Red aces Being three cases of Mr. Reeder
_Stage_, the data which he had collected in the course of the day.
At one o’clock his housekeeper came in and asked if anything more
would be required.
“Nothing at all,” said Mr. Reeder. And then a thought struck him.
“Where do you sleep?”
“In the room above, sir.”
“Above this?” said Mr. Reeder hastily. “No, no, I think you’d better
stay in the kitchen until I hear from Mr. Gaylor. If you could make
yourself comfortable there, in fact if you could sleep there, I should
be very much obliged. There is nothing to be alarmed about,” he said,
when he saw consternation dawning in her face. “It is merely that I
may want to--um--send a detective upstairs to--um--overhear a
conversation.”
It was a lame excuse. Mr. Reeder was a poor liar; but his housekeeper
was a very simple soul, and, except that she insisted upon going up to
make the room tidy, agreed to retire to the basement. She had hardly
gone when Gaylor came through, and for five minutes he and Reeder
spoke together. After this the detective settled down to await his
coming, and Inspector Gaylor did not arrive alone, but brought with
him two expert officials from the Explosives Department. One of them
had a delicate spring balance, and with this the package was weighed.
“Allow an ounce and a quarter for the wood,” said the expert, “and
that’s the exact weight of a Mills bomb. I’m sure you’re right, Mr.
Reeder.”
He held the package to his ear and shook it gently.
“No, nothing more complicated.”
He took a case of instruments from his pocket and removed a slither of
wood from the lid.
“Yes, there’s the lever, and the pin’s out,” he said after examining
it under a strong light.
He cut away the side, and revealed a black, segmented egg shape,
grinning as he recognized an old friend.
“You see that?” He pointed to a little hole at the end of the box.
“The fellow who brought this was taking no risks: he kept an emergency
pin through until it was delivered. I’ll have this out in a jiff.”
It was no idle promise. Mr. Reeder watched with interest as the
skilful fingers of the man removed the lid, catching the lever at the
same time and holding it firm against the swelling side. From his
pocket he took a steel pin and thrust it home, and the bomb became
innocuous.
“You’ve kept every scrap of paper, of course?” said Gaylor. “There was
no other packing but this?”
Every piece of paper was carefully folded and put in an envelope, and
the two explosive experts went down to pack away Mr. Reeder’s
dangerous gift.
“There was a lot you didn’t tell the chief,” said Gaylor at parting.
“That’s the trouble with you, you old devil!”
Mr. Reeder looked pained.
“That is not a very pleasant expression,” he said.
“But it is,” insisted Gaylor. “You always keep back some juicy bit to
spring on us at the last moment. It’s either your sense of drama or
your sense of humour.”
For a moment Reeder’s eyes twinkled, and then his face became a mask
again.
“I have no--um--sense of humour,” he said.
He had at any rate a sense of vanity, and he was irritated that his
little idiosyncrasy had been so cruelly exposed to description.
He was up at six the next morning, and by half past seven was on his
way to the Thames Valley. On the previous day he had telephoned to
eight separate boathouses between Windsor and Henley, and he was
satisfied that he had found what he wanted in the neighbourhood of
Bourne End. He had telephoned to the boat-builder on whom he was
calling, and he found that industrious man at work in his yard.
“You’re the gentleman who wanted to know about the _Zaira_? I was
going to send one of my boys up to see if she was still tied up, but I
haven’t been able to spare him this morning.”
“I’m rather glad you haven’t,” said Mr. Reeder.
“It was a funny thing you telephoning to me when you did,” said the
builder. “She’d just gone past on her way to Marlow… No, I’ve never
seen her before, but I caught the name; in fact, it was because she
was new in this part of the river that I noticed her. She’s a
forty-foot cruiser, nearly new, and I should think she’s got pretty
powerful engines. As it was, she made a bit of a wash.”
He explained that after Mr. Reeder’s inquiry he had telephoned through
to Marlow, had learned that the boat had not passed, and had sent one
of his assistants up the towpath to locate her.
“She’s lying at a private quay that runs in from the river to a big
red house which has been empty for years. There’s nobody on board her,
and I suppose the owner’s had permission from the agents. Are you
thinking of buying her?”
That view had never presented itself to Mr. Reeder. He thought for a
long time, and gave the boat-builder the impression that it was only
a question of price that prevented him from ownership.
“Yes, it’s quite usual for people to tie up and leave their boats for
months at a time, especially at a private quay like that. It’s not
safe: you get a craft full of rats, especially in the winter months.
These big boats cost a lot to keep up, and you couldn’t afford to have
a caretaker on board.”
Mr. Reeder made a very leisurely way along the towpath, stopping now
and again to admire the lovely reach. Although he had explicit
instructions, he might have passed the narrow canal which runs in from
the river, in spite of the brick bridge across, for the stream was
choked with weeds, and ran apparently into a tangle of trees and
undergrowth. With some difficulty Mr. Reeder reached its bank. He then
saw that the canal was brick-lined. Nevertheless, though he had this
indication of its edge, he walked gingerly.
It opened to a larger pool, a sort of backwater. Passing a clump of
bushes, he came suddenly upon the boat. The bow lay almost within
reach of his hand. It was tied up fore and aft and had a deserted
appearance. Across the forepart of the boat was drawn a canvas cover,
but he was prepared for this by the description of the boat-builder.
Mr. Reeder slipped his hand in his pocket and went cautiously along
the length of the boat. He noted that all the portholes were not only
closed but made opaque with brown paper.
“Is anybody there?” he called loudly.
There was no answer. In midstream a moorhen was paddling aimlessly;
the sound of his voice sent it scurrying to cover.
The foremost part of the ship was evidently the engine room, and
possibly accommodation for a small crew. The living saloon was aft. It
was these that had their portholes covered. Both cabins were
approached from the well deck amidships, and he saw here a
canvas-covered wheel. The doors were padlocked on the outside.
Mr. Reeder looked around, and stepped on to the boat down a short
ladder to the well. He tried the padlock on the saloon door. It was
fast; but it was a very simple padlock, and if fortune favoured him,
and the boat he sought was really discovered, he had prepared for such
an emergency as this.
He tried three of the keys which he took from his pocket before the
lock snapped back. He unfastened the hasp, turned the handle and
pulled open the door. He could see nothing for a moment; then he
switched on an electric hand-lamp and sent its rays into the interior.
The saloon was empty. The floor of it lay possibly eighteen inches
below the level of the deck on which he was standing. And then.…
Lying in the middle of the floor, and glittering in the light of his
lamp, was a white-handled, silver-plated revolver.
“Very interesting,” said Mr. Reeder, and went down into the saloon.
He reached the bottom of the steps and turned, walking backwards with
his face to the door through which he had come, the muzzle of his
Browning covering the opening. Presently his heel kicked the pistol.
He took another step back and stooped to pick it up.…
CHAPTER VIII
Mr. Reeder was conscious of a headache and that the light shining in
his eyes was painful. It was a tiny globe which burned in the roof of
the cabin. Somebody was talking very distressedly; the falsetto voices
Mr. Reeder loathed. His senses came back gradually.
He was shocked to find himself one of the figures in a most
fantastical scene; something which did not belong to the great world
of reality in which he lived and had his being. He was part of an
episode, torn bodily from a most imaginative and impossible work of
fiction.
The man who sat in one corner of the lounge, clasping his knees, was…
Mr. Reeder puzzled for a word. Theatrical, of course. That red silk
robe, that Mephistophelian cap, and the long black mask with the lace
fringe that even hid the speaker’s chin. His hands were covered with
jewelled rings which scintillated in the feeble light overhead.
Mr. Reeder could not very well move; he was handcuffed, his legs were
strapped painfully together, and in his mouth was a piece of wood
lightly tied behind his ears. It was not painful, but it could be, he
realized. At any rate he was spared the necessity of replying to the
exultant man who sat at the other end of the settee.
“… Did you hear what I said, my master of mystery?”
He spoke with a slightly foreign accent, this man in the red robe.
“You are so clever, and yet I am more clever, eh? All of it I planned
out of my mind. The glittering silver pistol on the floor--that was
the only way I could get you to stoop and bring your head into the
gas. It was a very heavy gas which does not easily escape, but I was
afraid you might have dropped a cigarette, and that would have
betrayed everything. If you had waited a little time the gas would
have rolled out of the open door; but no, you must have the pistol, so
you stooped and picked it up, and _voila!_”
His hands glittered dazzlingly.
“You are used to criminals of the stupid kind,” he went on. “For the
first time, my Reeder, you meet one who has planned everything step by
step. Pardon me.”
He stepped down to the floor, leaned forward and untied the gag.
“I find it difficult if conversation is one-sided,” he said
pleasantly. “If you make a fuss I shall shoot you and that will be the
end. At present I desire that you should know everything. You know
me?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t that pleasure,” said Mr. Reeder, and the man
chuckled.
“If you had lived, I would have been your chief case, your _chef
d’œuvre_, the one man of your acquaintance who could plan murder
and--what is the expression?--get away with it! Do you know where you
are?”
“I’m on the _Zaira_,” said Mr. Reeder.
“Do you know who is her owner?”
“She is owned by Mr. Clive Desboyne.”
The man chuckled at this.
“Poor fellow! The lovesick one, eh? For him this boat is--where do you
think?--at Twickenham, for its spring repairs. He told you perhaps he
had been mad enough to let it for two months? No, he did not tell you?
Ah, that is interesting. Perhaps he forgot.”
Mr. Reeder nodded slowly.
“Now tell me, my friend--my time is very short and I cannot waste it
here with you--do you know who killed Attymar?”
“You are Attymar,” said Mr. Reeder, and was rewarded by a shrill
chuckle of delighted laughter.
“So clever, after all! It is a good thing I have you, eh?
Otherwise”--he shrugged his shoulders lightly. “That is the very best
joke--I am Attymar! Do I speak like him, yes? Possibly--who knows?”
He slipped from his seat and came stealthily towards Reeder and fixed
the gag a little tighter.
“Where shall you be this night, do you think, with a big, heavy chain
fastened around you? I know all the deepest holes in this river, and
years and years will pass before they find your body. To think that
this great London shall lose its Mr. Reeder! So many people have tried
to kill you, my friend, but they have failed because they are
criminals--just stupid fellows who cannot plan like a general.”