Red Aces (24 page)

Reeder’s eyes twinkled.

“That he is – um – engaged to somebody else?” he suggested, and she stared at him in amazement.

“Do you know?”

“One has heard of such things,” said Mr Reeder gravely.

“I was very glad,” she went on. “It removed the” – she hesitated – “personal bias. He really is sorry for all he has said and done. Johnny’s trouble has shaken him terribly. Clive thinks that the murder was committed by this man Ligsey.”

“Oh!” said Mr Reeder. “That is interesting.”

He stared down at her, pursing his lips thoughtfully.

“The – um – police rather fancy that Mr Ligsey is dead,” he said, and there was a note of irritation in his voice as though he resented the police holding any theory at all. “Quite dead – um – murdered, in fact.”

There was a long pause here. He knew instinctively that she had come to make some request, but it was not until she rose to go that she spoke her thoughts.

“Clive wished to see you himself to make a proposition. He said that he did not think you were engaged on the – official side of the case, and he’s got a tremendous opinion of your cleverness, Mr Reeder, and so of course have I. Is it humanly possible for you to take up this case…on Johnny’s side, I mean? Perhaps I’m being silly, but just now I’m clutching at straws.”

Mr Reeder was looking out of the window, his head moving slowly from side to side.

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “I really am afraid not! The people on your – um – friend’s side are the police. If he is innocent, I am naturally on his side, with them. Don’t you see, young lady, that when we prove a man’s guilt we also prove everybody else’s innocence?”

It was a long speech for Mr Reeder, and he had not quite finished. He stood with his hands deep in his pocket, his eyes half closed, his body swaying to and fro.

“Let me see now…if Ligsey were alive?… A very dense and stupid young man, quite incapable, I should have thought, of – um – so many things that have happened during the last twenty-four hours.”

After Anna had left, he went to Southers’ house and interviewed Johnny’s father. The old man was bearing his sorrow remarkably well. Indeed, his principal emotion was a loud fury against the people who dared accuse his son.

He led the way to the tool-shed in the yard and showed the detective just where the box had been hidden.

“Personally, I never go into the shed. It’s Johnny’s little cubby hutch,” he said. “The lad is fond of gardening, and, like you, Mr Reeder, has a fancy for poultry.”

“Is the shed kept locked?”

“No, I’ve never seen it locked,” said old Southers.

The place from which the box had been extracted was at the far end of the shed. It had been concealed behind a bag of chicken-seed.

Mr Reeder took a brief survey of the garden: it was an oblong strip of ground, measuring about a hundred yards by twenty. At the further end of the garden was a wall which marked the boundary of the garden which backed on to it. The garden could be approached either from the door leading to a small glass conservatory, or along a narrow gravel strip which ran down one side of the house. Ingress, however, was barred by a small door stretched across the narrow path.

“But it’s seldom locked,” said Southers. “We leave it open for the milkman; he goes round to the kitchen that way in the morning.”

Mr Reeder went back to the garden and walked slowly along the gravel path which ran between two large flower-beds. At the farther end was a wired-in chicken run. Mr Reeder surveyed the flower-beds meditatively.

“Nobody has dug up the garden?” he asked, and, when the other replied in the negative: “Then I should do a bit of digging myself if I were you, Mr Southers,” he said gently; “and whether you tell the police what you find, or do not tell the police, is entirely a matter for your own conscience.”

He looked up at the sky for a long time as though he were expecting to see an aeroplane, and then: “If it is consistent with your – um – conscience to say nothing about your discovery, and if you removed it or them to a safe place where it or they would not be found, it might be to the advantage of your son in the not too distant future.”

Mr Southers was a little agitated, more than a little bewildered, when Mr Reeder took his leave. He was to learn that the ban on his activities in regard to the Attymar murder had been strengthened rather than relaxed, and he experienced a gentle but malignant pleasure in the thought that in one respect he had made their task a little more difficult.

It was Gaylor who brought the news.

“I spoke to the chief about your seeing Southers in Brixton, but he thought it was best if you kept out of the case until the witnesses are tested.”

Mr Reeder’s duties in the Public Prosecutor’s Department were to examine witnesses prior to their appearance in court, to test the strength or the weakness of their testimony, and he had been employed in this capacity before his official connection with the department was made definite.

“At the same time,” Gaylor went on, “if you can pick up anything we’ll be glad to have it.”

“Naturally,” murmured Mr Reeder.

“I mean, you may by accident hear things – you know these people: they live in the same street: and I think you know the young lady Southers is engaged to?”

Mr Reeder inclined his head.

“There’s another thing, Mr Reeder.” Gaylor evidently felt he was treading on delicate ground, having summarily declined and rejected the assistance of his companion. “If you should hear from Ligsey–”

“A voice from the grave,” interrupted Mr Reeder.

“Well, there is a rumour about that he’s not dead. In fact, the boy on the barge, Hobbs, says that Ligsey came alongside last night in a skiff and told him to keep his mouth shut about what he’d seen and heard. My own opinion is that the boy was dreaming, but one of Ligsey’s pals said he’d also seen him or heard him – I don’t know which. That’s a line of investigation you might take on for your own amusement–”

“Investigation doesn’t amuse me,” said Mr Reeder calmly; “it bores me. It wearies me. It brings me in a certain – um – income, but it doesn’t amuse me.”

“Well,” said the detective awkwardly, “if it interests you, that’s a line you might take up.”

“I shall not dream of taking up any line at all. It means work, and I do not like work.”

Here, however, he was permitting himself to romance.

That afternoon he spent in the neighbourhood which Ligsey knew best. He talked with carmen and van boys, little old women who kept tiny and unremunerative shops, and the consequence of all his oblique questionings was that he made a call in Little Calais Street, where lived an unprepossessing young lady who had gained certain social recognition – her portrait would appear in the next morning’s newspapers – because she had been engaged to the missing man. She had, in fact, walked out with him, amongst others, for the greater part of a year.

Miss Rosie Loop did not suggest romance; she was short, rather stout, had bad teeth and a red face; but for the moment she was important, and might not have seen Mr Reeder but for the mistaken idea she had that he was associated with the press.

“Who shall I say it is?” asked her blowsy mother, who answered the door.

“The editor of
The Times
,” said Mr Reeder without hesitation.

In the stuffy little kitchen where the bereaved fiancée was eating bread and jam, Mr Reeder was given a clean Windsor chair, and sat down to hear the exciting happening of the previous night.

“I haven’t told the press yet,” said Rosie, who had a surprisingly shrill voice for one so equipped by nature for the deeper tones. “He come last night. I sleep upstairs with mother, and whenever he used to anchor off the crik he used to come ashore, no matter what time it was, and throw up a couple of stones to let me know he was here. About ’arf past two it was last night, and lord! it gave me a start.”

“He threw up the stones to let you know he was there?” suggested Mr Reeder.

She nodded violently.

“And was it Mr Ligsey?”

“It was him!” she said dramatically. “I wouldn’t go to the window for a long time, but mother said ‘Don’t be such a fool, a ghost carn’t hurt yer,’ and then I pulled up the sash and there he was in his old oilskin coat. I asked him where he’d bin, but he was in a ’urry. Told me not to get worried about him as he was all right.”

“How did he look?” asked Mr Reeder.

She rolled her head impatiently.

“Didn’t I tell yer it was the middle of the night? But that’s what he said – ‘Don’t get worried about anything’ – and then he popped off.”

“And you popped in?” said Mr Reeder pleasantly. “He didn’t have a cold or anything, did he?”

Her mouth opened.

“You’ve seen him? Where is he?”

“I haven’t seen him, but he had a cold?”

“Yes, he had,” she admitted, “and so would you ’ave if you ’ad to go up and down that river all day and night. It’s a horrible life. I hope he’s going to give it up. He’s bound to get some money if he comes forward and tells the police the truth. It was very funny, me thinkin’ he was dead. We’d bin to buy our black – hadn’t we, mother?”

Mother offered a hoarse confirmation.

“And all the papers sayin’ he was dead, an’ dragging the river for him, an’ that Captain Attymar. He used to treat Ligsey like a dog.”

“He hasn’t written to you?”

She shook her head.

“He was never a one for writing.”

“What time was this?”

She could tell him exactly, because she had heard Greenwich Church striking the half-hour.

Mr Reeder might be bored with investigation, but he found some satisfaction in boredom.

The
Allanuna
still lay off Greenwich, and he hired a boat to take him to the barge. The disconsolate Master Hobbs was still on board, and even the fact that he was now commander did not compensate him for his loneliness, though apparently the police had supplied him with food and had arranged to relieve him that evening.

He was very emphatic about the visitation of Ligsey. He had rowed alongside and whistled to the boy – the whistle had wakened him. From under the companion steps he had looked over and seen him sitting in the boat, a big white bandage round his head. Miss Rosie had said nothing about the white bandage, but, calling on his way home, Reeder had confirmation.

“Yes, I forgot to tell you about that,” said Rosie. “I see it under ’is ’at. I said ‘What’s that white round your head?’ Fancy me forgettin’ to tell you that!”

As a matter of form, Mr Reeder, when he got home that night, jotted down certain sequences.

At some time after eight on the night of the murder, Attymar had come in a launch, had collected Ligsey and taken him towards London. At nine-thirty Johnny Southers had called at Attymar’s house, and, according to his story, had been sent on a fool’s errand to Highgate. At some time about eleven o’clock the murder had been discovered –

Mr Reeder put down his pen and frowned.

“I am getting old and stupid,” he said, reached for the telephone and called a number to which he knew Gaylor would certainly be attached at that hour.

It was Gaylor’s clerk who answered him, and, after about four minutes’ wait, Gaylor himself spoke.

“Have you found anything, Mr Reeder?”

“I find I am suffering from a slight softening of the brain,” said Mr Reeder pleasantly. “Do you realize I never asked how the murder was discovered?”

He heard Gaylor laugh.

“Didn’t I tell you? It was very simple. A policeman on his beat found the wicket door open, saw the lantern on the ground and the other lantern burning in the lobby of the house – what’s the matter?”

Mr Reeder was laughing.

“Pardon me,” he said at last. “Are you sure there wasn’t an alarm bell ringing?”

“I didn’t hear of any alarm bell – in fact, I don’t know that there is one.”

Mr Reeder exchanged a few commonplaces, denied that he was making any enquiries about Ligsey, and, hanging up the receiver, sat back in his chair, his hands clasped about his middle and real amusement in his eyes.

Later he had a call from the solicitor engaged to defend young Southers. He also suggested that Mr Reeder should place his services at the call of the defence; but again he refused.

Opening the telephone directory, he found the number of Mr Clive 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 tonight 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 thoughts 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.

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.