/Mr. Reeder/ closed the door, put on the lights, and set himself to
unravel the inexplicable mystery of its opening. Before he went to bed
he had shot home the bolt, had turned the key in the lock, and the key
was still on the inside. It struck him, as he turned it, that he had
never heard a lock that moved so silently, or a bolt that slipped so
easily into its groove. Both lock and bolt had been recently oiled. He
began a scrutiny of the inside face of the door, and found a simple
solution of the somewhat baffling incident of its opening.
The door consisted of eight panels, carved in small lozenge-shaped
ornaments. The panel immediately above the lock moved slightly when he
pressed it, but it was a long time before he found the tiny spring
which held it in place. When that was found, the panel opened like a
miniature door. He could thrust his hand through the aperture and
slide back the bolt with the greatest ease.
There was nothing very unusual or sinister about this. He knew that
many hotels and boarding-houses had methods by which a door could be
unlocked from the outside--a very necessary precaution in certain
eventualities. Mr. Reeder wondered whether he would find a similar
safety panel on the door of Margaret Belman’s room.
By the time he had completed his inspection it was daylight, and,
pulling back the curtains, he drew a chair to the window and made a
survey of as much of the grounds as lay within his line of vision.
There were two or three matters which were puzzling him. If Larmes
Keep was the headquarters of the Flack gang, in what manner and for
what reason had Olga Crewe been brought into the confederation? He
judged her age at twenty-four; she had been a constant visitor, if not
a resident, at Larmes Keep for at least ten years, and he knew enough
of the ways of the underworld to realise that they did not employ
children. Also she had been to a public school of some kind, and that
would have absorbed at least four of the ten years--Mr. Reeder shook
his head in doubt.
Nothing would happen now until dark, he decided, and, stretching
himself upon the bed, he pulled the coverlet over him and slept till
a tapping at the door announced the coming of the maid with his
morning tea.
She was a round-faced woman, just past her first youth, with a
disagreeable Cockney accent and the brusque and familiar manner of one
who was an indispensable part of the establishment. Mr. Reeder
remembered that the girl had waited on him at dinner.
“Why, sir, you haven’t undressed!” she said.
“I seldom undress,” said Mr. Reeder, sitting up and taking the tea
from her. “It is such a waste of time. For no sooner are your clothes
off than it is necessary to put them on again.”
She looked at him hard, but he did not smile.
“You’re a detective, ain’t you? Everybody at the cottage knows that
you are. What have you come down about?”
Mr. Reeder could afford to smile cryptically. There was a suppressed
anxiety in the girl’s voice.
“It is not for me, my dear young lady, to disclose your employer’s
business.”
“He brought you down? Well, he’s got a nerve!”
Mr. Reeder put his finger to his lips.
“About the candlesticks?”
He nodded.
“He still thinks somebody in the house took them?”
Her face was very red, her eyes snapped angrily. Here was exposed one
of the minor scandals of the hotel.
It was not an uninteresting sidelight. For if ever guilt was written
on a woman’s face it was on hers. What these candlesticks were and how
they disappeared, Mr. Reeder could guess. Petty larceny runs in
well-defined channels.
“Well, you can tell him from me----” she began shrilly, and he raised
a solemn hand.
“Keep the matter to yourself--regard me as your friend,” he begged.
He was in his lighter moments a most mischievous man, a weakness that
few suspected in Mr. J. G. Reeder. Moreover, he wanted badly some
inside information about the household, and he had an idea that this
infuriated girl who flounced out and slammed the door behind her would
supply him with that information. In his optimistic moments he could
not dream that in her raw hands she held the secret of Larmes Keep.
As soon as he came down Mr. Reeder decided to go to Daver’s office; he
was curious to learn the true story of the missing candlesticks. The
sound of an angry voice reached him, and as his hand was raised to
knock at the door it was opened by somebody who was holding the handle
on the inside, and he heard a woman’s angry voice.
“You’ve treated me shabbily: that’s all I can say to you, Mr. Daver!
I’ve been working for you five years and I’ve never said a word about
your business to anybody! And now you bring a detective down to spy on
me! I won’t be treated as if I was a thief or something! If you think
that’s behaving fair and square, after all I’ve done for you, and
minding my own business… yes, I know I’ve been well paid, but I could
get just as much money somewhere else… I’ve got my pride, Mr. Daver,
the same as you have… and I think you’ve been very underhand, the way
you’ve treated me… I’ll go to-night, don’t you worry!”
The door was flung open and a red-faced girl of twenty-five flounced
out and dashed past the eavesdropper, scarcely noticing him in her
fury. The door shut behind her; evidently Mr. Daver was in as bad a
temper as the girl--a fortunate circumstance, as it proved, and Mr.
Reeder decided it might be inadvisable to advertise that he had
overheard the whole or part of the conversation.
When he strolled out into the sunlit grounds, of all the people who
had been disturbed during the night he was the brightest and showed
the least sign of fatigue. He met the Rev. Mr. Dean and the Colonel,
who was carrying a golf-bag, and they bade him a gruff good-morning.
The Colonel, he thought, was a little haggard; Mr. Dean gave him a
scowl as he passed.
Walking up and down the lawn, he examined the front of the house with
a critical eye. The lines of the Keep were very definite: harsh and
angular, not even the Tudor windows, that at some remote period had
been introduced to its stony face, could disguise its ancient
grimness.
Turning an angle of the house, he reached the strip of lawn which
faced his own window. Behind the lawn was a mass of rhododendron
bushes, which might serve a useful purpose, but which in certain
circumstances might also be a danger-point.
Immediately beneath his window was an angle of the drawing-room, a
circumstance which gave him cause for satisfaction. Mr. Reeder’s
experience favoured a bedroom which was above a public apartment.
He went back on his tracks and came to the other end of the block.
Those three windows, brightly curtained, were evidently Mr. Daver’s
private suite. The wall was black beneath them, the actual stone being
obscured by a thick growth of ivy. He wondered what this lightless and
doorless space contained.
As he returned to the front of the house he saw Margaret Belman. She
was standing in front of the doorway, shading her eyes from the sun,
evidently searching her limited landscape for somebody. Seeing him,
she came quickly to meet him.
“Oh, there you are!” she said, with a sigh of relief. “I wondered what
had happened to you--you didn’t come down to breakfast.”
She looked a little peaked, he thought. Evidently she had not rounded
off the night as agreeably as he.
“I haven’t slept since I saw you,” she said, answering his unspoken
question. “What happened, Mr. Reeder? Did somebody really try to get
into the house--a burglar?”
“I think they tried, and I think they succeeded,” said Mr. Reeder
carefully. “Burglaries happen even in--um--hotels, Miss--um--Margaret.
Has Mr. Daver notified the police?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know. He has been telephoning all the morning--I went to his
room just now and it was locked, but I heard his voice. And, Mr.
Reeder, you didn’t tell me the terrible thing that happened the night
I left London. I saw it in the newspaper this morning.”
“Terrible thing?”
J. G. Reeder was puzzled. Almost he had forgotten the adventure of the
spring gun.
“Oh, you mean the little joke?”
“Joke!” she said, shocked.
“Criminals have a perverted sense of humour,” said Mr. Reeder airily.
“The whole thing was--um--an elaborate jest designed to frighten me.
One expects such things. They are the examination papers which are set
to test one’s intelligence from time to time.”
“But who did it?” she asked.
Mr. Reeder’s gaze wandered absently over the placid countryside. She
had a feeling that it bored him even to recall so trivial an incident
in a busy life.
“Our young friend,” he said suddenly, and, following the direction of
his eyes, she saw Olga Crewe.
She was wearing a dark grey knitted suit and a big black hat that
shaded her face, and there was nothing of embarrassment in the half
smile with which she greeted her fellow-guest.
“Good morning, Mr. Reeder. I think we have met before this morning.”
She rubbed her arm good-humouredly.
Mr. Reeder was all apologies.
“I don’t even know now what happened,” she said; and Margaret Belman
learnt for the first time what had occurred before she had made her
appearance.
“I never thought you were so strong--look!” Olga Crewe pulled back her
sleeve and showed a big blue-black patch on her forearm, cutting short
his expression of remorse with a little laugh.
“Have you shown Mr. Reeder all the attractions of the estate?” she
asked, a hint of sarcasm in her tone. “I almost expected to find you
at the bathing-pool this morning.”
“I didn’t even know there was a bathing-pool,” said Mr. Reeder. “In
fact, after my terrible scare last night, this--um--beautiful house
has assumed so sinister an aspect that I expect to bathe in nothing
less dramatic than blood!”
She was not amused. He saw her eyes close quickly, and she shivered a
little.
“How gruesome you are! Come along, Miss Belman.”
Inwardly Margaret resented the tone, which was almost a command, but
she walked by their side. Clear of the house, Olga stopped and
pointed.
“You must see the well. Are you interested in old things?” asked Olga,
as she led the way to the shrubbery.
“I am more interested in new things, especially new experiences,” said
Mr. Reeder, quite gaily. “And new people fascinate me!”
Again that quick frightened smile of hers.
“Then you should be having the time of your life, Mr. Reeder,” she
said, “for you’re meeting people here whom you’ve never met before.”
He screwed up his forehead in a frown.
“Yes, there are two people in this house I have never met before,” he
said, and she looked round at him quickly.
“Only two? You’ve never met me before!”
“I’ve seen you,” said Mr. Reeder, “but I have never met you.”
By this time they had arrived at the well, and he read the inscription
slowly, before he tested with his foot the board that covered the top
of the well.
“It has been closed for years,” said the girl. “I shouldn’t touch it,”
she added hastily, as Reeder stooped and, catching the edge of a
board, swung it back trap fashion, leaving an oblong cavity.
The trap did not squeak or creak as he turned it back; the hinges were
oiled; there was no accumulation of dust between the two doors. Going
on to his hands and knees, he looked down into the darkness.
“How many loads of rubble and rock were used to fill up this well?” he
asked.
Margaret read from the little notice-board.
“Hum!” said Mr. Reeder, searched in his pockets, brought out a
two-shilling piece, poised the silver coin carefully and let it drop.
For a long, long time he listened, and then a faint metallic tinkle
came up to him.
“Nine seconds!” He looked up into Olga’s face. “Deduct from the
velocity of a falling object the speed at which sound travels, and
tell me how deep this hole is.”
He got up to his feet, dusted the knees of his trousers, and carefully
dropped the trap into position.
“Rock there may be,” he said, “but there is no water. I must work out
the number of loads requisite to fill this well entirely--it will be
an interesting morning’s occupation for one who in his youth was
something of a mathematical genius.”
Olga Crewe led the way back to the shrubbery in silence. When they
came to the open:
“I think you had better show Mr. Reeder the rest of the
establishment,” she said. “I’m rather tired.”
And with a nod she turned away and walked towards the house, and Mr.
Reeder gazed after her with something like admiration in his eyes.
“The rouge would of course make a tremendous difference,” he said,
half speaking to himself, “but it is very difficult to disguise
voices--even the best of actors fail in this respect.”
Margaret stared at him.
“Are you talking to me?”
“To me,” said Mr. Reeder humbly. “It is a bad habit of mine, peculiar
to my age, I fear.”
“But Miss Crewe never uses rouge.”
“Who does--in the country?” asked Mr. Reeder, and pointed with his
walking-stick to the wall along the cliff. “Where does that lead? What
is on the other side?”
“Sudden death,” said Margaret, and laughed.
For a quarter of an hour they stood leaning on the parapet of the low
wall, looking down at the strip of beach below. The small channel that
led to the cave interested him. He asked her how deep it was. She
thought that it was quite shallow, a conclusion with which he did not
agree.
“Underground caves sound romantic, and that channel is deeper than
most. I think I must explore the cave. How does one get down?”
He looked left and right. The beach was enclosed in a deep little bay,
circled on one side by sheer cliff, on the other by a high reef of
rock that ran far out to sea. Mr. Reeder pointed to the horizon.
“Sixty miles from here is France.”
He had a disconcerting habit of going off at a tangent.
“I think I will do a little exploring this afternoon. The walk should
freshen me.”
They were returning to the house when he remembered the bathing-pool
and asked to see it.
“I wonder Mr. Daver doesn’t let it run dry,” she said. “It is an awful
expense. I was going through the municipality’s account yesterday, and
they charge a fabulous sum for pumping up fresh water.”
“How long has it been built?”
“That is the surprising thing,” she said. “It was made twelve years
ago, when private swimming-pools were things unheard of in this
country.”
The pool was oblong in shape; one end of it was tiled and obviously
artificially created. The further end, however, had for its sides and
bottom natural rock. A great dome-shaped mass served as a
diving-platform. Mr. Reeder walked all round, gazing into the limpid
water. It was deepest at the rocky end, and here he stayed longest,
and his inspection was most thorough. There seemed a space--how deep
he could not tell--at the bottom of the bath, where the rock overhung.
“Very interesting,” said Mr. Reeder at last. “I think I will go back
to the house and get my bathing-suit. Happily, I brought one.”
“I didn’t know you were a swimmer,” smiled the girl.
“I am the merest tyro in most things,” said Mr. Reeder modestly.
He went up to his room, undressed and slipped into a bathing-suit,
over which he put his overcoat. Olga Crewe and Mr. Daver had gone down
to Siltbury. To his satisfaction he saw the hotel car descending the
hill road cautiously in a cloud of dust.
When Mr. Reeder threw off his coat to make the plunge there was
something comically ferocious in his appearance, for about his waist
he had fastened a belt to which was attached in a sheath a long-bladed
hunting-knife, and in addition there dangled a waterproof bag in which
he had placed one of the many little hand-lamps that he invariably
carried about with him. He made the most human preparations: put his
toes into the cold water, and shivered ecstatically before he made his
plunge. Losing no time in preliminaries, he swam along the bottom to
the slit in the rock which he had seen.
It was about two feet high and eight feet in length, and into this he
pulled his way, gripping the roof to aid his progress. The roof ended
abruptly; he found nothing but water above him, and he allowed himself
to come to the surface, catching hold of a projecting ledge to keep
himself afloat whilst he detached the waterproof bag from his belt,
and, planting it upon the shelf, took out his flash-lamp.
He was in a natural stone chamber, with a broad, vaulted roof. He was
in fact inside the dome-shaped rock that formed one end of the pool.
At the farthermost corner of the chamber was an opening about four
feet in height and two feet in width. A rock passage that led
downward, he saw. He followed this for about fifty yards, and noted
that although nature had hewn or worn this queer corridor at some
remote age--possibly it had been an underground waterway before some
gigantic upheaval of nature had raised the land above water level--the
passage owed something of its practicability to human agency. At one
place there were marks of a chisel; at another, unmistakable signs of
blasting. Mr. Reeder retraced his steps and came back to the water. He
fastened and resealed his lamp, and, drawing a long breath, dived to
the bottom and wormed his way through the aperture to the bath and to
open air. He came to the surface to gaze into the horror-stricken face
of Margaret Belman.
“Oh, Mr. Reeder!” she gasped. “You--you frightened me!… I heard you
jump in, but when I came here and found the bath empty I thought I
must have been mistaken.… Where have you been? You couldn’t stay under
water all that time…”
“Will you hand me my overcoat?” said Mr. Reeder modestly, and when he
had hastily buttoned this about his person: “I have been to see that
the County Council’s requirements are fully satisfied,” he said
solemnly.
She listened, dazed.
“In all theatres, as you probably know, my dear Miss--um--Margaret, it
is essential that there should be certain exits in case of
necessity--I have already inspected two this morning, but I rather
imagine that the most important of all has so far escaped my
observation. What a man! Surely madness is akin to genius!”
He lunched alone, and apparently no man was less interested in his
fellow-guests than Mr. J. G. Reeder. The two golfers had returned and
were eating at the same table. Miss Crewe, who came in late and
favoured him with a smile, sat at a little table facing him.
“She is uneasy,” said Mr. Reeder to himself. “That is the second time
she has dropped her fork. Presently she will get up, sit with her back
to me… I wonder on what excuse?”
Apparently no excuse was necessary. The girl called a waitress towards
her and had her glass and table shifted to the other side. Mr. Reeder
was rather pleased with himself.
Daver minced into the dining-room as Mr. Reeder was peeling an apple.
“Good morning, Mr. Reeder. Have you got over your nightmare? I see
that you have! A man of iron nerve. I admire that tremendously.
Personally, I am the most dreadful coward, and the very hint of a
burglar makes me shiver. You wouldn’t believe it, but I had a quarrel
with a servant this morning, and she left me shaking! You are not
affected that way? I see that you are not! Miss Belman tells me that
you tried our swimming-pool this morning. You enjoyed it? I am sure
you did!”
“Won’t you sit down and have coffee?” asked Mr. Reeder politely, but
Daver declined the invitation with a flourish and a bow.
“No, no, I have my work--I cannot tell you how grateful I am to Miss
Belman for putting me on the track of the most fascinating character
of modern times. What a man!” said Mr. Daver, unconsciously repeating
J. G. Reeder’s tribute. “I’ve been trying to trace his early
career--no, no, I’ll stand: I must run away in a minute or two. Is
anything known about his early life? Was he married?”
Mr. Reeder nodded. He had not the slightest idea that John Flack was
married, but it seemed a moment to assert the universality of his
knowledge. He was quite unprepared for the effect upon Daver. The jaw
of the yellow-faced man dropped.
“Married?” he squeaked. “Who told you he was married? Where was he
married?”
“That is a matter,” said Mr. Reeder gravely, “which I cannot discuss.”
“Married!” Daver rubbed his little round head irritably, but did not
pursue the subject. He made some inane reference to the weather and
bustled out of the room.
Mr. Reeder settled himself in what he called the banqueting-hall with
an illustrated paper, awaiting an opportunity which he knew must
present itself sooner or later. The servants he had passed under
review. Girls were employed to wait at table, and these lived in a
small cottage on the Siltbury side of the estate. The men servants,
including the hall porter, seemed above suspicion. The porter was an
old army man with a row of medals across his uniform jacket; his
assistant was a chinless youth recruited from Siltbury. He apparently
was the only member of the staff that did not live in one of the
cottages. In the main the women servants were an unpromising lot--the
infuriated waitress was his only hope, although as likely as not she
would talk of nothing but her grievances.
From where he sat he had a view of the lawn. At three o’clock the
Colonel and the Rev. Mr. Dean and Olga Crewe passed out of the main
gate, evidently bound for Siltbury. He rang the bell, and to his
satisfaction the aggrieved waitress came and took his order for tea.
“This is a nice place,” said Mr. Reeder conversationally.
The girl’s “Yes, sir” was snappy.
“I suppose,” mused Mr. Reeder, looking out of the window, “that this
is the sort of situation that a lot of girls would give their heads to
get and break their hearts to lose?”
Evidently she did not agree.
“The upstairs work isn’t so bad,” she said, “and there’s not much to
do in the dining-room. But it’s too slow for me. I was at a big hotel
before I came here. I’m going to a better job--and the sooner the
better.”
She admitted that the money was good, but she had a longing for that
imponderable quantity which she described as “life.” She also
expressed a preference for men guests.
“Miss Crewe--so called--gives more trouble than all the rest of the
people put together,” she said. “I can’t make her out. First she wants
one room, then she wants another. Why she can’t stay with her husband
I don’t know.”
“With her----?” Mr. Reeder looked at her in pained surprise. “Perhaps
they don’t get on well together?”
“They used to get on all right. If they weren’t married I could
understand all the mystery they’re making--pretending they’re not, him
in his room and she in hers, and meeting like strangers. When all that
kind of deceit is going on, things are bound to get lost,” she added
inconsequently.
“How long has this been--er--going on?” asked Mr. Reeder.
“Only the last week or so,” said the girl viciously. “I know they’re
married, because I’ve seen her marriage certificate--they’ve been
married six years. She keeps it in her dressing-case.”
She looked at him with sudden suspicion.
“I oughtn’t to have told you that. I don’t want to make trouble for
anybody, and I bear them no malice, though they’ve treated me worse ’n
a dog,” she said. “Nobody else in the house but me knows. I was her
maid for two years. But if people don’t treat me right I don’t treat
them right.”
“Married six years? Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder.
And then he suddenly turned his head and faced her.
“Would you like fifty pounds?” he asked. “That is the immense sum I
will give you for just one little peep at that marriage certificate.”
The girl went red.
“You’re trying to catch me,” she said, hesitated, and then: “I don’t
want to get her into trouble.”
“I am a detective,” said Mr. Reeder, “but I am working on behalf of
the Chief Registrar, and we have a doubt as to whether that marriage
was legal. I could of course search the young lady’s room and find the
certificate for myself, but if you would care to help me, and fifty
pounds has any attraction for you----”
She paused irresolutely and said she would see. Half an hour later she
came into the hall with the news that she had been unsuccessful in her
search. She had found the envelope in which the certificate had been
kept, but the document itself was gone.
Mr. Reeder did not ask the name of the bridegroom, nor was he
mentioned, for he was pretty certain that he knew that fortunate man.
He put a question, and the girl answered as he had expected.
“There is one thing I would like to ask you: do you remember the name
of the girl’s father?”
“John Crewe, merchant,” she said promptly. “The mother’s name was
Hannah. He made me swear on the Bible I’d never tell a soul that I
knew they were married.”
“Does anybody else know? You said ‘nobody,’ I think?”
The girl hesitated.
“Yes, Mrs. Burton knows. She knows everything.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Reeder, and, opening his pocket-book, took out
two five-pound notes. “What was the husband’s profession: do you
remember that?”
The woman’s lips curled.
“Secretary--why call himself secretary, I don’t know, and him an
independent gentleman!”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Reeder again.
He telephoned to Siltbury for a taxicab.
“Are you going out?” asked Margaret, finding him waiting under the
portico.
“I am buying a few presents for friends in London,” said Mr. Reeder
glibly; “a butter-dish or two, suitably inscribed, would, I feel sure,
be very acceptable.”
The taxi did not take him to Siltbury. Instead, he followed a road
which ran parallel to the sea-coast, and which eventually landed him
in an impossible sandy track, from which the ancient taxi was
extricated with some difficulty.
“I told you this led nowhere, sir,” said the aggrieved driver.
“Then we have evidently reached our destination,” replied Mr. Reeder,
applying his weight to push the machine to a more solid foundation.
Siltbury was not greatly favoured by London visitors, the driver told
him on the way back. The town had a pebbly beach, and people preferred
sand.
“There are some wonderful beaches about here,” said the driver, “but
you can’t reach ’em.”
They had taken the left-hand road, which would bring them eventually
to the town, and had been driving for a quarter of an hour when Mr.
Reeder, who sat by the driver, pointed to a large scar in the face of
the downs on his right.
“Siltbury quarries,” explained the cabman. “They’re not worked now:
there are too many holes.”
“Holes?”
“The downs are like a sponge,” said the man. “You could lose yourself
in the caves. Old Mr. Kimpon used to work the quarries many years ago,
and it broke him. There’s a big cave there you can drive a
coach-and-four into! About twenty years ago three fellows went in to
explore the caves and never come out again.”
“Who owns the quarry now?”
Mr. Reeder wasn’t very interested, but when his mind was occupied with
a pressing problem he had a trick of flogging along a conversation
with appropriate questions, and if he was oblivious of the answers
they produced, the sound of the human voice had a sedative effect.
“Mr. Daver owns it now. He bought it after the people were lost in the
caves, and had the entrance boarded up. You’ll see it in a minute.”
They were climbing a gentle slope. As they came to the crest he
pointed down a tidy-looking roadway to where, about two hundred yards
distant, Reeder saw an oblong gap in the white face of the quarry.
Across this, and filling the cavity except for an irregular space at
the top, was a heavy wooden gate.
“You can’t see it from here,” said the driver, “but the top hole is
blocked with barbed wire.”
“Is that a gate or a hoarding he has fixed across?”
“A gate, sir. Mr. Daver owns all the land from here to the sea. He
used to farm about a hundred acres of the downs, but it’s very poor
land. In those days he kept his wagons inside the cave.”
“When did he give up farming?” asked Mr. Reeder, interested.
“About six years ago,” was the reply, and it was exactly the reply Mr.
Reeder had expected. “I used to see a lot of Mr. Daver before then,”
said the driver. “In the old times I had a horse cab, and I was always
driving him about. He used to work like a galley slave--on the farm in
the morning, down in the town buying things in the afternoon. He was
more like a servant than a master. He used to meet all the trains when
visitors arrived--and they had a lot of visitors in those days, more
than they have now. Sometimes he went up to London to bring them
down--he always went to meet Miss Crewe when the young lady was at
school.”
“Do you know Miss Crewe?”
Apparently the driver had seen her frequently, but his acquaintance
with her was very limited.
Reeder got down from the cab and climbed the barred gate on to the
private roadway. The soil was chalky and the road had the appearance
of having been recently overhauled. He mentioned this fact to the
cabman, and learnt that Mr. Daver kept two old men constantly at work
making up the road, though why he should do so he had no idea.
“Where would you like to go now, sir?”
“To a quiet place where I can telephone,” said Mr. Reeder.
These were the facts that he carried with him, and vital facts they
were. During the past six years the life of Mr. Daver had undergone a
considerable change. From being a harassed man of affairs, “more like
a servant than a master,” he had become a gentleman of leisure. The
mystery of the Keep was a mystery no longer. He got Inspector Simpson
on the telephone and conveyed to him the gist of his discovery.
“By the way,” said Simpson at the finish, “the gold hasn’t been sent
to Australia yet. There has been trouble at the docks. You don’t
seriously anticipate a Flack ‘operation,’ do you?”
Mr. Reeder, who had forgotten all about the gold-convoy, made a
cautious and non-committal reply.
By the time he returned to Larmes Keep the other guests had returned.
The hall porter said they were expecting a “party” on the morrow, but
as he had volunteered that information on the previous evening, Mr.
Reeder did not take it very seriously. He gathered that the man spoke
in good faith, without any wish to deceive, but he saw no signs of
unusual activity; nor, indeed, was there accommodation at the Keep for
more than a few more visitors.
He looked round for the aggrieved servant and missed her. A discreet
inquiry revealed the fact that she had left that afternoon.
Mr. Reeder went to his room, locked the door, and busied himself in
the examination of two great scrap-books which he had brought down
with him. They were the official records of Flack and his gang.
Perhaps “gang” was hardly a proper description, for he seemed to use
and change his associates as a theatrical manager uses and changes his
cast. The police knew close on a score of men who from time to time
had assisted John Flack in his nefarious transactions. Some had gone
to prison, and had spent the hours of their recovered liberty in a
vain endeavour to re-establish touch with so generous a paymaster.
Some, known to be in his employ, had vanished, and were generally
supposed to be living in luxury abroad.
Reeder went through the book, which was full of essential facts, and
jotted down the amounts which this strange man had acquired in the
course of twenty years’ depredations. The total was a staggering one.
Flack had worked feverishly, and though he had paid well he had spent
little. Somewhere in England was an enormous reserve. And that
somewhere, Mr. Reeder guessed, was very close to his hand.
For what had John Flack worked? To what end was this accumulation of
money? Was the sheer greed of the miser behind his thefts? Was he
working aimlessly, as a madman works, towards some visionary
objective?
Flack’s greed was proverbial. Nothing satisfied him. The robbery of
the Leadenhall Bank had been followed a week later by an attack upon
the London Trust Syndicate, carried out, the police discovered, by an
entirely new confederation, gathered within a few days of the robbery
and yet so perfectly rehearsed that the plan was carried through
without a hitch.
Mr. Reeder locked away his books and went downstairs in search of
Margaret Belman. The crisis was very near at hand, and it was
necessary for his peace of mind that the girl should leave Larmes Keep
without delay.
He was half-way down the stairs when he met Daver coming up, and at
that moment he received an inspiration.
“You are the very gentleman I wished to meet,” he said. “I wonder if
you would do me a great favour?”
Daver’s careworn face wreathed in smiles.
“My dear Mr. Reeder,” he said enthusiastically, “do you a favour?
Command me!”
“I have been thinking about last night and my extraordinary
experience,” said Mr. Reeder.
“You mean the burglar?” interrupted the other quickly.
“The burglar,” agreed Mr. Reeder. “He was an alarming person, and I am
not disposed to let the matter rest where it is. Fortunately for me, I
have found a finger-print on the panel of my door.”
He saw Daver’s face change.
“When I say I have found a finger-print, I have found something which
has the appearance of a finger-print, and I can only be sure if I
examine it by means of a dactyscope. Unfortunately, I did not imagine
that I should have need for such an instrument, and I am wondering if
you could send somebody to London to bring it down for me?”
“With all the pleasure in life,” said Daver, though his tone lacked
heartiness. “One of the men----”
“I was thinking of Miss Belman,” interrupted J. G. Reeder, “who is a
friend of mine and would, moreover, take the greatest possible care of
that delicate piece of mechanism.”
Daver was silent for a moment, turning this over in his mind.
“Would it not be better if a man… and the last train down----”
“She could come down by car: I can arrange that.”
Mr. Reeder fumbled his chin.
“Perhaps it would be better if I brought down a couple of men from the
Yard.”
“No, no,” said Daver quickly. “You can send Miss Belman. I haven’t the
slightest objection. I will tell her.”
Mr. Reeder looked at his watch.
“The next train is at eight thirty-five, and that is the last train, I
think. The young lady will be able to get her dinner before she
starts.”
It was he who brought the news to the astonished Margaret Belman.
“Of course I’ll go up to town; but don’t you think somebody else could
get this instrument for you, Mr. Reeder? Couldn’t you have it sent
down----”
She saw the look in his eyes and stopped.
“What is it?” she asked, in a lower voice.
“Will you do this for--um--me, Miss--um--Margaret?” said Mr. Reeder,
almost humbly.
He went to the lounge and scribbled a note, while Margaret telephoned
for the cab. It was growing dark when the closed landau drew up before
the hotel and J. G. Reeder, who accompanied her, opened the door.
“There’s a man inside,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper.
“Please don’t scream: he’s an officer of police, and he’s going with
you to London.”
“But--but----” she stammered.
“And you’ll stay in London to-night,” said Mr. Reeder. “I will join
you in the morning--I hope.”