Red Aces Page 12

  With great care Mr Reeder composed an agony column advertisement which he telephoned to four newspapers:

  Red-haired young man, please communicate with plus-four girl.

  The address that followed was that of his own office.

  3

  Miss Gillette arrived an hour late, which was not very remarkable. She had not seen the advertisements, so Mr Reeder had nothing to explain. Her interest in his affairs had apparently waned completely.

  At 12 o’clock she came into his room and announced that she had a luncheon engagement, and might not be back till three. He was not very sorry. He rather wished she would not come back till three o’clock on some date to be named by himself, and he wished that he had the courage to tell her so.

  There was no response to his advertisement, and he regretted that his telephone number had not been included in his address.

  Miss Gillette had hardly left before the first of Mr Reeder’s visitors came. Inspector Gaylor was curious to know what had been the result of the visit to Brixton Prison.

  “I am inclined to agree with you,” he said, when Reeder had sketched the conversation he had had with the prisoner. “At any rate, there is no evidence on which we could get a conviction. The pistol was of foreign make, and we have been able to trace one important fact – that when it was sold in Belgium, Alsby was still in prison. It might, of course, have been resold to him, but that’s unlikely.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Pizarro Syndicate?” asked Mr Reeder unexpectedly.

  Gaylor had an excellent memory, possibly the better because he had been on that particular case.

  “The Treasure Hunters,” he smiled. “It’s strange you should mention Pizarro. I was trying to trace a man named Gelpin, who was one of the biggest shareholders and one of the biggest dupes. I wanted him, to get particulars of a former clerk of his, but I just couldn’t find him, which is queer, since he was a fairly rich man.”

  “Dead,” suggested Mr Reeder.

  Gaylor shook his head.

  “No, he is abroad somewhere, I think, anyway he left the Midlands two years ago.”

  Mr Reeder pursed his lips and looked at the detective tragically.

  “Left the Midlands two years ago,” he repeated mechanically. “Dear me… Went abroad with a letter of credit, I am sure. How many people were there in the Pizarro Syndicate?”

  Gaylor was looking at him suspiciously.

  “What’s the idea? Has any other member of the Syndicate gone to live abroad?”

  “Two, to my knowledge.” Then there was a dead silence which Mr Reeder broke. “One was a young man called Seafield.”

  Gaylor nodded.

  “I remember that name, yes?”

  “The other’s name was Ralph,” said Mr Reeder slowly.

  He took from his drawer a written précis that he had prepared that morning and passed it silently to the inspector. Gaylor read very slowly, and naturally so, since J G’s writing was not the most legible.

  When he finished, he reached for the telephone.

  “I happen to know that Gelpin’s bank was the Scottish and Midland in Birmingham. Do you mind if I put a trunk call through?”

  He gave the urgent signal to the long distance operator and within five minutes he was talking to the bank. Mr Reeder only heard the questions and the monosyllabic rejoinders.

  Presently Gaylor hung up the receiver.

  “£17,500 letter of credit,” he said shortly, “cashed in Paris, Budapest and Madrid. Since then the bank has had three cheques for considerable amounts. They had been cashed in foreign cities, and had been accompanied by letters from Mr Gelpin. The bank manager says that Gelpin is a man who loves travel, so that he is not at all alarmed about it, and he has got a pretty good balance. He said one thing which may, or may not, have some bearing: that when Gelpin left, he announced his intention of going to Montreux.”

  Mr Reeder remembered instantly the little map on the wall of Litnoff’s room with the red irregular triangle.

  Mr Reeder rose at that moment to go to the door of the outer office to take in a cablegram from a Western Union messenger. He walked to the window, opened it and read the page of typescript. It was signed “Murphy” and was from the head of the New York Detective Department.

  Pizarro gang has not operated for past ten years. Pizarro in Sing-Sing serving life sentence. His right hand man Kennedy was last heard of in California twelve years ago, believed to be reformed character. Nothing known here of new Pizarro enterprise.

  Gaylor read the telegram and handed it back to Reeder.

  “Do you think this is a Pizarro stunt?”

  “My unpleasant mind leads me to that conclusion,” said Mr Reeder.

  The Rev. Dr Ingham came at two o’clock, at the moment when Mr Reeder was eating one of the two large buns which he invariably purchased on his way to the office, and which as invariably served him for lunch.

  He could almost sense the excited condition in which the cleric came by the rapidity and nervousness of his knock.

  “My dear fellow…the most amazing thing has happened… Mr Ralph has been found!”

  J G Reeder should have been overjoyed by the intelligence instead he looked a little grieved.

  “This is very pleasant news,” he said, “very pleasant indeed, h’m.”

  The clergyman fished inside his clerical coat and produced a telegram.

  “I happened to call on Miss Ralph this morning and whilst I was in the hotel this telegram came. Naturally the young lady is beside herself with relief – I confess that I also am feeling happier.”

  Mr Reeder took the telegram. It was handed in at Berlin West and was addressed to Joan Ralph, Haymarket Hotel.

  Shall be in Germany for a month. Write to me Hotel Marienbad Munich. Mark letter ‘await arrival’. Love. Daddy.

  “Remarkable,” said Mr Reeder.

  “I thought so. I asked the young lady to let me have the wire to show you.”

  “Remarkable,” said Mr Reeder again.

  “It is remarkable,” agreed Dr Ingham. “And yet it isn’t. He may have been called away to Germany and had no time to communicate with his daughter–”

  “I wasn’t referring to that,” said Mr Reeder. “When I said it was remarkable, I was thinking that it was both odd and remarkable that he should have wired to her at an hotel where she has never stayed before.”

  Dr Ingham’s jaw dropped.

  “Good heavens!” he gasped.

  His face had gone pale; it was as though there had come to him a sudden realization of just what this telegram might signify.

  “That did not occur to me… She had never stayed there before – are you sure?”

  Mr Reeder nodded.

  “She mentioned it casually last night just before she was leaving – I presume she told you she called on me? No, usually she stays at the hotel her father patronizes. She stayed at the Haymarket because it was close to Mr Ralph’s office. At any rate, he would have telegraphed to Bishop’s Stortford.”

  “It is strange,” said the clergyman after a pause.

  “It is strange,” said Mr Reeder. “It has assumed the appearance of – um – a case. Distinctly a case.”

  For a long time he seemed totally absorbed in the rivulets of rain which trickled down the panes of his window.

  “It is certainly bewildering,” said Dr Ingham at last. “I confess I am becoming alarmed. This red-haired young man, for example–”

  “Miss Ralph told you that?”

  “Miss Gillette – your charming secretary. She arrived at the hotel with her brother–”

  “Her young man,” corrected Mr Reeder, and coughed.

  “Really? She did not introduce him.”

  “She never does anything that s
he should do,” said Mr Reeder bitterly.

  He swung round in his swivel chair as though forcing himself from the hypnotic attractions of wriggling rain drops.

  “The red-haired young man is also remarkable. I am rather worried about him. He stands as it were on the threshold of – um – life. In a few years’ time he may be in the happy enjoyment of a red-haired wife and – um – red-haired children. To be cut off in his prime, and just because his father was ill and he undervalued a diamond brooch or clasp, would be grossly unfair.”

  The doctor stared at him blankly.

  “I don’t quite know what you mean. To be cut off… You don’t mean that this young man is in danger?”

  “I wonder!” said Mr Reeder.

  For a long while they sat gloomily surveying each other.

  “I am bewildered,” sighed Dr Ingham at last. “I feel as if I had strayed into some terrible land of unreality. Mr Reeder” – he leant forward – “are you ever in Kent?”

  “I live there,” said Mr Reeder, as indeed he did, for Brockley Road is situated on the London fringe of that county.

  “I mean in the country. I have been discussing this matter with my wife – a woman of remarkable acumen. She has a theory which, I must confess, I regard as entirely fantastic. I should not have mentioned it to you, but for the doubts you have concerning this Berlin telegram, which, I imagined, cleared up the mystery. I said to her only last night, ‘My dear, if you told Mr Reeder your theory, he would think you had been reading detective literature!’ She is an invalid – very seldom leaves the house. I feel that it would be asking you a great deal if I suggested you should spend a weekend with us.”

  Mr Reeder hesitated.

  “I seldom go out,” he said, “but what is your good lady’s theory?”

  The doctor smiled.

  “I feel I ought to apologize for even advancing such a suggestion. Years ago when I was in America I was swindled. The sum was insignificant, but it was a lesson to me. Here was I, an independent man, thanks to my dear father’s beneficence, and yet the cupidity which is latent in all of us overcame my scruples and I invested in a ridiculous get-rich-quick scheme…a sort of treasure hunt, organized by a rascal called Pizarro!”

  Mr Reeder nodded, but offered no comment.

  “My dear wife has an idea that behind Mr Ralph’s disappearance is some diabolical plot – exactly what it is I am at a loss to explain. The theory, fantastical as it is, has to do with Pizarro. Now I happen to know that Pizarro is in prison – at least that is my belief–”

  Mr Reeder raised a long forefinger; it might have been a gesture of warning. It was in truth an indication that he wished to speak.

  “On Saturday afternoon I have nothing particular to do,” he said. “May I trespass on your hospitality? May I say with respect that your wife is a very intelligent lady, and I should like to meet her.”

  Dr Ingham would send his car to meet the Dover Express. The plan was agreeable to Mr Reeder, but – “I must return at night. I – um – never sleep in any bed but my own.”

  Dr Ingham understood this prejudice against strange beds. He had an alternative suggestion, namely that Mr Reeder should make the whole journey by car.

  “It will take a little longer, but it’s a very good road, and I could have you picked up at your place in Brockley which is on the way.”

  Here again he found J G Reeder agreeable.

  For the remainder of the day Mr Reeder waited in vain for some communication from the red-haired youth, but none had come when Miss Gillette returned to the office, which was somewhere in the region of five o’clock. He was not exactly idle; an assistant whom he sometimes employed came to see him at his urgent request, and spent a profitable afternoon searching certain records at Somerset House.

  By the time Miss Gillette returned he had a complete list of English subscribers of the Pizarro Syndicate, and, with three exceptions, had sent telegrams to their known addresses. He did not wire to Mr Ralph, the missing Seafield, or yet to Mr Gelpin.

  Miss Gillette brought one item of news: she had spent the afternoon in committee with her fiancé and Joan Ralph, and they had come to the conclusion that something was wrong. It hardly seemed worth a committee meeting, thought Mr Reeder, but he avoided trouble by refraining from making such provocative comment.

  He left the office at six o’clock and wandered off to Scotland Yard and went immediately to Gaylor’s room.

  “I could have saved you the trouble,” said Gaylor, when Reeder told him about the telegrams he had sent. “We have already been in touch with the local police and they are making enquiries. We have found two subscribers, but they are very poor people and not likely to be affected. I also had a look at that map in Schmidt’s flat, and have been on the telephone to the Montreux police. They say that the area marked out in red ink is a derelict farm, the property of a Russian. The police chief was very decent; he sent a couple of men climbing about Glion to investigate, and they report there is nobody there, the place is in a state of ruin, and it has not been occupied for a number of years. There used to be a caretaker, but he has been withdrawn. The Russian was of course Litnoff. Apparently he was there only once or twice in his life, and never lived at the farm. It’s a puzzling business.”

  “To me it is as clear as the running water in the mountain stream,” said Mr Reeder poetically, “but that, of course, is because I have a criminal mind.”

  He returned to his office at nine that evening, after a frugal dinner. No telegrams had arrived. The only letter awaiting him was one from a former client, enclosing a cheque.

  4

  The drizzle had turned to rain. It pelted down on Mr Reeder’s mackintosh and flowed in spasmodic splashes from the brim of his high-crowned hat, as he trudged towards the nearest tramcar that would take him home.

  It was not the sort of night when people would be abroad. Again he found the lounger in a yellow oilskin coat standing at the corner of Brockley Road, and another idler pacing leisurely up and down. This man turned at the sound of his steps and came towards him.

  “Have you got a match, governor?” His voice was harsh and common, and did not somehow go with his respectable attire, for he had a blue trench coat buttoned up to his chin and belted about his waist. The point of Mr Reeder’s umbrella came up until it pointed just above that belt.

  “I haven’t a match. If I had, I would not be so foolish as to put my hands in my pocket so as to give it to you,” he said haranguingly. “Now, if you will kindly stand out of my way, you will save yourself a lot of trouble.”

  “I asked you civilly, didn’t I?” growled the man.

  “Your civility doesn’t amuse me,” said Mr Reeder, and then suddenly his hand shot out and he got the man by the shoulder, exhibiting a strength which none would have suspected in him, and sent him flying toward the road.

  He passed through the little iron gate, slammed it behind him.

  “And you can tell Kennedy from me he is wasting his time.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” snarled the man.

  Mr Reeder did not parley with him. He mounted the steps, fitted the key in the lock and entered. He stopped long enough to hang his wet mackintosh in the hall, remove his goloshes, and then went up to his room. He was in darkness. He did not switch on the light, and crossing the room, he pulled aside the heavy curtains and looked out.

  The man in the blue trench coat was still standing in front of the house, but now he had been joined by the loiterer in the yellow oilskin coat, and they were talking together.

  Mr Reeder was cursed with a sense of humour which was peculiar to himself. He went into his bedroom, and from a shelf in the cupboard he took a small air pistol, and “breaking it”, inserted a pellet. At the distance which separated him from his two watchers an air pistol would not be dangerous, but it sho
uld be very painful. Gently lifting the sash, he took aim and pressed the trigger. He heard the man in the yellow oilskin yell and saw him leap into the air.

  “What’s biting you?” demanded blue trench coat.

  “Somep’n bit me.”

  He was clasping his neck and rolling his head backwards and forwards in his pain.

  Mr Reeder broke the pistol again, put another pellet in the breech and took even more accurate aim.

  “Say, listen,” said the man in the trench coat. He said no more. His hat went flying, and looking up in his bewilderment, he saw Mr Reeder leaning out of the window.

  “Go away,” said Mr Reeder gently.

  He did not hear the reply because he closed the window quickly. He objected to profanity on principle. But when a few minutes later he looked out again the two men had disappeared.

  It was 11 o’clock when he went to bed. He was by no means a light sleeper, or he would have heard the first pebble that struck his window. The second woke him, and for a good reason: the stone was heavier and the pane smashed.

  He got out of bed quickly and very cautiously went to the edge of the window and looked out. There was nobody in sight. Pushing open the casement he made a more careful survey: the street was empty. He could see no living soul, and then, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw a figure moving in the shadow of the one laurel bush which decorated the front garden of his house.

  This time Mr Reeder did not take an air pistol, but a very business-like Browning in the pocket of his dressing-gown. He went noiselessly down the stairs, unbolted the door, opened it and flashed a concentrated beam of a powerful spotlight into the garden. It was neither trench coat nor oilskin, but a bedraggled youth, hatless, whose wet clothes seemed skin tight.

  From the darkness came a beseeching voice: “Is that Mr Reeder… For God’s sake take the light off me.”