Red aces Being three cases of Mr. Reeder
Desboyne, and it was that gentleman who answered his call.
“That’s queer, I was just going to ring you up,” said Desboyne. “Have
you taken up the case?”
“I am wavering,” replied Reeder. “Before I reach a decision I’d like
to have another talk with you. Could I call at your flat to-night
about--nine?”
There was a little pause.
“Certainly. I was going out, but I’ll wait in for you.”
At the conclusion of this call Mr. Reeder again leaned back in his
chair, but this time he was not smiling; he was rather puzzled.
Perhaps he was thinking of Ligsey; possibly he was impressed by the
generosity of this man who was ready to spend a considerable part of
his fortune to prove the innocence of a man he disliked.
Whatever trains of thought started and slowed, switched into
side-tracks or ran off into tributary lines, they all arrived at one
mysterious destination.…
“It will be spring-cleaning,” said Mr. Reeder, as he got up from his
chair.
CHAPTER VII
Reeder spent the rest of the afternoon in the West End of London,
calling upon a succession of theatrical agents. Some were very
important personages who received him in walnut-panelled salons; a few
were in dingy offices on third floors; one, and the most important of
these, he interviewed in the bar of a public-house in St. Martin’s
Lane--a fat and seedy man, with a fur collar and frayed cuffs, a
half-stupid tippler with no business but many reminiscences; and, as
he proudly claimed, “the best collection of old theatrical programmes
in London.”
Mr. Reeder, who was a good listener and very patient, heard all about
the agent’s former grandeur, the amount of commission out of which
eminent artistes had swindled him, and at last he accompanied his
bibulous companion to his lodgings off the Waterloo Road, and from
seven till eight was engrossed in masses of dog-eared literature.
Mr. Reeder had a meal in a Strand restaurant and drove to Park Lane.
As the lift carried him to the floor on which Desboyne’s flat was
situated----
“I’m sure it’s spring cleaning,” murmured Mr. Reeder to himself.
He rang the bell of the flat and waited. Presently he heard the sound
of footsteps echoing hollowly in the hall. Clive Desboyne opened the
door with an apologetic smile.
“I hope you don’t mind the place being in confusion?” he said. “We’ve
started our spring cleaning. The truth is, I’d arranged to go away
to-day if this wretched business hadn’t turned up.”
The carpet had been taken up from the floor of the hall, the walls had
been stripped, and the crystal pendant which lit the hall showed
through a gauze covering. Clive Desboyne’s own study had, however,
been left untouched by the decorators.
“I’m going to clear out to an hotel to-morrow. It’ll probably be the
Ritz-Carlton, but if you want me urgently my solicitors will be able
to put us in touch. Now, Mr. Reeder, you’re going to do this for Anna
and me?”
Mr. Reeder shook his head feebly.
“You’ve got to do it,” insisted the other energetically. “You’re the
only detective in London in whom I’ve any confidence. I know you’re
attached to the Public Prosecutor’s Department, but I’ve been making a
few inquiries too,” he said with a little smile, “and I hear that you
take outside commissions.”
“Banks,” said Mr. Reeder reverently. “Banks--not private work.”
“I shall insist!” Clive was very earnest. “I’ve told Anna
everything--about my beastliness in regard to young Southers.
Honestly, I still think that Ligsey’s story was true and that Southers
_was_ making something on the side. A lot of decent fellows, otherwise
perfectly honest, do that sort of thing, and I’m not condemning him.
In fact, when I expressed my--what’s the word for being shocked?”
“Horror, amazement?” suggested Mr. Reeder.
“Well, whatever it was--I was being a hypocrite. I myself have not
always been rich. I’ve known what it is to be devilishly poor. If I
hadn’t made good speculations when I was quite a kid, I should
probably be worse off than Southers.”
“You’re rather fond of the young lady?” said Mr. Reeder after an
interregnum of silence.
Again Desboyne laughed.
“Of course I am! The fact that a man is engaged to another girl--and
the sweetest girl in the world--doesn’t prevent him philandering. Of
course, it’s a caddish thing to do, and it’s got me into quite a lot
of trouble, but the fact remains, I am terribly fond of Anna. I won’t
say I love her like a brother, because I’m tired of being a hypocrite.
I’m going to try to get Southers out of the mess he’s in; and that
doesn’t mean I love _him_ like a brother, either! Now, Mr. Reeder,
what do you want to see me about, if it isn’t to tell me that you’re
taking up this case?”
All that Mr. Reeder wanted to see Clive Desboyne about was spring
cleaning, but he could not say this. He had, however, a good excuse
for calling: Ligsey was apparently alive, he explained. Clive Desboyne
was not impressed.
“I didn’t worry whether he was alive or dead,” he said frankly.
“Naturally, I do not know what theory the police have, but I
understood from the newspapers that they were concentrating on the
murder of Attymar--that is the charge against John Southers. If Ligsey
is alive I’m hardly likely to meet him, unless, of course, he feels,
as so many of these crooks do, that once one has given them money
they’re entitled to a pension! If I hear from him I’ll let you know.”
As they came out into the hall Mr. Reeder’s eyes wandered up and down
the bare walls.
“You will have this repainted, Mr. Desboyne?” he asked. “At present it
is rather a delicate cream. If I were you I should have it painted
green. Green is a very restful colour, but possibly my views
are--um--suburban.”
“I think they are,” said the other good-humouredly.
Reeder had made an appointment to see the bibulous agent at ten
o’clock. The agent knew where certain photographs were to be obtained,
and had promised to be waiting at the corner of St. Martin’s Lane at
that hour. Mr. Reeder arrived as St. Martin’s Church clock was
striking, but there was no sign of Billy Gurther. He had not appeared
at half past ten, and Mr. Reeder decided to go to his house, for he
was very anxious to complete his dossier.
The landlady at Mr. Gurther’s lodgings had a surprising and
disconcerting story to tell. Mr. Reeder had hardly left (she had
witnessed his departure) before a messenger came, and Billy had gone
out. He had returned in half-an-hour, very voluble and excited. He had
been given a commission to collect cabaret turns in Spain. He had to
leave London some time after nine, travel all night and catch the Sud
Express in the morning. He was plentifully supplied with money.
“He was so excited he was nearly sober,” said the uncharitable
landlady.
The sudden departure of an obscure music-hall agent, of whose
existence he had been unaware until that afternoon, did not at all
distress Mr. Reeder. It was the circumstances which attended his
leaving, its rapidity, and, most important of all, the knowledge that
was behind that sudden move, which made him alert and watchful. He
might not be _persona grata_ at Scotland Yard, but little things like
that did not trouble Mr. Reeder. He drove immediately to the big
building on the Thames Embankment, sought, nay, demanded, an interview
with the Chief Constable, who should have been at home and in bed, but
was in fact in consultation with his five chiefs when the detective
arrived.
The first message sent to Mr. Reeder was cold and unpromising. Would
he call in the morning? It was Gaylor who was detached from the
conference to carry this message.
“Go back to your chief, Mr. Gaylor,” said Reeder acidly, “and tell him
I wish to see him this evening, at once. If I see him to-morrow it
will be at the Home Office.”
This was a threat: nobody knew it better than Gaylor. The exact extent
and volume of Reeder’s power was not known. One thing was certain: he
could be extremely unpleasant, and the consequences of his displeasure
might even affect a man’s career. Gaylor returned instantly and
summoned him to the conference, and there Mr. Reeder sat down and,
quite uninvited, expounded a theory, and supported his fantastic ideas
with a considerable amount of grimy literature.
“We can stop Gurther at Southampton,” suggested Gaylor, but Reeder
shook his head.
“I think not. Let him soak into the Continent, and then we may pick
him up without any trouble. Send a man to Southampton, and let him
shadow him to Paris. In Paris he can blanket him.”
Mason nodded.
“If your theory is correct, there must be a method of proving it,” he
said; “not a simple one perhaps----”
“On the contrary, a very simple one,” said Mr. Reeder.
He turned to Gaylor.
“You remember the bedroom above the one where the murder took place,
or where we think it was committed? You probably took a photograph.”
“I’ll get it right away,” said Gaylor, and left the room.
He was back with a sheaf of photographic enlargements which he laid on
the table.
“There it is,” said Reeder, and pointed.
“The clock? Yes, I noticed that.”
“Naturally,” said Reeder.
“But most people who go to sea, or even bargees, have it put there.”
The little clock was fastened to the ceiling, immediately over the
bedstead, so that anybody lying in bed could look up and tell the
time. It had luminous hands, Reeder had noticed.
“I want you to have that clock removed and the ceiling plastered. I
want you to take away the bed and put a table and chair there. In two
days I think I will make the further prosecution of young Southers
unnecessary.”
“You can do as you like,” said Mason. “You’re well in the case now,
Mr. Reeder. I’ve put out a special call to get Ligsey, and the river
police are searching all the reaches.”
“The river police are more likely to get Mr. Ligsey than any other
section of the Metropolitan Police Force,” replied Reeder.
Big Ben was striking eleven as he mounted a tramcar that carried him
from Westminster Bridge to the end of his road. In the days, and
particularly the nights, when Mr. Reeder was heavily engaged in his
hazardous occupation, his housekeeper remained on duty until he was
ready to go to bed. She met him at the door now with a telephone
message.
“Mr. Gaylor called up, sir. He says he is sending you a little iron
box which he wishes you to examine, and will you be careful not to
touch it with your fingers because of the prince? He didn’t say which
prince it was.”
“I think I know His Highness,” said Mr. Reeder, who was a little
ruffled that Gaylor should find it necessary to warn him against
over-smearing fingerprints. “Has the box arrived?”
“Ten minutes ago, sir.”
“When did Mr. Gaylor telephone?”
She was rather vague as to this; thought it might have been
half-an-hour before. In that case, thought Reeder, it must have been
immediately after he left the Yard, and the box must have come on by
cyclist messenger.
He found it on his table in a service envelope, and took it out: a
heavy, oblong box, about six inches long and three inches square.
Pen-printed on the lid, which was tacked down, were the words: “Mr.
Reeder to see and return. Room 75, New Scotland Yard.” Reeder weighed
the package in his hand.
Some people remember by smell, some trust to their eyesight, and the
recollections of vision. Mr. Reeder had a remarkable sense of
weight--and he remembered something that weighed just as heavy as
this. He put the package carefully on the table and rang through to
Scotland Yard. Gaylor had gone. He tried him at his house, but he had
not arrived.
“Tell him to ’phone the moment he comes in,” he said, and went to his
desk to examine, for the third time that day, the old music-hall
programmes and playbills, photographs, cuttings from the _Era_ and the