Red aces Being three cases of Mr. Reeder
intended leaving him in the cottage, but a complication arose whilst
they were searching the place, or endeavouring to open the safe behind
the bookcase. The telephone rang, and they heard Margot Lynn say that
she was coming on but was delayed. One of them answered in a disguised
voice.
The thing to do now was to remove the body. Lifting it out, they laid
it over the horse’s saddle, and, guiding the nervous animal down to
the road, led it towards Beaconsfield. Here a second complication
arose: the lights of Mr. Enward’s car were seen coming toward them.
The body was dropped by the side of the road, and the constable took
his place on the horse’s back. The animal was smothered with the blood
of the murdered man, and the clerk of Mr. Enward, the lawyer, taking
the bridle quite innocently, must have rubbed his sleeve along the
shoulder, for it was afterwards discovered that his coat was stained.
That gave me my first clue, and I was able, owing to my peculiar mind,
to reconstruct the crime as it had been committed.
The two men joined one another again in the vicinity of the cottage.
They were not able to make any further attempt that night. One of
them, however, heard that the girl knew where the money was cached. I
am afraid I was responsible for this, and it was intended that she
should be taken away, with the key of the safe deposit.…
Machfield had already become acquainted with the straitened
circumstances of young McKay, the son of his victim, and probably to
hit at his father, who he must have known was still hunting for him,
used an opportunity which was offered by chance, to ruin him, as he
believed.
Two hundred pounds, representing a portion of the money obtained from
the bank by a fraudulent manager (3 years Penal Servitude; Central
Criminal Court) through the instrumentality of his woman friend (5
years P.S., C.C.C.) was sent anonymously to the younger McKay by
Machfield, and was traced to the young man.
After this came a note, also in Mr. Reeder’s hand:
“Rufus John Machfield and Antonio Lamontaine (sentence: death, C.C.C.)
executed at Wandsworth Prison, April 17th. Executioner Ellis.”
Mr. Reeder was a stickler for facts.
KENNEDY THE CON. MAN
CHAPTER I
The man who stood with such an air of ease in the dock of the
North-West London Police Court bore himself with a certain insolent
dignity. There was a smile which was half contemptuous, half-amused,
on his bearded face.
If, from time to time, his long white fingers thrust through the mass
of goldy-brown hair that was brushed back from his high and narrow
forehead, the gesture revealed neither nervousness nor embarrassment.
Rather was this a trick of habit.
Though he wore no collar or tie, and his clothes and patent-leather
shoes were daubed with last night’s mud, the clothes were new and well
cut; the diamond ring which he wore, and which now sparkled
offensively in the early morning light, hinted most certainly at an
affluence which might be temporary or permanent.
He had in his possession when arrested (to quote the exact itemization
of the constable who had given evidence on the matter) the sum of
eighty-seven pounds ten shillings in Treasury notes, fifteen shillings
in silver coinage, a gold and platinum cigarette case, a small but
expensive bottle of perfume (unopened) and a few keys.
His name was Vladimir Litnoff; he was a Russian subject and his
profession was that of an actor. He had appeared in Russian plays, and
spoke English with the faintest trace of an accent.
Apparently, when he was in wine, as he had been on the previous
evening, he spoke little but Russian, so that the two policemen who
supported the charge of being drunk, and guilty of insulting and
disorderly behaviour, could adduce no other than the language of
offensive gesture to support their accusation.
The magistrate took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair
wearily.
“Whilst you are living in this country you must behave yourself,” he
said conventionally. “This is the second time you have been charged
with disorderly conduct, and you will pay twenty shillings, and seven
and six costs.”
Mr. Litnoff smiled, and bowed gracefully and stepped lightly from the
dock.
Chief Inspector Gaylor, who was waiting in the corridor to give
evidence on a much more serious charge, saw him pass and returned his
smile good-humouredly. The policeman who had “picked up” the Russian
followed from the court.
“Who is that fellow?” asked Gaylor.
“A Russian, sir. He was properly soused… drunk, in the Brompton Road.
He was quiet enough but wouldn’t go away. Him and his brooches!”
“His whatses?” asked the inspector.
“That’s what he said when I took him--about the only English thing he
did say: ‘You shall have my beautiful brooch--worth ten thousand!’ I
don’t know what he was talking about. Another thing he said was that
he’d got property in Monro--he shouted this out to the crowd as me and
P.C. Leigh was taking him away.”
“Monro--that’s in Scotland somewhere.”
Just then Gaylor was called into court.
Later in the evening, as he glanced through his evening newspaper, he
read an account of the police court proceedings. It was headed:
DRUNKEN MAN’S BRIBE OFFER TO POLICE.
TEN THOUSAND POUND BROOCH THAT
WAS DECLINED.
“… P.C. Smith stated that the prisoner had offered him a ten thousand
pound brooch to let him go.
“The Magistrate: Did he have this brooch in his possession?
“Witness: No, your Worship. In his imagination. (Laughter.)”
“Now Reeder would see something very peculiar about that,” said Mr.
Gaylor to his young wife, and she smiled.
She liked Mr. J.G. Reeder, and, quite mistakenly, was sorry for him.
He seemed so pathetically inefficient and helpless compared with the
strong, capable men of Scotland Yard. Many people were sorry for Mr.
Reeder--but there were quite a number who weren’t.
Jake Alsby, for example, was sorry for nobody but himself. He used to
sit in his cell during the long winter evenings on Dartmoor and think
of Mr. Reeder in any but a sympathetic mood. It was a nice, large,
comfortable cell with a vaulted roof. It had a bed, with gaily
coloured blankets, and was warm on the coldest day. He had the
portrait of his wife and family on a shelf. The family ranged from a
hideous little boy of ten to an open-mouthed baby of six months. Jake
had never seen the baby in the flesh. He did not mind whether he saw
his lady wife or family again, but the picture served as a stimulant
to his flagging animosities. It reminded Jake that the barefaced
perjury of Mr. J.G. Reeder had torn him from his family and cast him
into a cold dungeon. A poetical fancy, but none the less pleasing to a
man who had never met the truth face to face without bedecking the
reality with ribbons of fiction.
It was true that Jake forged Bank of England notes, had been caught
with the goods and his factory traced; it was true that he had been
previously convicted for the same offence, but it was not true (as Mr.
Reeder had sworn) that he had been seen near Marble Arch on the Monday
before his arrest. It was Tuesday. Therefore Mr. Reeder had committed
perjury.
To Jake came a letter from one who had been recently discharged from
the hospitality of H.M. Prison at Princeton. It contained a few items
of news, one of which was:
“… saw your old pal reeder yesterday he was in that machfield case him
that done in the old boy at born end reeder dont look a day older he
asked me how you was and i said fine and he said what a pity he only
got seven he oughter got ten and i said…”
What his literary friend said did not interest the enraged man. There
and then he began to think up new torments for the man who had
perjured an innocent man (it was Tuesday, not Monday) into what has
been picturesquely described as a “living hell.”
Three months after the arrival of this letter Jake Alsby was released,
a portion of his sentence having been remitted for good conduct: that
is to say, he had never once been detected in a breach of prison
regulations. The day he was released, Jake went to London, to find his
family in the workhouse, his wife having fled to Canada with a better
man. Almost any man was better than Jake.
“This is Reeder’s little joke!” he said.
He fortified himself with hot spirits and went forth to find his man.
He did not follow a direct path to Mr. Reeder’s office, because he had
calls to make, certain acquaintances to renew. In one of these, a most
reputable hostelry, he came upon a bearded man who spoke alternately
in English and in a queerly elusive language. He wore no collar or
tie--when Vladimir reached his fourth whisky he invariably discarded
these--and he spoke loudly of a diamond clasp of fabulous value. Jake
lingered, fascinated. He drank with the man, whose language might be
Russian but whose money was undoubtedly English, as was his language
occasionally.
“You ask me, my frien’, what profession am I? An actor, yes! But it
pays nothing. This, that, the other impresario rob--all rob. But my
best work? I am ill! That is good work! Delirium--what-you-call-it?
Swoons? Yes, swoons--voice ’usky, eh?”
“I know a graft like that,” said Jake, nodding wisely. “You chews
soap.”
“Ah--nasty--no… _ti dourak!_”
Jake did not know that he was being called a fool, would not have been
very upset if he had known. He was sure of one thing, that he was
hooked up with a generous spender of money--a prince of fellows, seen
in the golden haze of alcoholism. He had not yet reached the stage
where he wanted to kick anybody. He was in that condition when he felt
an inward urge to tell his most precious secrets.
“Ever ’eard feller call’ Reeder?” he asked profoundly. “Reg’lar old
’ound--goin’ get him!”
“Ach!” said his new-found friend.
“Gonna get ’im!” said Jake gravely.
The bearded man tilted up his glass until no dreg remained in the
bottom. He seized Jake’s arm in a fierce friendliness and led him from
the bar. The cold night air made Jake sag at the knees.
“Le’s go ’n bump ’um,” he said thickly.
“My frien’--why kill, eh?” They were walking unsteadily along arm in
arm. Once Jake was pushed into the gutter by an unanticipated lurch.
“Live--drink! See my beautiful brooch… my farm… vineyards… mountains…
I’ll tell you, my frien’--somebody must know…”
This street through which they were passing was very dark and made up
of little stores. Jake was conscious that he had passed a milk shop
when he became aware that a man was standing squarely in their path.
“Hullo!… You want me… gotta brooch?”
It was Vladimir who spoke; he also was very drunk. The stranger did
not speak.
The crash of the explosion made Jake Alsby reel. He had never heard a
pistol fired at close quarters. He saw the Russian swaying on his
feet, his head bent as though he were listening… he was fumbling at
his waistcoat with both hands.
“Here… what’s the game?” Jake was sober now.
The man came nearer, brushed past him, thrusting his shoulder forward
as he passed. Jake staggered under the impact. When he looked round,
the shooter had melted into the thick darkness--there was the narrow
opening of a mews hereabouts.
“Hurt, mate?”
The Russian had gone down to his knees, still gripping at his
waistcoat. Then he pitched forward and hit the pavement horribly.
Jake felt himself go white… he looked round, and, turning, fled. He
wanted to be out of this--murder! That’s what it was, murder.
He raced round the corner of the street and into the arms of a
policeman. Whistles were blowing. Even as he fought to escape, he knew
the impossibility of such a hope: policemen were running from
everywhere.