Читать книгу Red Aces - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 9

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MR KINGFETHER, manager of the Beaconsfield branch of the Great Central Bank, was at work very early that morning, for he had a letter to write, and his managerial office gave him the privacy he required. He was a serious man, with serious-looking glasses on a pale, plump face. He had a little black moustache and his cheeks and chin were invariably blue, for he had what barbers call a 'strong beard.'

The newspapers arrived as he was writing. They were pushed under the closed outer door of the bank and, being at the moment stuck for the alternative to an often reiterated term of endearment, he rose and brought them into the office and sat down to glance through them. There were two papers, one financial and one human.

He read the latter first, and there was the murder in detail, though it had only occurred the night before. The discovery of the constable's body was not described, because it had not been discovered when the paper went to press.

He read and re-read, his mind in a whirl, and then he took the telephone and called Mr Enward.

'Good morning, Kingfether... Yes, yes, it's true... I was practically a witness—they've found the poor policeman dead... yes, murdered... yes, shot... I was the last person to speak to him. Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful! That such horrors can be—I say that such horrors can be... I said that such... What's the matter with your phone? He banks with you? Really? Really? I'll come over and talk with you...'

Mr Kingfether hung up the telephone and wiped his face with his handkerchief. It was a face that became moist on the least provocation. Presently he folded the newspaper and looked at his unfinished letter. He was on the eighth page and the last words he had written were:

'... can hardly live the day through without seeing your darling face, my own...'

It was obvious that he was not writing to his general manager, or to a client who had overdrawn his account.

He added 'beloved' mechanically, though he had used the word a dozen times before. Then he unfolded the paper and read of the murder again.

A knock at the side door: he went out to admit Enward. The lawyer was more important than usual. Participation in public affairs has this effect. And a news agency had telephoned to ask whether they could send a photographer, and Mr Enward, shivering at the telephone in his pyjamas, had said 'Yes' and had been photographed at his breakfast table at 7.30 am, poising a cup of tea and looking excessively grave. He would presently appear in one hundred and fifty newspapers above the caption 'Lawyer Who Discovered His Own Client Murdered'.

'It's a terrible business,' said Enward, throwing off his coat. 'He banked with you? I'm in charge of his affairs, Kingfether, though heaven knows I'm ignorant about 'em! I don't know how he stands... what's his credit here?'

Mr Kingfether considered. 'I'll get the ledger from the safe,' he said.

He locked the centre drawer of his desk, because his letter to Ava Burslem was there and other documents, but Enward saw nothing offensive in the act of caution; rather was it commendable.

'Here's his account.' Kingfether laid the big ledger on the desk and opened it where his thumb marked a page. 'Credit three thousand four hundred pounds.'

Enward fixed his glasses and looked.

'Has he anything on deposit? Securities—no? Did he come often to the bank?'

'Never,' said Kingfether. 'He used the account to pay bills. When he wanted ready money he posted a bearer cheque and I posted back the money. He has, of course, sent people here to cash cheques.'

'That six hundred pounds withdrawn five days ago.' Enward pointed to the item.

'It's strange that you should point that out—it was paid over the counter four days ago. I didn't see the person who called for it—I was out. My clerk McKay cashed the cheque. Who's that?'

There was a gentle rapping at the door. Mr Kingfether went out of the room and came back with the caller.

'How fortunate to find you here!' said J.G. Reeder. He was spruce and lively. A barber had shaved him, somebody had cleaned his shoes. 'The account of the late Mr Wentford?' He nodded to the book.

It was generally known that J.G. Reeder acted for the Great Central Bank, and the manager did not question his title to ask questions. Mr Enward was not so sure.

'This is rather a serious matter, Mr Reeder,' he said, consciously grave. 'I am not so sure that we can take you into our confidence—'

'Hadn't you better see the police and ask them if they are prepared to take you into their confidence?' asked Mr Reeder, with a sudden ferocity which made the lawyer recoil.

Once more the manager explained the account.

'Six hundred pounds—h'm!' Mr Reeder frowned. 'A large sum—who was the drawer?'

'My clerk McKay said it was a lady—but she wore a thick veil.'

Reeder stared at him.

'Your clerk McKay? Of course—a fair young man. How stupid of me! Kenneth—or is it Karl—Kenneth, is it? H'm! A heavily veiled lady. Have you the number of the notes?'

Kingfether was taken aback by the question. He searched for a book that held the information, and Mr Reeder copied them down, an easy task since the tens and the fives ran consecutively.

'When does your clerk arrive?'

Kenneth was supposed to arrive at nine. As a rule he was late. He was late that morning.

Mr Reeder saw the young man through a window in the manager's office and thought that he did not look well. His eyes were tired; he had shaved himself carelessly, for his chin bore a strip of sticking plaster. Perhaps that accounted for the spots on the soiled cuff of his shirt, thought Mr Reeder, when he confronted the young man.

'No, I will see him alone,' said Reeder.

'He's rather an insolent pup,' warned Mr Kingfether.

'I have tamed lions,' said Mr Reeder.

When Kenneth came in:

'Close the door, please, and sit down. You know me, my boy?'

'Yes, sir,' said Kenneth.

'That is blood on your shirt cuff, isn't it?... cut your chin, did you? You haven't been home all night?'

Kenneth did not answer at once.

'No sir. I haven't changed my shirt, if that's what you mean.'

Mr Reeder smiled. 'Exactly.'

He fixed the young man with a long, searching glare. 'Why did you go to the house of the late Mr Wentford last night between the hours of eight-thirty and nine-thirty?'

He saw the youth go deathly white.

'I didn't know he was dead—I didn't even know his name until this morning. I went there because... well, I was low enough to spy on somebody... follow them from London and sneak into the house—'

'The young lady, Margot Lynn. You're in love with her? Engaged to her, perhaps?'

'I'm in love with her—I'm not engaged to her. We are no longer... friends,' said Kenneth in a low voice. 'She told you I'd been there, I suppose?' and then, as a light broke on him: 'Or did you find my cap? It had my name in it.'

Mr Reeder nodded. 'You came down on the same train as Miss Lynn? Good. Then you will be able to prove that you left Bourne End station—'

'No, I shan't,' said Kenneth. 'I slipped out of the train on to the line. Naturally I didn't want her to see me. I got out through the level crossing. There was nobody about—it was snowing heavily.'

'Very awkward.' Mr Reeder pursed his lips. 'You thought there was some sort of friendship between Mr Wentford and the young lady?'

Kenneth made a gesture of despair. 'I don't know what I thought—I was just a jealous fool.'

There was a long silence.

'You paid out six hundred pounds the other day to a lady on Mr Wentford's cheque?'

'I didn't know that Wentford was—' began Ken, but Mr Reeder brushed aside that aspect of the situation. 'Yes, a veiled lady. She came by car. It was a large sum of money, but the day before Mr Kingfether had told me to honour any cheque of Mr Wentford's no matter to whom the money was paid.'

J.G. Reeder asked very little more. He was, it seemed, the easiest man in the world to satisfy. Before he left he saw the manager alone.

'Did you tell Mr McKay that he was to honour any cheque of Mr Wentford's, no matter to whom the money was paid?'

The answer came instantly.

'Of course not! Naturally I should expect him to be sure that the person who presented a cheque had authority. And another curious thing which I have not mentioned. I lunch at the inn opposite and I usually have a seat in the window, where I can see these premises, but I have no recollection of any car drawing up to the bank.'

'H'm!' was all that Mr Reeder said.

He made a few inquiries in Beaconsfield and the neighbourhood and went on to Wentford's house, where Gaylor had arranged to meet him. The inspector was pacing up and down the snowy terrace in front of the house and he was in very good spirits.

'I think I've got the man,' he said. 'Do you know anybody named McKay?'

Mr Reeder looked at him slyly.

'I know a dozen,' he said.

'Come inside and I'll show you something.'

Reeder followed him into the room. The carpet had been taken up, the furniture moved. Evidently a very thorough search had been in progress. Gaylor swung back the bookcase: the safe door was ajar.

'We got the keys from the maker—quick work! They were down here by eight-thirty.'

He stooped down and pulled out three bundles. The first was made up of bills, the second of used cheques, the third was a thick bundle of French banknotes, each to the value of 1000 francs.

'That is surprise No. 1,' began the detective, flourishing the money. 'French money—'

'I'm afraid it doesn't surprise me,' said Mr Reeder apologetically. 'You see, I've been examining the gentleman's bank book. By the way, here are the numbers of notes drawn from Mr Wentford's account.' He handed over a slip of paper.

'Six hundred pounds is a lot of money,' said Gaylor. 'I'll phone these through. Well, what else did you find in the bank book?'

'I observed,' said Mr Reeder, 'though I will not emphasize the fact, that all the money he paid was in banknotes. Number 2 is—?'

The inspector extracted a sheet of headed paper from one heap. Written in pencil was what was evidently a memorandum from somebody who signed himself 'D. H. Hartford.'

'I have found that the man who is employing a detective to find you is George McKay of Sennet House, Marlow. I don know what his intentions are, but they're not pleasant. There is nothing to worry about, he is employing one of the most incompetent private detectives in the business.'

'Extraordinary!' said Mr Reeder, and coughed.

'The first thing to do is to find Hartford—' began Gaylor.

'He's in Australia,' Mr Reeder interrupted. 'At the time that letter was written his office address was 327, Lambs Buildings. He became bankrupt and left the country hurriedly.'

'How do you know?' asked Gaylor, astonished.

'Because I—um—was the incompetent private detective engaged to find Mr Lynn or, as he called himself, Mr Wentford. And I didn't find him,' said Mr Reeder.

'Why did McKay want to find this man?'

'He owed him money. I know no more than that, The search fell off because—um—Mr McKay owed me money. One has to live.'

'Then you knew about Wentford?'

Mr Reeder took counsel with himself.

'Um—yes. I recognized him last night—I once had a photograph of him. I thought it was very odd. I also—er—drove over to Marlow and made inquiries. Mr McKay—Mr George McKay did not leave his house last night, and at the moment the murder was committed was entertaining the—um—vicar to dinner.'

'You're a killjoy,' Gaylor said, and Mr Reeder sighed heavily. Gaylor got up and stood squarely before him. 'What do you know about these murders, Reeder?' he challenged.

Mr Reeder spread his hands wide. His glasses, set askew, slipped a little further down his nose. He was not a very imposing figure.

'I am a strange man, Mr Gaylor; I am cursed, as you are aware, with a peculiarly evil mind. I am also intensely curious—I have always been. I am curious about criminals and chickens—I have perhaps the finest Rhode Island Reds in London, but that is by the way. It would be cruel to give you my theories. The blood on the policeman's motorcycle: that is interesting. And Henry—I suppose Mr Enward's clerk has another name—the blood on his coat, though he did not go near the body of the late Mr Wentford, that is interesting. Poor Henry is suffering from a severe chill and is in bed, but his mother, an admirable and hardworking woman, permitted me to see him. Then the two aces pinned to the door, all very, very, very interesting indeed! Mr Gaylor, if you will permit me to interview old George McKay I will undertake to tell you who committed these murders.'

'The girl told you something—the girl Lynn?'

'The girl has told me nothing. She also may be very informative. I propose spending a night or two in her flat—um—not, I hope, without a chaperone.'

Gaylor looked at him, amazed. Mr Reeder was blushing.