This visit of Reeder was the culmination of a series of enquiries he had conducted in the course of a few days. He turned in a short report to Scotland Yard, and went home to Brockley Road, overtaking Johnny Southers as he turned from Lewisham High Road. Johnny was not alone.
“Anna and I were discussing you,” he said, as they slackened their steps to match the more leisurely pace of Mr. Reeder. “Is it possible for us to see you for five minutes?”
It was possible. Mr. Reeder ushered them up to his big, old-fashioned sitting-room, inwardly hoping that the consultation would have no reference to the mysterious workings of the young and human heart.
They were going to get married.
“Anna’s father knows, and he’s been awfully decent about it,” said Johnny, “and I’d like you to know too, Mr. Reeder.”
Mr. Reeder murmured something congratulatory. That matter of love and loving was at any rate shelved.
“And Desboyne has been awfully decent--I told Anna all about that rather unpleasant little scene you witnessed--he never told her a word. He wrote apologizing to Anna, and wrote an apology to me. He has offered me a very good position in Singapore if I care to take it--he’s terribly rich, and it sounds very good.”
“It doesn’t sound good to me.”
Anna’s voice was decisive.
“I appreciate Clive’s generosity, but I don’t think he ought to give up his Civil Service work except for something better in England. I want you to persuade him, Mr. Reeder.”
Mr. Reeder looked from one to the other dismally. The idea of persuading anybody to do anything in which he himself was not greatly absorbed filled him with dismay. As a mentor to the young he recognized his limitations. He liked Johnny Southers as he liked any decent young fellow. He thought Anna Welford was extraordinarily pretty; but even these two facts in conjunction could not arouse him to enthusiasm.
“I don’t want much persuading,” said Johnny, to his relief. “I’ve got something else up my sleeve--a pretty big thing. I’m not at liberty to talk about it; in fact, I’ve been asked not to. If that comes off, the Singapore job will be refused. It isn’t so very difficult now. The point is this, Mr. Reeder: if you were offered a partnership in a thriving concern, that could be made into something very big if one put one’s heart and soul into it, would you accept?”
Mr. Reeder looked at the ceiling and sighed.
“Hypotheses always worry me, Mr. Southers. Perhaps, when the moment comes, if you could tell me all about the business, I may be able to advise you, although I confess I have never been regarded as a man whose advice was worth two--um--hoots.”
“That’s what I wanted to see you about, Mr. Reeder.” Anna nodded slowly. “I’m so terribly afraid of Johnny leaving the service for an uncertainty, and I do want him to talk the matter over with you. I don’t want to know his secrets”--there was the ghost of a smile in her eyes--“I think I know most of them that count.”
Mr. Reeder looked round miserably. He felt himself caught and entangled in a network of dull domesticity. He was, if the truth be told, immensely bored, and, had he been more temperamental, he might have screamed. He wished he had not overtaken these loitering lovers, or that they would apply to one of those periodicals which maintain a department devoted to advising the young and the sentimental in the choice of their careers. It was with the greatest happiness that he closed the door upon their small mystery and devoted himself to the serious business of high tea.
Mr. Reeder had many anxieties to occupy his mind in the next few days, and the fact that he had added Joe Attymar to the list of his enemies, even if he were aware of the fact, was not one of these.
In the gaols of a dozen countries were men who actively disliked him. Meister of Hamburg, who used to sell United States bills by the hundredweight, Lefere, the clever wholesale engraver of lire notes, Monsatta, who specialized in English fivers, Madame Pensa of Pisa, who for many years was the chief distributor of forged money in Eastern and Southern Europe, Al Selinski, the paper maker, Don Leishmer, who printed French milles by the thousand, they all knew Mr. Reeder, at least by name, and none of them had a good word for him, except Monsatta, who was large-minded and could detach himself from his personal misfortunes.
Letters came to Mr. Reeder from many peculiar sources. It was a curious fact that a very large number of Mr. Reeder’s correspondents were women. A sensible number of the letters which came to him were of a most embarrassing character.
His name had been mentioned in many cases that had been heard at the Old Bailey. He himself had, from time to time, stood up in the witness stand, a lugubrious and unhappy figure, and had given evidence in his hesitant and deferential way against all manner of wrong-doers, but mostly forgers.
He was variously described as “an expert,” as “a private detective,” as “a bank official.” In a sense he was all these, yet none of them entirely. Judges and certain barristers knew that he was at the call of the Public Prosecutor’s Department. It was said that privately he enjoyed a status equivalent in rank to a superintendent of police. He certainly had a handsome retaining fee from the Bankers’ Association, and probably drew pay from the Government, but nobody knew his business. He banked at Torquay and the manager of the bank was his personal friend.
But the net result of his fugitive appearances in court was that quite intelligent women were seized with the idea that he was the man who should be employed to watch their husbands and to procure the evidence necessary for their divorces. Business men wrote to him asking him to investigate the private lives of their partners; quite a few commissions were offered by important commercial concerns, but none of these appealed to Mr. Reeder, and with his own hand he would write long and carefully punctuated letters explaining that he was not a private detective in the real sense of the word.
He was not surprised, therefore, when, some four days after his talk with Johnny Southers, he received a letter addressed from a Park Lane flat, requesting his services. He turned first to the signature and with some difficulty deciphered it as “Clive Desboyne.” For a moment the name, whilst it had a certain familiarity, was difficult to attach, and then he remembered the quarrel he had witnessed, and realized that this was the other party to that unhappy conflict.
The letter was typewritten and ran:
“Dear Sir, I happen to know your private address because Miss Welford pointed it out to me one evening when I was visiting her. I am in rather a delicate position, and I am wondering whether I could employ your services professionally to extricate myself? Since the matter affects Southers, whom I think you know (I have learned since that you were a witness of a certain disgraceful episode, for which I was probably more to blame than he), I thought you might be willing to receive me. I want you to undertake this task on a professional basis and charge me your usual fees. I shall be out of town until Friday night, but there is no immediate urgency. If I could call some time after ten on Friday I should be eternally grateful.
“Yours, etc.”
Mr. Reeder’s first inclination was to take out a sheet of paper and write a firm but polite refusal to see Mr. Desboyne, however stringent might be his predicament. He had written the first three words when one of those curious impulses which came to him at times, and which so often urged him to the right course, stayed his hand. Instead, he took a telegraph form and sent a laconic message agreeing to the young man’s suggestion.
The day of the appointment was a busy one for Mr. Reeder. Scotland Yard had made two important discoveries--a small garage in the north of London, which contained nearly 400 lbs. of saccharine, had been raided in the early hours of the morning, and this was followed up by a second raid in a West End mansion flat, where large quantities of heroin and cocaine were unearthed by the police.
“It looks as though we’ve found one of the principal distributing agents,” said Gaylor. “We’ve got the barge under observation, and we’re taking the chance of arresting Attymar as soon as he steps on board.”
“Where is it?”
“Off Greenwich,” said Gaylor.
Mr. Reeder dived down into his pocket and produced an envelope. The paper was grimy, the address was a scrawl. He took from this as dingy a letter and laid it on the table before Gaylor.
“Dear Sir, I can give you informacion. I will call at your howse on Sunnday morning. From a Frend.”
Gaylor inspected the envelope. The date-stamp was “Greenwich.”
“He had some doubt about sending it at all: the flap has been opened and closed again--I presume this is Ligsey; his real name is William Liggs. He’s had no convictions, but he hasn’t been above suspicion. You’ll see him?”
“If he comes,” said Mr. Reeder. “So many of these gentlemen who undertake to supply information think better of it at the last moment.”
“It may be too late,” said Gaylor.
It was at the end of a very heavy and tiring day that Mr. Reeder went back to his house, forgetting the appointment he had so rashly made. He had hardly got into the house before the bell rang, and it was then that he realized, with bitter regret, that he had robbed himself of an hour’s sleep which was badly needed.
Mr. Desboyne was in evening dress. He had driven down from his club, where he had bathed and changed after his long journey from the West of England, he explained.
“I feel very ashamed to bother you at this hour of the night, Mr. Reeder,” he said with an apologetic smile, “but I feel rather like the villain of the piece, and my vanity has made me put matters right.”
Mr. Reeder looked round helplessly for a chair, found one and pointed to it, and Desboyne drew it up to the table where the detective was sitting.
He was a man of thirty-three or thirty-five, good-looking, with a very pleasant, open face and a pair of grey eyes that twinkled good-humouredly.
“You saw the fight?… Gosh! that fellow could punch! I thoroughly deserved what I got, which certainly wasn’t very much. I was very rude to him. But then, like a fool, I went to the other extreme, and have got him a job in Singapore--of course he’ll take it--and I’m most anxious to get out of my offer.”
Mr. Reeder looked at him in astonishment, and the young man laughed ruefully.
“I suppose you think I’m a queer devil? Well, I am. I’m rather impetuous and I’ve got myself into a bit of a hole. And it’s a bigger hole than I knew, because I’m terribly fond of Anna Welford, and she’s terribly unfond of me! Southers is rather in the position of a successful rival, so that everything I say or do must be suspect. That’s the awful thing about it!”
“Why do you wish to cancel the appointment?” asked Mr. Reeder.
He could have added that, so far as he could recall, the appointment had already been cancelled.
Clive Desboyne hesitated.
“Well, it’s a difficult story to tell.”
He rose from his seat and paced up and down the room, his hands thrust into his pockets, a frown on his face.
“Do you remember the night of the fight? I don’t suppose that’s graven on your memory. It arose out of something I said to our friend as we left the City hall. Apparently--I only discovered this afterwards--there was a man out there waiting to see Southers, but in the excitement of our little fracas--which began in the City, by the way--Southers didn’t see the man, who either followed him to Lewisham or came on ahead of him. He must have been present in the street when the fight took place. When I got home that night the hall-porter asked me if I would see a very seedy-looking individual, and, as I wasn’t in the mood to see anybody, I refused. A few days later I was stopped in Piccadilly by a man who I thought was a beggar--a healthy-looking beggar, but most beggars are that way. He started by telling me he’d seen the fight, and said he could tell me something about Southers. I wasn’t feeling so very savage then as I had been, and I’d have hoofed him off, but he was so insistent, and in the end I told him to call at my flat. He came that night and told me the most extraordinary story. He said his name was”--Clive Desboyne frowned--“the name’s slipped me for the moment, but it will come back. He was a mate or assistant on a barge run by a man named Attymar----”
“Ligsey?” suggested Mr. Reeder, and the other nodded.
“That’s the name--Ligsey. I’m cutting the story short because it took a tremendous long time to tell, and I don’t want it to bore you as it bored me. They’ve been running some kind of contraband up the river on the barge, for apparently Attymar is a smuggler on a large scale. That was a yarn I didn’t believe at first, though, from the things he told me, it seemed very likely that he spoke the truth. Certain articles were smuggled up the river on the barge, and others were passed through the Customs by Southers.”
Mr. Reeder opened his mouth very wide.
“Now I’ll tell you the truth.” Clive Desboyne’s voice was very earnest. “I wanted to believe that story. In my heart of hearts I dislike John Southers--I’d be inhuman if I didn’t. At the same time I wanted to play the game. I told this fellow he was a liar, but he swore it was true. He thinks the police are going to arrest Attymar, and when they do, Attymar will spill the beans, to use his own expression. In the meantime I have recommended Southers to a very important and responsible job in Singapore, and naturally, if this story comes out, I’m going to look pretty foolish. I don’t mind that,” he added quietly, “but I do mind Anna Welford marrying this man.”
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 to-morrow 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 to-night 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 to-night.”
