Red Aces (8 page)

“Go and get acquainted…he doesn’t know you. Go round through the buffet room and pretend you’ve just come in.”

When she reached the gaming room, Ena found Mr Reeder was sitting opposite the croupier. How he got that favoured chair was a mystery. His umbrella was between his knees. In front of him was a pile of Treasury notes. He was “punting” gravely, seemingly absorbed in the game.

“Faites vos jeux, messieurs et mesdames,” said the croupier mechanically.

“What does he mean by that?” asked Mr Reeder of his nearest neighbour.

“He means ‘Make your bet,’” said the girl, who had drawn up a chair by his side.

Mr Reeder made ten coups and won six pounds. With this he got up from the table and recovered his hat from beneath his chair.

“I always think that the time to – um – stop playing cards is when you’re winning.” He imparted this truth to the young lady, who had withdrawn from the table at the same time.

“What a marvellous mind you have!” she said enthusiastically.

Mr Reeder winced.

“I’m afraid I have,” he said.

She shepherded him into the buffet room; he seemed quite willing to be refreshed at the expense of the house.

“A cup of tea, thank you, and a little seed cake.”

Ena was puzzled. Had the whole breed of busies undergone this shattering deterioration?

“I prefer seed to fruit cake,” he was saying. “Curiously enough, chickens are the same. I had a hen once – we called her Curly Toes – who
could
eat fruit and preferred it…”

She listened – she was a good listener. He offered to see her home.

“No – if you could drop me at the corner of Bruton Street and Berkeley Square – I don’t live far from there,” she said modestly.

“Dear me!” said Mr Reeder, as he signalled to a cab. “Do you live in a mews too? So many people do.”

This was disconcerting.

“Perhaps you will come and see me one day – I am Mrs Coleforth–Ebling, and my ’phone number – do write this down–”

“My memory is very excellent,” murmured Mr Reeder.

The cab drove up at that moment and he opened the door.

“Ena Burslem – I will remember that – 907, Gower Mansions.”

He waved his hand in farewell as he got into the cab.

“I’ll be seeing you again, my dear – toodle-oo!”

Mr Reeder could on occasions be outrageously frivolous. “Toodle-oo!” was the high-water mark of his frivolity. It was not remarkable that Ena was both alarmed and puzzled. Brighter intellects than hers had been shaken in a vain effort to reconcile Mr Reeder’s appearance and manner with Mr Reeder’s reputation.

She went back into the house and told Mr Machfield what had happened.

“That man’s clever,” said Machfield admiringly. “If I were the man who had killed Wentworth or whatever his name is, I’d be shaking in my shoes. I’ll walk round to the Leffingham and see if I can pick up a young game-fish. And you’d better dine with me, Ena – I’ll give you the rest of the dope on that business I was discussing.”

The Leffingham Club was quite useful to Mr Machfield. It was a kind of potting shed where likely young shoots could be nurtured before being bedded out in the gardens of chance. Even Kenneth McKay had had his uses.

When Mr Reeder reached Scotland Yard, where they had arranged to meet, he found Inspector Gaylor charged with news.

“We’ve had a bit of luck!” he said. “Do you remember those banknotes? You took their numbers…you remember? They were paid out on Wentford’s account!”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” said Mr Reeder. “To the veiled lady–”

“Veiled grandmother!” said Gaylor. “We have traced two hundred pounds’ worth to a moneylender. They were paid by Kenneth McKay, the bank clerk who cashed the cheque – and here is the cheque!”

He took it from a folder on his desk.

“The signature is a bad forgery; the cheque itself was not torn from Wentford’s cheque-book but from a book kept at the bank under McKay’s charge!”

“Astounding!” said Mr Reeder.

“Isn’t it?” Mr Gaylor was smiling. “So simple! I had the whole theory of the murders given to me tonight. McKay forged and uttered the note, and to cover up his crime killed Wentford.”

“And you instantly arrested him?”

“Am I a child in arms?” asked Gaylor reproachfully. “No, I questioned the lad. He doesn’t deny that he paid the moneylender, but says that the money came to him from some anonymous source. It arrived at his house by registered post. Poor young devil, he’s rattled to blazes! What are we waiting for now?”

“A Gentleman Who Wants to Open a Box,” said Mr Reeder mysteriously.

(“Reeder releases his mysteries as a miser pays his dentist,” said Gaylor to the superintendent. “He knows I know all about the case – I admit he is very good and passes on most of the information he gets, but the old devil
will
keep back the connecting links!”

“Humour him,” said the superintendent.)

Margot Lynn had spent a wretched and a weary day. The little city office which she occupied, and where she had conducted most of her uncle’s business, had become a place of bad dreams.

She had never been very fond of her tyrannical relative, who, if he had paid her well, had extracted the last ounce of service from her. He was an inveterate speculator, and had made considerable monies from his operations on the Stock Exchange. It was she who had bought and sold on his telephoned instructions, she who put his money into a London bank. Over her head all the time he had held one weapon: she had an invalid mother in Italy dependent on his charity.

All day long, people had been calling at the office. A detective had been there for two hours, taking a new statement; reporters had called in battalions, but these she had not seen. Mr Reeder had supplied her with an outer guard, a hard-faced woman who held the pressmen at bay. But the police now knew everything there was to know about “Wentford’s” private affairs – except one thing. She was keeping faith with the dead in this respect, though every time she thought of her reservation her heart sank.

She finished up her work and went home, leaving the building by a back door to avoid the patient reporters. They were waiting for her at her flat, but the hard-faced Mrs Grible swept them away.

Once safely in the flat, a difficulty arose. How could she tactfully and delicately dismiss the guard which Mr Reeder had provided? She offered the woman tea, and Mrs Grible, who said very little, embarrassed her by making it.

“I’m greatly obliged to you and Mr Reeder,” she said after the little meal. “I don’t think I ought to take up any more of your time–”

“I’m staying until Mr Reeder comes,” said the lady.

Very meekly the girl accepted the situation.

Mr Reeder did not come until ten o’clock. Margot was half dead with weariness, and would have given her legacy to have undressed and gone to bed.

For his part, he was in the liveliest mood, an astounding circumstance remembering that he had had practically no sleep for thirty-six hours. In an indefinable way he communicated to her some of his own vitality. She found herself suddenly very wide awake.

“You have seen the police, of course?” Mr Reeder sat on a chair facing her, leaning on the handle of his umbrella, his hat carefully deposited on the floor by his side. “And you have told them everything? It is very wise. The key, now – did you tell them about the key?”

She went very red. She was (thought Mr Reeder) almost as pretty when she was red as when she was white.

“The key?” She could fence, a little desperately, with the question, although she knew just what he meant.

“At the cottage last night you showed me two keys – one the key of the house, the other, from its shape and make, the key of a safe deposit.”

Margot nodded.

“Yes. I suppose I should have told them that. But Mr Wentford–”

“Asked you never to tell. That is why he had two keys, one for you and one for himself.”

“He hated paying taxes – ” she began.

“Did he ever come up to town?”

“Only on very wet days and foggy days. I have never been to the safe deposit, Mr Reeder. Anything that is there he placed himself. I only had the key in case of accidents.”

“What was he afraid of – did he ever tell you?”

She shook her head.

“He was terribly afraid of something. He did all his own housework and cooking – he would never have anybody in. A gardener used to come every few days and look after the electric light plant, and Mr Wentford used to pay him through the window. He was afraid of bombs – you’ve seen the cage round the window in his bedroom? He had that put there for fear somebody should throw in a bomb whilst he was asleep. I can’t tell you what precautions he took. Except myself and the policeman, and once Mr Enward the lawyer, nobody has ever entered that house. His linen was put outside the door every week and left at the door. He had an apparatus for testing milk and he analysed every drop that was left at the house before he drank it – he practically lived on milk. It wasn’t so bad when I first went to him – I was sixteen then – but it got worse and worse as the years went on.”

“He had two telephones in the house,” said Mr Reeder. “That was rather extravagant.”

“He was afraid of being cut off. The second one was connected by underground wires – it cost him an awful lot of money.” She heaved a deep, relieved sigh. “Now I’ve told everything, and my conscience is clear. Shall I get the keys?”

“They are for Mr Gaylor,” said Mr Reeder hastily. “I think you had better keep them and give them to nobody else. Not even to the person who calls tonight.”

“Who is calling tonight?” she asked.

Mr Reeder avoided the question. He looked at Mrs Grible, grim and silent.

“Would you mind – er – waiting outside?”

The obedient woman melted from the room.

“There is one point we ought to clear up, my dear young friend,” said Mr Reeder in a hushed voice. “How long had you been in your uncle’s house when Mr Kenneth McKay appeared?”

If he had struck her she could not have wilted as she did. Her face went the colour of chalk, and she dropped into a chair.

“He came through the window into the little lobby – I know all about that – but how long after you arrived?”

She tried to speak twice before she succeeded.

“A few minutes,” she said, not raising her eyes.

Then suddenly she sprang up.

“He knew nothing about the murder – he was stupidly jealous and followed me…and then I explained to him, and he believed me…I looked through the window and saw you and told him to go…that is the truth, I swear it is!”

He patted her gently on the shoulder.

“I know it is the truth, my dear – be calm, I beg of you. That is all I wanted to know.”

He called Mrs Grible by name. As she came in, they heard the bell of the front door ring. It was followed by a gentle rat-tat.

“Who would that be?” asked Margot. She was still trembling.

“It may be a reporter – it may not be.” Mr Reeder rose. “If it is some stranger to see you on urgent business, perhaps you would be kind enough to mention the fact that you are quite alone.”

He looked helplessly round.

“That – ” He pointed to a door.

“Is the drawing-room,” she said, hardly noticing his em-barrassment.

“Very excellent.” He was relieved. Opening the door, he waved Mrs Grible to precede him. “If it should be reporters we will deal with them,” he said, and closed the door behind him.

There was a second ring of the bell as Margot hurried to the door. Standing outside was a girl. She was elegantly dressed, was a little older than Margot, and unusually pretty.

“Can I see you, Miss Lynn? It is rather important.”

Margot hesitated.

“Come in, please,” she said at last.

The girl followed her into the sitting-room.

“All alone?” she said lightly.

Margot nodded.

“You’re a great pal of Kenneth’s, aren’t you?”

She saw the colour come into Margot’s face, and laughed.

“Of course you are – and you’ve had an awful row?”

“I have had no awful row,” said Margot quietly.

“He’s a jealous boy – they all are, my dear. I always say there is no better proof that a man is gone on you. He’s a darling boy, and he’s in terrible trouble.”

“Trouble – what kind of trouble?” asked Margot quickly.

“Police trouble–”

The girl swayed and caught at the back of a chair.

“Don’t get upset.” Ena was enjoying her part. “He’ll be able to explain everything–”

“But he said he believed me…” She was on the point of betraying the presence of the hidden Mr Reeder, but checked herself in time.

“Who said so?” asked Ena curiously. “A copper – policeman, I mean? Don’t take any notice of that kind of trash. They’d lie to save a car fare! We know that Kenneth didn’t forge the cheque–”

Margot’s eyes opened wide in amazement.

“Forge a cheque – what do you mean? I don’t understand what you are talking about.”

For a moment Ena was nonplussed. If this girl did not know about the forgery, what was agitating her? The solution of this minor mystery came in a flash. It was the murder! Kenneth was in it! She went cold at the thought.

“Oh, my God! I didn’t think of that!” she gasped.

“Tell me about this forgery – ” began Margot, and then her visitor remembered her errand.

“I want you to come along and see Kenneth. He’s waiting for you at my flat – naturally he can’t come here. He’ll tell you everything.”

Margot was bewildered.

“Of course I’ll come, but–”

“Don’t ‘but,’ my dear – just slip into your things and come along. Kenneth told me to ask you to bring all the keys you have – he said they can prove his innocence–”

“Dear, dear, dear!” said a gentle voice, and Ena flung round, to face the man who had come into the room.

She was trapped and knew it. That old devil!

“The key of the larder now, would that be of any use to you?” asked Mr Reeder in his jocular mood. “Or the key of Wormwood Scrubbs?”

“Hullo, Reeder!” The girl was coolness itself. “I thought you were alone, young lady. I did not know you were entertaining Mr and Mrs Reeder.”