Red aces Being three cases of Mr. Reeder
important, because it probably gives us the hour of the murder, if you
allow the watch to be a little fast or slow. It’s hardly likely to be
accurate. We have sent a description round of Southers, though it
isn’t a very good one, but it will probably be sufficient. I’m having
a facsimile of the writing----”
“I can save you the trouble; here is the young man’s address.”
Mr. Reeder took a notebook from his pocket, scribbled a few lines and
handed it to the detective. He looked glumly at the bloodstained room
and the evidence of tragedy, followed the detective in silence, whilst
Gaylor, with the aid of a powerful light, showed the telltale stains
leading from the wharf, and…
“Very interesting,” said Mr. Reeder. “When you recover the bodies I
should like to see them.”
He stared out over the river, which was covered by a faint mist--not
sufficient to impede navigation, but enough to shroud and make
indistinct objects thirty or forty yards away.
“The barge is at Greenwich, I think,” he said, after a long silence.
“Could I borrow a police launch?”
One of the launches was brought in to the crazy wharf and Mr. Reeder
lowered himself gingerly, never losing grip of the umbrella which no
man had seen unfurled. It was a chilly night, an easterly wind blowing
up the river, but he sat in the bow of the launch motionless,
sphinx-like, staring ahead as the boat streaked eastwards towards
Greenwich.
It drew up by the side of the barge, which was moored close to the
Surrey shore, and a quavering voice hailed them.
“That you, Ligsey?”
Mr. Reeder pulled himself on board before he replied.
“No, my boy,” he said gently, “it is not Ligsey. Were you expecting
him?”
The youth held up his lantern, surveyed Mr. Reeder and visibly
quailed.
“You’re a copper, ain’t yer?” he asked tremulously. “Have you pinched
Ligsey?”
“I have not pinched Ligsey,” said Mr. Reeder, patting the boy gently
on the back. “How long has he been gone?”
“He went about eight, soon after it was dark; the guv’nor come down
for him.”
“The guv’nor come down for him,” repeated Mr. Reeder in a murmur. “Did
you see the governor?”
“No, sir; he shouted for me to go below. Ligsey always makes me go
below when him and the guv’nor have a talk.”
Mr. Reeder drew from his pocket a yellow carton of cigarettes and lit
one before he pursued his inquiries.
“Then what happened?”
“Ligsey come down and packed his ditty box, and told me I was to hang
on all night, but that I could go to sleep. I was frightened about
being left alone on the barge----”
Mr. Reeder was already making his way down the companion to Ligsey’s
quarters. Evidently all the man’s kit had been removed; even the
sheets on his bed must have been folded and taken away, for the bunk
was tumbled.
On a little swing table, which was a four-foot plank suspended from
the deck above, was a letter. It was not fastened, and Mr. Reeder made
no scruple in opening and reading its contents. It was in the
handprint which, he had been informed, was the only kind of writing
Attymar knew.
“Dear Mr. Southers, If you come aboard the stuff is in the
engine-room. I have got to be very careful because the police are
watching.”
When he questioned the boy, whose name was Hobbs, he learned that
Ligsey had come down and left the letter. Mr. Reeder went aft and
found the hatchway over the little engine-room unfastened, and
descended into the strong-smelling depths where the engine was housed.
It was here evidently that Attymar remained during his short voyages.
There was a signal bell above his head, and a comfortable armchair had
been fixed within reach of the levers.
His search here was a short one. Inside an open locker he found a
small, square package, wrapped in oiled paper, and a glance at the
label told him its contents, even though he did not read Dutch.
Returning to the boy, he questioned him closely. It was no unusual
thing for Attymar to pick up his mate from the barge. The boy had once
seen the launch, and described it as a very small tender. He knew
nothing of Mr. Southers, had never seen him on board the ship, though
occasionally people did come, on which occasions he was sent below.
At his request, Mr. Reeder was put ashore at Greenwich and got on the
telephone to Gaylor. It was now two o’clock in the morning, and much
had happened.
“We arrested that man Southers; found his trousers covered with blood.
He admits he was at Attymar’s house to-night, and tells a
cock-and-bull story of what he did subsequently. He didn’t get home
till nearly twelve.”
“Extraordinary,” said Mr. Reeder, and the mildness of the comment
evidently irritated Inspector Gaylor.
“That’s one way of putting it, but I think we’ve made a pretty good
capture,” he said. “We’ve got enough evidence to hang him. Attymar’s
left all sorts of notes on his invoices.”
“Amazing,” said Mr. Reeder, and gathered from the abruptness with
which he was cut off that, for some mysterious reason, he had annoyed
the man at Scotland Yard.
He sent back a short report with the documents and the drugs to
Scotland Yard, and drove home by taxi. It was three o’clock by the
time he reached Brockley Road, and he was not surprised to find his
housekeeper up and to hear that Anna Welford was waiting for him.
She was very white and her manner was calm.
“You’ve heard about Johnny being arrested----” she began.
Mr. Reeder nodded.
“Yes, I gave them the necessary information as to where he was to be
found,” he said, and he saw the colour come and go in her face.
“I--I suppose you--you had to do your duty?” she said haltingly. “But
you know it’s not true, Mr. Reeder. You know Johnny… he couldn’t…” Her
voice choked.
Mr. Reeder shook his head.
“I don’t know Johnny really,” he said apologetically. “He is--um--the
merest acquaintance, Miss Welford. I am not saying that in
disparagement of him, because obviously quite a number of people who
aren’t my friends are respectable citizens. Did you see him before he
was arrested?”
She nodded.
“Immediately before?”
“Half-an-hour before. He was terribly disappointed; he had gone to see
about this partnership but he had a feeling that he’d been tricked,
for nothing came of it. He had arranged to see me, and I waited up for
him… he was crossing the road to his own house when he was arrested.”
“Did he wear a blue suit or a grey suit?”
“A blue suit,” she said quickly.
Mr. Reeder looked at the ceiling.
“Of course he wore a blue suit; otherwise--um…” He scratched his chin
irritably. “It was a cold night, too. I can’t understand until I have
seen his--um--trousers.”
She looked at him in bewilderment, a little fearfully. And then
suddenly Mr. Reeder gave one of his rare smiles and dropped a gentle
hand on her shoulder.
“I shouldn’t be too worried if I were you,” he said, with a kindly
look in his eyes. “You’ve got quite a number of good friends, and you
will find Mr. Desboyne will do a lot to help your Johnny.”
She shook her head.
“Clive doesn’t like Johnny,” she said.
“That I can well believe,” said Mr. Reeder good-humouredly.
“Nevertheless, unless I’m a bad prophet, you will find Mr. Desboyne
the one person who can clear up this--um--unpleasantness.”
“But who was the man who was killed? It’s all so terribly unreal to
me. Attymar was his name, wasn’t it? Johnny didn’t know anybody named
Attymar. At least, he didn’t tell me so. I’m absolutely stunned by
this news, Mr. Reeder. I can’t realize its gravity. It seems just a
stupid joke that somebody’s played on us. Johnny couldn’t do harm to
any man.”
“I’m sure he couldn’t,” said Mr. Reeder soothingly, but that meant
nothing.
CHAPTER V
Mr. Reeder’s housekeeper had, since his arrival, behaved with a
certain secretiveness which could only mean that she had something
important to communicate. It was after he had seen the girl to her
house that he learned what the mystery was all about.
“The young gentleman who came to see you last night,” she said in a
low voice. “I’ve put him in the waiting-room.”
“Mr. Desboyne?”
“That’s the name,” she nodded. “He said he wouldn’t go until he’d seen
you.”
In a few seconds Clive Desboyne was shown in.
“I’ve only just heard about Southers’ arrest--it’s monstrous! And I
was being so beastly about him to-night. Mr. Reeder, I’ll spend all
the money you want to get this young man out of his trouble. My God,
it’s awful for Anna!”
Mr. Reeder pulled at his long nose and said he thought it was rather
unpleasant.
“And,” he added, “for everybody.”
“They say this man Ligsey is also dead. If I’d had any sense I’d have
brought over the note I had of our conversation.”
“I could call up for it in the morning,” said Mr. Reeder, and his
voice was surprisingly brisk.
Mr. Desboyne gazed at him in startled astonishment. It was as though
this weary man with the drooping lips and tired eyes had suddenly
received a great mental tonic.
“You made notes? Not one man in ten would have thought of that,” said
Mr. Reeder. “I thought I was the only person who did it.”
Clive Desboyne laughed.
“I’ve given you the impression that I’m terribly methodical,” he said,
“and that isn’t quite exact.”
He looked at the watch on his wrist.
“It’s too late to ask you to breakfast.”
“Breakfast is my favourite meal,” said Mr. Reeder gaily.
Late as was the hour, he was standing before the polished mahogany
door of 974, Memorial Mansions, Park Lane, at nine o’clock next
morning. Mr. Desboyne was not so early a riser, and indeed had doubted
whether the detective would keep his promise. Mr. Reeder was left
standing in the hall whilst the servant went to inquire exactly how
this strangely appearing gentleman should be disposed of.
There was plenty to occupy Mr. Reeder’s attention during her absence,
for the wide hall was hung with photographs which gave some indication
of Desboyne’s wide sporting and theatrical interests. There was one
interesting photograph, evidently an enlargement of a snapshot,
showing the House of Commons in the background, which held Mr.
Reeder’s attention, the more so as the photograph also showed the
corner of Westminster Bridge across which motor-buses were moving. He
was looking at this when Clive Desboyne joined him.
“Here is a piece of detective work,” said Mr. Reeder triumphantly,
pointing to the photograph. “I can tell you almost the week that
picture was taken. Do you see those two omnibuses bearing the names of
two plays? I happen to know there was only one week in the year when
they were both running together.”
“Indeed,” said Desboyne, apparently not as impressed by this piece of
deduction as Mr. Reeder had expected.
He led the way to the dining-room, and Reeder found by the side of his
plate three foolscap sheets covered with writing.
“I don’t know whether you’ll be able to read it,” said Desboyne, “but
you’ll notice there one or two things that I forgot to tell you at our
interview. I think on the whole they favour Southers, and I’m glad I
made a note of them. For example, he said he had never seen Southers
and only knew him by name. That in itself is rather curious.”
“Very,” said Mr. Reeder. “Regarding that photograph in the hall--it
must have been in May last year. I remember some years ago, by a lucky
chance, I was able to establish the date on which a cheque was passed,
as distinct from the date on which it was drawn, by the fact that the
drawer had forgotten to sign one of his initials.”
It was surprising how much Mr. Reeder, who was not as a rule a
loquacious man, talked in the course of that meal. Mostly he talked
about nothing. When Clive Desboyne led him to the murder Mr. Reeder
skilfully edged away to less unpleasant topics.
“It doesn’t interest me very much, I confess,” he said. “I am not a