“That’s right. I told the young lady so when I met her. I thought she

would tell her friend----”

“Her father,” corrected Mr. Reeder.

“Oh, was that her father?” Benny was more interested in the parentage

of his ideal than in the sordid question of a diamond and emerald

clasp.

“Yes, I undervalued it £100. What he really wanted to know was

whether the stones were genuine, and, of course, I could tell him

that. I don’t think he would have worried about the wrong valuation,

and I should not have spoken about it, but I wanted a sort of

introduction to the young lady--you are a man of the world, Mr.

Reeder----”

“What time did he come into the shop?”

Benny, his mouth full of seed cake, looked thoughtful.

“About five o’clock in the evening.”

“And when you valued the clasp, what happened?”

“He wrapped it up and took it away with him. I asked him if he wanted

to sell it, and he said no.”

“You never saw him again?”

Benny shook his head.

“That was last Wednesday week?”

“Tuesday,” said Benny promptly. “I happen to know that, because I had

a date--an engagement to take a certain party to the pictures, and I

was anxious to shut up the shop and get away.”

Mr. Reeder jotted down a few notes on his blotting pad.

“Have you ever valued that clasp before?”

Benny Edelsheim looked at him with an open mouth.

“It’s a curious thing that you should ask that, Mr. Reeder. I haven’t,

but my father has. I was describing the piece to him, and he said he

was certain he had valued the same piece six months ago. Of course, he

may have made a mistake, but he has got a marvellous memory.” He

enlarged upon the memory of his parent, but Mr. Reeder was not

listening.

“Why Clerkenwell,” murmured Mr. Reeder. “Do you advertise?”

“We are the best advertised valuers in London,” said Benny proudly.

“That’s our speciality. I can’t tell you how upset the governor was

when I made a mistake. It sort of reflected on the firm. Oh, yes, we

carry big ads. in all papers. Valuation of jewellery. You must have

seen our name.”

Mr. Reeder nodded.

“That accounts for it,” he said.

He looked at the clock. The minute hand pointed to half past two.

Picking up the telephone, he called the nearest cab rank and gave his

address.

“I am going to take you home,” he said. “You’d better make a bundle of

your wet clothes while I dress.”

By the time the cab arrived, Mr. Reeder, feeling very much awake, was

ready. He went out first, but there was no need of his caution, less

need for the Colt automatic that he held in his pocket.

The journey to Pepys Road was uneventful. He waited until the young

man had entered his house, then he drove to the nearest police station

and had a consultation with the night officer.

When Benny Edelsheim looked out of his window the next morning he

found a uniformed policeman standing stolidly before the house, and

felt that for the first time his rates and his taxes were justified.

CHAPTER V

The morning brought a surprise to Mr. Reeder. When he arrived at his

office he found Miss Gillette already on duty. That in itself was a

notable event. She was entertaining in her room a very early caller in

Dr. Ingham, and from the solicitude in her tone it almost seemed that

she was mothering him. Miss Gillette was one of those uncomfortable

people whose maternal instinct was highly developed.

As Mr. Reeder paused at the half opened door, he heard her speaking.

“I shouldn’t worry about it, Dr. Ingham. Reeder will put a stop to any

of that sort of nonsense. He is much cleverer than he looks.”

Her maligned employer passed softly into his room and rang the bell.

“I didn’t hear you come in--you scare the life out of me sometimes,”

she complained, and added: “Mr. Ingham is here.”

“Dr. Ingham,” said Mr. Reeder reproachfully. “You are--um--a little

careless about--um--prefixes.”

“He’s been attacked--somebody tried to break into his house last

night,” said Miss Gillette. “Poor soul, he has a _terrible_ face!”

“Let me see it, please,” said J.G.

The clergyman had evidently passed a strenuous night. The bridge of

his handsome nose bore a strip of sticking plaster. One eye, at the

moment concealed behind a shade, was blue and swollen, and his lower

lip was badly cut.

“I’m afraid I look rather ghastly,” he said, as he shook hands with

the detective.

The undamaged portion of his face was white and drawn, and when he

said that he had had no sleep that night Mr. Reeder was not surprised.

He had gone back to St. Margaret’s on the previous night, and had

driven himself from Dover, arriving at his house at ten o’clock.

“Grayne Hall is built on the site of an old castle,” he said. “There

was not enough of the original structure to restore, so I had the

walls pulled down and erected a modern residence. Naturally it is very

isolated, but there is some very excellent timber, and I have made a

good garden. I returned before midnight, but I had hardly got to bed

before my wife said that she heard a noise below. I went down,

unarmed, of course, for I do not own so much as a shot gun. I had

reached the hall and was feeling for the light switch, when somebody

struck at me. I had a fearful blow on the face, but I managed to find

an old battle axe which hung on the wall--luckily for me. With this I

defended myself. My wife, who had heard the fracas in the hall,

screamed, and I heard one of my assailants say: ‘Run for it, Kennedy!’

Immediately after, the hall door was thrown open, and I saw two, or it

may have been three, people run into the garden and vanish.”

“Dear me,” said Mr. Reeder. “One of them said: ‘Run for it, Kennedy!’

You are sure it was that?”

“I could swear that was the name. Afterwards I remembered, or rather

my dear wife remembered, that a man named Kennedy had been a member of

the Pizarro gang.”

Mr. Reeder was examining the clergyman’s injuries thoughtfully.

“No weapon was used?”

Dr. Ingham smiled painfully.

“That’s a poor consolation!” he said with some acerbity. “No, I rather

think that I was struck by a fist that was holding a weapon. In the

darkness this rascal must have struck wildly.”

He had not sent for the police. Apparently he had no exalted opinion

about the Kentish constabulary, and he admitted a horror of figuring

in newspapers. Mr. Reeder could understand this: he also had a horror

of publicity.

“Whether these people were plain burglars who were disturbed at their

work, or whether revenge for some fancied injury was at the bottom of

their dastardly action, I cannot make up my mind. With Mrs. Ingham the

Pizarro case is an obsession. She is, by the way, looking forward with

great eagerness to meeting you. Now tell me, Mr. Reeder, what am I to

do? I will be guided entirely by your advice. To go to the police now

seems to be a fairly useless proceeding. I cannot describe the

men--except for a second when they were silhouetted in the open

doorway, I never saw them. My butler and my gardener made enquiries

this morning, but nobody else seems to have seen them. Not even the

coastguard who has a cottage quite close.”

Mr. Reeder sat with half-closed eyes, his large hands folded on his

lap.

“It is very odd,” he murmured at last. “Kennedy, Casius Kennedy. A

bad--um--egg. He inherited it from his mother, a lady with a

very--um--unpleasant history.”

He pursed his under lip, his eyes had drooped a little lower.

“It is odd, extremely odd.”

Dr. Ingham drew a long breath.

“What am I to do?” he demanded.

“Ask for police protection,” said Mr. Reeder. “Have an officer

sleeping in the house and another stationed on the grounds. I hope to

see you on Saturday.”

He rose with startling abruptness and jerked out his hand.

“Till Saturday,” he said, and Dr. Ingham went out, a very dissatisfied

man.

Mr. Reeder was no angel that morning. He was in a mood the like of

which Miss Gillette could not remember. She discovered this very soon.

“What did you tell the doctor?” she asked.

“When I want you, I will ring for you, young lady,” he snapped.

She went out, a little dazed by his mutiny. She heard the key turn in

his lock and when she got through to him by telephone, he was most

unpleasant.

“I think I will go home, Mr. Reeder,” she said.

“I will send you your wages by post,” said he.

She went out of the office, slamming the door behind her, which (apart

from the slam) was exactly what he intended she should do.

The door to the corridor he locked in the same fashion before he rang

up Inspector Gaylor.

“I want a couple of men,” he said. “I’m nervous, or, shall I say,

apprehensive.”

“I wondered when you’d start getting that way,” said Gaylor. “I’m

having young Edelsheim shadowed. Thanks for your letter. Is there any

other development?”

Mr. Reeder told him of the doctor’s unpleasant adventure.

“Oh!” said Gaylor, and then after a silence, “That will keep.”

“So I thought,” said Mr. Reeder. “Do you mind if I use your name

rather freely to-day?”

“So long as you don’t try to borrow money on it!” said Gaylor, who had

a painful sense of humour.

Reeder spent a long time after that searching a trade-telephone

directory and ringing up various yachting agencies. He had become

suddenly interested in pleasure cruisers. He drew blank for the first

nine enquiries, but the tenth rewarded him. It was not difficult to

secure the answers he wanted, but when he called a sticky and

uncommunicative agent he used the name of Gaylor with great freedom

and invariably secured the information he required.

The tenth call needed this incentive, but the result was beyond

expectations. Mr. Reeder spent a happy hour with his notes and a

nautical almanac. By this time the two Scotland Yard men had arrived,

and when soon after lunch a district messenger brought a square and

heavy parcel, having the label of a west-end bookseller, they were

very useful, for one of them had been for a year in the explosives

department at Scotland Yard and had a sensitive ear for the faint

ticking that came from within the parcel.

“It’s a time bomb, but it may also have a make and break attachment.”

They watched it sink heavily into a pail of water, and when, after

half an hour, the Yard man took it out again, the ticking had ceased.

“They’ve been getting ready for this racket for a long time,” said the

detective. “That bomb wasn’t made in a hurry----”

The telephone bell rang at that moment and Mr. Reeder answered it.

“Is that you, Reeder?” It was Gaylor’s voice and he was speaking very

quickly. “I’m coming round to pick you up. We’ve found Gelpin.”

“Eh?” said Mr. Reeder.

“Dead--shot through the heart. A ranger found his body in Epping

Forest. Be ready.”

The telephone clicked, but Mr. Reeder still stood with the receiver in

his hand, a terrifying frown on his face.

“Anything wrong, sir?” asked the detective.

J.G. nodded.

“I’m wrong: if I had the brain of a--um--great man, I should have

expected this.”

What “this” was he did not elucidate. A few minutes later he was one

of a party of five packed in a police tender and was heading for

Epping.

It was nearly dark when the car pulled up by the side of a forest

by-road. A ranger led them to the spot where the body lay.

It was that of a man above medium height, and more than ordinarily

broad of shoulder.

Though George Gelpin was between fifty and sixty, he had been in life

a model of a man. He had been rider to hounds, a keen cricketer,

something of an athlete.

“Nothing in his pockets--no identification marks of any kind. If we

hadn’t got his photograph and his description--they arrived this

morning from Birmingham--we should have had the devil’s job in tracing

him.”

One of the group they had found standing about the body was a doctor.

He supplied certain data which confirmed Mr. Reeder in his opinion.

But the chief confirmation came when he examined the outspread hands

of the silent figure.

There was no mark of car wheels, and the bushes behind which the man

was found showed no evidence of crushing. It might have been an

ordinary case of suicide, and the doctor ventured this opinion.

A revolver had been found near the body. He must have been shot with

the muzzle almost touching his coat, for it was burnt.

“We haven’t got the number of the revolver, but we are making

enquiries about it. I don’t think they are necessary. It will be a day

or two before we can trace it. Did you get that gun?”

One of the waiting detectives took it out of his pocket. It was a

small six-chambered Colt.

One of the detectives who had been on guard over the body when they

arrived offered a piece of information.

“There is an initial scratched on the back plate of the butt,” he

said. “F.S.”

He took the weapon from his pocket and passed it across to Gaylor.

“F.S.,” frowned the inspector. “That’s a pretty common initial.”

“Frank Seafield, for example,” said Mr. Reeder, and Gaylor gaped at

him.

“Why should it be Seafield? That’s wildly improbable, Reeder.”

However, when they returned to town and Mr. Reeder got into

communication with Seafield’s late partner, Gaylor found that the

surmise was not so wild. Tommy Anton called at Scotland Yard and saw

and identified the weapon.

“That’s Frank’s,” he said immediately. “He always carried a revolver.

I used to chaff him about it. He had no reason to, so far as I know,

and I rather think that carrying the gun was a bit of swank. He was a

little on the theatrical side.”

Joan Ralph had gone back to Bishop’s Stortford. They reached her by

telephone. She too had seen the revolver and described it accurately.

“I know Frank carried it, and Daddy used to be very sarcastic about

it. Frank used to carry big sums of money about the country, buying

second-hand cars, and he said he had to deal with some very tough

people. Why do you want to know?”

Mr. Reeder, who had no desire to alarm the young lady, lied

gracefully.

“That beats me,” said Gaylor.

Mr. Reeder put down the phone. They were sitting in the inspector’s

room at Scotland Yard, where a meal had been brought to them from a

neighbouring restaurant.

“It doesn’t beat me, possibly because I am over sanguine,” said Mr.

Reeder, “possibly because my peculiar mentality leads me astray.”

“But suppose it is suicide--” began Gaylor, and stopped.

“You were thinking that it is quite usual that a suicide tries to

remove all marks of his identification?” said Mr. Reeder. “That is

perfectly true. Will you tell me this: why is the suit he was wearing

so old and stained and shabby, and why was he wearing slippers?”

“Boots,” Gaylor broke in. “Elastic-sided boots.”

“Slippers,” insisted Mr. Reeder. “And why was there no mud on them?

And why was the front of him wet and the back on which he lay almost

dry? It rained all last night and he could not have walked through the

forest without getting soaked to the skin?”

Gaylor pinched his long upper lip, looked moodily at the remains of

his dinner.

“Tennant tells me that they tried to bomb you this afternoon. It’s the

Pizarro gang, of course. Kennedy?”

“His very self,” said Mr. Reeder, flippantly and ungrammatically. “And

I should not be surprised if almost anything happened. I told my

housekeeper to go home to her mother. Most housekeepers have mothers

to go home to. I shall stay in town to-night.”

“Where?” asked Gaylor curiously.

“That’s my secret,” said Mr. Reeder gravely.

They went out of the Yard together, when Gaylor had an idea:

“If you want to get out of the way, I should go down to St. Margaret’s

Bay. I think you will be safe there.”

“An excellent idea,” said Mr. Reeder. “A very excellent idea, but

unfortunately the doctor is still in town.”

He went to his office, accompanied by one of the two detectives who

had been appointed to watch over him. The other was still in Miss

Gillette’s room--Mr. Reeder suspected that he was asleep, for it was

some time before he opened the door to him.

“There is a wire for you,” he said, and handed it to Mr. Reeder. It

was from Dr. Ingham. Would he (Mr. Reeder) come down as soon as he

could? There had been remarkable developments at Grayne.

The telegram had been despatched from Dover. Mr. Reeder sent his reply

over the telephone. He would arrive on the following afternoon at

three o’clock. Then, strangely enough, contrary to all his expressed

intentions, he went home to his housekeeperless establishment in the

Brockley Road and slept alone in his silent home. And more strangely

still, he slept most peacefully.

If he had not gone home he would have missed the letter which came by

the morning post. It was from Miss Gillette. She was leaving him. Mr.

Reeder sighed happily.

“I think I ought to help Mr. Anton,” she wrote. “The Rev. Dr. Ingham

has promised to help him start a new business. Dr. Ingham has been

most kind and I shall never be sufficiently grateful to you for having

been unconsciously instrumental in bringing Mr. Anton into touch with

him. He wrote to Tommy before he left London yesterday, suggesting

that I might help in creating the new business, and I think you would

like to see his postscript so I have torn it off.”

She remained ever his sincerely.

The slip of paper which accompanied the letter was in the doctor’s

handwriting.

“P.S. I shall never forgive myself if I have robbed Mr. Reeder of his

secretary. He is a man for whom I have the very highest regard.”

“H’m,” said Mr. Reeder, “how very nice… how extraordinarily kind!” He

spoke aloud to his coffee machine and his electric toaster, but he was

never so loquacious as when he was addressing an inanimate audience.

His housekeeper returned during the morning with the “daily” servants

who constituted his household, and she packed his battered suit-case

under his personal supervision. Mr. Reeder had one surprising

weakness: dress clothes. However antiquated his daily attire might be,

his evening suits were cut by the most fashionable of tailors, and he

wanted to look his best at Grayne Hall. He went to town before lunch,

met Gaylor by appointment at the office, and handed to him the batch

of telegrams which had arrived during the morning. Gaylor examined

them casually.

“I know all about these,” he said. “Nine of the seventeen English

subscribers to Pizarro’s scheme are missing. I can tell you more--with

’em went the best part of eighty thousand pounds. By-the-way, I am

offering no further evidence against Jake Alsby. I’ve got him inside

for his own safety, but he will be discharged next week.”

Gaylor came to the station to see him off.

“Have a good time. If the Pizarro crowd chase you to Dover, send me a

postcard.”

Inspector Gaylor, as has already been stated, had a perverted sense of

humour.

Throughout the journey Mr. Reeder read a book which was entitled _The

Thousand Funniest After-Dinner Stories_. He read them all, the whole

thousand, and never smiled once.

He had a trick of moving his lips as he read. The military-looking man

who sat opposite him had never seen Mr. Reeder at close quarters

before and was silently amused. Once he tried to start a conversation,

but Mr. Reeder was not a great conversationalist on a railway journey

and the attempted affability faded to silence.

At Dover station, Mr. Reeder got out and his companion followed. Three

men lounged up to Mr. Reeder’s fellow-passenger, and with a nod he

indicated the detective, who was passing through the barrier.

“That’s your man,” he said, “keep close to him.”

The car which was waiting for Mr. Reeder had scarcely left the station

yard, when the four entered a closed limousine and followed.

The drive from Dover to St. Margaret’s Bay was not a comfortable one.

Heavy gusts of wind-borne rain drove across the downs. Below, as the

car mounted the cliff road, he could see breakers creaming the

yellow-green waters of the Straits, and out at sea a little coasting

tramp was taking water over her bows in alarming quantities.

Grayne Hall was not in the residential area of St. Margaret’s Bay. It

stood aloof in a fold of the downs and within a very short distance of

the cliff’s edge. A red brick building, with squat chimneys that were

not at all in harmony with the Elizabethan architecture of the house.

“We used to have high twisted chimneys, but the wind blew them down.

You’ve no idea what the wind is like here,” explained Dr. Ingham

before dinner.

The car passed through a pair of ornamental iron gates and up a broad

drive to the portico before the door. The doctor was waiting and with

him a tall slight woman, who looked very young until she was seen

closer at hand. Even then she might deceive any but the most critical,

for her brown hair had a glint of gold in it, and the beauty of her

face had not entirely faded.

“Welcome!” Dr. Ingham had a bandage over one eye and his injured nose

was still covered with plaster. But he was in a pleasantly jovial

mood. Perhaps he was relieved at the sight of his visitor, for he

subsequently admitted that he had been expecting a wire from Mr.

Reeder, regretting his inability to put in an appearance.

“I want you to persuade Mrs. Ingham that this is not the most forsaken

spot on the face of the earth, my dear Reeder. And if you can allay

her fears about a repetition of the attack upon me I shall be

completely grateful.”

Mrs. Ingham’s red lips curled in a smile. She was, Mr. Reeder

discovered, a well-read, knowledgeable woman. As she showed him round

the lovely grounds (the spring flowers were a joy to the eye) she gave

him every opportunity to study her. He himself said little--she gave

him no chance, for she never stopped talking. Her voice was low but

monotonous. She had definite views on almost every subject. She told

him that she was a graduate of a famous New England university--she

was obviously proud of this and repeated the information twice. She

was pretty, probably nearer forty than thirty. She had deep dark brown

eyes, the most delicate of features, and jet black eyebrows which

contrasted attractively with the colour of her hair.

“… I remember the Pizarro case--I had just left college and naturally

I was thrilled because he came from our home town. And, Mr. Reeder,

I’m sure that all these disappearances have something to do with the

Pizarro outfit. I have been racking my brains all day trying to think

how my husband has offended them. Maybe he preached against them. I’ve

a kind of recollection that he had a threatening letter when we were

in Boston soon after we married. Not that my husband would worry about

threatening letters.…”

There was much to see in the grounds: here and there a crumbling ruin

of a wall to remind the observer of the dead glories of Grayne Castle.

One interesting feature Mr. Reeder discovered was a flight of steps

leading down the face of the cliff. It was guarded by an iron hand

rail and gave the occupants of Grayne Hall a private way to the beach.

“If anybody wants to bathe on pebbles,” said Mrs. Ingham.

The room allotted to Mr. Reeder’s use gave him a beautiful view of the

sea and the flower garden before the house. It was furnished with rare

taste--he saw in the decorations Mrs. Ingham’s hand. A pleasant

retreat, but in many, many ways a dangerous one. He went up to his

room after tea and found his dress clothes laid out for him by his

host’s valet. Later came the individual to assist Mr. Reeder. A

bathroom opened from the bedroom and Mr. Reeder was under the shower

when the valet knocked. He came out, to find the man folding the

discarded day clothes and hanging them neatly in the wardrobe.

The contents of his pockets were placed neatly on the dressing table.

“Thank you,” murmured Mr. Reeder. “I--um--shall not require you any

more. I will ring if I do.”

He closed the door on the retiring valet, turned the key and began to

dress at his leisure. Mr. Reeder liked the routine of well run country

houses and Grayne Hall was extraordinarily well run. He came down to

find himself alone in the drawing room. A fine aromatic cedar log

burnt on the open grate, above which was a picture which might have

been a Rembrandt.

The soft hangings of the room, the austere furnishings, the pastel

coloured walls, were very soothing. Dr. Ingham, wearing the evening

dress of the laity, came in to rub his hands before the fire.

“I suppose Elsa gave you the full benefit of her theories? There may

be something in them. I’ve been trying to think how I might have

offended these birds. A sermon maybe. I used to be a powerful

preacher--took current events as my text. Come into my study and have

a drink. Elsa won’t be down for hours.”

He conducted Mr. Reeder across the panelled hall, through a deeply

recessed door into as comfortable a room as the heart of man could

desire.

Deep armchairs, a low divan before the fire, walls covered with

bookshelves, and a big empire desk were the main features of the room.

“Comfort, comfort, comfort!” said the cleric as he opened a walnut

cabinet and took out a silver tray laden with glasses. To these he

added a square decanter and a syphon.

“Say when.”

He splashed the soda into the brown whisky and Mr. Reeder sipped

daintily.

“Elsa wants me to keep firearms in the house. Now you, as a detective,

I suppose would think nothing of that. To me it is an abhorrent

practice. I may not be a great preacher, but I am, I hope, a good

Christian, and the idea of taking life--ugh!”

Mr. Reeder tried to raise a complimentary shudder, but failed. For his

part he believed in taking life. He was old-fashioned enough to regard

the gallows as an instrument of the highest social value.

“I presume you carry a gun?”

Mr. Reeder shook his head.

“On occasions that dreadful necessity has been forced upon me,” he

said. “I dislike the practice. I have--er--two such weapons, but I

have never had to use them. One is at my office and one at my private

residence.”

The doctor made a little face.

“You disappoint me, Mr. Reeder. I am not a nervous man, but in view of

what happened the other night”--he touched his injured face--“I should

have felt a little safer. Hello, sweetness.”

Sweetness wore a perfectly cut gown of deep crimson velvet. Mr. Reeder

thought that she looked twenty-four and not a day over, and had he the

courage of a lady’s man--a quality he much envied--he would have said

as much.

“What were you talking about?” she asked.

“We were talking of guns,” said Mr. Reeder loudly, “um--revolvers.”

She smiled at this.

“And my husband was giving his well-known views on the sanctity of

human life,” she said scornfully.

Mr. Reeder smiled.

“Rather I was giving a bit of my mind, my dear madam,” he said.

“My dear,” broke in the host, “all this arose from a question I asked

Mr. Reeder: whether he carried weapons. He doesn’t.”

“I expect poor Thomas was terribly disappointed,” said Mrs. Ingham.

“When he unpacked your bag he had expected to find it full of pistols

and handcuffs.”

She took them back to the drawing room, but either she thought it was

a painful subject, or she wanted to postpone the discussion till after

dinner, for she made no reference to her husband’s experience.

It was Mr. Reeder who brought up that matter. They were passing

through the hall on their way to the dining room--

“Which axe was it you used?” he asked.

The panelled walls were entirely innocent of armour or battle axes.

“We have had them moved,” said Mrs. Ingham. “It occurred to me

afterwards that these dreadful people might have used the battle axe

instead of my husband.”

They had passed the broad stairs on which the battle between Dr.

Ingham and his midnight intruders had been fought, and Mr. Reeder

tried to visualize the scene. But there were occasions when his

imagination failed, and this was one.

The dining room had been fashioned like an Elizabethan banqueting hall

in miniature. There was a big Tudor fireplace, a minstrel gallery, and

he noticed with surprise that the floor was of flag-stones.

“That is the original floor of the old castle,” said Mrs. Ingham

proudly. “The builders unearthed it whilst they prepared the

foundation, and my husband insisted that it should remain. Of course

we had it levelled, and in some cases the flags had to be replaced.

But it was in a marvellous state of preservation. It used to belong to

the De Boisy family----”

Mr. Reeder nodded.

“De Tonsin,” he said gently. “The De Boisys were related by marriage,

and only one De Boisy occupied the castle in 1453.”

She was a little taken aback by his knowledge.

“Yes, I have made a study of this place,” Mr. Reeder went on. “I am

something of a student of archæology.”

He beamed up and down the room approvingly.

“Dirty work.”

Mrs. Ingham lifted her eyebrows.

“I don’t quite get you?”

“On this floor,” said Mr. Reeder almost jovially, “wicked old barons

were slicing off their enemies’ heads and were dropping them into the

deepest dungeon beneath the--um.” No, he had never heard of a moat. It

could not well be that, could it?

As the footman placed a cup of soup before him, and the tall butler

poured him out a glass of wine, Mr. Reeder looked at the glass, held

it up to the light.

“That’s good stuff. I can quite imagine,” he said reminiscently, “that

dramatic scene when Geoffrey De Boisy induced his old rival to come to

dinner. How he must have smiled as his varlets ended--um--the

unfortunate gentleman with wine from a poisoned flagon.”

He finished the scrutiny of the wine and put it down untasted.

Mrs. Ingham was amused.

“You have a mediæval mind, Mr. Reeder.”

“A criminal mind,” said that gentleman.

He did not drink throughout the meal, and Dr. Ingham remembered that

he had merely sipped his whisky in the study.

“Yes, I am a teetotaller in a sense,” said Mr. Reeder, “but I find

life so completely exciting that I require no other stimulant.”

He had observed that the man who had valeted him was also the footman.

He waited till the two servants were at the other end of the room, and

then:

“Your man is looking rather ill. Has he also been injured in the

fight?”

“Thomas? No, he did not appear on the scene until it was all over,”

said Dr. Ingham, in surprise. “Why?”

“I thought I saw a bandage round his throat.”

“I haven’t noticed it,” said the host.

The conversation flagged. The coffee was served on the table, and Mr.

Reeder helped himself liberally to sugar. He refused a cigar, and,

apologizing for his bad manners, took one of his own cigarettes.

“Matches, Thomas,” said Dr. Ingham, but before the footman could obey,

Mr. Reeder had taken a box from his pocket and struck a match.

It was no ordinary match: the light of it blazed blindingly white so

that he had to screw up his eyes to avoid the glare. Only for a

moment, then it died down, leaving the party blinking.

“What was that?” asked Ingham.

Mr. Reeder stared hopelessly at the box.

“Somebody has been playing a joke on me,” he said. “I am terribly

sorry.”

They were very ordinary looking matches. He passed the box across to

his host, who struck one, but produced nothing more startling than a

mild yellow flame.

“I have never seen anything so extraordinary,” said the beautiful lady

who sat on his left. “It was almost like a magnesium flare. We see

them sometimes when ships are in distress.”

The incident of the match passed. It was the doctor who led the

conversation to the Pizarros and Mrs. Ingham who elaborated her

theory. J.G. Reeder sat listening, apparently absorbed.

“I don’t think he was a really bad man,” Mrs. Ingham was saying when

he interrupted.

“Pizarro was a blackguard,” said Mr. Reeder. “But he had the kind of

nature one would have expected in a half-bred Dago.”

If he saw Mrs. Ingham stiffen, he gave no sign.

“Kennedy, his confederate,” he went on, “was, as I said this

afternoon, a man to be pitied. His mother was a moral leper, a woman

of no worth, the merest chattel.”

Dr. Ingham’s face had gone white and tense, his eyes glowed like red

coals, but J.G. Reeder, sitting there with his hands thrust into his

trouser pockets, his cigarette hanging limply from his lower lip,

continued as though he had the fullest approval of the company.

“Kennedy was really the brain of the gang, if you can call it a brain,

the confidence man with some sort of college education. He married

Pizarro’s daughter, who was not a nice young lady. He was, I think,

her fourth lover before he married her--if they were married at all…”

“Take that back, you damned liar!”

The woman was on her feet, glowering down at him, her shrill voice

almost a scream.

“You liar, you beast!”

“Shut up!”

It was Dr. Ingham’s voice--harsh, commanding. But the injunction came

too late. One of Mr. Reeder’s hands had come out from his pocket and

it held an automatic of heavy calibre. He came to his feet so quickly

that they were unprepared for the manœuvre.

Mr. Reeder pushed the chair behind, and leant back against the wall.

Thomas, the footman, had come in running, but stopped now at the sight

of the pistol. Mr. Reeder addressed him: “I’m afraid I hurt you

Thursday night,” he said, pleasantly. “A pellet from an air pistol can

be very painful. I owe you an apology--I intended it to be for your

friend.”

He nodded towards the butler.

“It was very stupid of you, Dr. Ingham, to allow your two men to come

to London, and it led to very unpleasant consequences. I saw the dead

man to-day. Rather a powerful looking fellow named Gelpin. The

knuckles of his hand were bruised. I presume that, in an unguarded

moment, you went too near to him without your body-guard.”

He reached one of the long windows, and with a quick movement of his

hand he drew the curtain aside. The window was open. The military

looking man who had accompanied him from London climbed through. Then

followed the three who had followed Mr. Reeder to the house. Dr.

Ingham stood paralysed to inaction.

Suddenly he turned and darted towards the small door in a corner of

the room. Mr. Reeder’s pistol exploded and the panel of the door split

noisily. Ingham stood stock still--a pitiable, panic-stricken thing,

and he came staggering back.

“It wasn’t my idea, Reeder,” he said. “I will tell you everything. I

can prove I had nothing to do with it. They are all safe, all of

them.”

Stooping, almost beneath his feet he turned back the heavy carpet, and

Reeder saw a large stone flag in which was inserted a heavy metal

ring.

“They are all alive… every one of them. I shot Gelpin in self defence.

He would have killed me if I hadn’t killed him.”

“And Litnoff?” asked Mr. Reeder, almost good humouredly.

Dr. Ingham was silent.

* * * * * *

Mr. Reeder wrote in his case book:

Dr. Ingham’s real name was Casius Kennedy. He was born in England,

convicted at the age of seventeen for obtaining money under false

pretences. He afterwards became a reformed character and addressed

many revival meetings, and he was known as a boy preacher. He was

again convicted on a charge of obtaining money by a trick, sentenced

to nine months’ imprisonment, and on his discharge emigrated to

America, where he fell in with Pizarro and assisted him in most of his

swindles.

He was very useful to Pizarro, gaining, as he did, the confidence of

victims by his appeals in various pulpits. He either acquired, or

assumed, the title of doctor of divinity.

After the biggest of the Pizarro swindles he escaped to California and

in some way, which is not known, acquired a very considerable fortune,

most of which he lost in speculation subsequent to his arrival in

England.

In his statement to me he was emphatic on this one point: that after

he had built Grayne Hall on the foundations of the old castle, and he

discovered the commodious dungeons which, I can testify, were in a

remarkable state of preservation beneath the house, he had no

intention of making illicit use of them until his heavy losses

compelled him to look around for a method of replenishing his

exchequer.

Five years ago he met a Russian actor named Litnoff, a drunkard who

was on the point of being arrested for debt, and who was afraid that

he might be deported to his own country, where he was wanted by the

Tcheka for a number of political offences.

Kennedy and his wife, with the approval and assistance of Litnoff,

evolved a scheme whereby big money could be made. Litnoff took a small

flat in London mansions, which was cheaply furnished, and it was here

that the swindle was worked. Very carefully and with all his old

cleverness, Kennedy got into touch with the likely victims, and

naturally he chose the credulous people who would subscribe money to

the Pizarro Syndicate. One by one the “doctor” made their

acquaintance. He studied their habits, their methods of life, found

out at what hotels they stayed when they were in London, their hobbies

and their weaknesses. In some cases it took three months to establish

confidence, and when this was done, Kennedy mentioned casually the

story of the dying Russian who had escaped from Petrograd with a chest

full of jewellery looted from the palaces of the nobility.

Mr. Ralph’s statement may be taken as typical of them all:

“I met Dr. Ingham, or Kennedy, after some correspondence. He was very

charming and obviously well-to-do. He was staying at the best hotel in

London, and I dined with him twice--on one occasion with his wife.

“He told me he was engaged in voluntary mission work, in the course of

which he had attended a dying Russian, who put up a most extraordinary

proposition, namely: that he should buy a small farm in Switzerland,

the property of Litnoff, on which he had buried half a million pounds’

worth of jewellery. The story, though seemingly far-fetched, could be

confirmed. His brother was living on the farm. Both men had been

chased and watched until life had become unendurable.

“‘There is something in this story,’ said the clergyman. ‘This fellow,

Litnoff, has in his possession a piece of jewellery which must be

worth at least a thousand pounds. He keeps it under his pillow.’

“I was intrigued by the story. It appealed to my romantic fancy, and

when the doctor asked me if I would like to see the man, I agreed to

meet him one night, promising not to mention to a soul the Russian’s

secret.

“Dr. Ingham called for me at midnight. We drove to a place in

Bloomsbury and I was admitted to a very poorly furnished flat. In one

of the rooms was a very sick-looking man, who spoke with difficulty in

broken English. He told me of all the espionage to which he and his

brother were subjected. He was in fear of his life, he said. He dared

not offer the jewels for fear that the agents of the Russian

government traced him. The scheme he had seemed, from my point of

view, to be beyond risk to myself. It was that I should go out to

Montreux, see his brother, inspect the jewels and buy the farm, the

purchase money to include the contents of the chest. If I was not

satisfied, or if I thought there was any trick, I needn’t pay my money

until I was sure that the deal was genuine.

“He showed me a diamond clasp, bid me to take it away with me and have

it valued.

“This conversation took a very long time: he spoke with great

difficulty, sometimes we had to wait for ten minutes whilst he

recovered his breath. I took the clasp with me and had it valued,

returning it to Dr. Ingham the same night.

“It was he who suggested that my safest plan was to carry no money at

all, but buy a letter of credit. He was most anxious, he said, that I

should take no risk.

“I was much impressed by the seeming genuineness of the scheme and by

the fact that the risk was apparently negligible. He asked me to

respect the Russian’s urgent plea that I should not speak a word to a

soul either about my intentions or my plans. I bought the letter of

credit, and it was arranged that I should travel to Dr. Ingham’s house

by car, spend the night there and go on by the mid-day boat to Calais

and Switzerland.

“I arrived at Grayne Hall at about six o’clock in the evening, and I

was impressed by the luxury of the place. I hadn’t the slightest

suspicion that anything was wrong.

“At half past seven I joined Dr. Ingham and his wife at dinner. I

didn’t drink anything until the port came round, but after that I have

no recollection of what happened until I woke and found myself in a

small stone chamber. There was a candle fixed to a stone niche, with

half a dozen other candles and a box of matches to supply the light,

the only light I saw until I was rescued. There was an iron bed, a

patch of carpet on the floor, and a washing set, but no other

furniture. Twice in the twenty-four hours the two men, who are known

as Thomas and Leonard, and whom I remember having seen wearing the

livery of servants, took me out for exercise up and down a long stone

corridor which ran the length of the house. I did not see any other

prisoner, but I knew they were there because I had heard one shouting.

My letter of credit had been taken from me. I only saw the man Kennedy

once, when he came down and asked me to write a letter on the

notepaper of a foreign hotel, addressed to my daughter, and telling

her I was well and that she was not to worry about me.”

It was clear that the success of the scheme depended upon the

discretion of Litnoff. The man was a drunkard, but so long as he gave

no hint as to where his money came from, there was no danger to the

gang. It was when he began to talk about the diamond clasp that the

Kennedys decided that, for their own safety, they must silence him.

They knew the game was up and made preparations for a getaway, but to

the end they hoped they might avoid this. I discovered by enquiry that

a small yacht had been chartered provisionally a week before their

arrest. It was at the time in Dover Harbour, and if their plans were

carried out, they were leaving a few days after my arrival at Grayne

Hall.

A new complication arose when Kennedy went down to carry food to the

prisoners on the night of Gelpin’s death. The two servants were away

in London. They had been commissioned to stop Edelsheim from seeing

me. It is possible that Kennedy over-rated his strength, or placed too

much reliance upon the revolver which he carried--one which he had

taken from another prisoner--Frank Seafield.

Kennedy states that Gelpin, who was a very strong man, attacked him

without provocation, but as to this we shall never know the truth; but

he was killed in the corridor, because the other prisoners heard the

shot.

In the early hours of the morning the two servants returned, and the

body was driven straight away to London and deposited in Epping

forest.

I cannot exactly state when my own suspicions concerning Dr. Ingham

were aroused. I rather think it was on the occasion of his first visit

to me. His obvious anxiety to anticipate the arrival of Joan Ralph,

Alsby’s statement, my talk with the chemist, and Edelsheim’s narrative

all pointed to one conclusion: obviously here was a confidence trick

on a large scale, and, after I had seen the survey map of the district

in which Grayne Hall is situated, and made a few enquiries about the

old castle, the possibility that this was a case of wholesale

kidnapping became a certainty.

I had to be sure that “Dr. Ingham” was Kennedy, and on the last

occasion we met in my office, I was compelled, I regret to say, to

slander his mother. Though he was livid with rage, he kept control of

himself, but he showed me enough to satisfy me that my suspicions were

correct.

I tried the same trick at Grayne Hall, but I only did it after

lighting a magnesium match, which was a signal agreed upon between

myself and the police who, I knew, were outside the house, that it was

time for them to make a move.

Underneath he wrote:

Casius Kennedy, convicted of murder at the C.C.C. Executed at

Pentonville Prison. (Elford--executioner.)

Elsa Kennedy, convicted at C.C.C. Life.

Thomas J. Pentafard, convicted at C.C.C. Criminal conspiracy and

accessory to murder. Life.

Leonard Polenski, convicted at C.C.C. Criminal conspiracy and

accessory to murder. Life.

THE CASE OF JOE ATTYMAR

CHAPTER I

In the dusk of the evening the rower brought his skiff under the

overshadowing hull of the Baltic steamer and rested on his oars, the

little boat rising and falling gently in the swell of the river. A

grimy second officer looked down from the open porthole and spat

thoughtfully into the water. Apparently he did not see the

swarthy-faced waterman with the tuft of grey beard, and as apparently

the waterman was oblivious of his appearance. Presently the unshaven

man, with the faded gold band on the wrist of his shabby jacket, drew

in his head and shoulders and disappeared.

A few seconds later a square wooden case was heaved through the port

and fell with a splash in the water. For a moment one sharp corner was

in sight, then it sank slowly beneath the yellow flood. A small black

buoy bobbed up and the waterman watched it with interest. To the buoy

was attached a stout cord, and the cord was fastened to the case. He

waited, moving his oars slowly, until the buoy was on the point of

being sucked out of sight--then, with a turn of his wrist, he hooked

an oar under the cord--literally hooked, for at the end of the short

blade was a little steel crook.

Pushing the boat forward, he reached for the buoy and drew this into

the stern sheets, fastened the cord round a wooden pin, and, lifting

his oars, allowed the tide to carry him under the steamer’s stern.

Anchored in midstream was a dingy-looking barge and towards this he

guided the skiff.

A heavily built young man came from the aft deck, and, reaching down a

boat-hook, drew the skiff alongside. The swarthy man held on to the

side of the barge whilst the boat-hook was transferred to the taut

line astern. The younger man did no more than fasten the soaking cord

to a small bight. By this time the occupant of the skiff was on board.

“Nobody about, Ligsey?” he asked gruffly.

“Nobody, cap’n,” said the younger man.

The captain said nothing more, but walked to the deck-house astern and

disappeared down the companionway, pulling the hatch close after him.

There he stayed till the estuary was a black void punctured with dim

ships’ lights.

Ligsey went forward to where his youthful assistant sat on an

overturned bucket, softly playing a mouth-organ. He stopped being

musical long enough to remark that the tide was turning.

“We going up to-night?” he asked.

Ligsey nodded. He had already heard the chuff-chuff of the motor in

the stern of the barge, where the skipper was starting it.

“What we hangin’ around here for?” asked the youth curiously. “We’ve

missed one tide--we could have been up to Greenwich by now. Why don’t

Captain Attymar----”

“Mind your own business,” growled the mate.

He heard the swarthy man calling him and went aft.

“We’ll get that case in and stow it,” he said in a low voice. “I left

a place in the bricks.”

Together they pulled gingerly at the cord and brought the square,

soaked packing-case to sight. Ligsey leaned over and gripped it with

an instrument like a pair of huge ice-tongs, and the dripping case was

brought to the narrow deck and stowed expeditiously in the well of the

barge.

The _Allanuna_ invariably carried bricks between a little yard on the

Essex coast and Tenny’s Wharf. Everybody on the river knew her for an

erratic and a dangerous-steering craft. The loud chuffing of her

engine was an offence. Even nippy tugboats gave her yawing bows a wide

berth.

The boy was called aft to take charge of the engine, and Ligsey took

the tiller. It was five o’clock on a spring morning when she came to

Tenny’s Wharf, which is at Rotherhithe.

As a wharfage it had few qualities attractive to the least fastidious

of bargees. It consisted of a confined space with room for two

builder’s lorries to be backed side by side (though it required some

manœuvring to bring them into position) and the shabby little house

where Joe Attymar lived.

Through the weather-beaten gate which opened at intervals to admit the

builders’ carts was Shadwick Lane. It had none of the picturesque

character of the slum it used to be, when its houses were of wood, and

water-butts stood in every backyard. Nowadays it consists of four

walls, two on either side of the street. Bridging these is an inverted

V of slate, which is called a roof, and at frequent intervals there

are four red chimney-pots set on a small, square, brick tower. These

denote roughly where lateral walls divide one hutch from another. Each

partition is called a “house,” for which people pay rent when they can

afford it. The walls which face the street have three windows and a

doorway to each division.

Joe Attymar’s house did not properly stand in the lane at all, and

Shadwick Lane was only remotely interested in the barge-master, for

the curious reason that he could reach his house and yard by Shadwick

Passage, a tortuous alley that threaded a way between innumerable

back-yards, and, under the shadow of a high warehouse, to Tooley

Street. Year after year the swarthy man with the little iron-grey

beard and the shaggy eyebrows brought his barge up the river, always

with a cargo of bricks. And invariably the barge went down empty and

without his presence--for, for some reason, there was neither

passenger nor crew on the down-river trip.

This fact was unknown to the people of Shadwick Lane. They were even

unaware that Joe Attymar did not sleep in his house more than one

night every month. They knew, of course, from the muddy old motor-car,

that he drove through the wide gates occasionally, that he went

abroad, but guessed that he was engaged in the legitimate business of

lighterman.

There are certain minor problems which from time to time cause the

chiefs of Scotland Yard to move uneasily and impatiently in their

padded chairs, and say to their immediate subordinates: “Do

something.” Mr. Attymar, though he was blissfully unaware of the fact,

was one of these minor problems.

There are gaming houses which harass the police, queer little clubs,

and other establishments less easy to write about in a reputable

magazine, but Mr. Attymar was not associated with one of these. Such

problems are, in one shape or another, perennial! Occasionally they

grow acute, and just at that moment the question of systematic

smuggling was worrying Scotland Yard considerably.

Chief Constable Mason sent for Inspector Gaylor.

“They’ve pulled in a fellow who was peddling dope in Lisle Street last

night,” he said. “You might see him after his remand. I have an idea

he will squeak.”

But the man in question was no squeaker, though he had certainly given

that impression when he was taken red-handed. He said enough, however,

to the patient detective to suggest that he might say more.

“All that I could find out,” said Gaylor, “is that this selling

organization is nearly fool-proof. The gang that we rushed last year

isn’t handling the output, but I’m satisfied that it still has the

same governor.”

“Get him,” said the chief, who was in the habit of asking for miracles

in the same tone as he asked for his afternoon tea.

And then a thought struck him.

“Go along and see Reeder. The Public Prosecutor was telling me to-day

that Reeder is available for any extra work. He may be able to help,

anyway.”

Mr. Reeder heard the request, sighed and shook his head.

“I’m afraid it is rather--um--outside my line of business. Dope? There

used to be a man named Moodle. It may not have been his name, but he

had associations with these wretched people----”

“Moodle, whose name was Sam Oschkilinski, has been dead nearly a

year,” said Gaylor.

“Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder, in a hushed voice appropriate to one who

has lost a dear friend. “Of what did he die?”

“Loss of breath,” said Gaylor vulgarly.

Mr. Reeder knew nothing more that he could recall about dope

merchants.

“Haven’t you some record on your files?” suggested Gaylor.

“I never keep files, except--um--nail-files,” said Mr. Reeder.

“Perhaps,” suggested Gaylor, “one of your peculiar friends----”

“I have no friends,” said Mr. Reeder.

But here he did not speak the exact truth.

He was cursed with a community spirit and he had a tremendous sense of

neighbourly obligations. Especially would he give up valuable time to

diagnosing and curing the mysterious diseases which attacked the

chickens in Brockley Road.

Mr. Reeder was an authority on poultry; he knew exactly why hens droop

and cockerels’ combs go pink. He had a marvellous chicken farm in

Kent--not large, but rare. Noble lords and ladies consulted him before

they exhibited their birds. He could wash and dry living chickens for

the bench: the Poultry Show at the Crystal Palace was an event to

which Mr. Reeder looked forward for eleven months and two weeks.

He would stand in his back garden for hours discussing with the man

next door the eccentricities of laying hens, and his acquaintance with

Johnny Southers began in a fowl-house. Johnny lived three doors from

Mr. Reeder. He was rather a nice young man, fair-haired and

good-looking. He had in Mr. Reeder’s eyes the overwhelming advantage

of being a very poor conversationalist.

Anna Welford lived in the house opposite, so that it may be said that

the scene was set, for the curious tragedy of Joe Attymar, on a very

small stage.

It was through the unromantic question of a disease which attacked

Johnny Southers’ prize Wyandottes that Mr. Reeder met Anna. She

happened to be in the Southers’ back garden when Mr. Reeder was

engaged in his diagnosis. She was a slim girl, rather dark, with

amazing brown eyes. Her father was a retired fish merchant, who had

made a lot of money and had sent her to a high-class school at

Brighton, where girls are taught to ride astride, use lipstick and

adore the heroes of Hollywood.

In some respects her education had been neglected, for she returned to

the dullness of Brockley a very sane, well-balanced young lady.

She did not find Brockley a “hole.” She did not smoke or do anything

which made life worth living, but settled down to the humdrum of a

stuffy home as though she had never shared a room with an earl’s

daughter or played hockey against an all-England team.

Johnny did not fall in love with her at first sight. He had known her

since she was so high: when he was a boy she was endurable to him. As

a young man he thought her views on life were sound. He discovered he

was in love with her as he discovered he was taller than his father.

It was a subject for surprise.

It was brought home to him when Mr. Clive Desboyne called in his

glittering coupé to take Anna to a dinner-dance. He resented Mr.

Desboyne’s easy assurance, the proprietorial way he handed Anna into

the car. He thought it was appalling bad manners for a man to smoke a

cigar when he was driving a lady. Thereafter Johnny found himself

opening and examining packing-cases and casks and barrels at the

Customs House with a sense of his inferiority and the hopelessness of

his future.

In such a mood he consulted his authority on poultry, and Mr. Reeder

listened with all the interest of one who was hearing a perfectly

novel and original story that had never been told before by or to any

human being.

“I know so very little--um--about love,” said Mr. Reeder awkwardly.

“In fact--er--nothing. I would like to advise you to--um--let matters

take their course.”

Very excellent, if vague, advice. But matters took the wrong course,

as it happened.

CHAPTER II

On the following Saturday night, as Mr. Reeder was returning home,

he saw two men fighting in Brockley Road. He had what is called in

Portuguese a _repugnancio_ to fighting men. When the hour was midnight

and the day was Saturday, there was a considerable weight of

supposition in favour of the combat being between two gentlemen who

were the worse for intoxicating drink, and it was invariably Mr.

Reeder’s practice to cross like the Philistine, to the other side of

the road.

But the two young men who were engaged in such a short, silent and

bitter contest were obviously no hooligans of lower Deptford. They

were both wearing evening dress, and gentlemen in evening dress do not

as a rule wage war in the streets of Brockley. Nevertheless, Mr.

Reeder hardly felt it was the occasion to act either as mediator or

timekeeper.

He would have passed them by, and did in fact come level with them,

when one walked across the road, leaving his companion--though that

hardly seems the term to apply to one who had been so bruised and

exhausted that he was hanging on to the railings--to recover as best

he could. It was then that Mr. Reeder saw that one of the contestants

was Mr. John Southers. He was husky and apologetic.

“I’m terribly sorry to have made a fuss like this,” he said. “I hope

my father didn’t hear me. This fellow is intolerable.”

The intolerable man on the other side of the street was moving slowly

towards where a car was parked by the sidewalk. They watched him in

silence as he got in, and, turning the car violently, went off towards

the Lewisham High Road, and, from the direction he took, London.

“I’ve been to a dance,” said the young man, a little inconsequently.

“I hope,” said Mr. Reeder with the greatest gentleness, “that you

enjoyed yourself.”

Mr. Southers did not seem disposed at the moment to offer a fuller

explanation. As they neared Reeder’s gate he said:

“Thank God, Anna was inside before it started! He has been beastly

rude to me all the evening. As a matter of fact, she asked me to call

and take her home, otherwise I shouldn’t have met him.”

There had been a dance somewhere in the City, at a livery hall. Anna

had gone with Mr. Clive Desboyne, but the circumstances under which

Johnny called for her were only vaguely detailed. Nor did Mr. Reeder

hear what was the immediate cause of the quarrel which had set two

respectable young men at fisticuffs in the reputable suburban

thoroughfare.

To say that he was uninterested would not be true. The matter,

however, was hardly pressing. He hoped that both parties to the little

fracas might have forgotten the cause of their quarrel by the

following morning.

He did not see Johnny again for the remainder of the week. Mr. Reeder

went about his business, and it is doubtful whether Johnny occupied as

much as five minutes of his thoughts, until the case of Joe Attymar

came into his purview.

He was again called to Scotland Yard on a consultation. He found

Gaylor and the Chief Constable together, and they were examining a

very dingy-looking letter which had come to the Yard in the course of

the day.

“Sit down, Reeder,” said the chief. “Do you know a man called

Attymar?”

Mr. Reeder shook his head. He had never heard of Joe Attymar.

“This is a thing we could do ourselves without any bother at all,”

interrupted the chief, “but there are all sorts of complications which

I won’t bother you with. We believe there’s a member of the staff of

one of the Legations in this business, and naturally we want this fact

to come out accidentally, and not as the result of any direct

investigation by the police.”

Mr. Reeder then learned about Joe Attymar, the barge-master, of the

little wharf at the end of Shadwick Lane, and the barge _Allanuna_

that went up and down the Thames year in and year out and brought

bricks. He did not hear at that moment, or subsequently, what part the

Legation played, or which Legation it was, or if there was any

Legation at all. In justice to his acumen it must be said that he

doubted this part of the story from the first, and the theory at which

he eventually arrived, and which was probably correct, was that the

part he was called upon to play was to stampede Attymar and his

associates into a betrayal of their iniquity. For this was at a period

when Mr. Reeder’s name and appearance were known from one end of the

river to the other, when there was hardly a bargee or tug-hand who

could not have drawn, and did not draw, a passable caricature of that

worthy man who had been instrumental in breaking up one of the

best-organized gangs of river thieves that had ever amalgamated for an

improper purpose.

Mr. Reeder scratched his nose and his lips drooped dolefully.

“I was hoping--um--that I should not see that interesting stream for a

very long time.”

He sat down and listened patiently to a string of uninteresting facts.

Joe Attymar brought bricks up the river--had been bringing them for

many years--at a price slightly lower than his competitors. He carried

for four builders, and apparently did a steady, if not too prosperous,

trade. He was believed locally to be rolling in money, but that is a

reputation which Shadwick Lane applied to any man or woman who was not

forced at frequent intervals to make a call at the local pawnshop. He

kept himself to himself, was unmarried, and had no apparent interests

outside of his brick lighterage.

“Fascinating,” murmured Mr. Reeder. “It sounds almost like a novel,

doesn’t it?”

After he had gone.…

“I don’t see what there is fascinating about it,” said Mason, who did

not know Mr. Reeder very well.

“That’s his idea of being funny,” said Gaylor.

It was a week later, and the _Allanuna_ lay at anchor off

Queensborough, when a small boat, rowed by a local boatman, carrying a

solitary passenger, came slowly out, under the watchful and suspicious

eye of Ligsey. The boat rowed alongside the barge, and Ligsey had a

view of a man with a square hat and lopsided pince-nez, who sat in the

stern of the boat, an umbrella between his legs, apparently making a

meal of the big handle! And, seeing him, Ligsey, who knew a great deal

about the river and its scandals, started up from his seat with an

exclamation.

He was blinking stupidly at the occupant of the boat when Mr. Reeder

came up to him.

“Good morning,” said Mr. Reeder.

Ligsey said nothing.

“I suppose I should say ‘afternoon,’” continued the punctilious Mr.

Reeder. “Is the captain aboard?”

Ligsey cleared his throat.

“No, sir, he ain’t.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t object if _I_ came aboard?”

Mr. Reeder did not wait for the answer, but, with surprising agility,

drew himself up on to the narrow deck of the barge. He looked round

with mild interest. The hatches were off, and he had a good view of

the cargo.

“Bricks are very interesting things,” he said pleasantly. “Without

bricks we should have no houses; without straw we should have no

bricks. It seems therefore a very intelligent act to pack bricks in

straw, to remind them, as it were, of what they owe to this

humble--um--vegetable.”

Ligsey did not speak, but swallowed something.

“What I want to know,” Mr. Reeder went on, and his eyes were never

still, “is this. Would it be possible to hire this barge?”

“You’ll have to ask the captain about that,” said Ligsey huskily.

His none too clean face was a shade paler. The stories of Reeder that

had come down the river had gained in the telling. He was credited

with supernatural powers of divination; his knowledge and perspicuity

were unbounded. For the first time in years Ligsey found himself

confronted with the slowly-moving machinery of the law; it was a

little terrifying and his emotions were not at all what he had

anticipated. He used to tell Joe Attymar:

“… If they ever come to me I’ll give ’em a saucy answer.”

And here “they” had come to him, but no saucy answer hovered on his

lips. He felt totally inadequate.

“When are you expecting the captain?” asked Mr. Reeder, in his

blandest manner.

“To-night or to-morrow--I don’t know,” stammered Ligsey. “He’ll pick

us up, I suppose.”

“Gone ashore for dispatches?” asked Mr. Reeder pleasantly. “Or

possibly to wire to the owners? No, no, it couldn’t be that: he _is_

the owner. How interesting! He’ll be coming off in a few moments with

sealed orders under his arm. Will you tell me”--he pointed to the

hold--“why you leave that square aperture in the bricks? Is that one

of the secrets of packing, or shall I say stowage?”

Ligsey went whiter.

“We always leave it like that,” he said, and did not recognize the

sound of his own voice.

Mr. Reeder would have descended to the cabin, but the hatch was

padlocked. He did invite himself down to the little cubby-hole in the

bow of the boat where Ligsey and the boy slept; and, strangely enough,

Mr. Reeder carried in his pocket, although it was broad daylight, a

very powerful electric hand-lamp which revealed every corner of

Ligsey’s living place as it had never been revealed before.

“Rather squalid, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Reeder. “A terrible thing to

have to live in these circumstances and conditions. But of course one

can live in a much worse place.”

He made this little speech after his return to the fresh air of the

deck, and was fanning himself with the brim of his high-crowned hat.

“One can live for example,” he went on, surveying the picturesque

shore of Queensborough vacantly, “in a nice clean prison. I know

plenty of men who would rather live in prison than at--um--Buckingham

Palace--though, of course, I have no knowledge that they’ve ever been

invited to Buckingham Palace. But not respectable men, men with wives

and families.”

Ligsey’s face was a blank.

“With girls and mothers.”

Ligsey winced.

“They would prefer to remain outside. And, of course, they can remain

outside if they’re only sufficiently sensible to make a statement to

the police.”

He took from his pocket-book a card and handed it almost timorously to

Ligsey.

“I live there,” said Mr. Reeder, “and I’ll be glad to see you any time

you’re passing--are you interested in poultry?”

Ligsey was interested in nothing.

Mr. Reeder signalled to the boatman, who pulled the skiff alongside,

and he stepped down into the boat and was rowed back to the shore.

There was one who had seen him come and who watched him leave by

train. When night fell, Joe Attymar rowed out to the barge and found a

very perturbed lieutenant.

“Old Reeder’s been here,” blurted Ligsey, but Joe stopped him with a

gesture.

“Want to tell the world about it?” he snarled. “Come aft.”

The thickset young man followed his commander.

“I know Reeder’s been here: I’ve seen him. What did he want?”

Briefly Ligsey told him quite a number of unimportant details about

the visit. It was not remarkable that he did not make any reference to

the card or to Mr. Reeder’s invitation.

“That’s done it,” said Ligsey when he had finished. “Old Reeder’s got

a nose like a hawk. Asked me why we left that hole in the bricks. I’ve

never had to deal with a detective before----”

“You haven’t, eh?” sneered the other. “Who was that waterman who came

aboard off Gravesend the other night? And why did I drop

half-a-hundredweight of good stuff over board, eh? You fool! We’ve had

half-a-dozen of these fellows on board, all of ’em cleverer than

Reeder. Did he ask you to tell him anything?”

“No,” said Ligsey instantly.

Joe Attymar thought for a little time, and then:

“We’ll get up the anchor. I’m not waiting for the Dutch boat,” he

said.

Ligsey’s sigh of relief was audible at the other end of the barge.

CHAPTER III

This visit of Reeder was the culmination of a series of enquiries he

had conducted in the course of a few days. He turned in a short report

to Scotland Yard, and went home to Brockley Road, overtaking Johnny

Southers as he turned from Lewisham High Road. Johnny was not alone.

“Anna and I were discussing you,” he said, as they slackened their

steps to match the more leisurely pace of Mr. Reeder. “Is it possible

for us to see you for five minutes?”

It was possible. Mr. Reeder ushered them up to his big, old-fashioned

sitting-room, inwardly hoping that the consultation would have no

reference to the mysterious workings of the young and human heart.

They were going to get married.

“Anna’s father knows, and he’s been awfully decent about it,” said

Johnny, “and I’d like you to know too, Mr. Reeder.”

Mr. Reeder murmured something congratulatory. That matter of love and

loving was at any rate shelved.

“And Desboyne has been awfully decent--I told Anna all about that

rather unpleasant little scene you witnessed--he never told her a

word. He wrote apologizing to Anna, and wrote an apology to me. He has

offered me a very good position in Singapore if I care to take

it--he’s terribly rich, and it sounds very good.”

“It doesn’t sound good to me.”

Anna’s voice was decisive.

“I appreciate Clive’s generosity, but I don’t think he ought to give

up his Civil Service work except for something better in England. I

want you to persuade him, Mr. Reeder.”

Mr. Reeder looked from one to the other dismally. The idea of

persuading anybody to do anything in which he himself was not greatly

absorbed filled him with dismay. As a mentor to the young he

recognized his limitations. He liked Johnny Southers as he liked any

decent young fellow. He thought Anna Welford was extraordinarily

pretty; but even these two facts in conjunction could not arouse him

to enthusiasm.

“I don’t want much persuading,” said Johnny, to his relief. “I’ve got

something else up my sleeve--a pretty big thing. I’m not at liberty to

talk about it; in fact, I’ve been asked not to. If that comes off, the

Singapore job will be refused. It isn’t so very difficult now. The

point is this, Mr. Reeder: if you were offered a partnership in a

thriving concern, that could be made into something very big if one

put one’s heart and soul into it, would you accept?”

Mr. Reeder looked at the ceiling and sighed.

“Hypotheses always worry me, Mr. Southers. Perhaps, when the moment

comes, if you could tell me all about the business, I may be able to

advise you, although I confess I have never been regarded as a man

whose advice was worth two--um--hoots.”

“That’s what I wanted to see you about, Mr. Reeder.” Anna nodded

slowly. “I’m so terribly afraid of Johnny leaving the service for an

uncertainty, and I do want him to talk the matter over with you. I

don’t want to know his secrets”--there was the ghost of a smile in her

eyes--“I think I know most of them that count.”

Mr. Reeder looked round miserably. He felt himself caught and

entangled in a network of dull domesticity. He was, if the truth be

told, immensely bored, and, had he been more temperamental, he might

have screamed. He wished he had not overtaken these loitering lovers,

or that they would apply to one of those periodicals which maintain a

department devoted to advising the young and the sentimental in the

choice of their careers. It was with the greatest happiness that he

closed the door upon their small mystery and devoted himself to the

serious business of high tea.

Mr. Reeder had many anxieties to occupy his mind in the next few days,

and the fact that he had added Joe Attymar to the list of his enemies,

even if he were aware of the fact, was not one of these.

In the gaols of a dozen countries were men who actively disliked him.

Meister of Hamburg, who used to sell United States bills by the

hundredweight, Lefere, the clever wholesale engraver of lire notes,

Monsatta, who specialized in English fivers, Madame Pensa of Pisa, who

for many years was the chief distributor of forged money in Eastern

and Southern Europe, Al Selinski, the paper maker, Don Leishmer, who

printed French _milles_ by the thousand, they all knew Mr. Reeder, at

least by name, and none of them had a good word for him, except

Monsatta, who was large-minded and could detach himself from his

personal misfortunes.

Letters came to Mr. Reeder from many peculiar sources. It was a

curious fact that a very large number of Mr. Reeder’s correspondents

were women. A sensible number of the letters which came to him were of

a most embarrassing character.

His name had been mentioned in many cases that had been heard at the

Old Bailey. He himself had, from time to time, stood up in the witness

stand, a lugubrious and unhappy figure, and had given evidence in his

hesitant and deferential way against all manner of wrong-doers, but

mostly forgers.

He was variously described as “an expert,” as “a private detective,”

as “a bank official.” In a sense he was all these, yet none of them

entirely. Judges and certain barristers knew that he was at the call

of the Public Prosecutor’s Department. It was said that privately he

enjoyed a status equivalent in rank to a superintendent of police. He

certainly had a handsome retaining fee from the Bankers’ Association,

and probably drew pay from the Government, but nobody knew his

business. He banked at Torquay and the manager of the bank was his

personal friend.

But the net result of his fugitive appearances in court was that quite

intelligent women were seized with the idea that he was the man who

should be employed to watch their husbands and to procure the evidence

necessary for their divorces. Business men wrote to him asking him to

investigate the private lives of their partners; quite a few

commissions were offered by important commercial concerns, but none of

these appealed to Mr. Reeder, and with his own hand he would write

long and carefully punctuated letters explaining that he was not a

private detective in the real sense of the word.

He was not surprised, therefore, when, some four days after his talk

with Johnny Southers, he received a letter addressed from a Park Lane

flat, requesting his services. He turned first to the signature and

with some difficulty deciphered it as “Clive Desboyne.” For a moment

the name, whilst it had a certain familiarity, was difficult to

attach, and then he remembered the quarrel he had witnessed, and

realized that this was the other party to that unhappy conflict.

The letter was typewritten and ran:

“Dear Sir, I happen to know your private address because Miss Welford

pointed it out to me one evening when I was visiting her. I am in

rather a delicate position, and I am wondering whether I could employ

your services professionally to extricate myself? Since the matter

affects Southers, whom I think you know (I have learned since that you

were a witness of a certain disgraceful episode, for which I was

probably more to blame than he), I thought you might be willing to

receive me. I want you to undertake this task on a professional basis

and charge me your usual fees. I shall be out of town until Friday

night, but there is no immediate urgency. If I could call some time

after ten on Friday I should be eternally grateful.

“Yours, etc.”

Mr. Reeder’s first inclination was to take out a sheet of paper and

write a firm but polite refusal to see Mr. Desboyne, however stringent

might be his predicament. He had written the first three words when

one of those curious impulses which came to him at times, and which so

often urged him to the right course, stayed his hand. Instead, he took

a telegraph form and sent a laconic message agreeing to the young

man’s suggestion.

The day of the appointment was a busy one for Mr. Reeder. Scotland

Yard had made two important discoveries--a small garage in the north

of London, which contained nearly 400 lbs. of saccharine, had been

raided in the early hours of the morning, and this was followed up by

a second raid in a West End mansion flat, where large quantities of

heroin and cocaine were unearthed by the police.

“It looks as though we’ve found one of the principal distributing

agents,” said Gaylor. “We’ve got the barge under observation, and

we’re taking the chance of arresting Attymar as soon as he steps on

board.”

“Where is it?”

“Off Greenwich,” said Gaylor.

Mr. Reeder dived down into his pocket and produced an envelope. The

paper was grimy, the address was a scrawl. He took from this as dingy

a letter and laid it on the table before Gaylor.

“Dear Sir, I can give you informacion. I will call at your howse on

Sunnday morning. From a Frend.”

Gaylor inspected the envelope. The date-stamp was “Greenwich.”

“He had some doubt about sending it at all: the flap has been opened

and closed again--I presume this is Ligsey; his real name is William

Liggs. He’s had no convictions, but he hasn’t been above suspicion.

You’ll see him?”

“If he comes,” said Mr. Reeder. “So many of these gentlemen who

undertake to supply information think better of it at the last

moment.”

“It may be too late,” said Gaylor.

It was at the end of a very heavy and tiring day that Mr. Reeder went

back to his house, forgetting the appointment he had so rashly made.

He had hardly got into the house before the bell rang, and it was then

that he realized, with bitter regret, that he had robbed himself of an

hour’s sleep which was badly needed.

Mr. Desboyne was in evening dress. He had driven down from his club,

where he had bathed and changed after his long journey from the West

of England, he explained.

“I feel very ashamed to bother you at this hour of the night, Mr.

Reeder,” he said with an apologetic smile, “but I feel rather like the

villain of the piece, and my vanity has made me put matters right.”

Mr. Reeder looked round helplessly for a chair, found one and pointed

to it, and Desboyne drew it up to the table where the detective was

sitting.

He was a man of thirty-three or thirty-five, good-looking, with a very

pleasant, open face and a pair of grey eyes that twinkled

good-humouredly.

“You saw the fight?… Gosh! that fellow could punch! I thoroughly

deserved what I got, which certainly wasn’t very much. I was very rude

to him. But then, like a fool, I went to the other extreme, and have

got him a job in Singapore--of course he’ll take it--and I’m most

anxious to get out of my offer.”

Mr. Reeder looked at him in astonishment, and the young man laughed

ruefully.

“I suppose you think I’m a queer devil? Well, I am. I’m rather

impetuous and I’ve got myself into a bit of a hole. And it’s a bigger

hole than I knew, because I’m terribly fond of Anna Welford, and she’s

terribly unfond of me! Southers is rather in the position of a

successful rival, so that everything I say or do must be suspect.

That’s the awful thing about it!”

“Why do you wish to cancel the appointment?” asked Mr. Reeder.

He could have added that, so far as he could recall, the appointment

had already been cancelled.

Clive Desboyne hesitated.

“Well, it’s a difficult story to tell.”

He rose from his seat and paced up and down the room, his hands thrust

into his pockets, a frown on his face.

“Do you remember the night of the fight? I don’t suppose that’s graven

on your memory. It arose out of something I said to our friend as we

left the City hall. Apparently--I only discovered this

afterwards--there was a man out there waiting to see Southers, but in

the excitement of our little fracas--which began in the City, by the

way--Southers didn’t see the man, who either followed him to Lewisham

or came on ahead of him. He must have been present in the street when

the fight took place. When I got home that night the hall-porter asked

me if I would see a very seedy-looking individual, and, as I wasn’t in

the mood to see anybody, I refused. A few days later I was stopped in

Piccadilly by a man who I thought was a beggar--a healthy-looking

beggar, but most beggars are that way. He started by telling me he’d

seen the fight, and said he could tell me something about Southers. I

wasn’t feeling so very savage then as I had been, and I’d have hoofed

him off, but he was so insistent, and in the end I told him to call at

my flat. He came that night and told me the most extraordinary story.

He said his name was”--Clive Desboyne frowned--“the name’s slipped me

for the moment, but it will come back. He was a mate or assistant on

a barge run by a man named Attymar----”

“Ligsey?” suggested Mr. Reeder, and the other nodded.

“That’s the name--Ligsey. I’m cutting the story short because it took

a tremendous long time to tell, and I don’t want it to bore you as it

bored me. They’ve been running some kind of contraband up the river on

the barge, for apparently Attymar is a smuggler on a large scale. That

was a yarn I didn’t believe at first, though, from the things he told

me, it seemed very likely that he spoke the truth. Certain articles

were smuggled up the river on the barge, and others were passed

through the Customs by Southers.”

Mr. Reeder opened his mouth very wide.

“Now I’ll tell you the truth.” Clive Desboyne’s voice was very

earnest. “I wanted to believe that story. In my heart of hearts I

dislike John Southers--I’d be inhuman if I didn’t. At the same time I

wanted to play the game. I told this fellow he was a liar, but he

swore it was true. He thinks the police are going to arrest Attymar,

and when they do, Attymar will spill the beans, to use his own

expression. In the meantime I have recommended Southers to a very

important and responsible job in Singapore, and naturally, if this

story comes out, I’m going to look pretty foolish. I don’t mind that,”

he added quietly, “but I do mind Anna Welford marrying this man.”

Mr. Reeder plucked at his lower lip.

“Do you know Attymar?”

The young man shook his head.

“I can’t even say that I know Ligsey, but if he keeps his promise I

shall know Attymar to-morrow morning.”

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

“He says Attymar has documentary proof--he didn’t use that expression

but that is what he meant--and that he was going to Attymar’s house

to-night to get it.”

Again Mr. Reeder thought, staring into vacancy.

“When did you see him last?”

“The morning I wrote to you, or rather the morning you received the

letter.” He made a little gesture of despair. “Whatever happens,

Anna’s going to think I’m the biggest cad----”

The telephone bell rang sharply. Mr. Reeder, with a murmured apology,

took up the receiver and listened with a face that did not move. He

only asked “What time?” and, after a long pause, said “Yes.” As he was

hanging up the receiver, Desboyne went on:

“What I should like to do is to see Attymar----”

Mr. Reeder shook his head.

“I’m afraid you won’t see Attymar. He was murdered between nine and

ten to-night.”

CHAPTER IV

It was half past twelve when Mr. Reeder’s taxi brought him into

Shadwick Lane, which was alive with people. A police cordon was drawn

across the gate, but Gaylor, who was waiting for him, conducted him

into the yard.

“We’re dragging the river for the body,” he explained.

“Where was it committed?” asked Mr. Reeder.

“Come inside,” said the other grimly, “and then you will ask no

questions.”

It was not a pleasant sight that met Mr. Reeder’s eyes, though he was

a man not easily sickened. The little sitting-room was a confusion of

smashed furniture, the walls splashed with red. A corner table,

however, had been left untouched. Here were two glasses of whisky, one

full, the other half-empty. A half-smoked cigar was carefully laid on

a piece of paper by the side of these.

“The murder was committed here and the body was dragged to the edge of

the wharf and thrown into the water,” said Gaylor. “There’s plenty of

evidence of that.

“We’ve taken possession of a lot of papers, and we found a letter on

the mantelpiece from a man named Southers--John Southers. No address,

but evidently from the handwriting a person of some education. At nine

twenty-five to-night Attymar had a visitor, a young man who was

admitted through the wicket gate, and who was seen to leave at

twenty-five minutes to ten, about ten minutes after he arrived.”

Gaylor opened an attaché case and took out a battered, cheap silver

watch, which had evidently been under somebody’s heel. The glass was

smashed, the case was bent out of shape. The hands stood at

nine-thirty.

“One of the people here recognized this as Ligsey’s--a woman who lives

in the street who had pawned it for him on one occasion. It’s

important, because it probably gives us the hour of the murder, if you

allow the watch to be a little fast or slow. It’s hardly likely to be

accurate. We have sent a description round of Southers, though it

isn’t a very good one, but it will probably be sufficient. I’m having

a facsimile of the writing----”

“I can save you the trouble; here is the young man’s address.”

Mr. Reeder took a notebook from his pocket, scribbled a few lines and

handed it to the detective. He looked glumly at the bloodstained room

and the evidence of tragedy, followed the detective in silence, whilst

Gaylor, with the aid of a powerful light, showed the telltale stains

leading from the wharf, and…

“Very interesting,” said Mr. Reeder. “When you recover the bodies I

should like to see them.”

He stared out over the river, which was covered by a faint mist--not

sufficient to impede navigation, but enough to shroud and make

indistinct objects thirty or forty yards away.

“The barge is at Greenwich, I think,” he said, after a long silence.

“Could I borrow a police launch?”

One of the launches was brought in to the crazy wharf and Mr. Reeder

lowered himself gingerly, never losing grip of the umbrella which no

man had seen unfurled. It was a chilly night, an easterly wind blowing

up the river, but he sat in the bow of the launch motionless,

sphinx-like, staring ahead as the boat streaked eastwards towards

Greenwich.

It drew up by the side of the barge, which was moored close to the

Surrey shore, and a quavering voice hailed them.

“That you, Ligsey?”

Mr. Reeder pulled himself on board before he replied.

“No, my boy,” he said gently, “it is not Ligsey. Were you expecting

him?”

The youth held up his lantern, surveyed Mr. Reeder and visibly

quailed.

“You’re a copper, ain’t yer?” he asked tremulously. “Have you pinched

Ligsey?”

“I have not pinched Ligsey,” said Mr. Reeder, patting the boy gently

on the back. “How long has he been gone?”

“He went about eight, soon after it was dark; the guv’nor come down

for him.”

“The guv’nor come down for him,” repeated Mr. Reeder in a murmur. “Did

you see the governor?”

“No, sir; he shouted for me to go below. Ligsey always makes me go

below when him and the guv’nor have a talk.”

Mr. Reeder drew from his pocket a yellow carton of cigarettes and lit

one before he pursued his inquiries.

“Then what happened?”

“Ligsey come down and packed his ditty box, and told me I was to hang

on all night, but that I could go to sleep. I was frightened about

being left alone on the barge----”

Mr. Reeder was already making his way down the companion to Ligsey’s

quarters. Evidently all the man’s kit had been removed; even the

sheets on his bed must have been folded and taken away, for the bunk

was tumbled.

On a little swing table, which was a four-foot plank suspended from

the deck above, was a letter. It was not fastened, and Mr. Reeder made

no scruple in opening and reading its contents. It was in the

handprint which, he had been informed, was the only kind of writing

Attymar knew.

“Dear Mr. Southers, If you come aboard the stuff is in the

engine-room. I have got to be very careful because the police are

watching.”

When he questioned the boy, whose name was Hobbs, he learned that

Ligsey had come down and left the letter. Mr. Reeder went aft and

found the hatchway over the little engine-room unfastened, and

descended into the strong-smelling depths where the engine was housed.

It was here evidently that Attymar remained during his short voyages.

There was a signal bell above his head, and a comfortable armchair had

been fixed within reach of the levers.

His search here was a short one. Inside an open locker he found a

small, square package, wrapped in oiled paper, and a glance at the

label told him its contents, even though he did not read Dutch.

Returning to the boy, he questioned him closely. It was no unusual

thing for Attymar to pick up his mate from the barge. The boy had once

seen the launch, and described it as a very small tender. He knew

nothing of Mr. Southers, had never seen him on board the ship, though

occasionally people did come, on which occasions he was sent below.

At his request, Mr. Reeder was put ashore at Greenwich and got on the

telephone to Gaylor. It was now two o’clock in the morning, and much

had happened.

“We arrested that man Southers; found his trousers covered with blood.

He admits he was at Attymar’s house to-night, and tells a

cock-and-bull story of what he did subsequently. He didn’t get home

till nearly twelve.”

“Extraordinary,” said Mr. Reeder, and the mildness of the comment

evidently irritated Inspector Gaylor.

“That’s one way of putting it, but I think we’ve made a pretty good

capture,” he said. “We’ve got enough evidence to hang him. Attymar’s

left all sorts of notes on his invoices.”

“Amazing,” said Mr. Reeder, and gathered from the abruptness with

which he was cut off that, for some mysterious reason, he had annoyed

the man at Scotland Yard.

He sent back a short report with the documents and the drugs to

Scotland Yard, and drove home by taxi. It was three o’clock by the

time he reached Brockley Road, and he was not surprised to find his

housekeeper up and to hear that Anna Welford was waiting for him.