Red aces Being three cases of Mr. Reeder
surroundings, though his blue chin was newly shaved and his black hair
was glossy with pomade, and in the lapel of his coat he wore a
dazzling gardenia.
Mr. Machfield watched him wander aimlessly around the table, and then
caught his eye and indicated that he wished to see him. Soon
afterwards he walked out of the room and Mr. Kingfether followed.
“You’re rather silly to come to-night, K,” said Mr. Machfield.
“There’s just a chance of a raid--Reeder was here this afternoon.”
The manager’s jaw dropped.
“Is he here now?” he asked, and Mr. Machfield smiled at the
foolishness of the question.
“No, and he won’t be coming to-night, unless he arrives with a flying
squad. We’ll keep that bird out at any rate.”
“Where is Ena?” asked Kingfether.
“She’ll be in later,” lied Machfield. “She had a bit of a headache,
and I advised her not to come.”
The bank manager helped himself to a whisky from a decanter on the
sideboard.
“I’m very fond of that girl,” said Kingfether.
“Who isn’t?” asked the other.
“To me”--there was a tremor in the younger man’s voice--“she is
something outside of all my experience. Do you think she’s fond of me,
Machfield?”
“I am sure she is,” said the other heartily; “but she’s a woman of the
world, you know, my boy, and women of the world do not carry their
hearts on their sleeves.”
He might have added, that, in the case of Ena she carried the business
equivalent of that organ up her sleeve, ready for exhibition to any
susceptible man, young or old.
“Do you think she’d marry me, Machfield?”
Mr. Machfield did not laugh. He had played cards a great deal and had
learned to school his countenance. Ena had two husbands, and had not
gone through the formality of freeing herself from either. Both were
officially abroad, the foreign country being that stretch of desolate
moorland which lies between Ashburton and Tavistock. Here, in the
gaunt convict establishment of Princeton, they laboured for the good
of their souls, but with little profit to the tax-payers who supported
them, and even supplied them with tobacco.
“Why shouldn’t she? But mind, she’s an expensive kind of girl, K,”
said Machfield very seriously. “She costs a lot of money to dress, and
you’d have to find it from somewhere--five hundred a year doesn’t go
far with a girl who buys her dresses in Paris.”
Kingfether strode up and down the apartment, his hands in his pockets,
his head on his chest, a look of gloom on a face that was never
touched with brightness.
“I realize that,” he said, “but if she loved me she’d help to make
both ends meet. I’ve got to cut out this business of the bank; I’ve
had a fright, and I can’t take the risk again. In fact, I thought of
leaving the bank and setting up a general agency in London.”
Mr. Machfield knew what a general agency was when it was run by an
inexperienced man. An office to which nobody came except bill
collectors. He didn’t, however, wish to discourage his client; for the
matter of that, Kingfether gave him little opportunity for comment.
“There is going to be hell’s own trouble about that cheque,” he said.
“I had a letter from head office--I have to report to the general
manager in the morning and take McKay with me. That is the usual
course.”
Such details were distasteful to Mr. Machfield. He needed all the
spare room in his mind for other matters much more weighty than the
routine of the Great Central Bank, but he was more than interested in
the fate of McKay.
Kingfether came back to Ena, because Ena filled his horizon.
“The first time I ever met her,” he said, “I knew she was the one
woman in the world for me. I know she’s had a rough time and that
she’s had a battle to live. But who am I to judge?”
“Who, indeed?” murmured Mr. Machfield, with considerable truth. And
then, pursuing his thought, “What will happen to Mr. Kenneth McKay?”
Only for a moment did the manager look uncomfortable.
“He is not my concern,” he said loudly. “There is no doubt at all that
the signature on the cheque----”
“Oh, yes, yes,” said the other impatiently. “We don’t want to discuss
that, do we? I mean, not between friends. You paid me the money you
owed me, and there was an end to it so far as I am concerned. I took a
bit of a risk myself, sending Ena down--I mean, letting Ena go,” he
corrected, when he saw the look on the other’s face. “What about young
McKay?”
The manager shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know and I really don’t care. When I got back to the bank
this afternoon he’d gone, though I’d left instructions that he was to
stay until I returned. Of course, I can’t report it, because I did
wrong to go away myself, and it was rather awkward that one of our
bank inspectors called when I was out. I shall have to work all night
to make up arrears. McKay might have helped me. In fact, I told
him----”
“Oh, he came back, did he?”
“For five minutes, just before six o’clock. He just looked in and went
out again. That is how I knew the inspector had called. I had to tell
this pup about the cheque and the banknotes. By the way, that is a
mystery to me how the notes came into his hands at all--I suppose
there is no mistake about them? If he was in the habit of coming here
he might have got them from the table. He doesn’t come here, does he?”
“Not often.” Mr. Machfield might have added that nobody came to that
place unless they had a certain amount of surplus wealth, or the means
by which easy money could be acquired.
There were quite a number of his clients who were in almost exactly
the same position as Mr. Kingfether--people in positions of trust, men
who had the handling of other people’s money. It was no business of
Machfield’s how that money was obtained, so long as it was judiciously
spent. It was his boast that his game was straight; as indeed it
was--up to a point. He had allowed himself throughout life a certain
margin of dishonesty, which covered both bad luck and bad investments.
Twice in his life he had gone out for big coups. Once he had failed,
the other time he had succeeded but had made no money.
He was not _persona grata_ in all the countries of the world. If he
had arrived at Monte Carlo he would have left by very nearly the next
train, or else the obliging police would have placed a motor-car at
his disposal to take him across to Nice, a resort which isn’t so
particular as to the character of her temporary visitors.
“I’m sorry for McKay in a way, although he is such an impossible
swine, but it’s a case of his life or mine, Machfield. Either he goes
down or I go down--and I’m not going down.”
Nothing wearied Mr. Machfield worse than heroics. And yet he should
have been hardened to them, for he had lived in an atmosphere of
hectic drama, and once had seen a victim of his lying dead by his own
hand across the green board of his gaming table. But it was years ago.
“You’d better slide back to the room,” he said. “I’ll come in a little
later. Don’t play high: I’ve still got some of your papers, dear boy.”
When he returned to the room, the manager had found a seat at the
table and was punting modestly and with some success. The croupier
asked a question with a flick of his eyelids, and almost imperceptibly
Machfield shook his head, which meant that that night, at any rate,
Kingfether would pay for his losses in cash, that neither his I.O.U.’s
nor cheques would be accepted.
From time to time the players got up from the tables, strolled into
the buffet, had a drink and departed. But there was always a steady
stream of newcomers to take their places. Mr. Machfield went back to
his study, for he was expecting a telephone message. It came at a
quarter past ten. A woman’s voice said: “Ena says everything is O.K.”
He hung up the telephone with a smile. Ena was a safe bet: you could
always trust that girl, and he did not question her ability to keep
her visitor occupied for at least two hours. After that he would do a
little questioning himself. But it must be he, and not that other
fool.
There was no sign of raiders. He had special scouts posted at every
street corner approaching the house, and a man on the roof (no
sinecure this on a night of rain and sleet) to take and transmit their
signals in case of danger. If there were a raid he was prepared for
it. More likely the police, following their invariable custom, would
postpone the visitation until later in the week. And by that time, if
all went well, the house would be closed and the keys in the hands of
the agents.
Kingfether was winning; there was a big pile of Treasury and
five-pound notes before him. He looked animated, and for once in his
life pleased. The bank was winning too; there was a big box recessed
into the table, and this was full of paper money and every few minutes
the pile was augmented.
A dull evening! Mr. Machfield would be glad when the time came for his
loud speaking gramophone to play the National Anthem. He always closed
down on this patriotic note: it left the most unlucky of players with
the comforting sense that at least they had their country left to
them.
He was looking at the long folding door of the room as it opened
slowly. It was second nature in him to watch that opening door, and
until this moment he had never been shocked or startled by what it
revealed. Now, however, he stood dumbfounded, for there was Mr.
Reeder, without his hat, and even without his umbrella.
Nobody noticed him except the proprietor, and he was frozen to the
spot. With an apologetic smile Mr. Reeder came tiptoeing across to
him.
“Do you very much mind?” he asked in an urgent whisper. “I find time
hanging rather heavily upon my hands.”
Machfield licked his dry lips.
“Come here, will you?”
He went back to his study, Reeder behind him.
“Now, Mr. Reeder, what’s the idea of your coming here? How did you get
in? I gave strict instructions to the man on the door----”
“I told him a lie,” said Mr. Reeder in a hushed tone, as though the
enormity of his offence had temporarily overcome him. “I said that you
had particularly asked me to come to-night. That was very wrong, and I
am sorry. The truth is, Mr. Machfield, even the most illustrious of
men have their little weaknesses; even the cleverest and most
law-abiding their criminal instincts, and although I am neither
illustrious nor clever, I have the frailties of my--er--humanity. Not,
I would add, that it is criminal to play cards for money--far from it.
I, as you probably know, or you may have heard, have a curiously
distorted mind. I find my secret pleasures in such places as these.”
Mr. Machfield was relieved, immensely relieved. He knew detectives who
gambled, but somehow he had never associated Mr. J.G. Reeder with this
peculiar weakness.
“Why, certainly, we’re glad to see you, Mr. Reeder,” he said heartily.
He was so glad indeed that he would have been happy to have given this
odd-looking man the money wherewith to play.
“You’ll have a drink on the house--not,” he added quickly, “that I am
in any position to offer you a drink. I am a guest the same as
yourself, but I know the proprietor would be annoyed if you came and
went without having one.”
“I never drink. A little barley water perhaps?”
There was, unfortunately, no barley water in the establishment, but
this, as Machfield explained, would be remedied in the future--even
now if he wished. Mr. Reeder, however, would not hear of putting “the
house” to trouble. He was anxious to join the company, and again by
some extraordinary quality of good luck, he managed to insinuate
himself so that he sat opposite the croupier. Somebody rose from their
chair as he approached, and Mr. Reeder took the vacant seat.
He might have taken a chair on the opposite side of the table, for at