Red Aces Page 5

  “My clerk McKay said it was a lady – heavily veiled.”

  Reeder stared at him.

  “Your clerk McKay? Of course – a fair young man. How stupid of me! Kenneth – or is it Karl – Kenneth, is it? H’m! Heavily veiled lady. Have you the number of the notes?”

  Kingfether was taken aback by the question. He searched for a book that held the information, and Mr Reeder copied them down, an easy task since the tens and the fives ran consecutively.

  “When does your clerk arrive?”

  Kenneth was supposed to arrive at nine. As a rule he was late. He was late that morning.

  Mr Reeder saw the young man through a window in the manager’s office and thought that he did not look well. His eyes were tired; he had shaved himself carelessly, for his chin bore a strip of sticking plaster. Perhaps that accounted for the spots on the soiled cuff of his shirt, thought Mr Reeder, when he confronted the young man.

  “No, I will see him alone,” said Reeder.

  “He is rather an insolent pup,” warned Mr Kingfether.

  “I have tamed lions,” said Mr Reeder.

  When Kenneth came in: “Close the door, please, and sit down. You know me, my boy?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Kenneth.

  “That is blood on your shirt cuff, isn’t it?…cut your chin, did you? You haven’t been home all night?”

  Kenneth did not answer at once.

  “No, sir. I haven’t changed my shirt, if that is what you mean.”

  Mr Reeder smiled.

  “Exactly.”

  He fixed the young man with a long, searching glance.

  “Why did you go to the house of the late Mr Wentford last night between the hours of eight-thirty and nine-thirty?”

  He saw the youth go deathly white.

  “I didn’t know he was dead – I didn’t even know his name until this morning. I went there because…well, I was blackguard enough to spy on somebody…follow them from London and sneak into the house–”

  “The young lady, Margot Lynn. You’re in love with her? Engaged to her, perhaps?”

  “I’m in love with her – I’m not engaged to her. We are no longer…friends,” said Kenneth in a low voice. “She told you I had been there, I suppose?” And then, as a light broke on him: “Or did you find my cap? It had my name in it.”

  Mr Reeder nodded.

  “You came down on the same train as Miss Lynn? Good. Then you will be able to prove that you left Bourne End station–”

  “No, I shan’t,” said Kenneth. “I slipped out of the train on to the line. Naturally I didn’t want her to see me. I got out through the level crossing. There was nobody about – it was snowing heavily.”

  “Very awkward.” Mr Reeder pursed his lips. “You thought there was some sort of friendship between Mr Wentford and the young lady?”

  Kenneth made a gesture of despair.

  “I don’t know what I thought – I was just a jealous fool.”

  A very long silence, broken by a coal falling from the fire on to the iron bottom of the fender.

  “You paid out six hundred pounds the other day to a lady on Mr Wentford’s cheque?”

  “I didn’t know that Wentford was – ” began Ken, but Mr Reeder brushed aside that aspect of the situation. “Yes, a veiled lady. She came by car. It was a large sum of money, but the day before Mr Kingfether had told me to honour any cheque of Mr Wentford’s, no matter to whom money was paid.”

  “Will you tell me something about your quarrel with the young lady?” Mr Reeder asked. “It is, I realize, a delicate subject.”

  Kenneth hesitated, then told his story as he had told it to Mr Machfield.

  “Miss Lynn called on you that night – did she ask you to destroy the photograph you had taken?”

  The young man was surprised at this query.

  “No – I had forgotten all about the photograph till the other day. I must have sent the pack to be developed or put them aside to send them. Would the picture of Mr Wentford be any good to you?”

  J G Reeder shook his head. He asked very little more. He was, it seemed, the easiest man in the world to satisfy. Before he left he saw the sub-manager alone.

  “Did you tell Mr McKay that he was to honour any cheque of Mr Wentford’s, no matter to whom the money was paid?”

  The answer came instantly.

  “Of course not! Naturally I should expect him to be sure that the person who presented a cheque had authority. And another curious thing which I have not mentioned. I lunch at the inn opposite and I usually have a seat in the window, where I can see these premises, but I have no recollection of any car drawing up to the bank.”

  “H’m!” was all that Mr Reeder said.

  He made a few enquiries in Beaconsfield and the neighbourhood and went on to Wentford’s house, where Gaylor had arranged to meet him. The inspector was pacing up and down the snowy terrace before the house and he was in very good spirits.

  “I think I’ve got the man,” he said. “Do you know anybody named McKay?”

  Mr Reeder looked at him slyly.

  “I know a dozen,” he said.

  “Come inside and I’ll show you something.”

  Reeder followed him into the room. The carpet had been taken up, the furniture moved. Evidently a very thorough search had been in progress. Gaylor swung back the bookcase: the safe door was ajar.

  “We got keys from the maker – quick work! They were down here by eight-thirty.”

  He stooped down and pulled out three bundles. The first was made up of bills, the second of used cheques, the third was a thick bundle of French banknotes, each to the value of 1,000 francs.

  “That is surprise No. 1,” began the detective, flourishing the money. “French money–”

  “I am afraid it doesn’t surprise me,” said Mr Reeder apologetically. “You see, I’ve been examining the gentleman’s bank book. By the way, here are the numbers of notes drawn from Mr Wentford’s account.” He handed over a slip of paper.

  “Six hundred pounds is a lot of money,” said Gaylor. “I’ll ’phone these through. Well, what else did you find in the bank book?”

  “I observed,” said Mr Reeder, “though I did not emphasize the fact, that all the money he paid in was in French bank notes. Number two is – ?”

  The inspector extracted a sheet of headed paper from one heap. Written in pencil was what was evidently a memorandum from somebody who signed himself “D H Hartford”.

  I have found that the man who is employing a private detective to find you is George McKay of Sennet House, Marlow. I don’t know what his intentions are, but they’re not pleasant. There is nothing to worry about: he is employing one of the most incompetent private detectives in the business.

  “Extraordinary!” said Mr Reeder, and coughed.

  “The first thing to do is to find Hartford – ” began Gaylor.

  “He is in Australia,” Mr Reeder interrupted. “At the time that letter was written his office address was 327, Lambs Buildings. He became bankrupt and left the country hurriedly.”

  “How do you know?” asked Gaylor, astonished.

  “Because I – um – was the incompetent private detective engaged to find Mr Lynn, or, as he called himself, Mr Wentford. And I did not find him,” said Mr Reeder.

  “Why did McKay wish to find this man?”

  “He owed him money. I know no more than that. The search fell off because – um – Mr McKay owed me money. One has to live.”

  “Then you knew about Wentford?”

  Mr Reeder took counsel with himself.

  “Um – yes. I recognized him last night – I once had a photograph of him. I thought it was very odd. I also – er – drove over to Marlow and made enquiries. Mr McKay – Mr George M
cKay did not leave his house last night, and at the moment the murder was committed was entertaining the – um – vicar to dinner.”

  “You’re a killjoy,” he said, and Mr Reeder sighed heavily.

  “I’m going to have these developed.” He held up a little film pack. “I found them in the old man’s bedroom. I don’t suppose they’ll tell us anything.”

  “I fancy they will be very instructive,” said Mr Reeder, “especially if you are interested in natural history. There will also be a picture of Mr Wentford or Lynn, with his arm about the shoulder of his niece.”

  Gaylor sat down.

  “Are you pulling my leg?” he demanded.

  “Heaven forbid!” answered Mr Reeder piously.

  Gaylor got up and stood squarely before him.

  “What do you know about these murders, Reeder?” he challenged.

  Mr Reeder spread his hands wide. His glasses, set askew, slipped a little farther down his nose; he was not a very imposing figure.

  “I am a queer man, Mr Gaylor; I am cursed, as you are aware, with a peculiarly evil mind. I am also intensely curious – I have always been. I am curious about criminals and chickens – I have perhaps the finest Wyandottes in London, but that is by the way. It would be cruel to give you my theories. The blood on the policeman’s horse: that is interesting. And Henry – I suppose Mr Enward’s clerk has another name – the blood on his coat, though he did not go near the body of the late Mr Wentford, that is interesting. Poor Henry is suffering from a severe chill and is in bed, but his mother, an admirable and hardworking woman, permitted me to see him. Then the two aces pinned to the door, all very, very, very interesting indeed! Mr Gaylor, if you will permit me to interview old George McKay I will undertake to tell you who committed these murders.”

  “The girl told you something – the girl Lynn?”

  “The girl has told me nothing. She also may be very informative. I purpose spending a night or two in her flat – um – not, I hope, without a chaperon.”

  Gaylor looked at him, amazed. Mr Reeder was blushing.

  7

  The last page of the letter which Mr Eric Kingfether had begun with such ease in the early part of the morning was extremely difficult to compose. It had become necessary to say certain things; it was vital that he should not put his communication into writing.

  In desperation he decided to make a break with practice. He would go to town. It was impossible to leave before the bank closed, but he could go immediately afterwards, though there was urgent work which should have kept him on the bank premises until six, and some private work of serious importance that should have occupied him until midnight. When the bank closed he handed over the key of the safe to Kenneth.

  “I’ve been called to town. Balance up the books and put them in the safe. I’ll be back by six; I’d like you to wait for me.”

  Kenneth McKay did not receive the suggestion favourably. He also wished to get away.

  “Well, you can’t!” said the other sharply. “The bank inspector will be in tomorrow to check the Wentford account. It will probably be required as evidence.”

  Mr Kingfether got out his little car and drove to London. He parked his machine in a Bloomsbury square and made his way on foot to a big mansion block behind Gower Street. The elevator man who took him up grinned a welcome.

  “The young lady’s in, sir,” he said.

  The “young lady” herself opened the door to his ring.

  “Look who’s here!” she said in surprise, and stood aside to let him in.

  She was dressed in an old kimono and did not look as attractive as usual.

  “In another half-hour I’d have been out,” she said. “I didn’t get up till after lunch. These late nights are surely hell!”

  She led the way to a sitting-room that was hazy with cigarette smoke. It was a large room, its floor covered with a soft carpet that had once cost a lot of money but was now mottled with stains. Before the fire was a big divan, and on this she had been reclining. The furnishing and appointments of the room were of that style which is believed to be oriental by quite a large number of people. The whole room was half way to blowsiness. It had a stale, sweet scent. Before the fire, in a shallow basket lined with red silk, a Pekingese dog opened his weary eyes to survey the newcomer, and instantly closed them again.

  “Well, my dear, what brings you up to town? I told you to snatch a few hours sleep – round about one you looked like a boiled owl, and that’s not the state to be in when you’re chasing money.”

  She was dark and good-looking by certain standards. Her figure was robust, and nature had given generously to the amplification of her visible charms. The red of her full lips was a natural red; the clear skin was of fine texture; her face was scarcely powdered.

  For a very long time they talked, head to head. She was an excellent listener; her sympathy had a sincere note. At half-past five:

  “Now off you pop and don’t worry. The governor will be seeing you tonight – talk it over with him. I think you’d better, in case anything turns up…you know what I mean.”

  He took a letter out of his pocket and gave it to her with an air of embarrassment.

  “I wrote it, or rather started it, this morning…I couldn’t finish it. I mean every word I say.”

  She kissed him loudly.

  “You’re a darling!” she said.

  Mr Kingfether came back to his office to find only a junior in charge. McKay, despite instructions to the contrary, had gone, and the sub-manager sat down to a rough examination of important books in no condition to do justice to his task. He possessed one of those slow-starting tempers that gathers momentum from its own weight. A little grievance and a long brooding brought him to a condition of senseless and unrestrainable fury.

  He was in this state when Kenneth McKay returned.

  “I asked you to stay in, didn’t I?” He glowered at his subordinate.

  “Did you? Well, I stayed in until I finished my work. Then the bank inspector came.”

  Mr Kingfether’s face went white.

  “What did he want? Redman didn’t tell me he called.”

  “Well, he did.” Kenneth passed into the outer office.

  Kingfether sat scribbling oddly on his blotting-pad for a moment, and then for the first time saw the letter that had been placed on the mantelpiece. It was marked “Urgent. Confidential. Deliver by hand,” and was from head office.

  He took it up with a shaking hand, and, after a long hesitation, tore the seal. There was a little mirror on the wall above the fireplace, and he caught sight of his face and could hardly believe that that ghost of a man was himself.

  There was no need to read the letter twice through. Already he knew every word, every comma. He stood blinking at his reflection, and then went into the outer office. He found Kenneth collecting some personal belongings from his desk.

  “I suppose the inspector came about the Wentford cheque?” he said.

  The young man looked round at him.

  “Wentford cheque? I don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t mean the cheque I cashed for the woman?”

  It required an effort on the manager’s part to affirm this.

  “What was wrong with it?”

  “It was forged, that is all.”

  “Forged?” Kenneth frowned at him.

  “Yes…didn’t the inspector say anything? He left a letter for me, didn’t he?”

  Kenneth shook his head.

  “No. He was surprised to find that you weren’t here. I told him you had gone up to the head office. I’m getting a bit sick of lying about you. What is the yarn about this cheque?”

  Again it required a painful effort on the manager’s part to speak.

  “It was forged. You’ve to report to head office
tomorrow morning…some of the banknotes have been traced to you…the cheque was out of your office book.” It was out, yet he felt no relief.

  McKay was looking at him open-mouthed.

  “You mean the cheque that was changed by that woman?” The word “woman” irritated Mr Kingfether.

  “A lady was supposed to have called, a veiled lady–”

  “What do you mean by ‘supposed’?” demanded Kenneth. “You say that the notes were traced to me – I issued them: is that what you mean?”

  “You have them – some of them – in your private possession; that’s all.”

  Incredulity showed in Kenneth’s face.

  “I? You mean that I stole them?”

  Kingfether had reached the limit of endurance.

  “How the hell do I know what you did?” he almost shouted. “Head office have written to say that some of the notes you paid over the counter have been traced through a moneylender named Stuart to you.”

  The young man’s faced changed suddenly.

  “Stuart…oh!” was all that he said. A moment later he went blundering out of the side door, leaving Mr Kingfether to continue his aimless scribblings on his blotting-pad.

  Kenneth reached Marlow just before the dinner hour, and he came into the study where old George McKay was usually to be found, working out his eternal combinations. To Kenneth’s amazement, his father greeted him with a smile. Instead of the cards, his table was covered with packages of documents and the paraphernalia of correspondence.

  “Hullo, son – we’ve had a stroke of luck. The arbitrators have decided in my favour. I knew jolly well I hadn’t parted with my rights in the dyeing process when I sold out, and the company has to pay close on a hundred thousand back royalties.”

  Kenneth knew of this wrangle between his father and his late company that had gone on through the years, but he had never paid very much attention to it.

  “That means a steady income for years, and this time I’m going to look after things – here!”

  He pointed to the grate. The fireplace was filled with half-burnt playing cards.