Reeder spent the rest of the afternoon in the West End of London, calling upon a succession of theatrical agents. Some were very important personages who received him in walnut-panelled salons; a few were in dingy offices on third floors; one, and the most important of these, he interviewed in the bar of a public-house in St. Martin’s Lane--a fat and seedy man, with a fur collar and frayed cuffs, a half-stupid tippler with no business but many reminiscences; and, as he proudly claimed, “the best collection of old theatrical programmes in London.”
Mr. Reeder, who was a good listener and very patient, heard all about the agent’s former grandeur, the amount of commission out of which eminent artistes had swindled him, and at last he accompanied his bibulous companion to his lodgings off the Waterloo Road, and from seven till eight was engrossed in masses of dog-eared literature.
Mr. Reeder had a meal in a Strand restaurant and drove to Park Lane. As the lift carried him to the floor on which Desboyne’s flat was situated----
“I’m sure it’s spring cleaning,” murmured Mr. Reeder to himself.
He rang the bell of the flat and waited. Presently he heard the sound of footsteps echoing hollowly in the hall. Clive Desboyne opened the door with an apologetic smile.
“I hope you don’t mind the place being in confusion?” he said. “We’ve started our spring cleaning. The truth is, I’d arranged to go away to-day if this wretched business hadn’t turned up.”
The carpet had been taken up from the floor of the hall, the walls had been stripped, and the crystal pendant which lit the hall showed through a gauze covering. Clive Desboyne’s own study had, however, been left untouched by the decorators.
“I’m going to clear out to an hotel to-morrow. It’ll probably be the Ritz-Carlton, but if you want me urgently my solicitors will be able to put us in touch. Now, Mr. Reeder, you’re going to do this for Anna and me?”
Mr. Reeder shook his head feebly.
“You’ve got to do it,” insisted the other energetically. “You’re the only detective in London in whom I’ve any confidence. I know you’re attached to the Public Prosecutor’s Department, but I’ve been making a few inquiries too,” he said with a little smile, “and I hear that you take outside commissions.”
“Banks,” said Mr. Reeder reverently. “Banks--not private work.”
“I shall insist!” Clive was very earnest. “I’ve told Anna everything--about my beastliness in regard to young Southers. Honestly, I still think that Ligsey’s story was true and that Southers was making something on the side. A lot of decent fellows, otherwise perfectly honest, do that sort of thing, and I’m not condemning him. In fact, when I expressed my--what’s the word for being shocked?”
“Horror, amazement?” suggested Mr. Reeder.
“Well, whatever it was--I was being a hypocrite. I myself have not always been rich. I’ve known what it is to be devilishly poor. If I hadn’t made good speculations when I was quite a kid, I should probably be worse off than Southers.”
“You’re rather fond of the young lady?” said Mr. Reeder after an interregnum of silence.
Again Desboyne laughed.
“Of course I am! The fact that a man is engaged to another girl--and the sweetest girl in the world--doesn’t prevent him philandering. Of course, it’s a caddish thing to do, and it’s got me into quite a lot of trouble, but the fact remains, I am terribly fond of Anna. I won’t say I love her like a brother, because I’m tired of being a hypocrite. I’m going to try to get Southers out of the mess he’s in; and that doesn’t mean I love him like a brother, either! Now, Mr. Reeder, what do you want to see me about, if it isn’t to tell me that you’re taking up this case?”
All that Mr. Reeder wanted to see Clive Desboyne about was spring cleaning, but he could not say this. He had, however, a good excuse for calling: Ligsey was apparently alive, he explained. Clive Desboyne was not impressed.
“I didn’t worry whether he was alive or dead,” he said frankly. “Naturally, I do not know what theory the police have, but I understood from the newspapers that they were concentrating on the murder of Attymar--that is the charge against John Southers. If Ligsey is alive I’m hardly likely to meet him, unless, of course, he feels, as so many of these crooks do, that once one has given them money they’re entitled to a pension! If I hear from him I’ll let you know.”
As they came out into the hall Mr. Reeder’s eyes wandered up and down the bare walls.
“You will have this repainted, Mr. Desboyne?” he asked. “At present it is rather a delicate cream. If I were you I should have it painted green. Green is a very restful colour, but possibly my views are--um--suburban.”
“I think they are,” said the other good-humouredly.
Reeder had made an appointment to see the bibulous agent at ten o’clock. The agent knew where certain photographs were to be obtained, and had promised to be waiting at the corner of St. Martin’s Lane at that hour. Mr. Reeder arrived as St. Martin’s Church clock was striking, but there was no sign of Billy Gurther. He had not appeared at half past ten, and Mr. Reeder decided to go to his house, for he was very anxious to complete his dossier.
The landlady at Mr. Gurther’s lodgings had a surprising and disconcerting story to tell. Mr. Reeder had hardly left (she had witnessed his departure) before a messenger came, and Billy had gone out. He had returned in half-an-hour, very voluble and excited. He had been given a commission to collect cabaret turns in Spain. He had to leave London some time after nine, travel all night and catch the Sud Express in the morning. He was plentifully supplied with money.
“He was so excited he was nearly sober,” said the uncharitable landlady.
The sudden departure of an obscure music-hall agent, of whose existence he had been unaware until that afternoon, did not at all distress Mr. Reeder. It was the circumstances which attended his leaving, its rapidity, and, most important of all, the knowledge that was behind that sudden move, which made him alert and watchful. He might not be persona grata at Scotland Yard, but little things like that did not trouble Mr. Reeder. He drove immediately to the big building on the Thames Embankment, sought, nay, demanded, an interview with the Chief Constable, who should have been at home and in bed, but was in fact in consultation with his five chiefs when the detective arrived.
The first message sent to Mr. Reeder was cold and unpromising. Would he call in the morning? It was Gaylor who was detached from the conference to carry this message.
“Go back to your chief, Mr. Gaylor,” said Reeder acidly, “and tell him I wish to see him this evening, at once. If I see him to-morrow it will be at the Home Office.”
This was a threat: nobody knew it better than Gaylor. The exact extent and volume of Reeder’s power was not known. One thing was certain: he could be extremely unpleasant, and the consequences of his displeasure might even affect a man’s career. Gaylor returned instantly and summoned him to the conference, and there Mr. Reeder sat down and, quite uninvited, expounded a theory, and supported his fantastic ideas with a considerable amount of grimy literature.
“We can stop Gurther at Southampton,” suggested Gaylor, but Reeder shook his head.
“I think not. Let him soak into the Continent, and then we may pick him up without any trouble. Send a man to Southampton, and let him shadow him to Paris. In Paris he can blanket him.”
Mason nodded.
“If your theory is correct, there must be a method of proving it,” he said; “not a simple one perhaps----”
“On the contrary, a very simple one,” said Mr. Reeder.
He turned to Gaylor.
“You remember the bedroom above the one where the murder took place, or where we think it was committed? You probably took a photograph.”
“I’ll get it right away,” said Gaylor, and left the room.
He was back with a sheaf of photographic enlargements which he laid on the table.
“There it is,” said Reeder, and pointed.
“The clock? Yes, I noticed that.”
“Naturally,” said Reeder.
“But most people who go to sea, or even bargees, have it put there.”
The little clock was fastened to the ceiling, immediately over the bedstead, so that anybody lying in bed could look up and tell the time. It had luminous hands, Reeder had noticed.
“I want you to have that clock removed and the ceiling plastered. I want you to take away the bed and put a table and chair there. In two days I think I will make the further prosecution of young Southers unnecessary.”
“You can do as you like,” said Mason. “You’re well in the case now, Mr. Reeder. I’ve put out a special call to get Ligsey, and the river police are searching all the reaches.”
“The river police are more likely to get Mr. Ligsey than any other section of the Metropolitan Police Force,” replied Reeder.
Big Ben was striking eleven as he mounted a tramcar that carried him from Westminster Bridge to the end of his road. In the days, and particularly the nights, when Mr. Reeder was heavily engaged in his hazardous occupation, his housekeeper remained on duty until he was ready to go to bed. She met him at the door now with a telephone message.
“Mr. Gaylor called up, sir. He says he is sending you a little iron box which he wishes you to examine, and will you be careful not to touch it with your fingers because of the prince? He didn’t say which prince it was.”
“I think I know His Highness,” said Mr. Reeder, who was a little ruffled that Gaylor should find it necessary to warn him against over-smearing fingerprints. “Has the box arrived?”
“Ten minutes ago, sir.”
“When did Mr. Gaylor telephone?”
She was rather vague as to this; thought it might have been half-an-hour before. In that case, thought Reeder, it must have been immediately after he left the Yard, and the box must have come on by cyclist messenger.
He found it on his table in a service envelope, and took it out: a heavy, oblong box, about six inches long and three inches square. Pen-printed on the lid, which was tacked down, were the words: “Mr. Reeder to see and return. Room 75, New Scotland Yard.” Reeder weighed the package in his hand.
Some people remember by smell, some trust to their eyesight, and the recollections of vision. Mr. Reeder had a remarkable sense of weight--and he remembered something that weighed just as heavy as this. He put the package carefully on the table and rang through to Scotland Yard. Gaylor had gone. He tried him at his house, but he had not arrived.
“Tell him to ’phone the moment he comes in,” he said, and went to his desk to examine, for the third time that day, the old music-hall programmes and playbills, photographs, cuttings from the Era and the Stage, the data which he had collected in the course of the day.
At one o’clock his housekeeper came in and asked if anything more would be required.
“Nothing at all,” said Mr. Reeder. And then a thought struck him. “Where do you sleep?”
“In the room above, sir.”
“Above this?” said Mr. Reeder hastily. “No, no, I think you’d better stay in the kitchen until I hear from Mr. Gaylor. If you could make yourself comfortable there, in fact if you could sleep there, I should be very much obliged. There is nothing to be alarmed about,” he said, when he saw consternation dawning in her face. “It is merely that I may want to--um--send a detective upstairs to--um--overhear a conversation.”
It was a lame excuse. Mr. Reeder was a poor liar; but his housekeeper was a very simple soul, and, except that she insisted upon going up to make the room tidy, agreed to retire to the basement. She had hardly gone when Gaylor came through, and for five minutes he and Reeder spoke together. After this the detective settled down to await his coming, and Inspector Gaylor did not arrive alone, but brought with him two expert officials from the Explosives Department. One of them had a delicate spring balance, and with this the package was weighed.
“Allow an ounce and a quarter for the wood,” said the expert, “and that’s the exact weight of a Mills bomb. I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Reeder.”
He held the package to his ear and shook it gently.
“No, nothing more complicated.”
He took a case of instruments from his pocket and removed a slither of wood from the lid.
“Yes, there’s the lever, and the pin’s out,” he said after examining it under a strong light.
He cut away the side, and revealed a black, segmented egg shape, grinning as he recognized an old friend.
“You see that?” He pointed to a little hole at the end of the box. “The fellow who brought this was taking no risks: he kept an emergency pin through until it was delivered. I’ll have this out in a jiff.”
It was no idle promise. Mr. Reeder watched with interest as the skilful fingers of the man removed the lid, catching the lever at the same time and holding it firm against the swelling side. From his pocket he took a steel pin and thrust it home, and the bomb became innocuous.
“You’ve kept every scrap of paper, of course?” said Gaylor. “There was no other packing but this?”
Every piece of paper was carefully folded and put in an envelope, and the two explosive experts went down to pack away Mr. Reeder’s dangerous gift.
“There was a lot you didn’t tell the chief,” said Gaylor at parting. “That’s the trouble with you, you old devil!”
Mr. Reeder looked pained.
“That is not a very pleasant expression,” he said.
“But it is,” insisted Gaylor. “You always keep back some juicy bit to spring on us at the last moment. It’s either your sense of drama or your sense of humour.”
For a moment Reeder’s eyes twinkled, and then his face became a mask again.
“I have no--um--sense of humour,” he said.
He had at any rate a sense of vanity, and he was irritated that his little idiosyncrasy had been so cruelly exposed to description.
He was up at six the next morning, and by half past seven was on his way to the Thames Valley. On the previous day he had telephoned to eight separate boathouses between Windsor and Henley, and he was satisfied that he had found what he wanted in the neighbourhood of Bourne End. He had telephoned to the boat-builder on whom he was calling, and he found that industrious man at work in his yard.
“You’re the gentleman who wanted to know about the Zaira? I was going to send one of my boys up to see if she was still tied up, but I haven’t been able to spare him this morning.”
“I’m rather glad you haven’t,” said Mr. Reeder.
“It was a funny thing you telephoning to me when you did,” said the builder. “She’d just gone past on her way to Marlow… No, I’ve never seen her before, but I caught the name; in fact, it was because she was new in this part of the river that I noticed her. She’s a forty-foot cruiser, nearly new, and I should think she’s got pretty powerful engines. As it was, she made a bit of a wash.”
He explained that after Mr. Reeder’s inquiry he had telephoned through to Marlow, had learned that the boat had not passed, and had sent one of his assistants up the towpath to locate her.
“She’s lying at a private quay that runs in from the river to a big red house which has been empty for years. There’s nobody on board her, and I suppose the owner’s had permission from the agents. Are you thinking of buying her?”
That view had never presented itself to Mr. Reeder. He thought for a long time, and gave the boat-builder the impression that it was only a question of price that prevented him from ownership.
“Yes, it’s quite usual for people to tie up and leave their boats for months at a time, especially at a private quay like that. It’s not safe: you get a craft full of rats, especially in the winter months. These big boats cost a lot to keep up, and you couldn’t afford to have a caretaker on board.”
Mr. Reeder made a very leisurely way along the towpath, stopping now and again to admire the lovely reach. Although he had explicit instructions, he might have passed the narrow canal which runs in from the river, in spite of the brick bridge across, for the stream was choked with weeds, and ran apparently into a tangle of trees and undergrowth. With some difficulty Mr. Reeder reached its bank. He then saw that the canal was brick-lined. Nevertheless, though he had this indication of its edge, he walked gingerly.
It opened to a larger pool, a sort of backwater. Passing a clump of bushes, he came suddenly upon the boat. The bow lay almost within reach of his hand. It was tied up fore and aft and had a deserted appearance. Across the forepart of the boat was drawn a canvas cover, but he was prepared for this by the description of the boat-builder. Mr. Reeder slipped his hand in his pocket and went cautiously along the length of the boat. He noted that all the portholes were not only closed but made opaque with brown paper.
“Is anybody there?” he called loudly.
There was no answer. In midstream a moorhen was paddling aimlessly; the sound of his voice sent it scurrying to cover.
The foremost part of the ship was evidently the engine room, and possibly accommodation for a small crew. The living saloon was aft. It was these that had their portholes covered. Both cabins were approached from the well deck amidships, and he saw here a canvas-covered wheel. The doors were padlocked on the outside.
Mr. Reeder looked around, and stepped on to the boat down a short ladder to the well. He tried the padlock on the saloon door. It was fast; but it was a very simple padlock, and if fortune favoured him, and the boat he sought was really discovered, he had prepared for such an emergency as this.
He tried three of the keys which he took from his pocket before the lock snapped back. He unfastened the hasp, turned the handle and pulled open the door. He could see nothing for a moment; then he switched on an electric hand-lamp and sent its rays into the interior.
The saloon was empty. The floor of it lay possibly eighteen inches below the level of the deck on which he was standing. And then.…
Lying in the middle of the floor, and glittering in the light of his lamp, was a white-handled, silver-plated revolver.
“Very interesting,” said Mr. Reeder, and went down into the saloon.
He reached the bottom of the steps and turned, walking backwards with his face to the door through which he had come, the muzzle of his Browning covering the opening. Presently his heel kicked the pistol. He took another step back and stooped to pick it up.…
