Red Aces

by Edgar Wallace

  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.

  7

  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.

  Mr Reeder had a meal in a Strand restaurant and drove to Park Lane. As the lift carried him to the floor on which Desboyne’s flat was situated – “I’m sure it’s spring cleaning,” murmured Mr Reeder to himself.

  He rang the bell of the flat and waited. Presently he heard the sound of footsteps echoing hollowly in the hall. Clive Desboyne opened the door with an apologetic smile.

  “I hope you don’t mind the place being in confusion?” he said. “We’ve started our spring cleaning. The truth is, I’d arranged to go away today if this wretched business hadn’t turned up.”

  The carpet had been taken up from the floor of the hall, the walls had been stripped, and the crystal pendant which lit the hall showed through a gauze covering. Clive Desboyne’s own study had, however, been left untouched by the decorators.

  “I’m going to clear out to an hotel tomorrow. It’ll probably be the Ritz-Carlton, but if you want me urgently my solicitors will be able to put us in touch. Now, Mr Reeder, you’re going to do this for Anna and me?”

  Mr Reeder shook his head feebly.

  “You’ve got to do it,” insisted the other energetically. “You’re the only detective in London in whom I’ve any confidence. I know you’re attached to the Public Prosecutor’s Department, but I’ve been making a few inquiries too,” he said with a little smile, “and I hear that you take outside commissions.”

  “Banks,” said Mr Reeder reverently. “Banks – not private work.”

  “I shall insist!” Clive was very earnest. “I’ve told Anna everything – about my beastliness in regard to young Southers. Honestly, I still think that Ligsey’s story was true and that Southers was making something on the side. A lot of decent fellows, otherwise perfectly honest, do that sort of thing, and I’m not condemning him. In fact, when I expressed my – what’s the word for being shocked?”

  “Horror, amazement?” suggested Mr Reeder.

  “Well, whatever it was – I was being a hypocrite. I myself have not always been rich. I’ve known what it is to be devilishly poor. If I hadn’t made good speculations when I was quite a kid, I should probably be worse off than Southers.”

  “You’re rather fond of the young lady?” said Mr Reeder after an interregnum
of silence.

  Again Desboyne laughed.

  “Of course I am! The fact that a man is engaged to another girl – and the sweetest girl in the world – doesn’t prevent him philandering. Of course, it’s a caddish thing to do, and it’s got me into quite a lot of trouble, but the fact remains, I am terribly fond of Anna. I won’t say I love her like a brother, because I’m tired of being a hypocrite. I’m going to try to get Southers out of the mess he’s in; and that doesn’t mean I love him like a brother, either! Now, Mr Reeder, what do you want to see me about, if it isn’t to tell me that you’re taking up this case?”

  All that Mr Reeder wanted to see Clive Desboyne about was spring cleaning, but he could not say this. He had, however, a good excuse for calling: Ligsey was apparently alive, he explained. Clive Desboyne was not impressed.

  “I didn’t worry whether he was alive or dead,” he said frankly. “Naturally, I do not know what theory the police have, but I understood from the newspapers that they were concentrating on the murder of Attymar – that is the charge against John Southers. If Ligsey is alive I’m hardly likely to meet him, unless, of course, he feels, as so many of these crooks do, that once one has given them money they’re entitled to a pension! If I hear from him I’ll let you know.”

  As they came out into the hall Mr Reeder’s eyes wandered up and down the bare walls.

  “You will have this repainted, Mr Desboyne?” he asked. “At present it is rather a delicate cream. If I were you I should have it painted green. Green is a very restful colour, but possibly my views are – um – suburban.”

  “I think they are,” said the other good-humouredly.

  Reeder had made an appointment to see the bibulous agent at ten o’clock. The agent knew where certain photographs were to be obtained, and had promised to be waiting at the corner of St Martin’s Lane at that hour. Mr Reeder arrived as St Martin’s Church clock was striking, but there was no sign of Billy Gurther. He had not appeared at half past ten, and Mr Reeder decided to go to his house, for he was very anxious to complete his dossier.

  The landlady at Mr Gurther’s lodgings had a surprising and disconcerting story to tell. Mr Reeder had hardly left (she had witnessed his departure) before a messenger came, and Billy had gone out. He had returned in half-an-hour, very voluble and excited. He had been given a commission to collect cabaret turns in Spain. He had to leave London some time after nine, travel all night and catch the Sud Express in the morning. He was plentifully supplied with money.

  “He was so excited he was nearly sober,” said the uncharitable landlady.

  The sudden departure of an obscure music-hall agent, of whose existence he had been unaware until that afternoon, did not at all distress Mr Reeder. It was the circumstances which attended his leaving, its rapidity, and, most important of all, the knowledge that was behind that sudden move, which made him alert and watchful. He might not be persona grata at Scotland Yard, but little things like that did not trouble Mr Reeder. He drove immediately to the big building on the Thames Embankment, sought, nay, demanded, an interview with the Chief Constable, who should have been at home and in bed, but was in fact in consultation with his five chiefs when the detective arrived.

  The first message sent to Mr Reeder was cold and unpromising. Would he call in the morning? It was Gaylor who was detached from the conference to carry this message.

  “Go back to your chief, Mr Gaylor,” said Reeder acidly, “and tell him I wish to see him this evening, at once. If I see him tomorrow it will be at the Home Office.”

  This was a threat: nobody knew it better than Gaylor. The exact extent and volume of Reeder’s power was not known. One thing was certain: he could be extremely unpleasant, and the consequences of his displeasure might even affect a man’s career. Gaylor returned instantly and summoned him to the conference, and there Mr Reeder sat down and, quite uninvited, expounded a theory, and supported his fantastic ideas with a considerable amount of grimy literature.

  “We can stop Gurther at Southampton,” suggested Gaylor, but Reeder shook his head.

  “I think not. Let him soak into the Continent, and then we may pick him up without any trouble. Send a man to Southampton, and let him shadow him to Paris. In Paris he can blanket him.”

  Mason nodded.

  “If your theory is correct, there must be a method of proving it,” he said; “not a simple one perhaps–”

  “On the contrary, a very simple one,” said Mr Reeder.

  He turned to Gaylor.

  “You remember the bedroom above the one where the murder took place, or where we think it was committed? You probably took a photograph.”

  “I’ll get it right away,” said Gaylor, and left the room.

  He was back with a sheaf of photographic enlargements which he laid on the table.

  “There it is,” said Reeder, and pointed.

  “The clock? Yes, I noticed that.”

  “Naturally,” said Reeder.

  “But most people who go to sea, or even bargees, have it put there.”

  The little clock was fastened to the ceiling, immediately over the bedstead, so that anybody lying in bed could look up and tell the time. It had luminous hands, Reeder had noticed.

  “I want you to have that clock removed and the ceiling plastered. I want you to take away the bed and put a table and chair there. In two days I think I will make the further prosecution of young Southers unnecessary.”

  “You can do as you like,” said Mason. “You’re well in the case now, Mr Reeder. I’ve put out a special call to get Ligsey, and the river police are searching all the reaches.”

  “The river police are more likely to get Mr Ligsey than any other section of the Metropolitan Police Force,” replied Reeder.

  Big Ben was striking eleven as he mounted a tramcar that carried him from Westminster Bridge to the end of his road. In the days, and particularly the nights, when Mr Reeder was heavily engaged in his hazardous occupation, his housekeeper remained on duty until he was ready to go to bed. She met him at the door now with a telephone message.

  “Mr Gaylor called up, sir. He says he is sending you a little iron box which he wishes you to examine, and will you be careful not to touch it with your fingers because of the prince? He didn’t say which prince it was.”

  “I think I know His Highness,” said Mr Reeder, who was a little ruffled that Gaylor should find it necessary to warn him against over-smearing fingerprints. “Has the box arrived?”

  “Ten minutes ago, sir.”

  “When did Mr Gaylor telephone?”

  She was rather vague as to this; thought it might have been half-an-hour before. In that case, thought Reeder, it must have been immediately after he left the Yard, and the box must have come on by cyclist messenger.

  He found it on his table in a service envelope, and took it out: a heavy, oblong box, about six inches long and three inches square. Pen-printed on the lid, which was tacked down, were the words: “Mr Reeder to see and return. Room 75, New Scotland Yard.” Reeder weighed the package in his hand.

  Some people remember by smell, some trust to their eyesight, and the recollections of vision. Mr Reeder had a remarkable sense of weight – and he remembered something that weighed just as heavy as this. He put the package carefully on the table and rang through to Scotland Yard. Gaylor had gone. He tried him at his house, but he had not arrived.

  “Tell him to ’phone the moment he comes in,” he said, and went to his desk to examine for the third time that day, the old music-hall programmes and playbills, photographs, cuttings from the Era and the Stage, the data which he had collected in the course of the day.

  At one o’clock his housekeeper came in and asked if anything more would be required.

  “Nothing at all,” said Mr Reeder. And then a thought struck him. “Where do you sleep?”


  “In the room above, sir.”

  “Above this?” said Mr Reeder hastily. “No, no, I think you’d better stay in the kitchen until I hear from Mr Gaylor. If you could make yourself comfortable there, in fact if you could sleep there, I should be very much obliged. There is nothing to be alarmed about,” he said, when he saw consternation dawning in her face. “It is merely that I may want to – um – send a detective upstairs to – um – overhear a conversation.”

  It was a lame excuse. Mr Reeder was a poor liar; but his housekeeper was a very simple soul, and, except that she insisted upon going up to make the room tidy, agreed to retire to the basement. She had hardly gone when Gaylor came through, and for five minutes he and Reeder spoke together. After this the detective settled down to await his coming, and Inspector Gaylor did not arrive alone, but brought with him two expert officials from the Explosives Department. One of them had a delicate spring balance, and with this the package was weighed.

  “Allow an ounce and a quarter for the wood,” said the expert, “and that’s the exact weight of a Mills bomb. I’m sure you’re right, Mr Reeder.”

  He held the package to his ear and shook it gently.

  “No, nothing more complicated.”

  He took a case of instruments from his pocket and removed a sliver of wood from the lid.

  “Yes, there’s the lever, and the pin’s out,” he said after examining it under a strong light.

  He cut away the side, and revealed a black, segmented egg shape, grinning as he recognized an old friend.

  “You see that?” He pointed to a little hole at the end of the box. “The fellow who brought this was taking no risks: he kept an emergency pin through until it was delivered. I’ll have this out in a jiff.”

  It was no idle promise. Mr Reeder watched with interest as the skilful fingers of the man removed the lid, catching the lever at the same time and holding it firm against the swelling side. From his pocket he took a steel pin and thrust it home, and the bomb became innocuous.

  “You’ve kept every scrap of paper, of course?” said Gaylor. “There was no other packing but this?”