Red aces Being three cases of Mr. Reeder
He was variously described as “an expert,” as “a private detective,”
as “a bank official.” In a sense he was all these, yet none of them
entirely. Judges and certain barristers knew that he was at the call
of the Public Prosecutor’s Department. It was said that privately he
enjoyed a status equivalent in rank to a superintendent of police. He
certainly had a handsome retaining fee from the Bankers’ Association,
and probably drew pay from the Government, but nobody knew his
business. He banked at Torquay and the manager of the bank was his
personal friend.
But the net result of his fugitive appearances in court was that quite
intelligent women were seized with the idea that he was the man who
should be employed to watch their husbands and to procure the evidence
necessary for their divorces. Business men wrote to him asking him to
investigate the private lives of their partners; quite a few
commissions were offered by important commercial concerns, but none of
these appealed to Mr. Reeder, and with his own hand he would write
long and carefully punctuated letters explaining that he was not a
private detective in the real sense of the word.
He was not surprised, therefore, when, some four days after his talk
with Johnny Southers, he received a letter addressed from a Park Lane
flat, requesting his services. He turned first to the signature and
with some difficulty deciphered it as “Clive Desboyne.” For a moment
the name, whilst it had a certain familiarity, was difficult to
attach, and then he remembered the quarrel he had witnessed, and
realized that this was the other party to that unhappy conflict.
The letter was typewritten and ran:
“Dear Sir, I happen to know your private address because Miss Welford
pointed it out to me one evening when I was visiting her. I am in
rather a delicate position, and I am wondering whether I could employ
your services professionally to extricate myself? Since the matter
affects Southers, whom I think you know (I have learned since that you
were a witness of a certain disgraceful episode, for which I was
probably more to blame than he), I thought you might be willing to
receive me. I want you to undertake this task on a professional basis
and charge me your usual fees. I shall be out of town until Friday
night, but there is no immediate urgency. If I could call some time
after ten on Friday I should be eternally grateful.
“Yours, etc.”
Mr. Reeder’s first inclination was to take out a sheet of paper and
write a firm but polite refusal to see Mr. Desboyne, however stringent
might be his predicament. He had written the first three words when
one of those curious impulses which came to him at times, and which so
often urged him to the right course, stayed his hand. Instead, he took
a telegraph form and sent a laconic message agreeing to the young
man’s suggestion.
The day of the appointment was a busy one for Mr. Reeder. Scotland
Yard had made two important discoveries--a small garage in the north
of London, which contained nearly 400 lbs. of saccharine, had been
raided in the early hours of the morning, and this was followed up by
a second raid in a West End mansion flat, where large quantities of
heroin and cocaine were unearthed by the police.
“It looks as though we’ve found one of the principal distributing
agents,” said Gaylor. “We’ve got the barge under observation, and
we’re taking the chance of arresting Attymar as soon as he steps on
board.”
“Where is it?”
“Off Greenwich,” said Gaylor.
Mr. Reeder dived down into his pocket and produced an envelope. The
paper was grimy, the address was a scrawl. He took from this as dingy
a letter and laid it on the table before Gaylor.
“Dear Sir, I can give you informacion. I will call at your howse on
Sunnday morning. From a Frend.”
Gaylor inspected the envelope. The date-stamp was “Greenwich.”
“He had some doubt about sending it at all: the flap has been opened
and closed again--I presume this is Ligsey; his real name is William
Liggs. He’s had no convictions, but he hasn’t been above suspicion.
You’ll see him?”
“If he comes,” said Mr. Reeder. “So many of these gentlemen who
undertake to supply information think better of it at the last
moment.”
“It may be too late,” said Gaylor.
It was at the end of a very heavy and tiring day that Mr. Reeder went
back to his house, forgetting the appointment he had so rashly made.
He had hardly got into the house before the bell rang, and it was then
that he realized, with bitter regret, that he had robbed himself of an
hour’s sleep which was badly needed.
Mr. Desboyne was in evening dress. He had driven down from his club,
where he had bathed and changed after his long journey from the West
of England, he explained.
“I feel very ashamed to bother you at this hour of the night, Mr.
Reeder,” he said with an apologetic smile, “but I feel rather like the
villain of the piece, and my vanity has made me put matters right.”
Mr. Reeder looked round helplessly for a chair, found one and pointed
to it, and Desboyne drew it up to the table where the detective was
sitting.
He was a man of thirty-three or thirty-five, good-looking, with a very
pleasant, open face and a pair of grey eyes that twinkled
good-humouredly.
“You saw the fight?… Gosh! that fellow could punch! I thoroughly
deserved what I got, which certainly wasn’t very much. I was very rude
to him. But then, like a fool, I went to the other extreme, and have
got him a job in Singapore--of course he’ll take it--and I’m most
anxious to get out of my offer.”
Mr. Reeder looked at him in astonishment, and the young man laughed
ruefully.
“I suppose you think I’m a queer devil? Well, I am. I’m rather
impetuous and I’ve got myself into a bit of a hole. And it’s a bigger
hole than I knew, because I’m terribly fond of Anna Welford, and she’s
terribly unfond of me! Southers is rather in the position of a
successful rival, so that everything I say or do must be suspect.
That’s the awful thing about it!”
“Why do you wish to cancel the appointment?” asked Mr. Reeder.
He could have added that, so far as he could recall, the appointment
had already been cancelled.
Clive Desboyne hesitated.
“Well, it’s a difficult story to tell.”
He rose from his seat and paced up and down the room, his hands thrust
into his pockets, a frown on his face.
“Do you remember the night of the fight? I don’t suppose that’s graven
on your memory. It arose out of something I said to our friend as we
left the City hall. Apparently--I only discovered this
afterwards--there was a man out there waiting to see Southers, but in
the excitement of our little fracas--which began in the City, by the
way--Southers didn’t see the man, who either followed him to Lewisham
or came on ahead of him. He must have been present in the street when
the fight took place. When I got home that night the hall-porter asked
me if I would see a very seedy-looking individual, and, as I wasn’t in
the mood to see anybody, I refused. A few days later I was stopped in
Piccadilly by a man who I thought was a beggar--a healthy-looking
beggar, but most beggars are that way. He started by telling me he’d
seen the fight, and said he could tell me something about Southers. I
wasn’t feeling so very savage then as I had been, and I’d have hoofed
him off, but he was so insistent, and in the end I told him to call at
my flat. He came that night and told me the most extraordinary story.
He said his name was”--Clive Desboyne frowned--“the name’s slipped me
for the moment, but it will come back. He was a mate or assistant on
a barge run by a man named Attymar----”
“Ligsey?” suggested Mr. Reeder, and the other nodded.
“That’s the name--Ligsey. I’m cutting the story short because it took
a tremendous long time to tell, and I don’t want it to bore you as it
bored me. They’ve been running some kind of contraband up the river on
the barge, for apparently Attymar is a smuggler on a large scale. That
was a yarn I didn’t believe at first, though, from the things he told
me, it seemed very likely that he spoke the truth. Certain articles
were smuggled up the river on the barge, and others were passed
through the Customs by Southers.”
Mr. Reeder opened his mouth very wide.
“Now I’ll tell you the truth.” Clive Desboyne’s voice was very
earnest. “I wanted to believe that story. In my heart of hearts I
dislike John Southers--I’d be inhuman if I didn’t. At the same time I
wanted to play the game. I told this fellow he was a liar, but he
swore it was true. He thinks the police are going to arrest Attymar,
and when they do, Attymar will spill the beans, to use his own
expression. In the meantime I have recommended Southers to a very
important and responsible job in Singapore, and naturally, if this
story comes out, I’m going to look pretty foolish. I don’t mind that,”
he added quietly, “but I do mind Anna Welford marrying this man.”
Mr. Reeder plucked at his lower lip.
“Do you know Attymar?”
The young man shook his head.
“I can’t even say that I know Ligsey, but if he keeps his promise I
shall know Attymar to-morrow morning.”
“What was his promise?” asked Mr. Reeder.
“He says Attymar has documentary proof--he didn’t use that expression
but that is what he meant--and that he was going to Attymar’s house
to-night to get it.”
Again Mr. Reeder thought, staring into vacancy.
“When did you see him last?”
“The morning I wrote to you, or rather the morning you received the
letter.” He made a little gesture of despair. “Whatever happens,
Anna’s going to think I’m the biggest cad----”
The telephone bell rang sharply. Mr. Reeder, with a murmured apology,
took up the receiver and listened with a face that did not move. He
only asked “What time?” and, after a long pause, said “Yes.” As he was
hanging up the receiver, Desboyne went on:
“What I should like to do is to see Attymar----”
Mr. Reeder shook his head.
“I’m afraid you won’t see Attymar. He was murdered between nine and
ten to-night.”
CHAPTER IV
It was half past twelve when Mr. Reeder’s taxi brought him into
Shadwick Lane, which was alive with people. A police cordon was drawn
across the gate, but Gaylor, who was waiting for him, conducted him
into the yard.
“We’re dragging the river for the body,” he explained.
“Where was it committed?” asked Mr. Reeder.
“Come inside,” said the other grimly, “and then you will ask no
questions.”
It was not a pleasant sight that met Mr. Reeder’s eyes, though he was
a man not easily sickened. The little sitting-room was a confusion of
smashed furniture, the walls splashed with red. A corner table,
however, had been left untouched. Here were two glasses of whisky, one
full, the other half-empty. A half-smoked cigar was carefully laid on
a piece of paper by the side of these.
“The murder was committed here and the body was dragged to the edge of
the wharf and thrown into the water,” said Gaylor. “There’s plenty of
evidence of that.
“We’ve taken possession of a lot of papers, and we found a letter on
the mantelpiece from a man named Southers--John Southers. No address,
but evidently from the handwriting a person of some education. At nine
twenty-five to-night Attymar had a visitor, a young man who was
admitted through the wicket gate, and who was seen to leave at
twenty-five minutes to ten, about ten minutes after he arrived.”
Gaylor opened an attaché case and took out a battered, cheap silver
watch, which had evidently been under somebody’s heel. The glass was
smashed, the case was bent out of shape. The hands stood at
nine-thirty.
“One of the people here recognized this as Ligsey’s--a woman who lives
in the street who had pawned it for him on one occasion. It’s