Copyright & Information
Red Aces
First published in 1932
© David William Shorey as Executor of Mrs Margaret Penelope June Halcrow (otherwise Penelope Wallace); House of Stratus 1932-2010
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Edgar Wallace to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2010 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., 21 Beeching Park, Kelly Bray,
Cornwall, PL17 8QS, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
184232702X 9781842327029 Print
0755115139 9780755115136 Print (Alt)
0755121651 9780755121656 Pdf
0755119371 9780755119370 Mobi
0755122666 9780755122660 Epub
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
We would like to thank the Edgar Wallace Society for all the support they have given House of Stratus. Enquiries on how to join the Edgar Wallace Society should be addressed to: Email: [email protected] Web: http://www.edgarwallace.org/
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
Edgar (Richard Horatio) Wallace was born illegitimately in 1875 in Greenwich, London, to Polly Wallace, a minor actress who although married conceived Wallace through a liaison with a fellow player, Richard Horatio Edgar. He was initially fostered to George Freeman, a porter at Billingsgate fish market and later adopted by him.
At eleven, Wallace sold newspapers at Ludgate Circus and upon leaving school aged twelve took a job with a printer. Many other jobs followed until at nineteen he enlisted in the Royal West Kent Regiment, later transferring to the Medical Staff Corps and was sent to South Africa. Whilst in the army he started writing, short poetry at first, but quickly graduated to journalism by contributing articles to the Cape Colony press and was able to supplement his army pay. The army disapproved and after the publication of a short book of poetry, The Mission That Failed, he left the service in 1899 to became a correspondent for Reuters followed by an appointment as South African war correspondent for The Daily Mail. This came to an end when the Commander-in-Chief, Lord Kitchener, revoked Wallace’s press credentials after he scooped the story of the final peace treaty, which brought the Boer War to an end, and the Daily Mail was able to publish twenty four hours ahead of the official announcement. His various articles were later published as ‘Unofficial Dispatches’.
Whilst in South Africa, Wallace married Ivy Caldecott, the daughter of a Wesleyan minister. Their first child died from meningitis in 1903, but a son, Bryan, was born the following year.
After a brief spell with the Rand Daily Mail, which ended after an argument with the proprietor, Wallace returned to London and resumed his association with the Daily Mail, as a day-today reporter. By this time Wallace was heavily in debt after gambling on the South African Stock Market and also starting to lead the extravagant lifestyle to which it was clear he wished to become accustomed. Money troubles led him to commence work on his first full novel; The Four Just Men.
However, instead of proceeding conventionally, Wallace decided to embark upon a scheme which he believed would earn him a lot more. In 1905 he founded the Tallis Press, his own publishing company and decided upon a grandiose marketing and publicity campaign. Central to this was a competition he ran which invited readers to guess the solution to a conundrum – namely how the ‘Foreign Secretary’ had been murdered by ‘anarchists’ in the storyline. Extravagant prizes were offered by Wallace, to whom it never occurred that more than one person might win. He also underestimated production and publicity costs. Sinking even deeper into debt, he was bailed out by a large loan from Alfred Harmworth, the proprietor of the Daily Mail, who was concerned the bad publicity surrounding the events would harm the newspaper.
There then followed two libel actions involving the Mail in which Wallace was concerned – one of his own making after he had made up part of a story, and one involving a campaign Harmsworth was running against the soap manufacturers, Lever Bros. In the event, he was dismissed from the paper in 1907 and his standing in Fleet Street was so low no paper would employ him.By this time Ivy had given birth to a second surviving child, a daughter, and Wallace was effectively bankrupt, albeit not declared as such.
In 1909 he hit upon the idea of using some of his knowledge from reporting for the Mail in the Belgian Congo was as a basis for a series of short stories for a penny magazine. The initial batch, which were full of adventures of empire, a little patronising of native Africans, and contained strong characters, were a huge success and were eventually published in 1911 as Sanders of the River, the first of eleven such volumes.
Journalistic employment once again followed and Wallace also indulged in one of his great passions; horse racing. He both gambled and wrote about the subject and became tipster for various papers prior to starting two of his own. Another child was born to Ivy in 1916, but their marriage was failing and they were divorced in 1919. Shortly afterwards, Wallace married the daughter of a financier, Violet King, who had previously been one of his secretaries. They had a child, Penelope, in 1923. During the first World War Wallace had also served as a Special Constable at Lincoln’s Inn and as a special interrogator for the War Office.
Further writing success followed after Sanders and for the first time Wallace began to earn substantial advances for his work and royalties on a sliding scale. He wrote mostly thrillers, although there was a generous sprinkling of light comedy, romantic novels and science fiction, along with some non-fiction (such as ten volume history of the War) and it was once said that by 1928 one in four books read in England at the time were by him. His output was extraordinary and he would finish a standard length novel in less than a week. Many of his stories were filmed and he even became involved in directing.
His flamboyant lifestyle continued, however, and he was to be seen arriving at race meetings in a yellow Rolls Royce and to be heavily involved in gambling. Nonetheless, and possible because of a knowledge of his own failings, as chairman of the Press Club he thought about others when inaugurating a fund for impoverished journalists. In 1931, he stood for the Liberal party at the general election, opposed to the National Government, but the electors of the Blackpool constituency were not convinced and he was heavily defeated. Undeterred, he turned his sights towards America and accepted a job as a screenwriter with RKO Studios in Hollywood.
However, for some time his health had been causing him concern and the following year he was diagnosed with diabetes. Within days of this he died suddenly from double pneumonia brought about by the disease. At the time, he had been working on the film King Kong. His body was repatriated and he buried near to his home in Bourne End, Buckinghamshire.
One further surprise awaited relatives as it transpired Wallace’s estate was in fact heavily in debt – in death as in life - but continuing royalty payments eventually enabled this to be cleared and his daughter Penelope thereafter ran a successful enterprise based upon the literary estate.
Wallace completed 175 novels, over 20 plays
and numerous short stories, in addition to some non-fiction and countless journalistic articles. Literally hundreds of films and TV shows have been made of his work (more than any other twentieth century writer) and he continues to be very popular with new generations of readers.
Dedication
TO MY FRIEND AND SECRETARY
R G CURTIS
RED ACES
1
When a young man is very much in love with a most attractive girl he is apt to endow her with qualities and virtues which no human being has ever possessed. Yet at rare and painful intervals there enter into his soul certain wild suspicions, and in these moments he is inclined to regard the possibility that she may be guilty of the basest treachery and double dealing.
Everybody knew that Kenneth McKay was desperately in love. They knew it at the bank where he spent his days in counting other people’s money, and a considerable amount of his lunch hour writing impassioned and ill-spelt letters to Margot Lynn. His taciturn father, brooding over his vanished fortune in his gaunt riverside house at Marlow, may have employed the few moments he gave to the consideration of other people’s troubles in consideration of his son’s new interest. Probably he did not, for George McKay was entirely self-centred and had little thought but for the folly which had dissipated the money he had accumulated with such care, and the development of fantastical schemes for its recovery.
All day long, summer and winter, he sat in his study, a pack of cards before him, working out averages and what he called “inherent probabilities”, or at a small roulette wheel, where, alternately, he spun and recorded the winning numbers.
Kenneth went over to Beaconsfield every morning on his noisy motor-bicycle and came back every night, sometimes very late, because Margot lived in London. She had a small flat where she could not receive him, but they dined together at the cheaper restaurants and sometimes saw a play. Kenneth was a member of an inexpensive London club which sheltered at least one sympathetic soul. Except Mr Rufus Machfield, the confident in question, he had no friends.
“And let me advise you not to make any here,” said Rufus.
He was a military-looking man of forty-five, and most people found him rather a bore, for the views which he expressed so vehemently, on all subjects from politics to religion, which are the opposite ends of the ethical pole, he had acquired that morning from the leading article of his favourite daily. Yet he was a genial person and a likeable man.
He had a luxurious flat in Park Lane, a French valet, a couple of hacks which he rode in the park, and no useful occupation.
“The Leffingham Club is cheap,” he said, “the food’s not bad, and it is near Piccadilly. Against that you have the fact that almost anybody who hasn’t been to prison can become a member–”
“The fact that I’m a member–” began Ken.
“You’re a gentleman and a public school man,” interrupted Mr Machfield a little sonorously. “You’re not rich, I admit–”
“Even I admit that,” said Ken, rubbing his untidy hair.
Kenneth was tall, athletic, as good-looking as a young man need be, or can be without losing his head about his face. He had called at the Leffingham that evening especially to see Rufus and confide his worries. And his worries were enormous. He looked haggard and ill; Mr Machfield thought it possible that he had not been sleeping very well. In this surmise he was right.
“It’s about Margot…” began the young man.
Mr Machfield smiled.
He had met Margot, had entertained the young people to dinner at his flat, and twice had invited them to a theatre party.
“We’ve had a row, Rufus. It began a week ago. For a long time her reticence has been bothering me. Why the devil couldn’t she tell me what she did for a living? I wouldn’t say this to a living soul but you – it is horribly disloyal to her, and yet it isn’t. I know that she has no money of her own, and yet she lives at the rate of a thousand a year. She says that she is secretary to a businessman, but the office where she works is in her own name. And she isn’t there more than a few days a week and then only for a few hours.”
Mr Machfield considered the matter.
“She won’t tell you any more than that?”
Kenneth looked round the smoke-room. Except for a servant counting the cigars in a small mahogany cabinet, they were alone. He lowered his voice.
“She’ll never tell me any more… I’ve seen the man,” he said. “Margot meets him surreptitiously!”
Mr Machfield looked at him dubiously.
“Oh…what sort of a man?”
Kenneth hesitated.
“Well, to tell you the truth, he’s elderly. It was queer how I came to see them at all. I was taking a ride round the country on Sunday morning. Margot told me that she couldn’t come to us – I asked her to lunch with us at Marlow – because she was going out to London. I went through Burnham and stopped to explore a little wood. As a matter of fact, I saw two animals fighting – I think they were stoats – and I went after them–”
“Stoats can be dangerous,” began Mr Machfield. “I remember once–”
“Anyway I went after them with my camera. I’m rather keen on wild life photographs. And then I saw two people, a man and a girl, walking slowly away from me. The man had his arm round the girl’s shoulder. It rather made a picture – they stood in a patch of sunlight and with the trees as a background – well, it was rather an idyllic sort of picture. I put up my camera. Just as I pressed the button the man looked over his shoulder, and then the girl turned. It was Margot!”
He dabbed his brow with a handkerchief. Rufus was slightly amused to see anybody so agitated over so trifling a matter.
Kenneth swallowed his drink; his hand trembled.
“He was elderly – fifty…not bad looking. God! I could have killed them both! Margot was coolness itself, though she changed colour. But she didn’t attempt to introduce me or offer any kind of explanation.”
“Her father – ” began Rufus.
“She has no father – no relations except her mother, who is an invalid and lives in Florence – at least I thought so,” snapped Kenneth.
“What did she do?”
The young man heaved a deep sigh.
“Nothing – just said: ‘How queer meeting you!’ talked about the beautiful day, and when I asked her what it all meant and what this man was to her – he had walked on and left us alone – she flatly refused to say anything. Just turned on her heel and went after him.”
“Extraordinary!” said Mr Machfield. “You have seen her since?”
Kenneth nodded grimly.
“That same night she came to Marlow to see me. She begged me to trust her – she was really wonderful. It was terribly surprising to see her there at all. When I came down into the dining-room and found her there, I was knocked out – the servant didn’t say who she was and I kept her waiting.”
“Well?” asked his companion, when he paused.
“Well,” said Kenneth awkwardly, “one has to trust people one loves. She said that he was a relation – she never told me that she had one until then.”
“Except her mother who lives in Florence – that costs money, especially an invalid mother,” mused Rufus, fingering his long, clean-shaven upper lip. “What is the trouble now? You’ve quarrelled?”
Kenneth took a letter out of his pocket and passed it across to his friend, and Mr Machfield opened and read it.
“Dear Kenneth
I’m not seeing you any more. I’m broken-hearted to tell you this. Please don’t try to see me – please! M.”
“When did this come?”
“Last night. Naturally, I went to her flat. She was out. I went to her office – she was out. I was late for the bank and got a terrible roasting from the manager. To make matters worse, there’s a fello
w dunning me for two hundred pounds – everything comes at once. I borrowed the money for dad. What with one thing and another I’m desperate.”
Mr Machfield rose from his chair.
“Come home and have a meal,” he said. “As for the money–”
“No, no, no!” Kenneth McKay was panic-stricken. “I don’t want to borrow from you – I won’t! Gad! I’d like to find that old swine and throttle him! He’s at the back of it! He has told her not to have anything more to do with me.”
“You don’t know his name?”
“No. He may live in the neighbourhood, but I haven’t seen him. I’m going to do a little detective work.” He added abruptly: “Do you know a man named Reeder – J G Reeder?”
Mr Machfield shook his head.
“He’s a detective,” explained Kenneth. “He has a big bank practice. He was down at our place today – queer-looking devil. If he could be a detective anybody could be!”
Mr Machfield said he recalled the name.
“He was in that railway robbery, wasn’t he? J G Reeder – yes. Pretty smart fellow – young?”
“He’s as old as – well, he’s pretty old. And rather old-fashioned.”
“Why do you mention him?” Mr Machfield was interested.
“I don’t know. Talking about detective work brought him into my mind, I suppose.”
Rufus snapped his finger to the waiter and paid his bill.
“You’ll have to take pot luck – but Lamontaine is a wonderful cook. He didn’t know that he was until I made him try.”
So they went together to the little flat in Park Lane, and Lamontaine, the pallid, middle-aged valet who spoke English with no trace of a foreign accent, prepared a meal that justified the praise of his master. In the middle of the dinner the subject of Mr Reeder arose again.
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