When her visitor was gone, Ena opened the letter he had left with
her, read a few lines of it, then threw letter and envelope into the
fire. Funny, the sameness of men… they all wrote the same sort of
stuff… raw stuff dressed up poetically… yet they thought they were
being different from all other men. She did not resent these
stereotypes of passion, nor did she feel sorry for those who used
them. They were just normal experiences. She sat clasping her knees,
her eyes alternately on the fire and the sleeping dog. Then she got
up, dressed quickly, and, going into Gower Street, found a cab.
She was set down at a house in a fashionable Mayfair street, and a
liveried footman admitted her and told her there was company. There
usually was in the early evening. She found twenty men and women
sitting round a green table, watching a croupier with a large green
shade over his eyes. He was turning up cards in two rows, and big
monies, staked in compartments marked on the green table, went into
the croupier’s well or was pushed, with additions, to the fortunate
winner.
The usual crowd, she noted. One pretty girl looked up and smiled, then
turned her eyes quickly and significantly to the young man by her
side.
Ena found the governor in his room. He was smoking alone and reading
the evening newspaper when she came in.
“Shut the door,” he ordered. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing much. Only Feathers is a bit worried.” She told him why.
Mr. Machfield smiled.
“Don’t _you_ worry, my pet,” he said kindly. “There has been a murder
down his way--did he tell you anything about that? I’ve just been
reading about it. I should be surprised if old Reeder didn’t get to
the bottom of it--clever fellow, Reeder.”
He picked up his newspaper from the floor and his cigar from the
ash-tray where he had laid it.
“Rather a coincidence, wasn’t it, Ena? Feathers pickin’ on that
account--Wentford’s?”
She looked at him thoughtfully.
“Was it a coincidence?” she asked. “That is what is worrying me. Did
he pick on this poor man’s account because he knew that he was going
to be dead in a few days? I got a horrible creepy feeling when he was
sitting beside me. I kept looking at his hands and wondering if there
was blood on them!”
“Shuh!” said Mr. Machfield contemptuously. “That rabbit!”
He opened a panel in the wall--it was nothing more romantic than a
serving hatch when it was built--and glanced at the gamesters.
“They’re playing for marbles!” he said in fine scorn. “But they never
do play high in the afternoon. Look at Lamontaine: he’s bored sick!”
And certainly the croupier did not look happy. He closed the panel.
“I suppose you’ll be raided one of these days?” she said.
“Sure!” he answered easily. “But I’ve got another couple of houses
ready for starting.”
“What do you think about Feathers? Will he squeal when they find him
out?”
“Like a stuck pig,” said Mr. Machfield. “He’ll go down for nine months
and get religion. That’s the kind of fellow who gives the prison
chaplain an interest in life. Ena, I’ve got a little job for you.”
She was alert, suspicious.
“Nothing much. I’ll tell you all about it. Shall I open a bottle?”
“Yes, if it’s milk,” she said. “What’s the little job and how much
does it carry?”
“Would you faint if I said a thousand?” he asked, and opened the hatch
again, looking through and closing it.
“Who are you expecting?” she asked. “… all right, don’t be rude. No,
thousands never make me faint. Especially when they’re talked
about----”
“Now listen.”
Mr. Machfield was too good a talker to be brief. He led from a
preamble to sections, into sub-sections.…
“One minute.”
He interrupted his explanation to lift the hatch. She saw him bringing
it down; then unexpectedly he raised it again. Was it the effect of
odd lighting, or had his face changed colour? He dropped the hatch
softly and gaped round at her.
“Who let him in? That doorman has ‘shopped’ me----”
“Who is it?” she asked.
He beckoned her to his side, lifting the panel an inch.
“Stoop!” he hissed. “Look… that fellow with the side-whiskers.”
“Oh--is he anybody?” She did not recognize the visitor. Possibly he
was a bailiff; he looked hopelessly suburban, like the people who
serve writs. They always wear ready-to-wear ties and coloured
handkerchiefs that stick out of their breast pockets.
“Reeder… J.G. Reeder!”
She wanted to raise the hatch and look, but he would not allow this.
“Go out and see what you can do… wait a bit.”
He lifted a house telephone and pressed a knob.
“Who was that fellow… the old fellow with side whiskers?… Got a card…
what name… Reeder?”
He put down the ’phone unsteadily. Mr. Machfield gave small membership
cards to the right people. They were issued with the greatest care and
after elaborate enquiries had been made as to the antecedents of the
man or woman so honoured.
“Go and get acquainted… he doesn’t know you. Go round through the
buffet room and pretend you’ve just come in.”
When she reached the gaming room, Ena found Mr. Reeder was sitting
opposite the croupier. How he got that favoured chair was a mystery.
His umbrella was between his knees. In front of him was a pile of
Treasury notes. He was “punting” gravely, seemingly absorbed in the
game.
“Faites vos jeux, messieurs et mesdames,” said the croupier
mechanically.
“What does he mean by that?” asked Mr. Reeder of his nearest
neighbour.
“He means ‘Make your bet,’” said the girl, who had drawn up a chair by
his side.
Mr. Reeder made ten coups and won six pounds. With this he got up from
the table and recovered his hat from beneath his chair.
“I always think that the time to--um--stop playing cards is when
you’re winning.” He imparted this truth to the young lady, who had
withdrawn from the table at the same time.
“What a marvellous mind you have!” she said enthusiastically.
Mr. Reeder winced.
“I’m afraid I have,” he said.
She shepherded him into the buffet room; he seemed quite willing to be
refreshed at the expense of the house.
“A cup of tea, thank you, and a little seed cake.”
Ena was puzzled. Had the whole breed of busies undergone this
shattering deterioration?
“I prefer seed to fruit cake,” he was saying. “Curiously enough,
chickens are the same. I had a hen once--we called her Curly Toes--who
_could_ eat fruit and preferred it…”
She listened--she was a good listener. He offered to see her home.
“No--if you could drop me at the corner of Bruton Street and Berkeley
Square--I don’t live far from there,” she said modestly.
“Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder, as he signalled to a cab. “Do you live in
a mews too? So many people do.”
This was disconcerting.
“Perhaps you will come and see me one day--I am Mrs. Coleforth-Ebling,
and my ’phone number--do write this down----”
“My memory is very excellent,” murmured Mr. Reeder.
The cab drove up at that moment and he opened the door.
“Ena Burslem--I will remember that--907, Gower Mansions.”
He waved his hand in farewell as he got into the cab.
“I’ll be seeing you again, my dear--toodle-oo!”
Mr. Reeder could on occasions be outrageously frivolous. “Toodle-oo!”
was the high-water mark of his frivolity. It was not remarkable that
Ena was both alarmed and puzzled. Brighter intellects than hers had
been shaken in a vain effort to reconcile Mr. Reeder’s appearance and
manner with Mr. Reeder’s reputation.
She went back into the house and told Mr. Machfield what had happened.
“That man’s clever,” said Machfield admiringly. “If I were the man who
had killed Wentworth or whatever his name is, I’d be shaking in my
shoes. I’ll walk round to the Leffingham and see if I can pick up a
young game-fish. And you’d better dine with me, Ena--I’ll give you the
rest of the dope on that business I was discussing.”
The Leffingham Club was quite useful to Mr. Machfield. It was a kind
of potting shed where likely young shoots could be nurtured before
being bedded out in the gardens of chance. Even Kenneth McKay had had
his uses.
When Mr. Reeder reached Scotland Yard, where they had arranged to
meet, he found Inspector Gaylor charged with news.
“We’ve had a bit of luck!” he said. “Do you remember those banknotes?
You took their numbers… you remember? They were paid out on Wentford’s
account!”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” said Mr. Reeder. “To the veiled lady----”
“Veiled grandmother!” said Gaylor. “We have traced two hundred pounds’
worth to a moneylender. They were paid by Kenneth McKay, the bank
clerk who cashed the cheque--and here is the cheque!”
He took it from a folder on his desk.
“The signature is a bad forgery; the cheque itself was not torn from
Wentford’s cheque-book but from a book kept at the bank under McKay’s
charge!”
“Astounding!” said Mr. Reeder.
“Isn’t it?” Mr. Gaylor was smiling. “So simple! I had the whole theory
of the murders given to me to-night. McKay forged and uttered the
note, and to cover up his crime killed Wentford.”
“And you instantly arrested him?”
“Am I a child in arms?” asked Gaylor reproachfully. “No, I questioned
the lad. He doesn’t deny that he paid the moneylender, but says that
the money came to him from some anonymous source. It arrived at his
house by registered post. Poor young devil, he’s rattled to blazes!
What are we waiting for now?”
“A Gentleman Who Wants to Open a Box,” said Mr. Reeder mysteriously.
(“Reeder releases his mysteries as a miser pays his dentist,” said
Gaylor to the superintendent. “He knows I know all about the case--I
admit he is very good and passes on most of the information he gets,
but the old devil _will_ keep back the connecting links!”
“Humour him,” said the superintendent.)