“Where’s the fireplace?” he asked suddenly.
“There’s a fireplace in the kitchen—that’s the only one.”
Mr. Reeder hurried downstairs and examined this small apartment. There were ashes in the grate, but it was impossible to tell what had been burnt.
“I should like to say,” said Gaylor, “that your efforts are wasted, for we’ve got enough in the diary to hang Southers twice over. Only I suspect you when you do things unnecessarily.”
“The diary?” Mr. Reeder looked up.
“Yes, Attymar’s.”
“So he kept a diary, did he?” Mr. Reeder was quite amused. “I should have thought he would, if I had thought about it at all.”
Then he frowned.
“Not an ordinary diary, of course? Just an exercise book. It begins—let me see—shall we say two weeks ago, or three weeks?”
Gaylor gazed at him in amazement.
“Mason told you?”
“No, he didn’t tell me anything, partly because he hasn’t spoken to me. But, of course, it would be in a sort of exercise book. An ordinary printed diary that began on the first of January would be unthinkable. This case is getting so fascinating that I can hardly stop laughing!”
He was not laughing; he was very serious indeed, as he stood in the untidy yard before the little house and threw his keen glance across its littered surface.
“There is no sign of the tender that brought Ligsey here? The little boy on the barge was much more informative than he imagined! I’ll tell you what to look for, shall I? A black, canoe-shaped motor-boat which might hold three people at a pinch. Remember that—a canoe-shaped boat, say ten feet long.”
“Where shall I find it?” asked the fascinated Gaylor.
“At the bottom of the river,” said Mr. Reeder calmly, “and in or near it you will find a little anvil which used to keep the gate open!”
Mr. Reeder had a very large acquaintance with criminals, larger perhaps than the average police officer, whose opportunities are circumscribed by the area to which he is attached; and he knew that the business of detection would be at a standstill if there were such a thing in the world as a really clever criminal. By the just workings of providence, men who gain their living by the evasion of the law are deprived of the eighth sense which, properly functioning, would keep them out of the hands of the police.
He made yet another survey of the house before he left, pointed out to Gaylor something which that officer had already noticed, namely, the bloodstains on the floor and the wall of a small lobby which connected the main living room with the yard.
“Naturally I saw it,” said Gaylor, who was inclined to be a little complacent. “My theory is that the fight started in the sitting-room; they struggled out into the passage——”
“That would be impossible,” murmured Mr. Reeder.
CHAPTER VI
John Southers made a brief appearance at the Tower of London Police Court—a dazed, bewildered young man, so overwhelmed by his position that he could do no more than answer the questions put to him by the magistrate’s clerk.
Gaylor had seen him earlier in the morning.
“He said nothing except that he went to Attymar’s house—oh, yes, he admits that—by appointment. He says Attymar kept him waiting for some time before he opened the door, and then only allowed him to come into the lobby. He tells some rambling story about Attymar sending him to meet a man at Highgate. In fact, it’s the usual Man story.”
Mr. Reeder nodded. He was not unacquainted with that mysterious man who figures in the narratives of all arrested persons. Sometimes it was a man who gave the prisoner the stolen goods in the possession of which he had been found; sometimes it was the man who asked another to cash a forged cheque; but always it was a vague Somebody who could never be traced. Half the work of investigation which occupied the attention of the detective force consisted of a patient search for men who had no existence except in the imaginations of prisoners under remand.
“Did he see him?” asked Mr. Reeder.
Gaylor laughed.
“My dear chap, what a question!”
Mr. Reeder fondled his bony chin.
“Is it possible to—um—have a little chat with our friend Southers?”
Gaylor was dubious, and had reason for his doubt. Chief Constable Mason and the high men at Headquarters were at the moment writhing under a periodical wave of criticism which sweeps across Scotland Yard at regular intervals; and their latest delinquency was the cross-examination of a man under suspicion of a serious crime. There had been questions in Parliament, almost a Royal Commission.
“I doubt it,” said Gaylor. “The Chief is feeling rather sick about this Hanny business, and as the kick has come down from your department it isn’t likely that they’ll make an exception. I’ll ask Mason and let you know.”
Mr. Reeder was home that afternoon when Anna Welford called. She was most amazingly calm. Mr. Reeder, who had shown some hesitation about receiving her, was visibly relieved.
“Have you seen Johnny?” was the first question she asked.
Mr. Reeder shook his head, and explained to her that in the strictest sense he was not in the case, and that the police were very jealous of interference.
“Clive has been to see me,” she said when he had finished, “and he has told me everything—he is terribly upset.”
“Told you everything?” repeated Mr. Reeder.
She nodded.
“About Ligsey, and the story that Clive told you. I understood—in a way. He is doing everything he can for Johnny; he has engaged a lawyer and briefed counsel.”
For the second time Mr. Reeder motioned her to a chair, and, when she was seated, continued his own restless pacing.
“If there was any truth in that story, your Johnny should be rather well off,” he said. “The wages of sin are rather—um—high. Yet his father told me this morning—I had a brief interview with him—that young Mr. Southers’ bank balance is not an excessive one.”
He saw her lower her eyes and heard the quick little sigh.
“They’ve found the money—I thought you knew that,” she said in a low voice.
Mr. Reeder halted in his stride and peered down at her.
“They’ve found the money?”
She nodded.
“The police came and made a search about an hour ago, and they found a box in the tool-shed, with hundreds of pounds in it, all in notes.”
Mr. Reeder did not often whistle; he whistled now.
“Does Mr. Desboyne know this?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Clive doesn’t know. It happened after he had left. He’s been terribly nice—he’s made one confession that isn’t very flattering to me.”
Reeder’s eyes twinkled.
“That he is—um—engaged to somebody else?” he suggested, and she stared at him in amazement.
“Do you know?”
“One has heard of such things,” said Mr. Reeder gravely.
“I was very glad,” she went on. “It removed the”—she hesitated—“personal bias. He really is sorry for all he has said and done. Johnny’s trouble has shaken him terribly. Clive thinks that the murder was committed by this man Ligsey.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Reeder. “That is interesting.”
He stared down at her, pursing his lips thoughtfully.
“The—um—police rather fancy that Mr. Ligsey is dead,” he said, and there was a note of irritation in his voice as though he resented the police holding any theory at all. “Quite dead—um—murdered, in fact.”
There was a long pause here. He knew instinctively that she had come to make some request, but it was not until she rose to go that she spoke her thoughts.
“Clive wished to see you himself to make a proposition. He said that he did not think you were engaged on the—official side of the case, and he’s got a tremendous opinion of your cleverness, Mr. Reeder, and so of course have I. Is it humanly possible for you to take up this case… on Johnny’s side, I mean? Perhaps I’m being silly, but just now I’m clutching at straws.”
Mr. Reeder was looking out of the window, his head moving slowly from side to side.
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “I really am afraid not! The people on your—um—friend’s side are the police. If he is innocent, I am naturally on his side, with them. Don’t you see, young lady, that when we prove a man’s guilt we also prove everybody else’s innocence?”
It was a long speech for Mr. Reeder, and he had not quite finished. He stood with his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes half closed, his body swaying to and fro.
“Let me see now… if Ligsey were alive? … A very dense and stupid young man, quite incapable, I should have thought, of—um—so many things that have happened during the last twenty-four hours.”
After Anna had left, he went to Southers’ house and interviewed Johnny’s father. The old man was bearing his sorrow remarkably well. Indeed, his principal emotion was a loud fury against the people who dared accuse his son.
He led the way to the tool-shed in the yard and showed the detective just where the box had been hidden.
“Personally, I never go into the shed. It’s Johnny’s little cubby hutch,” he said. “The lad is fond of gardening, and, like you, Mr. Reeder, has a fancy for poultry.”
“Is the shed kept locked?”
“No, I’ve never seen it locked,” said old Southers.
The place from which the box had been extracted was at the far end of the shed. It had been concealed behind a bag of chicken-seed.
Mr. Reeder took a brief survey of the garden: it was an oblong strip of ground, measuring about a hundred yards by twenty. At the further end of the garden was a wall which marked the boundary of the garden which backed on to it. The garden could be approached either from the door leading to a small glass conservatory, or along a narrow gravel strip which ran down one side of the house. Ingress, however, was barred by a small door stretched across the narrow path.
“But it’s seldom locked,” said Southers. “We leave it open for the milkman; he goes round to the kitchen that way in the morning.”
Mr. Reeder went back to the garden and walked slowly along the gravel path which ran between two large flower-beds. At the farther end was a wired-in chicken run. Mr. Reeder surveyed the flower-beds meditatively.
“Nobody has dug up the garden?” he asked, and, when the other replied in the negative: “Then I should do a bit of digging myself if I were you, Mr. Southers,” he said gently; “and whether you tell the police what you find, or do not tell the police, is entirely a matter for your own conscience.”
He looked up at the sky for a long time as though he were expecting to see an aeroplane, and then:
“If it is consistent with your—um—conscience to say nothing about your discovery, and if you removed it or them to a safe place where it or they would not be found, it might be to the advantage of your son in the not too distant future.”
Mr. Southers was a little agitated, more than a little bewildered, when Mr. Reeder took his leave. He was to learn that the ban on his activities in regard to the Attymar murder had been strengthened rather than relaxed, and he experienced a gentle but malignant pleasure in the thought that in one respect he had made their task a little more difficult.
It was Gaylor who brought the news.
“I spoke to the chief about your seeing Southers in Brixton, but he thought it was best if you kept out of the case until the witnesses are tested.”
Mr. Reeder’s duties in the Public Prosecutor’s Department were to examine witnesses prior to their appearance in court, to test the strength or the weakness of their testimony, and he had been employed in this capacity before his official connection with the department was made definite.
“At the same time,” Gaylor went on, “if you can pick up anything we’ll be glad to have it.”
“Naturally,” murmured Mr. Reeder.
“I mean, you may by accident hear things—you know these people: they live in the same street: and I think you know the young lady Southers is engaged to?”
Mr. Reeder inclined his head.
“There’s another thing, Mr. Reeder.” Gaylor evidently felt he was treading on delicate ground, having summarily declined and rejected the assistance of his companion. “If you should hear from Ligsey——”
“A voice from the grave,” interrupted Mr. Reeder.
“Well, there is a rumour about that he’s not dead. In fact, the boy on the barge, Hobbs, says that Ligsey came alongside last night in a skiff and told him to keep his mouth shut about what he’d seen and heard. My own opinion is that the boy was dreaming, but one of Ligsey’s pals said he’d also seen him or heard him—I don’t know which. That’s a line of investigation you might take on for your own amusement——”
“Investigation doesn’t amuse me,” said Mr. Reeder calmly; “it bores me. It wearies me. It brings me in a certain—um—income, but it doesn’t amuse me.”
“Well,” said the detective awkwardly, “if it interests you, that’s a line you might take up.”
“I shall not dream of taking up any line at all. It means work, and I do not like work.”
Here, however, he was permitting himself to romance.
That afternoon he spent in the neighbourhood which Ligsey knew best. He talked with carmen and van boys, little old women who kept tiny and unremunerative shops, and the consequence of all his oblique questionings was that he made a call in Little Calais Street, where lived an unprepossessing young lady who had gained certain social recognition—her portrait would appear in the next morning’s newspapers—because she had been engaged to the missing man. She had, in fact, walked out with him, amongst others, for the greater part of a year.
Miss Rosie Loop did not suggest romance; she was short, rather stout, had bad teeth and a red face; but for the moment she was important, and might not have seen Mr. Reeder but for the mistaken idea she had that he was associated with the press.
“Who shall I say it is?” asked her blowsy mother, who answered the door.
“The editor of The Times,” said Mr. Reeder without hesitation.
In the stuffy little kitchen where the bereaved fiancée was eating bread and jam, Mr. Reeder was given a clean Windsor chair, and sat down to hear the exciting happening of the previous night.
“I haven’t told the press yet,” said Rosie, who had a surprisingly shrill voice for one so equipped by nature for the deeper tones. “He come last night. I sleep upstairs with mother, and whenever he used to anchor off the crik he used to come ashore, no matter what time it was, and throw up a couple of stones to let me know he was here. About ’arf past two it was last night, and lord! it gave me a start.”
“He threw up the stones to let you know he was there?” suggested Mr. Reeder.
She nodded violently.
“And was it Mr. Ligsey?”
“It was him!” she said dramatically. “I wouldn’t go to the window for a long time, but mother said ‘Don’t be such a fool, a ghost carn’t hurt yer,’ and then I pulled up the sash and there he was in his old oilskin coat. I asked him where he’d bin, but he was in a ’urry. Told me not to get worried about him as he was all right.”
“How did he look?” asked Mr. Reeder.
She rolled her head impatiently.
“Didn’t I tell yer it was the middle of the night? But that’s what he said—‘Don’t get worried about anything’—and then he popped off.”
“And you popped in?” said Mr. Reeder pleasantly. “He didn’t have a cold or anything, did he?”
Her mouth opened.
“You’ve seen him? Where is he?”
“I haven’t seen him, but he had a cold?”
“Yes, he had,” she admitted, “and so would you ’ave if you ’ad to go up and down that river all day and night. It’s a horrible life. I hope he’s going to give it up. He’s bound to get some money if he comes forward and tells the police the truth. It was very funny, me thinkin’ he was dead. We’d bin to buy our black—hadn’t we, mother?”
Mother offered a hoarse confirmation.
“And all the papers sayin’ he was dead, an’ dragging the river for him, an’ that Captain Attymar. He used to treat Ligsey like a dog.”
“He hasn’t written to you?”
She shook her head.
“He was never a one for writing.”
“What time was this?”
She could tell him exactly, because she had heard Greenwich Church striking the half-hour.
Mr. Reeder might be bored with investigation, but he found some satisfaction in boredom.
The Allanuna still lay off Greenwich, and he hired a boat to take him to the barge. The disconsolate Master Hobbs was still on board, and even the fact that he was now commander did not compensate him for his loneliness, though apparently the police had supplied him with food and had arranged to relieve him that evening.
He was very emphatic about the visitation of Ligsey. He had rowed alongside and whistled to the boy—the whistle had wakened him. From under the companion steps he had looked over and seen him sitting in the boat, a big white bandage round his head. Miss Rosie had said nothing about the white bandage, but, calling on his way home, Reeder had confirmation.
“Yes, I forgot to tell you about that,” said Rosie. “I see it under ’is ’at. I said ‘What’s that white round your head?’ Fancy me forgettin’ to tell you that!”
As a matter of form, Mr. Reeder, when he got home that night, jotted down certain sequences.
At some time after eight on the night of the murder, Attymar had come in a launch, had collected Ligsey and taken him towards London. At nine-thirty Johnny Southers had called at Attymar’s house, and, according to his story, had been sent on a fool’s errand to Highgate. At some time about eleven o’clock the murder had been discovered——
Mr. Reeder put down his pen and frowned.
“I am getting old and stupid,” he said, reached for the telephone and called a number to which he knew Gaylor would certainly be attached at that hour.
It was Gaylor’s clerk who answered him, and, after about four minutes’ wait, Gaylor himself spoke.
“Have you found anything, Mr. Reeder?”
“I find I am suffering from a slight softening of the brain,” said Mr. Reeder pleasantly. “Do you realize I never asked how the murder was discovered?”
He heard Gaylor laugh.
“Didn’t I tell you? It was very simple. A policeman on his beat found the wicket door open, saw the lantern on the ground and the other lantern burning in the lobby of the house—what’s the matter?”
Mr. Reeder was laughing.
“Pardon me,” he said at last. “Are you sure there wasn’t an alarm bell ringing?”
“I didn’t hear of any alarm bell—in fact, I don’t know that there is one.”
Mr. Reeder exchanged a few commonplaces, denied that he was making any enquiries about Ligsey, and, hanging up the receiver, sat back in his chair, his hands clasped about his middle and real amusement in his eyes.
Later he had a call from the solicitor engaged to defend young Southers. He also suggested that Mr. Reeder should place his services at the call of the defence; but again he refused.
Opening the telephone directory, he found the number of Mr. Clive Desboyne, and it was that gentleman who answered his call.
“That’s queer, I was just going to ring you up,” said Desboyne. “Have you taken up the case?”
“I am wavering,” replied Reeder. “Before I reach a decision I’d like to have another talk with you. Could I call at your flat to-night about—nine?”
There was a little pause.
“Certainly. I was going out, but I’ll wait in for you.”
At the conclusion of this call Mr. Reeder again leaned back in his chair, but this time he was not smiling; he was rather puzzled. Perhaps he was thinking of Ligsey; possibly he was impressed by the generosity of this man who was ready to spend a considerable part of his fortune to prove the innocence of a man he disliked.
Whatever trains of thought started and slowed, switched into side-tracks or ran off into tributary lines, they all arrived at one mysterious destination.…
“It will be spring-cleaning,” said Mr. Reeder, as he got up from his chair.
CHAPTER VII
Reeder spent the rest of the afternoon in the West End of London, calling upon a succession of theatrical agents. Some were very important personages who received him in walnut-panelled salons; a few were in dingy offices on third floors; one, and the most important of these, he interviewed in the bar of a public-house in St. Martin’s Lane—a fat and seedy man, with a fur collar and frayed cuffs, a half-stupid tippler with no business but many reminiscences; and, as he proudly claimed, “the best collection of old theatrical programmes in London.”
Mr. Reeder, who was a good listener and very patient, heard all about the agent’s former grandeur, the amount of commission out of which eminent artistes had swindled him, and at last he accompanied his bibulous companion to his lodgings off the Waterloo Road, and from seven till eight was engrossed in masses of dog-eared literature.
Mr. Reeder had a meal in a Strand restaurant and drove to Park Lane. As the lift carried him to the floor on which Desboyne’s flat was situated——
“I’m sure it’s spring cleaning,” murmured Mr. Reeder to himself.
He rang the bell of the flat and waited. Presently he heard the sound of footsteps echoing hollowly in the hall. Clive Desboyne opened the door with an apologetic smile.
“I hope you don’t mind the place being in confusion?” he said. “We’ve started our spring cleaning. The truth is, I’d arranged to go away to-day if this wretched business hadn’t turned up.”
The carpet had been taken up from the floor of the hall, the walls had been stripped, and the crystal pendant which lit the hall showed through a gauze covering. Clive Desboyne’s own study had, however, been left untouched by the decorators.
“I’m going to clear out to an hotel to-morrow. It’ll probably be the Ritz-Carlton, but if you want me urgently my solicitors will be able to put us in touch. Now, Mr. Reeder, you’re going to do this for Anna and me?”
Mr. Reeder shook his head feebly.
“You’ve got to do it,” insisted the other energetically. “You’re the only detective in London in whom I’ve any confidence. I know you’re attached to the Public Prosecutor’s Department, but I’ve been making a few inquiries too,” he said with a little smile, “and I hear that you take outside commissions.”
“Banks,” said Mr. Reeder reverently. “Banks—not private work.”
“I shall insist!” Clive was very earnest. “I’ve told Anna everything—about my beastliness in regard to young Southers. Honestly, I still think that Ligsey’s story was true and that Southers was making something on the side. A lot of decent fellows, otherwise perfectly honest, do that sort of thing, and I’m not condemning him. In fact, when I expressed my—what’s the word for being shocked?”
“Horror, amazement?” suggested Mr. Reeder.
“Well, whatever it was—I was being a hypocrite. I myself have not always been rich. I’ve known what it is to be devilishly poor. If I hadn’t made good speculations when I was quite a kid, I should probably be worse off than Southers.”
“You’re rather fond of the young lady?” said Mr. Reeder after an interregnum of silence.
Again Desboyne laughed.
“Of course I am! The fact that a man is engaged to another girl—and the sweetest girl in the world—doesn’t prevent him philandering. Of course, it’s a caddish thing to do, and it’s got me into quite a lot of trouble, but the fact remains, I am terribly fond of Anna. I won’t say I love her like a brother, because I’m tired of being a hypocrite. I’m going to try to get Southers out of the mess he’s in; and that doesn’t mean I love him like a brother, either! Now, Mr. Reeder, what do you want to see me about, if it isn’t to tell me that you’re taking up this case?”
All that Mr. Reeder wanted to see Clive Desboyne about was spring cleaning, but he could not say this. He had, however, a good excuse for calling: Ligsey was apparently alive, he explained. Clive Desboyne was not impressed.
“I didn’t worry whether he was alive or dead,” he said frankly. “Naturally, I do not know what theory the police have, but I understood from the newspapers that they were concentrating on the murder of Attymar—that is the charge against John Southers. If Ligsey is alive I’m hardly likely to meet him, unless, of course, he feels, as so many of these crooks do, that once one has given them money they’re entitled to a pension! If I hear from him I’ll let you know.”
As they came out into the hall Mr. Reeder’s eyes wandered up and down the bare walls.
“You will have this repainted, Mr. Desboyne?” he asked. “At present it is rather a delicate cream. If I were you I should have it painted green. Green is a very restful colour, but possibly my views are—um—suburban.”
“I think they are,” said the other good-humouredly.
Reeder had made an appointment to see the bibulous agent at ten o’clock. The agent knew where certain photographs were to be obtained, and had promised to be waiting at the corner of St. Martin’s Lane at that hour. Mr. Reeder arrived as St. Martin’s Church clock was striking, but there was no sign of Billy Gurther. He had not appeared at half past ten, and Mr. Reeder decided to go to his house, for he was very anxious to complete his dossier.
The landlady at Mr. Gurther’s lodgings had a surprising and disconcerting story to tell. Mr. Reeder had hardly left (she had witnessed his departure) before a messenger came, and Billy had gone out. He had returned in half-an-hour, very voluble and excited. He had been given a commission to collect cabaret turns in Spain. He had to leave London some time after nine, travel all night and catch the Sud Express in the morning. He was plentifully supplied with money.
“He was so excited he was nearly sober,” said the uncharitable landlady.
The sudden departure of an obscure music-hall agent, of whose existence he had been unaware until that afternoon, did not at all distress Mr. Reeder. It was the circumstances which attended his leaving, its rapidity, and, most important of all, the knowledge that was behind that sudden move, which made him alert and watchful. He might not be persona grata at Scotland Yard, but little things like that did not trouble Mr. Reeder. He drove immediately to the big building on the Thames Embankment, sought, nay, demanded, an interview with the Chief Constable, who should have been at home and in bed, but was in fact in consultation with his five chiefs when the detective arrived.
The first message sent to Mr. Reeder was cold and unpromising. Would he call in the morning? It was Gaylor who was detached from the conference to carry this message.
“Go back to your chief, Mr. Gaylor,” said Reeder acidly, “and tell him I wish to see him this evening, at once. If I see him to-morrow it will be at the Home Office.”
This was a threat: nobody knew it better than Gaylor. The exact extent and volume of Reeder’s power was not known. One thing was certain: he could be extremely unpleasant, and the consequences of his displeasure might even affect a man’s career. Gaylor returned instantly and summoned him to the conference, and there Mr. Reeder sat down and, quite uninvited, expounded a theory, and supported his fantastic ideas with a considerable amount of grimy literature.
“We can stop Gurther at Southampton,” suggested Gaylor, but Reeder shook his head.
“I think not. Let him soak into the Continent, and then we may pick him up without any trouble. Send a man to Southampton, and let him shadow him to Paris. In Paris he can blanket him.”
Mason nodded.
“If your theory is correct, there must be a method of proving it,” he said; “not a simple one perhaps——”
“On the contrary, a very simple one,” said Mr. Reeder.
He turned to Gaylor.
“You remember the bedroom above the one where the murder took place, or where we think it was committed? You probably took a photograph.”
“I’ll get it right away,” said Gaylor, and left the room.
He was back with a sheaf of photographic enlargements which he laid on the table.
“There it is,” said Reeder, and pointed.
“The clock? Yes, I noticed that.”
“Naturally,” said Reeder.
“But most people who go to sea, or even bargees, have it put there.”
The little clock was fastened to the ceiling, immediately over the bedstead, so that anybody lying in bed could look up and tell the time. It had luminous hands, Reeder had noticed.
“I want you to have that clock removed and the ceiling plastered. I want you to take away the bed and put a table and chair there. In two days I think I will make the further prosecution of young Southers unnecessary.”
“You can do as you like,” said Mason. “You’re well in the case now, Mr. Reeder. I’ve put out a special call to get Ligsey, and the river police are searching all the reaches.”
“The river police are more likely to get Mr. Ligsey than any other section of the Metropolitan Police Force,” replied Reeder.
Big Ben was striking eleven as he mounted a tramcar that carried him from Westminster Bridge to the end of his road. In the days, and particularly the nights, when Mr. Reeder was heavily engaged in his hazardous occupation, his housekeeper remained on duty until he was ready to go to bed. She met him at the door now with a telephone message.
“Mr. Gaylor called up, sir. He says he is sending you a little iron box which he wishes you to examine, and will you be careful not to touch it with your fingers because of the prince? He didn’t say which prince it was.”
“I think I know His Highness,” said Mr. Reeder, who was a little ruffled that Gaylor should find it necessary to warn him against over-smearing fingerprints. “Has the box arrived?”
“Ten minutes ago, sir.”
“When did Mr. Gaylor telephone?”
She was rather vague as to this; thought it might have been half-an-hour before. In that case, thought Reeder, it must have been immediately after he left the Yard, and the box must have come on by cyclist messenger.
He found it on his table in a service envelope, and took it out: a heavy, oblong box, about six inches long and three inches square. Pen-printed on the lid, which was tacked down, were the words: “Mr. Reeder to see and return. Room 75, New Scotland Yard.” Reeder weighed the package in his hand.
Some people remember by smell, some trust to their eyesight, and the recollections of vision. Mr. Reeder had a remarkable sense of weight—and he remembered something that weighed just as heavy as this. He put the package carefully on the table and rang through to Scotland Yard. Gaylor had gone. He tried him at his house, but he had not arrived.
“Tell him to ’phone the moment he comes in,” he said, and went to his desk to examine, for the third time that day, the old music-hall programmes and playbills, photographs, cuttings from the Era and the Stage, the data which he had collected in the course of the day.
At one o’clock his housekeeper came in and asked if anything more would be required.
“Nothing at all,” said Mr. Reeder. And then a thought struck him. “Where do you sleep?”
“In the room above, sir.”
“Above this?” said Mr. Reeder hastily. “No, no, I think you’d better stay in the kitchen until I hear from Mr. Gaylor. If you could make yourself comfortable there, in fact if you could sleep there, I should be very much obliged. There is nothing to be alarmed about,” he said, when he saw consternation dawning in her face. “It is merely that I may want to—um—send a detective upstairs to—um—overhear a conversation.”
It was a lame excuse. Mr. Reeder was a poor liar; but his housekeeper was a very simple soul, and, except that she insisted upon going up to make the room tidy, agreed to retire to the basement. She had hardly gone when Gaylor came through, and for five minutes he and Reeder spoke together. After this the detective settled down to await his coming, and Inspector Gaylor did not arrive alone, but brought with him two expert officials from the Explosives Department. One of them had a delicate spring balance, and with this the package was weighed.
“Allow an ounce and a quarter for the wood,” said the expert, “and that’s the exact weight of a Mills bomb. I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Reeder.”
He held the package to his ear and shook it gently.
“No, nothing more complicated.”
He took a case of instruments from his pocket and removed a slither of wood from the lid.
“Yes, there’s the lever, and the pin’s out,” he said after examining it under a strong light.
He cut away the side, and revealed a black, segmented egg shape, grinning as he recognized an old friend.
“You see that?” He pointed to a little hole at the end of the box. “The fellow who brought this was taking no risks: he kept an emergency pin through until it was delivered. I’ll have this out in a jiff.”
It was no idle promise. Mr. Reeder watched with interest as the skilful fingers of the man removed the lid, catching the lever at the same time and holding it firm against the swelling side. From his pocket he took a steel pin and thrust it home, and the bomb became innocuous.
“You’ve kept every scrap of paper, of course?” said Gaylor. “There was no other packing but this?”
Every piece of paper was carefully folded and put in an envelope, and the two explosive experts went down to pack away Mr. Reeder’s dangerous gift.
“There was a lot you didn’t tell the chief,” said Gaylor at parting. “That’s the trouble with you, you old devil!”
Mr. Reeder looked pained.
“That is not a very pleasant expression,” he said.
“But it is,” insisted Gaylor. “You always keep back some juicy bit to spring on us at the last moment. It’s either your sense of drama or your sense of humour.”
For a moment Reeder’s eyes twinkled, and then his face became a mask again.
“I have no—um—sense of humour,” he said.
He had at any rate a sense of vanity, and he was irritated that his little idiosyncrasy had been so cruelly exposed to description.
He was up at six the next morning, and by half past seven was on his way to the Thames Valley. On the previous day he had telephoned to eight separate boathouses between Windsor and Henley, and he was satisfied that he had found what he wanted in the neighbourhood of Bourne End. He had telephoned to the boat-builder on whom he was calling, and he found that industrious man at work in his yard.
“You’re the gentleman who wanted to know about the Zaira? I was going to send one of my boys up to see if she was still tied up, but I haven’t been able to spare him this morning.”
“I’m rather glad you haven’t,” said Mr. Reeder.
“It was a funny thing you telephoning to me when you did,” said the builder. “She’d just gone past on her way to Marlow… No, I’ve never seen her before, but I caught the name; in fact, it was because she was new in this part of the river that I noticed her. She’s a forty-foot cruiser, nearly new, and I should think she’s got pretty powerful engines. As it was, she made a bit of a wash.”
He explained that after Mr. Reeder’s inquiry he had telephoned through to Marlow, had learned that the boat had not passed, and had sent one of his assistants up the towpath to locate her.
“She’s lying at a private quay that runs in from the river to a big red house which has been empty for years. There’s nobody on board her, and I suppose the owner’s had permission from the agents. Are you thinking of buying her?”
That view had never presented itself to Mr. Reeder. He thought for a long time, and gave the boat-builder the impression that it was only a question of price that prevented him from ownership.
“Yes, it’s quite usual for people to tie up and leave their boats for months at a time, especially at a private quay like that. It’s not safe: you get a craft full of rats, especially in the winter months. These big boats cost a lot to keep up, and you couldn’t afford to have a caretaker on board.”
Mr. Reeder made a very leisurely way along the towpath, stopping now and again to admire the lovely reach. Although he had explicit instructions, he might have passed the narrow canal which runs in from the river, in spite of the brick bridge across, for the stream was choked with weeds, and ran apparently into a tangle of trees and undergrowth. With some difficulty Mr. Reeder reached its bank. He then saw that the canal was brick-lined. Nevertheless, though he had this indication of its edge, he walked gingerly.
It opened to a larger pool, a sort of backwater. Passing a clump of bushes, he came suddenly upon the boat. The bow lay almost within reach of his hand. It was tied up fore and aft and had a deserted appearance. Across the forepart of the boat was drawn a canvas cover, but he was prepared for this by the description of the boat-builder. Mr. Reeder slipped his hand in his pocket and went cautiously along the length of the boat. He noted that all the portholes were not only closed but made opaque with brown paper.
“Is anybody there?” he called loudly.
There was no answer. In midstream a moorhen was paddling aimlessly; the sound of his voice sent it scurrying to cover.
The foremost part of the ship was evidently the engine room, and possibly accommodation for a small crew. The living saloon was aft. It was these that had their portholes covered. Both cabins were approached from the well deck amidships, and he saw here a canvas-covered wheel. The doors were padlocked on the outside.
Mr. Reeder looked around, and stepped on to the boat down a short ladder to the well. He tried the padlock on the saloon door. It was fast; but it was a very simple padlock, and if fortune favoured him, and the boat he sought was really discovered, he had prepared for such an emergency as this.
He tried three of the keys which he took from his pocket before the lock snapped back. He unfastened the hasp, turned the handle and pulled open the door. He could see nothing for a moment; then he switched on an electric hand-lamp and sent its rays into the interior.
The saloon was empty. The floor of it lay possibly eighteen inches below the level of the deck on which he was standing. And then.…
Lying in the middle of the floor, and glittering in the light of his lamp, was a white-handled, silver-plated revolver.
“Very interesting,” said Mr. Reeder, and went down into the saloon.
He reached the bottom of the steps and turned, walking backwards with his face to the door through which he had come, the muzzle of his Browning covering the opening. Presently his heel kicked the pistol. He took another step back and stooped to pick it up.…
CHAPTER VIII
Mr. Reeder was conscious of a headache and that the light shining in his eyes was painful. It was a tiny globe which burned in the roof of the cabin. Somebody was talking very distressedly; the falsetto voices Mr. Reeder loathed. His senses came back gradually.
He was shocked to find himself one of the figures in a most fantastical scene; something which did not belong to the great world of reality in which he lived and had his being. He was part of an episode, torn bodily from a most imaginative and impossible work of fiction.
The man who sat in one corner of the lounge, clasping his knees, was… Mr. Reeder puzzled for a word. Theatrical, of course. That red silk robe, that Mephistophelian cap, and the long black mask with the lace fringe that even hid the speaker’s chin. His hands were covered with jewelled rings which scintillated in the feeble light overhead.
Mr. Reeder could not very well move; he was handcuffed, his legs were strapped painfully together, and in his mouth was a piece of wood lightly tied behind his ears. It was not painful, but it could be, he realized. At any rate he was spared the necessity of replying to the exultant man who sat at the other end of the settee.
“… Did you hear what I said, my master of mystery?”
He spoke with a slightly foreign accent, this man in the red robe.
“You are so clever, and yet I am more clever, eh? All of it I planned out of my mind. The glittering silver pistol on the floor—that was the only way I could get you to stoop and bring your head into the gas. It was a very heavy gas which does not easily escape, but I was afraid you might have dropped a cigarette, and that would have betrayed everything. If you had waited a little time the gas would have rolled out of the open door; but no, you must have the pistol, so you stooped and picked it up, and voila!”
His hands glittered dazzlingly.
“You are used to criminals of the stupid kind,” he went on. “For the first time, my Reeder, you meet one who has planned everything step by step. Pardon me.”
He stepped down to the floor, leaned forward and untied the gag.
“I find it difficult if conversation is one-sided,” he said pleasantly. “If you make a fuss I shall shoot you and that will be the end. At present I desire that you should know everything. You know me?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t that pleasure,” said Mr. Reeder, and the man chuckled.
“If you had lived, I would have been your chief case, your chef d’œuvre, the one man of your acquaintance who could plan murder and—what is the expression?—get away with it! Do you know where you are?”
“I’m on the Zaira,” said Mr. Reeder.
“Do you know who is her owner?”
“She is owned by Mr. Clive Desboyne.”
The man chuckled at this.
“Poor fellow! The lovesick one, eh? For him this boat is—where do you think?—at Twickenham, for its spring repairs. He told you perhaps he had been mad enough to let it for two months? No, he did not tell you? Ah, that is interesting. Perhaps he forgot.”
Mr. Reeder nodded slowly.
“Now tell me, my friend—my time is very short and I cannot waste it here with you—do you know who killed Attymar?”
“You are Attymar,” said Mr. Reeder, and was rewarded by a shrill chuckle of delighted laughter.
“So clever, after all! It is a good thing I have you, eh? Otherwise”—he shrugged his shoulders lightly. “That is the very best joke—I am Attymar! Do I speak like him, yes? Possibly—who knows?”
He slipped from his seat and came stealthily towards Reeder and fixed the gag a little tighter.
“Where shall you be this night, do you think, with a big, heavy chain fastened around you? I know all the deepest holes in this river, and years and years will pass before they find your body. To think that this great London shall lose its Mr. Reeder! So many people have tried to kill you, my friend, but they have failed because they are criminals—just stupid fellows who cannot plan like a general.”
Mr. Reeder said nothing; he could not raise his hand far enough to relieve the pressure on his mouth, for attached to the centre link of the handcuffs was a cord fastened to the strap about his ankles.
The man in the red cloak bent over him, his eyes glaring through the holes in the mask.
“Last night I tried you. I say to myself, ‘Is this man stupid or is he clever?’ ” He spoke quickly and in a low voice. “So I send you the little bomb. I would have sent it also to Desboyne—he also will die to-night, and our friend Mr. Southers will be hanged, and there will be the end of you all! And I will go sailing to the southern seas, and no man will raise his hand against me, because I am clever.”
Mr. Reeder thought he was a little monotonous. In spite of his terrible position, he was intensely bored. The man in the red cloak must have heard something, for he went quickly to the door and listened more intently, then, mounting the stairs, slammed the door behind him and put on the padlock. Presently Mr. Reeder heard him mount the side of the boat and guessed he had stepped ashore to meet whatever interruption was threatened. It was, in truth, the boat-builder, who had come to make inquiries, and the grey-haired man with the stoop and the white moustache and twisted face was able to assure him that Mr. Reeder had made an offer for the boat, but it had been rejected, and that the detective had gone on to Marlow.
The prisoner had a quarter of an hour to consider his unfortunate position and to supply a remedy. Mr. Reeder satisfied himself that it was a simple matter to free his hands from the steel cuffs. He had peculiarly thin wrists and his large, bony hands were very deceptive. He freed one, adjusted the gag to a less uncomfortable tension, and brought himself to a sitting position. He swayed and would have fallen to the floor but for a stroke of luck. The effort showed him how dangerous it would be to make an attempt to escape before he recovered strength. His pistol had been taken from him; the silver-handled revolver had also been removed. He resumed his handcuffs and had not apparently moved when his captor opened the door, only to look in.
“I’m afraid you will have to do without food to-day—does it matter?”
Now Mr. Reeder saw that on the inside of the saloon door was a steel door. It was painted the same colour as the woodwork, and it was on this discovery that he based his hope of life. For some reason, which he never understood, his enemy switched on two lights from the outside, and this afforded him an opportunity of taking stock of his surroundings.
The portholes were impossible—he understood now why they had been made airtight with brown paper. It would be as much as he could do to get his arms through them. Having decided upon his plan of campaign, Mr. Reeder acted with his customary energy. He could not allow his life to depend upon the caprice of this man. Evidently the intention was to take him out late at night, loaded with chains, and drop him overboard; but he might have cause to change his mind. And that, Mr. Reeder thought, would be very unfortunate.
His worst forebodings were in a fair way to being realized, did he but know. The man who stood in his shirt sleeves, prodding at the centre of the backwater, had suddenly realized the danger which might follow the arrival of a curious-minded policeman. The boat-builder would certainly gossip. Reeder had something of an international reputation, and the local police would be only too anxious to make his acquaintance.
Gossip runs up and down a river with a peculiar facility. He went into the engine cabin, where he had stowed his fantastic robe and hat, and dragged out a little steel cylinder. Unfasten that nozzle, leave it on the floor near where the helpless man lay, and in a quarter of an hour perhaps…
He cold-bloodedly pulled out two links of heavy chain and dropped them with a crash on the deck. Mr. Reeder heard the sound; he wrenched one hand free of the cuff, not without pain, broke the gag, and, drawing himself up into a sitting position, unfastened the first of the two straps. His head was splitting from the effect of the gas. As his feet touched the floor he reeled. The second cuff he removed at his leisure. He was so close to the door now that he could drop the bar. It stuck for a little while, but presently he drew it down. It fell with a clatter into the pocket.
The man on the deck heard, ran to the door and tugged, drew off the padlock and tried to force his way in.
“I’m afraid you’re rather late,” said Mr. Reeder politely.
He could almost feel the vibration of the man’s fury. His vanity had been hurt; he had been proved a bungler by the one man in the world he wished to impress, whilst life held any impressions for him.
Then the man on the bridge heard a smash and saw some splinters of glass fly from one of the ports. There were five tiny airholes in one of the doors, but four of these had been plugged with clay. Taking the cylinder, he smashed the nozzle end through the obstruction. A wild, desperate idea came to the harassed man. Reeder heard the starting wheel turn, and presently the low hum of machinery. He heard the patter of feet across the deck and peered through the porthole, but it was below the level of the bank.
He looked round for a weapon but could find none. Of one thing he was certain: Mr. Red Robe would not dare to run for the river. There was quite enough traffic there for him to attract attention. He could not afford to wait for darkness to fall; his position was as desperate as Reeder’s own had been——
Bang!
It was the sound of a pistol shot, followed by another. Reeder heard somebody shout, then the sound of a man crashing through the bushes. Then he heard the deep voice of Clive Desboyne.
“Reeder… are you there? How are you?”
Mr. Reeder, a slave to politeness, put his mouth up to the broken porthole.
It was some time before Desboyne could knock off the padlock. Presently the door was opened and Mr. Reeder came out.
“Thank God, you’re safe!” said the other breathlessly. “Who was the old bird who shot at me?”
He pointed towards the place where the backwater turned.
“Is there a house there or a road or something? That’s the way he went. What has happened?”
Mr. Reeder was sitting on a little deck chair, his throbbing head between his hands. After a while he raised his face.
“I have met the greatest criminal in the world,” he said solemnly. “He’s so clever that he’s alive. His name is Attymar!”
Clive Desboyne opened his mouth in amazement.
“Attymar? But he’s dead!”
“I hope so,” said Mr. Reeder viciously, “but I have reason to know that he isn’t. No, no, young man, I won’t tell you what happened. I’m rather ashamed of myself. Anyway, I am not particularly proud of being caught by this”—he paused—“amateur. Why did you come?”
“It was only by luck. I don’t know why I came. I happened to ’phone through to Twickenham about some repairs to the boat—by the way, you must have seen a picture of it hanging in my hall. In fact, it was in that picture where you were so smart as to tell the date. I lent the Zaira at times; I lent it a few months ago to an Italian or Serbian fellow, but he so ill-used it that I sent a message that it was to be sent back to the yard. They telephoned along the river for news of it, and that’s when I learnt you were down here—you look rotten.”
“I feel rotten,” said Mr. Reeder. “And you came——”
“I drove down. I had a sort of feeling in my mind that something was wrong. Then I met a man who’d seen the builder, and he told me about the little old fellow. Until then I didn’t know that he was in the boat, and I came along to make inquiries. For some reason, which I can’t understand, he no sooner saw me than he pulled a gun and let fly at me, and, turning, went like mad through those bushes.”
“Have you a gun?” asked Mr. Reeder.
Desboyne smiled.
“No, I don’t carry such things.”
“In that case it would be foolish to pursue my ancient enemy. Let one of the Buckingham Constabulary carry on the good work. Is your car anywhere handy?”
There was a road apparently within fifty yards.
“By Jove!” said Desboyne suddenly. “I left it outside the gates of an empty house. I wonder whether that’s the place where the old bird went—and whether my car is still there?”
It was there, in the drive of a deserted house: the two-seater coupe which had so excited the disgust of poor Johnny Southers. With some difficulty Clive started it up, and the action recalled something to him.
“Did we leave the engines of that boat running?” he asked suddenly. “If you don’t mind I’ll go back and turn them off; then I’ll notify the police, and I’ll send a man to bring the Zaira into Maidenhead.”
He was gone ten minutes. Mr. Reeder had an opportunity of walking round the car and admiring it.
Rain had fallen in the night: he made this interesting discovery before Desboyne returned.
“We’ll run up to Marlow and I’ll get a man to go down and collect the boat,” he said as he climbed in. “I’ve never heard anything more amazing. Tell me exactly what happened to you?”
Mr. Reeder smiled sadly.
“You will pardon me if I do not?” he asked gently. “The truth is, I have been asked by a popular newspaper to write my reminiscences, and I want to save every personal experience for that important volume.”
He would talk about other subjects, however; for example, of the fortunate circumstance that Desboyne’s car was still there though it was within reach of the enemy.
“I’ve never met him before. I hope I’ll never meet him again,” said Desboyne. “But I think he can be traced. Naturally, I don’t want to go into court against him. I think it’s the most ridiculous experience, to be shot at without replying.”
“Why bother?” asked Mr. Reeder. “I personally never go into court to gratify a private vendetta, though there is a possibility that in the immediate future I may break the habit of years!”
He got down at the boathouse and was a silent listener whilst Clive Desboyne rang up a Twickenham number and described the exact location of the boat.
“They’ll collect it,” he said as he hung up. “Now, Mr. Reeder, what am I to do about the police?”
Mr. Reeder shook his head.
“I shouldn’t report it,” he said. “They’d never understand.”
On the way back to town he grew more friendly to Clive Desboyne than he had ever been before, and certainly he was more communicative than he had been regarding the Attymar murder.
“You’ve never seen a murder case at first hand——”
“And I’m not very anxious to,” interrupted the other.
“I applaud that sentiment. Young people are much too morbid,” said Mr. Reeder. “But this is a crime particularly interesting, because it was obviously planned by one who has studied the art of murder and the methods of the average criminal. He had studied it to such good purpose that he was satisfied that if a crime of this character were committed by a man of intelligence and acumen, he would—um—escape the consequence of his deed.”
“And will he?” asked the other, interested.
“No,” said Mr. Reeder, rubbing his nose. He thought for a long time. “I don’t think so. I think he will hang; I am pretty certain he will hang.”
Another long pause.
“And yet in a sense he was very clever. For example, he had to attract the attention of the policeman on the beat and establish the fact that a murder had been committed. He left open the wicket gate on the—um—wharf, and placed a lantern on the ground and another within the open door of his little house, so that the policeman, even if he had been entirely devoid of curiosity, could not fail to investigate.”
Clive Desboyne frowned.
“Upon my life I don’t know who is murdered! It can’t be Attymar, because you saw him to-day; and it can’t possibly be Ligsey, because, according to your statement, he is alive. Why did Johnny Southers go there?”
“Because he’d been offered a job, a partnership with Attymar. Attymar had two or three barges, and with vigorous management it looked as if his business might grow into a more important concern. Southers didn’t even know that this man Attymar was the type of creature he was. An appointment was made on the telephone; Southers attended; he interviewed Attymar or somebody in the dark, during which time I gather he was sprinkled with blood—whose blood, we shall discover. There was a similar case in France in eighteen-forty-seven. Madame Puyeres…”
He gave the history of the Puyeres case at length.
“That was our friend’s cleverness, the blood-sprinkling, the lantern-placing, the removal of Mr.—um—I forget his name for the moment, the theatrical agent of unsavoury reputation. But he made one supreme error. You know the house—no, of course, you’ve never been there.”
“Which house?” asked Clive curiously.
“Attymar’s house. It’s little more than a weighing shed. You haven’t been there? No, I see you haven’t. If you would like a little lecture, or a little demonstration of criminal error, I would like to show you at first-hand.”
“Will it save Johnny Southers—this mistake?” asked Desboyne curiously.
Mr. Reeder nodded.
“Nothing is more certain. How amazing are the—um—vagaries of the human mind! How peculiar are the paths into which—um—vanity leads us!”
He closed his eyes and seemed to be communing with himself all the way through Shepherd’s Bush. Mr. Desboyne put him down at Scotland Yard, and they arranged to meet at the end of Shadwick Lane that same afternoon.
“There is no further news of Ligsey,” said Gaylor when Reeder came into his office.
“I should have been surprised if there had been,” said Mr. Reeder cheerfully, “partly because he’s dead, and partly because—well, I didn’t expect any communication from him.”
“You know he telephoned to the chief last night?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised at that,” said Mr. Reeder, almost flippantly.
They talked about Johnny Southers and the case against him, and of the disappointing results of a careful search of the garden. They had dug up every bed and had done incalculable damage to Mr. Southers’ herbaceous borders.
“Our information was that he had a couple of thousand pounds cached there in real money, but we found nothing.”
“How much was there in the box you discovered in the tool shed?”
“Oh, only a hundred pounds or so,” said Gaylor. “The big money was hidden in the garden, according to what we were told. We didn’t find a cent!”
“Too bad,” said Mr. Reeder sympathetically. Then, remembering: “Do you mind if I take a young—um—friend of mine over Attymar’s house this afternoon? He is not exactly interested in the crime of wilful murder, but as he is providing for the defence of young Mr. Southers——”
“I don’t mind,” said Gaylor, “but you had better ask the chief.”
The Chief Constable was out, and the opportunity of meeting him was rendered more remote when Clive Desboyne rang him up, as he said, on the off-chance of getting him at Scotland Yard, and invited him out to lunch.
“Anna Welford is coming. I have told her you think that Johnny’s innocence can be established, and she’s most anxious to meet you.”
Mr. Reeder was in something of a predicament, but, as usual, he rose to the occasion. He instantly cancelled two important engagements to meet this, and at lunch-time he sat between a delighted girl and a rather exhilarated benefactor. The one difficulty he had anticipated did not, however, arise. She had some shopping to do that afternoon, so he went alone with Clive Desboyne to what the latter described as “the most gruesome after-lunch entertainment” he had ever experienced.
CHAPTER IX
A car dropped them at the end of Shadwick Lane, which had already settled down to normality and had grown accustomed to the notoriety which the murder had brought to it.
There was a constable on duty on the wharf, but he was inside the gate. Mr. Reeder opened the wicket and Clive Desboyne stepped in. He looked round the littered yard with disgust visible on his face.
“How terribly sordid!” he said. “I am not too fastidious, but I can’t imagine anything more grim and miserable than this.”
“It was grimmer for the—um—gentleman who was killed,” said Mr. Reeder.
He went into the house ahead of his companion, pointed out the room where the murder was committed, “as I feel perfectly sure,” he added; and then led the way up the narrow stairs into what had been Captain Attymar’s sitting-room.
“If you sit at that table you’ll see the plan of the house, and I may show you one or two very interesting things.”
Mr. Reeder switched on a handlamp on the table and Clive Desboyne sat down, and followed, apparently entranced, the recital of J.G. Reeder’s theory.
“If you have time—what is the time?”
Clive Desboyne looked up at the ceiling, stared at it for a while.
“Let me guess,” he said slowly. “Four o’clock.”
“Marvellous,” murmured Mr. Reeder. “It is within one minute. How curious you should look up at the ceiling! There used to be a clock there.”
“In the ceiling?” asked the other incredulously.
He rose, walked to the window and stared out on to the wharf. From where he stood he could see the policeman on duty at the gate.
There was nobody watching at a little door in the ragged fence which led to Shadwick Passage. Suddenly Mr. Clive Desboyne pointed to the wharf.
“That is where the murder was committed,” he said quietly.
Mr. Reeder took a step towards the window and cautiously craned his neck forward. He did not feel the impact of the rubber truncheon that crashed against the base of his skull, but went down in a heap.
Clive Desboyne looked round, walked to the door and listened, then stepped out, locked the door, came down the stairs and on to the wharf. The policeman eyed him suspiciously, but Mr. Desboyne turned and carried on a conversation with the invisible Reeder.
He strolled round to the front of the house. Nobody saw him open the little gate into the passage. The end of Shadwick Lane was barred, but Gaylor did not remember the passage until too late. It was he who found Reeder and brought him back to consciousness.
“I deserve that,” said Mr. Reeder when he became articulate. “Twice in one day! I am getting too old for this work.”