Red aces Being three cases of Mr. Reeder
to take in a cablegram from a Western Union messenger. He walked to
the window, opened it and read the page of typescript. It was signed
“Murphy” and was from the head of the New York Detective Department.
“Pizarro gang has not operated for past ten years. Pizarro in
Sing-Sing serving life sentence. His right-hand man Kennedy was last
heard of in California twelve years ago, believed to be reformed
character. Nothing known here of new Pizarro enterprise.”
Gaylor read the telegram and handed it back to Reeder.
“Do you think this is a Pizarro stunt?”
“My unpleasant mind leads me to that conclusion,” said Mr. Reeder.
The Rev. Dr. Ingham came at two o’clock, at the moment when Mr. Reeder
was eating one of the two large buns which he invariably purchased on
his way to the office, and which as invariably served him for lunch.
He could almost sense the excited condition in which the cleric came
by the rapidity and nervousness of his knock.
“My dear fellow… the most amazing thing has happened… Mr. Ralph has
been found!”
J.G. Reeder should have been overjoyed by the intelligence instead he
looked a little grieved.
“This is very pleasant news,” he said, “very pleasant indeed, h’m.”
The clergyman fished inside his clerical coat and produced a telegram.
“I happened to call on Miss Ralph this morning and whilst I was in the
hotel this telegram came. Naturally the young lady is beside herself
with relief--I confess that I also am feeling happier.”
Mr. Reeder took the telegram. It was handed in at Berlin West and was
addressed to Joan Ralph, Haymarket Hotel.
“Shall be in Germany for a month. Write to me Hotel Marienbad Munich.
Mark letter ‘await arrival.’ Love. Daddy.”
“Remarkable,” said Mr. Reeder.
“I thought so. I asked the young lady to let me have the wire to show
you.”
“Remarkable,” said Mr. Reeder again.
“It _is_ remarkable,” agreed Dr. Ingham. “And yet it isn’t. He may
have been called away to Germany and had no time to communicate with
his daughter----”
“I wasn’t referring to that,” said Mr. Reeder. “When I said it was
remarkable, I was thinking that it was both odd and remarkable that he
should have wired to her at an hotel where she has never stayed
before.”
Dr. Ingham’s jaw dropped.
“Good heavens!” he gasped.
His face had gone pale; it was as though there had come to him a
sudden realization of just what this telegram might signify.
“That did not occur to me.… She had never stayed there before--are you
sure?”
Mr. Reeder nodded.
“She mentioned it casually last night just before she was leaving--I
presume she told you she called on me? No, usually she stays at the
hotel her father patronizes. She stayed at the Haymarket because it
was close to Mr. Ralph’s office. At any rate, he would have
telegraphed to Bishop’s Stortford.”
“It is strange,” said the clergyman after a pause.
“It _is_ strange,” said Mr. Reeder. “It has assumed the appearance
of--um--a case. Distinctly a case.”
For a long time he seemed totally absorbed in the rivulets of rain
which trickled down the panes of his window.
“It is certainly bewildering,” said Dr. Ingham at last. “I confess I
am becoming alarmed. This red-haired young man, for example----”
“Miss Ralph told you that?”
“Miss Gillette--your charming secretary. She arrived at the hotel with
her brother----”
“Her young man,” corrected Mr. Reeder, and coughed.
“Really? She did not introduce him.”
“She never does anything that she should do,” said Mr. Reeder
bitterly.
He swung round in his swivel chair as though forcing himself from the
hypnotic attractions of wriggling rain drops.
“The red-haired young man is also remarkable. I am rather worried
about him. He stands as it were on the threshold of--um--life. In a
few years’ time he may be in the happy enjoyment of a red haired wife
and--um--red haired children. To be cut off in his prime, and just
because his father was ill and he under-valued a diamond brooch or
clasp, would be grossly unfair.”
The doctor stared at him blankly.
“I don’t quite know what you mean. To be cut off… You don’t mean that
this young man is in _danger?_”
“I wonder!” said Mr. Reeder.
For a long while they sat gloomily surveying each other.
“I am bewildered,” sighed Dr. Ingham at last. “I feel as if I had
strayed into some terrible land of unreality. Mr. Reeder,” he leant
forward, “are you ever in Kent?”
“I live there,” said Mr. Reeder, as indeed he did, for Brockley Road
is situated on the London fringe of that county.
“I mean in the country. I have been discussing this matter with my
wife--a woman of remarkable acumen. She has a theory which, I must
confess, I regard as entirely fantastic. I should not have mentioned
it to you, but for the doubts you have concerning this Berlin
telegram, which, I imagined, cleared up the mystery. I said to her
only last night ‘My dear, if you told Mr. Reeder your theory, he would
think you had been reading detective literature!’ She is an
invalid--very seldom leaves the house. I feel that it would be asking
you a great deal if I suggested you should spend a week-end with us.”
Mr. Reeder hesitated.
“I seldom go out,” he said, “but what is your good lady’s theory?”
The doctor smiled.
“I feel I ought to apologize for even advancing such a suggestion.
Years ago when I was in America I was swindled. The sum was
insignificant, but it was a lesson to me. Here was I, an independent
man, thanks to my dear father’s beneficence, and yet the cupidity
which is latent in all of us overcame my scruples and I invested in a
ridiculous get-rich-quick scheme… a sort of treasure hunt, organized
by a rascal called Pizarro!”
Mr. Reeder nodded, but offered no comment.
“My dear wife has an idea that behind Mr. Ralph’s disappearance is
some diabolical plot--exactly what it is I am at a loss to explain.
The theory, fantastical as it is, has to do with Pizarro. Now I happen
to know that Pizarro is in prison--at least that is my belief----”
Mr. Reeder raised a long forefinger; it might have been a gesture of
warning. It was in truth an indication that he wished to speak.
“On Saturday afternoon I have nothing particular to do,” he said. “May
I trespass on your hospitality? May I say with respect that your wife
is a very intelligent lady, and I should like to meet her.”
Dr. Ingham would send his car to meet the Dover Express. The plan was
agreeable to Mr. Reeder, but----
“I must return at night. I--um--never sleep in any bed but my own.”
Dr. Ingham understood this prejudice against strange beds. He had an
alternative suggestion, namely that Mr. Reeder should make the whole
journey by car.
“It will take a little longer, but it’s a very good road, and I could
have you picked up at your place in Brockley which is on the way.”
Here again he found J.G. Reeder agreeable.
For the remainder of the day Mr. Reeder waited in vain for some
communication from the red-haired youth, but none had come when Miss
Gillette returned to the office, which was somewhere in the region of
five o’clock. He was not exactly idle; an assistant whom he sometimes
employed came to see him at his urgent request, and spent a profitable
afternoon searching certain records at Somerset House.
By the time Miss Gillette returned he had a complete list of English
subscribers of the Pizarro Syndicate, and, with three exceptions, had
sent telegrams to their known addresses. He did not wire to Mr. Ralph,
the missing Seafield, or yet to Mr. Gelpin.
Miss Gillette brought one item of news: she had spent the afternoon in
committee with her fiancé and Joan Ralph, and they had come to the
conclusion that something was wrong. It hardly seemed worth a
committee meeting, thought Mr. Reeder, but he avoided trouble by
refraining from making such provocative comment.
He left the office at six o’clock and wandered off to Scotland Yard
and went immediately to Gaylor’s room.
“I could have saved you the trouble,” said Gaylor, when Reeder told
him about the telegrams he had sent. “We have already been in touch
with the local police and they are making enquiries. We have found two
subscribers, but they are very poor people and not likely to be
affected. I also had a look at that map in Schmidt’s flat, and have
been on the telephone to the Montreux police. They say that the area
marked out in red ink is a derelict farm, the property of a Russian.
The police chief was very decent; he sent a couple of men climbing
about Glion to investigate, and they report there is nobody there, the
place is in a state of ruin, and it has not been occupied for a number
of years. There used to be a caretaker, but he has been withdrawn. The
Russian was of course Litnoff. Apparently he was there only once or
twice in his life, and never lived at the farm. It’s a puzzling
business.”
“To me it is as clear as the running water in the mountain stream,”
said Mr. Reeder poetically, “but that, of course, is because I have a
criminal mind.”
He returned to his office at nine that evening, after a frugal dinner.
No telegrams had arrived. The only letter awaiting him was one from a
former client, enclosing a cheque.
CHAPTER IV
The drizzle had turned to rain. It pelted down on Mr. Reeder’s
mackintosh and flowed in spasmodic splashes from the brim of his
high-crowned hat, as he trudged towards the nearest tramcar that would
take him home.
It was not the sort of night when people would be abroad. Again he
found the lounger in a yellow oilskin coat standing at the corner of
Brockley Road, and another idler pacing leisurely up and down. This
man turned at the sound of his steps and came towards him.
“Have you got a match, governor?” His voice was harsh and common, and
did not somehow go with his respectable attire, for he had a blue
trench coat buttoned up to his chin and belted about his waist. The
point of Mr. Reeder’s umbrella came up until it pointed just above
that belt.
“I haven’t a match. If I had, I would not be so foolish as to put my
hands in my pocket so as to give it to you,” he said haranguingly.
“Now, if you will kindly stand out of my way, you will save yourself a
lot of trouble.”
“I asked you civilly, didn’t I?” growled the man.
“Your civility doesn’t amuse me,” said Mr. Reeder, and then suddenly
his hand shot out and he got the man by the shoulder, exhibiting a
strength which none would have suspected in him, and sent him flying
toward the road.
He passed through the little iron gate, slammed it behind him.
“And you can tell Kennedy from me he is wasting his time.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” snarled the man.
Mr. Reeder did not parley with him. He mounted the steps, fitted the
key in the lock and entered. He stopped long enough to hang his wet
mackintosh in the hall, remove his goloshes, and then went up to his
room. He was in darkness. He did not switch on the light, and crossing
the room, he pulled aside the heavy curtains and looked out.
The man in the blue trench coat was still standing in front of the
house, but now he had been joined by the loiterer in the yellow
oilskin coat, and they were talking together.
Mr. Reeder was cursed with a sense of humour which was peculiar to
himself. He went into his bedroom, and from a shelf in the cupboard he
took a small air pistol, and “breaking it,” inserted a pellet. At the
distance which separated him from his two watchers an air pistol would
not be dangerous, but it should be very painful. Gently lifting the
sash, he took aim and pressed the trigger. He heard the man in the
yellow oilskin yell and saw him leap into the air.
“What’s biting you?” demanded blue trench coat.
“Somep’n bit me.”
He was clasping his neck and rolling his head backwards and forwards
in his pain.