Mr. J. G. Reeder Returns Read online

  Mr Reeder was a little puzzled, but only a little.

  “Very extraordinary,” he said, “can you tell me any more about Buckingham?”

  The major hesitated.

  “No, except that he went to town more frequently than any of the other guards. For this I was responsible, I am afraid! I gave him greater freedom because he was the doyen of the guards in point of service.”

  “Extraordinary,” said Mr Reeder again.

  The story had its fantastical and improbable side, and yet J G Reeder regarded it as being no more than – extraordinary. Misers there had been since there were valuable things to hoard. Every nation had its safe place where unproductive gold was hoarded. He knew of at least three similar cases of men who had maintained in vaults vast sums in bullion.

  “I should like to come down to – um – Sevenways Castle and see this man’s quarters,” he said. “It will be necessary to go through his possessions. Had he any friends?”

  The major nodded.

  “He had a friend, I believe, in London – a girl. I don’t know who she was. To tell you the truth, Mr Reeder, I have an idea that he was married, though he never spoke of his wife. But what were you telling me about his having money? That is news to me.”

  J G Reeder scratched his chin and hesitated.

  “I am not quite sure whether I have absolute authority for saying that he was the head of a certain land corporation, but as his staff have recognised his photograph–”

  He sketched the story of the Land Development Company, and Major Olbude listened without interruption.

  “Then it was in one of his own fields that he was found? When I say his own fields, I mean on land which he himself owned. That is amazing. I am afraid I can tell you no more about him,” he said, as he took up his hat and stick, “but of course I am available whenever you wish to question me. There may be some things about him that I have forgotten, but I will write my telephone number on your card and you may call me up.”

  He did this with his pencil, Mr Reeder standing by and watching the process with interest.

  He accompanied his guest down the stairs into Whitehall, and arrived in time to witness a peculiar incident. A Rolls was drawn up by the kerb and three persons were standing by it. He recognised the girl instantly. Larry’s back was towards him, but he had no difficulty in identifying the broad shoulders of that young man. The third member of the party was evidently the chauffeur. He was red of face, talking and gesticulating violently. Mr Reeder heard him say: “You’ve got no right to speak to the young lady, and if you want to talk, talk in English so as I can understand you.”

  The major quickened his pace, crossed to the group and spoke sharply to the chauffeur.

  “Why are you making a scene?” he demanded.

  Larry O’Ryan had walked away, a surprising circumstance, for Larry was the sort that never walked away from trouble of any kind.

  Mr Reeder came up to the group. The major could do no less than introduce him.

  “This is my niece, Miss Lane Leonard,” he said.

  She was lovely; even Mr Reeder, who was no connoisseur, acknowledged the fresh beauty of the girl. He thought she was rather pale, and wondered whether that was her natural colour.

  “What is the trouble, my dear?” asked the major.

  “I met a friend – the man who saved me from being run over by a motor car,” she said jerkily. “I spoke to him in – in French.”

  “He speaks English all right,” growled the unpleasant-looking chauffeur.

  “Will you be quiet! Was that all, my dear?”

  She nodded.

  “You thanked him, I suppose? I remember you telling me that you did not have the opportunity of thanking him before. He went away before you could speak to him. Modesty in a young man is most admirable. And it was in Whitehall that it happened?”

  “Yes,” she nodded.

  Mr Reeder felt that she was looking at him, although her eyes were fixed upon her uncle. He saw something else; her gloved hand was trembling. She was trying hard to control it, but it trembled.

  The major turned and shook hands with him.

  “I shall probably be seeing you again, Mr Reeder,” he said.

  He turned abruptly, helped the girl into the car and the machine drew away. Reeder looked round for Larry, saw him staring intently into a doorway, and as the car passed him, saw him turn so that his back was to the vehicle.

  Larry walked quickly towards him.

  “Sorry,” he said; “but I wanted to see you and I was hanging around till you came out.”

  His eyes were bright; his whole attitude was tense, electric; he seemed charged with some suppressed excitement.

  “You met the young lady?”

  “Yes. Interesting, isn’t she?”

  “Why didn’t you stay and meet her uncle?”

  “Rather embarrassing – fine-looking old boy. Perhaps I was a little conscience-stricken. That chauffeur…”

  He was not smiling; his eyes were hard, his lips were set straight.

  “He never had a narrower escape than he did today. Have you ever wanted to kill somebody, Mr Reeder? I’ve never had it before – just a brutal desire to maim and beat, and mutilate–”

  “Why did you speak in French?”

  “It’s my favourite language,” said Larry glibly. “Anyway, she might have been French; she’s got the chic of a Parisienne and the loveliness of an Italian dawn.”

  Mr Reeder looked at him oddly.

  “Why are you being so mysterious?” he asked.

  “Am I?” Larry laughed. There was a note of hysteria in that laugh. The bright look had come back to his eyes. “I wonder if he did?”

  “Did what?” asked Mr Reeder, but the young man answered him with a question.

  “Are you going down to call on our friend? By the way, did he employ the man Buckingham?”

  “What do you know about Buckingham?” asked Mr Reeder slowly.

  “It’s in the papers this morning. I mean the man who was killed.”

  “Did you know him?”

  Larry shook his head.

  “No. I’ve seen his portrait – a commonplace-looking hombre, hardly worth murdering, do you think? Lord, Mr Reeder, isn’t it great to be alive!”

  A few spots of rain were falling. Mr Reeder was conscious of the fact that he was bareheaded.

  “Come up to my office,” he said. “I’ll take the risk of being – um – reprimanded by my superior.”

  Larry hesitated.

  “All right, I’m all for it,” he said, and followed Mr Reeder up the stairs.

  J G shut the door and pointed to a chair. “Why the excitement?” he asked. “Why the – um – champing of bits, as it were?”

  Larry sat back in his chair and folded his arms tightly.

  “I’ve got an idea I’m being six kinds of a fool for not taking you entirely into my confidence, but here’s adventure, Mr Reeder, the most glorious adventure that can come to a young man of courage and enterprise. And I think I’ll spoil it a little if I tell you. I’ll ask you one favour: was the major wearing his glasses when he came into the street?”

  Mr Reeder nodded.

  “I don’t remember that he took them off,” he said.

  Larry frowned and bit his lip.

  “I’ll tell you something. Do you remember when I lifted that young lady out of the way of a car? It was right outside this office, wasn’t it? She had just left her own car, and left it rather hurriedly, and was coming – where do you think? To this office, no less! She didn’t tell me so, but I’m pretty sure that was where she was bound. And the chauffeur was flying after her. I didn’t realise it at the time, but I realise it now. On the day before that happened there was an article in the Megapho
ne about you, rather a eulogistic one, and a pencil sketch of you. Do you remember?”

  Mr Reeder blushed.

  “There was rather a stupid – um – ill-informed – um–”

  “Exactly. It was rather flattering. I don’t know how flattering it was, but your own conscience will tell you. I worked it out in two seconds; that was why she was coming to see you. This misguided and ill-informed writer in the Megaphone said you were the greatest detective of the age, or something of the sort. It probably isn’t true, though I’ll hand you all sorts of bouquets on a gold plate, for you certainly embarrassed me on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion. And she read it, found out where your office was – anyway, she wants to see you now. She said that much.”

  “Wants to see me?” said Mr Reeder incredulously. Larry nodded. “Isn’t it amazing! I couldn’t have been speaking to her for more than a minute, and she’s the beginning and end of life to me.”

  He got up and began to pace the room excitedly.

  “To me, Mr Reeder, a crook of crooks, a burglar. But she’s worth a million and a half, and absolutely unreachable. I couldn’t propose to her. But if she said, ‘Walk into the middle of Westminster Bridge and jump into the river,’ I’d do it!”

  Mr Reeder stared at him.

  “It almost sounds as though you like her very much,” he said.

  “It almost does,” said Larry savagely.

  He stopped in his stride, pointed a finger of his extended hand towards Mr Reeder.

  “I’m not going to jump from the middle of Westminster Bridge. It’s a far, far better thing that I do – or rather, I’m going to do a far, far better thing, and it’s going to make all the difference in life to me if I succeed.”

  “If you will sit down,” said Mr Reeder mildly, “and talk a little less obscurely, perhaps I could assist you.”

  Larry shook his head.

  “No; I’ve got to blaze my own trail.” He chuckled. “My metaphors are a bit mixed, but then, so is my mind. When are you going to Sevenways Castle?”

  “She told you she lived there, did she?” asked Mr Reeder.

  “When are you going?”

  J G considered.

  “Tomorrow – tomorrow afternoon probably.” And then: “You don’t know Buckingham?”

  “No,” said Larry. “I recognised him, of course, as the fellow who came up and spoke to you when we were at the Queen’s Hall. Odd coincidence, meeting him at all, wasn’t it?”

  He walked to the door and opened it.

  “I’ll go now, Mr Reeder, if you’ll excuse me. Perhaps I’ll call and see you tonight. By the way, are you in the American market?”

  “I never speculate,” said Reeder primly. “I don’t think I have bought a stock or a share in my life, and certainly I should not buy now, I read the newspapers, of course, and I see the market is down.”

  “And how!” said Larry cryptically.

  He was a little confusing. His reference to the stock market interested Mr Reeder to the extent of inducing him to wade through the tape prices that night. Stock was falling rapidly in Wall Street; there was panic selling and gloomy forecasts of a complete collapse. He could only wonder how Larry’s mercurial mind could have leapt to this mundane fact in his emotional moment.

  He had a considerable amount of work to do that afternoon, inquiries to pursue at certain banks, reports to read and digest, and it was nearly nine o’clock before he went home, so tired that he fell asleep almost before he pulled the covers over his shoulders.

  6

  Pamela Lane Leonard drove back into Kent that morning, silent, resentful, a little frightened.

  “Why do you allow Lidgett to talk to you like that, Uncle Digby?” she asked.

  Major Digby Olbude blinked and looked at her. “Like what, my dear?” he asked irritably. “Lidgett is an old friend of the family, and retainers have certain privileges.”

  “Did you tell Mr Reeder that he and Buckingham had quarrelled?”

  Olbude did not answer for a while.

  “I wasn’t aware that they had quarrelled,” he said, “and I certainly should not have told Mr Reeder – how do you come to be acquainted with Mr Reeder?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m not acquainted with him. I’ve read a lot about him – he’s very clever.” And then: “Why do you allow Lidgett to talk to you so rudely, and why do you let him talk to me as if I were – well, a servant?”

  The major drew a long breath.

  “You’re altogether mistaken, my dear. Lidgett is a little uncouth, but he’s a very faithful servant. I will speak to him.”

  Another long silence.

  “When did they quarrel – Buckingham and Lidgett, I mean?” asked Olbude.

  “I saw them in the woods one day. Buckingham knocked him down.”

  Olbude ran his fingers through his grey hair.

  “It is all very difficult,” he said. “Your lamented father gave special instructions to me that on no account was Lidgett to be discharged; and until you are twenty-five I am afraid you have no voice in the matter, my dear.”

  Then, suddenly:

  “What did you say to that young man?”

  This was the second time he had asked the question. “I’ve told you,” she answered shortly. “He’s the man who saved me from being killed by a car, and I thanked him.”

  She was not telling the truth, but her conscience was curiously clear.

  There was something she wanted to tell him, but she could not. The very fact that the man she hated and feared was sitting within a yard of her, beyond the glass panel which separated chauffeur from passenger, was sufficient to stop her; it was Olbude who returned to the subject.

  “Lidgett is a rough diamond. You’ve got to put his loyalty in the scale against his uncouthness, Pamela. He is devoted to the family–”

  “He is devoted to me!” she said, her voice trembling with indignation. “Are you aware, Uncle Digby, that this man has asked me to marry him?”

  He turned to her, open-mouthed.

  “Asked you to marry him?” he said incredulously. “He actually asked you? I told him that in no circumstances was he to dare mention such a thing–”

  It was her turn to be amazed.

  “Surely he hasn’t discussed it with you? And did you listen to him? Oh, no! Didn’t you – uncle, what did you do?”

  He moved uneasily, avoiding her eyes.

  “He’s a rough diamond,” he repeated in a low voice. “There is a lot about Lidgett which is very admirable. Naturally, he is not particularly well educated, and he’s twenty years older than you, but he’s a man with many great qualities.”

  She could only subside helplessly in the corner of her seat and regard him with wondering eyes. He might have thought that she was impressed by his eulogy, for he went on.

  “Lidgett is a man who has saved a lot of money. In fact, I think, thanks to the generosity of your stepfather, Lidgett is very rich. And the disparity of your ages isn’t really as important as it appears.”

  Then, as a thought struck him, he asked quickly: “You didn’t tell O’Ryan this?”

  “O’Ryan?” she repeated. “Do you know him?”

  “You seem to,” he answered quickly. “Did he tell you his name in the few seconds you saw him?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes, he told me his name. Where did you meet him?”

  He evaded the question.

  “That’s neither here nor there. I don’t suppose he knows me. He was quite a child when I saw him last – he didn’t say he knew me, did he?” he asked anxiously.

  She shook her head.

  “No, we hardly discussed you.”

  “What did you discuss?” he asked.

  She hesitated.


  “Nothing that would interest you,” she said.

  She went straight to her room when she arrived, and sat down to write a letter. It would probably go the way of other letters she had written; the servants of Sevenways were completely dominated by Lidgett, and she knew by experience that every letter she wrote passed through his hands.

  The situation was an intolerable one, but she had grown up in it. Ever since she had returned from school, Lidgett had been master of the house, and her uncle the merest cipher. It was Lidgett who chose the servants, Lidgett who discharged them without reference to his employer; Lidgett took out the car when he wanted it, even ordered improvements to the estate without consulting his employer.

  He had walked into the drawing room one afternoon when she was reading, and without preliminary had put his monstrous proposal.

  “I dare say this is going to shock you, Miss Pamela, but I’ve saved a bit of money and want to get married, and I’m in love with you, and that’s the beginning and end of it.”

  “With me?” She could hardly believe her ears.

  “That’s the idea,” he said coolly. “I haven’t talked the matter over with the major, but don’t think he’ll object. Lots of ladies have married their chauffeurs, and I will make you as good a husband as any of these la-di-dah fellows you are likely to meet.”

  That had been the proposal, in almost exactly those words. She had been too staggered to make an adequate reply.

  She was desperate now. Lidgett made no disguise of his dominant position. He had dared even in the presence of Larry to order her into her car and, even as she was writing, there came a knock at her door and his hateful voice called her. She put the letter hastily between sheets of blotting paper, unlocked the door and opened it.

  “What was that fellow saying to you in French?” he asked.

  “What he said was unimportant, Lidgett,” she said quietly. “It is what I said that mattered. I told him that I was virtually a prisoner in this house, that you were in control and had asked me to marry you. I told him I was terribly afraid, and asked him to communicate with the police.”