Red aces Being three cases of Mr. Reeder
Mr. Reeder said nothing; he could not raise his hand far enough to
relieve the pressure on his mouth, for attached to the centre link of
the handcuffs was a cord fastened to the strap about his ankles.
The man in the red cloak bent over him, his eyes glaring through the
holes in the mask.
“Last night I tried you. I say to myself, ‘Is this man stupid or is he
clever?’” He spoke quickly and in a low voice. “So I send you the
little bomb. I would have sent it also to Desboyne--he also will die
to-night, and our friend Mr. Southers will be hanged, and there will
be the end of you all! And I will go sailing to the southern seas, and
no man will raise his hand against me, because I am clever.”
Mr. Reeder thought he was a little monotonous. In spite of his
terrible position, he was intensely bored. The man in the red cloak
must have heard something, for he went quickly to the door and
listened more intently, then, mounting the stairs, slammed the door
behind him and put on the padlock. Presently Mr. Reeder heard him
mount the side of the boat and guessed he had stepped ashore to meet
whatever interruption was threatened. It was, in truth, the
boat-builder, who had come to make inquiries, and the grey-haired man
with the stoop and the white moustache and twisted face was able to
assure him that Mr. Reeder had made an offer for the boat, but it had
been rejected, and that the detective had gone on to Marlow.
The prisoner had a quarter of an hour to consider his unfortunate
position and to supply a remedy. Mr. Reeder satisfied himself that it
was a simple matter to free his hands from the steel cuffs. He had
peculiarly thin wrists and his large, bony hands were very deceptive.
He freed one, adjusted the gag to a less uncomfortable tension, and
brought himself to a sitting position. He swayed and would have fallen
to the floor but for a stroke of luck. The effort showed him how
dangerous it would be to make an attempt to escape before he recovered
strength. His pistol had been taken from him; the silver-handled
revolver had also been removed. He resumed his handcuffs and had not
apparently moved when his captor opened the door, only to look in.
“I’m afraid you will have to do without food to-day--does it matter?”
Now Mr. Reeder saw that on the inside of the saloon door was a steel
door. It was painted the same colour as the woodwork, and it was on
this discovery that he based his hope of life. For some reason, which
he never understood, his enemy switched on two lights from the
outside, and this afforded him an opportunity of taking stock of his
surroundings.
The portholes were impossible--he understood now why they had been
made airtight with brown paper. It would be as much as he could do to
get his arms through them. Having decided upon his plan of campaign,
Mr. Reeder acted with his customary energy. He could not allow his
life to depend upon the caprice of this man. Evidently the intention
was to take him out late at night, loaded with chains, and drop him
overboard; but he might have cause to change his mind. And that, Mr.
Reeder thought, would be very unfortunate.
His worst forebodings were in a fair way to being realized, did he but
know. The man who stood in his shirt sleeves, prodding at the centre
of the backwater, had suddenly realized the danger which might follow
the arrival of a curious-minded policeman. The boat-builder would
certainly gossip. Reeder had something of an international reputation,
and the local police would be only too anxious to make his
acquaintance.
Gossip runs up and down a river with a peculiar facility. He went into
the engine cabin, where he had stowed his fantastic robe and hat, and
dragged out a little steel cylinder. Unfasten that nozzle, leave it on
the floor near where the helpless man lay, and in a quarter of an hour
perhaps…
He cold-bloodedly pulled out two links of heavy chain and dropped them
with a crash on the deck. Mr. Reeder heard the sound; he wrenched one
hand free of the cuff, not without pain, broke the gag, and, drawing
himself up into a sitting position, unfastened the first of the two
straps. His head was splitting from the effect of the gas. As his feet
touched the floor he reeled. The second cuff he removed at his
leisure. He was so close to the door now that he could drop the bar.
It stuck for a little while, but presently he drew it down. It fell
with a clatter into the pocket.
The man on the deck heard, ran to the door and tugged, drew off the
padlock and tried to force his way in.
“I’m afraid you’re rather late,” said Mr. Reeder politely.
He could almost feel the vibration of the man’s fury. His vanity had
been hurt; he had been proved a bungler by the one man in the world he
wished to impress, whilst life held any impressions for him.
Then the man on the bridge heard a smash and saw some splinters of
glass fly from one of the ports. There were five tiny airholes in one
of the doors, but four of these had been plugged with clay. Taking the
cylinder, he smashed the nozzle end through the obstruction. A wild,
desperate idea came to the harassed man. Reeder heard the starting
wheel turn, and presently the low hum of machinery. He heard the
patter of feet across the deck and peered through the porthole, but it
was below the level of the bank.
He looked round for a weapon but could find none. Of one thing he was
certain: Mr. Red Robe would not dare to run for the river. There was
quite enough traffic there for him to attract attention. He could not
afford to wait for darkness to fall; his position was as desperate as
Reeder’s own had been----
Bang!
It was the sound of a pistol shot, followed by another. Reeder heard
somebody shout, then the sound of a man crashing through the bushes.
Then he heard the deep voice of Clive Desboyne.
“Reeder… are you there? How are you?”
Mr. Reeder, a slave to politeness, put his mouth up to the broken
porthole.
It was some time before Desboyne could knock off the padlock.
Presently the door was opened and Mr. Reeder came out.
“Thank God, you’re safe!” said the other breathlessly. “Who was the
old bird who shot at me?”
He pointed towards the place where the backwater turned.
“Is there a house there or a road or something? That’s the way he
went. What has happened?”
Mr. Reeder was sitting on a little deck chair, his throbbing head
between his hands. After a while he raised his face.
“I have met the greatest criminal in the world,” he said solemnly.
“He’s so clever that he’s alive. His name is Attymar!”
Clive Desboyne opened his mouth in amazement.
“Attymar? But he’s dead!”
“I hope so,” said Mr. Reeder viciously, “but I have reason to know
that he isn’t. No, no, young man, I won’t tell you what happened. I’m
rather ashamed of myself. Anyway, I am not particularly proud of being
caught by this”--he paused--“amateur. Why did you come?”
“It was only by luck. I don’t know why I came. I happened to ’phone
through to Twickenham about some repairs to the boat--by the way, you
must have seen a picture of it hanging in my hall. In fact, it was in
that picture where you were so smart as to tell the date. I lent the
_Zaira_ at times; I lent it a few months ago to an Italian or Serbian
fellow, but he so ill-used it that I sent a message that it was to be
sent back to the yard. They telephoned along the river for news of it,
and that’s when I learnt you were down here--you look rotten.”
“I feel rotten,” said Mr. Reeder. “And you came----”
“I drove down. I had a sort of feeling in my mind that something was
wrong. Then I met a man who’d seen the builder, and he told me about
the little old fellow. Until then I didn’t know that he was in the
boat, and I came along to make inquiries. For some reason, which I
can’t understand, he no sooner saw me than he pulled a gun and let fly
at me, and, turning, went like mad through those bushes.”
“Have you a gun?” asked Mr. Reeder.
Desboyne smiled.
“No, I don’t carry such things.”
“In that case it would be foolish to pursue my ancient enemy. Let one
of the Buckingham Constabulary carry on the good work. Is your car
anywhere handy?”
There was a road apparently within fifty yards.
“By Jove!” said Desboyne suddenly. “I left it outside the gates of an
empty house. I wonder whether that’s the place where the old bird
went--and whether my car is still there?”
It was there, in the drive of a deserted house: the two-seater coupe
which had so excited the disgust of poor Johnny Southers. With some
difficulty Clive started it up, and the action recalled something to
him.
“Did we leave the engines of that boat running?” he asked suddenly.
“If you don’t mind I’ll go back and turn them off; then I’ll notify
the police, and I’ll send a man to bring the _Zaira_ into Maidenhead.”
He was gone ten minutes. Mr. Reeder had an opportunity of walking
round the car and admiring it.
Rain had fallen in the night: he made this interesting discovery
before Desboyne returned.
“We’ll run up to Marlow and I’ll get a man to go down and collect the
boat,” he said as he climbed in. “I’ve never heard anything more
amazing. Tell me exactly what happened to you?”
Mr. Reeder smiled sadly.
“You will pardon me if I do not?” he asked gently. “The truth is, I
have been asked by a popular newspaper to write my reminiscences, and
I want to save every personal experience for that important volume.”
He would talk about other subjects, however; for example, of the
fortunate circumstance that Desboyne’s car was still there though it
was within reach of the enemy.
“I’ve never met him before. I hope I’ll never meet him again,” said
Desboyne. “But I think he can be traced. Naturally, I don’t want to go
into court against him. I think it’s the most ridiculous experience,
to be shot at without replying.”
“Why bother?” asked Mr. Reeder. “I personally never go into court to
gratify a private vendetta, though there is a possibility that in the
immediate future I may break the habit of years!”
He got down at the boathouse and was a silent listener whilst Clive
Desboyne rang up a Twickenham number and described the exact location
of the boat.
“They’ll collect it,” he said as he hung up. “Now, Mr. Reeder, what am
I to do about the police?”
Mr. Reeder shook his head.
“I shouldn’t report it,” he said. “They’d never understand.”
On the way back to town he grew more friendly to Clive Desboyne than
he had ever been before, and certainly he was more communicative than
he had been regarding the Attymar murder.
“You’ve never seen a murder case at first hand----”
“And I’m not very anxious to,” interrupted the other.
“I applaud that sentiment. Young people are much too morbid,” said Mr.
Reeder. “But this is a crime particularly interesting, because it was
obviously planned by one who has studied the art of murder and the
methods of the average criminal. He had studied it to such good
purpose that he was satisfied that if a crime of this character were
committed by a man of intelligence and acumen, he would--um--escape
the consequence of his deed.”
“And will he?” asked the other, interested.
“No,” said Mr. Reeder, rubbing his nose. He thought for a long time.
“I don’t think so. I think he will hang; I am pretty certain he will
hang.”
Another long pause.
“And yet in a sense he was very clever. For example, he had to attract
the attention of the policeman on the beat and establish the fact that
a murder had been committed. He left open the wicket gate on
the--um--wharf, and placed a lantern on the ground and another within
the open door of his little house, so that the policeman, even if he
had been entirely devoid of curiosity, could not fail to investigate.”
Clive Desboyne frowned.