CHAPTER V
Mr. Reeder sat at his ease, wearing a pair of grotesquely painted velvet slippers, a cigarette hanging from his lips, and explained to the detective inspector, who had called in the early hours of the morning, his reason for adopting a certain conclusion.
“I do not imagine for one moment that it was my friend Ravini. He is less subtle, in addition to which he has little or no intelligence. You will find that this coup has been planned for months, though it has only been put into execution to-day. No. 307 Bennett Street is the property of an old gentleman who spends most of his life in Italy. He has been in the habit of letting the house furnished for years: in fact, it was vacated only a month ago.”
“You think, then,” said the puzzled Simpson, “that the people, whoever they were, rented the house——”
Mr. Reeder shook his head.
“Even that I doubt,” he said. “They have probably an order to view, and in some way got rid of the caretaker. They knew I would be at home last night, because I am always at home—um—on most nights since…” Mr. Reeder coughed in his embarrassment. “A young friend of mine has recently left London… I do not like going out alone.”
And to Simpson’s horror, a pinkish flush suffused the sober countenance of Mr. Reeder.
“A few weeks ago,” he went on, with a pitiable attempt at airiness, “I used to dine out, attend a concert or one of those exquisite melodramas which have such an appeal for me.”
“Whom do you suspect?” interrupted Simpson, who had not been called from his bed in the middle of the night to discuss the virtues of melodrama. “The Gregorys or the Donovans?” He named two groups that had excellent reason to be annoyed with Mr. Reeder and his methods.
J. G. Reeder shook his head.
“Neither,” he said. “I think—indeed I am sure—that we must go back to ancient history for the cause.”
Simpson opened his eyes.
“Not Flack?” he asked incredulously. “He’s hiding—he wouldn’t start anything so soon.”
Mr. Reeder nodded.
“John Flack. Who else could have planned such a thing? The art of it! And, Mr. Simpson”—he leaned over and tapped the inspector on the breast—“there has not been a big robbery in London since Flack went to Broadmoor. You’ll get the biggest of all in a week! The coup of coups! His mad brain is planning it now!”
“He’s finished,” said Simpson with a frown.
Mr. Reeder smiled wanly.
“We shall see. This little affair of to-night is a sighting shot—a mere nothing. But I am rather glad I am not—er—dining out in these days. On the other hand, our friend Georgio Ravini is a notorious diner-out—would you mind calling up Vine Street police station and finding out whether they have any casualties to report?”
Vine Street, which knew the movements of so many people, replied instantly that Mr. Georgio Ravini was out of town; it was believed he was in Paris.
“Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder, in his feeble, aimless way. “How very wise of Georgio—and how much wiser it will be if he stays there!”
Inspector Simpson rose and shook himself. He was a stout, hearty man who had that habit.
“I’ll get down to the Yard and report this,” he said. “It may not have been Flack after all. He’s a gang leader and he’d be useless without his crowd, and they are scattered. Most of them are in the Argentine——”
“Ha, ha!” said Mr. Reeder, without any evidence of joy.
“What the devil are you laughing about?”
The other was instantly apologetic.
“It was what I would describe as a sceptical laugh. The Argentine! Do criminals really go to the Argentine except in those excellent works of fiction which one reads on trains? A tradition, Mr. Simpson, dating back to the ancient times when there was no extradition treaty between the two countries. Scattered, yes. I look forward to the day when I shall gather them all together under one roof. It will be a very pleasant morning for me, Mr. Simpson, when I can walk along the gallery, looking through the little peep-holes, and watch them sewing mail-bags—I know of no more sedative occupation than a little needlework! In the meantime, watch your banks—old John is seventy years of age and has no time to waste. History will be made in the City of London before many days are past! I wonder where I could find Mr. Ravini?”
* * * * *
George Ravini was not the type of man whose happiness depended upon the good opinion which others held of him. Otherwise, he might well have spent his life in abject misery. As for Mr. Reeder—he discussed that interesting police official over a glass of wine and a good cigar in his Half Moon Street flat. It was a showy, even a flashy, little menage, for Mr. Ravini’s motto was everything of the best and as much of it as possible, and his drawing-room was rather like an over-ornamented French clock—all gilt and enamel where it was not silk and damask. To his subordinate, one Lew Steyne, Mr. Ravini revealed his mind.
“If that old So-and-so knew half he pretends to know, I’d be taking the first train to Bordighera,” he said. “But Reeder’s a bluff. He’s clever up to a point, but you can say that about almost any bogey you ever met.”
“You could show him a few points,” said the sycophantic Lew, and Mr. Ravini smiled and stroked his trim moustache.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if the old nut is crazy about that girl. May and December—can you beat it!”
“What’s she like?” asked Lew. “I never got a proper look at her face.”
Mr. Ravini kissed the tips of his fingers ecstatically and threw the caress to the painted ceiling.
“Anyway, he can’t frighten me, Lew—you know what I am: if I want anything I go after it, and I keep going after it till I get it! I’ve never seen anybody like her. Quite the lady and everything, and what she can see in an old such-and-such like Reeder licks me!”
“Women are funny,” mused Lew. “You wouldn’t think that a typewriter would chuck a man like you——”
“She hasn’t chucked me,” said Mr. Ravini curtly. “I’m simply not acquainted with her, that’s all. But I’m going to be. Where’s this place?”
“Siltbury,” said Lew.
He took a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket, unfolded it and read the pencilled words.
“Larmes Keep, Siltbury—it’s on the Southern. I trailed her when she left London with her boxes—old Reeder came down to see her off, and looked about as happy as a wet cat.”
“A boarding-house,” mused Ravini. “That’s a queer sort of job.”
“She’s secretary,” reported Lew. (He had conveyed this information at least four times, but Mr. Ravini was one of those curious people who like to treat old facts as new sensations.)
“It’s a posh place, too,” said Lew. “Not like the ordinary boarding-house—only swells go there. They charge twenty guineas a week for a room, and you’re lucky if you get in.”
Ravini thought on this, fondling his chin.
“This is a free country,” he said. “What’s to stop me staying at—what’s the name of the place? Larmes Keep? I’ve never taken ‘No’ from a woman in my life. Half the time they don’t mean it. Anyway, she’s got to give me a room if I’ve the money to pay for it.”
“Suppose she writes to Reeder?” suggested Lew.
“Let her write!” Ravini’s tone was defiant, whatever might be the state of his mind. “What’ll he have on me? It’s no crime to pay your rent at a boarding-house, is it?”
“Try her with one of your Luck Rings,” grinned Lew.
Ravini looked at them admiringly.
“I couldn’t get ’em off,” he said, “and I’d never dream of parting with my luck that way. She’ll be easy as soon as she knows me—don’t you worry.”
By a curious coincidence, as he was turning out of Half Moon Street the next morning he met the one man in the world he did not wish to see. Fortunately, Lew had taken his suit-case on to the station, and there was nothing in Mr. Ravini’s appearance to suggest that he was setting forth on an affair of gallantry.
Mr. Reeder looked at the man’s diamonds glittering in the daylight. They seemed to exercise a peculiar fascination on the detective.
“The luck still holds, Georgio,” he said, and Georgio smiled complacently. “And whither do you go on this beautiful September morning? To bank your nefarious gains, or to get a quick visa to your passport?”
“Strolling round,” said Ravini airily. “Just taking a little constitutional.” And then, with a spice of mischief: “What’s happened to that busy you were putting on to tail me up? I haven’t seen him.”
Mr. Reeder looked past him to the distance.
“He has never been far from you, Georgio,” he said gently. “He followed you from the Flotsam last night to that peculiar little party you attended in Maida Vale, and he followed you home at 2.15 a.m.”
Georgio’s jaw dropped.
“You don’t mean he’s——” He looked round. The only person visible was a benevolent-looking man who might have been a doctor, from his frock coat and top hat.
“That’s not him?” frowned Ravini.
“He,” corrected Mr. Reeder. “Your English is not yet perfect.”
Ravini did not leave London immediately. It was two o’clock before he had shaken off the watcher, and five minutes later he was on the Southern Express. The same old cabman who had brought Margaret Belman to Larmes Keep carried him up the long, winding hill road through the broad gates to the front of the house, and deposited him under the portico. An elderly porter, in a smart, well-fitting uniform, came out to greet the stranger.
“Mr. ——?”
“Ravini,” said that gentleman. “I haven’t booked a room.”
The porter shook his head.
“I’m afraid we have no accommodation,” he said. “Mr. Daver makes it a rule not to take guests unless they’ve booked their rooms in advance. I will see the secretary.”
Ravini followed him into the spacious hall and sat down on one of the beautiful chairs. This, he decided, was something outside the usual run of boarding-houses. It was luxurious even for an hotel. No other guests were visible. Presently he heard a step on the flagged floor and rose to meet the eyes of Margaret Belman. Though they were unfriendly, she betrayed no sign of recognition. He might have been the veriest stranger.
“The proprietor makes it a rule not to accept guests without previous correspondence,” she said. “In those circumstances I am afraid we cannot offer you accommodation.”
“I’ve already written to the proprietor,” said Ravini, never at a loss for a glib lie. “Go along, young lady, be a sport and see what you can do for me.”
Margaret hesitated. Her own inclination was to order his suit-case to be put in the waiting cab; but she was part of the organisation of the place, and she could not let her private prejudices interfere with her duties.
“Will you wait?” she said, and went in search of Mr. Daver.
That great criminologist was immersed in a large book and looked up over his horn-rimmed spectacles.
“Ravini? A foreign gentleman? Of course he is. A stranger within our gate, as you would say. It is very irregular, but in the circumstances—yes, I think so.”
“He isn’t the type of man you ought to have here, Mr. Daver,” she said firmly. “A friend of mine who knows these people says he is a member of the criminal classes.”
Mr. Daver’s ludicrous eyebrows rose.
“The criminal classes! What an extraordinary opportunity to study, as it were, at first hand! You agree? I knew you would! Let him stay. If he bores me, I will send him away.”
Margaret went back, a little disappointed, feeling rather foolish if the truth be told. She found Ravini waiting, caressing his moustache, a little less assured than he had been when she had left him.
“Mr. Daver said you may stay. I will send the housekeeper to you,” she said, and went in search of Mrs. Burton, and gave that doleful woman the necessary instructions.
She was angry with herself that she had not been more explicit in dealing with Mr. Daver. She might have told him that if Ravini stayed she would leave. She might even have explained the reason why she did not wish the Italian to remain in the house. She was in the fortunate position, however, that she had not to see the guests unless they expressed a wish to interview her, and Ravini was too wise to pursue his advantage.
That night, when she went to her room, she sat down and wrote a long letter to Mr. Reeder, but thought better of it and tore it up. She could not run to J. G. Reeder every time she was annoyed. He had a sufficiency of trouble, she decided, and here she was right. Even as she wrote, Mr. Reeder was examining with great interest the spring gun which had been devised for his destruction.
CHAPTER VI
To do Ravini justice, he made no attempt to approach the girl, though she had seen him at a distance. He had passed her on the lawn the second day after his arrival with no more than a nod and a smile, and indeed he seemed to have found another diversion, if not another objective, for he was scarcely away from Olga Crewe’s side. Margaret saw them in the evening, leaning over the cliff wall, and George Ravini seemed remarkably pleased with himself. He was exhibiting his famous Luck Stones to Olga. Margaret saw her examine the rings and evidently make some remark upon them which sent Ravini into fits of laughter.
It was on the third day of his stay that he spoke to Margaret. They met in the big hall, and she would have passed on, but he stood in her way.
“I hope we’re not going to be bad friends, Miss Belman,” he said. “I’m not giving you any trouble, and I’m ready to apologise for the past. Could a gentleman be fairer than that?”
“I don’t think you’ve anything to apologise for, Mr. Ravini,” she said, a little relieved by his tone, and more inclined to be civil. “Now that you have so obviously found another interest in life, are you enjoying your stay?”
“It’s perfectly marvellous,” he said conventionally, for he was a man who loved superlatives. “And say, Miss Belman, who is this young lady staying here, Miss Olga Crewe?”
“She’s a guest: I know nothing about her.”
“What a peach!” he said enthusiastically, and Margaret was amused.
“And a lady, every inch of her,” he went on. “I must say I’m putty in the hands of real ladies! There’s something about ’em that’s different from shop-girls and typists and people of that kind. Not that you’re a typist,” he went on hastily. “I regard you as a lady too. Every inch of one. I’m thinking about sending for my Rolls to take her a drive round the country. You’re not jealous?”
Anger and amusement struggled for expression, but Margaret’s sense of humour won, and she laughed long and silently all the way to her office.
Soon after this Mr. Ravini disappeared. So also did Olga. Margaret saw them coming into the hall about eleven, and the girl looked paler than usual, and, sweeping past her without a word, ran up the stairs. Margaret surveyed the young man curiously. His face was flushed, his eyes of an unusual brightness.
“I’m going up to town to-morrow,” he said. “Early train… you needn’t ’phone for a cab: I can walk down the hill.”
He was almost incoherent.
“You’re tired of Larmes Keep?”
“Eh? Tired? No, by God I’m not! This is the place for me!”
He smoothed back his dark hair and she saw his hand trembling so much that the Luck Stones flickered and flashed like fire. She waited until he had disappeared, and then she went upstairs and knocked at Olga’s door. The girl’s room was next to hers.
“Who’s that?” asked a voice sharply.
“Miss Belman.”
The key turned, the door opened. Only one light was burning in the room, so that Olga’s face was in shadow.
“Do you want anything?” she asked.
“Can I come in?” asked Margaret. “There’s something I wish to say to you.”
Olga hesitated. Then:
“Come in,” she said. “I’ve been snivelling. I hope you don’t mind.”
Her eyes were red, the stains of tears were still on her face.
“This damned place depresses me awfully,” she excused herself as she dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief. “What do you want to see me about?”
“Mr. Ravini. I suppose you know he is a—crook?”
Olga stared at her and her eyes went hard.
“I don’t know that I am particularly interested in Mr. Ravini,” she said slowly. “Why do you come to tell me this?”
Margaret was in a dilemma.
“I don’t know… I thought you were getting rather friendly with him… it was very impertinent of me.”
“I think it was,” said Olga Crewe coldly, and the rebuff was such that Margaret’s face went scarlet.
She was angry with herself when she went into her own room that night, and anger is a bad bedmate, and the most wakeful of all human emotions. She tossed from side to side in her bed, tried to forget there were such persons as Olga Crewe and George Ravini, tried every device she could think of to induce sleep, and was almost successful when…
She sat up in bed. Fingers were scrabbling on the panel of her door; not exactly scratching nor tapping. She switched on the light, and, getting out of bed, walked to the door and listened. Somebody was there. The handle turned in her hand.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
“Let me in, let me in!…”
It was a frantic whisper, but she recognised the voice—Ravini!
“I can’t let you in. Go away, please, or I’ll telephone…”
She heard a sound, a curious muffled sound… sobbing… a man! And then the voice ceased. Her heart racing madly, she stood by the door, her ear to the panel, listening, but no other sound came. She spent the rest of the night sitting up in bed, a quilt about her shoulders, listening, listening…
Day broke greyly; the sun came up. She lay down and fell asleep. It was the maid bringing tea that woke her, and, getting out of bed, she opened the door.… Something attracted her attention.
“A nice morning, miss,” said the fresh-faced country girl brightly.
Margaret nodded. As soon as the girl was gone she opened the door again to examine more closely the thing she had seen. It was a triangular patch of stuff that had been torn and caught in one of the splinters of the old oaken door. She took it off carefully and laid it in the palm of her hand. A jagged triangle of pink silk. She put it on her dressing-table wonderingly. There must be an end to this. If Ravini was not leaving that morning, or Mr. Daver would not ask him to go, she would leave for London that night.
As she left her room she met the housemaid.
“That man in No. 7 has gone, miss,” the woman reported, “but he’s left his pyjamas behind.”
“Gone already?”
“Must have gone last night, miss. His bed hasn’t been slept in.”
Margaret followed her along the passage to Ravini’s room. His bag was gone, but on the pillow, neatly folded, was a suit of pink silk pyjamas, and, bending over, she saw that the breast was slightly torn. A little triangular patch of pink silk had been ripped out!
CHAPTER VII
When a nimble old man dropped from a high wall at midnight and, stopping only to wipe the blood from his hands—for he had come upon a guard patrolling the grounds in his flight—and walked briskly towards London, peering into every side lane for the small car that had been left for him, he brought a new complication into many lives, and for three people at least marked the date of their passing in the Book of Fate.
Police headquarters were not slow to employ the press to advertise their wants. But the escape from Broadmoor of a homicidal maniac is something which is not to be rushed immediately into print. Not once but many times had the help of the public been enlisted in a vain endeavour to bring old John Flack to justice. His description had been circulated, his haunts notified, without there being any successful issue to the broadcast.
There was a conference at Scotland Yard, which Mr. Reeder attended; and they were five very serious men who gathered round the superintendent’s desk, and mainly the talk was of bullion and of “noses,” by which inelegant term is meant the inevitable police informer.
Crazy John “fell” eventually through the treachery of an outside helper. Ravini, the most valuable of gang leaders, had been employed to “cover” a robbery at the Leadenhall Bank. Bullion was John Flack’s specialty: it was not without its interest for Mr. Ravini.
The theft had been successful. One Sunday morning two cars drove out of the courtyard of the Leadenhall Bank. By the side of the driver of each car sat a man in the uniform of the Metropolitan Police—inside each car was another officer. A City policeman saw the cars depart, but accepted the presence of the uniformed men and did not challenge the drivers. It was not an unusual event: transfers of gold or stocks on Sunday morning had been witnessed before, but usually the City authorities were notified. He called Old Jewry station on the telephone to report the occurrence, but by this time John Flack was well away.
It was Ravini, cheated, as he thought, of his fair share of the plunder, who betrayed the old man—the gold was never recovered.
England had been ransacked to find John Flack’s headquarters, but without success. There was not an hotel or boarding-house keeper who had not received his portrait—nor one who recognised him in any guise.
The exhaustive inquiries which followed his arrest did little to increase the knowledge of the police. Flack’s lodgings were found—a furnished room in Bloomsbury which he had occupied at rare intervals for years. But here were discovered no documents which gave the slightest clue to the real headquarters of the gang. Probably they had none. They were chosen and discarded as opportunity arose or emergency dictated, though it was clear that the old man had something in the nature of a general staff to assist him.
“Anyway,” said Big Bill Gordon, Chief of the Big Five, “he’ll not start anything in the way of a bullion steal—his mind will be fully occupied with ways and means of getting out of the country.”
It was Mr. Reeder’s head which shook.
“The nature of criminals may change, but their vanities persist,” he said, in his precise, grandiloquent way. “Mr. Flack does not pride himself upon his murders, but upon his robberies, and he will signify his return to freedom in the usual manner.”
“His gang is scattered——” began Simpson.
J. G. Reeder silenced him with a sad, sweet smile.
“There is plenty of evidence, Mr. Simpson, that the gang has coagulated again. It is—um—an ugly word, but I can think of no better. Mr. Flack’s escape from the—er—public institution where he was confined shows evidence of good team work. The rope, the knife with which he killed the unfortunate warder, the kit of tools, the almost certainty that there was a car waiting to take him away, are all symptomatic of gang work. And what has Mr. Flack——”
“I wish to God you wouldn’t call him ‘Mr.’ Flack!” said Big Bill explosively.
J. G. Reeder blinked.
“I have an ineradicable respect for age,” he said in a hushed voice, “but a greater respect for the dead. I am hoping to increase my respect for Mr. Flack in the course of the next month.”
“If it’s gang work,” interrupted Simpson, “who are with him? The old crowd is either gaoled or out of the country. I know what you’re thinking about, Mr. Reeder: you’ve got your mind on what happened last night. I’ve been thinking it over, and it’s quite likely that the man-trap wasn’t fixed by Flack at all, but by one of the other crowd. Do you know Donovan’s out of Dartmoor? He has no reason for loving you.”
Mr. Reeder raised his hand in protest.
“On the contrary, Joe Donovan, when I saw him in the early hours of this morning, was a very affable and penitent man who deeply regretted the unkind things he said of me as he left the Old Bailey dock. He lives at Kilburn, and spent last evening at a local cinema with his wife and daughter—no, it wasn’t Donovan. He is not a brainy man. Only John Flack, with his dramatic sense, could have staged that little comedy which was so nearly a tragedy.”
“You were nearly killed, they tell me, Reeder?” said Big Bill.
Mr. Reeder shook his head.
“I was not thinking of that particular tragedy. It was in my mind before I went up the stairs to force the door into the kitchen. If I had done that, I think I should have shot Mr. Flack, and there would have been an end of all our speculations and troubles.”
Mr. Simpson was examining some papers that were on the table before him.
“If Flack’s going after bullion he’s got very little chance. The only big movement is that of a hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns which goes to Tilbury to-morrow morning or the next day from the Bank of England, and it is impossible that Flack could organise a steal at such short notice.”
Mr. Reeder was suddenly alert and interested.
“A hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns,” he murmured, rubbing his chin irritably. “Ten tons. It goes by train?”
“By lorry, with ten armed men—one per ton,” said Simpson humorously. “I don’t think you need worry about that.”
Mr. J. G. Reeder’s lips were pursed as though he were whistling, but no sound issued. Presently he spoke.
“Flack was originally a chemist,” he said slowly. “I don’t suppose there is a better criminal chemist in England than Mr. Flack.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Simpson with a frown.
Mr. Reeder shrugged his shoulders.
“I have a sixth sense,” he said, almost apologetically, “and invariably I associate some peculiar quality with every man and woman who—um—passes under review. For example, Mr. Simpson, when I think of you, I have an instinctive, shadowy thought of a prize ring where I first had the pleasure of seeing you.” (Simpson, who had been an amateur welter weight, grinned appreciatively.) “And my mind never rests upon Mr. Flack except in the surroundings of a laboratory with test tubes and all the paraphernalia of experimental chemistry. As for the little affair last night, I was not unprepared for it, but I suspected a trap—literally a—um—trap. Some evilly disposed person once tried the same trick with me; cut away the landing so that I should fall upon very unpleasant sharp spikes. I looked for sawdust the moment I went into the house, and when that was not present I guessed the gun.”
“But how did you know there was anything?” asked Big Bill curiously.
Mr. Reeder smiled.
“I have a criminal mind,” he said.
He went back to his flat in Bennett Street, his mind equally divided between Margaret Belman, safe in Sussex, and the ability of one normal trolley to carry a hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns. Such little details interested Mr. Reeder. Almost the first thing he did when he reached his flat was to call up a haulage contractor to discover whether such trucks were in use. For somehow he knew that if the Flack gang were after this shipment to Australia, it was necessary that the gold should be carried in one vehicle. And why he should think this, not even Mr. Reeder knew. But he had, as he said, a criminal mind.
That afternoon he addressed himself to a novel and not unpleasing task. It was a letter—the first letter he had written to Margaret Belman,—and in its way it was a curiosity.
“My dear Miss Margaret,” it began, “I trust you will not be annoyed that I should write to you; but certain incidents which disfigured perhaps our parting, and which may cause you (I say this, knowing your kind heart) a little unhappiness, induce this letter——”
Mr. Reeder paused here to discover a method by which he could convey his regret at not seeing her, without offering an embarrassing revelation of his more secret thoughts. At five o’clock, when his servant brought in his tea, he was still sitting before the unfinished letter. Mr. Reeder took up the cup, carried it to his writing-table, and stared at it as though for inspiration.
And then he saw, on the surface of the steaming cup, a thread-like formation of froth which had a curious metallic quality. He dipped his forefinger delicately in the froth and put his finger to his tongue.
“Hum!” said Mr. Reeder, and rang the bell.
His man came instantly.
“Is there anything you want, sir?” He bent his head respectfully, and for a long time Mr. Reeder did not answer.
“The milk, of course!” he said.
“The milk, sir?” said the puzzled servant, “The milk’s fresh, sir: it came this afternoon.”
“You did not take it from the milkman, naturally. It was in a bottle outside the door.”
The man nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good!” said Mr. Reeder, almost cheerfully. “In future, will you arrange to receive the milk from the milkman’s own hands? You have not drunk any yourself, I see?”
“No, sir. I have had my tea, but I don’t take milk with it, sir,” said the servant, and Mr. Reeder favoured him with one of his rare smiles.
“That, Peters,” he said, “is why you are alive and well. Bring the rest of the milk to me, and a new cup of tea. I also will dispense with the lacteal fluid.”
“Don’t you like milk, sir?” said the bewildered man.
“I like milk,” replied Mr. Reeder gently, “but I prefer it without strychnine. I think, Peters, we’re going to have a very interesting week. Have you any dependants?”
“I have an old mother, sir,” said the mystified man.
“Are you insured?” asked Mr. Reeder, and Peters nodded dumbly.
“You have the advantage of me,” said J. G. Reeder. “Yes, I think we are going to have an interesting week.”
And his prediction was fully justified.
CHAPTER VIII
London heard the news of John Flack’s escape and grew fearful or indignant according to its several temperaments. A homicidal planner of great and spectacular thefts was in its midst. It was not very pleasant hearing for law-abiding citizens. And the news was more than a week old: why had Scotland Yard not taken the public into its confidence? Why suppress this news of such vital interest? Who was responsible for the suppression of this important information? Headlines asked these questions in the more sensational sheets. The news of the Bennett Street outrage was public property: to his enormous embarrassment, Mr. Reeder found himself a Matter of Public Interest.
Mr. Reeder used to sit alone in his tiny bureau at the Public Prosecutor’s Office and for hours on end do little more than twiddle his thumbs and gaze disconsolately at the virgin white of his blotting-pad.
In what private day-dreams he indulged, whether they concerned fabulous fortunes and their disposition, or whether they centred about a very pretty pink-and-white young lady, or whether indeed he thought at all and his mind was not a complete blank, those who interrupted his reveries and had the satisfaction of seeing him start guiltily had no means of knowing.
At this particular moment his mind was, in truth, completely occupied by his newest as well as his oldest enemy.
There were three members of the Flack gang originally—John, George, and Augustus—and they began operations in the days when it was considered scientific and a little wonderful to burn out the lock of a safe.
Augustus Flack was killed by the night watchman of Carr’s Bank in Lombard Street during an attempt to rob the gold vault; George Flack, the youngest of the three, was sent to penal servitude for ten years as the result of a robbery in Bond Street, and died there; and only John, the mad master-mind of the family, escaped detection and arrest.
It was he who brought into the organisation one O. Sweizer, the Yankee bank-smasher; he who recruited Adolphe Victoire; and those brought others to the good work. For this was Crazy Jack’s peculiar asset—that he could attract to himself, almost at a minute’s notice, the best brains of the underworld. Though the rest of the Flacks were either dead or gaoled, the organisation was stronger than ever, and strongest because lurking somewhere in the background was this kinky brain.
Thus matters stood when Mr. J. G. Reeder came into the case—being brought into the matter not so much because the London police had failed, but because the Public Prosecutor recognised that the breaking up of the Flacks was going to be a lengthy business, occupying one man’s complete attention.
Cutting the tentacles of the organisation was an easy matter, comparatively.
Mr. Reeder took O. Sweizer, that stocky Swiss-American, when he and a man unknown were engaged in removing a safe from the Bedford Street post-office one Sunday morning. Sweizer was ready for fight, but Mr. Reeder grabbed him just a little too quickly.
“Let up!” gasped Sweizer in Italian. “You’re choking me, Reeder.”
Mr. Reeder turned him on to his face and handcuffed him behind, then he lifted him by the scruff of his neck and went to the assistance of his admirable colleagues who were taking the other two men.
Victoire was arrested one night at the Charlton, when he was dining with Denver May. He gave no trouble, because the police took him on a purely fictitious charge and one which he knew he could easily disprove.
“My dear Mr. Reeder,” said he in his elegant, languid way, “you are making quite an absurd mistake, but I will humour you. I can prove that when the pearls were taken from Hertford Street I was in Nice.”
This was on the way to the station.
They put him in the dock and searched him, discovering certain lethal weapons handily disposed about his person, but he was only amused. He was less amused when he was charged with smashing the Bank of Lens, the attempted murder of a night watchman, and one or two other little matters which need not be particularised.
They got him into the cells, and as he was carried, struggling and raving like a lunatic, Mr. Reeder offered him a piece of advice which he rejected with considerable violence.
“Say you were in Nice at the time,” he said gently.
Then one day the police pulled in a man in Somers Town, on the very prosaic charge of beating his wife in public. When they searched him they found a torn scrap of a letter, which was sent at once to Mr. Reeder. It ran:
“Any night about eleven in Whitehall Avenue. Reeder is a man of medium height, elderly-looking, sandy-greyish hair and side-whiskers rather thick, always carries an umbrella. Recommend you to wear rubber boots and take a length of iron to him. You can easily find out who he is and what he looks like. Take your time… fifty on acc… der when the job is finished…”
This was the first hint Mr. Reeder had that he was especially unpopular with the mysterious John Flack.
The day Crazy Jack was sent down to Broadmoor had been a day of mild satisfaction for Mr. Reeder. He was not exactly happy or even relieved about it. He had the comfort of an accountant who had signed a satisfactory balance-sheet, or the builder who was surveying his finished work. There were other balance-sheets to be signed, other buildings to be erected—they differed only in their shapes and quantities.
One thing was certain, that on what other project Flack’s mind was fixed, he was devoting a considerable amount of thought to J. G. Reeder—whether in reprisal for events that had passed or as a precautionary measure to check his activities in the future, the detective could only guess: but he was a good guesser.
The telephone bell, set in a remote corner of the room, rang sharply. Mr. Reeder took up the instrument with a pained expression. The operator of the office exchange told him that there was a call from Horsham. He pulled a writing-pad towards him and waited. And then a voice spoke, and hardly was the first word uttered when he knew his man, for J. G. Reeder never forgot voices.
“That you, Reeder?… Know who I am?…”
The same thin, tense voice that had babbled threats from the dock of the Old Bailey, the same little chuckling laugh that punctured every second.
Mr. Reeder touched a bell and began to write rapidly on his pad.
“Know who I am?—I’ll bet you do! Thought you’d got rid of me, didn’t you? but you haven’t!… Listen, Reeder, you can tell the Yard I’m busy—I’m going to give them the shock of their lives. Mad, am I? I’ll show you whether I’m mad or not… And I’ll get you, Reeder…”
A messenger came in. Mr. Reeder tore off the slip and handed it to him with an urgent gesture. The man read and bolted from the room.
“Is that Mr. Flack?” asked Reeder softly.
“Is it Mr. Flack, you old hypocrite!… Have you got the parcel? I wondered if you had. What do you think of it?”
“The parcel?” said Reeder, gentlier than ever, and before the man could reply: “You will get into serious trouble for trying to hoax the Public Prosecutor’s Office, my friend,” said Mr. Reeder reproachfully. “You are not Crazy John Flack… I know his voice. Mr. Flack spoke with a curious Cockney accent which is not easy to imitate, and Mr. Flack at this moment is in the hands of the police.”
He counted on the effect of this provocative speech, and he had made no mistake.
“You lie!” screamed the voice. “You know I’m Flack… Crazy Jack, eh?… Crazy old John Flack… Mad, am I? You’ll learn!… you put me in that hell upon earth, and I’m going to serve you worse than I treated that damned dago…”
The voice ceased abruptly. There was a click as the receiver was put down. Reeder listened expectantly, but no other call came through. Then he rang the bell again and the messenger returned.
“Yes, sir, I got through straight away to the Horsham police station. The inspector is sending three men in a car to the post-office.”
Mr. Reeder gazed at the ceiling.
“Then I fear he has sent too late,” he said. “The venerable bandit will have gone.”
A quarter of an hour later came confirmation of his prediction. The police had arrived at the post-office, but the bird had flown. The clerk did not remember anybody old or wild-looking booking a call; he thought that the message had not come from the post-office itself, which was also the telephone exchange, but from an outlying call-box.
Mr. Reeder went in to report to the Public Prosecutor, but neither he nor his assistant was in the office. He rang up Scotland Yard and passed on his information to Simpson.
“I respectfully suggest that you should get into touch with the French police and locate Ravini. He may not be in Paris at all.”
“Where do you think he is?” asked Simpson.
“That,” replied Mr. Reeder in a hushed voice, “is a question which has never been definitely settled in my mind. I should not like to say that he was in heaven, because I cannot imagine Georgio Ravini with his Luck Stones——”
“Do you mean that he’s dead?” asked Simpson quickly.
“It is very likely; in fact, it is extremely likely.”
There was a long silence at the other end of the telephone.
“Have you had the parcel?”
“That I am awaiting with the greatest interest,” said Mr. Reeder, and went back to his office to twiddle his thumbs and stare at his white blotting-pad.
The parcel came at three o’clock that afternoon, when Mr. Reeder had returned from his frugal lunch, which he invariably took at a large and popular teashop in Whitehall. It was a very small parcel, about three inches square; it was registered, and had been posted in London. He weighed it carefully, shook it and listened, but the lightness of the package precluded any possibility of there being concealed behind the paper wrapping anything that bore a resemblance to an infernal machine. He cut the paper tape that fastened it, took off the paper, and there was revealed a small cardboard box such as jewellers employ. Removing the lid, he found a small pad of cotton-wool, and in the midst of this three gold rings, each with three brilliant diamonds. He put them on his blotting-pad and gazed at them for a long time.
They were George Ravini’s Luck Stones, and for ten minutes Mr. Reeder sat in a profound reverie, for he knew that George Ravini was dead, and it did not need the card which accompanied the rings to know who was responsible for the drastic and gruesome ending to Mr. Ravini’s life. The sprawling “J. F.” on the little card was in Mr. Flack’s writing, and the three words “Your turn next” were instructive, even if they were not, as they were intended to be, terrifying.
Half an hour later Mr. Reeder met Inspector Simpson by appointment at Scotland Yard. Simpson examined the rings curiously, and pointed out a small, dark-brown speck at the edge of one of the Luck Stones.
“I don’t doubt that Ravini is dead,” he said. “The first thing to discover is where he went when he said he was going to Paris.”
This task presented fewer difficulties than Simpson had imagined. He remembered Lew Steyne and his association with the Italian, and a telephone call put through to the City police located Lew in five minutes.
“Bring him along in a taxi,” said Simpson, and, as he hung up the receiver: “The question is, what is Crazy Jack’s coup? murder on a large scale, or just picturesque robbery?”
“I think the latter,” said Mr. Reeder thoughtfully. “Murder, with Mr. Flack, is a mere incidental to the—er—more important business of money-making.”
He pinched his lip thoughtfully.
“Forgive me if I seem to repeat myself, but I would again remind you that Mr. Flack’s specialty is bullion, if I remember aright,” he said. “Didn’t he smash the strong room of the Megantic… bullion, hum!” He scratched his chin and looked up over his glasses at Simpson.
The inspector shook his head.
“I only wish Crazy Jack was crazy enough to try to get out of the country by steamer—he won’t. And the Leadenhall Bank stunt couldn’t be repeated to-day. No, there’s no chance of a bullion steal.”
Mr. Reeder looked unconvinced.
“Would you ring up the Bank of England and find out if the money has gone to Australia?” he pleaded.
Simpson pulled the instrument towards him, gave a number and, after five minutes’ groping through various departments, reached an exclusive personage. Mr. Reeder sat, with his hands clasped about the handle of his umbrella, a pained expression on his face, his eyes closed, and seemingly oblivious of the conversation. Presently Simpson hung up the receiver.
“The consignment should have gone this morning, but the sailing of the Olanic has been delayed by a stevedore strike—it goes to-morrow morning,” he reported. “The gold is taken on a lorry to Tilbury with a guard. At Tilbury it is put into the Olanic’s strong-room, which is the newest and safest of its kind. I don’t suppose that John will begin operations there.”
“Why not?” J. G. Reeder’s voice was almost bland; his face was screwed into its nearest approach to a smile. “On the contrary, as I have said before, that is the very consignment I should expect Mr. Flack to go after.”
“I pray that you’re a true prophet,” said Simpson grimly. “I could wish for nothing better.”
They were still talking of Flack and his passion for ready gold when Mr. Lew Steyne arrived in the charge of a local detective. No crook, however hardened, can step into the gloomy approaches of Scotland Yard without experiencing some uneasiness, and Lew’s attempt to display his indifference was rather pathetic.
“What’s the idea, Mr. Simpson?” he asked, in a grieved tone. “I’ve done nothing.”
He scowled at Reeder, who was known to him, and whom he regarded, very rightly, as being responsible for his appearance at this best-hated spot.
Simpson put a question, and Mr. Lew Steyne shrugged his shoulders.
“I ask you, Mr. Simpson, am I Ravini’s keeper? I know nothing about the Italian crowd, and Ravini’s scarcely an acquaintance.”
Mr. Reeder shook his head.
“You spent two hours with him last Thursday evening,” he said, and Lew was a little taken aback.
“I had a little bit of business with him, I admit,” he said. “Over a house I’m trying to rent——”
His shifty eyes had become suddenly steadfast; he was looking open-mouthed at the three rings that lay on the table. Reeder saw him frown, and then:
“What are those?” asked Lew huskily. “They’re not Georgio’s Luck Stones?”
Simpson nodded and pushed the little square of white paper on which they lay towards the visitor.
“Do you know them?” he asked.
Lew picked up one of the rings and turned it round in his hand.
“What’s the idea?” he asked suspiciously. “Ravini told me himself he could never get these off.”
And then, as the significance of their presence dawned upon him, he gasped.
“What’s happened to him?” he asked quickly. “Is he——”
“I fear,” said Mr. Reeder soberly, “that Georgio Ravini is no longer with us.”
“Dead?” Lew almost shrieked the word. His yellow face went a chalky white. “Where… who did it?…”
“That is exactly what we want to know,” said Simpson. “Now, Lew, you’ve got to spill it. Where is Ravini? He said he was going to Paris, I know, but actually where did he go?”
The thief’s eyes strayed to Mr. Reeder.
“He was after that ‘bird,’ that’s all I know,” he said sullenly.
“Which bird?” asked Simpson, but Mr. Reeder had no need to have its identity explained.
“He was after—Miss Belman?”
Lew nodded.
“Yes, a girl he knew… she went down into the country to take a job as hotel manager or something. I saw her go, as a matter of fact. Ravini wanted to get better acquainted, so he went down to stay at the hotel.”
Even as he spoke, Mr. Reeder had reached for the telephone, and had given the peculiar code word which is equivalent to a command for a clear line.
A high-pitched voice answered him.
“I am Mr. Daver, the proprietor… Miss Belman? I’m afraid she is out just now. She will be back in a few minutes. Who is it speaking?”
Mr. Reeder replied diplomatically. He was anxious to get into touch with George Ravini, and for two minutes he allowed the voluble Mr. Daver to air a grievance.
“Yes, he went in the early morning, without paying his bill…”
“I will come down and pay it,” said Mr. Reeder.
CHAPTER IX
“The point is,” said Mr. Daver, “the only point—I think you will agree with me here—that really has any interest for us, is that Mr. Ravini left without paying his bill. This was the point I emphasised to a friend of his who called me on the telephone this morning. That is to me the supreme mystery of his disappearance—he left without paying his bill!”
He leaned back in his chair and beamed at the girl in the manner of one who had expounded an unanswerable problem. With his finger-tips together he had an appearance which was oddly reminiscent.
“The fact that he left behind a pair of pyjamas which are practically valueless merely demonstrates that he left in a hurry. You agree with me? I am sure you do. Why he should leave in a hurry is naturally beyond my understanding. You say he was a crook: possibly he received information that he had been detected.”
“He had no telephone calls and no letters while he was here,” insisted Margaret.
Mr. Daver shook his head.
“That proves nothing. Such a man would have associates. I am sorry he has gone. I hoped to have an opportunity of studying his type. And by the way, I have discovered something about Flack—the famous John Flack—did you know that he had escaped from the lunatic asylum? I gather from your alarm that you didn’t. I am an observer, Miss B. Years of study of this fascinating subject have produced in me a sixth sense—the sense of observation, which is atrophied in ordinary individuals.”
He took a long envelope from his drawer and pulled out a small bundle of press cuttings. These he sorted on to his table, and presently unfolded a newspaper portrait of an elderly man and laid it before her.
“Flack,” he said briefly.
She was surprised at the age of the man; the thin face, the grizzled moustache and beard, the deep-set, intelligent eyes suggested almost anything rather than that confirmed and dangerous criminal.
“My press-cutting agency supplied these,” he said. “And here is another portrait which may interest you, and in a sense the arrival of this photograph is a coincidence. I am sure you will agree with me when I tell you why. It is a picture of a man called Reeder.”
Mr. Daver did not look up or he would have seen the red come to the girl’s face.
“A clever old gentleman attached to the Public Prosecutor’s Department——”
“He is not very old,” said Margaret coldly.
“He looks old,” said Mr. Daver, and Margaret had to agree that the newspaper portrait was not a very flattering one.
“This is the gentleman who was instrumental in arresting Flack, and the coincidence—now what do you imagine the coincidence is?”
She shook her head.
“He’s coming here to-day!”
Margaret Belman’s mouth opened in amazement.
“I had a wire from him this afternoon saying he was coming to-night, and asking if I could accommodate him. But for my interest in this case I should not have known his name or had the slightest idea of his identity. In all probability I should have refused him a room.”
He looked up suddenly.
“You say he is not so old: do you know him? I see that you do. That is even a more remarkable coincidence. I am looking forward with the utmost delight to discussing with him my pet subject. It will be an intellectual treat.”
“I don’t think Mr. Reeder discusses crime,” she said. “He is rather reticent on the subject.”
“We shall see,” said Mr. Daver, and from his manner she guessed that he at any rate had no doubt that the man from the Public Prosecutor’s Office would respond instantly to a sympathetic audience.
Mr. Reeder came just before seven, and to her surprise he had abandoned his frock-coat and curious hat and was almost jauntily attired in grey flannels. He brought with him two very solid and heavy-looking steamer trunks.
The meeting was not without its moment of embarrassment.
“I trust you will not think, Miss—um—Margaret, that I am being indiscreet. But the truth is, I—um—am in need of a holiday.”
He never looked less in need of a holiday: compared with the Reeder she knew, this man was most unmistakably alert.
“Will you come to my office?” she said, a little unsteadily.
When they reached her bureau, Mr. Reeder opened the door reverently. She had a feeling that he was holding his breath, and she was seized with an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh. Instead, she preceded him into her sanctum. When the door closed:
“I was an awful pig to you, Mr. Reeder,” she began rapidly. “I ought to have written… the whole thing was so absurd… the quarrel, I mean.”
“The disagreement,” murmured Mr. Reeder. “I am old-fashioned, I admit, but an old man——”
“Forty-eight isn’t old,” she scoffed. “And why shouldn’t you wear side-whiskers? It was unpardonable of me… feminine curiosity: I wanted to see how you looked.”
Mr. Reeder raised his hand. His voice was almost gay.
“The fault was entirely mine, Miss Margaret. I am old-fashioned. You do not think—er—it is indecorous, my paying a visit to Larmes Keep?”
He looked round at the door and lowered his voice.
“When did Mr. Ravini leave?” he asked.
She looked at him amazed.
“Did you come down about that?”
He nodded slowly.
“I heard he was here. Somebody told me. When did he go?”
Very briefly she told him the story of her night’s experience, and he listened, his face growing longer and longer, until she had finished.
“Before that, can you remember what happened? Did you see him the night before he left?”
She knit her forehead and tried to remember.
“Yes,” she said suddenly, “he was in the grounds, walking with Miss Crewe. He came in rather late——”
“With Miss Crewe?” asked Reeder quickly. “Miss Crewe? Was that the rather interesting young lady I saw playing croquet with a clergyman as I came across the lawn?”
She looked at him in surprise.
“Did you come across the lawn? I thought you drove up to the front of the house——”
“I descended from the vehicle at the top of the hill,” Mr. Reeder hastily explained. “At my age a little exercise is vitally necessary. The approaches to the Keep are charming. A young lady, rather pale, with dark eyes… hum!”
He was looking at her searchingly, his head a little on one side.
“So she and Ravini went out. Were they acquainted?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t think Ravini had met her until he came here.”
She went on to tell him of Ravini’s agitation, and of how she had found Olga Crewe in tears.
“Weeping… ah!” Mr. Reeder fondled his nose. “You have seen her since?”
And, when the girl shook her head:
“She got up late the next morning—had a headache possibly?” he asked eagerly, and her eyes opened in astonishment.
“Why, yes. How did you know——”
But Mr. Reeder was not in an informative mood.
“The number of your room is——?”
“No. 4. Miss Crewe’s is No. 5.”
Reeder nodded.
“And Ravini was in No. 7: that is two doors away.” Then, suddenly: “Where have you put me?”
She hesitated.
“In No. 7. Those were Mr. Daver’s orders. It is one of the best rooms in the house. I warn you, Mr. Reeder, the proprietor is a criminologist and is most anxious to discuss his hobby.”
“Delighted,” murmured Mr. Reeder, but he was thinking of something else. “Could I see Mr. Daver?”
The quarter-of-an-hour gong had already sounded, and she took him along to the office in the annexe. Mr. Daver’s desk was surprisingly tidy. He was surveying an account-book through large horn-rimmed spectacles, and looked up inquiringly as she came in.
“This is Mr. Reeder,” she said, and withdrew.
For a second they looked at one another, the detective and the Puck-faced little proprietor; and then, with a magnificent wave of his hand, Mr. Daver invited his visitor to a seat.
“This is a very proud moment for me, Mr. Reeder,” he said, and bent himself double in a profound bow. “As an humble student of those great authorities whose works, I have no doubt, are familiar to you, I am honoured at this privilege of meeting one whom I may describe as a modern Lombroso. You agree with me? I was certain you would.”
Mr. Reeder looked up at the ceiling.
“Lombroso?” he repeated slowly. “An—um—Italian gentleman, I think? The name is almost familiar.”
Margaret Belman had not quite closed the door, and Mr. Daver rose and shut it; returned to his chair with an outflung hand and seated himself.
“I am glad you have come. In fact, Mr. Reeder, you have relieved my mind of a great unease. Ever since yesterday morning I have been wondering whether I ought not to call up Scotland Yard, that splendid institution, and ask them to despatch an officer to clear up this strange and possibly revolting mystery.”
He paused impressively.
“I refer to the disappearance of Mr. George Ravini, a guest of Larmes Keep, who left this house at a quarter to five yesterday morning and was seen making his way into Siltbury.”
“By whom?” asked Mr. Reeder.
“By an inhabitant of Siltbury, whose name for the moment I forget. Indeed, I never knew. I met him quite by chance walking down into the town.”
He leaned forward over his desk and stared owlishly into Mr. Reeder’s eyes.
“You have come about Ravini, have you not? Do not answer me: I see you have! Naturally, one did not expect you to carry, so to speak, your heart on your sleeve. Am I right? I think I am.”
Mr. Reeder did not confirm this conclusion. He seemed strangely unwilling to speak, and in ordinary circumstances Mr. Daver would not have resented this diffidence.
“Very naturally I do not wish a scandal to attach to this house,” he said, “and I may rely upon your discretion. The only matter which touches me is that Ravini left without paying his bill; a small and unimportant aspect of what may possibly be a momentous case. You see my point of view? I am certain that you do.”
He paused, and now Mr. Reeder spoke.
“At a quarter to five,” he said thoughtfully, as though speaking to himself, “it was scarcely light, was it?”
“The dawn was possibly breaking o’er the sea,” said Mr. Daver poetically.
“Going to Siltbury? Carrying his bag?”
Mr. Daver nodded.
“May I see his room?”
Daver came to his feet with a flourish.
“That is a request I expected, and it is a reasonable request. Will you follow me?”
Mr. Reeder followed him through the great hall, which was occupied solely by a military-looking gentleman, who cast a quick sidelong glance at him as he passed. Mr. Daver was leading the way to the wide stairs when Mr. Reeder stopped and pointed.
“How very interesting!” he said.
The most unlikely things interested Mr. Reeder. On this occasion the point of interest was a large safe—larger than any safe he had seen in a private establishment. It was six feet in height and half that width, and it was fitted under the first flight of stairs.
“What is it?” asked Mr. Daver, and turned back. His face screwed up into a smile when he saw the object of the detective’s attention.
“Ah! My safe! I have many rare and valuable documents which I keep here. It is a French model, you will observe—too large for my modest establishment, you will say? I agree. Sometimes, however, we have very rich people staying here… jewels and the like… it would take a very clever burglar to open that, and yet I, with a little key——”
He drew a chain from his pocket and fitted one of the keys at the end into a thin keyhole, turned a handle, and the heavy door swung open.
Mr. Reeder peeped in curiously. On the two steel shelves at the back of the safe were three small tin boxes—otherwise the safe was empty. The doors were of an extraordinary thickness, and their inner face smooth except for a slab of steel the object of which apparently was to back and strengthen the lock. All this he saw at once, but he saw something else. The white enamelled floor of the safe was brighter in hue than the walls. Only a man of Mr. Reeder’s powers of observation would have noticed this fact. And the steel slab at the back of the lock…? Mr. Reeder knew quite a lot about safes.
“A treasure-house—it almost makes me feel rich,” chuckled Mr. Daver as he locked the door and led the way up the stairs. “The psychology of it will appeal to you, Mr. Reeder!”
At the head of the stairs they came to a broad corridor; Daver, stopping before the door of No. 7, inserted a key.
“This is also your room,” he explained. “I had a feeling which amounted almost to a certainty, that your visit was not wholly unconnected with this curious disappearance of Mr. Ravini, who left without paying his bill.” He chuckled a little and apologised. “Excuse me for my insistence upon this point, but it touches me rather nearly.”
Mr. Reeder followed his host into the big room. It was panelled from ceiling to floor and furnished with a luxury which surprised him. The articles of furniture were few, but there was not one which a connoisseur would not have noted with admiration. The four-poster bed was Jacobean; the square of carpet was genuine Teheran; a dressing-table with a settle before it was also of the Jacobean period.
“That was his bed, where the pyjamas were found.”
Mr. Daver pointed dramatically. But Mr. Reeder was looking at the casement windows, one of which was open.
He leaned out and looked down, and immediately began to take in the view. He could see Siltbury lying in the shadow of the downs, its lights just then beginning to twinkle; but the view of the Siltbury road was shut out by a belt of firs. To the left he had a glimpse of the hill road up which his cab had climbed.
Mr. Reeder came out from the room and cast his eyes up and down the corridor.
“This is a very beautiful house you have, Mr. Daver,” he said.
“You like it? I was sure you would!” said Mr. Daver enthusiastically. “Yes, it is a delightful property. To you it may seem a sacrilege that I should use it as a boarding-house, but perhaps our dear young friend Miss Belman has explained that it is a hobby of mine. I hate loneliness; I dislike intensely the exertion of making friends. My position is unique; I can pick and choose my guests.”
Mr. Reeder was looking aimlessly towards the head of the stairs.
“Did you ever have a guest named Holden?” he asked.
Mr. Daver shook his head.
“Or a guest named Willington…? Two friends of mine who may have come here about eight years ago?”
“No,” said Mr. Daver promptly. “I never forget names. You may inspect our guest-list for the past twelve years at any time you wish. Would they be likely to come for any reason”—Mr. Daver was amusingly embarrassed—“in other names than their own? No, I see they wouldn’t.”
As he was speaking, a door at the far end of the corridor opened and closed instantly. Mr. Reeder, who missed nothing, caught one glimpse of a figure before the door shut.
“Whose room is that?” he asked.
Mr. Daver was genuinely embarrassed this time.
“That,” he said, with a nervous little cough, “is my suite. You saw Mrs. Burton, my housekeeper—a quiet, rather sad soul, who has had a great deal of trouble in her life.”
“Life,” said Mr. Reeder tritely, “is full of trouble,” and Mr. Daver agreed with a sorrowful shake of his head.
Now, the eyesight of J. G. Reeder was peculiarly good, and though he had not as yet met the housekeeper, he was quite certain that the rather beautiful face he had glimpsed for a moment did not belong to any sad woman who had seen a lot of trouble. As he dressed leisurely for dinner, he wondered why Miss Olga Crewe had been so anxious that she should not be seen coming from the proprietor’s suite. A natural and proper modesty, no doubt; and modesty was the quality in woman of which Mr. Reeder most heartily approved.
He was struggling with his tie when Daver, who seemed to have constituted himself a sort of personal attendant, knocked at the door and asked permission to come in. He was a little breathless, and carried a number of press cuttings in his hand.
“You were talking about two gentlemen, Mr. Willington and Mr. Holden,” he said. “The names seemed rather familiar. I had the irritating sense of knowing them without knowing them, if you understand, dear Mr. Reeder? And then I recalled the circumstances.” He flourished the press cuttings. “I saw their names here.”