CHAPTER XI

Mr. Reeder kept what he called a case-book, in which he inscribed a

passionless account of all the cases in which he was engaged. Some of

these cases had no value except to the technician, and would not

interest anyone except perhaps the psycho-pathologist. Under the

heading “Two Aces” appeared this account, written in his own

handwriting.

In the year 1919 (wrote Mr. Reeder) there arrived at the Hotel

Majestic in Nice a man who described himself in the hotel register as

Rufus Machfield. He had a number of other names, but it is only

necessary that Machfield should be used to identify this particular

character. The man had a reputation as a cardsharp, and, in the

pursuit of his nefarious calling, had “worked” the ships plying

between England and New York. He had also been convicted on two

occasions as a professional gambler in Germany.

He was of Danish origin, but at the time was a naturalized Englishman,

with a permanent address in Colvin Gardens, Bayswater. At the Majestic

Hotel he had met with Charles or Walter Lynn, an adventurer who had

also “operated” the ships on the North Atlantic. On one of these trips

Lynn had become acquainted with Mr. George McKay, a prosperous woollen

merchant of Bradford. There is no evidence that they ever played cards

together, and Mr. McKay does not recall that they did. But the

friendship was of value to Lynn because Mr. McKay was in the habit of

coming to Nice every year, and was in residence at the time Lynn and

Machfield met. McKay was known as a resolute and successful gambler,

and before now had figured in sensational play.

The two men, Lynn and Machfield, conferred together and decided upon a

scheme to rob McKay at the tables. Gambling in Nice is not confined to

the recognized establishments. There was at the time a number of

_Cercles Privés_ where play was even higher than at the public rooms,

and the most reputable of these was “Le Signe” which, if it was not

recognized, was winked at by the French authorities.

In order to swindle McKay, a patron of this club, it was necessary to

secure the co-operation and help of an official. Lynn’s choice fell

upon a young croupier named Lamontaine, and he in turn was to suborn

two other croupiers, both of whom it was intended should receive a

very generous share of the money.

Lamontaine proved to be a singularly pliable tool. He had married a

young wife and had got into debt, and was fearful that this should

come to the ears of the club authorities. An interview was arranged in

Lyons; the scheme was put before the croupier by Lynn, and he agreed

to come in, taking a half share for himself and his two fellow

croupiers, the other half being equally divided between Lynn and

Machfield. Lynn apparently demurred at the division, but Machfield was

satisfied with his quarter share; the more so as he knew Mr. McKay had

been winning very heavily, and providing he had the right kind of

betting, there would be a big killing.

The game to be played was baccarat, for McKay could never resist the

temptation of taking a bank, especially a big bank. It was very

necessary that arrangements should be hurried on before the merchant

left the South of France, and a fortnight after the preliminaries,

Lamontaine reported that everything was in trim, that he had secured

the co-operation of his comrades, and it was decided that the coup

should be brought off on the Friday night.

It was arranged that Lynn should be the player, that after play was

finished the conspirators should meet again at Lyons, when the loot

was to be divided.

The cards were to be stacked so that the bank won every third coup. It

was arranged that the signal for the conspirators to begin their

betting was to be the dealing of two aces, the ace of diamonds and the

ace of hearts. Somebody would draw a six to these, and the banker

would have a “natural”--which means, I understand, that he would win.

Thereafter the betting was to be done by Lynn, and the first was a

banco call--which meant, as the cards lay, that the bank would be

swept into their pockets. They knew Mr. McKay would bid for the bank,

but they would bid higher, and Lynn then took the bank with a capital

of a million francs. Fourteen times the bank won, and had now reached

enormous proportions, so much so that every other table in the room

was deserted, and the table where this high play was going on was

surrounded by curious watchers.

There were fourteen winning coups for the bank, and the amount

gathered up at the finish by Lynn was something in the neighbourhood

of £400,000. Lamontaine states that it was more, but Machfield is

satisfied that it was in that region. The money was taken to the

hotel, and the following night Lynn left for Lyons. He was to be

joined the next day by Machfield, and on the Sunday they were to meet

the croupier in Paris and pay him his share.

The night that Lynn left, however, one of the officials of the rooms

made a statement to his _chef_. He had lost his nerve and he betrayed

his comrades. Lamontaine, with the other croupier, was arrested on a

charge of conspiracy, and Machfield only got away from the South of

France by the skin of his teeth. He journeyed on to Lyons and arrived

there in the early hours of the following afternoon. He hoped that no

news of the arrests would have got into the papers and scared his

partner, and certainly he did not wire warning Lynn. When he got to

the hotel he asked for his friend, but was told that he had not

arrived, nor had he made reservation of the rooms which had been

agreed upon.

From that moment he disappeared from human ken, and neither Machfield

nor any of his friends were able to trace him. It was no accident: it

was a deliberate double-cross. Machfield played the game as far as he

was able, and when Lamontaine was released from prison and came to

Paris, a broken man, for his young wife had died while he was in gaol,

he helped the croupier as well as he could, and together they came to

England to establish gaming-houses, but primarily to find Lynn and

force him to disgorge.

There was another person on the track of Lynn. McKay, who had been

robbed, as he knew after the French court proceedings, employed me to

trace him, but for certain reasons I was unable to justify his

confidence.

I do not know in what year or month Lamontaine and Machfield located

their man. It is certain that “Mr. Wentford,” as he called himself,

lived in increasing fear of their vengeance. When they did locate him

he proved to be an impossible man to reach. I have no doubt that the

house was carefully reconnoitred, his habits studied, and that

attempts were made to get at him. But those attempts failed. It is

highly probable, though no proof of this exists, that he was well

informed as to his enemy’s movements, for so far as can be gathered

from the statement of his niece and checked by the admissions of

Machfield, Lynn never left his house except on the days when Machfield

and Lamontaine were in Paris--they frequently went to that city over

the week-end.

It was Lamontaine who formed the diabolical plan which was eventually

to lead to Wentford’s death. He knew that the only man admitted to the

house was the mounted policeman who patrolled that part of the

country, so he studied police methods, even got information as to the

times on which the beat was patrolled, and on the night of the murder,

soon after it was dark, he travelled down to Beaconsfield by car

through the storm, accompanied by Machfield.

Lamontaine at some time or other had been on the French stage (he

spoke perfect English) and I have no doubt was in a position to make

himself up sufficiently well to deceive Wentford into opening the

door. At seven o’clock Constable Verity left the station and proceeded

on his patrol. At seven-thirty he was ruthlessly murdered by a man who

stepped out of his concealment and shot him point-blank through the

heart.

The body was taken into a field and laid out, the two murderers hoping

that the snow would cover it. Lamontaine was already wearing the

uniform of a police constable, and, mounting the horse, he rode on to

Wentford’s house. The old man saw him through the window, and,

suspecting nothing, got down and opened the door.

He may not have realized that anything was wrong until he was back in

his parlour, for it was there that he was struck down. The two men

intended leaving him in the cottage, but a complication arose whilst

they were searching the place, or endeavouring to open the safe behind

the bookcase. The telephone rang, and they heard Margot Lynn say that

she was coming on but was delayed. One of them answered in a disguised

voice.

The thing to do now was to remove the body. Lifting it out, they laid

it over the horse’s saddle, and, guiding the nervous animal down to

the road, led it towards Beaconsfield. Here a second complication

arose: the lights of Mr. Enward’s car were seen coming toward them.

The body was dropped by the side of the road, and the constable took

his place on the horse’s back. The animal was smothered with the blood

of the murdered man, and the clerk of Mr. Enward, the lawyer, taking

the bridle quite innocently, must have rubbed his sleeve along the

shoulder, for it was afterwards discovered that his coat was stained.

That gave me my first clue, and I was able, owing to my peculiar mind,

to reconstruct the crime as it had been committed.

The two men joined one another again in the vicinity of the cottage.

They were not able to make any further attempt that night. One of

them, however, heard that the girl knew where the money was cached. I

am afraid I was responsible for this, and it was intended that she

should be taken away, with the key of the safe deposit.…

Machfield had already become acquainted with the straitened

circumstances of young McKay, the son of his victim, and probably to

hit at his father, who he must have known was still hunting for him,

used an opportunity which was offered by chance, to ruin him, as he

believed.

Two hundred pounds, representing a portion of the money obtained from

the bank by a fraudulent manager (3 years Penal Servitude; Central

Criminal Court) through the instrumentality of his woman friend (5

years P.S., C.C.C.) was sent anonymously to the younger McKay by

Machfield, and was traced to the young man.

After this came a note, also in Mr. Reeder’s hand:

“Rufus John Machfield and Antonio Lamontaine (sentence: death, C.C.C.)

executed at Wandsworth Prison, April 17th. Executioner Ellis.”

Mr. Reeder was a stickler for facts.

KENNEDY THE CON. MAN

CHAPTER I

The man who stood with such an air of ease in the dock of the

North-West London Police Court bore himself with a certain insolent

dignity. There was a smile which was half contemptuous, half-amused,

on his bearded face.

If, from time to time, his long white fingers thrust through the mass

of goldy-brown hair that was brushed back from his high and narrow

forehead, the gesture revealed neither nervousness nor embarrassment.

Rather was this a trick of habit.

Though he wore no collar or tie, and his clothes and patent-leather

shoes were daubed with last night’s mud, the clothes were new and well

cut; the diamond ring which he wore, and which now sparkled

offensively in the early morning light, hinted most certainly at an

affluence which might be temporary or permanent.

He had in his possession when arrested (to quote the exact itemization

of the constable who had given evidence on the matter) the sum of

eighty-seven pounds ten shillings in Treasury notes, fifteen shillings

in silver coinage, a gold and platinum cigarette case, a small but

expensive bottle of perfume (unopened) and a few keys.

His name was Vladimir Litnoff; he was a Russian subject and his

profession was that of an actor. He had appeared in Russian plays, and

spoke English with the faintest trace of an accent.

Apparently, when he was in wine, as he had been on the previous

evening, he spoke little but Russian, so that the two policemen who

supported the charge of being drunk, and guilty of insulting and

disorderly behaviour, could adduce no other than the language of

offensive gesture to support their accusation.

The magistrate took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair

wearily.

“Whilst you are living in this country you must behave yourself,” he

said conventionally. “This is the second time you have been charged

with disorderly conduct, and you will pay twenty shillings, and seven

and six costs.”

Mr. Litnoff smiled, and bowed gracefully and stepped lightly from the

dock.

Chief Inspector Gaylor, who was waiting in the corridor to give

evidence on a much more serious charge, saw him pass and returned his

smile good-humouredly. The policeman who had “picked up” the Russian

followed from the court.

“Who is that fellow?” asked Gaylor.

“A Russian, sir. He was properly soused… drunk, in the Brompton Road.

He was quiet enough but wouldn’t go away. Him and his brooches!”

“His whatses?” asked the inspector.

“That’s what he said when I took him--about the only English thing he

did say: ‘You shall have my beautiful brooch--worth ten thousand!’ I

don’t know what he was talking about. Another thing he said was that

he’d got property in Monro--he shouted this out to the crowd as me and

P.C. Leigh was taking him away.”

“Monro--that’s in Scotland somewhere.”

Just then Gaylor was called into court.

Later in the evening, as he glanced through his evening newspaper, he

read an account of the police court proceedings. It was headed:

DRUNKEN MAN’S BRIBE OFFER TO POLICE.

TEN THOUSAND POUND BROOCH THAT

WAS DECLINED.

“… P.C. Smith stated that the prisoner had offered him a ten thousand

pound brooch to let him go.

“The Magistrate: Did he have this brooch in his possession?

“Witness: No, your Worship. In his imagination. (Laughter.)”

“Now Reeder would see something very peculiar about that,” said Mr.

Gaylor to his young wife, and she smiled.

She liked Mr. J.G. Reeder, and, quite mistakenly, was sorry for him.

He seemed so pathetically inefficient and helpless compared with the

strong, capable men of Scotland Yard. Many people were sorry for Mr.

Reeder--but there were quite a number who weren’t.

Jake Alsby, for example, was sorry for nobody but himself. He used to

sit in his cell during the long winter evenings on Dartmoor and think

of Mr. Reeder in any but a sympathetic mood. It was a nice, large,

comfortable cell with a vaulted roof. It had a bed, with gaily

coloured blankets, and was warm on the coldest day. He had the

portrait of his wife and family on a shelf. The family ranged from a

hideous little boy of ten to an open-mouthed baby of six months. Jake

had never seen the baby in the flesh. He did not mind whether he saw

his lady wife or family again, but the picture served as a stimulant

to his flagging animosities. It reminded Jake that the barefaced

perjury of Mr. J.G. Reeder had torn him from his family and cast him

into a cold dungeon. A poetical fancy, but none the less pleasing to a

man who had never met the truth face to face without bedecking the

reality with ribbons of fiction.

It was true that Jake forged Bank of England notes, had been caught

with the goods and his factory traced; it was true that he had been

previously convicted for the same offence, but it was not true (as Mr.

Reeder had sworn) that he had been seen near Marble Arch on the Monday

before his arrest. It was Tuesday. Therefore Mr. Reeder had committed

perjury.

To Jake came a letter from one who had been recently discharged from

the hospitality of H.M. Prison at Princeton. It contained a few items

of news, one of which was:

“… saw your old pal reeder yesterday he was in that machfield case him

that done in the old boy at born end reeder dont look a day older he

asked me how you was and i said fine and he said what a pity he only

got seven he oughter got ten and i said…”

What his literary friend said did not interest the enraged man. There

and then he began to think up new torments for the man who had

perjured an innocent man (it was Tuesday, not Monday) into what has

been picturesquely described as a “living hell.”

Three months after the arrival of this letter Jake Alsby was released,

a portion of his sentence having been remitted for good conduct: that

is to say, he had never once been detected in a breach of prison

regulations. The day he was released, Jake went to London, to find his

family in the workhouse, his wife having fled to Canada with a better

man. Almost any man was better than Jake.

“This is Reeder’s little joke!” he said.

He fortified himself with hot spirits and went forth to find his man.

He did not follow a direct path to Mr. Reeder’s office, because he had

calls to make, certain acquaintances to renew. In one of these, a most

reputable hostelry, he came upon a bearded man who spoke alternately

in English and in a queerly elusive language. He wore no collar or

tie--when Vladimir reached his fourth whisky he invariably discarded

these--and he spoke loudly of a diamond clasp of fabulous value. Jake

lingered, fascinated. He drank with the man, whose language might be

Russian but whose money was undoubtedly English, as was his language

occasionally.

“You ask me, my frien’, what profession am I? An actor, yes! But it

pays nothing. This, that, the other impresario rob--all rob. But my

best work? I am ill! That is good work! Delirium--what-you-call-it?

Swoons? Yes, swoons--voice ’usky, eh?”

“I know a graft like that,” said Jake, nodding wisely. “You chews

soap.”

“Ah--nasty--no… _ti dourak!_”

Jake did not know that he was being called a fool, would not have been

very upset if he had known. He was sure of one thing, that he was

hooked up with a generous spender of money--a prince of fellows, seen

in the golden haze of alcoholism. He had not yet reached the stage

where he wanted to kick anybody. He was in that condition when he felt

an inward urge to tell his most precious secrets.

“Ever ’eard feller call’ Reeder?” he asked profoundly. “Reg’lar old

’ound--goin’ get him!”

“Ach!” said his new-found friend.

“Gonna get ’im!” said Jake gravely.

The bearded man tilted up his glass until no dreg remained in the

bottom. He seized Jake’s arm in a fierce friendliness and led him from

the bar. The cold night air made Jake sag at the knees.

“Le’s go ’n bump ’um,” he said thickly.

“My frien’--why kill, eh?” They were walking unsteadily along arm in

arm. Once Jake was pushed into the gutter by an unanticipated lurch.

“Live--drink! See my beautiful brooch… my farm… vineyards… mountains…

I’ll tell you, my frien’--somebody must know…”

This street through which they were passing was very dark and made up

of little stores. Jake was conscious that he had passed a milk shop

when he became aware that a man was standing squarely in their path.

“Hullo!… You want me… gotta brooch?”

It was Vladimir who spoke; he also was very drunk. The stranger did

not speak.

The crash of the explosion made Jake Alsby reel. He had never heard a

pistol fired at close quarters. He saw the Russian swaying on his

feet, his head bent as though he were listening… he was fumbling at

his waistcoat with both hands.

“Here… what’s the game?” Jake was sober now.

The man came nearer, brushed past him, thrusting his shoulder forward

as he passed. Jake staggered under the impact. When he looked round,

the shooter had melted into the thick darkness--there was the narrow

opening of a mews hereabouts.

“Hurt, mate?”

The Russian had gone down to his knees, still gripping at his

waistcoat. Then he pitched forward and hit the pavement horribly.

Jake felt himself go white… he looked round, and, turning, fled. He

wanted to be out of this--murder! That’s what it was, murder.

He raced round the corner of the street and into the arms of a

policeman. Whistles were blowing. Even as he fought to escape, he knew

the impossibility of such a hope: policemen were running from

everywhere.

“All right--I done nothin’… there’s a guy shot round the corner… some

feller did it.”

Two officers took him to the station, and as a precautionary measure

he was searched.

In the right hand pocket of his overcoat was found an automatic pistol

that had been recently fired.

CHAPTER II

Mr. J.G. Reeder rang his bell and sighed. He sighed because it was

the fourth time he had rung the bell without anything happening.

There were moments when he saw himself walking into the next room and

addressing Miss Gillette in firm but fatherly tones. He would point

out to her the impossible situation which was created when a secretary

ignored the summons of her employer; he would insist that she did not

bring into the office, or, if she brought, should not in business

hours read the tender or exciting fiction which she favoured; he would

say, in the same firm and fatherly way, that perhaps it would be

better for everybody concerned if she found a new occupation, or a

similar occupation in the service of somebody who had less exacting

views on the question of duty. But always, when he rose from his chair

after ringing four times, determined to settle the matter there and

then, he sat down again and rang a fifth time.

“Dear, dear!” said Mr. Reeder. “This is very trying.”

At that moment Miss Gillette came into the room. She was pretty and

slight and small. She had a tip-tilted nose and a faultless

complexion, and her dully golden hair was a little untidy.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Did you ring?”

Between her fingers she held a long, jade-green cigarette holder. Mr.

Reeder had once asked her not to come into his office smoking: she

invariably carried her cigarette in her hand nowadays, and he accepted

the compromise.

“I think I did,” he said gently.

“_I_ thought you did.”

Mr. Reeder winced as she put her cigarette holder on the mantelpiece,

and, pulling a chair forward, sat down at his desk. She carried a book

under her arm, and this she opened and laid on the table.

“Shoot,” she said, and Mr. Reeder winced again.

The trouble about Miss Gillette was her competence. If she had made

mistakes and put letters in the wrong envelopes or forgot

appointments, Mr. Reeder would have gone away to some foreign land,

such as Eastbourne or Brighton, and would have written to her a sad

letter of farewell, enclosing a month’s salary in lieu of notice. But

she was devastatingly competent: she had built up a structure of

indispensability; she had, in the shortest space of time, developed

herself into a habit and a fixture.

“You mean that I am to proceed?” he asked gravely.

Another woman would have wilted under the reproof; there was something

very wiltless about Miss Gillette. She just closed her eyes wearily.

“Let’s go,” she said, and it was Mr. Reeder who was reproved.

“This is a report on the Wimburg Case,” he said, and began his

hesitant dictation.

As he grew into his subject, he spoke with greater and greater

rapidity. Never once did Miss Gillette interrupt with a question, to

gain time for her lagging pencil. There was a ceaseless snap as the

pages of her notebook turned.

“That is all,” he said breathlessly. “I trust that I did not go too

fast for you?”

“I hardly noticed that you were moving,” she said, wetted her fingers

and flicked back the pages. “You used the word ‘unsubstantial’ three

times: once you meant ‘inadequate’ and once ‘unreal’. I would suggest

that we alter those.”

Mr. Reeder moved uncomfortably in his chair.

“Are you sure?” he asked feebly.

She was always sure, because she was always right.

It was not true to say that Mr. Reeder had ever engaged a secretary.

It was Miss Gillette who engaged him. By one of those odd coincidences

which are unacceptable to the lovers of fiction but which occur in

everyday life, she arrived at Mr. Reeder’s office on the day and at

the hour he was expecting a temporary typist from an agency. For some

reason the agency lady did not arrive, or, if she did, was interviewed

by Miss Gillette, who, fulfilling the practice of the young queen bee,

destroyed her rival--in the nicest possible sense. And when Mr.

Reeder, having concluded the work for which he had engaged her, would

have dismissed her with a ten-shilling note, shyly tendered and

brazenly accepted, he learned that she was a fixture. He lay awake for

an hour on the following Friday night, debating with himself whether

he should deduct the ten shillings from her salary.

“Are there any appointments?” he asked.

There was none. Mr. Reeder knew there was none before he asked. It was

at this point that his daily embarrassment was invariably overcome.

“Nothing in the papers, I suppose?”

“Nothing except the Pimlico murder case. The funny thing is that the

man who was killed----”

“Nothing funny about--um--that, my dear young lady,” murmured Mr.

Reeder. “Funny? Dear, dear!”

“When I said ‘funny,’ I didn’t mean ‘amusing’ but ‘odd’,” she said.

“And if you are getting back for ‘unsubstantial,’ you will be pleased

to know that you have got. He was Vladimir Litnoff--you remember, the

man who was drunk and said that he had a brooch.”

Mr. Reeder nodded calmly. Apparently Litnoff’s death was not startling

news.

“It is my--um--mind, my dear young friend. I see evil things where

other people see innocent things. And yet, in the question of human

relationships, I take the kindliest and most charitable views. H’m!

The young man who was with you at the Regal Cinema, for example----”

“Was the young man I’m going to marry when we earn enough to support

one another,” she said promptly. “But how the devil did you see us?”

“S’sh!” said Mr. Reeder, shocked. “Strong--um--language is--um--most…”

She was looking at him frowningly.

“Sit down,” she said, and Mr. Reeder, who knew little of the rights of

secretaries, but was quite sure that ordering their employers to sit

down in their own offices was outside the table of privileges, sat

down.

“I like you, John or Jonas or whatever the ‘J’ stands for,” she said,

with outrageous coolness. “I didn’t realize that you were a detective

when I came to you. I’ve worked for successions of tired business men,

who bucked up sufficiently towards evening to ask me out to supper,

but never a detective. And you’re different from all the men I’ve ever

met. You’ve never tried to hold my hand----”

“I should hope not!” said Mr. Reeder, going very red. “I’m old enough

to be your father!”

“There isn’t such an age,” she said. And then, very seriously: “Would

you speak to Tommy Anton if I brought him here?”

“Tommy--you mean your--um----”

“My ‘um’--that describes him,” she nodded. “He’s a wonderful

fellow--terribly awkward and shy, and he’ll probably make a bad

impression, as you do, but he’s a really nice man.”

Now Mr. Reeder had been many things, but he had never acted _in loco

parentis_, and the prospect was a trifle terrifying.

“You wish me to ask him--er--what his intentions are?”

She smiled at this, and she had a dazzling and beautiful smile.

“My dear, I know what his intentions are, all right. You don’t meet a

man day after day for over a year without finding out something about

his private ideas. No--it is something else.”

Mr. Reeder waited.

“If you were an ordinary employer,” she went on, “you’d take me by the

scruff of my neck and fire me.” Mr. Reeder disclaimed such a ferocious

quality with a feeble shake of his head. “But you’re not.”

She got up and walked to the window and looked out. What was she going

to say? A most ghastly thought occurred to Mr. Reeder, one that made a

cold shiver down his spine. But it was not that, for she turned

suddenly.

“Tommy has been robbed of twenty-three thousand pounds,” she said.

He stared at her owlishly.

“Robbed?” She nodded. “When?”

“More than a year ago--before I met him. That is not why he is selling

motor-cars on commission. He tries to sell them, but he isn’t very

successful. His partner robbed him. They had a motor-car business.

Tommy and this man Seafield were at Oxford together, and when they

came down they started a motor-car agency. Tommy went to Germany to

negotiate for an agency. When he came back Seafield had gone. He did

not even leave a note--he just drew the money from the bank and went

away.”

She saw a new light in Mr. Reeder’s eyes and could not but marvel that

what to him was so small a matter should be of such immediate

interest.

“And no message with his wife?… Unmarried, eh? H’m! He lived…”

“At an hotel--he was a bachelor. No, he didn’t tell anybody

there--just said he was going away for a day or two.”

“Left his clothes behind and did not even pay his bill,” murmured Mr.

Reeder.

Miss Gillette was surprised.

“You know all about it, then?”

“My queer mind,” he said simply.

There was a tap at the outer door.

“You had better see who that is,” said Mr. Reeder.

She went to the door and opened it. Standing on the mat outside was a

clergyman, wearing a long black overcoat which reached to his heels.

He looked at her dubiously.

“Is this Mr. Reeder’s office--the detective?” he asked.

She nodded, regarding the unexpected visitor with interest. He was a

man of fifty, with greying hair. A mild, rather pallid man, who seemed

to be ill at ease, for the fingers that gripped his umbrella, which he

held about its middle as though he were all ready to signal a cab,

clasped and unclasped in his agitation.

He looked at Mr. Reeder helplessly. Mr. Reeder, for his part, twiddled

his thumbs and gazed at the visitor solemnly. It almost seemed that he

was smitten dumb by the uniform of his visitor’s rectitude.

“Won’t you sit down, please?” There was something of the churchwarden

in Mr. Reeder’s benevolent gesture.

“The matter I wish to speak about--well, I hardly know how to begin,”

said the clergyman.

Here Mr. Reeder could not help him. It was on his tongue to offer the

conventional suggestion that the best way to begin any story was to

tell the unvarnished truth. Somehow this hardly seemed a delicate

thing to say to a man of the cloth, so he said nothing.

“It concerns a man named Ralph--the merest acquaintance of mine…

hardly that. I had corresponded with him on certain matters pertaining

to the higher criticism. But I can hardly remember what points he

raised or how I dealt with them. I never keep correspondence, not

because I am unbusinesslike, but because letters have a trick of

accumulating, and a filing system is a tyranny to which I will never

submit.”

Mr. Reeder’s heart could have warmed to this frank man. He loathed old

letters and filing was an abominable occupation.

“This morning I had a call from Mr. Ralph’s daughter. She lives with

her father at Bishop’s Stortford in Essex. Apparently she came upon my

name written on an envelope which she found in a wastepaper basket in

her father’s office--he had a small office in Lower Regent Street,

where he attended to whatever business he had.”

“What was his business?” asked Mr. Reeder.

“Actually he had none. He was a retired provision merchant who had

made a fortune in the City. He may have had, and probably has, one or

two minor interests to occupy his spare time. He came up to town last

Thursday--curiously enough, I had a telephone call from him at my

hotel when I was out. Since that day he has not been seen.”

“Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder. “What a coincidence!”

Dr. Ingham looked a painful enquiry.

“That you should have thought of me,” said Mr. Reeder. “It is very odd

that people who lose people always come to me. And the young lady--she

told you all this?”

Dr. Ingham nodded.

“Yes. She is naturally worried. It appears that she had a friend, a

young man, who did exactly the same thing. Just walked out of his

hotel and disappeared. There may be explanations, but it is very

difficult to tell a young lady----”

“Very,” Mr. Reeder coughed discreetly, and said “very” again. “She

suggested that you should come to me?”

The clergyman nodded. He appeared to be embarrassed by the nature of

his mission.

“To be exact, she wished to come herself--I thought it was a friendly

thing to interview you on her behalf. I am not a poor man, Mr. Reeder;

I am, in fact, rather a rich man, and I feel that I should render

whatever assistance is possible to this poor young lady. My dear wife

would, I am sure, heartily endorse my action--I have been married

twenty-three years, and I have never found myself in disagreement with

the partner of my joys and sorrows. You, as a married man----”

“Single,” said Mr. Reeder, not without a certain amount of

satisfaction. “Alas! Yes, I am--um--single.”

He looked at his new client glumly.

“The young lady is staying----”

“In town, yes,” nodded the other. “At Haymarket Central Hotel. You

will take this case?”

Mr. Reeder pulled at his nose and fingered his close-clipped

sidewhiskers. He settled his glasses on his nose and took them off

again.

“Which case?” he asked.

Dr. Ingham was pained.

“The case I have outlined.” He groped beneath his clerical coat and

produced a card. “I have written Mr. Lance Ralph’s office address on

the back of my card----”

J.G. took the card and read its written inscription; turned it over

and read the printed inscription. This gentleman was a doctor of

divinity, and lived at Grayne Hall, near St. Margaret’s Bay, in the

County of Kent.

“There isn’t a case,” said Mr. Reeder with the tenderness of one who

is breaking bad news. “People are entitled to--um--disappear. Quite a

number of people, my dear Dr. Ingham, refuse to exercise that right, I

am sorry to say. They disappear to Brighton, to Paris, but re-appear

at later intervals. It is a common phenomenon.”

The cleric looked at him anxiously, and passed his umbrella from one

hand to the other.

“Perhaps I haven’t told you everything that should have been told,” he

said. “Miss Ralph had a fiancé--a young man in a prosperous business,

as she tells me, who also vanished, leaving his partner----”

“You are referring to Mr. Seafield?” But to his surprise, and perhaps

to his annoyance, the clergyman showed no sign of amazement.

“Joan has a great friend in your office. Am I right in surmising it is

the young lady who opened the door to me? This is how your name came

up. We were discussing whether she should go to the police, when she

mentioned your name. I thought you were the least unpleasant

alternative, if you don’t mind that description.”

Mr. Reeder bowed graciously. He did not mind.

There followed an uncomfortable lacuna of silence, which neither of

the men seemed inclined to fill. Mr. Reeder ushered the visitor to the

door and went back to his desk, and for five minutes scribbled

aimlessly on his blotting pad. He had a weakness for making grotesque

drawings, and he was putting an extra long nose upon the elongated

head of one of his fanciful sketches when Miss Gillette came in

unannounced.

“Well, what do you think of that,” she asked.

Mr. Reeder stared at her.

“What do I think of what, Miss Gillette?” he demanded.

“Poor Joan, and she is such a darling. We have kept our friendship all

through the Seafield business----”

“But how did you know about it?”

Mr. Reeder was very seldom bewildered, but he was frankly bewildered

now.

“I was listening at the door,” said Miss Gillette shamelessly. “Well,

not exactly listening, but I left my door open and he talks very

loudly; parsons get that way, don’t they?”

J.G. Reeder’s face wore an expression that was only comparable to that

of a wounded fawn.

“It is very--um--wrong to listen,” he began, but she dismissed all

questions of propriety with an airy wave of her hand.

“It doesn’t matter whether it’s right or wrong. Where is Joan

staying?”

This was a moment when Mr. J.G. Reeder should have risen with dignity,

opened the door, pressed a fortnight’s wages into her hand, and

dismissed her to the outer darkness, but he allowed the opportunity to

pass.

“Can I bring Tommy to see you?”

She leant upon the table, resting her palms on the edge. Her

enthusiasm was almost infectious.

“Tommy doesn’t look clever, but he really is, and he’s always had a

theory about Seafield’s bolting. Tommy says that Frank Seafield would

never have bought a letter of credit----”

“Did he have a letter of credit? I thought you told me that he drew

the money out of the bank?”

Miss Gillette nodded.

“It was a letter of credit,” she said emphatically, “for £6,300.

That’s how we knew he had gone abroad. The letter was cashed in Berlin

and Vienna.”

For a long time Mr. J.G. Reeder looked out of the window.

“I should like to talk with Tommy,” he said gravely, and when he

looked round Miss Gillette had gone.

For a quarter of an hour he sat with his hands folded on his lap, his

pale eyes fixed vacantly on the chimney-pot of a house on the opposite

side of the street, and then he heard a knock on the outer door.

Rising slowly, he went out and opened it. The last person he expected

to see was Inspector Gaylor.

“The Litnoff murder--are you interested?”

Mr. Reeder was interested in all murders, but not especially in the

Litnoff case.

“Do you know that Jake Alsby was on his way to see you?”

Jake Alsby--Mr. Reeder frowned; he knew the name, and, going over the

file of his mind, could place him.

“So far as my own opinion goes, Jake is a dead man,” said Gaylor. “He

had been drinking with the Russian, who had quite a lot of money in

his possession. A few minutes after they left the bar Litnoff was

shot, and Jake, bolting for his life, was found in possession of a

loaded pistol. Men have been hanged on less evidence than that.”

“I--um--doubt it. Not the fact that men have been--er--hanged on

insufficient evidence, but that our poor friend was the guilty person.

Jake is a ‘regular,’ and regulars do not carry guns--not in this

country.”

Gaylor smiled significantly.

“He was searching for you,” he said. “He admits as much, and that

makes his present attitude a little queer. For now he wants you to get

him out of his trouble!”

“Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder, faintly amused.

“He thinks if he could see you for a few minutes and tell you what

happened, you would walk out of Brixton Prison and lay your hand upon

the man who committed the murder. There’s a compliment for you!”

“Seriously?” J.G. Reeder was frowning again.

Gaylor nodded.

“It’s rum, isn’t it? The fellow was undoubtedly on his way to give you

hell and yet the first thing he does when he gets into trouble is to

squeak to you for help! Anyway, the Public Prosecutor says he would

like you to see him. Brixton has been notified. They know you there,

and if you feel like listening to a few more or less fantastic lies,

you ought to have an interesting evening.”

He had in his pocket-book two press cuttings which fairly covered the

Litnoff shooting. Mr. Reeder accepted them with every evidence of

gratitude, although he had very complete particulars of the case in

the drawer of his writing table.

Gaylor had one quality which Mr. Reeder admired--he was no “lingerer.”

There were many interesting people in the world who did not know where

their interest ended: men who outstayed the excuse for their presence

and dawdled from subject to subject. Gaylor was blessed with a sense

of drama and could make his abrupt exit upon an effective line. He

made such an exit now.

“You needn’t ask him to tell you about the diamond clasp,” he said.

“He’ll tell you that! But don’t forget that the last time Litnoff was

charged that bizarre note came into the evidence.”

Inspector Gaylor was a well read man and used words like “bizarre”

without self-conscious effort.

When he had gone, Mr. Reeder fixed his glasses and read the cuttings

which the detective had left. He found nothing that he did not already

know. Jake Alsby was, as he had said, a ‘regular’, an habitual

criminal with a working knowledge of the common law in so far as it

affected himself. No old lag carries firearms, especially an old lag

who is a convict on licence, and is liable to be arrested at sight.

Judges are most unsympathetic in their attitude toward armed

criminals, and Jake and his fellows knew too well the penalties of

illicit armament to take the dreadful risk of being found in

possession of an automatic pistol.

J.G. had a criminal mind. He knew exactly what he would have done had

he been Jake Alsby and had shot his companion. He would have thrown

away the pistol before he bolted. That Jake had not done so was proof

to him that he was unaware that the pistol was in his pocket.

He was musing on this matter when he heard the door of the outer

office open and the sound of low voices. A moment later Miss Gillette

came in, a little out of breath. She closed the door behind her.

“I’ve brought them both,” she said rapidly. “I ’phoned to Joan--she

was just going out.… Can I ask them to come in?”

He felt that it was almost an act of humility that she should ask his

permission, and bowed his assent.

Tommy Anton was a tall young man; the sort that perhaps two women in

the course of the years would regard as good-looking, but the rest

would scarcely notice. Joan Ralph, on the other hand, was distinctly

pretty and unusual. She was dark and clear-skinned, and had one of

those supple figures that gave Mr. Reeder the impression that its

owner did not wear sufficient clothes for warmth or safety.

“This is Tommy, and this is Joan.” Miss Gillette introduced them

unnecessarily, for Mr. Reeder could hardly have mistaken one for the

other.

The moment he saw them, he knew they would have nothing new to tell

him if they were left to tell their own stories. He listened with

great patience to the repetition of all he knew.

Tommy Anton gave a graphic description of his own amazement,

consternation and emotions when he had discovered that his partner had

vanished. He paid a loyal tribute to the character and qualities of

the missing man----

“Did Mr. Seafield ever talk to you about a diamond brooch?”

interrupted Mr. Reeder.

Tommy stared at him.

“No--we were in the car trade. He seldom discussed his private

affairs. Of course, I knew about Joan----”

“Did your father ever speak of a diamond brooch or clasp?” Mr. Reeder

addressed the girl, and she shook her head.

“Never… he never spoke about jewellery except--that was years ago when

I first met Frank--Daddy put some money into the Pizarro expedition

and so did Frank; they were awfully enthusiastic about it.”

Mr. Reeder looked up at the ceiling and went rapidly over the folders

of his memory. When she was on the point of explaining, he stopped her

with a gesture.

“Pizarro expedition… 1923… to recover the buried treasure of the

Incas. It was organized by Antonio Pizarro, who claimed to be a

descendant of the conqueror of Peru… his real name was Bendini--a New

York Italian with three convictions for high-class swindles… the

company was registered in London, and all the people who put money

into the scheme lost it--isn’t that right?”

He beamed at her triumphantly and she smiled.

“I don’t know so much about it as you. Daddy put five hundred pounds

into it and Frank put a hundred--he was at Oxford then. I know they

lost their money. Frank didn’t mind very much, but Daddy was annoyed,

because he was sure there were great treasure houses in Peru that had

yet to be discovered.”

“And was there a talk of diamond brooches?” asked Mr. Reeder.

She hesitated.

“Jewels--I don’t remember that there was anything said about

brooches.”

J.G. wrote down three words, one of which, she saw, was “Pizarro.” The

second seemed to bear some resemblance to “Murphy.” She thought the

association of the two names was a little incongruous. He questioned

her shortly about her own situation. She had a small private income

and there was no immediate urgency so far as money was concerned.

And then she asked if she could see him alone. Mr. Reeder had a happy

feeling that Miss Gillette entirely disapproved of the request. She

could do no less than withdraw, taking her Tommy with her. He found

himself being sorry for that dumb and ordinary young man--so ordinary

indeed that Mr. Reeder for the first time became conscious of his

mental superiority to his secretary.

He had even the courage to open the door and look out. The murmur of

voices from Miss Gillette’s room assured him that they were safe from

the eavesdropping propensities of that curious young lady.

“Mr. Reeder,” he realized from her tone that Joan Ralph was finding

some difficulty in fitting her thoughts into words, “I suppose it has

occurred to you that my father may have gone off with--somebody. I am

not stupid about these things and I know that men of his age do

have--well, affairs. But I am perfectly sure that Daddy had none. Dr.

Ingham hinted tactfully that this might be the situation; the doctor

was awfully sweet about it, but I know that theory is wrong. Daddy had

no friends. I used to open all his letters and there was never one

that he objected to my seeing.”

“The letters that came to the office too?” he asked.

She smiled at the question.

“Naturally I did not see those--those were very few, and Daddy had

nothing furtive in his composition. I did know that he was

corresponding with Dr. Ingham; my father was what is known as a High

Churchman and wrote letters to the Church papers. That is practically

the only friend he had outside our little circle at Bishop’s

Stortford.”

Mr. Reeder looked at her thoughtfully.

“Did you think Frank Seafield had--um--a lady friend?” he asked.

She was emphatic on this point. He would have been surprised if she

had not been.

He guided her to Miss Gillette’s room and presently he heard the three

go out. That Miss Gillette should have left the office without asking

permission was not remarkable.

With great care he composed three telegrams, and, calling at the post

office, handed them in. One was certainly addressed to Murphy.

A tramcar deposited him within walking distance of Brixton Prison,

where men under remand are segregated.

Mr. Reeder was not unknown at Brixton, though his visits were rare,

and within a few minutes of his arrival he was taken to a bare waiting

room where he was joined by Jake Alsby.

The man was shaken. The rather defiant impertinent criminal Mr. Reeder

had known had disappeared, and in his place was a man terror-stricken

by the fate which had overcome him.

“You know me, Mr. Reeder.” His manner was a little wild, and the hand

that emphasized almost every sentence was trembling. “I never had a

gun in my life, and I would no more think of shooting a man than I

would of cutting my own throat. I bashed a fellow or two----”

“And there are one or two that you intended bashing,” said Mr. Reeder,

pleasantly.

“It was drink, Mr. Reeder,” pleaded Jake. “I suppose Gaylor told you

that I was coming to see you. That dirty dog would say anything to put

me wrong. Besides, Mr. Reeder, I didn’t know this Russian--why should

I want to shoot him?”

Mr. Reeder shook his head.

“People sometimes shoot the merest acquaintances,” he said brightly.

“Now tell me all about it, Alsby, with fewer lies than usual. Maybe I

can help you. I don’t say that I can, but it may be possible.”

Alsby told his story as coherently as he could. Occasionally Mr.

Reeder had to bring him back from rambling side issues, but, on the

whole, the tale he had to tell was convincing. He forgot, however, one

important detail.

“When that man was charged with being drunk some days ago,” said Mr.

Reeder, “he talked to the police in his--um--intoxication, of a

diamond clasp----”

“That’s right, sir,” interrupted the man eagerly. “He mentioned it to

me, too. I’d forgotten all about that. He told me I could see it. I

thought it was just being soused that made him speak that way, and, to

tell you the truth, I’d forgotten all about it.” And then a new note

of anxiety came into his tone: “Has that been lost? I swear I never

saw it.”

J.G. Reeder looked at him long and fixedly. A gentle glow of

satisfaction came to him. He had spoken of the clasp to Joan Ralph for

no other reason than his recollection of the police court proceedings

against Litnoff. That reference to the diamond brooch had intrigued

him at the time he had read of it. Litnoff had no history as a

receiver--that fact had been brought out in court.

“Try to remember, Alsby, what other things he said.”

Alsby knitted his forehead in an agony of recollection.

“I can’t remember anything, Mr. Reeder. I wasn’t with him long after

we left the boozer--the public house. He was going home; he lived in

Bloomsbury--Lammington Buildings. That was a funny thing: I had known

of Lammington Buildings through a pal of mine, who got five years for

slush printing. He had a friend who lived there.”

Mr. Reeder was interested mainly because the only address which the

police knew in connection with Litnoff was his lodging in Pimlico.

“How did all this come out, that he was living in Lammington

Buildings?” he asked.

“He wanted to take a taxi. I told him I was living in Holborn. He said

‘You can drop me at Lammington Buildings.’ After that he sort of

corrected himself, but I knew he had let his address slip out. You are

going to do something for me, ain’t you, Mr. Reeder? You have always

been fair to me.”

“That is not my recollection of your expressed opinion,” said Mr.

Reeder acidly.

Going back to town he pondered on the possibility that Litnoff also

might have had a “friend” in this block of flats.

It was raining heavily when his ’bus dropped him at the corner of

Southampton Row; but it had been raining more or less all day, and

since he wore his shabby yellow mackintosh which, coming almost to his

heels, gave him, despite his bent shoulders, a giant-like appearance,

he did not think it necessary to unfurl the umbrella which he carried

on his arm, summer and winter, although it was never known to be

opened.

He found Lammington Buildings without much trouble. It was situate in

a side turning off Gower Street.

Mr. Reeder opened his enquiries with the hall porter. The name of

Litnoff was unknown; but the hall porter was a reader of newspapers

and had seen a portrait of the murdered man. Almost before Mr. Reeder

could put a question, the porter blurted out his suspicion.

“I bet that’s Schmidt. If it isn’t, it’s his twin brother. In fact, I

was just writing a letter to the _Daily Megaphone_. I always thought

that Schmidt was a queer customer. He only slept here once or twice a

month. I was talking to Mrs. Adderly this afternoon about him. As a

matter of fact, she’s in his flat now, though she’s one of those kind

of women who wouldn’t talk. You can’t get a word out of her. I says to

her ‘Suppose the police come here and want to know?’ ‘Let ’em come,’

she says. What can you do with a woman like that?”

Mr. Reeder could supply no reply to this pertinent question, and then,

surprisingly, the hall porter said:

“I knew you, Mr. Reeder, the moment I put my eyes on you. You were in

the Orderley Street affair. I was the porter at the hotel, if you will

remember, who saw the man getting out of the window.…”

He went, with surprising accuracy, into the particulars of a case in

which the detective had figured many years before.

Mr. Reeder was a good listener. He discovered at the very early stages

of his career that the art of listening was the art of detection, and

he allowed the porter to continue his reminiscences before he asked:

“Is Mrs. Adderly in the flat now?”

The porter pointed dramatically to a door that led to the front of the

vestibule.

“Do you want to see her?”

“I should like,” said Mr. Reeder.

The porter rang and knocked. After a considerable time the door was

opened a little way, and the space was filled by a suspicious looking

and bare-armed lady, who wore a soiled apron and had a face which was

equally in need of hot water and soap.

“This is Mr. Reeder,” said the porter, with such satisfaction that it

was evident he had no deep affection for the untidy charwoman. “The

well-known detective,” he added.

Mrs. Adderly wilted at the word.

“Everything can be explained,” she said, a little incoherently, and as

Mr. Reeder followed her into the hall, she slammed the door in the

face of the outraged porter, who at least expected to participate in

the portion of the confidences which hitherto she had withheld from

him.

“Will you come in, sir.”

She led the way into a barely furnished little room which obviously

had served as a sitting-room. There was a table, a sideboard, a small

square carpet on the floor, and a couple of chairs. On one wall was a

map printed, as Mr. Reeder discovered, in Switzerland. It showed a

section of the Canton of Vaud, and there was an irregular patch

outlined in red ink from the contours; it evidently stood at some

considerable height upon the lake. Its significance Mr. Reeder did not

grasp till much later.

“I don’t know what to say or what to do next,” said Mrs. Adderly. She

spoke very rapidly, without full stops, commas, or any other form of

punctuation. “The money was honestly come by and is in the post office

bank except the rent which I paid and I have a receipt with the stamp

on it and I have done what Mr. Schmidt told me to do as I can prove by

his letter. I am a widow with five mouths to fill.…”

She went on to explain that they were the property of her five

legitimate offspring, that she “did” for respectable families, and

that she had never been in trouble, or accepted out-door relief from

the parish even in her most difficult times.

“What money is this?” interrupted Mr. Reeder when he thought she had

gone far enough.

The money that had come to her on Wednesday. She had found it on the

table in the dining room with a letter. Beneath her skirt she had a

pocket. Mr. Reeder looked discreetly away while she explored this

receptacle, and presently brought out an envelope from which she took

a single sheet of notepaper.

“Please pay the rent with the enclosed. I am going away to France, and

shall not be back for three months. You may take double wages while I

am gone, and I do not wish you to discuss my business.”

The letter was written in a neat clerkly hand.

“You found this on the table, you say?”

“On Wednesday morning; I put the money into the Post Office saving

bank,” she went on even more rapidly. “I paid the rent and I have got

a printed receipt with a stamp on it----”

“Nobody doubts that,” said Mr. Reeder soothingly.

“If you are in the police----”

“I am not,” said Mr. Reeder. “I really am not a policeman at all, I

am--um--an investigator.”

She knew very little about her employer. Three days a week she used to

come to tidy the flat. For this purpose she was entrusted with a key.

She had very strict orders that, if the door did not yield when she

turned the key and was obviously bolted on the inside, she was to go

away. This had happened three times in the course of the past year.

Mr. Schmidt, though a very healthy-looking gentleman, was an invalid.

Sometimes he had very bad spells, and she had come to find the

atmosphere of his bedroom sickly with the smell of drugs. He never

spoke about his business, and when he spoke at all, it was with a very

strong foreign accent. She had an idea he was an actor, because she

had once seen a box containing wigs and moustaches and theatrical

make-up, and she had seen a photograph of him in some theatrical role.

Although it was a ground floor flat, it only consisted of three rooms

and a kitchenette. One was entirely bare, except that in a cupboard he

found three uncased pillows. Mrs. Adderly explained that occasionally

Mr. Schmidt had a weakness for pillows, though the only time he ever

slept there one sufficed him.

The bedroom contained an iron bedstead with a mattress, comparatively

new, a small dressing chest, a mirror, a little table and two chairs.

The bed was not made, but the blankets were neatly folded at the foot

of the bare mattress and covered with a sheet. On the wall was a

lithographed portrait of a man in a foreign uniform. Mr. Reeder

guessed it was Russian. Over the bed was hung a shelf which contained

four or five Russian books, and here he made a discovery, for on the

fly-leaf of one was a long inscription in French:

“Presented to me by the Grand Duke Alexander on the occasion of my

performance in ‘_Revisor_’.”

Beneath this was a single letter “L.”

The main interest for Mr. Reeder lay in the fact that the handwriting

was not the same as that in the letter.

In the small cupboard he found two medicine bottles half filled. He

sniffed one and discovered the unmistakable scent of spirits of

chloroform. He was hardly as much impressed by the contents as by the

labels, which were those of a Bloomsbury chemist. He left Mrs. Adderly

and went in search of the disgruntled hall porter.

“Mr. Schmidt” had had visitors, but apparently they came after 11

o’clock at night at which hour the porter went off duty; the lift,

being an automatic one, was operated by the tenants themselves. He

would not have known of this, but for the fact that one of the other

tenants in the building had seen people going into or coming from the

flat in the middle of the night. They were invariably men.

A chemist’s shop on the corner of the block was Mr. Reeder’s next

objective. The chemist was a suspicious man, not inclined to answer

readily to the detective’s questions. Mr. Reeder, however, carried

authority in the shape of a small warrant card, for he had definite

association with the Public Prosecutor’s Department.

Both the chemist and his assistant had seen Mr. Schmidt. He had called

to have medicines made up and to purchase surgical supplies.

“Surgical supplies?” Mr. Reeder was almost excited. “Dear me, how

excellently that fits my theory! Pardon me, my dear sir… I--um--was

rather carried away. Now, could you describe Mr. Schmidt?”

They could describe him quite graphically, and Mr. Schmidt was

undoubtedly the dead Litnoff.

Mr. Reeder went home to his house in the Brockley Road, feeling rather

satisfied with his discoveries. He had no illusion about his “luck.”

In a few days the police would discover Litnoff’s home in Lammington

Mansions (they found it the next day through the medium of a laundry

mark as a matter of fact) and at best he was only those few days ahead

of the “regulars.” There were no letters for him, and he had his tea

and toast reading the evening newspapers the while, and at nine

o’clock was in the act of writing up his diary when he heard the

tinkle of the street door bell.

The housekeeper left the two visitors in the hall, and announced them

to Mr. Reeder with bated breath.

“Two young ladies,” she said primly. “I told them you never saw

visitors, but one of them said she was going to see you if she had to

wait all night.”

If Mr. Reeder had harmonized with the tone of sharp disapproval, he

would have ordered them immediately to be thrown into the street.

“Show them up, please,” he said.

One, at least, was Miss Gillette. He guessed the other, and guessed

correctly, for Joan Ralph came into the room behind his trying

secretary.

“I would have telephoned you, but I didn’t think it was safe,” said

Miss Gillette almost before she was in the room. “You remember you

asked Joan about a diamond clasp, or brooch, or something?”

Mr. Reeder offered her a chair.

“Have you seen it?”

A foolish question, he felt, when he saw Miss Gillette’s visible

scorn.

“Of course we haven’t seen it. Joan and I went to dine to-night at the

Corner House. Then a red haired young man came up and asked Joan if

she ever wore plus-fours.”

Mr. Reeder leant back in his chair.

“If she wore plus-fours?” he repeated a little scandalized.

Miss Gillette nodded energetically.

“He was terribly nervous,” said Miss Gillette. “I have never known a

red-haired man to be nervous before; they are usually rather, well,

you know, the other way about, but he started talking a lot of stuff

about his father being a jeweller and being ill, and then he mentioned

a diamond brooch. He said he had under-valued it. I thought he was

drunk. Joan didn’t.”

“What was his name?”

Joan Ralph shook her head.

“It was extraordinary, because I was once photographed in plus-fours.

Daddy took the picture on a day when we had a lot of old Roedean girls

down at Bishop’s Stortford and we played a sort of pastoral, and I

borrowed my cousin’s plus-fours because I was supposed to represent a

man. Daddy was rather amused and took a picture, and said it was the

best photograph that he ever had of me.”

Mr. Reeder ran his fingers through his scanty hair.

“What did he say about the brooch?”

Miss Gillette was not sure that he said anything that was intelligent.

It was not until after she had threatened to call for the manager, and

the red-haired young man had retired abashed--“It was only then,” said

Miss Gillette, “that we felt that we oughtn’t to have been so stupid

and we should have asked him his name and address.”

Mr. Reeder nodded his agreement.

“He was a jeweller, his father was ill, he had under-valued a brooch,

and he had seen a portrait of my young friend in plus-fours. That’s

very remarkable. It is a great pity; you will very likely never see

him again----”

“But we have,” interrupted Miss Gillette. “He was on the tram and he

followed us right down here, in fact--he is outside the house at this

minute.”

Mr. Reeder stared at her.

“Did you speak to him?”

“Of course we did not speak to him,” said Miss Gillette scornfully.

“How could you speak to a red-haired young man in the street! He

didn’t speak to us either, and he just sat in the corner of the

tramcar and kept looking at us from behind his newspaper.”

Mr. Reeder walked to the window, pulled aside the curtain gently, and

peered out. Standing under a lamp post, and barely visible, was a

figure of a man, and even as Mr. Reeder looked, as though aware of the

scrutiny, he turned rapidly in the direction of Lewisham High Road.

In a moment Mr. Reeder was out of the room, flying downstairs, but

when he came to the street, it was absolutely empty of pedestrians. A

tram was moving towards London. He saw a slim figure of a young man

leap upon the footboard. By the time he reached the corner of the

road, the car was beyond pursuit. Mr. Reeder looked round for a

taxicab, but there was none in sight, and with great reluctance and

conscious that he was bareheaded and that a drizzling rain was

falling, and, in consequence, he must look a little ridiculous, he

made his way back to the house.

And yet for all his failure, there was a curious sense of elation in

J.G. Reeder’s heart, for the mystery of certain strange disappearances

was almost solved.

To Miss Gillette he was a great disappointment, for he seemed no

longer interested in red-haired young men, or brooches, or even young

ladies in plus-fours, and she went back to London, with her friend,

her faith shaken in her employer.

With great care Mr. Reeder composed an agony column advertisement

which he telephoned to four newspapers:

“Red-haired young man, please communicate with plus-four girl.”

The address that followed was that of his own office.

CHAPTER III

Miss Gillette arrived an hour late, which was not very remarkable.

She had not seen the advertisements, so Mr. Reeder had nothing to

explain. Her interest in his affairs had apparently waned completely.

At 12 o’clock she came into his room and announced that she had a

luncheon engagement, and might not be back till three. He was not very

sorry. He rather wished she would not come back till three o’clock on

some date to be named by himself, and he wished that he had the

courage to tell her so.

There was no response to his advertisement, and he regretted that his

telephone number had not been included in his address.

Miss Gillette had hardly left before the first of Mr. Reeder’s

visitors came. Inspector Gaylor was curious to know what had been the

result of the visit to Brixton Prison.

“I am inclined to agree with you,” he said, when Reeder had sketched

the conversation he had had with the prisoner. “At any rate, there is

no evidence on which we could get a conviction. The pistol was of

foreign make, and we have been able to trace one important fact--that

when it was sold in Belgium, Alsby was still in prison. It might, of

course, have been resold to him, but that’s unlikely.”

“Have you ever heard of the Pizarro Syndicate?” asked Mr. Reeder

unexpectedly.

Gaylor had an excellent memory, possibly the better because he had

been on that particular case.

“The Treasure Hunters,” he smiled. “It’s strange you should mention

Pizarro. I was trying to trace a man named Gelpin, who was one of the

biggest shareholders and one of the biggest dupes. I wanted him, to

get particulars of a former clerk of his, but I just couldn’t find

him, which is queer, since he was a fairly rich man.”

“Dead,” suggested Mr. Reeder.

Gaylor shook his head.

“No, he is abroad somewhere, I think, anyway he left the Midlands two

years ago.”

Mr. Reeder pursed his lips and looked at the detective tragically.

“Left the Midlands two years ago,” he repeated mechanically. “Dear

me.… Went abroad with a letter of credit, I am sure. How many people

were there in the Pizarro Syndicate?”

Gaylor was looking at him suspiciously.

“What’s the idea? Has any other member of the Syndicate gone to live

abroad?”

“Two, to my knowledge.” Then there was a dead silence which Mr. Reeder

broke. “One was a young man called Seafield.”

Gaylor nodded.

“I remember that name, yes?”

“The other’s name was Ralph,” said Mr. Reeder slowly.

He took from his drawer a written précis that he had prepared that

morning and passed it silently to the inspector. Gaylor read very

slowly, and naturally so, since J.G.’s writing was not the most

legible.

When he finished, he reached for the telephone.

“I happen to know that Gelpin’s bank was the Scottish and Midland in

Birmingham. Do you mind if I put a trunk call through?”

He gave the urgent signal to the long distance operator and within

five minutes he was talking to the bank. Mr. Reeder only heard the

questions and the monosyllabic rejoinders.

Presently Gaylor hung up the receiver.

“£17,500 letter of credit,” he said shortly, “cashed in Paris,

Budapest and Madrid. Since then the bank has had three cheques for

considerable amounts. They had been cashed in foreign cities, and had

been accompanied by letters from Mr. Gelpin. The bank manager says

that Gelpin is a man who loves travel, so that he is not at all

alarmed about it, and he has got a pretty good balance. He said one

thing which may, or may not, have some bearing: that when Gelpin left,

he announced his intention of going to Montreux.”

Mr. Reeder remembered instantly the little map on the wall of

Litnoff’s room with the red irregular triangle.

Mr. Reeder rose at that moment to go to the door of the outer office

to take in a cablegram from a Western Union messenger. He walked to

the window, opened it and read the page of typescript. It was signed

“Murphy” and was from the head of the New York Detective Department.

“Pizarro gang has not operated for past ten years. Pizarro in

Sing-Sing serving life sentence. His right-hand man Kennedy was last

heard of in California twelve years ago, believed to be reformed

character. Nothing known here of new Pizarro enterprise.”

Gaylor read the telegram and handed it back to Reeder.

“Do you think this is a Pizarro stunt?”

“My unpleasant mind leads me to that conclusion,” said Mr. Reeder.

The Rev. Dr. Ingham came at two o’clock, at the moment when Mr. Reeder

was eating one of the two large buns which he invariably purchased on

his way to the office, and which as invariably served him for lunch.

He could almost sense the excited condition in which the cleric came

by the rapidity and nervousness of his knock.

“My dear fellow… the most amazing thing has happened… Mr. Ralph has

been found!”

J.G. Reeder should have been overjoyed by the intelligence instead he

looked a little grieved.

“This is very pleasant news,” he said, “very pleasant indeed, h’m.”

The clergyman fished inside his clerical coat and produced a telegram.

“I happened to call on Miss Ralph this morning and whilst I was in the

hotel this telegram came. Naturally the young lady is beside herself

with relief--I confess that I also am feeling happier.”

Mr. Reeder took the telegram. It was handed in at Berlin West and was

addressed to Joan Ralph, Haymarket Hotel.

“Shall be in Germany for a month. Write to me Hotel Marienbad Munich.

Mark letter ‘await arrival.’ Love. Daddy.”

“Remarkable,” said Mr. Reeder.

“I thought so. I asked the young lady to let me have the wire to show

you.”

“Remarkable,” said Mr. Reeder again.

“It _is_ remarkable,” agreed Dr. Ingham. “And yet it isn’t. He may

have been called away to Germany and had no time to communicate with

his daughter----”

“I wasn’t referring to that,” said Mr. Reeder. “When I said it was

remarkable, I was thinking that it was both odd and remarkable that he

should have wired to her at an hotel where she has never stayed

before.”

Dr. Ingham’s jaw dropped.

“Good heavens!” he gasped.

His face had gone pale; it was as though there had come to him a

sudden realization of just what this telegram might signify.

“That did not occur to me.… She had never stayed there before--are you

sure?”

Mr. Reeder nodded.

“She mentioned it casually last night just before she was leaving--I

presume she told you she called on me? No, usually she stays at the

hotel her father patronizes. She stayed at the Haymarket because it

was close to Mr. Ralph’s office. At any rate, he would have

telegraphed to Bishop’s Stortford.”

“It is strange,” said the clergyman after a pause.

“It _is_ strange,” said Mr. Reeder. “It has assumed the appearance

of--um--a case. Distinctly a case.”

For a long time he seemed totally absorbed in the rivulets of rain

which trickled down the panes of his window.

“It is certainly bewildering,” said Dr. Ingham at last. “I confess I

am becoming alarmed. This red-haired young man, for example----”

“Miss Ralph told you that?”

“Miss Gillette--your charming secretary. She arrived at the hotel with

her brother----”

“Her young man,” corrected Mr. Reeder, and coughed.

“Really? She did not introduce him.”

“She never does anything that she should do,” said Mr. Reeder

bitterly.

He swung round in his swivel chair as though forcing himself from the

hypnotic attractions of wriggling rain drops.

“The red-haired young man is also remarkable. I am rather worried

about him. He stands as it were on the threshold of--um--life. In a

few years’ time he may be in the happy enjoyment of a red haired wife

and--um--red haired children. To be cut off in his prime, and just

because his father was ill and he under-valued a diamond brooch or

clasp, would be grossly unfair.”

The doctor stared at him blankly.

“I don’t quite know what you mean. To be cut off… You don’t mean that

this young man is in _danger?_”

“I wonder!” said Mr. Reeder.

For a long while they sat gloomily surveying each other.

“I am bewildered,” sighed Dr. Ingham at last. “I feel as if I had

strayed into some terrible land of unreality. Mr. Reeder,” he leant

forward, “are you ever in Kent?”

“I live there,” said Mr. Reeder, as indeed he did, for Brockley Road

is situated on the London fringe of that county.

“I mean in the country. I have been discussing this matter with my

wife--a woman of remarkable acumen. She has a theory which, I must

confess, I regard as entirely fantastic. I should not have mentioned

it to you, but for the doubts you have concerning this Berlin

telegram, which, I imagined, cleared up the mystery. I said to her

only last night ‘My dear, if you told Mr. Reeder your theory, he would

think you had been reading detective literature!’ She is an

invalid--very seldom leaves the house. I feel that it would be asking

you a great deal if I suggested you should spend a week-end with us.”

Mr. Reeder hesitated.

“I seldom go out,” he said, “but what is your good lady’s theory?”

The doctor smiled.

“I feel I ought to apologize for even advancing such a suggestion.

Years ago when I was in America I was swindled. The sum was

insignificant, but it was a lesson to me. Here was I, an independent

man, thanks to my dear father’s beneficence, and yet the cupidity

which is latent in all of us overcame my scruples and I invested in a

ridiculous get-rich-quick scheme… a sort of treasure hunt, organized

by a rascal called Pizarro!”

Mr. Reeder nodded, but offered no comment.

“My dear wife has an idea that behind Mr. Ralph’s disappearance is

some diabolical plot--exactly what it is I am at a loss to explain.

The theory, fantastical as it is, has to do with Pizarro. Now I happen

to know that Pizarro is in prison--at least that is my belief----”

Mr. Reeder raised a long forefinger; it might have been a gesture of

warning. It was in truth an indication that he wished to speak.

“On Saturday afternoon I have nothing particular to do,” he said. “May

I trespass on your hospitality? May I say with respect that your wife

is a very intelligent lady, and I should like to meet her.”

Dr. Ingham would send his car to meet the Dover Express. The plan was

agreeable to Mr. Reeder, but----

“I must return at night. I--um--never sleep in any bed but my own.”

Dr. Ingham understood this prejudice against strange beds. He had an

alternative suggestion, namely that Mr. Reeder should make the whole

journey by car.

“It will take a little longer, but it’s a very good road, and I could

have you picked up at your place in Brockley which is on the way.”

Here again he found J.G. Reeder agreeable.

For the remainder of the day Mr. Reeder waited in vain for some

communication from the red-haired youth, but none had come when Miss

Gillette returned to the office, which was somewhere in the region of

five o’clock. He was not exactly idle; an assistant whom he sometimes

employed came to see him at his urgent request, and spent a profitable

afternoon searching certain records at Somerset House.

By the time Miss Gillette returned he had a complete list of English

subscribers of the Pizarro Syndicate, and, with three exceptions, had

sent telegrams to their known addresses. He did not wire to Mr. Ralph,

the missing Seafield, or yet to Mr. Gelpin.

Miss Gillette brought one item of news: she had spent the afternoon in

committee with her fiancé and Joan Ralph, and they had come to the

conclusion that something was wrong. It hardly seemed worth a

committee meeting, thought Mr. Reeder, but he avoided trouble by

refraining from making such provocative comment.

He left the office at six o’clock and wandered off to Scotland Yard

and went immediately to Gaylor’s room.

“I could have saved you the trouble,” said Gaylor, when Reeder told

him about the telegrams he had sent. “We have already been in touch

with the local police and they are making enquiries. We have found two

subscribers, but they are very poor people and not likely to be

affected. I also had a look at that map in Schmidt’s flat, and have

been on the telephone to the Montreux police. They say that the area

marked out in red ink is a derelict farm, the property of a Russian.

The police chief was very decent; he sent a couple of men climbing

about Glion to investigate, and they report there is nobody there, the

place is in a state of ruin, and it has not been occupied for a number

of years. There used to be a caretaker, but he has been withdrawn. The

Russian was of course Litnoff. Apparently he was there only once or

twice in his life, and never lived at the farm. It’s a puzzling

business.”

“To me it is as clear as the running water in the mountain stream,”

said Mr. Reeder poetically, “but that, of course, is because I have a

criminal mind.”

He returned to his office at nine that evening, after a frugal dinner.

No telegrams had arrived. The only letter awaiting him was one from a

former client, enclosing a cheque.

CHAPTER IV

The drizzle had turned to rain. It pelted down on Mr. Reeder’s

mackintosh and flowed in spasmodic splashes from the brim of his

high-crowned hat, as he trudged towards the nearest tramcar that would

take him home.

It was not the sort of night when people would be abroad. Again he

found the lounger in a yellow oilskin coat standing at the corner of

Brockley Road, and another idler pacing leisurely up and down. This

man turned at the sound of his steps and came towards him.

“Have you got a match, governor?” His voice was harsh and common, and

did not somehow go with his respectable attire, for he had a blue

trench coat buttoned up to his chin and belted about his waist. The

point of Mr. Reeder’s umbrella came up until it pointed just above

that belt.

“I haven’t a match. If I had, I would not be so foolish as to put my

hands in my pocket so as to give it to you,” he said haranguingly.

“Now, if you will kindly stand out of my way, you will save yourself a

lot of trouble.”

“I asked you civilly, didn’t I?” growled the man.

“Your civility doesn’t amuse me,” said Mr. Reeder, and then suddenly

his hand shot out and he got the man by the shoulder, exhibiting a

strength which none would have suspected in him, and sent him flying

toward the road.

He passed through the little iron gate, slammed it behind him.

“And you can tell Kennedy from me he is wasting his time.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” snarled the man.

Mr. Reeder did not parley with him. He mounted the steps, fitted the

key in the lock and entered. He stopped long enough to hang his wet

mackintosh in the hall, remove his goloshes, and then went up to his

room. He was in darkness. He did not switch on the light, and crossing

the room, he pulled aside the heavy curtains and looked out.

The man in the blue trench coat was still standing in front of the

house, but now he had been joined by the loiterer in the yellow

oilskin coat, and they were talking together.

Mr. Reeder was cursed with a sense of humour which was peculiar to

himself. He went into his bedroom, and from a shelf in the cupboard he

took a small air pistol, and “breaking it,” inserted a pellet. At the

distance which separated him from his two watchers an air pistol would

not be dangerous, but it should be very painful. Gently lifting the

sash, he took aim and pressed the trigger. He heard the man in the

yellow oilskin yell and saw him leap into the air.

“What’s biting you?” demanded blue trench coat.

“Somep’n bit me.”

He was clasping his neck and rolling his head backwards and forwards

in his pain.

Mr. Reeder broke the pistol again, put another pellet in the breech

and took even more accurate aim.

“Say, listen,” said the man in the trench coat. He said no more. His

hat went flying, and looking up in his bewilderment, he saw Mr. Reeder

leaning out of the window.

“Go away,” said Mr. Reeder gently.

He did not hear the reply because he closed the window quickly. He

objected to profanity on principle. But when a few minutes later he

looked out again the two men had disappeared.

It was 11 o’clock when he went to bed. He was by no means a light

sleeper, or he would have heard the first pebble that struck his

window. The second woke him, and for a good reason: the stone was

heavier and the pane smashed.

He got out of bed quickly and very cautiously went to the edge of the

window and looked out. There was nobody in sight. Pushing open the

casement he made a more careful survey: the street was empty. He could

see no living soul, and then, as his eyes became accustomed to the

gloom, he saw a figure moving in the shadow of the one laurel bush

which decorated the front garden of his house.

This time Mr. Reeder did not take an air pistol, but a very

business-like Browning in the pocket of his dressing gown. He went

noiselessly down the stairs, unbolted the door, opened it and flashed

a concentrated beam of a powerful spotlight into the garden. It was

neither trench coat nor oilskin, but a bedraggled youth, hatless,

whose wet clothes seemed skin tight.

From the darkness came a beseeching voice:

“Is that Mr. Reeder… For God’s sake take the light off me.”

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said J.G. gently, and a little incongruously it

sounded, even to himself. “Did you see my advertisement?”

The young man made a dart through the door into the hall. Mr. Reeder

followed him, closed and bolted the door. He could almost hear his

visitor trembling.

“Which way do I go, sir?” he whimpered.

J.G. led the way up the stairs into the study, and switched on the

light.

The red-haired youth was a pitiable sight: his face streaked with

blood, the knuckles of his hands were bleeding. He had neither collar

nor tie, and as he stood, his soaked clothes formed an ever growing

pool upon Mr. Reeder’s shabby carpet.

“I didn’t intend coming here, but after they tried to kill me----”

“I think you had better have a hot bath,” interrupted Mr. Reeder.

Fortunately the bathroom was on the first floor, and by some miracle

the water was really hot. He left the trembling youth to divest

himself of his sodden clothes, and going upstairs, collected a few

articles of wearing apparel.

In his study he had a coffee-making machine and in the cupboard a

large seed cake. He was partial to seed cake.

The coffee was brewed and the young man came into the room. He was not

an attractive young man. He was very pale, he had a very large nose

and a long and bony chin. He was very thin, and Mr. Reeder’s clothes

did not so much fit as cover him.

He drank the coffee eagerly, looked at the seed cake, shuddered, but

betook of it, whilst Mr. Reeder built up the dying fire.

“Now, Mr.----”

“Edelsheim, Benny Edelsheim,” said the young man. “I live in Pepys

Road, New Cross. Did the young ladies tell you about me? I wish I had

not run away that night you chased me. She’s a stunning looking girl,

isn’t she? I don’t mean the blonde--the other one.”

“Have you wakened me up in the middle of the night to discuss the

attractions of brunettes?” demanded Mr. Reeder gently. “Who hit you?”

The young man felt his head gingerly. He had tied about it a large

handkerchief which Mr. Reeder had supplied.

“I don’t know, I think it was the fellow in the yellow coat.… There

were two of them. I was just going into my house--my father’s house,

when a man asked me if I had a match. I didn’t like the look of him,

but I was feeling for the match when he hit me. There was a car

half-way down the hill--Pepys Road is built on a hill--it used to be

called Red Hill once.…”

“The topography is familiar to me,” said Mr. Reeder. “What did you do

when he hit you?”

“I ran,” said the other simply. “I tried to shout, but I couldn’t, and

then the other fellow, who was standing by the car, tripped me up.”

He looked at his knuckles. “That’s where I got that. I think there

were three of them. The chauffeur was standing by the car and he made

a dive at me, but I dodged and doubled up the hill--with the fellow in

the yellow coat behind me.”

“What time was this?” asked Mr. Reeder.

“About nine. I was coming to see you, in fact I had made up my mind

to. I knew where you lived, but I thought I would go home first and

talk to the old man--my father. We have got a jeweller’s shop in the

Clerkenwell Road, but he has been ill for nearly a year, and I have

been running the business.”

“And you got away?” said Mr. Reeder, hastening the narrative.

“In a sense I did,” said Edelsheim. “I got over the top of the hill. I

couldn’t see a policeman anywhere. It is disgraceful the rates we pay

and no policemen! My God, it was awful. I didn’t see them for a bit,

and thought I had slipped them, and then I saw the lights of the car

coming. If I had any sense I would have knocked at the nearest house

and gone in, and no policeman, Mr. Reeder!” His voice was thin and

hysterical. “That’s what we pay rates and taxes for, and no so-and-so

policemen in sight!”

He did not say “so-and-so,” but Mr. Reeder thought his profanity was

excusable.

“As I saw the car, I got over the rails of a recreation ground or

something. They must have seen me, because the car stopped right

opposite the place where I had jumped. I didn’t see the man following,

but I sort of felt him. Then I found I was in a cemetery. My God, it

was awful dodging in and out the crosses and things! I climbed the

wall and got out, and then I did meet a policeman. He thought I was

drunk and wanted to take me to the hospital, so I bolted again.”

“Did you see the man in the yellow coat?”

“Not till I got here. It was nearer twelve than eleven. I was just

thinking of calling you and of what you would say to me, when I saw

them both. They were coming up from the Lewisham High Road, walking

together. I dived into your front garden and hid behind the bush. One

of them walked up the steps and tried the door. He had a lamp. I

nearly died from fright. They were messing about here for an hour.”

“And you were afraid to ring for fear that they saw you?”

“That’s right. I waited until they had gone and I started chucking

stones. I have broken two or three windows in this room, too.”

Mr. Reeder poured out another cup of coffee, and from the warming

effect of the fire and the hot drink Mr. Benny Edelsheim grew a little

more confident.

“Is she here?” he asked. “The dark haired one?”

“She is not here,” said Mr. Reeder severely.

Then suddenly the young man became plaintive again.

“What’s it all about?” he demanded. “I saw your advertisement when I

was reading to-night. I did not see how it could be anything to do

with that, and yet when I was dodging in and out of the cemetery, the

idea came to me that these fellows were after me because of that

advertisement and the clasp and everything, and what I said to the

young lady. Have I done anything wrong? I am sorry. I do not, as a

rule, talk to young ladies without an introduction. I have been

brought up as well as any man. If I have offended her relations--you

are not her father, are you?”

“I am not a father,” said Mr. Reeder emphatically.

“I didn’t think you were,” said Edelsheim, “because I knew about you.

You are a detective. My old man--my father says you are the most

wonderful detective of the age. I wanted to come and explain to you

that I didn’t mean any harm.”

Mr. Reeder pushed forward the plate of seed cake.

“You, my dear young friend,” he said, “are no more, as it were, than a

cog in a wheel of a very complicated machine. I can quite understand

how you had embarrassed the employers of those two ferocious men. Now

let us get to the really important point--just tell me what you said,

why you addressed those young ladies in the restaurant.”

Benny munched the seed cake with an agonized expression; it was

obvious he did not like seed cake, but his hunger had compelled him to

overcome his scruples.

“I recognized her the moment I saw her. She is in my thoughts night

and day, Mr. Reeder. There are some faces that hit you right in the

eye, so to speak, that sort of make an impression upon you--she is not

married, is she?” he asked anxiously.

“Practically,” said Mr. Reeder.

The young man’s face assumed an expression of acute pain.

“She is engaged,” explained Mr. Reeder, in haste to remove any wrong

impression he might have created.

“I shall never see another face like that,” said Benny dismally. “I am

romantic, Mr. Reeder, I don’t mind admitting it. I fell in love with

her the moment I saw her photograph. She was wearing plus-fours. Cute!

You have no idea what I felt like when I saw that picture. I thought

here is the woman for me, and I only saw it for half a tick. He opened

his pocket book on the counter, the gentleman who called at the shop,

and he took out the photograph, because the clasp was in the same

compartment, wrapped up in tissue paper, so I had a good look at the

picture, and I said to myself----”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Reeder with a certain testiness, “Please don’t

bother about your emotions at the moment, Mr. Edelsheim. Tell me

something about the clasp.”

“The clasp, oh, yes. You want to know about that? It was a very pretty

thing, half a buckle of diamonds and emeralds. I know a lot about

stones. I was in Hatton Garden for eighteen months. My old man--my

father believed in starting me at the bottom of the ladder----”

“Did he want to sell the clasp?”

Benny shook his head.

“No, he wanted it valued. We do a lot of valuation work, and I am

supposed to be pretty good at it. We have got a very big business,

half a dozen assistants, and we have a branch at Bristol.”

“You valued it?” said Mr. Reeder.

“I valued it at £1,250, but I made a mistake. Even the best of us

make mistakes. I remember, once----”

“You have undervalued it by £100?”