His interrogator was a little hard-faced man wearing a suit that had evidently been originally intended for somebody of greater girth and more commanding height. His trousers were turned up noticeably; his waistcoat was full of folds and tucks which only an amateur tailor would have dared, and only one superior to the criticism of his fellows would have worn. His hard, bright eyes were fixed on Mr Reeder, but there was no menace in them so far as the detective could read.
‘Yes, I was instrumental in arresting Ike Walker,’ said Mr Reeder, almost gently.
The man put his hand in his pocket and brought out a crumpled packet enclosed in green oiled silk. Mr Reeder unfolded the covering and found a soiled and crumpled envelope.
‘That’s from Ike,’ said the man. ‘He sent it out of stir by a gent who was discharged yesterday.’
Mr Reeder was not shocked by this revelation. He knew that prison rules were made to be broken, and that worse things have happened in the best regulated jails than this item of a smuggled letter. He opened the envelope, keeping his eyes on the man’s face, took out the crumpled sheet and read the five or six lines of writing.
Dear Reeder – Here is a bit of a riddle for you.
What other people have got, you can have. I haven’t got it, but it is coming to you. It’s red-hot when you get it, but you’re cold when it goes away.
Your loving friend,
Ike Walker
(doing a twelve stretch because you went on the witness stand and told a lot of lies)
Mr Reeder looked up and their eyes met. ‘Your friend is a little mad, one thinks?’ he asked politely.
‘He ain’t a friend of mine. A gent asked me to bring it,’ said the messenger.
‘On the contrary,’ said Mr Reeder pleasantly, ‘he gave it to you in Dartmoor Prison yesterday. Your name is Mills; you have eight convictions for burglary, and will have your ninth before the year is out. You were released two days ago – I saw you reporting at Scotland Yard.’
The man was for the moment alarmed and in two minds to bolt. Mr Reeder glanced along Brockley Road, saw a slim figure, that was standing at the corner, cross to a waiting tramcar, and, seeing his opportunity vanish, readjusted his timetable.
‘Come inside, Mr Mills.’
‘I don’t want to come inside,’ said Mr Mills, now thoroughly agitated. ‘He asked me to give this to you and I’ve give it. There’s nothing else –’
Mr Reeder crooked his finger.
‘Come, birdie!’ he said, with great amiability. ‘And please don’t annoy me! I am quite capable of sending you back to your friend Mr Walker. I am really a most unpleasant man if am upset.’
The messenger followed meekly, wiped his boots with great vigour on the mat and tiptoed up the carpeted stairs to the big study where Mr Reeder did most of his thinking.
‘Sit down, Mills.’
With his own hands Mr Reeder placed a chair for his uncomfortable visitor, and then, pulling another up to his big writing table, he spread the letter before him, adjusted his glasses, read, his lips moving, and then leaned back in his chair.
‘I give it up,’ he said. ‘Read me this riddle.’
‘I don’t know what’s in the letter –’ began the man.
‘Read me this riddle.’
As he handed the letter across the table, the man betrayed himself, for he rose and pushed back his chair with a startled, horrified ex-pression that told Mr Reeder quite a lot. He laid the letter down on his desk, took a large tumbler from the sideboard, inverted it and covered the scrawled paper. Then: ‘Wait,’ he said, ‘and don’t move till I come back.’
And there was an unaccustomed venom in his tone that made the visitor shudder.
Reeder passed out of the room to the bathroom, pulled up his sleeves with a quick jerk of his arm and, turning the faucet, let hot water run over his hands before he reached for a small bottle on a shelf, poured a liberal portion into the water and let his hands soak. This done, for three minutes he scrubbed his fingers with a nail-brush, dried them, and, removing his coat and waistcoat carefully, hung them over the edge of the bath. He went back to his uncomfortable guest in his shirt-sleeves.
‘Our friend Walker is employed in the hospital,’ he stated rather than asked. ‘What have you had there – scarlet fever or something worse?’
He glanced down at the letter under the glass.
‘Scarlet fever, of course,’ he said, ‘and the letter has been systematically infected. Walker is almost clever.’
The wood of a fire was laid in the grate. He carried the letter and the blotting-paper to the hearth, lit the kindling and thrust paper and letter into the flames.
‘Almost clever,’ he said musingly. ‘Of course, he is one of the orderlies in the hospital. It was scarlet fever, I think you said?’
The gaping man nodded.
‘Of a virulent type, of course. How very fascinating!’
He thrust his hands in his pockets and looked down benevolently at the wretched emissary of the vengeful Walker.
‘You may go now, Mills,’ he said gently. ‘I rather think that you are infected. That ridiculous piece of oiled silk is quite inadequate – which means “quite useless” – as a protection against wandering germs. You will have scarlet fever in three days, and will probably be dead at the end of the week. I will send you a wreath.’
He opened the door, pointed to the stairway and the man slunk out.
Mr Reeder watched him through the window, saw him cross the street and disappear round the corner into the Lewisham High Road, and then, going up to his bedroom, he put on a newer frock-coat and waistcoat, drew on his hands a pair of fabric gloves and went forth to his labours.
He did not expect to meet Mr Mills again, never dreaming that the gentleman from Dartmoor was planning a ‘bust’ which would bring them again into contact. For Mr Reeder the incident was closed.
That day news of another disappearance had come through from police headquarters, and Mr Reeder was waiting at ten minutes before five at the rendezvous for the girl who, he instinctively knew, could give him a thread of the clue. He was determined that this time his enquiries should bear fruit; but it was not until they had reached the end of Brockley Road, and he was walking slowly up towards the girl’s boarding-house, that she gave him a hint.
‘Why are you so persistent, Mr Reeder?’ she asked, a little impatiently. ‘Do you wish to invest money? Because, if you do, I’m sorry I can’t help you. That is another agreement we made, that we would not introduce new shareholders.’
Mr Reeder stopped, took off his hat and rubbed the back of his head (his housekeeper, watching him from an upper window, was perfectly certain he was proposing and had been rejected).
‘I am going to tell you something, Miss Belman, and I hope – er – that I shall not alarm you.’
And very briefly he told the story of the disappearances and the queer coincidence which marked every case – the receipt of a dividend on the first of every month. As he proceeded, the colour left the girl’s face.
‘You are serious, of course?’ she said, serious enough herself. ‘You wouldn’t tell me that unless – the company is the Mexico City Investment Syndicate. They have offices in Portugal Street.’
‘How did you come to hear of them?’ asked Mr Reeder.
‘I had a letter from their manager, Mr de Silvo. He told me that a friend had mentioned my name, and gave full particulars of the investment.’
‘Have you that letter?’
She shook her head.
‘No; I was particularly asked to bring it with me when I went to see them. Although, in point of fact, I never did see them,’ smiled the girl. ‘I wrote to their lawyers – will you wait? I have their letter.’
Mr Reeder waited at the gate whilst the girl went into the house an
d returned presently with a small portfolio, from which she took a quarto sheet. It was headed with the name of a legal firm, Bracher & Bracher, and was the usual formal type of letter one expects from a lawyer.
Dear Madam [it ran]
Re – Mexico City Investment Syndicate:
We act as lawyers to this syndicate, and so far as we know it is a reputable concern. We feel that it is only due to us that we should say that we do not advise investments in any concern which offers such large profits, for usually there is a corresponding risk. We know, however, that this syndicate has paid 121⁄2 per cent. and sometimes as much as 20 per cent., and we have had no complaints about them. We cannot, of course, as lawyers, guarantee the financial soundness of any of our clients, and can only repeat that, in so far as we have been able to ascertain, the syndicate conducts a genuine business and enjoys a very sound financial backing.
Yours faithfully,
Bracher & Bracher
‘You say you never saw de Silvo?’
She shook her head.
‘No; I saw Mr Bracher, but when I went to the office of the syndicate, which is in the same building, I found only a clerk in attendance. Mr de Silvo had been called out of town. I had to leave the letter because the lower portion was an application for shares in the syndicate. The capital could be withdrawn at three days’ notice, and I must say that this last clause decided me; and when I had a letter from Mr de Silvo accepting my investment, I sent him the money.’
Mr Reeder nodded.
‘And you’ve received your dividends regularly ever since?’ he said.
‘Every month,’ said the girl triumphantly. ‘And really I think you’re wrong in connecting the company with these disappearances.’
Mr Reeder did not reply. That afternoon he made it his business to call at 179, Portugal Street. It was a two-storey building of an old-fashioned type. A wide flagged hall led into the building; a set of old-fashioned stairs ran up to the ‘top floor’, which was occupied by a China merchant; and from the hall led three doors. That on the left bore the legend ‘Bracher & Bracher, Solicitors’, and immediately facing was the office of the Mexican Syndicate. At the far end of the passage was a door which exhibited the name ‘John Baston’, but as to Mr Baston’s business there was no indication.
Mr Reeder knocked gently at the door of the syndicate and a voice bade him come in. A young man, wearing glasses, was sitting at a typewriting table, a pair of dictaphone receivers in his ears, and he was typing rapidly.
‘No, sir, Mr de Silvo is not in. He only comes in about twice a week,’ said the clerk. ‘Will you give me your name?’
‘It is not important,’ said Reeder gently, and went out, closing the door behind him.
He was more fortunate in his call upon Bracher & Bracher, for Mr Joseph Bracher was in his office: a tall, florid gentleman who wore a large rose in his buttonhole. The firm of Bracher & Bracher was evidently a prosperous one, for there were half a dozen clerks in the outer office, and Mr Bracher’s private sanctum, with its big partner desk, was a model of shabby comfort.
‘Sit down, Mr Reeder,’ said the lawyer, glancing at the card.
In a few words Mr Reeder stated his business, and Mr Bracher smiled.
‘It is fortunate you came today,’ he said. ‘If it were tomorrow we should not be able to give you any information. The truth is, we have had to ask Mr de Silvo to find other lawyers. No, no, there is nothing wrong, except that they constantly refer their clients to us, and we feel that we are becoming in the nature of sponsors for their clients, and that, of course, is very undesirable.’
‘Have you a record of the people who have written to you from time to time asking your advice?’
Mr Bracher shook his head.
‘It is a curious thing to confess, but we haven’t,’ he said; ‘and that is one of the reasons why we have decided to give up this client. Three weeks ago, the letter-book in which we kept copies of all letters sent to people who applied for a reference most unaccountably disappeared. It was put in the safe overnight, and in the morning, although there was no sign of tampering with the lock, it had vanished. The circumstances were so mysterious, and my brother and I were so deeply concerned, that we applied to the syndicate to give us a list of their clients, and that request was never complied with.’
Mr Reeder sought inspiration in the ceiling.
‘Who is John Baston?’ he asked, and the lawyer laughed.
‘There again I am ignorant. I believe he is a very wealthy financier, but, so far as I know, he only comes to his office for three months in the year, and I have never seen him.’
Mr Reeder offered him his flabby hand and walked back along Portugal Street, his chin on his breast, his hands behind him dragging his umbrella, so that he bore a ludicrous resemblance to some strange tailed animal.
That night he waited again for the girl, but she did not appear, and although he remained at the rendezvous until half-past five he did not see her. This was not very unusual, for sometimes she had to work late, and he went home without any feeling of apprehension. He finished his own frugal dinner and then walked across to the boarding-house. Miss Belman had not arrived, the landlady told him, and he returned to his study and telephoned first to the office where she was employed and then to the private address of her employer.
‘She left at half-past four,’ was the surprising news. ‘Somebody telephoned to her and she asked me if she might go early.’
‘Oh!’ said Mr Reeder blankly.
He did not go to bed that night, but sat up in a small room at Scotland Yard, reading the brief reports which came in from the various divisions. And with the morning came the sickening realisation that Margaret Belman’s name must be added to those who had disappeared in such extraordinary circumstances.
He dozed in the big Windsor chair. At eight o’clock he returned to his own house and shaved and bathed, and when the Public Prosecutor arrived at his office he found Mr Reeder waiting for him in the corridor. It was a changed Mr Reeder, and the change was not due entirely to lack of sleep. His voice was sharper; he had lost some of that atmosphere of apology which usually enveloped him.
In a few words he told of Margaret Belman’s disappearance.
‘Do you connect de Silvo with this?’ asked his chief.
‘Yes, I think I do,’ said the other quietly, and then: ‘There is only one hope, and it is a very slender one – a very slender one indeed!’
He did not tell the Public Prosecutor in what that hope consisted, but walked down to the offices of the Mexican Syndicate.
Mr de Silvo was not in. He would have been very much surprised if he had been. He crossed the hallway to see the lawyer, and this time he found Mr Ernest Bracher present with his brother.
When Reeder spoke to the point, it was very much to the point.
‘I am leaving a police officer in Portugal Street to arrest de Silvo the moment he puts in an appearance. I feel that you, as his lawyers, should know this,’ he said.
‘But why on earth – ?’ began Mr Bracher, in a tone of astonishment.
‘I don’t know what charge I shall bring against him, but it will certainly be a very serious one,’ said Reeder. ‘For the moment I have not confided to Scotland Yard the basis for my suspicions, but your client has got to tell a very plausible story and produce indisputable proof of his innocence to have any hope of escape.’
‘I am quite in the dark,’ said the lawyer, mystified. ‘What has he been doing? Is his syndicate a fraud?’
‘I know nothing more fraudulent,’ said the other shortly. ‘Tomorrow I intend obtaining the necessary authority to search his papers and to search the room and papers of Mr John Baston. I have an idea that I shall find something in that room of considerable interest to me.’
It was eight o’clock that night
before he left Scotland Yard, and he was turning towards the familiar corner, when he saw a car come from Westminster Bridge towards Scotland Yard. Somebody leaned out of the window and signalled him, and the car turned. It was a two-seater coupe and the driver was Mr Joseph Bracher.
‘We’ve found de Silvo,’ he said breathlessly as he brought the car to a standstill at the kerb and jumped out.
He was very agitated and his face was pale. Mr Reeder could have sworn that his teeth were chattering.
‘There’s something wrong – very badly wrong,’ he went on. ‘My brother has been trying to get the truth from him – my God! if he has done these terrible things I shall never forgive myself.’
‘Where is he?’ asked Mr Reeder.
‘He came just before dinner to our house at Dulwich. My brother and I are bachelors and we live there alone now, and he has been to dinner before. My brother questioned him and he made certain admissions which are almost incredible. The man must be mad.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I can’t tell you. Ernest is detaining him until you come.’
Mr Reeder stepped into the car and in a few minutes they were flying across Westminster Bridge towards Camberwell. Lane House, an old-fashioned Georgian residence, lay at the end of a countrified road which was, he found, a cul de sac. The house stood in grounds of considerable size, he noted as they passed up the drive and stopped before the porch. Mr Bracher alighted and opened the door, and Reeder passed into a cosily furnished hall. One door was ajar.
‘Is that Mr Reeder?’ He recognised the voice of Ernest Bracher, and walked into the room.
The younger Mr Bracher was standing with his back to the empty fire-place; there was nobody else in the room.
‘De Silvo’s gone upstairs to lie down,’ explained the lawyer. ‘This is a dreadful business, Mr Reeder.’
He held out his hand and Reeder crossed the room to take it. As he put his foot on the square Persian rug before the fire-place, he realised his danger and tried to spring back, but his balance was lost. He felt himself falling through the cavity which the carpet hid, lashed out and caught for a moment the edge of the trap, but as the lawyer came round and raised his foot to stamp upon the clutching fingers, Reeder released his hold and dropped.
The Casefiles of Mr J. G. Reeder Page 34
