Terror keep
nor his assistant was in the office. He rang up Scotland Yard and
passed on his information to Simpson.
“I respectfully suggest that you should get into touch with the French
police and locate Ravini. He may not be in Paris at all.”
“Where do you think he is?” asked Simpson.
“That,” replied Mr. Reeder in a hushed voice, “is a question which has
never been definitely settled in my mind. I should not like to say
that he was in heaven, because I cannot imagine Georgio Ravini with
his Luck Stones----”
“Do you mean that he’s dead?” asked Simpson quickly.
“It is very likely; in fact, it is extremely likely.”
There was a long silence at the other end of the telephone.
“Have you had the parcel?”
“That I am awaiting with the greatest interest,” said Mr. Reeder, and
went back to his office to twiddle his thumbs and stare at his white
blotting-pad.
The parcel came at three o’clock that afternoon, when Mr. Reeder had
returned from his frugal lunch, which he invariably took at a large
and popular teashop in Whitehall. It was a very small parcel, about
three inches square; it was registered, and had been posted in London.
He weighed it carefully, shook it and listened, but the lightness of
the package precluded any possibility of there being concealed behind
the paper wrapping anything that bore a resemblance to an infernal
machine. He cut the paper tape that fastened it, took off the paper,
and there was revealed a small cardboard box such as jewellers employ.
Removing the lid, he found a small pad of cotton-wool, and in the
midst of this three gold rings, each with three brilliant diamonds. He
put them on his blotting-pad and gazed at them for a long time.
They were George Ravini’s Luck Stones, and for ten minutes Mr. Reeder
sat in a profound reverie, for he knew that George Ravini was dead,
and it did not need the card which accompanied the rings to know who
was responsible for the drastic and gruesome ending to Mr. Ravini’s
life. The sprawling “J. F.” on the little card was in Mr. Flack’s
writing, and the three words “Your turn next” were instructive, even
if they were not, as they were intended to be, terrifying.
Half an hour later Mr. Reeder met Inspector Simpson by appointment at
Scotland Yard. Simpson examined the rings curiously, and pointed out a
small, dark-brown speck at the edge of one of the Luck Stones.
“I don’t doubt that Ravini is dead,” he said. “The first thing to
discover is where he went when he said he was going to Paris.”
This task presented fewer difficulties than Simpson had imagined. He
remembered Lew Steyne and his association with the Italian, and a
telephone call put through to the City police located Lew in five
minutes.
“Bring him along in a taxi,” said Simpson, and, as he hung up the
receiver: “The question is, what is Crazy Jack’s coup? murder on a
large scale, or just picturesque robbery?”
“I think the latter,” said Mr. Reeder thoughtfully. “Murder, with Mr.
Flack, is a mere incidental to the--er--more important business of
money-making.”
He pinched his lip thoughtfully.
“Forgive me if I seem to repeat myself, but I would again remind you
that Mr. Flack’s specialty is bullion, if I remember aright,” he said.
“Didn’t he smash the strong room of the _Megantic_… bullion, hum!” He
scratched his chin and looked up over his glasses at Simpson.
The inspector shook his head.
“I only wish Crazy Jack was crazy enough to try to get out of the
country by steamer--he won’t. And the Leadenhall Bank stunt couldn’t
be repeated to-day. No, there’s no chance of a bullion steal.”
Mr. Reeder looked unconvinced.
“Would you ring up the Bank of England and find out if the money has
gone to Australia?” he pleaded.
Simpson pulled the instrument towards him, gave a number and, after
five minutes’ groping through various departments, reached an
exclusive personage. Mr. Reeder sat, with his hands clasped about the
handle of his umbrella, a pained expression on his face, his eyes
closed, and seemingly oblivious of the conversation. Presently Simpson
hung up the receiver.
“The consignment should have gone this morning, but the sailing of the
_Olanic_ has been delayed by a stevedore strike--it goes to-morrow
morning,” he reported. “The gold is taken on a lorry to Tilbury with a
guard. At Tilbury it is put into the _Olanic’s_ strong-room, which is
the newest and safest of its kind. I don’t suppose that John will
begin operations there.”
“Why not?” J. G. Reeder’s voice was almost bland; his face was screwed
into its nearest approach to a smile. “On the contrary, as I have said
before, that is the very consignment I should expect Mr. Flack to go
after.”
“I pray that you’re a true prophet,” said Simpson grimly. “I could
wish for nothing better.”
They were still talking of Flack and his passion for ready gold when
Mr. Lew Steyne arrived in the charge of a local detective. No crook,
however hardened, can step into the gloomy approaches of Scotland Yard
without experiencing some uneasiness, and Lew’s attempt to display his
indifference was rather pathetic.
“What’s the idea, Mr. Simpson?” he asked, in a grieved tone. “I’ve
done nothing.”
He scowled at Reeder, who was known to him, and whom he regarded, very
rightly, as being responsible for his appearance at this best-hated
spot.
Simpson put a question, and Mr. Lew Steyne shrugged his shoulders.
“I ask you, Mr. Simpson, am I Ravini’s keeper? I know nothing about
the Italian crowd, and Ravini’s scarcely an acquaintance.”
Mr. Reeder shook his head.
“You spent two hours with him last Thursday evening,” he said, and Lew
was a little taken aback.
“I had a little bit of business with him, I admit,” he said. “Over a
house I’m trying to rent----”
His shifty eyes had become suddenly steadfast; he was looking
open-mouthed at the three rings that lay on the table. Reeder saw him
frown, and then:
“What are those?” asked Lew huskily. “They’re not Georgio’s Luck
Stones?”
Simpson nodded and pushed the little square of white paper on which
they lay towards the visitor.
“Do you know them?” he asked.
Lew picked up one of the rings and turned it round in his hand.
“What’s the idea?” he asked suspiciously. “Ravini told me himself he
could never get these off.”
And then, as the significance of their presence dawned upon him, he
gasped.
“What’s happened to him?” he asked quickly. “Is he----”
“I fear,” said Mr. Reeder soberly, “that Georgio Ravini is no longer
with us.”
“Dead?” Lew almost shrieked the word. His yellow face went a chalky
white. “Where… who did it?…”
“That is exactly what we want to know,” said Simpson. “Now, Lew,
you’ve got to spill it. Where is Ravini? He said he was going to
Paris, I know, but actually where did he go?”
The thief’s eyes strayed to Mr. Reeder.
“He was after that ‘bird,’ that’s all I know,” he said sullenly.
“Which bird?” asked Simpson, but Mr. Reeder had no need to have its
identity explained.
“He was after--Miss Belman?”
Lew nodded.
“Yes, a girl he knew… she went down into the country to take a job as
hotel manager or something. I saw her go, as a matter of fact. Ravini
wanted to get better acquainted, so he went down to stay at the
hotel.”
Even as he spoke, Mr. Reeder had reached for the telephone, and had
given the peculiar code word which is equivalent to a command for a
clear line.
A high-pitched voice answered him.
“I am Mr. Daver, the proprietor… Miss Belman? I’m afraid she is out
just now. She will be back in a few minutes. Who is it speaking?”
Mr. Reeder replied diplomatically. He was anxious to get into touch
with George Ravini, and for two minutes he allowed the voluble Mr.
Daver to air a grievance.
“Yes, he went in the early morning, without paying his bill…”
“I will come down and pay it,” said Mr. Reeder.
CHAPTER IX
“/The/ point is,” said Mr. Daver, “the only point--I think you will
agree with me here--that really has any interest for us, is that Mr.
Ravini left without paying his bill. This was the point I emphasised
to a friend of his who called me on the telephone this morning. That
is to me the supreme mystery of his disappearance--he left without
paying his bill!”
He leaned back in his chair and beamed at the girl in the manner of
one who had expounded an unanswerable problem. With his finger-tips
together he had an appearance which was oddly reminiscent.
“The fact that he left behind a pair of pyjamas which are practically
valueless merely demonstrates that he left in a hurry. You agree with
me? I am sure you do. Why he should leave in a hurry is naturally
beyond my understanding. You say he was a crook: possibly he received
information that he had been detected.”
“He had no telephone calls and no letters while he was here,” insisted
Margaret.
Mr. Daver shook his head.
“That proves nothing. Such a man would have associates. I am sorry he
has gone. I hoped to have an opportunity of studying his type. And by
the way, I have discovered something about Flack--the famous John
Flack--did you know that he had escaped from the lunatic asylum? I
gather from your alarm that you didn’t. I am an observer, Miss B.
Years of study of this fascinating subject have produced in me a sixth
sense--the sense of observation, which is atrophied in ordinary
individuals.”
He took a long envelope from his drawer and pulled out a small bundle
of press cuttings. These he sorted on to his table, and presently
unfolded a newspaper portrait of an elderly man and laid it before
her.
“Flack,” he said briefly.
She was surprised at the age of the man; the thin face, the grizzled
moustache and beard, the deep-set, intelligent eyes suggested almost
anything rather than that confirmed and dangerous criminal.
“My press-cutting agency supplied these,” he said. “And here is
another portrait which may interest you, and in a sense the arrival of
this photograph is a coincidence. I am sure you will agree with me
when I tell you why. It is a picture of a man called Reeder.”
Mr. Daver did not look up or he would have seen the red come to the
girl’s face.
“A clever old gentleman attached to the Public Prosecutor’s
Department----”
“He is not very old,” said Margaret coldly.
“He looks old,” said Mr. Daver, and Margaret had to agree that the
newspaper portrait was not a very flattering one.
“This is the gentleman who was instrumental in arresting Flack, and
the coincidence--now what do you imagine the coincidence is?”
She shook her head.
“He’s coming here to-day!”
Margaret Belman’s mouth opened in amazement.
“I had a wire from him this afternoon saying he was coming to-night,
and asking if I could accommodate him. But for my interest in this
case I should not have known his name or had the slightest idea of his
identity. In all probability I should have refused him a room.”
He looked up suddenly.
“You say he is not so old: do you know him? I see that you do. That is
even a more remarkable coincidence. I am looking forward with the
utmost delight to discussing with him my pet subject. It will be an
intellectual treat.”
“I don’t think Mr. Reeder discusses crime,” she said. “He is rather
reticent on the subject.”
“We shall see,” said Mr. Daver, and from his manner she guessed that
he at any rate had no doubt that the man from the Public Prosecutor’s
Office would respond instantly to a sympathetic audience.
Mr. Reeder came just before seven, and to her surprise he had
abandoned his frock-coat and curious hat and was almost jauntily
attired in grey flannels. He brought with him two very solid and
heavy-looking steamer trunks.
The meeting was not without its moment of embarrassment.
“I trust you will not think, Miss--um--Margaret, that I am being