Mr. Enward climbed into the driver’s seat gratefully, keeping some
distance between himself and his shivering clerk. The car was on a
declivity and would start without trouble. He turned the wheels
straight and took off the brake. The machine skidded and slithered
forward, and presently Mr. Reeder, following in its wake, heard the
sound of the running engine.
His lamp showed him the notice-board in the field, and fifty yards
beyond he came to a path so narrow that two men could not walk
abreast. It ran off from the road at right angles, and up this he
turned, progressing with great difficulty, for he had heavy nails in
his shoes. At last he saw a small garden gate on his right, set
between two unkempt hedges. The gate was open, and this methodical man
stopped to examine it by the light of his lamp.
He expected to find blood and found it: just a smear. No bloodstains
on the ground, but then the snow would have obliterated those. It had
not obliterated the print of footmarks going up the winding path. They
were rather small, and he thought they were recently made. He kept his
light upon them until they led him into view of the squat house with
its narrow windows and doorways. As he turned he saw a light gleam
between curtains. He had a feeling that somebody was looking out at
him. In another moment the light had vanished. But there was somebody
in the house.
The footsteps led up to the door. Here he paused and knocked. There
was no answer, and he knocked again more loudly. The chill wind sent
the snowflakes swirling about him. Mr. Reeder, who had a secret sense
of humour, smiled. In the remote days of his youth his favourite
Christmas card was one which showed a sparkling Father Christmas
knocking at the door of a wayside cottage. He pictured himself as a
felt-hatted Father Christmas, and the whimsical fancy slightly pleased
him.
He knocked a third time and listened, then, when no answer came, he
stepped back and walked to the room where he had seen the light and
tried to peer between the curtains. He thought he heard a sound--a
thud--but it was not in the house. It may have been the wind. He
looked round and listened, but the thud was not repeated, and he
returned to his ineffectual starings.
There was no sign of a fire. He came back to knock for the fourth
time, then tried the other side of the building, and here he made a
discovery. A narrow casement window, deeply recessed and made of iron,
was swaying to and fro in the wind, and beneath the window was a
double set of footmarks, one coming and one going. They went away in
the direction of the lane.
He came back to the door, and stood debating with himself what steps
he should take. He had seen in the darkness two small white squares at
the top of the door, and had thought they were little panes of
toughened glass such as one sees in the tops of such doors. But,
probably in a gust of wind, one of them became detached and fell at
his feet. He stooped and picked it up: it was a playing card--the ace
of diamonds. He put his lamp on the second: it was the ace of hearts.
They had both apparently been fastened side by side to the door with
pins--black pins. Perhaps the owner of the house had put them there.
Possibly they had some significance, fulfilled the function of
mascots.
No answer came to his knocking, and Mr. Reeder heaved a deep sigh. He
hated climbing; he hated more squeezing through narrow windows into
unknown places; more especially as there was probably somebody inside
who would treat him rudely. Or they may have gone. The footprints, he
found, were fresh; they were scarcely obliterated, though the snow was
falling heavily. Perhaps the house was empty, and its inmate, whose
light he had seen, had got away whilst he was knocking at the door. He
would not have heard him jump from the window, the snow was too soft.
Unless that thud he had heard----
Mr. Reeder gripped the sill and drew himself up, breathing heavily,
though he was a man of considerable strength.
There were only two ways to go into the house: one was feet first, the
other head first. He made a reconnaissance with his lamp and saw that
beneath the window was a small table, standing in a tiny room which
had evidently been used as a cloak cupboard, for there were a number
of coats hanging on hooks. It was safe to go in head first, so he
wriggled down on to the table, feeling extraordinarily undignified.
He was on his feet in a moment, gripped the handle of the door
gingerly and opened it. He was in a small hall, from which one door
opened. He tried this: it was fast, and yet not fast. It was as though
somebody was leaning against it on the other side. A quick jerk of his
shoulder, and it flew open. Somebody tried to dash past him, but Mr.
Reeder was expecting that and worse. He gripped the fugitive…
“I’m extremely sorry,” he said in his gentle voice. “It is a lady,
isn’t it?”
He heard her heavy breathing, a sob…
“Is there a light?”
He groped inside the lintel of the door, found a switch and turned it.
Nothing happened for a moment, and then the lights came on suddenly.
There was apparently a small light-making machine at the back of the
house which operated when any switch was turned.
“Come in here, will you, please?”
He pressed her very gently into the room. Pretty, extraordinarily
pretty. He did not remember ever having met a young lady who was quite
as pretty as this particular young lady, though she was very white and
her hair was in disorder, and on her feet were snow-boots the
impression of which he had already seen in the snow.
“Will you sit down, please?”
He closed the door behind him.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. My name is Reeder.”
She had been terrified for that moment; now she looked up at him
intensely.
“You’re the detective?” she shivered. “I’m so frightened. I’m so
frightened!”
Then she drooped over the table at which she sat, her face buried in
her folded arms.
Mr. Reeder looked round the room. It was pleasantly furnished--not
luxuriously so but pleasantly. Evidently a sitting-room. Except that
the mantelboard had fallen or had been dragged on the floor, there was
no sign of disorder. The hearth was littered with broken china pots
and vases; the board itself was still held in position at one end by
some attachment to the mantelpiece. That and the blue hearthrug before
the fire, which was curiously stained. And there were other little
splodges of darkness on the surface of the carpet, and a flower-pot
was knocked down near the door.
He saw a waste-paper basket and turned over its contents. Covers of
little books apparently--there were five of them, but no contents. By
the side of the fireplace was a dwarf bookcase. The books were
dummies. He pulled one end of the case and it swung out, being hinged
at the other end.
“H’m!” said Mr. Reeder, and pushed the shelves back into their
original position.
There was a cap on the floor by the table and he picked this up. It
was wet. This he examined, thrust into his pocket, and turned his
attention to the girl.
“How long have you been here, Miss----I think you had better tell me
your name.”
She was looking up at him; he saw her wet her dry lips.
“Half an hour. I don’t know… it may be longer.”
“Miss----?” he asked again.
“Lynn--Margot Lynn.”
He pursed his lips thoughtfully.
“Margot Lynn. And you’ve been here half-an-hour. Who else has been
here?”
“Nobody,” she said, springing to her feet. “What has happened? Did
he--did they fight?”
He put his hand on her shoulder gently, and pressed her down into the
chair.
“Did who fight whom?” asked Mr. Reeder. His English was always very
good on these occasions.
“Nobody has been here,” she said inconsequently.
Mr. Reeder passed the question.
“You came from----?”
“I came from Bourne End station. I walked here. I often come that way.
I am Mr. Wentford’s secretary.”
“You walked here at nine o’clock because you’re Mr. Wentford’s
secretary? That was a very odd thing to do.”
She was searching his face fearfully.
“Has anything happened? Are you a police detective? Has anything
happened to Mr. Wentford? Tell me, tell me!”
“He was expecting me: you knew that?”
She nodded. Her breath was coming quickly. He thought she found
breathing a painful process.
“He told me--yes. I didn’t know what it was about. He wanted his
lawyer here too. I think he was in some kind of trouble.”
“When did you see him last?”
She hesitated.
“I spoke to him on the telephone--once, from London. I haven’t seen
him for two days.”
“And the person who was here?” asked Mr. Reeder after a pause.
“There was nobody here! I swear there was nobody here!” She was
frantic in her desire to convince him. “I’ve been here
half-an-hour--waiting for him. I let myself in--I have a key. There it
is.”
She fumbled with trembling hands in her bag and produced a ring with
two keys, one larger than the other.
“He wasn’t here when I came in. I--I think he must have gone to town.
He is very--peculiar.”
Mr. J.G. Reeder put his hand in his pocket, took out two playing cards
and laid them on the table.
“Why did he have those pinned to his door?”
She looked at him round-eyed.
“Pinned to his door?”
“The outer door,” said Mr. Reeder, “or, as he would call it, the
street door.”
She shook her head.
“I’ve never seen them before. He is not the kind of man to put up
things like that. He is very retiring and hates drawing attention to
himself.”
“He was very retiring,” repeated Mr. Reeder, “and hated drawing
attention to himself.”