Red Aces Page 9

  Two hundred pounds, representing a portion of the money obtained from the bank by a fraudulent manager (3 years Penal Servitude; Central Criminal Court) through the instrumentality of his woman friend (5 years PS, CCC) was sent anonymously to the younger McKay by Machfield, and was traced to the young man.

  After this came a note, also in Mr Reeder’s hand:

  “Rufus John Machfield and Antonio Lamontaine (sentence: death, CCC) executed at Wandsworth Prison, April 17th. Executioner Ellis.”

  Mr Reeder was a stickler for facts.

  KENNEDY THE CON MAN

  1

  The man who stood with such an air of ease in the dock of the North-West London Police Court bore himself with a certain insolent dignity. There was a smile which was half contemptuous, half-amused, on his bearded face.

  If, from time to time, his long white fingers thrust through the mass of goldy-brown hair that was brushed back from his high and narrow forehead, the gesture revealed neither nervousness nor embarrassment. Rather was this a trick of habit.

  Though he wore no collar or tie, and his clothes and patent leather shoes were daubed with last night’s mud, the clothes were new and well-cut; the diamond ring which he wore, and which now sparkled offensively in the early morning light, hinted most certainly at an affluence which might be temporary or permanent.

  He had in his possession when arrested (to quote the exact itemization of the constable who had given evidence on the matter) the sum of eighty-seven pounds ten shillings in Treasury notes, fifteen shillings in silver coinage, a gold and platinum cigarette case, a small but expensive bottle of perfume (unopened) and a few keys.

  His name was Vladimir Litnoff; he was a Russian subject and his profession was that of an actor. He had appeared in Russian plays, and spoke English with the faintest trace of an accent.

  Apparently, when he was in wine, as he had been on the previous evening, he spoke little but Russian, so that the two policemen who supported the charge of being drunk, and guilty of insulting and disorderly behaviour, could adduce no other than the language of offensive gesture to support their accusation.

  The magistrate took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair wearily.

  “Whilst you are living in this country you must behave yourself,” he said conventionally. “This is the second time you have been charged with disorderly conduct, and you will pay twenty shillings, and seven and six costs.”

  Mr Litnoff smiled, and bowed gracefully and stepped lightly from the dock.

  Chief Inspector Gaylor, who was waiting in the corridor to give evidence on a much more serious charge, saw him pass and returned his smile good-humouredly. The policeman who had “picked up” the Russian followed from the court.

  “Who is that fellow?” asked Gaylor.

  “A Russian, sir. He was properly soused…drunk, in the Brompton Road. He was quiet enough but wouldn’t go away. Him and his brooches!”

  “His whatses?” asked the inspector.

  “That’s what he said when I took him – about the only English thing he did say: ‘You shall have my beautiful brooch – worth ten thousand!’ I don’t know what he was talking about. Another thing he said was that he’d got property in Monro – he shouted this out to the crowd as me and PC Leigh was taking him away.”

  “Monro – that’s in Scotland somewhere.”

  Just then Gaylor was called into court.

  Later in the evening, as he glanced through his evening newspaper, he read an account of the police court proceedings. It was headed:

  DRUNKEN MAN'S BRIBE OFFER TO POLICE

  TEN THOUSAND POUND BROOCH THAT WAS DECLINED

  “…PC Smith stated that the prisoner had offered him a ten thousand pound brooch to let him go.

  The Magistrate: Did he have this brooch in his possession?

  Witness: No, your Worship. In his imagination. (Laughter.)”

  “Now Reeder would see something very peculiar about that,” said Gaylor to his young wife, and she smiled.

  She liked Mr J G Reeder, and, quite mistakenly, was sorry for him. He seemed so pathetically inefficient and helpless compared with the strong, capable men of Scotland Yard. Many people were sorry for Mr Reeder – but there were quite a number who weren’t.

  Jake Alsby, for example, was sorry for nobody but himself. He used to sit in his cell during the long winter evenings on Dartmoor and think of Mr Reeder in any but a sympathetic mood. It was a nice, large, comfortable cell with a vaulted roof. It had a bed, with gaily coloured blankets, and was warm on the coldest day. He had the portrait of his wife and family on a shelf. The family ranged from a hideous little boy of ten to an open-mouthed baby of six months. Jake had never seen the baby in the flesh. He did not mind whether he saw his lady wife or family again, but the picture served as a stimulant to his flagging animosities. It reminded Jake that the barefaced perjury of Mr J G Reeder had torn him from his family and cast him into a cold dungeon. A poetical fancy, but none the less pleasing to a man who had never met the truth face to face without bedecking the reality with ribbons of fiction.

  It was true that Jake forged Bank of England notes, had been caught with the goods and his factory traced; it was true that he had been previously convicted for the same offence, but it was not true (as Mr Reeder had sworn) that he had been seen near Marble Arch on the Monday before his arrest. It was Tuesday. Therefore Mr Reeder had committed perjury.

  To Jake came a letter from one who had been recently discharged from the hospitality of HM Prison at Princeton. It contained a few items of news, one of which was:

  “…saw your old pal reeder yesterday he was in that machfield case him that done in the old boy at born end reeder don’t look a day older he asked me how you was and I said fine and he said what a pity he only got seven he oughter got ten and I said…”

  What his literary friend said did not interest the enraged man. There and then he began to think up new torments for the man who had perjured an innocent man (it was Tuesday, not Monday) into what has been picturesquely described as a “living hell”.

  Three months after the arrival of this letter Jake Alsby was released, a portion of his sentence having been remitted for good conduct: that is to say, he had never once been detected in a breach of prison regulations. The day he was released, Jake went to London, to find his family in the workhouse, his wife having fled to Canada with a better man. Almost any man was better than Jake.

  “This is Reeder’s little joke!” he said.

  He fortified himself with hot spirits and went forth to find his man.

  He did not follow a direct path to Mr Reeder’s office, because he had calls to make, certain acquaintances to renew. In one of these, a most reputable hostelry, he came upon a bearded man who spoke alternately in English and in a queer elusive language. He wore no collar or tie – when Vladimir reached his fourth whisky he invariably discarded these – and he spoke loudly of a diamond clasp of fabulous value. Jake lingered, fascinated. He drank with the man, whose language might be Russian but whose money was undoubtedly English, as was his language occasionally.

  “You ask me, my frien’, what profession am I? An actor, yes! But it pays nothing. This, that, the other impresario rob – all rob. But my best work? I am ill! That is good work! Delirium – what-you-call-it? Swoons? Yes, swoons – voice ’usky, eh?”

  “I know a graft like that,” said Jake, nodding wisely. “You chews soap.”

  “Ah – nasty – no…ti dourak!”

  Jake did not know that he was being called a fool, would not have been very upset if he had known. He was sure of one thing, that he was hooked up with a generous spender of money – a prince of fellows, seen in the golden haze of alcoholism. He had not yet reached the stage where he wanted to kick anybody. He was in that condition when he felt an inward urge to tell his most precious secre
ts.

  “Ever ’eard feller call’ Reeder?” he asked profoundly. “Reg’lar old ’ound – goin’ get him!”

  “Ach!” said his new-found friend.

  “Gonna get ’im!” said Jake gravely.

  The bearded man tilted up his glass until no dreg remained in the bottom. He seized Jake’s arm in a fierce friendliness and led him from the bar. The cold night air made Jake sag at the knees.

  “Le’s go ’n bump ’um,” he said thickly.

  “My frien’ – why kill, eh?” They were walking unsteadily along arm in arm. Once Jake was pushed into the gutter by an unanticipated lurch. “Live – drink! See my beautiful brooch…my farm… vineyards…mountains… I’ll tell you, my frien’ – somebody must know…”

  This street through which they were passing was very dark and made up of little stores. Jake was conscious that he had passed a milk shop when he became aware that a man was standing squarely in their path.

  “Hullo!… You want me…gotta brooch?”

  It was Vladimir who spoke; he also was very drunk. The stranger did not speak.

  The crash of the explosion made Jake Alsby reel. He had never heard a pistol fired at close quarters. He saw the Russian swaying on his feet, his head bent as though he were listening…he was fumbling at his waistcoat with both hands.

  “Here…what’s the game?” Jake was sober now.

  The man came nearer, brushed past him, thrusting his shoulder forward as he passed. Jake staggered under the impact. When he looked round, the shooter had melted into the thick darkness – there was the narrow opening of a mews hereabouts.

  “Hurt, mate?”

  The Russian had gone down to his knees, still gripping at his waistcoat. Then he pitched forward and hit the pavement horribly.

  Jake felt himself go white…he looked round, and, turning, fled. He wanted to be out of this – murder! That’s what it was, murder.

  He raced round the corner of the street and into the arms of a policeman. Whistles were blowing. Even as he fought to escape, he knew the impossibility of such a hope: policemen were running from everywhere.

  “All right – I done nothin’…there’s a guy shot round the corner…some feller did it.”

  Two officers took him to the station, and as a precautionary measure he was searched.

  In the right hand pocket of his overcoat was found an automatic pistol that had been recently fired.

  2

  Mr J G Reeder rang his bell and sighed. He sighed because it was the fourth time he had rung the bell without anything happening.

  There were moments when he saw himself walking into the next room and addressing Miss Gillette in firm but fatherly tones. He would point out to her the impossible situation which was created when a secretary ignored the summons of her employer; he would insist that she did not bring into the office, or, if she brought, should not in business hours read the tender or exciting fiction which she favoured; he would say, in the same firm and fatherly way, that perhaps it would be better for everybody concerned if she found a new occupation, or a similar occupation in the service of somebody who had less exacting views on the question of duty. But always, when he rose from his chair after ringing four times, determined to settle the matter there and then, he sat down again and rang a fifth time.

  “Dear, dear!” said Mr Reeder. “This is very trying.”

  At that moment Miss Gillette came into the room. She was pretty and slight and small. She had a tip-tilted nose and a faultless complexion, and her dully golden hair was a little untidy.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did you ring?”

  Between her fingers she held a long, jade-green cigarette holder. Mr Reeder had once asked her not to come into his office smoking: she invariably carried her cigarette in her hand nowadays, and he accepted the compromise.

  “I think I did,” he said gently.

  “I thought you did.”

  Mr Reeder winced as she put her cigarette holder on the mantelpiece, and, pulling a chair forward, sat down at his desk. She carried a book under her arm, and this she opened and laid on the table.

  “Shoot,” she said, and Mr Reeder winced again.

  The trouble about Miss Gillette was her competence. If she had made mistakes and put letters in the wrong envelopes or forgot appointments, Mr Reeder would have gone away to some foreign land, such as Eastbourne or Brighton, and would have written to her a sad letter of farewell, enclosing a month’s salary in lieu of notice. But she was devastatingly competent: she had built up a structure of indispensability; she had, in the shortest space of time, developed herself into a habit and a fixture.

  “You mean that I am to proceed?” he asked gravely.

  Another woman would have wilted under the reproof; there was something very wiltless about Miss Gillette. She just closed her eyes wearily.

  “Let’s go,” she said, and it was Mr Reeder who was reproved.

  “This is a report on the Wimburg Case,” he said, and began his hesitant dictation.

  As he grew into his subject, he spoke with greater and greater rapidity. Never once did Miss Gillette interrupt with a question, to gain time for her lagging pencil. There was a ceaseless snap as the pages of her notebook turned.

  “That is all,” he said breathlessly. “I trust that I did not go too fast for you?”

  “I hardly noticed that you were moving,” she said, wetted her fingers and flicked back the pages. “You used the word ‘unsubstantial’ three times: once you meant ‘inadequate’ and once ‘unreal’. I would suggest that we alter those.”

  Mr Reeder moved uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Are you sure?” he asked feebly.

  She was always sure, because she was always right.

  It was not true to say that Mr Reeder had ever engaged a secretary. It was Miss Gillette who engaged him. By one of those odd coincidences which are unacceptable to the lovers of fiction but which occur in everyday life, she arrived at Mr Reeder’s office on the day and at the hour he was expecting a temporary typist from an agency. For some reason the agency lady did not arrive, or, if she did, was interviewed by Miss Gillette, who, fulfilling the practice of the young queen bee, destroyed her rival – in the nicest possible sense. And when Mr Reeder, having concluded the work for which he had engaged her, would have dismissed her with a ten-shilling note, shyly tendered and brazenly accepted, he learned that she was a fixture. He lay awake for an hour on the following Friday night, debating with himself whether he should deduct the ten shillings from her salary.

  “Are there any appointments?” he asked.

  There was none. Mr Reeder knew there was none before he asked. It was at this point that his daily embarrassment was invariably overcome.

  “Nothing in the papers, I suppose?”

  “Nothing except the Pimlico murder case. The funny thing is that the man who was killed–”

  “Nothing funny about – um – that, my dear young lady,” murmured Mr Reeder. “Funny? Dear, dear!”

  “When I said ‘funny’, I didn’t mean ‘amusing’ but ‘odd’,” she said. “And if you are getting back for ‘unsubstantial’, you will be pleased to know that you have got. He was Vladimir Litnoff – you remember, the man who was drunk and said that he had a brooch.”

  Mr Reeder nodded calmly. Apparently Litnoff’s death was not startling news.

  “It is my – um – mind, my dear young friend. I see evil things where other people see innocent things. And yet, in the question of human relationships, I take the kindliest and most charitable views. H’m! The young man who was with you at the Regal Cinema, for example–”

  “Was the young man I’m going to marry when we earn enough to support one another,” she said promptly. “But how the devil did you see us?”

  “S’sh!” said Mr Ree
der, shocked. “Strong – um – language is – um – most…”

  She was looking at him frowningly.

  “Sit down,” she said, and Mr Reeder, who knew little of the rights of secretaries, but was quite sure that ordering their employers to sit down in their own offices was outside the table of privileges, sat down.

  “I like you, John or Jonas or whatever the ‘J’ stands for,” she said, with outrageous coolness. “I didn’t realize that you were a detective when I came to you. I’ve worked for successions of tired businessmen, who bucked up sufficiently towards evening to ask me out to supper, but never a detective. And you’re different from all the men I’ve ever met. You’ve never tried to hold my hand–”

  “I should hope not!” said Mr Reeder, going very red. “I’m old enough to be your father!”

  “There isn’t such an age,” she said. And then, very seriously: “Would you speak to Tommy Anton if I brought him here?”

  “Tommy – you mean your – um–”

  “My ‘um’ – that describes him,” she nodded. “He’s a wonderful fellow – terribly awkward and shy, and he’ll probably make a bad impression, as you do, but he’s a really nice man.”

  Now Mr Reeder had been many things, but he had never acted in loco parentis, and the prospect was a trifle terrifying.

  “You wish me to ask him – er – what his intentions are?”

  She smiled at this, and she had a dazzling and beautiful smile.

  “My dear, I know what his intentions are, all right. You don’t meet a man day after day for over a year without finding out something about his private ideas. No – it is something else.”

  Mr Reeder waited.

  “If you were an ordinary employer,” she went on, “you’d take me by the scruff of my neck and fire me.” Mr Reeder disclaimed such a ferocious quality with a feeble shake of his head. “But you’re not.”