She was very white and her manner was calm.

“You’ve heard about Johnny being arrested----” she began.

Mr. Reeder nodded.

“Yes, I gave them the necessary information as to where he was to be

found,” he said, and he saw the colour come and go in her face.

“I--I suppose you--you had to do your duty?” she said haltingly. “But

you know it’s not true, Mr. Reeder. You know Johnny… he couldn’t…” Her

voice choked.

Mr. Reeder shook his head.

“I don’t know Johnny really,” he said apologetically. “He is--um--the

merest acquaintance, Miss Welford. I am not saying that in

disparagement of him, because obviously quite a number of people who

aren’t my friends are respectable citizens. Did you see him before he

was arrested?”

She nodded.

“Immediately before?”

“Half-an-hour before. He was terribly disappointed; he had gone to see

about this partnership but he had a feeling that he’d been tricked,

for nothing came of it. He had arranged to see me, and I waited up for

him… he was crossing the road to his own house when he was arrested.”

“Did he wear a blue suit or a grey suit?”

“A blue suit,” she said quickly.

Mr. Reeder looked at the ceiling.

“Of course he wore a blue suit; otherwise--um…” He scratched his chin

irritably. “It was a cold night, too. I can’t understand until I have

seen his--um--trousers.”

She looked at him in bewilderment, a little fearfully. And then

suddenly Mr. Reeder gave one of his rare smiles and dropped a gentle

hand on her shoulder.

“I shouldn’t be too worried if I were you,” he said, with a kindly

look in his eyes. “You’ve got quite a number of good friends, and you

will find Mr. Desboyne will do a lot to help your Johnny.”

She shook her head.

“Clive doesn’t like Johnny,” she said.

“That I can well believe,” said Mr. Reeder good-humouredly.

“Nevertheless, unless I’m a bad prophet, you will find Mr. Desboyne

the one person who can clear up this--um--unpleasantness.”

“But who was the man who was killed? It’s all so terribly unreal to

me. Attymar was his name, wasn’t it? Johnny didn’t know anybody named

Attymar. At least, he didn’t tell me so. I’m absolutely stunned by

this news, Mr. Reeder. I can’t realize its gravity. It seems just a

stupid joke that somebody’s played on us. Johnny couldn’t do harm to

any man.”

“I’m sure he couldn’t,” said Mr. Reeder soothingly, but that meant

nothing.

CHAPTER V

Mr. Reeder’s housekeeper had, since his arrival, behaved with a

certain secretiveness which could only mean that she had something

important to communicate. It was after he had seen the girl to her

house that he learned what the mystery was all about.

“The young gentleman who came to see you last night,” she said in a

low voice. “I’ve put him in the waiting-room.”

“Mr. Desboyne?”

“That’s the name,” she nodded. “He said he wouldn’t go until he’d seen

you.”

In a few seconds Clive Desboyne was shown in.

“I’ve only just heard about Southers’ arrest--it’s monstrous! And I

was being so beastly about him to-night. Mr. Reeder, I’ll spend all

the money you want to get this young man out of his trouble. My God,

it’s awful for Anna!”

Mr. Reeder pulled at his long nose and said he thought it was rather

unpleasant.

“And,” he added, “for everybody.”

“They say this man Ligsey is also dead. If I’d had any sense I’d have

brought over the note I had of our conversation.”

“I could call up for it in the morning,” said Mr. Reeder, and his

voice was surprisingly brisk.

Mr. Desboyne gazed at him in startled astonishment. It was as though

this weary man with the drooping lips and tired eyes had suddenly

received a great mental tonic.

“You made notes? Not one man in ten would have thought of that,” said

Mr. Reeder. “I thought I was the only person who did it.”

Clive Desboyne laughed.

“I’ve given you the impression that I’m terribly methodical,” he said,

“and that isn’t quite exact.”

He looked at the watch on his wrist.

“It’s too late to ask you to breakfast.”

“Breakfast is my favourite meal,” said Mr. Reeder gaily.

Late as was the hour, he was standing before the polished mahogany

door of 974, Memorial Mansions, Park Lane, at nine o’clock next

morning. Mr. Desboyne was not so early a riser, and indeed had doubted

whether the detective would keep his promise. Mr. Reeder was left

standing in the hall whilst the servant went to inquire exactly how

this strangely appearing gentleman should be disposed of.

There was plenty to occupy Mr. Reeder’s attention during her absence,

for the wide hall was hung with photographs which gave some indication

of Desboyne’s wide sporting and theatrical interests. There was one

interesting photograph, evidently an enlargement of a snapshot,

showing the House of Commons in the background, which held Mr.

Reeder’s attention, the more so as the photograph also showed the

corner of Westminster Bridge across which motor-buses were moving. He

was looking at this when Clive Desboyne joined him.

“Here is a piece of detective work,” said Mr. Reeder triumphantly,

pointing to the photograph. “I can tell you almost the week that

picture was taken. Do you see those two omnibuses bearing the names of

two plays? I happen to know there was only one week in the year when

they were both running together.”

“Indeed,” said Desboyne, apparently not as impressed by this piece of

deduction as Mr. Reeder had expected.

He led the way to the dining-room, and Reeder found by the side of his

plate three foolscap sheets covered with writing.

“I don’t know whether you’ll be able to read it,” said Desboyne, “but

you’ll notice there one or two things that I forgot to tell you at our

interview. I think on the whole they favour Southers, and I’m glad I

made a note of them. For example, he said he had never seen Southers

and only knew him by name. That in itself is rather curious.”

“Very,” said Mr. Reeder. “Regarding that photograph in the hall--it

must have been in May last year. I remember some years ago, by a lucky

chance, I was able to establish the date on which a cheque was passed,

as distinct from the date on which it was drawn, by the fact that the

drawer had forgotten to sign one of his initials.”

It was surprising how much Mr. Reeder, who was not as a rule a

loquacious man, talked in the course of that meal. Mostly he talked

about nothing. When Clive Desboyne led him to the murder Mr. Reeder

skilfully edged away to less unpleasant topics.

“It doesn’t interest me very much, I confess,” he said. “I am not a

member of the--um--Criminal Investigation Department; I was merely

called in to deal with this man’s smuggling--and he seems to have

smuggled pretty extensively. It is distressing that young Southers is

implicated. He seems a nice lad, and has rather a sane view of the

care of chickens. For example, he was telling me that he had an

incubator…”

At the end of the meal he asked permission to take away the notes for

study, and this favour was granted.

He was at the house in Shadwick Lane half an hour later. Gaylor, who

had arranged to meet him there, had not arrived, and Mr. Reeder had

two men who had had semi-permanent jobs on the wharf. It was the duty

of one to open and close the gates and pilot the lorries to their

positions. He had also, as had his companion, to assist at the

loading.

They had not seen much of Attymar all the years they had been there.

He usually came in on one of the night or early morning tides. Ligsey

paid them their wages.

“There was never any change,” said one mournfully. “We ain’t had the

gates painted since I’ve bin here--we’ve had the same little anvil to

keep the gate open----”

He looked round first one side and then the other. The same little

anvil was not there.

“Funny,” he said.

Mr. Reeder agreed. Who would steal a rusty little anvil? He saw the

place where it had lain; the impression of it still stood in the dusty

earth.

Later came Gaylor, in a hurry to show him over the other rooms of the

house. There was a kitchen, a rather spacious cellar, which was closed

by a heavy door, and one bedroom that had been divided into two

unequal parts by a wooden partition. The bedroom was simply but

cleanly furnished. There was a bed and bedstead, a dressing-table with

a large mirror, and a chest of drawers, which was empty. Indeed, there

was no article of Attymar’s visible, except an old razor, a stubbly

shaving brush and six worn shirts that had been washed until they were

threadbare. From the centre of the ceiling hung an electric light with

an opalescent shade; another light hung over a small oak desk, in

which, Gaylor informed him, most of the documents in the case had been

found. But Mr. Reeder’s chief interest was in the mirror, and in the

greasy smear which ran from the top left hand corner almost along the

top of the mirror. The glass itself was supported by two little

mahogany pillars, and to the top of each of these was attached a piece

of string.

“Most amusing,” said Mr. Reeder, speaking his thoughts aloud.

“Remind me to laugh,” said Mr. Gaylor heavily. “What is amusing?”

For answer Mr. Reeder put up his hand and ran the tip of his finger

along the smear. Then he began to prowl around the apartment obviously

looking for something, and as obviously disappointed that it could not

be found.

“No, nothing has been taken out of here,” said Gaylor in answer to his

question, “except the papers. Here’s something that may amuse you

more.”

He opened a door leading to the bedroom. Here was a cupboard--it was

little bigger. The walls and floor were covered with white tiles, as

also was the back of the door. From the ceiling projected a large

nozzle, and in one of the walls were two taps.

“How’s that for luxury? Shower bath--hot and cold water. Doesn’t that

make you laugh?”

“Nothing makes me laugh except the detectives in pictures,” said Mr.

Reeder calmly. “Do you ever go to the pictures, Gaylor?”

The inspector admitted that occasionally he did.

“I like to see detectives in comic films, because they always carry

large magnifying glasses. Do they make you laugh?”

“They do,” admitted Mr. Gaylor, with a contemptuous and reminiscent

smile.

“Then get ready to howl,” said Mr. Reeder, and from his pocket took

the largest reading glass that Gaylor had ever seen.

Under the astonished eyes of the detective Reeder went down on his

knees in the approved fashion, and began carefully to scrutinize the

floor. Inch by inch he covered, stopping now and again to pick up

something invisible to the Scotland Yard man, and placed it in an

envelope which he had also taken from his pocket.

“Cigar-ash?” asked Gaylor sardonically.

“Almost,” said Mr. Reeder.

He went on with his search, then suddenly he sat back on his heels,

his eyes ablaze, and held up a tiny piece of silver paper, less than a

quarter of an inch square. Gaylor looked down more closely.

“Oh, it is a cigarette you’re looking for?”

But Mr. Reeder was oblivious to all sarcasm. Inside the silver was a

scrap of transparent paper, so thin that it seemed part of the tinsel.

Very carefully, however, he separated the one from the other, touched

its surface and examined his finger-tips.

“Where’s the fireplace?” he asked suddenly.

“There’s a fireplace in the kitchen--that’s the only one.”

Mr. Reeder hurried downstairs and examined this small apartment. There

were ashes in the grate, but it was impossible to tell what had been

burnt.

“I should like to say,” said Gaylor, “that your efforts are wasted,

for we’ve got enough in the diary to hang Southers twice over. Only I

suspect you when you do things unnecessarily.”

“The diary?” Mr. Reeder looked up.

“Yes, Attymar’s.”

“So he kept a diary, did he?” Mr. Reeder was quite amused. “I should

have thought he would, if I had thought about it at all.”

Then he frowned.

“Not an ordinary diary, of course? Just an exercise book. It

begins--let me see--shall we say two weeks ago, or three weeks?”

Gaylor gazed at him in amazement.

“Mason told you?”

“No, he didn’t tell me anything, partly because he hasn’t spoken to

me. But, of course, it would be in a sort of exercise book. An

ordinary printed diary that began on the first of January would be

unthinkable. This case is getting so fascinating that I can hardly

stop laughing!”

He was not laughing; he was very serious indeed, as he stood in the

untidy yard before the little house and threw his keen glance across

its littered surface.

“There is no sign of the tender that brought Ligsey here? The little

boy on the barge was much more informative than he imagined! I’ll tell

you what to look for, shall I? A black, canoe-shaped motor-boat which

might hold three people at a pinch. Remember that--a canoe-shaped

boat, say ten feet long.”

“Where shall I find it?” asked the fascinated Gaylor.

“At the bottom of the river,” said Mr. Reeder calmly, “and in or near

it you will find a little anvil which used to keep the gate open!”

Mr. Reeder had a very large acquaintance with criminals, larger

perhaps than the average police officer, whose opportunities are

circumscribed by the area to which he is attached; and he knew that

the business of detection would be at a standstill if there were such

a thing in the world as a really clever criminal. By the just workings

of providence, men who gain their living by the evasion of the law are

deprived of the eighth sense which, properly functioning, would keep

them out of the hands of the police.

He made yet another survey of the house before he left, pointed out to

Gaylor something which that officer had already noticed, namely, the

bloodstains on the floor and the wall of a small lobby which connected

the main living room with the yard.

“Naturally I saw it,” said Gaylor, who was inclined to be a little

complacent. “My theory is that the fight started in the sitting-room;

they struggled out into the passage----”

“That would be impossible,” murmured Mr. Reeder.

CHAPTER VI

John Southers made a brief appearance at the Tower of London Police

Court--a dazed, bewildered young man, so overwhelmed by his position

that he could do no more than answer the questions put to him by the

magistrate’s clerk.

Gaylor had seen him earlier in the morning.

“He said nothing except that he went to Attymar’s house--oh, yes, he

admits that--by appointment. He says Attymar kept him waiting for some

time before he opened the door, and then only allowed him to come into

the lobby. He tells some rambling story about Attymar sending him to

meet a man at Highgate. In fact, it’s the usual Man story.”

Mr. Reeder nodded. He was not unacquainted with that mysterious man

who figures in the narratives of all arrested persons. Sometimes it

was a man who gave the prisoner the stolen goods in the possession of

which he had been found; sometimes it was the man who asked another to

cash a forged cheque; but always it was a vague Somebody who could

never be traced. Half the work of investigation which occupied the

attention of the detective force consisted of a patient search for men

who had no existence except in the imaginations of prisoners under

remand.

“Did he see him?” asked Mr. Reeder.

Gaylor laughed.

“My dear chap, what a question!”

Mr. Reeder fondled his bony chin.

“Is it possible to--um--have a little chat with our friend Southers?”

Gaylor was dubious, and had reason for his doubt. Chief Constable

Mason and the high men at Headquarters were at the moment writhing

under a periodical wave of criticism which sweeps across Scotland Yard

at regular intervals; and their latest delinquency was the

cross-examination of a man under suspicion of a serious crime. There

had been questions in Parliament, almost a Royal Commission.

“I doubt it,” said Gaylor. “The Chief is feeling rather sick about

this Hanny business, and as the kick has come down from your

department it isn’t likely that they’ll make an exception. I’ll ask

Mason and let you know.”

Mr. Reeder was home that afternoon when Anna Welford called. She was

most amazingly calm. Mr. Reeder, who had shown some hesitation about

receiving her, was visibly relieved.

“Have you seen Johnny?” was the first question she asked.

Mr. Reeder shook his head, and explained to her that in the strictest

sense he was not in the case, and that the police were very jealous of

interference.

“Clive has been to see me,” she said when he had finished, “and he has

told me everything--he is terribly upset.”

“Told you everything?” repeated Mr. Reeder.

She nodded.

“About Ligsey, and the story that Clive told you. I understood--in a

way. He is doing everything he can for Johnny; he has engaged a lawyer

and briefed counsel.”

For the second time Mr. Reeder motioned her to a chair, and, when she

was seated, continued his own restless pacing.

“If there was any truth in that story, your Johnny should be rather

well off,” he said. “The wages of sin are rather--um--high. Yet his

father told me this morning--I had a brief interview with him--that

young Mr. Southers’ bank balance is not an excessive one.”

He saw her lower her eyes and heard the quick little sigh.

“They’ve found the money--I thought you knew that,” she said in a low

voice.

Mr. Reeder halted in his stride and peered down at her.

“They’ve found the money?”

She nodded.

“The police came and made a search about an hour ago, and they found a

box in the tool-shed, with hundreds of pounds in it, all in notes.”

Mr. Reeder did not often whistle; he whistled now.

“Does Mr. Desboyne know this?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Clive doesn’t know. It happened after he had left. He’s been terribly

nice--he’s made one confession that isn’t very flattering to me.”

Reeder’s eyes twinkled.

“That he is--um--engaged to somebody else?” he suggested, and she

stared at him in amazement.

“Do you know?”

“One has heard of such things,” said Mr. Reeder gravely.

“I was very glad,” she went on. “It removed the”--she

hesitated--“personal bias. He really is sorry for all he has said and

done. Johnny’s trouble has shaken him terribly. Clive thinks that the

murder was committed by this man Ligsey.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Reeder. “That is interesting.”

He stared down at her, pursing his lips thoughtfully.

“The--um--police rather fancy that Mr. Ligsey is dead,” he said, and

there was a note of irritation in his voice as though he resented the

police holding any theory at all. “Quite dead--um--murdered, in fact.”

There was a long pause here. He knew instinctively that she had come

to make some request, but it was not until she rose to go that she

spoke her thoughts.

“Clive wished to see you himself to make a proposition. He said that

he did not think you were engaged on the--official side of the case,

and he’s got a tremendous opinion of your cleverness, Mr. Reeder, and

so of course have I. Is it humanly possible for you to take up this

case… on Johnny’s side, I mean? Perhaps I’m being silly, but just now

I’m clutching at straws.”

Mr. Reeder was looking out of the window, his head moving slowly from

side to side.

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “I really am afraid not! The people on

your--um--friend’s side are the police. If he is innocent, I am

naturally on his side, with them. Don’t you see, young lady, that when

we prove a man’s guilt we also prove everybody else’s innocence?”

It was a long speech for Mr. Reeder, and he had not quite finished. He

stood with his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes half closed, his

body swaying to and fro.

“Let me see now… if Ligsey were alive?… A very dense and stupid young

man, quite incapable, I should have thought, of--um--so many things

that have happened during the last twenty-four hours.”

After Anna had left, he went to Southers’ house and interviewed

Johnny’s father. The old man was bearing his sorrow remarkably well.

Indeed, his principal emotion was a loud fury against the people who

dared accuse his son.

He led the way to the tool-shed in the yard and showed the detective

just where the box had been hidden.

“Personally, I never go into the shed. It’s Johnny’s little cubby

hutch,” he said. “The lad is fond of gardening, and, like you, Mr.

Reeder, has a fancy for poultry.”

“Is the shed kept locked?”

“No, I’ve never seen it locked,” said old Southers.

The place from which the box had been extracted was at the far end of

the shed. It had been concealed behind a bag of chicken-seed.

Mr. Reeder took a brief survey of the garden: it was an oblong strip

of ground, measuring about a hundred yards by twenty. At the further

end of the garden was a wall which marked the boundary of the garden

which backed on to it. The garden could be approached either from the

door leading to a small glass conservatory, or along a narrow gravel

strip which ran down one side of the house. Ingress, however, was

barred by a small door stretched across the narrow path.

“But it’s seldom locked,” said Southers. “We leave it open for the

milkman; he goes round to the kitchen that way in the morning.”

Mr. Reeder went back to the garden and walked slowly along the gravel

path which ran between two large flower-beds. At the farther end was a

wired-in chicken run. Mr. Reeder surveyed the flower-beds

meditatively.

“Nobody has dug up the garden?” he asked, and, when the other replied

in the negative: “Then I should do a bit of digging myself if I were

you, Mr. Southers,” he said gently; “and whether you tell the police

what you find, or do not tell the police, is entirely a matter for

your own conscience.”

He looked up at the sky for a long time as though he were expecting to

see an aeroplane, and then:

“If it is consistent with your--um--conscience to say nothing about

your discovery, and if you removed it or them to a safe place where it

or they would not be found, it might be to the advantage of your son

in the not too distant future.”

Mr. Southers was a little agitated, more than a little bewildered,

when Mr. Reeder took his leave. He was to learn that the ban on his

activities in regard to the Attymar murder had been strengthened

rather than relaxed, and he experienced a gentle but malignant

pleasure in the thought that in one respect he had made their task a

little more difficult.

It was Gaylor who brought the news.

“I spoke to the chief about your seeing Southers in Brixton, but he

thought it was best if you kept out of the case until the witnesses

are tested.”

Mr. Reeder’s duties in the Public Prosecutor’s Department were to

examine witnesses prior to their appearance in court, to test the

strength or the weakness of their testimony, and he had been employed

in this capacity before his official connection with the department

was made definite.

“At the same time,” Gaylor went on, “if you can pick up anything we’ll

be glad to have it.”

“Naturally,” murmured Mr. Reeder.

“I mean, you may by accident hear things--you know these people: they

live in the same street: and I think you know the young lady Southers

is engaged to?”

Mr. Reeder inclined his head.

“There’s another thing, Mr. Reeder.” Gaylor evidently felt he was

treading on delicate ground, having summarily declined and rejected

the assistance of his companion. “If you should hear from Ligsey----”

“A voice from the grave,” interrupted Mr. Reeder.

“Well, there is a rumour about that he’s not dead. In fact, the boy on

the barge, Hobbs, says that Ligsey came alongside last night in a

skiff and told him to keep his mouth shut about what he’d seen and

heard. My own opinion is that the boy was dreaming, but one of

Ligsey’s pals said he’d also seen him or heard him--I don’t know

which. That’s a line of investigation you might take on for your own

amusement----”

“Investigation doesn’t amuse me,” said Mr. Reeder calmly; “it bores

me. It wearies me. It brings me in a certain--um--income, but it

doesn’t amuse me.”

“Well,” said the detective awkwardly, “if it interests you, that’s a

line you might take up.”

“I shall not dream of taking up any line at all. It means work, and I

do not like work.”

Here, however, he was permitting himself to romance.

That afternoon he spent in the neighbourhood which Ligsey knew best.

He talked with carmen and van boys, little old women who kept tiny and

unremunerative shops, and the consequence of all his oblique

questionings was that he made a call in Little Calais Street, where

lived an unprepossessing young lady who had gained certain social

recognition--her portrait would appear in the next morning’s

newspapers--because she had been engaged to the missing man. She had,

in fact, walked out with him, amongst others, for the greater part of

a year.

Miss Rosie Loop did not suggest romance; she was short, rather stout,

had bad teeth and a red face; but for the moment she was important,

and might not have seen Mr. Reeder but for the mistaken idea she had

that he was associated with the press.

“Who shall I say it is?” asked her blowsy mother, who answered the

door.

“The editor of _The Times_,” said Mr. Reeder without hesitation.

In the stuffy little kitchen where the bereaved fiancée was eating

bread and jam, Mr. Reeder was given a clean Windsor chair, and sat

down to hear the exciting happening of the previous night.

“I haven’t told the press yet,” said Rosie, who had a surprisingly

shrill voice for one so equipped by nature for the deeper tones. “He

come last night. I sleep upstairs with mother, and whenever he used to

anchor off the crik he used to come ashore, no matter what time it

was, and throw up a couple of stones to let me know he was here. About

’arf past two it was last night, and lord! it gave me a start.”

“He threw up the stones to let you know he was there?” suggested Mr.

Reeder.

She nodded violently.

“And was it Mr. Ligsey?”

“It was him!” she said dramatically. “I wouldn’t go to the window for

a long time, but mother said ‘Don’t be such a fool, a ghost carn’t

hurt yer,’ and then I pulled up the sash and there he was in his old

oilskin coat. I asked him where he’d bin, but he was in a ’urry. Told

me not to get worried about him as he was all right.”

“How did he look?” asked Mr. Reeder.

She rolled her head impatiently.

“Didn’t I tell yer it was the middle of the night? But that’s what he

said--‘Don’t get worried about anything’--and then he popped off.”

“And you popped in?” said Mr. Reeder pleasantly. “He didn’t have a

cold or anything, did he?”

Her mouth opened.

“You’ve seen him? Where is he?”

“I haven’t seen him, but he had a cold?”

“Yes, he had,” she admitted, “and so would you ’ave if you ’ad to go

up and down that river all day and night. It’s a horrible life. I hope

he’s going to give it up. He’s bound to get some money if he comes

forward and tells the police the truth. It was very funny, me thinkin’

he was dead. We’d bin to buy our black--hadn’t we, mother?”

Mother offered a hoarse confirmation.

“And all the papers sayin’ he was dead, an’ dragging the river for

him, an’ that Captain Attymar. He used to treat Ligsey like a dog.”

“He hasn’t written to you?”

She shook her head.

“He was never a one for writing.”

“What time was this?”

She could tell him exactly, because she had heard Greenwich Church

striking the half-hour.

Mr. Reeder might be bored with investigation, but he found some

satisfaction in boredom.

The _Allanuna_ still lay off Greenwich, and he hired a boat to take

him to the barge. The disconsolate Master Hobbs was still on board,

and even the fact that he was now commander did not compensate him for

his loneliness, though apparently the police had supplied him with

food and had arranged to relieve him that evening.

He was very emphatic about the visitation of Ligsey. He had rowed

alongside and whistled to the boy--the whistle had wakened him. From

under the companion steps he had looked over and seen him sitting in

the boat, a big white bandage round his head. Miss Rosie had said

nothing about the white bandage, but, calling on his way home, Reeder

had confirmation.

“Yes, I forgot to tell you about that,” said Rosie. “I see it under

’is ’at. I said ‘What’s that white round your head?’ Fancy me

forgettin’ to tell you that!”

As a matter of form, Mr. Reeder, when he got home that night, jotted

down certain sequences.

At some time after eight on the night of the murder, Attymar had come

in a launch, had collected Ligsey and taken him towards London. At

nine-thirty Johnny Southers had called at Attymar’s house, and,

according to his story, had been sent on a fool’s errand to Highgate.

At some time about eleven o’clock the murder had been discovered----

Mr. Reeder put down his pen and frowned.

“I am getting old and stupid,” he said, reached for the telephone and

called a number to which he knew Gaylor would certainly be attached at

that hour.

It was Gaylor’s clerk who answered him, and, after about four minutes’

wait, Gaylor himself spoke.

“Have you found anything, Mr. Reeder?”

“I find I am suffering from a slight softening of the brain,” said Mr.

Reeder pleasantly. “Do you realize I never asked how the murder was

discovered?”

He heard Gaylor laugh.

“Didn’t I tell you? It was very simple. A policeman on his beat found

the wicket door open, saw the lantern on the ground and the other

lantern burning in the lobby of the house--what’s the matter?”

Mr. Reeder was laughing.

“Pardon me,” he said at last. “Are you sure there wasn’t an alarm bell

ringing?”

“I didn’t hear of any alarm bell--in fact, I don’t know that there is

one.”

Mr. Reeder exchanged a few commonplaces, denied that he was making any

enquiries about Ligsey, and, hanging up the receiver, sat back in his

chair, his hands clasped about his middle and real amusement in his

eyes.

Later he had a call from the solicitor engaged to defend young

Southers. He also suggested that Mr. Reeder should place his services

at the call of the defence; but again he refused.

Opening the telephone directory, he found the number of Mr. Clive

Desboyne, and it was that gentleman who answered his call.

“That’s queer, I was just going to ring you up,” said Desboyne. “Have

you taken up the case?”

“I am wavering,” replied Reeder. “Before I reach a decision I’d like

to have another talk with you. Could I call at your flat to-night

about--nine?”

There was a little pause.

“Certainly. I was going out, but I’ll wait in for you.”

At the conclusion of this call Mr. Reeder again leaned back in his

chair, but this time he was not smiling; he was rather puzzled.

Perhaps he was thinking of Ligsey; possibly he was impressed by the

generosity of this man who was ready to spend a considerable part of

his fortune to prove the innocence of a man he disliked.

Whatever trains of thought started and slowed, switched into

side-tracks or ran off into tributary lines, they all arrived at one

mysterious destination.…

“It will be spring-cleaning,” said Mr. Reeder, as he got up from his

chair.

CHAPTER VII

Reeder spent the rest of the afternoon in the West End of London,

calling upon a succession of theatrical agents. Some were very

important personages who received him in walnut-panelled salons; a few

were in dingy offices on third floors; one, and the most important of

these, he interviewed in the bar of a public-house in St. Martin’s

Lane--a fat and seedy man, with a fur collar and frayed cuffs, a

half-stupid tippler with no business but many reminiscences; and, as

he proudly claimed, “the best collection of old theatrical programmes

in London.”

Mr. Reeder, who was a good listener and very patient, heard all about

the agent’s former grandeur, the amount of commission out of which

eminent artistes had swindled him, and at last he accompanied his

bibulous companion to his lodgings off the Waterloo Road, and from

seven till eight was engrossed in masses of dog-eared literature.

Mr. Reeder had a meal in a Strand restaurant and drove to Park Lane.

As the lift carried him to the floor on which Desboyne’s flat was

situated----

“I’m sure it’s spring cleaning,” murmured Mr. Reeder to himself.

He rang the bell of the flat and waited. Presently he heard the sound

of footsteps echoing hollowly in the hall. Clive Desboyne opened the

door with an apologetic smile.

“I hope you don’t mind the place being in confusion?” he said. “We’ve

started our spring cleaning. The truth is, I’d arranged to go away

to-day if this wretched business hadn’t turned up.”

The carpet had been taken up from the floor of the hall, the walls had

been stripped, and the crystal pendant which lit the hall showed

through a gauze covering. Clive Desboyne’s own study had, however,

been left untouched by the decorators.

“I’m going to clear out to an hotel to-morrow. It’ll probably be the

Ritz-Carlton, but if you want me urgently my solicitors will be able

to put us in touch. Now, Mr. Reeder, you’re going to do this for Anna

and me?”

Mr. Reeder shook his head feebly.

“You’ve got to do it,” insisted the other energetically. “You’re the

only detective in London in whom I’ve any confidence. I know you’re

attached to the Public Prosecutor’s Department, but I’ve been making a

few inquiries too,” he said with a little smile, “and I hear that you

take outside commissions.”

“Banks,” said Mr. Reeder reverently. “Banks--not private work.”

“I shall insist!” Clive was very earnest. “I’ve told Anna

everything--about my beastliness in regard to young Southers.

Honestly, I still think that Ligsey’s story was true and that Southers

_was_ making something on the side. A lot of decent fellows, otherwise

perfectly honest, do that sort of thing, and I’m not condemning him.

In fact, when I expressed my--what’s the word for being shocked?”

“Horror, amazement?” suggested Mr. Reeder.

“Well, whatever it was--I was being a hypocrite. I myself have not

always been rich. I’ve known what it is to be devilishly poor. If I

hadn’t made good speculations when I was quite a kid, I should

probably be worse off than Southers.”

“You’re rather fond of the young lady?” said Mr. Reeder after an

interregnum of silence.

Again Desboyne laughed.

“Of course I am! The fact that a man is engaged to another girl--and

the sweetest girl in the world--doesn’t prevent him philandering. Of

course, it’s a caddish thing to do, and it’s got me into quite a lot

of trouble, but the fact remains, I am terribly fond of Anna. I won’t

say I love her like a brother, because I’m tired of being a hypocrite.

I’m going to try to get Southers out of the mess he’s in; and that

doesn’t mean I love _him_ like a brother, either! Now, Mr. Reeder,

what do you want to see me about, if it isn’t to tell me that you’re

taking up this case?”

All that Mr. Reeder wanted to see Clive Desboyne about was spring

cleaning, but he could not say this. He had, however, a good excuse

for calling: Ligsey was apparently alive, he explained. Clive Desboyne

was not impressed.

“I didn’t worry whether he was alive or dead,” he said frankly.

“Naturally, I do not know what theory the police have, but I

understood from the newspapers that they were concentrating on the

murder of Attymar--that is the charge against John Southers. If Ligsey

is alive I’m hardly likely to meet him, unless, of course, he feels,

as so many of these crooks do, that once one has given them money

they’re entitled to a pension! If I hear from him I’ll let you know.”

As they came out into the hall Mr. Reeder’s eyes wandered up and down

the bare walls.

“You will have this repainted, Mr. Desboyne?” he asked. “At present it

is rather a delicate cream. If I were you I should have it painted

green. Green is a very restful colour, but possibly my views

are--um--suburban.”

“I think they are,” said the other good-humouredly.

Reeder had made an appointment to see the bibulous agent at ten

o’clock. The agent knew where certain photographs were to be obtained,

and had promised to be waiting at the corner of St. Martin’s Lane at

that hour. Mr. Reeder arrived as St. Martin’s Church clock was

striking, but there was no sign of Billy Gurther. He had not appeared

at half past ten, and Mr. Reeder decided to go to his house, for he

was very anxious to complete his dossier.

The landlady at Mr. Gurther’s lodgings had a surprising and

disconcerting story to tell. Mr. Reeder had hardly left (she had

witnessed his departure) before a messenger came, and Billy had gone

out. He had returned in half-an-hour, very voluble and excited. He had

been given a commission to collect cabaret turns in Spain. He had to

leave London some time after nine, travel all night and catch the Sud

Express in the morning. He was plentifully supplied with money.

“He was so excited he was nearly sober,” said the uncharitable

landlady.

The sudden departure of an obscure music-hall agent, of whose

existence he had been unaware until that afternoon, did not at all

distress Mr. Reeder. It was the circumstances which attended his

leaving, its rapidity, and, most important of all, the knowledge that

was behind that sudden move, which made him alert and watchful. He

might not be _persona grata_ at Scotland Yard, but little things like

that did not trouble Mr. Reeder. He drove immediately to the big

building on the Thames Embankment, sought, nay, demanded, an interview

with the Chief Constable, who should have been at home and in bed, but

was in fact in consultation with his five chiefs when the detective

arrived.

The first message sent to Mr. Reeder was cold and unpromising. Would

he call in the morning? It was Gaylor who was detached from the

conference to carry this message.

“Go back to your chief, Mr. Gaylor,” said Reeder acidly, “and tell him

I wish to see him this evening, at once. If I see him to-morrow it

will be at the Home Office.”

This was a threat: nobody knew it better than Gaylor. The exact extent

and volume of Reeder’s power was not known. One thing was certain: he

could be extremely unpleasant, and the consequences of his displeasure

might even affect a man’s career. Gaylor returned instantly and

summoned him to the conference, and there Mr. Reeder sat down and,

quite uninvited, expounded a theory, and supported his fantastic ideas

with a considerable amount of grimy literature.

“We can stop Gurther at Southampton,” suggested Gaylor, but Reeder

shook his head.

“I think not. Let him soak into the Continent, and then we may pick

him up without any trouble. Send a man to Southampton, and let him

shadow him to Paris. In Paris he can blanket him.”

Mason nodded.

“If your theory is correct, there must be a method of proving it,” he

said; “not a simple one perhaps----”

“On the contrary, a very simple one,” said Mr. Reeder.

He turned to Gaylor.

“You remember the bedroom above the one where the murder took place,

or where we think it was committed? You probably took a photograph.”

“I’ll get it right away,” said Gaylor, and left the room.

He was back with a sheaf of photographic enlargements which he laid on

the table.

“There it is,” said Reeder, and pointed.

“The clock? Yes, I noticed that.”

“Naturally,” said Reeder.

“But most people who go to sea, or even bargees, have it put there.”

The little clock was fastened to the ceiling, immediately over the

bedstead, so that anybody lying in bed could look up and tell the

time. It had luminous hands, Reeder had noticed.

“I want you to have that clock removed and the ceiling plastered. I

want you to take away the bed and put a table and chair there. In two

days I think I will make the further prosecution of young Southers

unnecessary.”

“You can do as you like,” said Mason. “You’re well in the case now,

Mr. Reeder. I’ve put out a special call to get Ligsey, and the river

police are searching all the reaches.”

“The river police are more likely to get Mr. Ligsey than any other

section of the Metropolitan Police Force,” replied Reeder.

Big Ben was striking eleven as he mounted a tramcar that carried him

from Westminster Bridge to the end of his road. In the days, and

particularly the nights, when Mr. Reeder was heavily engaged in his

hazardous occupation, his housekeeper remained on duty until he was

ready to go to bed. She met him at the door now with a telephone

message.

“Mr. Gaylor called up, sir. He says he is sending you a little iron

box which he wishes you to examine, and will you be careful not to

touch it with your fingers because of the prince? He didn’t say which

prince it was.”

“I think I know His Highness,” said Mr. Reeder, who was a little

ruffled that Gaylor should find it necessary to warn him against

over-smearing fingerprints. “Has the box arrived?”

“Ten minutes ago, sir.”

“When did Mr. Gaylor telephone?”

She was rather vague as to this; thought it might have been

half-an-hour before. In that case, thought Reeder, it must have been

immediately after he left the Yard, and the box must have come on by

cyclist messenger.

He found it on his table in a service envelope, and took it out: a

heavy, oblong box, about six inches long and three inches square.

Pen-printed on the lid, which was tacked down, were the words: “Mr.

Reeder to see and return. Room 75, New Scotland Yard.” Reeder weighed

the package in his hand.

Some people remember by smell, some trust to their eyesight, and the

recollections of vision. Mr. Reeder had a remarkable sense of

weight--and he remembered something that weighed just as heavy as

this. He put the package carefully on the table and rang through to

Scotland Yard. Gaylor had gone. He tried him at his house, but he had

not arrived.

“Tell him to ’phone the moment he comes in,” he said, and went to his

desk to examine, for the third time that day, the old music-hall

programmes and playbills, photographs, cuttings from the _Era_ and the

_Stage_, the data which he had collected in the course of the day.

At one o’clock his housekeeper came in and asked if anything more

would be required.

“Nothing at all,” said Mr. Reeder. And then a thought struck him.

“Where do you sleep?”

“In the room above, sir.”

“Above this?” said Mr. Reeder hastily. “No, no, I think you’d better

stay in the kitchen until I hear from Mr. Gaylor. If you could make

yourself comfortable there, in fact if you could sleep there, I should

be very much obliged. There is nothing to be alarmed about,” he said,

when he saw consternation dawning in her face. “It is merely that I

may want to--um--send a detective upstairs to--um--overhear a

conversation.”

It was a lame excuse. Mr. Reeder was a poor liar; but his housekeeper

was a very simple soul, and, except that she insisted upon going up to

make the room tidy, agreed to retire to the basement. She had hardly

gone when Gaylor came through, and for five minutes he and Reeder

spoke together. After this the detective settled down to await his

coming, and Inspector Gaylor did not arrive alone, but brought with

him two expert officials from the Explosives Department. One of them

had a delicate spring balance, and with this the package was weighed.

“Allow an ounce and a quarter for the wood,” said the expert, “and

that’s the exact weight of a Mills bomb. I’m sure you’re right, Mr.

Reeder.”

He held the package to his ear and shook it gently.

“No, nothing more complicated.”

He took a case of instruments from his pocket and removed a slither of

wood from the lid.

“Yes, there’s the lever, and the pin’s out,” he said after examining

it under a strong light.

He cut away the side, and revealed a black, segmented egg shape,

grinning as he recognized an old friend.

“You see that?” He pointed to a little hole at the end of the box.

“The fellow who brought this was taking no risks: he kept an emergency

pin through until it was delivered. I’ll have this out in a jiff.”

It was no idle promise. Mr. Reeder watched with interest as the

skilful fingers of the man removed the lid, catching the lever at the

same time and holding it firm against the swelling side. From his

pocket he took a steel pin and thrust it home, and the bomb became

innocuous.

“You’ve kept every scrap of paper, of course?” said Gaylor. “There was

no other packing but this?”

Every piece of paper was carefully folded and put in an envelope, and

the two explosive experts went down to pack away Mr. Reeder’s

dangerous gift.

“There was a lot you didn’t tell the chief,” said Gaylor at parting.

“That’s the trouble with you, you old devil!”

Mr. Reeder looked pained.

“That is not a very pleasant expression,” he said.

“But it is,” insisted Gaylor. “You always keep back some juicy bit to

spring on us at the last moment. It’s either your sense of drama or

your sense of humour.”

For a moment Reeder’s eyes twinkled, and then his face became a mask

again.

“I have no--um--sense of humour,” he said.

He had at any rate a sense of vanity, and he was irritated that his

little idiosyncrasy had been so cruelly exposed to description.

He was up at six the next morning, and by half past seven was on his

way to the Thames Valley. On the previous day he had telephoned to

eight separate boathouses between Windsor and Henley, and he was

satisfied that he had found what he wanted in the neighbourhood of

Bourne End. He had telephoned to the boat-builder on whom he was

calling, and he found that industrious man at work in his yard.

“You’re the gentleman who wanted to know about the _Zaira_? I was

going to send one of my boys up to see if she was still tied up, but I

haven’t been able to spare him this morning.”

“I’m rather glad you haven’t,” said Mr. Reeder.

“It was a funny thing you telephoning to me when you did,” said the

builder. “She’d just gone past on her way to Marlow… No, I’ve never

seen her before, but I caught the name; in fact, it was because she

was new in this part of the river that I noticed her. She’s a

forty-foot cruiser, nearly new, and I should think she’s got pretty

powerful engines. As it was, she made a bit of a wash.”

He explained that after Mr. Reeder’s inquiry he had telephoned through

to Marlow, had learned that the boat had not passed, and had sent one

of his assistants up the towpath to locate her.

“She’s lying at a private quay that runs in from the river to a big

red house which has been empty for years. There’s nobody on board her,

and I suppose the owner’s had permission from the agents. Are you

thinking of buying her?”

That view had never presented itself to Mr. Reeder. He thought for a

long time, and gave the boat-builder the impression that it was only

a question of price that prevented him from ownership.

“Yes, it’s quite usual for people to tie up and leave their boats for

months at a time, especially at a private quay like that. It’s not

safe: you get a craft full of rats, especially in the winter months.

These big boats cost a lot to keep up, and you couldn’t afford to have

a caretaker on board.”

Mr. Reeder made a very leisurely way along the towpath, stopping now

and again to admire the lovely reach. Although he had explicit

instructions, he might have passed the narrow canal which runs in from

the river, in spite of the brick bridge across, for the stream was

choked with weeds, and ran apparently into a tangle of trees and

undergrowth. With some difficulty Mr. Reeder reached its bank. He then

saw that the canal was brick-lined. Nevertheless, though he had this

indication of its edge, he walked gingerly.

It opened to a larger pool, a sort of backwater. Passing a clump of

bushes, he came suddenly upon the boat. The bow lay almost within

reach of his hand. It was tied up fore and aft and had a deserted

appearance. Across the forepart of the boat was drawn a canvas cover,

but he was prepared for this by the description of the boat-builder.

Mr. Reeder slipped his hand in his pocket and went cautiously along

the length of the boat. He noted that all the portholes were not only

closed but made opaque with brown paper.

“Is anybody there?” he called loudly.

There was no answer. In midstream a moorhen was paddling aimlessly;

the sound of his voice sent it scurrying to cover.

The foremost part of the ship was evidently the engine room, and

possibly accommodation for a small crew. The living saloon was aft. It

was these that had their portholes covered. Both cabins were

approached from the well deck amidships, and he saw here a

canvas-covered wheel. The doors were padlocked on the outside.

Mr. Reeder looked around, and stepped on to the boat down a short

ladder to the well. He tried the padlock on the saloon door. It was

fast; but it was a very simple padlock, and if fortune favoured him,

and the boat he sought was really discovered, he had prepared for such

an emergency as this.

He tried three of the keys which he took from his pocket before the

lock snapped back. He unfastened the hasp, turned the handle and

pulled open the door. He could see nothing for a moment; then he

switched on an electric hand-lamp and sent its rays into the interior.

The saloon was empty. The floor of it lay possibly eighteen inches

below the level of the deck on which he was standing. And then.…

Lying in the middle of the floor, and glittering in the light of his

lamp, was a white-handled, silver-plated revolver.

“Very interesting,” said Mr. Reeder, and went down into the saloon.

He reached the bottom of the steps and turned, walking backwards with

his face to the door through which he had come, the muzzle of his

Browning covering the opening. Presently his heel kicked the pistol.

He took another step back and stooped to pick it up.…

CHAPTER VIII

Mr. Reeder was conscious of a headache and that the light shining in

his eyes was painful. It was a tiny globe which burned in the roof of

the cabin. Somebody was talking very distressedly; the falsetto voices

Mr. Reeder loathed. His senses came back gradually.

He was shocked to find himself one of the figures in a most

fantastical scene; something which did not belong to the great world

of reality in which he lived and had his being. He was part of an

episode, torn bodily from a most imaginative and impossible work of

fiction.

The man who sat in one corner of the lounge, clasping his knees, was…

Mr. Reeder puzzled for a word. Theatrical, of course. That red silk

robe, that Mephistophelian cap, and the long black mask with the lace

fringe that even hid the speaker’s chin. His hands were covered with

jewelled rings which scintillated in the feeble light overhead.

Mr. Reeder could not very well move; he was handcuffed, his legs were

strapped painfully together, and in his mouth was a piece of wood

lightly tied behind his ears. It was not painful, but it could be, he

realized. At any rate he was spared the necessity of replying to the

exultant man who sat at the other end of the settee.

“… Did you hear what I said, my master of mystery?”

He spoke with a slightly foreign accent, this man in the red robe.

“You are so clever, and yet I am more clever, eh? All of it I planned

out of my mind. The glittering silver pistol on the floor--that was

the only way I could get you to stoop and bring your head into the

gas. It was a very heavy gas which does not easily escape, but I was

afraid you might have dropped a cigarette, and that would have

betrayed everything. If you had waited a little time the gas would

have rolled out of the open door; but no, you must have the pistol, so

you stooped and picked it up, and _voila!_”

His hands glittered dazzlingly.

“You are used to criminals of the stupid kind,” he went on. “For the

first time, my Reeder, you meet one who has planned everything step by

step. Pardon me.”

He stepped down to the floor, leaned forward and untied the gag.

“I find it difficult if conversation is one-sided,” he said

pleasantly. “If you make a fuss I shall shoot you and that will be the

end. At present I desire that you should know everything. You know

me?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t that pleasure,” said Mr. Reeder, and the man

chuckled.

“If you had lived, I would have been your chief case, your _chef

d’œuvre_, the one man of your acquaintance who could plan murder

and--what is the expression?--get away with it! Do you know where you

are?”

“I’m on the _Zaira_,” said Mr. Reeder.

“Do you know who is her owner?”

“She is owned by Mr. Clive Desboyne.”

The man chuckled at this.

“Poor fellow! The lovesick one, eh? For him this boat is--where do you

think?--at Twickenham, for its spring repairs. He told you perhaps he

had been mad enough to let it for two months? No, he did not tell you?

Ah, that is interesting. Perhaps he forgot.”

Mr. Reeder nodded slowly.

“Now tell me, my friend--my time is very short and I cannot waste it

here with you--do you know who killed Attymar?”

“You are Attymar,” said Mr. Reeder, and was rewarded by a shrill

chuckle of delighted laughter.

“So clever, after all! It is a good thing I have you, eh?

Otherwise”--he shrugged his shoulders lightly. “That is the very best

joke--I am Attymar! Do I speak like him, yes? Possibly--who knows?”

He slipped from his seat and came stealthily towards Reeder and fixed

the gag a little tighter.

“Where shall you be this night, do you think, with a big, heavy chain

fastened around you? I know all the deepest holes in this river, and

years and years will pass before they find your body. To think that

this great London shall lose its Mr. Reeder! So many people have tried

to kill you, my friend, but they have failed because they are

criminals--just stupid fellows who cannot plan like a general.”

Mr. Reeder said nothing; he could not raise his hand far enough to

relieve the pressure on his mouth, for attached to the centre link of

the handcuffs was a cord fastened to the strap about his ankles.

The man in the red cloak bent over him, his eyes glaring through the

holes in the mask.

“Last night I tried you. I say to myself, ‘Is this man stupid or is he

clever?’” He spoke quickly and in a low voice. “So I send you the

little bomb. I would have sent it also to Desboyne--he also will die

to-night, and our friend Mr. Southers will be hanged, and there will

be the end of you all! And I will go sailing to the southern seas, and

no man will raise his hand against me, because I am clever.”

Mr. Reeder thought he was a little monotonous. In spite of his

terrible position, he was intensely bored. The man in the red cloak

must have heard something, for he went quickly to the door and

listened more intently, then, mounting the stairs, slammed the door

behind him and put on the padlock. Presently Mr. Reeder heard him

mount the side of the boat and guessed he had stepped ashore to meet

whatever interruption was threatened. It was, in truth, the

boat-builder, who had come to make inquiries, and the grey-haired man

with the stoop and the white moustache and twisted face was able to

assure him that Mr. Reeder had made an offer for the boat, but it had

been rejected, and that the detective had gone on to Marlow.

The prisoner had a quarter of an hour to consider his unfortunate

position and to supply a remedy. Mr. Reeder satisfied himself that it

was a simple matter to free his hands from the steel cuffs. He had

peculiarly thin wrists and his large, bony hands were very deceptive.

He freed one, adjusted the gag to a less uncomfortable tension, and

brought himself to a sitting position. He swayed and would have fallen

to the floor but for a stroke of luck. The effort showed him how

dangerous it would be to make an attempt to escape before he recovered

strength. His pistol had been taken from him; the silver-handled

revolver had also been removed. He resumed his handcuffs and had not

apparently moved when his captor opened the door, only to look in.

“I’m afraid you will have to do without food to-day--does it matter?”

Now Mr. Reeder saw that on the inside of the saloon door was a steel

door. It was painted the same colour as the woodwork, and it was on

this discovery that he based his hope of life. For some reason, which

he never understood, his enemy switched on two lights from the

outside, and this afforded him an opportunity of taking stock of his

surroundings.

The portholes were impossible--he understood now why they had been

made airtight with brown paper. It would be as much as he could do to

get his arms through them. Having decided upon his plan of campaign,

Mr. Reeder acted with his customary energy. He could not allow his

life to depend upon the caprice of this man. Evidently the intention

was to take him out late at night, loaded with chains, and drop him

overboard; but he might have cause to change his mind. And that, Mr.

Reeder thought, would be very unfortunate.

His worst forebodings were in a fair way to being realized, did he but

know. The man who stood in his shirt sleeves, prodding at the centre

of the backwater, had suddenly realized the danger which might follow

the arrival of a curious-minded policeman. The boat-builder would

certainly gossip. Reeder had something of an international reputation,

and the local police would be only too anxious to make his

acquaintance.

Gossip runs up and down a river with a peculiar facility. He went into

the engine cabin, where he had stowed his fantastic robe and hat, and

dragged out a little steel cylinder. Unfasten that nozzle, leave it on

the floor near where the helpless man lay, and in a quarter of an hour

perhaps…

He cold-bloodedly pulled out two links of heavy chain and dropped them

with a crash on the deck. Mr. Reeder heard the sound; he wrenched one

hand free of the cuff, not without pain, broke the gag, and, drawing

himself up into a sitting position, unfastened the first of the two

straps. His head was splitting from the effect of the gas. As his feet

touched the floor he reeled. The second cuff he removed at his

leisure. He was so close to the door now that he could drop the bar.

It stuck for a little while, but presently he drew it down. It fell

with a clatter into the pocket.

The man on the deck heard, ran to the door and tugged, drew off the

padlock and tried to force his way in.

“I’m afraid you’re rather late,” said Mr. Reeder politely.

He could almost feel the vibration of the man’s fury. His vanity had

been hurt; he had been proved a bungler by the one man in the world he

wished to impress, whilst life held any impressions for him.

Then the man on the bridge heard a smash and saw some splinters of

glass fly from one of the ports. There were five tiny airholes in one

of the doors, but four of these had been plugged with clay. Taking the

cylinder, he smashed the nozzle end through the obstruction. A wild,

desperate idea came to the harassed man. Reeder heard the starting

wheel turn, and presently the low hum of machinery. He heard the

patter of feet across the deck and peered through the porthole, but it

was below the level of the bank.

He looked round for a weapon but could find none. Of one thing he was

certain: Mr. Red Robe would not dare to run for the river. There was

quite enough traffic there for him to attract attention. He could not

afford to wait for darkness to fall; his position was as desperate as

Reeder’s own had been----

Bang!

It was the sound of a pistol shot, followed by another. Reeder heard

somebody shout, then the sound of a man crashing through the bushes.

Then he heard the deep voice of Clive Desboyne.

“Reeder… are you there? How are you?”

Mr. Reeder, a slave to politeness, put his mouth up to the broken

porthole.

It was some time before Desboyne could knock off the padlock.

Presently the door was opened and Mr. Reeder came out.

“Thank God, you’re safe!” said the other breathlessly. “Who was the

old bird who shot at me?”

He pointed towards the place where the backwater turned.

“Is there a house there or a road or something? That’s the way he

went. What has happened?”

Mr. Reeder was sitting on a little deck chair, his throbbing head

between his hands. After a while he raised his face.

“I have met the greatest criminal in the world,” he said solemnly.

“He’s so clever that he’s alive. His name is Attymar!”

Clive Desboyne opened his mouth in amazement.

“Attymar? But he’s dead!”

“I hope so,” said Mr. Reeder viciously, “but I have reason to know

that he isn’t. No, no, young man, I won’t tell you what happened. I’m

rather ashamed of myself. Anyway, I am not particularly proud of being

caught by this”--he paused--“amateur. Why did you come?”

“It was only by luck. I don’t know why I came. I happened to ’phone

through to Twickenham about some repairs to the boat--by the way, you

must have seen a picture of it hanging in my hall. In fact, it was in

that picture where you were so smart as to tell the date. I lent the

_Zaira_ at times; I lent it a few months ago to an Italian or Serbian

fellow, but he so ill-used it that I sent a message that it was to be

sent back to the yard. They telephoned along the river for news of it,

and that’s when I learnt you were down here--you look rotten.”

“I feel rotten,” said Mr. Reeder. “And you came----”

“I drove down. I had a sort of feeling in my mind that something was

wrong. Then I met a man who’d seen the builder, and he told me about

the little old fellow. Until then I didn’t know that he was in the

boat, and I came along to make inquiries. For some reason, which I

can’t understand, he no sooner saw me than he pulled a gun and let fly

at me, and, turning, went like mad through those bushes.”

“Have you a gun?” asked Mr. Reeder.

Desboyne smiled.

“No, I don’t carry such things.”

“In that case it would be foolish to pursue my ancient enemy. Let one

of the Buckingham Constabulary carry on the good work. Is your car

anywhere handy?”

There was a road apparently within fifty yards.

“By Jove!” said Desboyne suddenly. “I left it outside the gates of an

empty house. I wonder whether that’s the place where the old bird

went--and whether my car is still there?”

It was there, in the drive of a deserted house: the two-seater coupe

which had so excited the disgust of poor Johnny Southers. With some

difficulty Clive started it up, and the action recalled something to

him.

“Did we leave the engines of that boat running?” he asked suddenly.

“If you don’t mind I’ll go back and turn them off; then I’ll notify

the police, and I’ll send a man to bring the _Zaira_ into Maidenhead.”

He was gone ten minutes. Mr. Reeder had an opportunity of walking

round the car and admiring it.

Rain had fallen in the night: he made this interesting discovery

before Desboyne returned.

“We’ll run up to Marlow and I’ll get a man to go down and collect the

boat,” he said as he climbed in. “I’ve never heard anything more

amazing. Tell me exactly what happened to you?”

Mr. Reeder smiled sadly.

“You will pardon me if I do not?” he asked gently. “The truth is, I

have been asked by a popular newspaper to write my reminiscences, and

I want to save every personal experience for that important volume.”

He would talk about other subjects, however; for example, of the

fortunate circumstance that Desboyne’s car was still there though it

was within reach of the enemy.

“I’ve never met him before. I hope I’ll never meet him again,” said

Desboyne. “But I think he can be traced. Naturally, I don’t want to go

into court against him. I think it’s the most ridiculous experience,

to be shot at without replying.”

“Why bother?” asked Mr. Reeder. “I personally never go into court to

gratify a private vendetta, though there is a possibility that in the

immediate future I may break the habit of years!”

He got down at the boathouse and was a silent listener whilst Clive

Desboyne rang up a Twickenham number and described the exact location

of the boat.

“They’ll collect it,” he said as he hung up. “Now, Mr. Reeder, what am

I to do about the police?”

Mr. Reeder shook his head.

“I shouldn’t report it,” he said. “They’d never understand.”

On the way back to town he grew more friendly to Clive Desboyne than

he had ever been before, and certainly he was more communicative than

he had been regarding the Attymar murder.

“You’ve never seen a murder case at first hand----”

“And I’m not very anxious to,” interrupted the other.

“I applaud that sentiment. Young people are much too morbid,” said Mr.

Reeder. “But this is a crime particularly interesting, because it was

obviously planned by one who has studied the art of murder and the

methods of the average criminal. He had studied it to such good

purpose that he was satisfied that if a crime of this character were

committed by a man of intelligence and acumen, he would--um--escape

the consequence of his deed.”

“And will he?” asked the other, interested.

“No,” said Mr. Reeder, rubbing his nose. He thought for a long time.

“I don’t think so. I think he will hang; I am pretty certain he will

hang.”

Another long pause.

“And yet in a sense he was very clever. For example, he had to attract

the attention of the policeman on the beat and establish the fact that

a murder had been committed. He left open the wicket gate on

the--um--wharf, and placed a lantern on the ground and another within

the open door of his little house, so that the policeman, even if he

had been entirely devoid of curiosity, could not fail to investigate.”

Clive Desboyne frowned.

“Upon my life I don’t know who is murdered! It can’t be Attymar,

because you saw him to-day; and it can’t possibly be Ligsey, because,

according to your statement, he is alive. Why did Johnny Southers go

there?”

“Because he’d been offered a job, a partnership with Attymar. Attymar

had two or three barges, and with vigorous management it looked as if

his business might grow into a more important concern. Southers didn’t

even know that this man Attymar was the type of creature he was. An

appointment was made on the telephone; Southers attended; he

interviewed Attymar or somebody in the dark, during which time I

gather he was sprinkled with blood--whose blood, we shall discover.

There was a similar case in France in eighteen-forty-seven. Madame

Puyeres…”

He gave the history of the Puyeres case at length.

“That was our friend’s cleverness, the blood-sprinkling, the

lantern-placing, the removal of Mr.--um--I forget his name for the

moment, the theatrical agent of unsavoury reputation. But he made one

supreme error. You know the house--no, of course, you’ve never been

there.”

“Which house?” asked Clive curiously.

“Attymar’s house. It’s little more than a weighing shed. You haven’t

been there? No, I see you haven’t. If you would like a little lecture,

or a little demonstration of criminal error, I would like to show you

at first-hand.”

“Will it save Johnny Southers--this mistake?” asked Desboyne

curiously.

Mr. Reeder nodded.

“Nothing is more certain. How amazing are the--um--vagaries of the

human mind! How peculiar are the paths into which--um--vanity leads

us!”

He closed his eyes and seemed to be communing with himself all the way

through Shepherd’s Bush. Mr. Desboyne put him down at Scotland Yard,

and they arranged to meet at the end of Shadwick Lane that same

afternoon.

“There is no further news of Ligsey,” said Gaylor when Reeder came

into his office.

“I should have been surprised if there had been,” said Mr. Reeder

cheerfully, “partly because he’s dead, and partly because--well, I

didn’t expect any communication from him.”

“You know he telephoned to the chief last night?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised at that,” said Mr. Reeder, almost

flippantly.

They talked about Johnny Southers and the case against him, and of the

disappointing results of a careful search of the garden. They had dug

up every bed and had done incalculable damage to Mr. Southers’

herbaceous borders.

“Our information was that he had a couple of thousand pounds cached

there in real money, but we found nothing.”

“How much was there in the box you discovered in the tool shed?”

“Oh, only a hundred pounds or so,” said Gaylor. “The big money was

hidden in the garden, according to what we were told. We didn’t find a

cent!”

“Too bad,” said Mr. Reeder sympathetically. Then, remembering: “Do you

mind if I take a young--um--friend of mine over Attymar’s house this

afternoon? He is not exactly interested in the crime of wilful murder,

but as he is providing for the defence of young Mr. Southers----”

“I don’t mind,” said Gaylor, “but you had better ask the chief.”

The Chief Constable was out, and the opportunity of meeting him was

rendered more remote when Clive Desboyne rang him up, as he said, on

the off-chance of getting him at Scotland Yard, and invited him out to

lunch.

“Anna Welford is coming. I have told her you think that Johnny’s

innocence can be established, and she’s most anxious to meet you.”

Mr. Reeder was in something of a predicament, but, as usual, he rose

to the occasion. He instantly cancelled two important engagements to

meet this, and at lunch-time he sat between a delighted girl and a

rather exhilarated benefactor. The one difficulty he had anticipated

did not, however, arise. She had some shopping to do that afternoon,

so he went alone with Clive Desboyne to what the latter described as

“the most gruesome after-lunch entertainment” he had ever experienced.

CHAPTER IX

A car dropped them at the end of Shadwick Lane, which had already

settled down to normality and had grown accustomed to the notoriety

which the murder had brought to it.

There was a constable on duty on the wharf, but he was inside the

gate. Mr. Reeder opened the wicket and Clive Desboyne stepped in. He

looked round the littered yard with disgust visible on his face.

“How terribly sordid!” he said. “I am not too fastidious, but I can’t

imagine anything more grim and miserable than this.”

“It was grimmer for the--um--gentleman who was killed,” said Mr.

Reeder.

He went into the house ahead of his companion, pointed out the room

where the murder was committed, “as I feel perfectly sure,” he added;

and then led the way up the narrow stairs into what had been Captain

Attymar’s sitting-room.

“If you sit at that table you’ll see the plan of the house, and I may

show you one or two very interesting things.”

Mr. Reeder switched on a handlamp on the table and Clive Desboyne sat

down, and followed, apparently entranced, the recital of J.G. Reeder’s

theory.

“If you have time--what is the time?”

Clive Desboyne looked up at the ceiling, stared at it for a while.

“Let me guess,” he said slowly. “Four o’clock.”

“Marvellous,” murmured Mr. Reeder. “It is within one minute. How

curious you should look up at the ceiling! There used to be a clock

there.”

“In the ceiling?” asked the other incredulously.

He rose, walked to the window and stared out on to the wharf. From

where he stood he could see the policeman on duty at the gate.

There was nobody watching at a little door in the ragged fence which

led to Shadwick Passage. Suddenly Mr. Clive Desboyne pointed to the

wharf.

“That is where the murder was committed,” he said quietly.

Mr. Reeder took a step towards the window and cautiously craned his

neck forward. He did not feel the impact of the rubber truncheon that

crashed against the base of his skull, but went down in a heap.

Clive Desboyne looked round, walked to the door and listened, then

stepped out, locked the door, came down the stairs and on to the

wharf. The policeman eyed him suspiciously, but Mr. Desboyne turned

and carried on a conversation with the invisible Reeder.

He strolled round to the front of the house. Nobody saw him open the

little gate into the passage. The end of Shadwick Lane was barred, but

Gaylor did not remember the passage until too late. It was he who

found Reeder and brought him back to consciousness.

“I deserve that,” said Mr. Reeder when he became articulate. “Twice in

one day! I am getting too old for this work.”

CHAPTER X

One of those amazing things which so rarely happen, that

fifty-thousand-to-one-against chance, had materialized, and the high

chiefs of Scotland Yard grew apoplectic as they asked the why and the

wherefore. A man wanted by the police on a charge of murder had walked

through a most elaborate cordon. River police had shut off the

waterway; detectives and uniform men had formed a circle through which

it was impossible to escape; yet the wanted man had, by the oddest

chance, passed between two detectives who had mistaken him for

somebody they knew.

Whilst Reeder was waiting at Scotland Yard he explained in greater

detail the genesis of his suspicion.

“The inquiries I made showed me that Attymar was never seen in

daylight, except by his crew, and then only in the fading light. He

had established buying agencies in a dozen continental cities, and for

years he has been engaged in scientific smuggling. But he could only

do that if he undertook the hardships incidental to a bargemaster’s

life. He certainly reduced those hardships to a minimum, for, except

to collect the contraband which was dumped near his barge, and bring

it up to the wharf he had first hired and then bought in the early

stages of his activity, he spent few nights out of his comfortable

bed.

“I was puzzled to account for many curious happenings. If Clive

Desboyne had not taken the trouble to appear in Brockley at almost the

hour at which the crime would be discovered--he knew the time the

policeman came down Shadwick Lane--my suspicions might not have been

aroused. It was a blunder on his part, even with his clever assumption

of frankness, to come along and tell me the story of what Ligsey had

told him; for as soon as the crime was discovered and I examined the

place, I was absolutely certain that Ligsey was dead, or Clive would

never have dared to invent the story.

“Desboyne prides himself on being a clever criminal. Like all

criminals who have that illusion, he made one or two stupid blunders.

When I called at his flat I found the walls covered with photographs,

some of which showed him in costume. It was the first intimation I had

that he had been on the stage. There was also a photograph of the

_Zaira_ when it was going upstream, with the House of Commons in the

background. Attached by the painter at the stern was a small

canoe-shaped tender, which had been faithfully described to me that

day by the boy Hobbs. Desboyne knew he had blundered, but hoped I saw

no significance in those two photographs, especially the photograph of

him dressed as a coster, with the identical make-up that Attymar wore.

“I started inquiries, and discovered that there had been a C. Desboyne

who worked in music-halls, giving imitations of popular characters and

making remarkably quick changes on the stage. I met people who

remembered him, some who gave me the most intimate details about his

beginnings. For ten years he masqueraded as Attymar, sunk all his

savings in a barge, rented the wharf and house, and eventually

purchased it. He is an extraordinary organizer, and there is no doubt

that in the ten years he has been working he has accumulated a pretty

large fortune. Nobody, of course, associated the bargemaster with this

elegant young man who lived in Park Lane.

“What Ligsey knew about him I don’t know. Personally, I believe that

Ligsey knew very little, and could have told us very little. Attymar

discovered that Ligsey was communicating with me. Do you remember the

letter he sent to me? I told you the envelope had been opened--and so

it had, probably by ‘Attymar.’ From that moment Ligsey was doomed.

Clive’s vanity was such that he thought he could plan a remarkable

crime, throw the suspicion upon the man he hated, and at the same time

remove Ligsey, the one danger, from his path. I should think that he

had been planning Johnny Southers’ end for about three weeks before

the murder. The money that was found in the tool house was planted

there on the actual night of the murder, while the money in the

garden----”

“Money in what garden?” asked Mason. “The garden was searched but none

was found.”

Mr. Reeder coughed.

“At any rate, the money in the tool house was put there to support the

suspicion. It was clumsily done. The message on the piece of paper,

the old invoices, as well as the story that Desboyne told me with such

charming effect, were designed with two objects. One was to cover the

disappearance of Attymar and the other to ruin Southers.

“But perhaps his cleverest and most audacious trick was the one he

performed this morning. He had me in his boat; he had been waiting for

me; probably had watched me from the moment I arrived at Bourne End.

Then, wearing his fantastic get-up, and jealous to the very last that

I should suspect him, he planned his scheme for my--um--unpleasant

exit. I give him credit for his resourcefulness. As a quick change

artist he has probably few equals. He could go on to the bank and

deceive the boat-builder from Bourne End. Who could believe that he

was a little old man with a humped shoulder? He could equally come to

my rescue when there was no other way of throwing suspicion from

himself. Unfortunately for him, I saw not only that the car had been

in the grounds all night, and that his story of having driven down

from town was a lie, but--um--certain other things.”

The telephone bell rang, and Mason took up the instrument.

“He went out a quarter of an hour ago--you don’t know where?… It was

Desboyne, was it? She didn’t say where she was meeting him?”

Reeder sighed and rose wearily.

“Do I understand that Miss Anna Welford has been allowed to leave her

house?” There was a quality of exasperation in his tone, and Mr. Mason

could not but agree that it was justified. For the first request that

Reeder had made, and that by telephone from Rotherhithe, was that a

special guard should be put over Anna Welford. Certain of Mr. Mason’s

local subordinates, however, thought that the least likely thing that

could happen would be that Desboyne would come into the neighbourhood,

and here they were right. Matters had been further complicated by the

fact that the girl had gone out that day, and was still out when the

police officers called. She had rung up, however, a moment before

Desboyne had telephoned, and had given her number, which was

transferred to him. Later, when she was called up at the address she

had given, it was discovered that she had gone out to meet him; nobody

knew where.

“So really,” said Gaylor, “nobody is to blame.”

“Nobody ever is!” snapped Mr. Reeder.

It was Mr. Clive Desboyne’s little conceit that he should arrange to

meet the girl at the corner of the Thames Embankment, within fifty

yards of Scotland Yard. When she arrived in some hurry, she saw

nothing that would suggest that anything unusual had happened, except

the good news he had passed to her over the telephone.

“Where is Johnny?” she asked, almost before she was within talking

distance, and he was amused.

“I really ought to be very jealous,” he bantered her.

He called a taxicab as he spoke, and ordered the man to drive him to

an address in Chiswick.

“Reeder hasn’t been on to you, of course? I’m glad--I wanted to be the

first to tell you.”

“Is he released?” she asked, a little impatiently.

“He will be released this evening. I think that is best. The

authorities are very chary of demonstrations, and Scotland Yard have

particularly asked that he should give no newspaper interviews, but

shall spend the night, if possible, out of town. I have arranged with

my cousin that he shall stay at his place till to-morrow.”

It all seemed very feasible, and when of his own accord he stopped the

cab and, getting out to telephone, returned to tell her that he had

’phoned her father that she would not be back before eight, the

thought of his disinterestedness aroused a warm little glow of

friendship towards him.

“I have been besieged by reporters myself, and I’m rather anxious to

avoid them. These damned papers will do anything for a sensation.”

The swift express van of one of these offending newspapers passed the

taxi at that moment. On its back doors was posted a placard.

“ALLEGED MURDERER’S DARING ESCAPE.”

Later the girl saw another newspaper poster.

“POLICE OF METROPOLIS SEARCHING FOR MURDERER.”

The taxi drove up a side street, and, as he tapped on the window,

stopped. There was a garage a little further along, and, leaving Anna,

he went inside and came out in a few moments with a small closed

coupe.

“I keep this here in case of emergency,” he explained to her. “One

never knows when one might need a spare car.”

Exactly why he should need a spare car in Chiswick he did not attempt

to explain.

Avoiding the Great West Road, he took the longer route through

Brentford. Rain was falling heavily by the time they reached Hounslow.

She was so grateful to him for all the services he had rendered, and

which, though she was unconscious of the fact, he had particularized,

that she did not resist his suggestion that they should go on to

Oxford. She wondered why until they were on the outskirts of the town,

and then he explained with a little smile that Johnny had been

transferred to Oxford Gaol that morning.

“I kept this as a surprise for you,” he said. “Only about three people

in London know, and I was most anxious that you should not tell.”

They went into a teashop on the other side of the city, and she was

puzzled why he should prefer this rather poverty-stricken little café

to an hotel, but thought it was an act of consideration on his

part--part of the general scheme for avoiding reporters. They lingered

over tea until she grew a little restless.

“We’ll go to the prison and make inquiries,” he told her.

Actually they did go to the prison, and he descended and rang the

bell. When he came back he was grinning ruefully.

“He was released half an hour ago. My cousin’s car picked him up. We

can go on.”

It was getting dark now and the rain continued to fall steadily. They

took another route towards London, passed through a little town which

she thought she recognized as Marlow, turned abruptly from the main

road, and as abruptly again up a dark and neglected carriage drive.

She had a glimpse of the sheen of a stagnant backwater on her left,

and then the car drew up before a forbidding looking door, and,

stepping down, Clive Desboyne opened the door with his key.

“Here we are,” he said pleasantly, gave her his hand, and, before she

realized what had happened, she was in a gloomy hall smelling of damp

and decay.

The door thundered close behind her.

“Where are we… this isn’t the place,” she said tremulously, and at

that moment all her old suspicions, all her old fears of the man

returned.

“It is quite the place,” he said.

From the pocket of his mackintosh he took an electric lamp and

switched it on. The house was furnished, if rotting carpets and

dust-covered chairs meant anything. He held her firmly by the arm,

walked her along the passage, then, opening a door, pushed her inside.

She thought there was no window, but found afterwards that it was

shuttered.

The room was fairly clean; there was a bed, a table and a small oil

stove. On a sideboard were a number of packets of foodstuffs.

“Keep quiet and don’t make a fuss,” he said.

Striking a match, he lit a paraffin lamp that stood on the table.

“What does this mean?” she asked. Her face was white and haggard.

He did not answer immediately, and then:

“I’m very fond of you--that’s what it means. I shall probably be

hanged in about six weeks’ time, and there’s a wise old saying that

you might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. You for the

moment are the lamb.”

The bright, shining eyes were fixed on hers. She almost swooned with

horror.

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to murder you or cut your throat or do

any of the things I tried to do to Mr. Reeder this morning--oh, yes, I

was the fantastical gentleman on the _Zaira_. The whole thing happened

a few yards away from where you’re standing. Now, Anna, you’re going

to be very sensible, my sweet--there’s nobody within five miles of

here who is at all concerned----”

The hinges of the door were rusty: they squeaked when it was moved.

They squeaked now. Clive Desboyne turned in a flash, fumbling under

mackintosh and coat.

“Don’t move,” said Mr. Reeder gently.

It was his conventional admonition.

“And put up your hands. I shall certainly shoot if you do not. You’re

a murderer--I could forgive you that. You’re a liar--that, to a man of

my high moral code, is unpardonable.”

The dozen detectives who had been waiting for three hours in this dank

house came crowding into the room, and snapped irons on the wrists of

the white-faced man.

“See that they fit,” said Mr. Reeder pleasantly. “I had a pair this

morning which were grossly over-size.”

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. bargemaster/barge-master,

drawing-room/drawing room, tool-shed/tool shed, etc.) have been

preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Punctuation: fix a few quotation mark pairings, missing periods, etc.

[Red Aces/Chapter IV]

Change (“I seldom read magazine stories,” said Mr. _Reader_) to

_Reeder_.

[Red Aces/Chapter VI]

“that all the money he paid in was in French bank notes” delete the

first _in_.

(“He owed him money. I know no more _that_ that.) to _than_.

[Red Aces/Chapter X]

“he _addresssed_ the company again without taking his eyes” to

_addressed_.

[Red Aces/Chapter XI]

“It _were_ no accident: it was a deliberate double-cross.” to _was_.

“endeavouring to open the safe behind the bookcase, The telephone”

change the comma to a period.

“was sent anonymously to the younger _Mackay_ by Machfield” to

_McKay_.

[Kennedy The Con. Man/Chapter IV]

(“What’s biting you,” demanded blue trench coat.) change the comma to

a question mark.

[Kennedy The Con. Man/Chapter V]

(“F.S.” frowned the inspector. “That’s a pretty common initial.”) add

a comma after _F.S._

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

change the first period to a question mark.

[The Case Of Joe Attymar/Chapter IV]

“Gaylor opened an _attache_ case and took out a battered” to

_attaché_.

[The Case Of Joe Attymar/Chapter VIII]

(“By _jove_!” said Desboyne suddenly. “I left it outside) to _Jove_.

[End of text]