Terror keep
indiscreet. But the truth is, I--um--am in need of a holiday.”
He never looked less in need of a holiday: compared with the Reeder
she knew, this man was most unmistakably alert.
“Will you come to my office?” she said, a little unsteadily.
When they reached her bureau, Mr. Reeder opened the door reverently.
She had a feeling that he was holding his breath, and she was seized
with an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh. Instead, she preceded
him into her sanctum. When the door closed:
“I was an awful pig to you, Mr. Reeder,” she began rapidly. “I ought
to have written… the whole thing was so absurd… the quarrel, I mean.”
“The disagreement,” murmured Mr. Reeder. “I am old-fashioned, I admit,
but an old man----”
“Forty-eight isn’t old,” she scoffed. “And why shouldn’t you wear
side-whiskers? It was unpardonable of me… feminine curiosity: I wanted
to see how you looked.”
Mr. Reeder raised his hand. His voice was almost gay.
“The fault was entirely mine, Miss Margaret. I am old-fashioned. You
do not think--er--it is indecorous, my paying a visit to Larmes Keep?”
He looked round at the door and lowered his voice.
“When did Mr. Ravini leave?” he asked.
She looked at him amazed.
“Did you come down about that?”
He nodded slowly.
“I heard he was here. Somebody told me. When did he go?”
Very briefly she told him the story of her night’s experience, and he
listened, his face growing longer and longer, until she had finished.
“Before that, can you remember what happened? Did you see him the
night before he left?”
She knit her forehead and tried to remember.
“Yes,” she said suddenly, “he was in the grounds, walking with Miss
Crewe. He came in rather late----”
“With Miss Crewe?” asked Reeder quickly. “Miss Crewe? Was that the
rather interesting young lady I saw playing croquet with a clergyman
as I came across the lawn?”
She looked at him in surprise.
“Did you come across the lawn? I thought you drove up to the front of
the house----”
“I descended from the vehicle at the top of the hill,” Mr. Reeder
hastily explained. “At my age a little exercise is vitally necessary.
The approaches to the Keep are charming. A young lady, rather pale,
with dark eyes… hum!”
He was looking at her searchingly, his head a little on one side.
“So she and Ravini went out. Were they acquainted?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t think Ravini had met her until he came here.”
She went on to tell him of Ravini’s agitation, and of how she had
found Olga Crewe in tears.
“Weeping… ah!” Mr. Reeder fondled his nose. “You have seen her since?”
And, when the girl shook her head:
“She got up late the next morning--had a headache possibly?” he asked
eagerly, and her eyes opened in astonishment.
“Why, yes. How did you know----”
But Mr. Reeder was not in an informative mood.
“The number of your room is----?”
“No. 4. Miss Crewe’s is No. 5.”
Reeder nodded.
“And Ravini was in No. 7: that is two doors away.” Then, suddenly:
“Where have you put me?”
She hesitated.
“In No. 7. Those were Mr. Daver’s orders. It is one of the best rooms
in the house. I warn you, Mr. Reeder, the proprietor is a
criminologist and is most anxious to discuss his hobby.”
“Delighted,” murmured Mr. Reeder, but he was thinking of something
else. “Could I see Mr. Daver?”
The quarter-of-an-hour gong had already sounded, and she took him
along to the office in the annexe. Mr. Daver’s desk was surprisingly
tidy. He was surveying an account-book through large horn-rimmed
spectacles, and looked up inquiringly as she came in.
“This is Mr. Reeder,” she said, and withdrew.
For a second they looked at one another, the detective and the
Puck-faced little proprietor; and then, with a magnificent wave of his
hand, Mr. Daver invited his visitor to a seat.
“This is a very proud moment for me, Mr. Reeder,” he said, and bent
himself double in a profound bow. “As an humble student of those great
authorities whose works, I have no doubt, are familiar to you, I am
honoured at this privilege of meeting one whom I may describe as a
modern Lombroso. You agree with me? I was certain you would.”
Mr. Reeder looked up at the ceiling.
“Lombroso?” he repeated slowly. “An--um--Italian gentleman, I think?
The name is almost familiar.”
Margaret Belman had not quite closed the door, and Mr. Daver rose and
shut it; returned to his chair with an outflung hand and seated
himself.
“I am glad you have come. In fact, Mr. Reeder, you have relieved my
mind of a great unease. Ever since yesterday morning I have been
wondering whether I ought not to call up Scotland Yard, that splendid
institution, and ask them to despatch an officer to clear up this
strange and possibly revolting mystery.”
He paused impressively.
“I refer to the disappearance of Mr. George Ravini, a guest of Larmes
Keep, who left this house at a quarter to five yesterday morning and
was seen making his way into Siltbury.”
“By whom?” asked Mr. Reeder.
“By an inhabitant of Siltbury, whose name for the moment I forget.
Indeed, I never knew. I met him quite by chance walking down into the
town.”
He leaned forward over his desk and stared owlishly into Mr. Reeder’s
eyes.
“You have come about Ravini, have you not? Do not answer me: I see you
have! Naturally, one did not expect you to carry, so to speak, your
heart on your sleeve. Am I right? I think I am.”
Mr. Reeder did not confirm this conclusion. He seemed strangely
unwilling to speak, and in ordinary circumstances Mr. Daver would not
have resented this diffidence.
“Very naturally I do not wish a scandal to attach to this house,” he
said, “and I may rely upon your discretion. The only matter which
touches me is that Ravini left without paying his bill; a small and
unimportant aspect of what may possibly be a momentous case. You see
my point of view? I am certain that you do.”
He paused, and now Mr. Reeder spoke.
“At a quarter to five,” he said thoughtfully, as though speaking to
himself, “it was scarcely light, was it?”
“The dawn was possibly breaking o’er the sea,” said Mr. Daver
poetically.
“Going to Siltbury? Carrying his bag?”
Mr. Daver nodded.
“May I see his room?”
Daver came to his feet with a flourish.
“That is a request I expected, and it is a reasonable request. Will
you follow me?”
Mr. Reeder followed him through the great hall, which was occupied
solely by a military-looking gentleman, who cast a quick sidelong
glance at him as he passed. Mr. Daver was leading the way to the wide
stairs when Mr. Reeder stopped and pointed.
“How very interesting!” he said.
The most unlikely things interested Mr. Reeder. On this occasion the
point of interest was a large safe--larger than any safe he had seen
in a private establishment. It was six feet in height and half that
width, and it was fitted under the first flight of stairs.
“What is it?” asked Mr. Daver, and turned back. His face screwed up
into a smile when he saw the object of the detective’s attention.
“Ah! My safe! I have many rare and valuable documents which I keep
here. It is a French model, you will observe--too large for my modest
establishment, you will say? I agree. Sometimes, however, we have very
rich people staying here… jewels and the like… it would take a very
clever burglar to open that, and yet I, with a little key----”
He drew a chain from his pocket and fitted one of the keys at the end
into a thin keyhole, turned a handle, and the heavy door swung open.
Mr. Reeder peeped in curiously. On the two steel shelves at the back
of the safe were three small tin boxes--otherwise the safe was empty.
The doors were of an extraordinary thickness, and their inner face
smooth except for a slab of steel the object of which apparently was
to back and strengthen the lock. All this he saw at once, but he saw
something else. The white enamelled floor of the safe was brighter in
hue than the walls. Only a man of Mr. Reeder’s powers of observation
would have noticed this fact. And the steel slab at the back of the
lock…? Mr. Reeder knew quite a lot about safes.
“A treasure-house--it almost makes me feel rich,” chuckled Mr. Daver
as he locked the door and led the way up the stairs. “The psychology
of it will appeal to you, Mr. Reeder!”
At the head of the stairs they came to a broad corridor; Daver,
stopping before the door of No. 7, inserted a key.
“This is also your room,” he explained. “I had a feeling which
amounted almost to a certainty, that your visit was not wholly
unconnected with this curious disappearance of Mr. Ravini, who left
without paying his bill.” He chuckled a little and apologised. “Excuse
me for my insistence upon this point, but it touches me rather
nearly.”
Mr. Reeder followed his host into the big room. It was panelled from
ceiling to floor and furnished with a luxury which surprised him. The
articles of furniture were few, but there was not one which a
connoisseur would not have noted with admiration. The four-poster bed
was Jacobean; the square of carpet was genuine Teheran; a
dressing-table with a settle before it was also of the Jacobean
period.
“That was his bed, where the pyjamas were found.”
Mr. Daver pointed dramatically. But Mr. Reeder was looking at the
casement windows, one of which was open.
He leaned out and looked down, and immediately began to take in the
view. He could see Siltbury lying in the shadow of the downs, its
lights just then beginning to twinkle; but the view of the Siltbury
road was shut out by a belt of firs. To the left he had a glimpse of
the hill road up which his cab had climbed.
Mr. Reeder came out from the room and cast his eyes up and down the
corridor.
“This is a very beautiful house you have, Mr. Daver,” he said.
“You like it? I was sure you would!” said Mr. Daver enthusiastically.
“Yes, it is a delightful property. To you it may seem a sacrilege that
I should use it as a boarding-house, but perhaps our dear young friend
Miss Belman has explained that it is a hobby of mine. I hate
loneliness; I dislike intensely the exertion of making friends. My
position is unique; I can pick and choose my guests.”
Mr. Reeder was looking aimlessly towards the head of the stairs.
“Did you ever have a guest named Holden?” he asked.
Mr. Daver shook his head.
“Or a guest named Willington…? Two friends of mine who may have come
here about eight years ago?”
“No,” said Mr. Daver promptly. “I never forget names. You may inspect
our guest-list for the past twelve years at any time you wish. Would
they be likely to come for any reason”--Mr. Daver was amusingly
embarrassed--“in other names than their own? No, I see they wouldn’t.”
As he was speaking, a door at the far end of the corridor opened and
closed instantly. Mr. Reeder, who missed nothing, caught one glimpse
of a figure before the door shut.
“Whose room is that?” he asked.
Mr. Daver was genuinely embarrassed this time.
“That,” he said, with a nervous little cough, “is my suite. You saw
Mrs. Burton, my housekeeper--a quiet, rather sad soul, who has had a
great deal of trouble in her life.”
“Life,” said Mr. Reeder tritely, “is full of trouble,” and Mr. Daver
agreed with a sorrowful shake of his head.
Now, the eyesight of J. G. Reeder was peculiarly good, and though he
had not as yet met the housekeeper, he was quite certain that the
rather beautiful face he had glimpsed for a moment did not belong to
any sad woman who had seen a lot of trouble. As he dressed leisurely
for dinner, he wondered why Miss Olga Crewe had been so anxious that
she should not be seen coming from the proprietor’s suite. A natural
and proper modesty, no doubt; and modesty was the quality in woman of
which Mr. Reeder most heartily approved.