Every piece of paper was carefully folded and put in an envelope, and the two explosive experts went down to pack away Mr Reeder’s dangerous gift.
“There was a lot you didn’t tell the chief,” said Gaylor at parting. “That’s the trouble with you, you old devil!”
Mr Reeder looked pained.
“That is not a very pleasant expression,” he said.
“But it is,” insisted Gaylor. “You always keep back some juicy bit to spring on us at the last moment. It’s either your sense of drama or your sense of humour.”
For a moment Reeder’s eyes twinkled, and then his face became a mask again.
“I have no – um – sense of humour,” he said.
He had at any rate a sense of vanity, and he was irritated that his little idiosyncrasy had been so cruelly exposed to description.
He was up at six the next morning, and by half past seven was on his way to the Thames Valley. On the previous day he had telephoned to eight separate boathouses between Windsor and Henley, and he was satisfied that he had found what he wanted in the neighbourhood of Bourne End. He had telephoned to the boat-builder on whom he was calling, and he found that industrious man at work in his yard.
“You’re the gentleman who wanted to know about the Zaira? I was going to send one of my boys up to see if she was still tied up, but I haven’t been able to spare him this morning.”
“I’m rather glad you haven’t,” said Mr Reeder.
“It was a funny thing you telephoning to me when you did,” said the builder. “She’d just gone past on her way to Marlow… No, I’ve never seen her before, but I caught the name; in fact, it was because she was new in this part of the river that I noticed her. She’s a forty-foot cruiser, nearly new, and I should think she’s got pretty powerful engines. As it was, she made a bit of a wash.”
He explained that after Mr Reeder’s inquiry he had telephoned through to Marlow, had learned that the boat had not passed, and had sent one of his assistants up the towpath to locate her.
“She’s lying at a private quay that runs in from the river to a big red house which has been empty for years. There’s nobody on board her, and I suppose the owner’s had permission from the agents. Are you thinking of buying her?”
That view had never presented itself to Mr Reeder. He thought for a long time, and gave the boat-builder the impression that it was only a question of price that prevented him from ownership.
“Yes, it’s quite usual for people to tie up and leave their boats for months at a time, especially at a private quay like that. It’s not safe: you get a craft full of rats, especially in the winter months. These big boats cost a lot to keep up, and you couldn’t afford to have a caretaker on board.”
Mr Reeder made a very leisurely way along the towpath, stopping now and again to admire the lovely reach. Although he had explicit instructions, he might have passed the narrow canal which runs in from the river, in spite of the brick bridge across, for the stream was choked with weeds, and ran apparently into a tangle of trees and undergrowth. With some difficulty Mr Reeder reached its bank. He then saw that the canal was brick-lined. Nevertheless, though he had this indication of its edge, he walked gingerly.
It opened to a larger pool, a sort of backwater. Passing a clump of bushes, he came suddenly upon the boat. The bow lay almost within reach of his hand. It was tied up fore and aft and had a deserted appearance. Across the forepart of the boat was drawn a canvas cover, but he was prepared for this by the description of the boat-builder. Mr Reeder slipped his hand in his pocket and went cautiously along the length of the boat. He noted that all the portholes were not only closed but made opaque with brown paper.
“Is anybody there?” he called loudly.
There was no answer. In midstream a moorhen was paddling aimlessly; the sound of his voice sent it scurrying to cover.
The foremost part of the ship was evidently the engine room, and possibly accommodation for a small crew. The living saloon was aft. It was these that had their portholes covered. Both cabins were approached from the well deck amidships, and he saw here a canvas-covered wheel. The doors were padlocked on the outside.
Mr Reeder looked around, and stepped on to the boat down a short ladder to the well. He tried the padlock on the saloon door. It was fast; but it was a very simple padlock, and if fortune favoured him, and the boat he sought was really discovered, he had prepared for such an emergency as this.
He tried three of the keys which he took from his pocket before the lock snapped back. He unfastened the hasp, turned the handle and pulled open the door. He could see nothing for a moment, then he switched on an electric hand-lamp and sent its rays into the interior.
The saloon was empty. The floor of it lay possibly eighteen inches below the level of the deck on which he was standing. And then…
Lying in the middle of the floor, and glittering in the light of his lamp, was a white-handled, silver-plated revolver.
“Very interesting,” said Mr Reeder, and went down into the saloon.
He reached the bottom of the steps and turned, walking backwards with his face to the door through which he had come, the muzzle of his Browning covering the opening. Presently his heel kicked the pistol. He took another step back and stooped to pick it up…
8
Mr Reeder was conscious of a headache and that the light shining in his eyes was painful. It was a tiny globe which burned in the roof of the cabin. Somebody was talking very distressedly; the falsetto voices Mr Reeder loathed. His senses came back gradually.
He was shocked to find himself one of the figures in a most fantastical scene; something which did not belong to the great world of reality in which he lived and had his being. He was part of an episode, torn bodily from a most imaginative and impossible work of fiction.
The man who sat in one corner of the lounge, clasping his knees, was…Mr Reeder puzzled for a word. Theatrical, of course. That red silk robe, that Mephistophelian cap, and the long black mask with the lace fringe that even hid the speaker’s chin. His hands were covered with jewelled rings which scintillated in the feeble light overhead.
Mr Reeder could not very well move; he was handcuffed, his legs were strapped painfully together, and in his mouth was a piece of wood lightly tied behind his ears. It was not painful, but it could be, he realized. At any rate he was spared the necessity of replying to the exultant man who sat at the other end of the settee.
“… Did you hear what I said, my master of mystery?”
He spoke with a slightly foreign accent, this man in the red robe.
“You are so clever, and yet I am more clever, eh? All of it I planned out of my mind. The glittering silver pistol on the floor – that was the only way I could get you to stoop and bring your head into the gas. It was a very heavy gas which does not easily escape, but I was afraid you might have dropped a cigarette, and that would have betrayed everything. If you had waited a little time the gas would have rolled out of the open door; but no, you must have the pistol, so you stooped and picked it up, and voila!”
His hands glittered dazzlingly.
“You are used to criminals of the stupid kind,” he went on. “For the first time, my Reeder, you meet one who has planned everything step by step. Pardon me.”
He stepped down to the floor, leaned forward and untied the gag.
“I find it difficult if conversation is one-sided,” he said pleasantly. “If you make a fuss I shall shoot you and that will be the end. At present I desire that you should know everything. You know me?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t that pleasure,” said Mr Reeder, and the man chuckled.
“If you had lived, I would have been your chief case, your chef d’oeuvre, the one man of your acquaintance who could plan murder and – what is the expression? – get away with it! Do you know where you are?”
“I’m on the Zaira,” said Mr Reeder.
“Do you know who is her owner?”
“She is owned by Mr Clive Desboyne.”
The man chuckled at this.
“Poor fellow! The lovesick one, eh? For him this boat is – where do you think? – at Twickenham, for its spring repairs. He told you perhaps he had been mad enough to let it for two months? No, he did not tell you? Ah, that is interesting. Perhaps he forgot.”
Mr Reeder nodded slowly.
“Now tell me, my friend – my time is very short and I cannot waste it here with you – do you know who killed Attymar?”
“You are Attymar,” said Mr Reeder, and was rewarded by a shrill chuckle of delighted laughter.
“So clever, after all! It is a good thing I have you, eh? Otherwise” – he shrugged his shoulders lightly. “That is the very best joke – I am Attymar! Do I speak like him, yes? Possibly – who knows?”
He slipped from his seat and came stealthily towards Reeder and fixed the gag a little tighter.
“Where shall you be this night, do you think, with a big, heavy chain fastened around you? I know all the deepest holes in this river, and years and years will pass before they find your body. To think that this great London shall lose its Mr Reeder! So many people have tried to kill you, my friend, but they have failed because they are criminals – just stupid fellows who cannot plan like a general.
Mr Reeder said nothing; he could not raise his hand far enough to relieve the pressure on his mouth, for attached to the centre link of the handcuffs was a cord fastened to the strap about his ankles.
The man in the red cloak bent over him, his eyes glaring through the holes in the mask.
“Last night I tried you. I say to myself, ‘Is this man stupid or is he clever?’” He spoke quickly and in a low voice. “So I send you the little bomb. I would have sent it also to Desboyne – he also will die tonight, and our friend Mr Southers will be hanged, and there will be the end of you all! And I will go sailing to the southern seas, and no man will raise his hand against me, because I am clever.”
Mr Reeder thought he was a little monotonous. In spite of his terrible position, he was intensely bored. The man in the red cloak must have heard something, for he went quickly to the door and listened more intently, then, mounting the stairs, slammed the door behind him and put on the padlock. Presently Mr Reeder heard him mount the side of the boat and guessed he had stepped ashore to meet whatever interruption was threatened. It was, in truth, the boat-builder, who had come to make inquiries, and the grey-haired man with the stoop and the white moustache and twisted face was able to assure him that Mr Reeder had made an offer for the boat, but it had been rejected, and that the detective had gone on to Marlow.
The prisoner had a quarter of an hour to consider his unfortunate position and to supply a remedy. Mr Reeder satisfied himself that it was a simple matter to free his hands from the steel cuffs. He had peculiarly thin wrists and his large, bony hands were very deceptive. He freed one, adjusted the gag to a less uncomfortable tension, and brought himself to a sitting position. He swayed and would have fallen to the floor but for a stroke of luck. The effort showed him how dangerous it would be to make an attempt to escape before he recovered strength. His pistol had been taken from him; the silver-handled revolver had also been removed. He resumed his handcuffs and had not apparently moved when his captor opened the door, only to look in.
“I’m afraid you will have to do without food today – does it matter?”
Now Mr Reeder saw that on the inside of the saloon door was a steel door. It was painted the same colour as the woodwork, and it was on this discovery that he based his hope of life. For some reason, which he never understood, his enemy switched on two lights from the outside, and this afforded him an opportunity of taking stock of his surroundings.
The portholes were impossible – he understood now why they had been made airtight with brown paper. It would be as much as he could do to get his arms through them. Having decided upon his plan of campaign, Mr Reeder acted with his customary energy. He could not allow his life to depend upon the caprice of this man. Evidently the intention was to take him out late at night, loaded with chains, and drop him overboard; but he might have cause to change his mind. And that, Mr Reeder thought, would be very unfortunate.
His worst forebodings were in a fair way to being realized, did he but know. The man who stood in his shirt sleeves, prodding at the centre of the backwater, had suddenly realized the danger which might follow the arrival of a curious-minded policeman. The boat-builder would certainly gossip. Reeder had something of an international reputation, and the local police would be only too anxious to make his acquaintance.
Gossip runs up and down a river with a peculiar facility. He went into the engine cabin, where he had stowed his fantastic robe and hat, and dragged out a little steel cylinder. Unfasten that nozzle, leave it on the floor near where the helpless man lay, and in a quarter of an hour perhaps…
He cold-bloodedly pulled out two links of heavy chain and dropped them with a crash on the deck. Mr Reeder heard the sound; he wrenched one hand free of the cuff, not without pain, broke the gag, and, drawing himself up into a sitting position, unfastened the first of the two straps. His head was splitting from the effect of the gas. As his feet touched the floor he reeled. The second cuff he removed at his leisure. He was so close to the door now that he could drop the bar. It stuck for a little while, but presently he drew it down. It fell with a clatter into the pocket.
The man on the deck heard, ran to the door and tugged, drew off the padlock and tried to force his way in.
“I’m afraid you’re rather late,” said Mr Reeder politely.
He could almost feel the vibration of the man’s fury. His vanity had been hurt; he had been proved a bungler by the one man in the world he wished to impress, whilst life held any impressions for him.
Then the man on the bridge heard a smash and saw some splinters of glass fly from one of the ports. There were five tiny air holes in one of the doors, but four of these had been plugged with clay. Taking the cylinder, he smashed the nozzle end through the obstruction. A wild, desperate idea came to the harassed man. Reeder heard the starting wheel turn, and presently the low hum of machinery. He heard the patter of feet across the deck and peered through the porthole, but it was below the level of the bank.
He looked round for a weapon but could find none. Of one thing he was certain: Mr Red Robe would not dare to run for the river. There was quite enough traffic there for him to attract attention. He could not afford to wait for darkness to fall; his position was as desperate as Reeder’s own had been –
Bang!
It was the sound of a pistol shot, followed by another. Reeder heard somebody shout, then the sound of a man crashing through the bushes. Then he heard the deep voice of Clive Desboyne.
“Reeder…are you there? How are you?”
Mr Reeder, a slave to politeness, put his mouth up to the broken porthole.
It was some time before Desboyne could knock off the padlock. Presently the door was opened and Mr Reeder came out.
“Thank God, you’re safe!” said the other breathlessly. “Who was the old bird who shot at me?”
He pointed towards the place where the backwater turned.
“Is there a house there or a road or something? That’s the way he went. What has happened?”
Mr Reeder was sitting on a little deck chair, his throbbing head between his hands. After a while he raised his face.
“I have met the greatest criminal in the world,” he said solemnly. “He’s so clever that he’s alive. His name is Attymar!”
Clive Desboyne opened his mouth in amazement.
“Attymar? But he’s dead!”
“I hope so,” said Mr Reeder viciously. “but I have reaso
n to know that he isn’t. No, no, young man, I won’t tell you what happened. I’m rather ashamed of myself. Anyway, I am not particularly proud of being caught by this” – he paused – “amateur. Why did you come?”
“It was only by luck. I don’t know why I came. I happened to ’phone through to Twickenham about some repairs to the boat – by the way, you must have seen a picture of it hanging in my hall. In fact, it was in that picture where you were so smart as to tell the date. I lent the Zaira at times; I lent it a few months ago to an Italian or Serbian fellow, but he so ill-used it that I sent a message that it was to be sent back to the yard. They telephoned along the river for news of it, and that’s when I learnt you were down here – you look rotten.”
“I feel rotten,” said Mr Reeder. “And you came–”
“I drove down. I had a sort of feeling in my mind that something was wrong. Then I met a man who’d seen the builder, and he told me about the little old fellow. Until then I didn’t know that he was in the boat, and I came along to make inquiries. For some reason, which I can’t understand, he no sooner saw me than he pulled a gun and let fly at me, and, turning, went like mad through those bushes.”
“Have you a gun?” asked Mr Reeder.
Desboyne smiled.
“No, I don’t carry such things.”
“In that case it would be foolish to pursue my ancient enemy. Let one of the Buckingham Constabulary carry on the good work. Is your car anywhere handy?”
There was a road apparently within fifty yards.
“By Jove!” said Desboyne suddenly. “I left it outside the gates of an empty house. I wonder whether that’s the place where the old bird went – and whether my car is still there?”
It was there, in the drive of a deserted house: the two-seater coupé which had so excited the disgust of poor Johnny Southers. With some difficulty Clive started it up, and the action recalled something to him.
“Did we leave the engines of that boat running?” he asked suddenly. “If you don’t mind I’ll go back and turn them off; then I’ll notify the police, and I’ll send a man to bring the Zaira into Maidenhead.”
Red Aces Page 21