Something in his tone emphasized the tense he used. She shrank back.
“Was?” Her voice was a whisper. “He’s not dead… oh, my God! he’s not
dead?”
Mr. Reeder smoothed his chin.
“Yes, I’m afraid--um--he is dead.”
She clutched the edge of the table for support. Mr. Reeder had never
seen such horror, such despair in a human face before.
“Was it… an accident--or--or----”
“You’re trying to say ‘murder’,” said Reeder gently. “Yes, I’m very
much afraid it was murder.”
He caught her in his arms as she fell, and, laying her on the sofa,
went in search of water. The taps were frozen, but he found some water
in a kettle, and, filling a glass with this, he returned to sprinkle
it on her face, having a vague idea that something of the sort was
necessary; but he found her sitting up, her face in her hands.
“Lie down, my dear, and keep quiet,” said Mr. Reeder, and she obeyed
meekly.
He looked round the room. The thing that struck him anew was the
revolver which hung on the wall near the right-hand side of the
fireplace just above the bookcase. It was placed to the hand of
anybody who sat with his back to the window. Behind the armchair was a
screen, and, tapping it, Mr. Reeder discovered that it was of sheet
iron.
He went outside to look at the door, turning on the hall light. It was
a very thick door, and the inside was made of quarter-inch steel
plate, screwed firmly to the wood. Leading from the kitchen was the
bedroom, evidently Wentford’s. The only light here was admitted from
an oblong window near the ceiling. There were no other windows, and
about the narrow window was a stout steel cage. On the wall by the bed
hung a second pistol. He found a third weapon in the kitchen, and,
behind a coat hanging in the hall, a fourth.
The cottage was a square box of concrete. The roof, as he afterwards
learned, was tiled over sheet iron, and, except for the window through
which he had squeezed, there was none by which ingress could be had.
He was puzzled why this man, who evidently feared attack, had left any
window so large as that through which he had come. He afterwards found
the broken wire which must have set an alarm bell ringing when the
window was opened.
There was blood on the mat in the hall, blood in the tiny lobby. He
came back to where the girl was lying and sniffed. There was no smell
of cordite, and having seen the body, he was not surprised.
“Now, my dear.”
She sat up again.
“I am not a police officer; I am a--er--a gentleman called in by your
friend, Mr. Wentford--your late friend,” he corrected himself, “to do
something--I know not what! He called me by ’phone; I gave him
my--um--terms, but he offered me no reason why he was sending for me.
You, as his secretary, may perhaps----”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know. He had never mentioned you before he spoke to me on the
telephone.”
“I am not a policeman,” said Mr. Reeder again, and his voice was very
gentle; “therefore, my dear, you need have few qualms about telling me
the truth, because these gentlemen, when they come, these very active
and intelligent men, will probably discover all that I have seen, even
if I did not tell them. Who was the man who went out of this house
when I knocked at the door?”
Her face was deathly pale, but she did not flinch. He wondered if she
was as pretty when she was not so pale. Mr. Reeder wondered all sorts
of queer little things like that; his mind could never stagnate.
“There was nobody--in this house--since I have been here----”
Mr. Reeder did not press her. He sighed, closed his eyes, shook his
head, shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s a great pity,” he said. “Can you tell me anything about Mr.
Wentford?”
“No,” she said in a low voice. “He was my uncle. I think you ought to
know that. He didn’t want anybody to know, but that must come out. He
has been very good to us--he sent my mother abroad; she is an invalid.
I conducted his business.” All this very jerkily.
“Have you been here often?”
She shook her head.
“Not often,” she said. “We usually met somewhere by appointment,
generally in a lonely place where one wouldn’t be likely to meet
anybody who knew us. He was very shy of strangers, and he didn’t like
anybody coming here.”
“Did he ever entertain friends here?”
“No.” She was very emphatic. “I’m sure he didn’t. The only person he
ever saw was the police patrol, the mounted man who rides this beat.
Uncle used to make him coffee every night. I think it was for the
company--he told me he felt lonely at nights. The policeman kept an
eye on him. There are two--Constable Steele and Constable Verity. My
uncle always sent them a turkey at Christmas. Whoever was on duty used
to ride up here. I was here late one night, and the constable escorted
me to Bourne End.”
The telephone was in the bedroom. Mr. Reeder remembered he had
promised to ’phone. He got through to a police station and asked a few
questions. When he got back, he found the girl by the window, looking
between the curtains.
Somebody was coming up the path. They could hear voices, and, looking
through the curtain, he saw a string of lanterns and went out to meet
a local sergeant and two men. Behind them was Mr. Enward. Reeder
wondered what had become of Henry. Possibly he had been lost in the
snow. The thought interested him.
“This is Mr. Reeder.” Enward’s voice was shrill. “Did you telephone?”
“Yes, I telephoned. We have a young lady here--Mr. Wentford’s niece.”
Enward repeated the words, surprised.
“His niece here? Really? I knew he had a niece. In fact----”
He coughed. It was an indelicate moment to speak of legacies.
“She’ll be able to throw a light on this business,” said the sergeant,
more practical and less delicate.
“She could throw no light on any business,” said Mr. Reeder, very
firmly for him. “She was not here when the crime was committed--in
fact, she arrived some time after. She has a key which admitted her.
Miss Lynn acts as her uncle’s secretary, all of which facts, I think,
gentlemen, you should know.”
The sergeant was not quite sure about the propriety of noticing Mr.
Reeder. To him he was almost a civilian, a man without authority, and
his presence was therefore irregular. Nevertheless, some distant echo
of J.G. Reeder’s fame had penetrated into Buckinghamshire. The police
officer seemed to remember that Mr. Reeder either occupied or was
about to occupy a semi-official position remotely or nearly associated
with police affairs. If he had been a little clearer on the subject he
would also have been more definite in his attitude. Since he was not
so sure, it was expedient, until Mr. Reeder’s position became
established, to ignore his presence--a peculiarly difficult course to
follow when an officially absent person is standing at your elbow,
murmuring flat contradictions of your vital theories.
“Perhaps you will tell me why _you_ are here, sir?” said the sergeant
with a certain truculence.
Mr. Reeder felt in his pocket, took out a large leather case and laid
it carefully on the table, first dusting the table with the side of
his hand. This he unfolded, and took out, with exasperating
deliberation, a thick pad of telegrams. He fixed his glasses and
examined the telegrams one by one, reading each through. At last he
shook one clear and handed it to the officer. It ran:
“Wish to consult with you to-night on very important matter. Call me
Woburn Green 971. Very urgent. Wentford.”
“You’re a private detective, Mr. Reeder?”
“More intimate than private,” murmured that gentleman. “In these days
of publicity one has little more than the privacy of a goldfish in his
crystal habitation.”
The sergeant saw something in the wastepaper basket and pulled it out.
It was a small loose-leafed book. There was another, indeed many. He
piled five on the table; but they were merely the covers and nothing
more.
“Diaries,” said Mr. Reeder gently. “You will observe that each one is
dingier than the other.”
“But how do you know they’re diaries?” demanded the police officer
testily.
“Because the word ‘diary’ is printed on the inside covers,” said Mr.
Reeder, more gently than ever.
This proved to be the case, though the printing had been overlooked.
Mr. Reeder had not overlooked it; he had not even overlooked the two
scraps of burnt paper on the hearth, all that remained of those
diaries.
“There is a safe let into the wall behind that bookcase.” He pointed.
“It may or may not be full of clues. I should imagine it is not. But I
shouldn’t touch it if I were you, sergeant,” he said hastily, “not
without gloves. Those detestable fellows from Scotland Yard will be
here eventually, and they’ll be ever so rude if they photograph a
finger-print and find it is yours.”
Gaylor of the Yard came at half past two. He had been brought out of
his bed through a blinding snowstorm and along a road that was
thoroughly vile.
The young lady had gone home. Mr. Reeder was sitting meditatively
before the fire which he had made up, smoking the cheapest kind of
cigarette.
“Is the body here?”
Mr. Reeder shook his head.
“Have they found that mounted policeman, Verity?”
Again Mr. Reeder signalled a negative.
“They found his horse. He was discovered on the Beaconsfield Road. It
had bloodstains on the saddle.”
“Bloodstains?” said the startled officer.
“Stains of blood,” explained Mr. Reeder.
He was staring into the fire, the cigarette drooping limply from his
mouth, on his face an air of unsettled melancholy; he did not even
turn his head to address Inspector Gaylor.
“The young lady has gone home, as I said. The local constabulary gave
you particulars of the lady, of course. She acted as secretary to the
late Mr. Wentford, and he appears to have been very fond of her, since
he has left his fortune as to two-thirds to the young lady and
one-third to his sister. There is no money in the house as far as can
be ascertained, but he banks with the Great Central Bank, Beaconsfield
branch.” Reeder fumbled in his pocket. “Here are the two aces.”
“The two what?” asked the puzzled inspector.
“The two aces.” Mr. Reeder passed the playing cards over his shoulder,
his eyes still upon the fire. “The ace of diamonds, and I believe the
ace of hearts--I am not very well acquainted with either.”
“Where did you get these?”
The other explained, and he heard Gaylor’s exasperated chuckle.
“What’s this, a magazine story murder?” he asked contemptuously.
“I seldom read magazine stories,” said Mr. Reeder between yawns, “but
these cards were put up after the murder.”
The detective examined the aces interestedly.
“Why are you so sure of that--why shouldn’t they have been put up
before?”
J.G. groaned at his scepticism, and, reaching out, took a pack of
cards from a little table.
“You will find the two aces missing from this pack. You would have
also found that two cards had been stuck together. Blood does that. No
finger-prints. I should imagine the cards were sorted over after the
untimely demise of Mr. Wentford, and the two significant aces
extracted and exhibited.”
The inspector made a very careful search of the bedroom and came back
to find Mr. Reeder nodding himself to sleep.
“What did they do to the girl--these local blokes?” asked Gaylor
coarsely.
Reeder’s right shoulder came up in a lazy shrug.
“They escorted her to the station and took a statement from her. The
inspector was kind enough to furnish me with a copy--you will find it
on this table. They also examined her hands and her clothes, but it
was quite unnecessary. There is corroborative evidence that she
arrived at Bourne End station at twelve minutes past eight as she says
she did--the murder was committed at forty minutes past seven, a few
minutes before or after.”
“How the dickens do you know that?” asked the astonished officer. “Is
there any proof?”
Mr. Reeder shook his head.
“A romantic surmise.” He sighed heavily. “You have to realize, my dear
Gaylor, that I have a criminal mind. I see the worst in people and the
worst in every human action. It is very tragic. There are moments
when”--he sighed again. “Forty minutes past seven,” he said simply.
“That is my romantic surmise. The doctor will probably confirm my
view. The body lay here,” he pointed to the hearthrug, “until--well,
quite a considerable time.”
Gaylor was skimming two closely written sheets of foolscap. Suddenly
he stopped.
“You’re wrong,” he said. “Listen to this statement made at the station
by Miss Lynn. ‘I rang up my uncle from the station, telling him I
might be late because of the snowy road. He answered “Come as soon as
you can.” He spoke in a very low tone; I thought he sounded agitated!’
That knocks your theory about the time a little bit skew-wiff, eh?”
Mr. Reeder looked round and blinked open his eyes.
“Yes, doesn’t it? It must have been terribly embarrassing.”
“What was embarrassing?” asked the puzzled police officer.
“Everything,” mumbled Mr. Reeder, his chin falling on his breast.