the river—had been bringing them for many years—at a price slightly lower than his competitors. He carried for four builders, and apparently did a steady, if not too prosperous, trade. He was believed locally to be rolling in money, but that is a reputation which Shadwick Lane applied to any man or woman who was not forced at frequent intervals to make a call at the local pawnshop. He kept himself to himself, was unmarried, and had no apparent interests outside of his brick lighterage.
“Fascinating,” murmured Mr. Reeder. “It sounds almost like a novel, doesn’t it?”
After he had gone.…
“I don’t see what there is fascinating about it,” said Mason, who did not know Mr. Reeder very well.
“That’s his idea of being funny,” said Gaylor.
It was a week later, and the Allanuna lay at anchor off Queensborough, when a small boat, rowed by a local boatman, carrying a solitary passenger, came slowly out, under the watchful and suspicious eye of Ligsey. The boat rowed alongside the barge, and Ligsey had a view of a man with a square hat and lopsided pince-nez, who sat in the stern of the boat, an umbrella between his legs, apparently making a meal of the big handle! And, seeing him, Ligsey, who knew a great deal about the river and its scandals, started up from his seat with an exclamation.
He was blinking stupidly at the occupant of the boat when Mr. Reeder came up to him.
“Good morning,” said Mr. Reeder.
Ligsey said nothing.
“I suppose I should say ‘afternoon,’ ” continued the punctilious Mr. Reeder. “Is the captain aboard?”
Ligsey cleared his throat.
“No, sir, he ain’t.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t object if I came aboard?”
Mr. Reeder did not wait for the answer, but, with surprising agility, drew himself up on to the narrow deck of the barge. He looked round with mild interest. The hatches were off, and he had a good view of the cargo.
“Bricks are very interesting things,” he said pleasantly. “Without bricks we should have no houses; without straw we should have no bricks. It seems therefore a very intelligent act to pack bricks in straw, to remind them, as it were, of what they owe to this humble—um—vegetable.”
Ligsey did not speak, but swallowed something.
“What I want to know,” Mr. Reeder went on, and his eyes were never still, “is this. Would it be possible to hire this barge?”
“You’ll have to ask the captain about that,” said Ligsey huskily.
His none too clean face was a shade paler. The stories of Reeder that had come down the river had gained in the telling. He was credited with supernatural powers of divination; his knowledge and perspicuity were unbounded. For the first time in years Ligsey found himself confronted with the slowly-moving machinery of the law; it was a little terrifying and his emotions were not at all what he had anticipated. He used to tell Joe Attymar:
“… If they ever come to me I’ll give ’em a saucy answer.”
And here “they” had come to him, but no saucy answer hovered on his lips. He felt totally inadequate.
“When are you expecting the captain?” asked Mr. Reeder, in his blandest manner.
“To-night or to-morrow—I don’t know,” stammered Ligsey. “He’ll pick us up, I suppose.”
“Gone ashore for dispatches?” asked Mr. Reeder pleasantly. “Or possibly to wire to the owners? No, no, it couldn’t be that: he is the owner. How interesting! He’ll be coming off in a few moments with sealed orders under his arm. Will you tell me”—he pointed to the hold—“why you leave that square aperture in the bricks? Is that one of the secrets of packing, or shall I say stowage?”
Ligsey went whiter.
“We always leave it like that,” he said, and did not recognize the sound of his own voice.
Mr. Reeder would have descended to the cabin, but the hatch was padlocked. He did invite himself down to the little cubby-hole in the bow of the boat where Ligsey and the boy slept; and, strangely enough, Mr. Reeder carried in his pocket, although it was broad daylight, a very powerful electric hand-lamp which revealed every corner of Ligsey’s living place as it had never been revealed before.
“Rather squalid, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Reeder. “A terrible thing to have to live in these circumstances and conditions. But of course one can live in a much worse place.”
He made this little speech after his return to the fresh air of the deck, and was fanning himself with the brim of his high-crowned hat.
“One can live for example,” he went on, surveying the picturesque shore of Queensborough vacantly, “in a nice clean prison. I know plenty of men who would rather live in prison than at—um—Buckingham Palace—though, of course, I have no knowledge that they’ve ever been invited to Buckingham Palace. But not respectable men, men with wives and families.”
Ligsey’s face was a blank.
“With girls and mothers.”
Ligsey winced.
“They would prefer to remain outside. And, of course, they can remain outside if they’re only sufficiently sensible to make a statement to the police.”
He took from his pocket-book a card and handed it almost timorously to Ligsey.
“I live there,” said Mr. Reeder, “and I’ll be glad to see you any time you’re passing—are you interested in poultry?”
Ligsey was interested in nothing.
Mr. Reeder signalled to the boatman, who pulled the skiff alongside, and he stepped down into the boat and was rowed back to the shore.
There was one who had seen him come and who watched him leave by train. When night fell, Joe Attymar rowed out to the barge and found a very perturbed lieutenant.
“Old Reeder’s been here,” blurted Ligsey, but Joe stopped him with a gesture.
“Want to tell the world about it?” he snarled. “Come aft.”
The thickset young man followed his commander.
“I know Reeder’s been here: I’ve seen him. What did he want?”
Briefly Ligsey told him quite a number of unimportant details about the visit. It was not remarkable that he did not make any reference to the card or to Mr. Reeder’s invitation.
“That’s done it,” said Ligsey when he had finished. “Old Reeder’s got a nose like a hawk. Asked me why we left that hole in the bricks. I’ve never had to deal with a detective before——”
“You haven’t, eh?” sneered the other. “Who was that waterman who came aboard off Gravesend the other night? And why did I drop half-a-hundredweight of good stuff over board, eh? You fool! We’ve had half-a-dozen of these fellows on board, all of ’em cleverer than Reeder. Did he ask you to tell him anything?”
“No,” said Ligsey instantly.
Joe Attymar thought for a little time, and then:
“We’ll get up the anchor. I’m not waiting for the Dutch boat,” he said.
Ligsey’s sigh of relief was audible at the other end of the barge.
CHAPTER III
This visit of Reeder was the culmination of a series of enquiries he had conducted in the course of a few days. He turned in a short report to Scotland Yard, and went home to Brockley Road, overtaking Johnny Southers as he turned from Lewisham High Road. Johnny was not alone.
“Anna and I were discussing you,” he said, as they slackened their steps to match the more leisurely pace of Mr. Reeder. “Is it possible for us to see you for five minutes?”
It was possible. Mr. Reeder ushered them up to his big, old-fashioned sitting-room, inwardly hoping that the consultation would have no reference to the mysterious workings of the young and human heart.
They were going to get married.
“Anna’s father knows, and he’s been awfully decent about it,” said Johnny, “and I’d like you to know too, Mr. Reeder.”
Mr. Reeder murmured something congratulatory. That matter of love and loving was at any rate shelved.
“And Desboyne has been awfully decent—I told Anna all about that rather unpleasant little scene you witnessed—he never told her a word. He wrote apologizing to Anna, and wrote an apology to me. He has offered me a very good position in Singapore if I care to take it—he’s terribly rich, and it sounds very good.”
“It doesn’t sound good to me.”
Anna’s voice was decisive.
“I appreciate Clive’s generosity, but I don’t think he ought to give up his Civil Service work except for something better in England. I want you to persuade him, Mr. Reeder.”
Mr. Reeder looked from one to the other dismally. The idea of persuading anybody to do anything in which he himself was not greatly absorbed filled him with dismay. As a mentor to the young he recognized his limitations. He liked Johnny Southers as he liked any decent young fellow. He thought Anna Welford was extraordinarily pretty; but even these two facts in conjunction could not arouse him to enthusiasm.
“I don’t want much persuading,” said Johnny, to his relief. “I’ve got something else up my sleeve—a pretty big thing. I’m not at liberty to talk about it; in fact, I’ve been asked not to. If that comes off, the Singapore job will be refused. It isn’t so very difficult now. The point is this, Mr. Reeder: if you were offered a partnership in a thriving concern, that could be made into something very big if one put one’s heart and soul into it, would you accept?”
Mr. Reeder looked at the ceiling and sighed.
“Hypotheses always worry me, Mr. Southers. Perhaps, when the moment comes, if you could tell me all about the business, I may be able to advise you, although I confess I have never been regarded as a man whose advice was worth two—um—hoots.”
“That’s what I wanted to see you about, Mr. Reeder.” Anna nodded slowly. “I’m so terribly afraid of Johnny leaving the service for an uncertainty, and I do want him to talk the matter over with you. I don’t want to know his secrets”—there was the ghost of a smile in her eyes—“I think I know most of them that count.”
Mr. Reeder looked round miserably. He felt himself caught and entangled in a network of dull domesticity. He was, if the truth be told, immensely bored, and, had he been more temperamental, he might have screamed. He wished he had not overtaken these loitering lovers, or that they would apply to one of those periodicals which maintain a department devoted to advising the young and the sentimental in the choice of their careers. It was with the greatest happiness that he closed the door upon their small mystery and devoted himself to the serious business of high tea.
Mr. Reeder had many anxieties to occupy his mind in the next few days, and the fact that he had added Joe Attymar to the list of his enemies, even if he were aware of the fact, was not one of these.
In the gaols of a dozen countries were men who actively disliked him. Meister of Hamburg, who used to sell United States bills by the hundredweight, Lefere, the clever wholesale engraver of lire notes, Monsatta, who specialized in English fivers, Madame Pensa of Pisa, who for many years was the chief distributor of forged money in Eastern and Southern Europe, Al Selinski, the paper maker, Don Leishmer, who printed French milles by the thousand, they all knew Mr. Reeder, at least by name, and none of them had a good word for him, except Monsatta, who was large-minded and could detach himself from his personal misfortunes.
Letters came to Mr. Reeder from many peculiar sources. It was a curious fact that a very large number of Mr. Reeder’s correspondents were women. A sensible number of the letters which came to him were of a most embarrassing character.
His name had been mentioned in many cases that had been heard at the Old Bailey. He himself had, from time to time, stood up in the witness stand, a lugubrious and unhappy figure, and had given evidence in his hesitant and deferential way against all manner of wrong-doers, but mostly forgers.
He was variously described as “an expert,” as “a private detective,” as “a bank official.” In a sense he was all these, yet none of them entirely. Judges and certain barristers knew that he was at the call of the Public Prosecutor’s Department. It was said that privately he enjoyed a status equivalent in rank to a superintendent of police. He certainly had a handsome retaining fee from the Bankers’ Association, and probably drew pay from the Government, but nobody knew his business. He banked at Torquay and the manager of the bank was his personal friend.
But the net result of his fugitive appearances in court was that quite intelligent women were seized with the idea that he was the man who should be employed to watch their husbands and to procure the evidence necessary for their divorces. Business men wrote to him asking him to investigate the private lives of their partners; quite a few commissions were offered by important commercial concerns, but none of these appealed to Mr. Reeder, and with his own hand he would write long and carefully punctuated letters explaining that he was not a private detective in the real sense of the word.
He was not surprised, therefore, when, some four days after his talk with Johnny Southers, he received a letter addressed from a Park Lane flat, requesting his services. He turned first to the signature and with some difficulty deciphered it as “Clive Desboyne.” For a moment the name, whilst it had a certain familiarity, was difficult to attach, and then he remembered the quarrel he had witnessed, and realized that this was the other party to that unhappy conflict.
The letter was typewritten and ran:
“Dear Sir, I happen to know your private address because Miss Welford pointed it out to me one evening when I was visiting her. I am in rather a delicate position, and I am wondering whether I could employ your services professionally to extricate myself? Since the matter affects Southers, whom I think you know (I have learned since that you were a witness of a certain disgraceful episode, for which I was probably more to blame than he), I thought you might be willing to receive me. I want you to undertake this task on a professional basis and charge me your usual fees. I shall be out of town until Friday night, but there is no immediate urgency. If I could call some time after ten on Friday I should be eternally grateful.
“Yours, etc.”
Mr. Reeder’s first inclination was to take out a sheet of paper and write a firm but polite refusal to see Mr. Desboyne, however stringent might be his predicament. He had written the first three words when one of those curious impulses which came to him at times, and which so often urged him to the right course, stayed his hand. Instead, he took a telegraph form and sent a laconic message agreeing to the young man’s suggestion.
The day of the appointment was a busy one for Mr. Reeder. Scotland Yard had made two important discoveries—a small garage in the north of London, which contained nearly 400 lbs. of saccharine, had been raided in the early hours of the morning, and this was followed up by a second raid in a West End mansion flat, where large quantities of heroin and cocaine were unearthed by the police.
“It looks as though we’ve found one of the principal distributing agents,” said Gaylor. “We’ve got the barge under observation, and we’re taking the chance of arresting Attymar as soon as he steps on board.”
“Where is it?”
“Off Greenwich,” said Gaylor.
Mr. Reeder dived down into his pocket and produced an envelope. The paper was grimy, the address was a scrawl. He took from this as dingy a letter and laid it on the table before Gaylor.
“Dear Sir, I can give you informacion. I will call at your howse on Sunnday morning. From a Frend.”
Gaylor inspected the envelope. The date-stamp was “Greenwich.”
“He had some doubt about sending it at all: the flap has been opened and closed again—I presume this is Ligsey; his real name is William Liggs. He’s had no convictions, but he hasn’t been above suspicion. You’ll see him?”
“If he comes,” said Mr. Reeder. “So many of these gentlemen who undertake to supply information think better of it at the last moment.”
“It may be too late,” said Gaylor.
It was at the end of a very heavy and tiring day that Mr. Reeder went back to his house, forgetting the appointment he had so rashly made. He had hardly got into the house before the bell rang, and it was then that he realized, with bitter regret, that he had robbed himself of an hour’s sleep which was badly needed.
Mr. Desboyne was in evening dress. He had driven down from his club, where he had bathed and changed after his long journey from the West of England, he explained.
“I feel very ashamed to bother you at this hour of the night, Mr. Reeder,” he said with an apologetic smile, “but I feel rather like the villain of the piece, and my vanity has made me put matters right.”
Mr. Reeder looked round helplessly for a chair, found one and pointed to it, and Desboyne drew it up to the table where the detective was sitting.
He was a man of thirty-three or thirty-five, good-looking, with a very pleasant, open face and a pair of grey eyes that twinkled good-humouredly.
“You saw the fight? … Gosh! that fellow could punch! I thoroughly deserved what I got, which certainly wasn’t very much. I was very rude to him. But then, like a fool, I went to the other extreme, and have got him a job in Singapore—of course he’ll take it—and I’m most anxious to get out of my offer.”
Mr. Reeder looked at him in astonishment, and the young man laughed ruefully.
“I suppose you think I’m a queer devil? Well, I am. I’m rather impetuous and I’ve got myself into a bit of a hole. And it’s a bigger hole than I knew, because I’m terribly fond of Anna Welford, and she’s terribly unfond of me! Southers is rather in the position of a successful rival, so that everything I say or do must be suspect. That’s the awful thing about it!”
“Why do you wish to cancel the appointment?” asked Mr. Reeder.
He could have added that, so far as he could recall, the appointment had already been cancelled.
Clive Desboyne hesitated.
“Well, it’s a difficult story to tell.”
He rose from his seat and paced up and down the room, his hands thrust into his pockets, a frown on his face.
“Do you remember the night of the fight? I don’t suppose that’s graven on your memory. It arose out of something I said to our friend as we left the City hall. Apparently—I only discovered this afterwards—there was a man out there waiting to see Southers, but in the excitement of our little fracas—which began in the City, by the way—Southers didn’t see the man, who either followed him to Lewisham or came on ahead of him. He must have been present in the street when the fight took place. When I got home that night the hall-porter asked me if I would see a very seedy-looking individual, and, as I wasn’t in the mood to see anybody, I refused. A few days later I was stopped in Piccadilly by a man who I thought was a beggar—a healthy-looking beggar, but most beggars are that way. He started by telling me he’d seen the fight, and said he could tell me something about Southers. I wasn’t feeling so very savage then as I had been, and I’d have hoofed him off, but he was so insistent, and in the end I told him to call at my flat. He came that night and told me the most extraordinary story. He said his name was”—Clive Desboyne frowned—“the name’s slipped me for the moment, but it will come back. He was a mate or assistant on a barge run by a man named Attymar——”
“Ligsey?” suggested Mr. Reeder, and the other nodded.
“That’s the name—Ligsey. I’m cutting the story short because it took a tremendous long time to tell, and I don’t want it to bore you as it bored me. They’ve been running some kind of contraband up the river on the barge, for apparently Attymar is a smuggler on a large scale. That was a yarn I didn’t believe at first, though, from the things he told me, it seemed very likely that he spoke the truth. Certain articles were smuggled up the river on the barge, and others were passed through the Customs by Southers.”
Mr. Reeder opened his mouth very wide.
“Now I’ll tell you the truth.” Clive Desboyne’s voice was very earnest. “I wanted to believe that story. In my heart of hearts I dislike John Southers—I’d be inhuman if I didn’t. At the same time I wanted to play the game. I told this fellow he was a liar, but he swore it was true. He thinks the police are going to arrest Attymar, and when they do, Attymar will spill the beans, to use his own expression. In the meantime I have recommended Southers to a very important and responsible job in Singapore, and naturally, if this story comes out, I’m going to look pretty foolish. I don’t mind that,” he added quietly, “but I do mind Anna Welford marrying this man.”
Mr. Reeder plucked at his lower lip.
“Do you know Attymar?”
The young man shook his head.
“I can’t even say that I know Ligsey, but if he keeps his promise I shall know Attymar to-morrow morning.”
“What was his promise?” asked Mr. Reeder.
“He says Attymar has documentary proof—he didn’t use that expression but that is what he meant—and that he was going to Attymar’s house to-night to get it.”
Again Mr. Reeder thought, staring into vacancy.
“When did you see him last?”
“The morning I wrote to you, or rather the morning you received the letter.” He made a little gesture of despair. “Whatever happens, Anna’s going to think I’m the biggest cad——”
The telephone bell rang sharply. Mr. Reeder, with a murmured apology, took up the receiver and listened with a face that did not move. He only asked “What time?” and, after a long pause, said “Yes.” As he was hanging up the receiver, Desboyne went on:
“What I should like to do is to see Attymar——”
Mr. Reeder shook his head.
“I’m afraid you won’t see Attymar. He was murdered between nine and ten to-night.”
CHAPTER IV
It was half past twelve when Mr. Reeder’s taxi brought him into Shadwick Lane, which was alive with people. A police cordon was drawn across the gate, but Gaylor, who was waiting for him, conducted him into the yard.
“We’re dragging the river for the body,” he explained.
“Where was it committed?” asked Mr. Reeder.
“Come inside,” said the other grimly, “and then you will ask no questions.”
It was not a pleasant sight that met Mr. Reeder’s eyes, though he was a man not easily sickened. The little sitting-room was a confusion of smashed furniture, the walls splashed with red. A corner table, however, had been left untouched. Here were two glasses of whisky, one full, the other half-empty. A half-smoked cigar was carefully laid on a piece of paper by the side of these.
“The murder was committed here and the body was dragged to the edge of the wharf and thrown into the water,” said Gaylor. “There’s plenty of evidence of that.
“We’ve taken possession of a lot of papers, and we found a letter on the mantelpiece from a man named Southers—John Southers. No address, but evidently from the handwriting a person of some education. At nine twenty-five to-night Attymar had a visitor, a young man who was admitted through the wicket gate, and who was seen to leave at twenty-five minutes to ten, about ten minutes after he arrived.”
Gaylor opened an attaché case and took out a battered, cheap silver watch, which had evidently been under somebody’s heel. The glass was smashed, the case was bent out of shape. The hands stood at nine-thirty.
“One of the people here recognized this as Ligsey’s—a woman who lives in the street who had pawned it for him on one occasion. It’s important, because it probably gives us the hour of the murder, if you allow the watch to be a little fast or slow. It’s hardly likely to be accurate. We have sent a description round of Southers, though it isn’t a very good one, but it will probably be sufficient. I’m having a facsimile of the writing——”
“I can save you the trouble; here is the young man’s address.”
Mr. Reeder took a notebook from his pocket, scribbled a few lines and handed it to the detective. He looked glumly at the bloodstained room and the evidence of tragedy, followed the detective in silence, whilst Gaylor, with the aid of a powerful light, showed the telltale stains leading from the wharf, and…
“Very interesting,” said Mr. Reeder. “When you recover the bodies I should like to see them.”
He stared out over the river, which was covered by a faint mist—not sufficient to impede navigation, but enough to shroud and make indistinct objects thirty or forty yards away.
“The barge is at Greenwich, I think,” he said, after a long silence. “Could I borrow a police launch?”
One of the launches was brought in to the crazy wharf and Mr. Reeder lowered himself gingerly, never losing grip of the umbrella which no man had seen unfurled. It was a chilly night, an easterly wind blowing up the river, but he sat in the bow of the launch motionless, sphinx-like, staring ahead as the boat streaked eastwards towards Greenwich.
It drew up by the side of the barge, which was moored close to the Surrey shore, and a quavering voice hailed them.
“That you, Ligsey?”
Mr. Reeder pulled himself on board before he replied.
“No, my boy,” he said gently, “it is not Ligsey. Were you expecting him?”
The youth held up his lantern, surveyed Mr. Reeder and visibly quailed.
“You’re a copper, ain’t yer?” he asked tremulously. “Have you pinched Ligsey?”
“I have not pinched Ligsey,” said Mr. Reeder, patting the boy gently on the back. “How long has he been gone?”
“He went about eight, soon after it was dark; the guv’nor come down for him.”
“The guv’nor come down for him,” repeated Mr. Reeder in a murmur. “Did you see the governor?”
“No, sir; he shouted for me to go below. Ligsey always makes me go below when him and the guv’nor have a talk.”
Mr. Reeder drew from his pocket a yellow carton of cigarettes and lit one before he pursued his inquiries.
“Then what happened?”
“Ligsey come down and packed his ditty box, and told me I was to hang on all night, but that I could go to sleep. I was frightened about being left alone on the barge——”
Mr. Reeder was already making his way down the companion to Ligsey’s quarters. Evidently all the man’s kit had been removed; even the sheets on his bed must have been folded and taken away, for the bunk was tumbled.
On a little swing table, which was a four-foot plank suspended from the deck above, was a letter. It was not fastened, and Mr. Reeder made no scruple in opening and reading its contents. It was in the handprint which, he had been informed, was the only kind of writing Attymar knew.
“Dear Mr. Southers, If you come aboard the stuff is in the engine-room. I have got to be very careful because the police are watching.”
When he questioned the boy, whose name was Hobbs, he learned that Ligsey had come down and left the letter. Mr. Reeder went aft and found the hatchway over the little engine-room unfastened, and descended into the strong-smelling depths where the engine was housed. It was here evidently that Attymar remained during his short voyages. There was a signal bell above his head, and a comfortable armchair had been fixed within reach of the levers.
His search here was a short one. Inside an open locker he found a small, square package, wrapped in oiled paper, and a glance at the label told him its contents, even though he did not read Dutch.
Returning to the boy, he questioned him closely. It was no unusual thing for Attymar to pick up his mate from the barge. The boy had once seen the launch, and described it as a very small tender. He knew nothing of Mr. Southers, had never seen him on board the ship, though occasionally people did come, on which occasions he was sent below.
At his request, Mr. Reeder was put ashore at Greenwich and got on the telephone to Gaylor. It was now two o’clock in the morning, and much had happened.
“We arrested that man Southers; found his trousers covered with blood. He admits he was at Attymar’s house to-night, and tells a cock-and-bull story of what he did subsequently. He didn’t get home till nearly twelve.”
“Extraordinary,” said Mr. Reeder, and the mildness of the comment evidently irritated Inspector Gaylor.
“That’s one way of putting it, but I think we’ve made a pretty good capture,” he said. “We’ve got enough evidence to hang him. Attymar’s left all sorts of notes on his invoices.”
“Amazing,” said Mr. Reeder, and gathered from the abruptness with which he was cut off that, for some mysterious reason, he had annoyed the man at Scotland Yard.
He sent back a short report with the documents and the drugs to Scotland Yard, and drove home by taxi. It was three o’clock by the time he reached Brockley Road, and he was not surprised to find his housekeeper up and to hear that Anna Welford was waiting for him.
She was very white and her manner was calm.
“You’ve heard about Johnny being arrested——” she began.
Mr. Reeder nodded.
“Yes, I gave them the necessary information as to where he was to be found,” he said, and he saw the colour come and go in her face.
“I—I suppose you—you had to do your duty?” she said haltingly. “But you know it’s not true, Mr. Reeder. You know Johnny… he couldn’t…” Her voice choked.
Mr. Reeder shook his head.
“I don’t know Johnny really,” he said apologetically. “He is—um—the merest acquaintance, Miss Welford. I am not saying that in disparagement of him, because obviously quite a number of people who aren’t my friends are respectable citizens. Did you see him before he was arrested?”
She nodded.
“Immediately before?”
“Half-an-hour before. He was terribly disappointed; he had gone to see about this partnership but he had a feeling that he’d been tricked, for nothing came of it. He had arranged to see me, and I waited up for him… he was crossing the road to his own house when he was arrested.”
“Did he wear a blue suit or a grey suit?”
“A blue suit,” she said quickly.
Mr. Reeder looked at the ceiling.
“Of course he wore a blue suit; otherwise—um…” He scratched his chin irritably. “It was a cold night, too. I can’t understand until I have seen his—um—trousers.”
She looked at him in bewilderment, a little fearfully. And then suddenly Mr. Reeder gave one of his rare smiles and dropped a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“I shouldn’t be too worried if I were you,” he said, with a kindly look in his eyes. “You’ve got quite a number of good friends, and you will find Mr. Desboyne will do a lot to help your Johnny.”
She shook her head.
“Clive doesn’t like Johnny,” she said.
“That I can well believe,” said Mr. Reeder good-humouredly. “Nevertheless, unless I’m a bad prophet, you will find Mr. Desboyne the one person who can clear up this—um—unpleasantness.”
“But who was the man who was killed? It’s all so terribly unreal to me. Attymar was his name, wasn’t it? Johnny didn’t know anybody named Attymar. At least, he didn’t tell me so. I’m absolutely stunned by this news, Mr. Reeder. I can’t realize its gravity. It seems just a stupid joke that somebody’s played on us. Johnny couldn’t do harm to any man.”
“I’m sure he couldn’t,” said Mr. Reeder soothingly, but that meant nothing.
CHAPTER V
Mr. Reeder’s housekeeper had, since his arrival, behaved with a certain secretiveness which could only mean that she had something important to communicate. It was after he had seen the girl to her house that he learned what the mystery was all about.
“The young gentleman who came to see you last night,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve put him in the waiting-room.”
“Mr. Desboyne?”
“That’s the name,” she nodded. “He said he wouldn’t go until he’d seen you.”
In a few seconds Clive Desboyne was shown in.
“I’ve only just heard about Southers’ arrest—it’s monstrous! And I was being so beastly about him to-night. Mr. Reeder, I’ll spend all the money you want to get this young man out of his trouble. My God, it’s awful for Anna!”
Mr. Reeder pulled at his long nose and said he thought it was rather unpleasant.
“And,” he added, “for everybody.”
“They say this man Ligsey is also dead. If I’d had any sense I’d have brought over the note I had of our conversation.”
“I could call up for it in the morning,” said Mr. Reeder, and his voice was surprisingly brisk.
Mr. Desboyne gazed at him in startled astonishment. It was as though this weary man with the drooping lips and tired eyes had suddenly received a great mental tonic.
“You made notes? Not one man in ten would have thought of that,” said Mr. Reeder. “I thought I was the only person who did it.”
Clive Desboyne laughed.
“I’ve given you the impression that I’m terribly methodical,” he said, “and that isn’t quite exact.”
He looked at the watch on his wrist.
“It’s too late to ask you to breakfast.”
“Breakfast is my favourite meal,” said Mr. Reeder gaily.
Late as was the hour, he was standing before the polished mahogany door of 974, Memorial Mansions, Park Lane, at nine o’clock next morning. Mr. Desboyne was not so early a riser, and indeed had doubted whether the detective would keep his promise. Mr. Reeder was left standing in the hall whilst the servant went to inquire exactly how this strangely appearing gentleman should be disposed of.
There was plenty to occupy Mr. Reeder’s attention during her absence, for the wide hall was hung with photographs which gave some indication of Desboyne’s wide sporting and theatrical interests. There was one interesting photograph, evidently an enlargement of a snapshot, showing the House of Commons in the background, which held Mr. Reeder’s attention, the more so as the photograph also showed the corner of Westminster Bridge across which motor-buses were moving. He was looking at this when Clive Desboyne joined him.
“Here is a piece of detective work,” said Mr. Reeder triumphantly, pointing to the photograph. “I can tell you almost the week that picture was taken. Do you see those two omnibuses bearing the names of two plays? I happen to know there was only one week in the year when they were both running together.”
“Indeed,” said Desboyne, apparently not as impressed by this piece of deduction as Mr. Reeder had expected.
He led the way to the dining-room, and Reeder found by the side of his plate three foolscap sheets covered with writing.
“I don’t know whether you’ll be able to read it,” said Desboyne, “but you’ll notice there one or two things that I forgot to tell you at our interview. I think on the whole they favour Southers, and I’m glad I made a note of them. For example, he said he had never seen Southers and only knew him by name. That in itself is rather curious.”
“Very,” said Mr. Reeder. “Regarding that photograph in the hall—it must have been in May last year. I remember some years ago, by a lucky chance, I was able to establish the date on which a cheque was passed, as distinct from the date on which it was drawn, by the fact that the drawer had forgotten to sign one of his initials.”
It was surprising how much Mr. Reeder, who was not as a rule a loquacious man, talked in the course of that meal. Mostly he talked about nothing. When Clive Desboyne led him to the murder Mr. Reeder skilfully edged away to less unpleasant topics.
“It doesn’t interest me very much, I confess,” he said. “I am not a member of the—um—Criminal Investigation Department; I was merely called in to deal with this man’s smuggling—and he seems to have smuggled pretty extensively. It is distressing that young Southers is implicated. He seems a nice lad, and has rather a sane view of the care of chickens. For example, he was telling me that he had an incubator…”
At the end of the meal he asked permission to take away the notes for study, and this favour was granted.
He was at the house in Shadwick Lane half an hour later. Gaylor, who had arranged to meet him there, had not arrived, and Mr. Reeder had two men who had had semi-permanent jobs on the wharf. It was the duty of one to open and close the gates and pilot the lorries to their positions. He had also, as had his companion, to assist at the loading.
They had not seen much of Attymar all the years they had been there. He usually came in on one of the night or early morning tides. Ligsey paid them their wages.
“There was never any change,” said one mournfully. “We ain’t had the gates painted since I’ve bin here—we’ve had the same little anvil to keep the gate open——”
He looked round first one side and then the other. The same little anvil was not there.
“Funny,” he said.
Mr. Reeder agreed. Who would steal a rusty little anvil? He saw the place where it had lain; the impression of it still stood in the dusty earth.
Later came Gaylor, in a hurry to show him over the other rooms of the house. There was a kitchen, a rather spacious cellar, which was closed by a heavy door, and one bedroom that had been divided into two unequal parts by a wooden partition. The bedroom was simply but cleanly furnished. There was a bed and bedstead, a dressing-table with a large mirror, and a chest of drawers, which was empty. Indeed, there was no article of Attymar’s visible, except an old razor, a stubbly shaving brush and six worn shirts that had been washed until they were threadbare. From the centre of the ceiling hung an electric light with an opalescent shade; another light hung over a small oak desk, in which, Gaylor informed him, most of the documents in the case had been found. But Mr. Reeder’s chief interest was in the mirror, and in the greasy smear which ran from the top left hand corner almost along the top of the mirror. The glass itself was supported by two little mahogany pillars, and to the top of each of these was attached a piece of string.
“Most amusing,” said Mr. Reeder, speaking his thoughts aloud.
“Remind me to laugh,” said Mr. Gaylor heavily. “What is amusing?”
For answer Mr. Reeder put up his hand and ran the tip of his finger along the smear. Then he began to prowl around the apartment obviously looking for something, and as obviously disappointed that it could not be found.
“No, nothing has been taken out of here,” said Gaylor in answer to his question, “except the papers. Here’s something that may amuse you more.”
He opened a door leading to the bedroom. Here was a cupboard—it was little bigger. The walls and floor were covered with white tiles, as also was the back of the door. From the ceiling projected a large nozzle, and in one of the walls were two taps.
“How’s that for luxury? Shower bath—hot and cold water. Doesn’t that make you laugh?”
“Nothing makes me laugh except the detectives in pictures,” said Mr. Reeder calmly. “Do you ever go to the pictures, Gaylor?”
The inspector admitted that occasionally he did.
“I like to see detectives in comic films, because they always carry large magnifying glasses. Do they make you laugh?”
“They do,” admitted Mr. Gaylor, with a contemptuous and reminiscent smile.
“Then get ready to howl,” said Mr. Reeder, and from his pocket took the largest reading glass that Gaylor had ever seen.
Under the astonished eyes of the detective Reeder went down on his knees in the approved fashion, and began carefully to scrutinize the floor. Inch by inch he covered, stopping now and again to pick up something invisible to the Scotland Yard man, and placed it in an envelope which he had also taken from his pocket.
“Cigar-ash?” asked Gaylor sardonically.
“Almost,” said Mr. Reeder.
He went on with his search, then suddenly he sat back on his heels, his eyes ablaze, and held up a tiny piece of silver paper, less than a quarter of an inch square. Gaylor looked down more closely.
“Oh, it is a cigarette you’re looking for?”
But Mr. Reeder was oblivious to all sarcasm. Inside the silver was a scrap of transparent paper, so thin that it seemed part of the tinsel. Very carefully, however, he separated the one from the other, touched its surface and examined his finger-tips.