Mr. J. G. Reeder Returns

by Edgar Wallace

  His face went red, livid, then a sickly white.

  “Oh, you did, did you?” His voice was high and squeaky. “That’s what you said – told lies about me!”

  He was frightened; she recognised the symptoms and her heart leapt.

  “The day I nearly had the accident,” she went on, “I was on my way to see Mr Reeder, the detective. I will not be treated as you are treating me. There’s something wrong in this house and I’m going to find out what it is. Major Olbude has no authority; you govern him as you govern me, and there must be some reason. Mr O’Ryan will find out what that reason is.”

  “Mr O’Ryan will, will he? You know what he is, I suppose? A lag – he stood his trial for burglary. That’s the kind of friend you want!”

  He spoke breathlessly. Between rage and fear he was as near to being speechless as he had ever been.

  “Well, we’ll see about that!”

  He turned on his heel and walked quickly away. She closed and locked the door. For the first time there came to her a feeling of hope. And who knew what the night would bring? For she had said something else to Larry O’Ryan, something she had not revealed to her gaoler.

  Mr Reeder slept soundly, invariably for the same length of time every night. He had gone to bed a little after ten: it was a little after four when he awoke, rose, put on the kettle for his tea, and turned on the water for his bath.

  At half-past four he was working at his desk. At this hour his mind was crystal-clear, and he had fewer illusions.

  He had an excellent library, dealing with the peculiarities of mankind. There was one volume which he took down and skimmed rapidly. Yes, there were any number of precedents for the gold store. There was the case of Schneider, and Mr Van der Hyn, and the Polish baron Poduski, and the banker Lamonte, and that eccentric American millionaire Mr John G Grundewald – they had all been great hoarders of gold. Two of them had left wills similar to Mr Lane Leonard’s. One had made so many eccentric requests in his will that the court put it aside. There was nothing remarkable, then, about Lane Leonard’s distrust of stock. Mr Reeder had to confess that the latest news from America justified the caution of the dead millionaire.

  He tried to reconstruct the business life of Buckingham. Here was a man who acted as a guard for treasure of immense value. It could not be truly said that he had opportunities for stealing, and yet in some way he had obtained immense sums of money, and that money had been paid into the bank in gold. That was the discovery that Reeder had made on the previous afternoon. Large sums of gold had been paid into the account of the Land Development Company, as much as fifty and sixty thousand pounds at a time; so much so that the company had been asked politely to account for its possession of so much bullion, and had retorted, less politely, that if the bank did not wish to act for the directors, other banking accommodation would be found.

  When could it have been stolen? The man was found dead on the Sunday, and Major Olbude had visited the vault on the Friday. Probably that morning, when he again made an inspection, Mr Reeder would receive an urgent telephone message calling him into Kent.

  It began to get light. Mr Reeder pulled up the blinds and looked out into the rain-sodden street. Overhead the skies were grey and leaden. J G brewed himself another cup of tea, and when it was made walked again to the window and stared down into the deserted thoroughfare.

  He heard the whine of the car as it came round from the Lewisham High Road, pursuing a groggy course which suggested that the driver had overstayed his supper. It was a red sports car, nearly new, with a long bonnet; to Mr Reeder’s surprise it finished its erratic course in front of his door. A little time passed before a man staggered out, clutching for support to the side of the car. He walked unsteadily through the gate and stumbled up the stone steps. Before he reached the door Mr Reeder was down the stairs and had opened it. He caught Larry O’Ryan in his arms and steadied him.

  “I’m all right,” muttered Larry. “I want some water. Can I sit down for a minute?”

  Mr Reeder closed the door with his disengaged hand, and led the young man to the hall seat.

  “I’ll be all right in a second. I’ve lost a little blood,” muttered Larry.

  The shoulders of his light mackintosh were red with it, and his face was hardly distinguishable under the broad, red streaks.

  “It’s all right,” he said again. “Just a little knight-errantry.” He chuckled feebly. “There’s no fracture, though driving was rather a bother. I’m glad I didn’t carry a gun – I should have used it. I think I can move now.”

  He got up, swaying. Mr Reeder guided him up the stairs through his room into the bathroom, and, soaking a towel in water, cleaned his face and the long and ugly wound beneath his matted hair.

  “I think it was the chauffeur; I’m not sure. I parked the car about half a mile from Sevenways Castle, and went on foot to reconnoitre.”

  All this jerkily, his head bent over a basin of red water whilst Mr Reeder applied iodine and cut away long strands of hair with a pair of office scissors.

  “Anyway, I saw her.”

  “You saw her?” asked Mr Reeder in astonishment. “Yes; only for a few seconds. She couldn’t get out of the window – it was barred. And the door was locked. But we had a little talk. I took a light, collapsible ladder with me to reach the window. You’ll find it in a plantation near the drive.”

  Mr Reeder looked at him glumly.

  “Are you suggesting she is a prisoner?”

  “I’m not suggesting, I’m stating the fact. An absolute prisoner. There are servants in the house, but they’ve all been chosen by the same man. And the best part of his money is gone.”

  J G Reeder said nothing for a while.

  “How do you know?” he asked.

  “I went in and looked,” was the calm reply. “The major will probably say that I pinched it, but that was a physical impossibility. I always intended to see that treasure house – I have photographs of every key to every strongroom that the Monarch Company turned out in the last twenty years. There is a duplicate room in the office. I won’t tell you how I got the photographs, because you would be pained, but I did. And I got into the treasure house as easily as falling asleep.”

  “The guards–?”

  Larry incautiously shook his head and winced.

  “Ouch! That hurt! There are no guards. That story is bunk. There probably were in Lane Leonard’s time, but not now. I got in all right and I got out. More than half the containers are empty! I managed to get away from the park and I was within a few yards of my car when I was attacked; whoever it was must have spotted the car and waited for my return and I always thought I was clever – prided myself upon my wideness. I saw nobody, but I heard a sound and turned round, and probably that saved my life. Cosh!”

  “You didn’t see the man that hit you?”

  “No, it was quite dark, but I’ll know him again, and he’ll remember me for a long time. I carried a sword cane – one of those things you buy for a joke when you’re in Spain and never expect to use. As I wasn’t taking a gun because of my awful criminal record, I thought I’d be on the safe side and take that. Fortunately, I didn’t lose hold of it, and before he could give me a second blow I gave him two slashes with it that made him yap and bolt. I couldn’t see anything for blood, but I heard him smashing through a hedge. I don’t know how I got back to the car and how I got to London.”

  “May I ask,” said Mr Reeder, “exactly why you went to Sevenways?”

  “She asked me to see her last night – asked me in French; and she asked me in French because she didn’t want the chauffeur to hear her. That’s when she told me she wanted to see you. Her room is on the park side of the house – it’s called a castle, but it’s a Tudor house really – three windows on the right from the portico. As I say, the window was barred, so my plan came unstuck.”r />
  “What on earth were you going to do?” asked J G.

  “I was running away with her,” said Larry calmly. “It was her idea.”

  Mr Reeder was a picture of amazement.

  “You were running away with her?” he said incredulously.

  “That was the idea. She asked me to take her away. It sounds mad, but there it is. She must have trusted me, or she was desperate. I think a little of each.”

  Mr Reeder went out to telephone, Larry protesting.

  “Really, I don’t want a doctor. A whack on the head is nothing.”

  “A whack on the head that cuts four inches of skin and exposes the scalp is a very important matter,” said Mr Reeder, “and I am one of the few remaining people who believe in doctors.”

  A surgeon came in half an hour and did a little fancy stitching. Mr Reeder insisted that Larry should stay in the house; a very unusual request, for he never encouraged visitors, and this was the first guest he had had within the memory of his housekeeper.

  It was early in the afternoon when Mr Reeder reached Sevenways Castle. It stood in an extensive park and, as Larry had said, there was very little about it that had the appearance of a castle. Its architecture was Tudor, except that on one end there stuck out a rather ugly, modern addition which was built, it seemed, of dressed stone and visible from the drive. This must be the treasure house, he thought.

  He had telephoned the hour he expected to arrive, and Major Olbude was waiting for him under the porch. He led him into the panelled library, where a red fire glowed on an open hearth.

  “I’ve been trying to make up my mind whether I should wait for you to arrive or whether I should send for the local police. Some ruffian attacked a gamekeeper of mine with a sword last night. I’ve had to send him away to London to be medically treated. Really, Mr Reeder, the events of the past few days have made me so nervous that I felt it prudent to send my niece to Paris. With one of my guards killed and my gamekeeper attacked, it almost looks as though there is some attempt being organised against the treasure house, and if I were not bound by the terms of the will I should send the whole contents of the place to the strongroom of a London bank. It is very disconcerting. By the way, you will be relieved to learn that I made a very careful inspection of the vault today, and none of the containers has been touched; all the seals are intact, as of course I expected they would be. I need hardly tell you that I am a little relieved, though there was no real cause for worrying. The strongroom is impregnable and, unless Buckingham was the most expert of thieves, he could not have forced the door without it being instantly detected. The key never leaves me day or night. I carry it, as a matter of fact, on a silver chain around my neck.”

  “And none of the containers has been touched?” asked Mr Reeder.

  “None. Would you like to see the vault?”

  Mr Reeder followed him along the broad corridor of the castle into a little room which apparently was the major’s study, and through a steel door, which he unlocked, into a small lobby, illuminated by a skylight heavily criss-crossed with steel bars. There was another steel door, and beyond this they came to a narrow stone passage which led to the treasure house proper.

  It was a huge concrete and steel safe, placed within four walls. The only adjunct to the building was a small kitchenette, where the guards sat, and this was immediately opposite the steel door of the vault.

  “I think we’re entitled to call it a vault,” said the major, “because it is sunk some five feet below the level on which we are at present – one goes down steps to the interior–”

  Mr Reeder was looking round.

  “Where is the guard?” he asked.

  The major spread out his hands, despair in his good-looking face.

  “I’m afraid I lost my head, after what you told me. I dismissed them with a month’s wages and packed them off the moment I came back. It was stupid of me, because I’m sure they are trustworthy, but once you’ve become suspicious of men in whom you’ve placed the greatest confidence, I think it is best to make a clean sweep.”

  Mr Reeder examined the steel door carefully.

  He saw, however, at a glance that only the most expert of bank-smashers could have forced his way into the treasure chamber, and then only with the aid of modern scientific instruments. It was certainly not a one-man job, and decidedly no task for an amateur.

  He came back to the house, his hands thrust into his pockets, the inevitable umbrella hooked on his arm, his high-crowned hat on the back of his head. He stopped to admire one of the pieces of statuary which lined the broad hall.

  “A very old house,” he said. “I am interested in the manor houses of England. Is there any possibility of looking over the place?”

  Major Olbude hesitated.

  “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t,” he said. “Some of the rooms, of course, are locked up; in fact, we only use one wing.”

  They went from room to room. The drawing room was empty. He saw on a low table a book. It was open in the middle, and lying face down on the table; a book that had been put aside by somebody who was so interested in the story that they were anxious to continue at the place they left off. Near by was a pair of reading glasses and a case. He made no comment, and went on to the dining room, with its Elizabethan panels and deep mullioned windows; stopped to admire the carved crest of the original owner of the building, and listened intently while Major Olbude told him the history of Sevenways.

  “You don’t wish to see upstairs?”

  “I should rather like to. The old sleeping apartments in these manor houses have a singular interest for me. I am – um – something of a student of architecture,” said Mr Reeder untruthfully.

  7

  At the head of the grand stairway stretched a passage from which opened the principal bedrooms.

  “This is my niece’s room.”

  He threw open a door and showed a rather gloomy-looking apartment with a four-poster bed.

  “As I say, she went to Paris this morning–”

  “And left everything very tidy,” murmured Mr Reeder. “It’s such a pleasure to find that trait in a young lady.”

  There was no sign that the room had been lived in and there was a slight mustiness about it.

  “There’s little or nothing in this other wing, except my bedroom,” said the major, leading the way past the staircase.

  He was walking more quickly, but Mr Reeder stopped opposite a doorway.

  “There’s one remark that was made by a Frenchman about an English manor house in the reign of Charles,” he said sententiously. “Do you speak – er – French, Major?”

  Now, the remarkable thing about Major Olbude was that he did not speak French. He had a knowledge of Greek and of Latin, but modern languages had never appealed to him, he said.

  “His remark was this,” said Mr Reeder, and said something in French. He said it very loudly. “If you are in the room, move your blind when you hear me talking outside the house.”

  “I’m afraid that is unintelligible to me,” said the major shortly.

  “It means,” said Mr Reeder glibly, “that the Englishman’s idea of a good house is a comfortable bed inside a fortress. Now,” he said, as they went down the stairs together, “I would like to see the house from the outside.”

  They walked along the gravelled pathway running parallel with the front of the house. The major was growing obviously impatient; moreover, he was displaying a certain amount of anxiety, glancing round as though he were expecting an unwelcome visitor. Mr Reeder noticed these things.

  When he came opposite the third window from the right of the porch, he said loudly, pointing to a distant clump of trees: “Was it there your gamekeeper was attacked?”

  As he spoke, he glanced quickly backwards. The white blind that covered the third wind
ow to the right of the porch moved slightly.

  “No, it was in the opposite direction, on the other side of the house,” said the major shortly. “Now would you like to see the sleeping quarters of Buckingham? The police have been here this morning – the Kentish police – and have made a thorough search, so I don’t think it is worth while your examining the place. As far as I can gather, they found nothing.”

  Mr Reeder looked at him thoughtfully.

  “No, I don’t think I want to see Buckingham’s quarters, but there are one or two questions I would like to ask you. May I see the inside of the vault?”

  “No, you may not.”

  Olbude’s voice was sharp, frankly unfriendly. He seemed to realise this, for he added almost apologetically: “You see, Mr Reeder, I have a very heavy responsibility. This infernal trust is getting so much on my mind that I’m thinking of asking the courts to relieve me of my guardianship.”

  They were back in the library now. Mr Reeder was no longer the languid, charming and rather timid gentleman. He was the hectoring, domineering Mr Reeder, whom quite a number of people knew and disliked intensely.

  “I want to see your niece,” he said.

  “She’s gone to Paris.”

  “When did she go?”

  “She went by car this morning.”

  “Let me ask you one question; is your niece short-sighted? Does she wear glasses?”

  Olbude was taken off his guard.

  “Yes; the doctor ordered her to wear glasses for reading.”

  “How many pairs of glasses has she?”

  The major shrugged.

  “What is the idea of these ridiculous questions?” he asked testily. “So far as I know, she has one pair, a sort of blue-shaded tortoise-shell–”

  “Then will you explain why she took a long journey and left behind her the book in which she was so interested, and her reading glasses? You will find them in the drawing room. I want to see her room.”