Bride put aside the cards and stood up.
‘Got who?’ he asked coldly. ‘And if it’s killing, you needn’t answer, but get out!’
‘There’s no killing.’
Lew sat down squarely at the table, his hands in his pockets, a real smile on his face.
‘I’ve been trailing Reeder for a week, and that fellow wants some trailing!’
‘Well?’ asked the other, when he paused dramatically.
‘I’ve found his stocking!’
Bride scratched his chin, and was half convinced.
‘You never have?’
Lew nodded.
‘He’s been going to Maidstone a lot lately, and driving to a little village about five miles out. There I always lost him. But the other night, when he came back to the station to catch the last train, he slipped into the waiting-room and I found a place where I could watch him. What do you think he did?’
Mr Bride hazarded no suggestion.
‘He opened his bag,’ said Lew impressively, ‘and took out a wad of notes as thick as that! He’d been drawing on his bank! I trailed him up to London. There’s a restaurant on the station and he went in to get a cup of coffee, with me keeping well out of his sight. As he came out of the restaurant he took out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth. He didn’t see the little book that dropped, but I did. I was scared sick that somebody else would see it, or that he’d wait long enough to find it himself. But he went out of the station and I got that book before you could say “knife”. Look!’
It was a well-worn little notebook, covered with faded red morocco. Bride put out his hand to take it.
‘Wait a bit,’ said Lew. ‘Are you in this with me fifty-fifty, because I want some help?’
Bride hesitated.
‘If it’s just plain thieving, I’m with you,’ he said.
‘Plain thieving – and sweet,’ said Lew exultantly, and pushed the book across the table.
For the greater part of the night they sat together talking in low tones, discussing impartially the methodical book-keeping of Mr J. G. Reeder and his exceeding dishonesty.
The Monday night was wet. A storm blew up from the south-west, and the air was filled with falling leaves as Lew and his companion footed the five miles which separated them from the village. Neither carried any impedimenta that was visible, yet under Lew’s waterproof coat was a kit of tools of singular ingenuity, and Mr Bride’s coat pockets were weighted down with the sections of a powerful jemmy.
They met nobody in their walk, and the church bell was striking eleven when Lew gripped the bars of the South Lodge gates, pulled himself up to the top and dropped lightly on the other side. He was followed by Mr Bride, who, in spite of his bulk, was a singularly agile man. The ruined lodge showed in the darkness, and they passed through the creaking gates to the door and Lew flashed his lantern upon the keyhole before he began manipulation with the implements which he had taken from his kit.
The door was opened in ten minutes and a few seconds later they stood in a low-roofed little room, the principal feature of which was a deep, grateless fire-place. Lew took off his mackintosh and stretched it over the window before he spread the light in his lamp, and, kneeling down, brushed the debris from the hearth, examining the joints of the big stone carefully.
‘This work’s been botched,’ he said. ‘Anybody could see that.’
He put the claw of the jemmy into a crack and levered up the stone, and it moved slightly. Stopping only to dig a deeper crevice with a chisel and hammer he thrust the claw of the jemmy farther down. The stone came up above the edge of the floor and Bride slipped the chisel underneath.
‘Now together,’ grunted Lew.
They got their fingers beneath the hearth-stone and with one heave hinged it up. Lew picked up the lamp and, kneeling down, flashed a light into the dark cavity. And then.
‘Oh, my God!’ he shrieked.
A second later two terrified men rushed from the house into the drive. And a miracle had happened, for the gates were open and a dark figure stood squarely before them.
‘Put up your hands, Kohl!’ said a voice, and hateful as it was to Lew Kohl, he could have fallen on the neck of Mr Reeder.
At twelve o’clock that night Sir James Tithermite was discussing matters with his bride-to-be: the stupidity of her lawyer, who wished to safeguard her fortune, and his own cleverness and foresight in securing complete freedom of action for the girl who was to be his wife.
‘These blackguards think of nothing but their fees,’ he began, when his footman came in unannounced, and behind him the Chief Constable of the county and a man he remembered seeing before.
‘Sir James Tithermite?’ said the Chief Constable unnecessarily, for he knew Sir James very well.
‘Yes, Colonel, what is it?’ asked the baronet, his face twitching.
‘I am taking you into custody on a charge of wilfully murdering your wife, Eleanor Mary Tithermite.’
* * *
‘The whole thing turned upon the question as to whether Lady Tithermite was a good or a bad sailor,’ explained J. G. Reeder to his chief. ‘If she were a bad sailor, it was unlikely that she would be on the ship, even for five minutes, without calling for the stewardess. The stewardess did not see her ladyship, nor did anybody on board, for the simple reason that she was not on board! She was murdered within the grounds of the Manor; her body was buried beneath the hearthstone of the old lodge, and Sir James continued his journey by car to Dover, handing over his packages to a porter and telling him to take them to his cabin before he returned to put the car into the hotel garage. He had timed his arrival so that he passed on board with a crowd of passengers from the boat train, and nobody knew whether he was alone or whether he was accompanied, and, for the matter of that, nobody cared. The purser gave him his key, and he put the baggage, including his wife’s hat, into the cabin, paid the porter and dismissed him. Officially, Lady Tithermite was on board, for he surrendered her ticket to the collector and received her landing voucher. And then he discovered she had disappeared. The ship was searched, but of course the unfortunate lady was not found. As I remarked before –’
‘You have a criminal mind,’ said the Director good-humouredly. ‘Go on, Reeder.’
‘Having this queer and objectionable trait, I saw how very simple a matter it was to give the illusion that the lady was on board, and I decided that, if the murder was committed, it must have been within a few miles of the house. And then the local builder told me that he had given Sir James a little lesson in the art of mixing mortar. And the local blacksmith told me that the gate had been damaged, presumably by Sir James’s car – I had seen the broken rods and all I wanted to know was when the repairs were effected. That she was beneath the hearth in the lodge I was certain. Without a search warrant it was impossible to prove or disprove my theory, and I myself could not conduct a private investigation without risking the reputation of our department – if I may say “our”,’ he said apologetically.
The Director was thoughtful.
‘Of course, you induced this man Kohl to dig up the hearth by pretending you had money buried there. I presume you revealed that fact in your notebook? But why on earth did he imagine that you had a hidden treasure?’
Mr Reeder smiled sadly.
‘The criminal mind is a peculiar thing,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘It harbours illusions and fairy stories. Fortunately, I understand that mind. As I have often said –’
The Troupe
There was a quietude and sedateness about the Public Prosecutor’s office which completely harmonised with the tastes and inclinations of Mr J. G. Reeder. For he was a gentleman who liked to work in an office where the ticking of a clock was audible and the turning of a paper produced a gentle disturbance.
He had before him one morning the typewritten
catalogue of Messrs Willoby, the eminent estate agents, and he was turning the leaves with a thoughtful expression. The catalogue was newly arrived, a messenger having only a few minutes before placed the portfolio on his desk.
Presently he smoothed down a leaf and read again the flattering description of a fairly unimportant property, and his scrutiny was patently a waste of time, for, scrawled on the margin of the sheet in red ink was the word ‘Let’, which meant that Riverside Bower was not available for hire. The ink was smudged, and ‘Let’ had been obviously written that morning.
‘Humph!’ said Mr Reeder.
He was interested for many reasons. In the heat of July riverside houses are at a premium: at the beginning of November they are somewhat of a drug on the market. And transatlantic visitors do not as a rule hire riverside cottages in a month which is chiefly distinguished by mists, rain and general discomfort.
Two reception: two bedrooms: bath, large dry cellars, lawn to river, small skiff and punt. Gas and electric light. Three guineas weekly or would be let for six months at 2 guineas.
He pulled his table telephone towards him and gave the agents’ number.
‘Let, is it – dear me! To an American gentleman? When will it be available?’
The new tenant had taken the house for a month. Mr Reeder was even more intrigued, though his interest in the ‘American gentleman’ was not quite as intensive as the American gentleman’s interest in Mr Reeder.
When the great Art Lomer came on a business trip from Canada to London, a friend and admirer carried him off one day to see the principal sight of London.
‘He generally comes out at lunch time,’ said the friend, who was called ‘Cheep’, because his name was Sparrow.
Mr Lomer looked up and down Whitehall disparagingly, for he had seen so many cities of the world that none seemed as good as the others.
‘There he is!’ whispered Cheep, though there was no need for mystery or confidence.
A middle-aged man had come out of one of the narrow doorways of a large grey building. On his head was a high, flat-crowned hat, his body was tightly encased in a black frock coat. A weakish man with yellowy-white side-whiskers and eyeglasses, that were nearer to the end than the beginning of his nose.
‘Him?’ demanded the amazed Art.
‘Him,’ said the other, incorrectly but with emphasis.
‘Is that the kind of guy you’re scared about? You’re crazy. Why, that man couldn’t catch a cold! Now, back home in T’ronto –’
Art was proud of his home town, and in that spirit of expansiveness which paints even the unpleasant features of One’s Own with the most attractive hues, he had even a good word to say about the Royal Canadian Police – a force which normally, and in a local atmosphere, he held in the greatest detestation.
Art ‘operated’ – he never employed a baser word – from Toronto, which, by its proximity to Buffalo and the United States border, gave him certain advantages. He had once ‘operated’ in Canada itself, but his line at that period being robbery of a kind which is necessarily accompanied by assault, he had found himself facing a Canadian magistrate, and a Canadian magistrate wields extraordinary powers. Art had been sent down for five years and, crowning horror, was ordered to receive twenty-five lashes with a whip which has nine tails, each one of which hurts. Thereafter he cut out violence and confined himself to the formation of his troupe – and Art Lomer’s troupe was famous from the Atlantic to the Pacific.
He had been plain Arthur Lomer when he was rescued from a London gutter and a career of crime and sent to Canada, the charitable authorities being under the impression that Canada was rather short on juvenile criminals. By dint of great artfulness, good stage management and a natural aptitude for acquiring easy money, he had gained for himself a bungalow on the islands, a flat in Church Street, a six-cylinder car and a New England accent which would pass muster in almost any place except New England.
‘I’ll tell the world you fellows want waking up! So that’s your Reeder? Well, if Canada and the United States was full of goats like him, I’d pack more dollars in one month than Hollywood pays Chaplin in ten years. Yes, sir. Listen, does that guy park a clock?’
His guide was a little dazed.
‘Does he wear a watch? Sure!’
Mr Art Lomer nodded.
‘Wait – I’ll bring it back to you in five minutes – I’m goin’ to show you sump’n’.’
It was the maddest fool thing he had ever done in his life; he was in London on business, and was jeopardising a million dollars for the sake of the cheap applause of a man for whose opinion he did not care a cent.
Mr Reeder was standing nervously on the sidewalk, waiting for what he described as ‘the vehicular traffic’ to pass, when a strange man bumped against him.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the stranger.
‘Not at all,’ murmured Mr Reeder. ‘My watch is five minutes fast – you can see the correct time by Big Ben.’
Mr Lomer felt a hand dip into his coat pocket, saw, like one hypnotised, the watch go back to J. G. Reeder’s pocket.
‘Over here for long?’ asked Mr Reeder pleasantly.
‘Why – yes.’
‘It’s a nice time of the year.’ Mr Reeder removed his eyeglasses, rubbed them feebly on his sleeve and replaced them crookedly. ‘But the country is not quite so beautiful as Canada in the fall. How is Leoni?’
Art Lomer did not faint; he swayed slightly and blinked hard, as if he were trying to wake up. Leoni was the proprietor of that little restaurant in Buffalo which was the advanced base of those operations so profitable to Art and his friends.
‘Leoni? Say, mister –’
‘And the troupe – are they performing in England or – er – resting? I think that is the word.’
Art gaped at the other. On Mr Reeder’s face was an expression of solicitude and enquiry. It was as though the well-being of the troupe was an absorbing preoccupation.
‘Say – listen –’ began Art huskily.
Before he could collect his thoughts, Reeder was crossing the road with nervous glances left and right, his umbrella gripped tightly in his hand.
‘I guess I’m crazy,’ said Mr Lomer, and walked back very slowly to where he had left his anxious cicerone.
‘No – he got away before I could touch him,’ he said briefly, for he had his pride. ‘Come along, we’ll get some eats, it’s nearly twel –’
He put his hand to his pocket, but his watch was gone! So also was the expensive platinum albert. Mr Reeder could be heavily jocular on occasions.
‘Art Lomer – is there anything against him?’ asked the Director of Public Prosecutions, whose servant Mr J. G. Reeder was.
‘No, sir, there is no complaint here. I have come into – er – possession of a watch of his, which I find, by reference to my private file, was stolen in Cleveland in 1921 – it is in the police file of that date. Only – um – it seems remarkable that this gentleman should be in London at the end of the tourist season.’
The Director pursed his lips dubiously.
‘M–m. Tell the people at the Yard. He doesn’t belong to us. What is his speciality?’
‘He is a troupe leader – I think that is the term. Mr Lomer was once associated with a theatrical company in – er – a humble capacity.’
‘You mean he is an actor?’ asked the puzzled Director.
‘Ye – es, sir; a producer rather than actor. I have heard about his troupe, though I have never had the pleasure of seeing them perform. A talented company.’
He sighed heavily and shook his head. ‘I don’t quite follow you about the troupe. How did his watch come into your possession, Reeder?’
Mr Reeder nodded. ‘That was a little jest on my part,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘A little jest.’
The Director knew Mr Reeder too well to pursue the subject.
Lomer was living at the Hotel Calfort, in Bloomsbury. He occupied an important suite, for, being in the position of a man who was after big fish, he could not cavil at the cost of the groundbait. The big fish had bitten much sooner than Art Lomer had dared to hope. Its name was Bertie Claude Staffen, and the illustration was apt, for there was something very fishlike about this young man with his dull eyes and his permanently opened mouth. Bertie’s father was rich beyond the dreams of actresses. He was a pottery manufacturer, who bought cotton mills as a side-line, and he had made so much money that he never hired a taxi if he could take a bus, and never took a bus if he could walk. In this way he kept his liver (to which he frequently referred) in good order and hastened the degeneration of his heart.
Bertie Claude had inherited all his father’s meanness and such of his money as was not left to faithful servants, orphan homes and societies for promoting the humanities, which meant that Bertie inherited almost every penny. He had the weak chin and sloping forehead of an undeveloped intellect, but he knew there were twelve pennies to a shilling and that one hundred cents equalled one dollar, and that is more knowledge than the only sons of millionaires usually acquire.
He had one quality which few would suspect in him: the gift of romantic dreaming. When Mr Staffen was not occupied in cutting down overhead charges or speeding up production, he loved to sit at his ease, a cigarette between his lips, his eyes half closed, and picture himself in heroic situations. Thus, he could imagine dark caves stumbled upon by acident, filled with dusty boxes bulging with treasure; or he saw himself at Deauville Casino, with immense piles of mille notes before him, won from fabulously rich Greeks, Armenians – in fact, anybody who is fabulously rich. Most of his dreams were about money in sufficient quantities to repay him the death duties on his father’s estate which had been iniquitously wrung from him by thieving revenue officers. He was a very rich man, but ought to be richer – this was his considered view.
When Bertie Claude arrived at the Calfort Hotel and was shown into Art’s private sitting-room, he stepped into a world of heady romance. For the big table in the centre of the room was covered with specimens of quartz of every grade, and they had been recovered from a brand-new mine located by Art’s mythical brother and sited at a spot which was known only to two men, one of whom was Art Lomer and the other Bertie Claude Staffen.
The Casefiles of Mr J. G. Reeder Page 24
