Red aces Being three cases of Mr. Reeder
confidence, and when this was done, Kennedy mentioned casually the
story of the dying Russian who had escaped from Petrograd with a chest
full of jewellery looted from the palaces of the nobility.
Mr. Ralph’s statement may be taken as typical of them all:
“I met Dr. Ingham, or Kennedy, after some correspondence. He was very
charming and obviously well-to-do. He was staying at the best hotel in
London, and I dined with him twice--on one occasion with his wife.
“He told me he was engaged in voluntary mission work, in the course of
which he had attended a dying Russian, who put up a most extraordinary
proposition, namely: that he should buy a small farm in Switzerland,
the property of Litnoff, on which he had buried half a million pounds’
worth of jewellery. The story, though seemingly far-fetched, could be
confirmed. His brother was living on the farm. Both men had been
chased and watched until life had become unendurable.
“‘There is something in this story,’ said the clergyman. ‘This fellow,
Litnoff, has in his possession a piece of jewellery which must be
worth at least a thousand pounds. He keeps it under his pillow.’
“I was intrigued by the story. It appealed to my romantic fancy, and
when the doctor asked me if I would like to see the man, I agreed to
meet him one night, promising not to mention to a soul the Russian’s
secret.
“Dr. Ingham called for me at midnight. We drove to a place in
Bloomsbury and I was admitted to a very poorly furnished flat. In one
of the rooms was a very sick-looking man, who spoke with difficulty in
broken English. He told me of all the espionage to which he and his
brother were subjected. He was in fear of his life, he said. He dared
not offer the jewels for fear that the agents of the Russian
government traced him. The scheme he had seemed, from my point of
view, to be beyond risk to myself. It was that I should go out to
Montreux, see his brother, inspect the jewels and buy the farm, the
purchase money to include the contents of the chest. If I was not
satisfied, or if I thought there was any trick, I needn’t pay my money
until I was sure that the deal was genuine.
“He showed me a diamond clasp, bid me to take it away with me and have
it valued.
“This conversation took a very long time: he spoke with great
difficulty, sometimes we had to wait for ten minutes whilst he
recovered his breath. I took the clasp with me and had it valued,
returning it to Dr. Ingham the same night.
“It was he who suggested that my safest plan was to carry no money at
all, but buy a letter of credit. He was most anxious, he said, that I
should take no risk.
“I was much impressed by the seeming genuineness of the scheme and by
the fact that the risk was apparently negligible. He asked me to
respect the Russian’s urgent plea that I should not speak a word to a
soul either about my intentions or my plans. I bought the letter of
credit, and it was arranged that I should travel to Dr. Ingham’s house
by car, spend the night there and go on by the mid-day boat to Calais
and Switzerland.
“I arrived at Grayne Hall at about six o’clock in the evening, and I
was impressed by the luxury of the place. I hadn’t the slightest
suspicion that anything was wrong.
“At half past seven I joined Dr. Ingham and his wife at dinner. I
didn’t drink anything until the port came round, but after that I have
no recollection of what happened until I woke and found myself in a
small stone chamber. There was a candle fixed to a stone niche, with
half a dozen other candles and a box of matches to supply the light,
the only light I saw until I was rescued. There was an iron bed, a
patch of carpet on the floor, and a washing set, but no other
furniture. Twice in the twenty-four hours the two men, who are known
as Thomas and Leonard, and whom I remember having seen wearing the
livery of servants, took me out for exercise up and down a long stone
corridor which ran the length of the house. I did not see any other
prisoner, but I knew they were there because I had heard one shouting.
My letter of credit had been taken from me. I only saw the man Kennedy
once, when he came down and asked me to write a letter on the
notepaper of a foreign hotel, addressed to my daughter, and telling
her I was well and that she was not to worry about me.”
It was clear that the success of the scheme depended upon the
discretion of Litnoff. The man was a drunkard, but so long as he gave
no hint as to where his money came from, there was no danger to the
gang. It was when he began to talk about the diamond clasp that the
Kennedys decided that, for their own safety, they must silence him.
They knew the game was up and made preparations for a getaway, but to
the end they hoped they might avoid this. I discovered by enquiry that
a small yacht had been chartered provisionally a week before their
arrest. It was at the time in Dover Harbour, and if their plans were
carried out, they were leaving a few days after my arrival at Grayne
Hall.
A new complication arose when Kennedy went down to carry food to the
prisoners on the night of Gelpin’s death. The two servants were away
in London. They had been commissioned to stop Edelsheim from seeing
me. It is possible that Kennedy over-rated his strength, or placed too
much reliance upon the revolver which he carried--one which he had
taken from another prisoner--Frank Seafield.
Kennedy states that Gelpin, who was a very strong man, attacked him
without provocation, but as to this we shall never know the truth; but
he was killed in the corridor, because the other prisoners heard the
shot.
In the early hours of the morning the two servants returned, and the
body was driven straight away to London and deposited in Epping
forest.
I cannot exactly state when my own suspicions concerning Dr. Ingham
were aroused. I rather think it was on the occasion of his first visit
to me. His obvious anxiety to anticipate the arrival of Joan Ralph,
Alsby’s statement, my talk with the chemist, and Edelsheim’s narrative
all pointed to one conclusion: obviously here was a confidence trick
on a large scale, and, after I had seen the survey map of the district
in which Grayne Hall is situated, and made a few enquiries about the
old castle, the possibility that this was a case of wholesale
kidnapping became a certainty.
I had to be sure that “Dr. Ingham” was Kennedy, and on the last
occasion we met in my office, I was compelled, I regret to say, to
slander his mother. Though he was livid with rage, he kept control of
himself, but he showed me enough to satisfy me that my suspicions were
correct.
I tried the same trick at Grayne Hall, but I only did it after
lighting a magnesium match, which was a signal agreed upon between
myself and the police who, I knew, were outside the house, that it was
time for them to make a move.
Underneath he wrote:
Casius Kennedy, convicted of murder at the C.C.C. Executed at
Pentonville Prison. (Elford--executioner.)
Elsa Kennedy, convicted at C.C.C. Life.
Thomas J. Pentafard, convicted at C.C.C. Criminal conspiracy and
accessory to murder. Life.
Leonard Polenski, convicted at C.C.C. Criminal conspiracy and
accessory to murder. Life.
THE CASE OF JOE ATTYMAR
CHAPTER I
In the dusk of the evening the rower brought his skiff under the
overshadowing hull of the Baltic steamer and rested on his oars, the
little boat rising and falling gently in the swell of the river. A
grimy second officer looked down from the open porthole and spat
thoughtfully into the water. Apparently he did not see the
swarthy-faced waterman with the tuft of grey beard, and as apparently
the waterman was oblivious of his appearance. Presently the unshaven
man, with the faded gold band on the wrist of his shabby jacket, drew
in his head and shoulders and disappeared.
A few seconds later a square wooden case was heaved through the port
and fell with a splash in the water. For a moment one sharp corner was
in sight, then it sank slowly beneath the yellow flood. A small black
buoy bobbed up and the waterman watched it with interest. To the buoy
was attached a stout cord, and the cord was fastened to the case. He
waited, moving his oars slowly, until the buoy was on the point of
being sucked out of sight--then, with a turn of his wrist, he hooked
an oar under the cord--literally hooked, for at the end of the short
blade was a little steel crook.
Pushing the boat forward, he reached for the buoy and drew this into
the stern sheets, fastened the cord round a wooden pin, and, lifting
his oars, allowed the tide to carry him under the steamer’s stern.
Anchored in midstream was a dingy-looking barge and towards this he
guided the skiff.
A heavily built young man came from the aft deck, and, reaching down a
boat-hook, drew the skiff alongside. The swarthy man held on to the
side of the barge whilst the boat-hook was transferred to the taut
line astern. The younger man did no more than fasten the soaking cord
to a small bight. By this time the occupant of the skiff was on board.
“Nobody about, Ligsey?” he asked gruffly.
“Nobody, cap’n,” said the younger man.
The captain said nothing more, but walked to the deck-house astern and
disappeared down the companionway, pulling the hatch close after him.
There he stayed till the estuary was a black void punctured with dim
ships’ lights.
Ligsey went forward to where his youthful assistant sat on an
overturned bucket, softly playing a mouth-organ. He stopped being
musical long enough to remark that the tide was turning.
“We going up to-night?” he asked.
Ligsey nodded. He had already heard the chuff-chuff of the motor in
the stern of the barge, where the skipper was starting it.
“What we hangin’ around here for?” asked the youth curiously. “We’ve
missed one tide--we could have been up to Greenwich by now. Why don’t
Captain Attymar----”
“Mind your own business,” growled the mate.
He heard the swarthy man calling him and went aft.
“We’ll get that case in and stow it,” he said in a low voice. “I left
a place in the bricks.”
Together they pulled gingerly at the cord and brought the square,
soaked packing-case to sight. Ligsey leaned over and gripped it with
an instrument like a pair of huge ice-tongs, and the dripping case was
brought to the narrow deck and stowed expeditiously in the well of the
barge.
The _Allanuna_ invariably carried bricks between a little yard on the
Essex coast and Tenny’s Wharf. Everybody on the river knew her for an
erratic and a dangerous-steering craft. The loud chuffing of her
engine was an offence. Even nippy tugboats gave her yawing bows a wide
berth.
The boy was called aft to take charge of the engine, and Ligsey took
the tiller. It was five o’clock on a spring morning when she came to
Tenny’s Wharf, which is at Rotherhithe.
As a wharfage it had few qualities attractive to the least fastidious
of bargees. It consisted of a confined space with room for two
builder’s lorries to be backed side by side (though it required some
manœuvring to bring them into position) and the shabby little house
where Joe Attymar lived.
Through the weather-beaten gate which opened at intervals to admit the
builders’ carts was Shadwick Lane. It had none of the picturesque
character of the slum it used to be, when its houses were of wood, and
water-butts stood in every backyard. Nowadays it consists of four
walls, two on either side of the street. Bridging these is an inverted
V of slate, which is called a roof, and at frequent intervals there
are four red chimney-pots set on a small, square, brick tower. These
denote roughly where lateral walls divide one hutch from another. Each