Читать книгу Red Aces - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 7

IV. — J.G. REEDER'S THEORY

SOMETHING in his tone emphasized the tense he used. She shrank back.

'Was?' Her voice was a whisper. 'He's not dead... oh, my God! he's not dead?'

Mr Reeder smoothed his chin.

'Yes, I'm afraid—um—he is dead.'

She clutched the edge of the table for support. Mr Reeder had never seen such horror, such despair in a human face before,

'Was it... an accident—or—or—'

'You're trying to say "murder",' said Reeder gently. 'Yes, I'm very much afraid it was murder.'

He caught her in his arms as she fell and, laying her on the sofa, went in search of water. The taps were frozen, but he found some water in a kettle and, filling a glass with this, he returned to sprinkle it on her face, having a vague idea that something of the sort was necessary; but he found her sitting up, her face in her hands.

'Lie down, my dear, and keep quiet,' said Mr Reeder, and she obeyed meekly.

He looked round the room. The thing that struck him anew was the revolver which hung on the wall near the right-hand side of the fireplace just above the bookcase. It was placed to the hand of anybody who sat with his back to the window. Behind the armchair was a screen, and, tapping it, Mr Reeder discovered that it was of sheet iron.

He went outside to look at the door, turning on the hall light. It was a very thick door, and the inside was made of quarter-inch steel plate, screwed firmly to the wood. Leading from the kitchen was the bedroom, evidently Wentford's. The only light here was admitted from an oblong window near the ceiling. There was no other window, and about the narrow window was a stout steel cage. On the wall by the bed hung a second gun. He found a third weapon in the kitchen and behind a coat hanging in the hall, a fourth.

The cottage was a square box of concrete. The roof, as he afterwards learned, was tiled of sheet iron, and, except for the window through which he had squeezed, there was none by which ingress could be had.

He was puzzled why this man, who evidently feared attack, had left any window so large as that through which he had come. He afterwards found the broken wire which must have set an alarm bell ringing when the window was opened.

There was blood on the mat in the hall, blood in the tiny lobby. He came back to where the girl was lying and sniffed. There was no smell of cordite, and having seen the body, he was not surprised.

'Now my dear.'

She sat up again.

'I am not a police officer; I am a—er—a gentleman called in by your friend, Mr Wentford—your late friend,' he corrected himself, 'to do something—I know not what! He called me by phone; I gave him my—um—terms, but he offered me no reason why he was sending for me. You, as his secretary, may perhaps—'

She shook her head.

'I don't know. He'd never mentioned you before he spoke to me on the telephone.'

'I'm not a policeman,' said Mr Reeder again, and his voice was very gentle; 'therefore, my dear, you need have few qualms about telling me the truth, because these gentlemen, when they come, these very active and intelligent men, will probably discover all that I have seen, even if I did not tell them. Who was the man who went out of this house when I knocked at the door?'

Her face was deathly pale, but she did not flinch. He wondered if she was as pretty when she was not so pale. Mr Reeder wondered all sorts of odd little things like that; his mind could never stagnate.

'There was nobody—in this house—since I have been here—'

Mr Reeder did not press her. He sighed, closed his eyes, shook his head, shrugged his shoulders. 'It's a great pity,' he said. 'Can you tell me anything about Mr Wentford?'

'No,' she said in a low voice. 'He was my uncle. I think you ought to know that. He didn't want anybody to know, but that must come out. He's been very good to us—he sent my mother abroad; she's an invalid. I conducted his business.' All this very jerkily.

'Have you been here often?'

She shook her head.

'Not often,' she said. 'We usually met somewhere by appointment, generally in a lonely place where one wouldn't be likely to meet anybody who knew us. He was very shy of strangers, and he didn't like anybody coming here.'

'Did he ever entertain friends here?'

'No.' She was very emphatic. 'I'm sure he didn't. The only person he ever saw was the police patrol on this beat. Uncle used to make him coffee every night. I think it was for the company—he told me he felt lonely at nights. The policeman kept an eye on him. There are two—Constable Steele and Constable Verity. My uncle always sent them a turkey at Christmas. Whoever was on duty used to come up here on his motorbike.'

The telephone was in the bedroom and Mr Reeder remembered he had promised to phone. He got through to a police station and asked a few questions. When he got back he found the girl by the window, looking between the curtains.

Somebody was coming up the path. They could hear voices and, looking through the curtain, he saw a string of torches and went out to meet a local sergeant and two men. Behind them was Mr Enward. Reeder wondered what had become of Henry. Possibly he had been lost in the snow; the thought interested him.

'This is Mr Reeder.' Enward's voice was shrill. 'Did you telephone?'

'Yes, I telephoned. We have a young lady here—Mr Wentford's niece.'

Enward repeated the words, surprised. 'His niece here? Really? I knew he had a niece. In fact—' He coughed. It was an indelicate moment to speak of legacies.

'She'll be able to throw some light on this business,' said the sergeant, more practical and less delicate.

'She could throw no light on any business,' said Mr Reeder, very firmly for him. 'She was not here when the crime was committed—in fact, she arrived some time after. She has a key which admitted her. Miss Lynn acts as her uncle's secretary, all of which facts, gentlemen, I think you should know.'

The sergeant was not quite sure about the propriety of noticing Mr Reeder. To him he was almost a civilian, a man without authority, and his presence was therefore irregular. Nevertheless, some distant echo of J.G. Reeder's fame had penetrated into Buckinghamshire. The police officer seemed to remember that Mr Reeder either occupied or was about to occupy a semi-official position remotely associated with police affairs. If he had been a little clearer on the subject he would also have been more definite in his attitude. Since he was not so sure, it was expedient, until Mr Reeder's position became established, to ignore his presence—a peculiarly difficult course to follow when an officially absent person is standing at your elbow, murmuring flat contradictions of your vital theories.

'Perhaps you'll tell me why you are here, sir?' said the sergeant with a certain truculence.

Mr Reeder felt in his pocket, took out a large leather case and laid it carefully on the table, first dusting the table with the side of his hand; then he unfolded the case and took out, with exasperating deliberation, a thick pad of telegrams. He fixed his glasses and examined the telegrams one by one, reading each through. At last he shook one clear and handed it to the officer. It ran:

'WISH TO CONSULT WITH YOU TONIGHT ON VERY IMPORTANT MATTER. CALL ME WOBURN GREEN 971. VERY URGENT. WENTFORD.'

'You're a private detective, Mr Reeder?'

'More intimate than private,' murmured that gentleman. 'In these days of publicity one has little more than the privacy of a goldfish in his crystal habitation.'

The sergeant saw something in the wastepaper basket and pulled it out. It was a small loose-leafed book. There was another, indeed, many. He piled five on the table; but they were merely the covers and nothing more.

'Diaries,' said Mr Reeder gently. 'You will observe that each one is dingier than the other.'

'But how do you know they're diaries?' demanded the police officer testily.

'Because the word "diary" is printed on the inside covers,' said Mr Reeder, more gently than ever.

This proved to be the case, though the printing had been overlooked. Mr Reeder had not overlooked it; he had not even overlooked the two scraps of burnt paper on the hearth, all that remained of those diaries.

'There is a safe let into the wall behind that bookcase.' He pointed. 'It may or may not be full of clues. I should imagine it is not. But I shouldn't touch it if I were you, Sergeant,' he said hastily, 'not without gloves. Those detestable fellows from Scotland Yard will be here eventually, and they'll be very rude if they photograph a fingerprint and find it's yours.'

Gaylor of the Yard came at half past two. He had been brought out of his bed through a blinding snowstorm and along a road that was thoroughly vile.

The girl had gone home. Mr Reeder was sitting meditatively before the fire which he had made up, smoking the cheapest kind of cigarette.

'Is the body here?'

Mr Reeder shook his head.

'Have they found that motor cycle policeman, Verity?'

Again Mr Reeder signalled a negative. 'They found his bike on the Beaconsfield road with bloodstains on the saddle.'

He was staring into the fire, the cigarette drooping limply from his mouth, on his face an air of unsettled melancholy; he did not even turn his head to address Inspector Gaylor.

'The young lady has gone home, as I said. The local constabulary gave you particulars of the lady, of course. She acted as secretary to the late Mr Wentford, and he appears to have been very fond of her, since he has left his fortune two-thirds to the young lady and one-third to his sister. There is no money in the house as far as can be ascertained, but he banks with the Great Central Bank, Beaconsfield branch.' Reeder fumbled in his pocket. 'Here are the two aces.'

'The two what?' asked the puzzled inspector.

'The two aces.' Mr Reeder passed the playing cards over his shoulder, his eyes still on the fire. 'The ace of diamonds, and I believe the ace of hearts—I am not very well acquainted with either.'

'Where did you get these?'

The other explained, and Gaylor examined the aces.

'Why are you so sure that these cards were put up after the murder — why shouldn't they have been put up before?'

J.G. groaned at his scepticism and, reaching out, took a pack of cards from a little table.

'You will find the two aces missing from this pack. You would have also found that two cards had been stuck together. Blood does that. No fingerprints. I should imagine the cards were sorted over after the untimely demise of Mr Wentford, and the two significant aces extracted and exhibited.'

The inspector made a very careful search of the bedroom and came back to find Mr Reeder nodding himself to sleep.

'What did they do to the girl—these local blokes?' asked Gaylor coarsely.

Reeder's right shoulder came up in a lazy shrug.

'They escorted her to the station and took a statement from her. The inspector was kind enough to furnish me with a copy—you'll find it on this table. They also examined her hands and her clothes, but it was quite unnecessary. There is corroborative evidence that she arrived at Bourne End station at twelve minutes past eight as she says she did—the murder was committed at forty minutes past seven, a few minutes before or after.'

'How on earth do you know that? Is there any proof?'

Mr Reeder shook his head. 'A romantic surmise.' He sighed heavily. 'You have to realize, my dear Gaylor, that I have a criminal mind. I see the worst in people and the worst in every human action. It is very tragic. There are moments when—' He sighed again. 'Forty minutes past seven,' he said simply. 'That is my romantic surmise. The doctor will probably confirm my view. The body lay here,' he pointed to the hearthrug, 'until—well, quite a considerable time.'

Gaylor was skimming two closely written sheets of foolscap. Suddenly he stopped.

'You're wrong,' he said. 'Listen to this statement made at the station by Miss Lynn. "I rang up my uncle from the station, telling him I might be late because of the snowy road. He answered 'Come as soon as you can.' He spoke in a very low tone; I thought he sounded agitated!" That knocks your theory about the time a bit skew-whiff, eh?'

Mr Reeder looked round and blinked open his eyes.

'Yes, doesn't it? It must have been terribly embarrassing.'

What was embarrassing?' asked the puzzled police officer.

'Everything,' mumbled Mr Reeder, his chin falling on his chest.