Red Aces Read online

  Mr Reeder plucked at his lower lip.

  “Do you know Attymar?”

  The young man shook his head.

  “I can’t even say that I know Ligsey, but if he keeps his promise I shall know Attymar tomorrow morning.”

  “What was his promise?” asked Mr Reeder.

  “He says Attymar has documentary proof – he didn’t use that expression but that is what he meant – and that he was going to Attymar’s house tonight to get it.”

  Again Mr Reeder thought, staring into vacancy.

  “When did you see him last?”

  “The morning I wrote to you, or rather the morning you received the letter.” He made a little gesture of despair. “Whatever happens, Anna’s going to think I’m the biggest cad–”

  The telephone bell rang sharply. Mr Reeder, with a murmured apology, took up the receiver and listened with a face that did not move. He only asked “What time?” and, after a long pause, said “Yes.” As he was hanging up the receiver, Desboyne went on: “What I should like to do is to see Attymar–”

  Mr Reeder shook his head.

  “I’m afraid you won’t see Attymar. He was murdered between nine and ten tonight.”

  4

  It was half past twelve when Mr Reeder’s taxi brought him into Shadwick Lane, which was alive with people. A police cordon was drawn across the gate, but Gaylor, who was waiting for him, conducted him into the yard.

  “We’re dragging the river for the body,” he explained.

  “Where was it committed?” asked Mr Reeder.

  “Come inside,” said the other grimly, “and then you will ask no questions.”

  It was not a pleasant sight that met Mr Reeder’s eyes, though he was a man not easily sickened. The little sitting-room was a confusion of smashed furniture, the walls splashed with red. A corner table, however, had been left untouched. Here were two glasses of whisky, one full, the other half-empty. A half-smoked cigar was carefully laid on a piece of paper by the side of these.

  “The murder was committed here and the body was dragged to the edge of the wharf and thrown into the water,” said Gaylor. “There’s plenty of evidence of that.

  “We’ve taken possession of a lot of papers, and we found a letter on the mantelpiece from a man named Southers – John Southers. No address, but evidently from the handwriting a person of some education. At nine twenty-five tonight Attymar had a visitor, a young man who was admitted through the wicket gate, and who was seen to leave at twenty-five minutes to ten, about ten minutes after he arrived.”

  Gaylor opened an attache case and took out a battered, cheap silver watch, which had evidently been under somebody’s heel. The glass was smashed, the case was bent out of shape. The hands stood at nine-thirty.

  “One of the people here recognized this as Ligsey’s – a woman who lives in the street who had pawned it for him on one occasion. It’s important, because it probably gives us the hour of the murder, if you allow the watch to be a little fast or slow. It’s hardly likely to be accurate. We have sent a description round of Southers, though it isn’t a very good one, but it will probably be sufficient. I’m having a facsimile of the writing–”

  “I can save you the trouble; here is the young man’s address.” Mr Reeder took a notebook from his pocket, scribbled a few lines and handed it to the detective. He looked glumly at the bloodstained room and the evidence of tragedy, followed the detective in silence, whilst Gaylor, with the aid of a powerful light, showed the telltale stains leading from the wharf, and…

  “Very interesting,” said Mr Reeder. “When you recover the bodies I should like to see them.”

  He stared out over the river, which was covered by a faint mist – not sufficient to impede navigation, but enough to shroud and make indistinct objects thirty or forty yards away.

  “The barge is at Greenwich, I think,” he said, after a long silence. “Could I borrow a police launch?”

  One of the launches was brought in to the crazy wharf and Mr Reeder lowered himself gingerly, never losing grip of the umbrella which no man had seen unfurled. It was a chilly night, an easterly wind blowing up the river, but he sat in the bow of the launch motionless, sphinx-like, staring ahead as the boat streaked eastwards towards Greenwich.

  It drew up by the side of the barge, which was moored close to the Surrey shore, and a quavering voice hailed them.

  “That you, Ligsey?”

  Mr Reeder pulled himself on board before he replied.

  “No, my boy,” he said gently, “it is not Ligsey. Were you expecting him?”

  The youth held up his lantern, surveyed Mr Reeder and visibly quailed.

  “You’re a copper, ain’t yer?” he asked tremulously. “Have you pinched Ligsey?”

  “I have not pinched Ligsey,” said Mr Reeder, patting the boy gently on the back. “How long has he been gone?”

  “He went about eight, soon after it was dark; the guv’nor come down for him.”

  “The guv’nor come down for him,” repeated Mr Reeder in a murmur. “Did you see the governor?”

  “No, sir; he shouted for me to go below. Ligsey always makes me go below when him and the guv’nor have a talk.”

  Mr Reeder drew from his pocket a yellow carton of cigarettes and lit one before he pursued his inquiries.

  “Then what happened?”

  “Ligsey come down and packed his ditty box, and told me I was to hang on all night, but that I could go to sleep. I was frightened about being left alone on the barge–”

  Mr Reeder was already making his way down the companion to Ligsey’s quarters. Evidently all the man’s kit had been removed; even the sheets on his bed must have been folded and taken away, for the bunk was tumbled.

  On a little swing table, which was a four-foot plank suspended from the deck above, was a letter. It was not fastened, and Mr Reeder made no scruple in opening and reading its contents. It was in the handprint which, he had been informed, was the only kind of writing Attymar knew.

  Dear Mr Southers,

  If you come aboard the stuff is in the engine-room. I have got to be very careful because the police are watching.

  When he questioned the boy, whose name was Hobbs, he learned that Ligsey had come down and left the letter. Mr Reeder went aft and found the hatchway over the little engine-room unfastened, and descended into the strong-smelling depths where the engine was housed. It was here evidently that Attymar remained during his short voyages. There was a signal bell above his head, and a comfortable armchair had been fixed within reach of the levers.

  His search here was a short one. Inside an open locker he found a small, square package, wrapped in oiled paper, and a glance at the label told him its contents, even though he did not read Dutch.

  Returning to the boy, he questioned him closely. It was no unusual thing for Attymar to pick up his mate from the barge. The boy had once seen the launch, and described it as a very small tender. He knew nothing of Mr Southers, had never seen him on board the ship, though occasionally people did come, on which occasions he was sent below.

  At his request, Mr Reeder was put ashore at Greenwich and got on the telephone to Gaylor. It was now two o’clock in the morning, and much had happened.

  “We arrested that man Southers; found his trousers covered with blood. He admits he was at Attymar’s house tonight, and tells a cock-and-bull story of what he did subsequently. He didn’t get home till nearly twelve.”

  “Extraordinary,” said Mr Reeder, and the mildness of the comment evidently irritated Inspector Gaylor.

  “That’s one way of putting it, but I think we’ve made a pretty good capture,” he said. “We’ve got enough evidence to hang him. Attymar’s left all sorts of notes on his invoices.”

  “Amazing,” said Mr Reeder, and gathered from the abrup
tness with which he was cut off that, for some mysterious reason, he had annoyed the man at Scotland Yard.

  He sent back a short report with the documents and the drugs to Scotland Yard, and drove home by taxi. It was three o’clock by the time he reached Brockley Road, and he was not surprised to find his housekeeper up and to hear that Anna Welford was waiting for him.

  She was very white and her manner was calm.

  “You’ve heard about Johnny being arrested – ” she began.

  Mr Reeder nodded.

  “Yes, I gave them the necessary information as to where he was to be found,” he said, and he saw the colour come and go in her face.

  “I – I suppose you – you had to do your duty?” she said haltingly. “But you know it’s not true, Mr Reeder. You know Johnny…he couldn’t…” Her voice choked.

  Mr Reeder shook his head.

  “I don’t know Johnny really,” he said apologetically. “He is – um – the merest acquaintance, Miss Welford. I am not saying that in disparagement of him, because obviously quite a number of people who aren’t my friends are respectable citizens. Did you see him before he was arrested?”

  She nodded.

  “Immediately before?”

  “Half-an-hour before. He was terribly disappointed; he had gone to see about this partnership but he had a feeling that he’d been tricked, for nothing came of it. He had arranged to see me, and I waited up for him…he was crossing the road to his own house when he was arrested.”

  “Did he wear a blue suit or a grey suit?”

  “A blue suit,” she said quickly.

  Mr Reeder looked at the ceiling.

  “Of course he wore a blue suit; otherwise – um…” He scratched his chin irritably. “It was a cold night, too. I can’t understand until I have seen his – um – trousers.”

  She looked at him in bewilderment, a little fearfully. And then suddenly Mr Reeder gave one of his rare smiles and dropped a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “I shouldn’t be too worried if I were you,” he said, with a kindly look in his eyes. “You’ve got quite a number of good friends, and you will find Mr Desboyne will do a lot to help your Johnny.”

  She shook her head.

  “Clive doesn’t like Johnny,” she said.

  “That I can well believe,” said Mr Reeder good-humouredly. “Nevertheless, unless I’m a bad prophet, you will find Mr Desboyne the one person who can clear up this – um – unpleasantness.”

  “But who was the man who was killed? It’s all so terribly unreal to me. Attymar was his name, wasn’t it? Johnny didn’t know anybody named Attymar. At least, he didn’t tell me so. I’m absolutely stunned by this news, Mr Reeder. I can’t realize its gravity. It seems just a stupid joke that somebody’s played on us. Johnny couldn’t do harm to any man.”

  “I’m sure he couldn’t,” said Mr Reeder soothingly, but that meant nothing.

  5

  Mr Reeder’s housekeeper had, since his arrival, behaved with a certain secretiveness which could only mean that she had something important to communicate. It was after he had seen the girl to her house that he learned what the mystery was all about.

  “The young gentleman who came to see you last night,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve put him in the waiting-room.”

  “Mr Desboyne?”

  “That’s the name,” she nodded. “He said he wouldn’t go until he’d seen you.”

  In a few seconds Clive Desboyne was shown in.

  “I’ve only just heard about Southers’ arrest – it’s monstrous! And I was being so beastly about him tonight. Mr Reeder, I’ll spend all the money you want to get this young man out of his trouble. My God, it’s awful for Anna!”

  Mr Reeder pulled at his long nose and said he thought it was rather unpleasant.

  “And,” he added, “for everybody.”

  “They say this man Ligsey is also dead. If I’d had any sense I’d have brought over the note I had of our conversation.”

  “I could call up for it in the morning,” said Mr Reeder, and his voice was surprisingly brisk.

  Mr Desboyne gazed at him in startled astonishment. It was as though this weary man with the drooping lips and tired eyes had suddenly received a great mental tonic.

  “You made notes? Not one man in ten would have thought of that,” said Mr Reeder. “I thought I was the only person who did it.”

  Clive Desboyne laughed.

  “I’ve given you the impression that I’m terribly methodical,” he said, “and that isn’t quite exact.”

  He looked at the watch on his wrist.

  “It’s too late to ask you to breakfast.”

  “Breakfast is my favourite meal,” said Mr Reeder gaily. Late as was the hour, he was standing before the polished mahogany door of 974, Memorial Mansions, Park Lane, at nine o’clock next morning. Mr Desboyne was not so early a riser, and indeed had doubted whether the detective would keep his promise. Mr Reeder was left standing in the hall whilst the servant went to inquire exactly how this strangely appearing gentleman should be disposed of.

  There was plenty to occupy Mr Reeder’s attention during her absence, for the wide hall was hung with photographs which gave some indication of Desboyne’s wide sporting and theatrical interests. There was one interesting photograph, evidently an enlargement of a snapshot, showing the House of Commons in the background, which held Mr Reeder’s attention, the more so as the photograph also showed the corner of Westminster Bridge across which motor-buses were moving. He was looking at this when Clive Desboyne joined him.

  “Here is a piece of detective work,” said Mr Reeder triumphantly, pointing to the photograph. “I can tell you almost the week that picture was taken. Do you see those two omnibuses bearing the names of two plays? I happen to know there was only one week in the year when they were both running together.”

  “Indeed,” said Desboyne, apparently not as impressed by this piece of deduction as Mr Reeder had expected.

  He led the way to the dining-room, and Reeder found by the side of his plate three foolscap sheets covered with writing.

  “I don’t know whether you’ll be able to read it,” said Desboyne, “but you’ll notice there one or two things that I forgot to tell you at our interview. I think on the whole they favour Southers, and I’m glad I made a note of them. For example, he said he had never seen Southers and only knew him by name. That in itself is rather curious.”

  “Very,” said Mr Reeder. “Regarding that photograph in the hall – it must have been in May last year. I remember some years ago, by a lucky chance, I was able to establish the date on which a cheque was passed, as distinct from the date on which it was drawn, by the fact that the drawer had forgotten to sign one of his initials.”

  It was surprising how much Mr Reeder, who was not as a rule a loquacious man, talked in the course of that meal. Mostly he talked about nothing. When Clive Desboyne led him to the murder Mr Reeder skilfully edged away to less unpleasant topics.

  “It doesn’t interest me very much, I confess,” he said. “I am not a member of the – um – Criminal Investigation Department; I was merely called in to deal with this man’s smuggling – and he seems to have smuggled pretty extensively. It is distressing that young Southers is implicated. He seems a nice lad, and has rather a sane view of the care of chickens. For example, he was telling me that he had an incubator…”

  At the end of the meal he asked permission to take away the notes for study, and this favour was granted.

  He was at the house in Shadwick Lane half an hour later. Gaylor, who had arranged to meet him there, had not arrived, and Mr Reeder had two men who had had semi-permanent jobs on the wharf. It was the duty of one to open and close the gates and pilot the lorries to their positions. He had also, as had his companion, to assist at the loading.


  They had not seen much of Attymar all the years they had been there. He usually came in on one of the night or early morning tides. Ligsey paid them their wages.

  “There was never any change,” said one mournfully. “We ain’t had the gates painted since I’ve bin here – we’ve had the same little anvil to keep the gate open–”

  He looked round first one side and then the other. The same little anvil was not there.

  “Funny,” he said.

  Mr Reeder agreed. Who would steal a rusty little anvil? He saw the place where it had lain; the impression of it still stood in the dusty earth.

  Later came Gaylor, in a hurry to show him over the other rooms of the house. There was a kitchen, a rather spacious cellar, which was closed by a heavy door, and one bedroom that had been divided into two unequal parts by a wooden partition. The bedroom was simply but cleanly furnished. There was a bed and bedstead, a dressing-table with a large mirror, and a chest of drawers, which was empty. Indeed, there was no article of Attymar’s visible, except an old razor, a stubbly shaving brush and six worn shirts that had been washed until they were threadbare. From the centre of the ceiling hung an electric light with an opalescent shade; another light hung over a small oak desk, in which, Gaylor informed him, most of the documents in the case had been found. But Mr Reeder’s chief interest was in the mirror, and in the greasy smear which ran from the top left hand corner almost along the top of the mirror. The glass itself was supported by two little mahogany pillars, and to the top of each of these was attached a piece of string.

  “Most amusing,” said Mr Reeder, speaking his thoughts aloud.

  “Remind me to laugh,” said Mr Gaylor heavily. “What is amusing?”

  For answer Mr Reeder put up his hand and ran the tip of his finger along the smear. Then he began to prowl around the apartment obviously looking for something, and as obviously disappointed that it could not be found.