Mr. Enward climbed into the driver’s seat gratefully, keeping some distance between himself and his shivering clerk. The car was on a declivity and would start without trouble. He turned the wheels straight and took off the brake. The machine skidded and slithered forward, and presently Mr. Reeder, following in its wake, heard the sound of the running engine.
His lamp showed him the notice-board in the field, and fifty yards beyond he came to a path so narrow that two men could not walk abreast. It ran off from the road at right angles, and up this he turned, progressing with great difficulty, for he had heavy nails in his shoes. At last he saw a small garden gate on his right, set between two unkempt hedges. The gate was open, and this methodical man stopped to examine it by the light of his lamp.
He expected to find blood and found it: just a smear. No bloodstains on the ground, but then the snow would have obliterated those. It had not obliterated the print of footmarks going up the winding path. They were rather small, and he thought they were recently made. He kept his light upon them until they led him into view of the squat house with its narrow windows and doorways. As he turned he saw a light gleam between curtains. He had a feeling that somebody was looking out at him. In another moment the light had vanished. But there was somebody in the house.
The footsteps led up to the door. Here he paused and knocked. There was no answer, and he knocked again more loudly. The chill wind sent the snowflakes swirling about him. Mr. Reeder, who had a secret sense of humour, smiled. In the remote days of his youth his favourite Christmas card was one which showed a sparkling Father Christmas knocking at the door of a wayside cottage. He pictured himself as a felt-hatted Father Christmas, and the whimsical fancy slightly pleased him.
He knocked a third time and listened, then, when no answer came, he stepped back and walked to the room where he had seen the light and tried to peer between the curtains. He thought he heard a sound--a thud--but it was not in the house. It may have been the wind. He looked round and listened, but the thud was not repeated, and he returned to his ineffectual starings.
There was no sign of a fire. He came back to knock for the fourth time, then tried the other side of the building, and here he made a discovery. A narrow casement window, deeply recessed and made of iron, was swaying to and fro in the wind, and beneath the window was a double set of footmarks, one coming and one going. They went away in the direction of the lane.
He came back to the door, and stood debating with himself what steps he should take. He had seen in the darkness two small white squares at the top of the door, and had thought they were little panes of toughened glass such as one sees in the tops of such doors. But, probably in a gust of wind, one of them became detached and fell at his feet. He stooped and picked it up: it was a playing card--the ace of diamonds. He put his lamp on the second: it was the ace of hearts. They had both apparently been fastened side by side to the door with pins--black pins. Perhaps the owner of the house had put them there. Possibly they had some significance, fulfilled the function of mascots.
No answer came to his knocking, and Mr. Reeder heaved a deep sigh. He hated climbing; he hated more squeezing through narrow windows into unknown places; more especially as there was probably somebody inside who would treat him rudely. Or they may have gone. The footprints, he found, were fresh; they were scarcely obliterated, though the snow was falling heavily. Perhaps the house was empty, and its inmate, whose light he had seen, had got away whilst he was knocking at the door. He would not have heard him jump from the window, the snow was too soft. Unless that thud he had heard----
Mr. Reeder gripped the sill and drew himself up, breathing heavily, though he was a man of considerable strength.
There were only two ways to go into the house: one was feet first, the other head first. He made a reconnaissance with his lamp and saw that beneath the window was a small table, standing in a tiny room which had evidently been used as a cloak cupboard, for there were a number of coats hanging on hooks. It was safe to go in head first, so he wriggled down on to the table, feeling extraordinarily undignified.
He was on his feet in a moment, gripped the handle of the door gingerly and opened it. He was in a small hall, from which one door opened. He tried this: it was fast, and yet not fast. It was as though somebody was leaning against it on the other side. A quick jerk of his shoulder, and it flew open. Somebody tried to dash past him, but Mr. Reeder was expecting that and worse. He gripped the fugitive…
“I’m extremely sorry,” he said in his gentle voice. “It is a lady, isn’t it?”
He heard her heavy breathing, a sob…
“Is there a light?”
He groped inside the lintel of the door, found a switch and turned it. Nothing happened for a moment, and then the lights came on suddenly. There was apparently a small light-making machine at the back of the house which operated when any switch was turned.
“Come in here, will you, please?”
He pressed her very gently into the room. Pretty, extraordinarily pretty. He did not remember ever having met a young lady who was quite as pretty as this particular young lady, though she was very white and her hair was in disorder, and on her feet were snow-boots the impression of which he had already seen in the snow.
“Will you sit down, please?”
He closed the door behind him.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. My name is Reeder.”
She had been terrified for that moment; now she looked up at him intensely.
“You’re the detective?” she shivered. “I’m so frightened. I’m so frightened!”
Then she drooped over the table at which she sat, her face buried in her folded arms.
Mr. Reeder looked round the room. It was pleasantly furnished--not luxuriously so but pleasantly. Evidently a sitting-room. Except that the mantelboard had fallen or had been dragged on the floor, there was no sign of disorder. The hearth was littered with broken china pots and vases; the board itself was still held in position at one end by some attachment to the mantelpiece. That and the blue hearthrug before the fire, which was curiously stained. And there were other little splodges of darkness on the surface of the carpet, and a flower-pot was knocked down near the door.
He saw a waste-paper basket and turned over its contents. Covers of little books apparently--there were five of them, but no contents. By the side of the fireplace was a dwarf bookcase. The books were dummies. He pulled one end of the case and it swung out, being hinged at the other end.
“H’m!” said Mr. Reeder, and pushed the shelves back into their original position.
There was a cap on the floor by the table and he picked this up. It was wet. This he examined, thrust into his pocket, and turned his attention to the girl.
“How long have you been here, Miss----I think you had better tell me your name.”
She was looking up at him; he saw her wet her dry lips.
“Half an hour. I don’t know… it may be longer.”
“Miss----?” he asked again.
“Lynn--Margot Lynn.”
He pursed his lips thoughtfully.
“Margot Lynn. And you’ve been here half-an-hour. Who else has been here?”
“Nobody,” she said, springing to her feet. “What has happened? Did he--did they fight?”
He put his hand on her shoulder gently, and pressed her down into the chair.
“Did who fight whom?” asked Mr. Reeder. His English was always very good on these occasions.
“Nobody has been here,” she said inconsequently.
Mr. Reeder passed the question.
“You came from----?”
“I came from Bourne End station. I walked here. I often come that way. I am Mr. Wentford’s secretary.”
“You walked here at nine o’clock because you’re Mr. Wentford’s secretary? That was a very odd thing to do.”
She was searching his face fearfully.
“Has anything happened? Are you a police detective? Has anything happened to Mr. Wentford? Tell me, tell me!”
“He was expecting me: you knew that?”
She nodded. Her breath was coming quickly. He thought she found breathing a painful process.
“He told me--yes. I didn’t know what it was about. He wanted his lawyer here too. I think he was in some kind of trouble.”
“When did you see him last?”
She hesitated.
“I spoke to him on the telephone--once, from London. I haven’t seen him for two days.”
“And the person who was here?” asked Mr. Reeder after a pause.
“There was nobody here! I swear there was nobody here!” She was frantic in her desire to convince him. “I’ve been here half-an-hour--waiting for him. I let myself in--I have a key. There it is.”
She fumbled with trembling hands in her bag and produced a ring with two keys, one larger than the other.
“He wasn’t here when I came in. I--I think he must have gone to town. He is very--peculiar.”
Mr. J.G. Reeder put his hand in his pocket, took out two playing cards and laid them on the table.
“Why did he have those pinned to his door?”
She looked at him round-eyed.
“Pinned to his door?”
“The outer door,” said Mr. Reeder, “or, as he would call it, the street door.”
She shook her head.
“I’ve never seen them before. He is not the kind of man to put up things like that. He is very retiring and hates drawing attention to himself.”
“He was very retiring,” repeated Mr. Reeder, “and hated drawing attention to himself.”
