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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/75949-0.txt b/75949-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c88631 --- /dev/null +++ b/75949-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7199 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75949 *** + + + + + + TERROR KEEP + + BY + EDGAR WALLACE + + + + + HODDER AND STOUGHTON + LIMITED LONDON + + + + + [DEDICATION] + + TO + LESLIE FABER + (“/The Ringer/”) + + + + + CONTENTS + +FOREWARD +CHAPTER I +CHAPTER II +CHAPTER III +CHAPTER IV +CHAPTER V +CHAPTER VI +CHAPTER VII +CHAPTER VIII +CHAPTER IX +CHAPTER X +CHAPTER XI +CHAPTER XII +CHAPTER XIII +CHAPTER XIV +CHAPTER XV +CHAPTER XVI +CHAPTER XVII +CHAPTER XVIII +CHAPTER XIX +CHAPTER XX +CHAPTER XXI + + + + + TERROR KEEP + + FOREWARD + +/Rightly/ speaking, it is improper, not to say illegal, for those +sadly privileged few who go in and out of Broadmoor Criminal Asylum, +to have pointed out to them any particular character, however +notorious he may have been or to what heights of public interest his +infamy had carried him, before the testifying doctors and a merciful +jury consigned him to this place without hope. But often had John +Flack been pointed out as he shuffled about the grounds, his hands +behind him, his chin on his breast, a tall, lean old man in an +ill-fitting suit of drab clothing, who spoke to nobody and was spoken +to by few. + +“That is Flack--the Flack; the cleverest crook in the world… Crazy +John Flack… nine murders…” + +Men who were in Broadmoor for isolated homicides were rather proud of +Old John in their queer, sane moments. The officers who locked him up +at night and watched him as he slept had little to say against him, +because he gave no trouble, and through all the six years of his +incarceration had never once been seized of those frenzies which so +often end in the hospital for some poor innocent devil, and a +rubber-padded cell for the frantic author of misfortune. + +He spent most of his time writing and reading, for he was something of +a genius with his pen, and wrote with extraordinary rapidity. He +filled hundreds of little exercise books with his great treatise on +crime. The Governor humoured him; allowed him to retain the books, +expecting in due course to add them to his already interesting museum. + +Once, as a great concession, old Jack gave him a book to read, and the +Governor read and gasped. It was entitled “Method of robbing a bank +vault when only two guards are employed.” The Governor, who had been +a soldier, read and read, stopping now and then to rub his head; for +this document, written in the neat, legible hand of John Flack, was +curiously reminiscent of a divisional order for attack. No detail was +too small to be noted; every contingency was provided for. Not only +were the constituents of the drug to be employed to “settle the outer +watchman” given, but there was an explanatory note which may be +quoted: + + + “If this drug is not procurable, I advise that the operator should + call upon a suburban doctor and describe the following symptoms… The + doctor will then prescribe the drug in a minute quantity. Six bottles + of this medicine should be procured, and the following method adopted + to extract the drug…” + + +“Have you written much like this, Flack?” asked the wondering officer. + +“This?” John Flack shrugged his lean shoulders. “I am doing this for +amusement, just to test my memory. I have already written sixty-three +books on the subject, and those works are beyond improvement. During +the six years I have been here, I have not been able to think of a +single improvement to my old system.” + +Was he jesting? Was this a flight of a disordered mind? The Governor, +used as he was to his charges and their peculiar ways, was not +certain. + +“You mean you have written an encyclopaedia of crime?” he asked +incredulously. “Where is it to be found?” + +Old Flack’s thin lips curled in a disdainful smile, but he made no +answer. + +Sixty-three hand-written volumes represented the life work of John +Flack. It was the one achievement upon which he prided himself. + +On another occasion when the Governor referred to his extraordinary +literary labours, he said: + +“I have put a huge fortune in the hands of any clever man--providing, +of course,” he mused, “that he is a man of resolution and the books +fall into his hands at a very early date--in these days of scientific +discovery, what is a novelty to-day is a commonplace to-morrow.” + +The Governor had his doubts as to the existence of these deplorable +volumes, but very soon after the conversation took place he had to +revise his judgment. Scotland Yard, which seldom if ever chases +chimerae, sent down one Chief-Inspector Simpson, who was a man +entirely without imagination and had been promoted for it. His +interview with Crazy John Flack was a brief one. + +“About these books of yours, Jack,” he said. “It would be terrible if +they fell into wrong hands. Ravini says you’ve got a hundred volumes +hidden somewhere----” + +“Ravini?” Old John Flack showed his teeth. “Listen, Simpson! You don’t +think you’re going to keep me in this awful place all my life, do you? +If you do, you’ve got another guess coming. I’ll skip one of these odd +nights--you can tell the Governor if you like--and then Ravini and I +are going to have a little talk.” + +His voice grew high and shrill. The old mad glitter that Simpson had +seen before came back to his eyes. + +“Do you ever have day-dreams, Simpson? I have three! I’ve got a new +method of getting away with a million: that’s one, but it’s not +important. Another one is Reeder: you can tell J. G. what I say. It’s +a dream of meeting him alone one nice, dark, foggy night, when the +police can’t tell which way the screams are coming. And the third is +Ravini. George Ravini’s got one chance, and that is for him to die +before I get out!” + +“You’re mad,” said Simpson. + +“That’s what I’m here for,” said John Flack truthfully. + +This conversation with Simpson and that with the Governor were two of +the longest he ever had, all the six years he was in Broadmoor. Mostly +when he wasn’t writing he strolled about the grounds, his chin on his +chest, his hands clasped behind him. Occasionally he reached a certain +place near the high wall, and it is said that he threw letters over, +though this is very unlikely. What is more possible is that he found a +messenger who carried his many and cryptic letters to the outer world +and brought in exchange monosyllabic replies. He was a very good +friend of the officer in charge of his ward, and one early morning +this man was discovered with his throat cut. The ward door was open, +and John Flack had gone out into the world to realise his day-dreams. + + + + + CHAPTER I + +/There/ were two subjects which irritated the mind of Margaret Belman +as the Southern Express carried her towards Selford Junction and the +branch-line train which crawled from the junction to Siltbury. The +first of these was, not unnaturally, the drastic changes she now +contemplated, and the effect they already had had upon Mr. J. G. +Reeder, that mild and middle-aged man. + +When she had announced that she was seeking a post in the country, he +might at least have shown some evidence of regret: a certain glumness +would have been appropriate at any rate. Instead he had brightened +visibly at the prospect. + +“I am afraid I shan’t be able to come to London very often,” she had +said. + +“That is good news,” said Mr. Reeder, and added some banality about +the value of periodical changes of air and the beauty of getting near +to nature. In fact, he had been more cheerful than he had been for a +week, which was rather exasperating. + +Margaret Belman’s pretty face puckered as she recalled her +disappointment and chagrin. All thoughts of dropping this application +of hers disappeared. Not that she imagined for one moment that a +six-hundred-a-year secretaryship was going to fall into her lap for +the mere asking. She was wholly unsuited for the job, she had no +experience of hotel work, and the chances of her being accepted were +remote. + +As to the Italian man who had made so many attempts to make her +acquaintance, he was one of the unpleasant commonplaces so familiar to +a girl who worked for her living that in ordinary circumstances she +would not have given him a second thought. + +But that morning he had followed her to the station, and she was +certain that he had heard her tell the girl who came with her that she +was returning by the 6.15. A policeman would deal effectively with +him--if she cared to risk the publicity. But a girl, however sane, +shrinks from such an ordeal, and she must deal with him in her own +way. + +That was not a happy prospect, and the two matters in combination were +sufficient to spoil what otherwise might have been a very happy or +interesting afternoon. As to Mr. Reeder… + +Margaret Belman frowned. She was twenty-three, an age when youngish +men are rather tiresome. On the other hand, men in the region of fifty +are not especially attractive; and she loathed Mr. Reeder’s +side-whiskers, that made him look rather like a Scottish butler. Of +course, he was a dear.… + +Here the train reached the junction. She found herself at the +surprisingly small station of Siltbury before she had quite made up +her mind whether she was in love with Mr. Reeder or merely annoyed +with him. + +The driver of the station cab stopped his unhappy-looking horse before +the small gateway and pointed with his whip. + +“This is the best way in for you, miss,” he said. “Mr. Daver’s office +is at the end of the path.” + +He was a shrewd old man, who had driven many applicants for the post +of secretary to Larmes Keep, and he guessed that this, the prettiest +of all, did not come as a guest. In the first place, she brought no +baggage, and then too the ticket-collector had come running after her +to hand back the return half of the railway ticket which she had +absent-mindedly surrendered. + +“I’d better wait for you, miss…?” + +“Oh, yes, please,” said Margaret Belman hastily as she got down from +the dilapidated victoria. + +“You got an appointment?” + +The cabman was a local character, and local characters assume +privileges. + +“I ast you,” he explained carefully, “because lots of young wimmin +have come up to Larmes without appointments and Mr. Daver wouldn’t see +’em. They just cut out the advertisement and come along, but the ad. +says _write_. I suppose I’ve made a dozen journeys with young wimmin +who ain’t got appointments. I’m telling you for your own good.” + +The girl smiled. + +“You might have warned them before they left the station,” she said +good-humouredly, “and saved them the cab fare. Yes, I have an +appointment.” + +From where she stood by the gate she had a clear view of Larmes Keep. +It bore no resemblance to an hotel and less to the superior +boarding-house that she knew it to be. That part of the house which +had been the original Keep was easily distinguished, though the grey, +straight walls were masked with ivy that covered also part of the +buildings which had been added in the course of the years. + +She looked across a smooth green lawn, on which were set a few wicker +chairs and tables, to a rose garden which, even in late autumn, was a +blaze of colour. Behind this was a belt of pine trees that seemed to +run to the cliff’s edge. She had a glimpse of a grey-blue sea and a +blur of dim smoke from a steamer invisible below the straight horizon. +A gentle wind carried the fragrance of the pines to her, and she +sniffed ecstatically. + +“Isn’t it gorgeous?” she breathed. + +The cabman said it “wasn’t bad,” and pointed with his whip again. + +“It’s that little square place--only built a few years ago. Mr. Daver +is more of a writing gentleman than a boarding-house gentleman.” + +She unlatched the oaken gate and walked up the stone path towards the +sanctum of the writing gentleman. On either side of the crazy pavement +was a deep border of flowers--she might have been passing through a +cottage garden. + +There was a long window and a small green door to the annexe. +Evidently she had been seen, for, as her hand went up to the brass +bell-push, the door opened. + +It was obviously Mr. Daver himself. A tall, thin man of fifty, with a +yellow, elf-like face and a smile that brought all her sense of humour +into play. Very badly she wanted to laugh. The long upper lip overhung +the lower, and except that the face was thin and lined, he had the +appearance of some grotesque and foolish mascot. The staring, round, +brown eyes, the puckered forehead, and a twist of hair that stood +upright on the crown of his head, made him more brownie-like than +ever. + +“Miss Belman?” he asked, with a certain eagerness. + +He lisped slightly, and had a trick of clasping his hands as if he +were in an agony of apprehension lest his manner should displease. + +“Come into my den,” he said, and gave such emphasis to the last word +that she nearly laughed again. + +The “den” was a very comfortably furnished study, one wall of which +was covered with books. Closing the door behind her, he pushed up a +chair with a little nervous laugh. + +“I’m so very glad you came. Did you have a comfortable journey? I’m +sure you did. And is London hot and stuffy? I’m afraid it is. Would +you like a cup of tea? Of course you would.” + +He fired question and answer so rapidly that she had no chance of +replying, and he had taken up a telephone and ordered the tea before +she could express a wish on the subject. + +“You are young--very young,”--he shook his head sadly. +“Twenty-four--no? Do you use the typewriter? What a ridiculous +question to ask!” + +“It is very kind of you to see me, Mr. Daver,” she said, “and I don’t +suppose for one moment that I shall suit you. I have had no experience +of hotel management, and I realise, from the salary you offer----” + +“Quiet,” said Mr. Daver, shaking his head solemnly: “that is what I +require. There is very little work, but I wished to be relieved even +of that little. My own labours”--he waved his hand to a pedestal desk +littered with papers--“are colossal. I need a lady to keep +accounts--to watch my interests. Somebody I can trust. I believe in +faces, do you? I see that you do. And in the character of handwriting? +You believe in that also. I have advertised for three months and have +interviewed thirty-five applicants. Impossible! Their +voices--terrible! I judge people by their voices--so do you. On Monday +when you telephoned I said to myself, ‘The Voice!’” + +He was clasping his hands together so tightly that his knuckles showed +white, and this time her laughter was almost beyond arrest. + +“But, Mr. Daver, I know nothing of hotel management. I think I could +learn, and I want the position, naturally. The salary is terribly +generous.” + +“‘Terribly generous,’” repeated the man in a murmur. “How curious +those words sound in juxtaposition! My housekeeper. How kind of you to +bring the tea, Mrs. Burton!” + +The door had opened and a woman bearing a silver tray came in. She was +dressed very neatly in black. The faded eyes scarcely looked at +Margaret as she stood meekly waiting whilst Mr. Daver spoke. + +“Mrs. Burton, this is the new secretary to the company. She must have +the best room in the Keep--the Blue Room. But--ah!”--he pinched his +lip anxiously--“blue may not be your colour?” + +Margaret laughed. + +“Any colour is my colour,” she said. “But I haven’t decided----” + +“Go with Mrs. Burton; see the house--your office, your room. Mrs. +Burton!” + +He pointed to the door, and before the girl knew what she was doing +she had followed the housekeeper through the door. A narrow passage +connected the private office of Mr. Daver with the house, and Margaret +was ushered into a large and lofty room which covered the superficial +area of the Keep. + +“The Banquittin’ ’All,” said Mrs. Burton in a thin, Cockney voice +remarkable for its monotony. “It’s used as a lounge. We’ve only got +three boarders. Mr. Daver’s very partic’lar. We get a lot in for the +winter.” + +“Three boarders isn’t a very paying proposition,” said the girl. + +Mrs. Burton sniffed. + +“Mr. Daver don’t want it to pay. It’s the company he likes. He only +turned it into a boardin’ house because he likes to see people come +and go without having to talk to ’em. It’s a nobby.” + +“A what?” asked the puzzled girl. “Oh, you mean a hobby?” + +“I said a nobby,” said Mrs. Burton, in her listless, uncomplaining +way. + +Beyond the hall was a small and cosier sitting-room with French +windows opening on to the lawn. Outside the window three people sat at +tea. One was an elderly clergyman with a strong, hard face. He was +eating toast and reading a church paper, oblivious of his companion. +The second of the party was a pale-faced girl about Margaret’s own +age. In spite of her pallor she was extraordinarily beautiful. A pair +of big, dark eyes surveyed the visitor for a moment and then returned +to her companion, a military-looking man of forty. + +Mrs. Burton waited until they were ascending the broad stairway to the +upper floor before she “introduced” them. + +“The clergyman’s a Reverend Dean from South Africa, the young lady’s +Miss Olga Crewe, the other gent is Colonel Hothling--they’re boarders. +This is your room, miss.” + +It was indeed a gem of an apartment; the sort of room that Margaret +Belman had dreamt about. It was exquisitely furnished, and, like all +the other rooms at Larmes Keep (as she discovered later), was provided +with its private bathroom. The walls were panelled to half their +height, the ceilings heavily beamed. She guessed that beneath the +parquet underneath was the original stone-flagged floor. + +Margaret looked and sighed. It was going to be very hard to refuse +this post--and why she should think of refusing at all she could not +for the life of her understand. + +“It’s a beautiful room,” she said, and Mrs. Burton cast an apathetic +eye round the apartment. + +“It’s old,” she said. “I don’t like old houses. I used to live in +Brixton----” + +She stopped abruptly, sniffed in a deprecating way, and jingled the +keys that she carried in her hand. + +“You’re suited, I suppose?” + +“Suited? You mean am I taking the appointment? I don’t know yet.” + +Mrs. Burton looked round vaguely. The girl had the impression that she +was trying to say something in praise of the place--something that +would prejudice her in favour of accepting the appointment. Then she +spoke. + +“The food’s good,” she said, and Margaret smiled. + +When she came back through the hall she saw the three people she had +seen at tea. The colonel was walking by himself; the clergyman and the +pale-faced girl were strolling across the lawn talking to one another. +Mr. Daver was sitting at his desk, his high forehead resting on his +palm, and he was biting the end of a pen as Mrs. Burton closed the +door on them. + +“You like the room: naturally. You will start--when? Next Monday week, +I think. What a relief! You have seen Mrs. Burton.” He wagged a finger +at her roguishly. “Ah! Now you know! It is impossible! Can I leave her +to meet the duchess and speed the duke? Can I trust her to adjust the +little quarrels that naturally arise between guests? You are right--I +can’t. I must have a lady here--I must, I must!” + +He nodded emphatically, his impish brown eyes fixed on hers, the +bulging upper lip grotesquely curved in a delighted grin. + +“My work suffers, as you say: constantly to be brought from my studies +to settle such matters as the fixing of a tennis net--intolerable!” + +“You write a great deal?” she managed to ask. She felt she must +postpone her decision to the last possible moment. + +“A great deal. On crime. Ah, you are interested? I am preparing an +encyclopaedia of crime!” He said this impressively, dramatically. + +“On crime?” + +He nodded. + +“It is one of my hobbies. I am a rich man and can afford hobbies. This +place is a hobby. I lose four thousand a year, but I am satisfied. I +pick and choose my own guests. If one bores me I tell him to go--that +his room has been taken. Could I do that if they were my friends? No. +They interest me. They fill the house; they give me company and +amusement. When will you come?” + +She hesitated. + +“I think----” + +“Monday week? Excellent!” He shook her hand vigorously. “You need not +be lonely. If my guests bore you, invite your own friends. Let them +come as the guests of the house. Until Monday!” + +She was walking down the garden path to the waiting cabman, a little +dazed, more than a little undecided. + +“Did you get the place, miss?” asked the friendly cabman. + +“I suppose I did,” replied Margaret. + +She looked back towards Larmes Keep. The lawns were empty, but near at +hand she had one glimpse of a woman. Only for a second, and then she +disappeared in a belt of laurel that ran parallel with the boundary +wall of the property. Evidently there was a rough path through the +bushes, and Mrs. Burton had sought this hiding-place. Her hands +covered her face as she staggered forward blindly, and the faint sound +of her sobs came back to the astonished girl. + +“That’s the housekeeper--she’s a bit mad,” said the cabman calmly. + + + + + CHAPTER II + +/George Ravini/ was not an unpleasant-looking man. From his own point +of view, which was naturally prejudiced, he was extremely attractive, +with his crisp brown hair, his handsome Neapolitan features, his +height, and his poise. And when to his natural advantages were added +the best suit that Savile Row could create, the most spotless of grey +hats, and the malacca sword-stick on which one kid-gloved hand rested +as upon the hilt of a foil, the shiniest of enamelled shoes and the +finest of grey silk socks, the picture was well framed and +embellished. Greatest embellishment of all were George Ravini’s Luck +Rings. He was a superstitious man and was addicted to charms. On the +little finger of his right hand were three gold rings, and in each +ring three large diamonds. The Luck Stones of Ravini were one of the +traditions of Saffron Hill. + +Most of the time he had the half-amused, half-bored smile of a man for +whom life held no mysteries and could offer, in experience, little +that was new. And the smile was justified, for George knew most of the +things that were happening in London or likely to happen. He had +worked outward from a one-room home in Saffron Hill, where he first +saw the light, had enlarged the narrow horizons which surrounded his +childhood, so that now, in place of the poverty-stricken child who had +shared a bed with his father’s performing monkey, he was not only the +possessor of a classy flat in Half Moon Street but the owner of the +block in which it was situate. His balance at the Continental Bank was +a generous one; he had securities which brought him an income beyond +his needs, and a larger revenue from the two night clubs and spieling +houses which were in his control, to say nothing of the perquisites +which came his way from a score of other sources. The word of Ravini +was law from Leyton to Clerkenwell, his fiats were obeyed within a +mile radius of Fitzroy Square, and no other gang leader in London +might raise his head without George’s permission save at the risk of +waking in the casualty ward of the Middlesex Hospital entirely +surrounded by bandages. + +He waited patiently on the broad space of Waterloo Station, +occasionally consulting his gold wrist-watch, and surveyed with a +benevolent and proprietorial eye the stream of life that flowed from +the barriers. + +The station clock showed a quarter after six: he glanced at his watch +and scanned the crowd that was debouching from No. 7 platform. After a +few minutes’ scrutiny he saw the girl, and with a pat to his cravat +and a touch to the brim of his hat which set it tilting, he strolled +to meet her. + +Margaret Belman was too intent with her own thoughts to be thinking +about the debonair and youngish man who had so often sought an +introduction by the conventional method of pretending they had met +before. Indeed, in the excitement of her visit to Larmes Keep, she had +forgotten that this pestiferous gallant existed or was likely to be +waiting for her on her return from the country. + +George Ravini stopped and waited for her approach, smiling his +approval. He liked slim girls of her colouring: girls who dressed +rather severely and wore rather nice stockings and plain little hats. +He raised his hat; the Luck Stones glittered beautifully. + +“Oh!” said Margaret Belman, and stopped too. + +“Good evening, Miss Belman,” said George, flashing his white teeth. +“Quite a coincidence meeting you again.” + +As she went to walk past him he fell in by her side. + +“I wish I had my car here, I might have driven you home,” he said +conversationally. “I’ve got a new 20 Rolls--rather a neat little +machine. I don’t use it a great deal--I like to walk from Half Moon +Street.” + +“Are you walking to Half Moon Street now?” she asked quietly. + +But George was a man of experience. + +“Your way is my way,” he said. + +She stopped. + +“What is your name?” she asked. + +“Smith--Anderton Smith,” he answered readily. “Why do you want to +know?” + +“I want to tell the next policeman we meet,” she said, and Mr. Ravini, +not unaccustomed to such threats, was amused. + +“Don’t be a silly little girl,” he said. “I’m doing no harm, and you +don’t want to get your name in the newspapers. Besides, I should +merely say that you asked me to walk with you and that we were old +friends.” + +She looked at him steadily. + +“I may meet a friend very soon who will need a lot of convincing,” she +said. “Will you please go away?” + +George was pleased to stay, as he explained. + +“What a foolish young lady you are!” he began. “I’m merely offering +you the common courtesies----” + +A hand gripped his arm and slowly pulled him round--and this in broad +daylight on Waterloo Station, under the eyes of at least two of his +own tribe. Mr. Ravini’s dark eyes snapped dangerously. + +And yet seemingly his assailant was a most inoffensive man. He was +tall and rather melancholy-looking. He wore a frock coat buttoned +tightly across his breast, and a high, flat-crowned, hard felt hat. On +his biggish nose a pair of steel-rimmed pince-nez were set at an +awkward angle. A slither of sandy side-whiskers decorated his cheek, +and hooked to his arm was a lightly furled umbrella. Not that George +examined these details with any care: they were rather familiar to +him, for he knew Mr. J. G. Reeder, Detective to the Public +Prosecutor’s Office, and the fight went out of his eyes. + +“Why, Mr. Reeder!” he said, with a geniality that almost sounded +sincere. “This _is_ a pleasant surprise. Meet my young lady friend, +Miss Belman--I was just taking her along----” + +“Not to the Flotsam Club for a cup of tea?” murmured Mr. Reeder in a +tone of pain. “Not to Harraby’s Restaurant? Don’t tell me that, +Georgio! Dear me! How interesting either experience would be!” + +He beamed upon the scowling Italian. + +“At the Flotsam,” he went on, “you would have been able to show the +young lady where your friends caught young Lord Fallon for three +thousand pounds only the night before last--so they tell me. At +Harraby’s you might have shown her that interesting little room where +the police come in by the back way whenever you consider it expedient +to betray one of your friends. She has missed a treat!” + +George Ravini’s smile did not harmonise with his sudden pallor. + +“Now listen, Mr. Reeder----” + +“I’m sorry I can’t, Georgio.” Mr. Reeder shook his head mournfully. +“My time is precious. Yet, I will spare you one minute to tell you +that Miss Belman is a very particular friend of mine. If her +experience of to-day is repeated, who knows what might happen, for I +am, as you probably know, a malicious man.” He eyed the Italian +thoughtfully. “Is it malice, I wonder, which inhibits a most +interesting revelation which I have on the tip of my tongue? I wonder. +The human mind, Mr. Ravini, is a curious and complex thing. Well, +well, I must be getting along. Give my regards to your criminal +associates, and if you find yourself shadowed by a gentleman from +Scotland Yard, bear him no resentment. He is doing his duty. And do +not lose sight of my--um--warning about this lady.” + +“I have said nothing to this young lady that a gentleman shouldn’t.” + +Mr. Reeder peered at Ravini. + +“If you have,” he said, “you may expect to see me some time this +evening--and I shall not come alone. In fact,”--this in a most +confidential tone--“I shall bring sufficient strong men with me to +take from you the keys of your box in the Fetter Lane Safe Deposit.” + +That was all he said, and Ravini reeled under the threat. Before he +had quite recovered, Mr. J. G. Reeder and his charge had disappeared +into the throng. + + + + + CHAPTER III + +“/An/ interesting man,” said Mr. Reeder, as the cab crossed +Westminster Bridge. “He is in fact the most interesting man I know at +this particular moment. It was fate that I should walk into him as I +did. But I wish he wouldn’t wear diamond rings!” + +He stole a sidelong glance at his companion. + +“Well, did you--um--like the place?” + +“It is very beautiful,” she said, without enthusiasm, “but it is +rather far away from London.” + +His face fell. + +“Have you declined the post?” he asked anxiously. + +She half turned in the seat and looked at him. + +“Mr. Reeder, I honestly believe you wish to see the back of me!” + +To her surprise Mr. Reeder went very red. + +“Why--um--of course I do--I don’t, I mean. But it seems a very good +position, even as a temporary position.” He blinked at her. “I shall +miss you, I really shall miss you, Miss--um--Margaret. We have become +such”--here he swallowed something--“good friends, but the--a certain +business is on my mind--I mean, I am rather perturbed.” + +He looked from one window to the other as though he suspected an +eavesdropper riding on the step of the cab, and then, lowering his +voice: + +“I have never discussed with you, my dear Miss--um--Margaret, the +rather unpleasant details of my trade; but there is, or was, a +gentleman named Flack--F-l-a-c-k,” he spelt it. “You remember?” he +asked anxiously, and when she shook her head: “I hoped that you would. +One reads about these things in the public press. But five years ago +you would have been a child----” + +“You’re very flattering,” she smiled. “I was in fact a grown-up young +lady of eighteen.” + +“Were you really?” asked Mr. Reeder in a hushed voice. “You surprise +me! Well… Mr. Flack was the kind of person one so frequently reads +about in the pages of the sensational novelist--who has not too keen a +regard for the probabilities and facts of life. A master criminal, the +organiser of--um--a confederation, or, as vulgar people would call it, +gang.” + +He sighed and closed his eyes, and she thought for one moment he was +praying for the iniquitous criminal. + +“A brilliant criminal--it is a terrible thing to confess, but I have +had a reluctant admiration for him. You see, as I have so often +explained to you, I am cursed with a criminal mind. But he was mad.” + +“All criminals are mad: you have explained that so often,” she said, a +little tartly, for she was not anxious that the conversation should +drift from her immediate affairs. + +“But he was really mad,” said Mr. Reeder with great earnestness, and +tapped his forehead deliberately. “His very madness was his salvation. +He did daring things, but with the cunning of a madman. He shot down +two policemen in cold blood--he did this at midday in a crowded City +street and got away. We caught him at last, of course. People like +that are always caught in this country. I--um--assisted. In fact, +I--well, I assisted! That is why I am thinking of our friend Georgio; +for it was Mr. Ravini who betrayed him to us for two thousand pounds. +I negotiated the deal, Mr. Ravini being a criminal…” + +She stared at him open-mouthed. + +“That Italian man? You don’t mean that?” + +Mr. Reeder nodded. + +“Mr. Ravini had dealings with the Flack gang, and by chance learnt of +Old John’s whereabouts. We took old John Flack in his sleep.” Mr. +Reeder sighed again. “He said some very bitter things about me. +People, when they are arrested, frequently exaggerate the shortcomings +of their--er--captors.” + +“Was he tried?” she asked. + +“He was tried,” said Mr. Reeder, “on a charge of murder. But of course +he was mad. ‘Guilty but insane’ was the verdict, and he was sent to +Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum.” + +He searched feebly in his pockets, produced a very limp packet of +cigarettes, extracted one and asked permission to smoke. She watched +the damp squib of a thing drooping pathetically from his lower lip. +His eyes were staring sombrely through the window at the green of the +park through which they were passing, and he seemed entirely absorbed +in his contemplation of nature. + +“But what has that to do with my going into the country?” + +Mr. Reeder brought his eyes round to survey her. + +“Mr. Flack was a very vindictive man,” he said. “A very brilliant +man--I hate confessing this. And he has--um--a particular grudge +against me, and being what he is, it would not be long before he +discovered that I--er--I--am rather attached to you, Miss--Margaret.” + +A light dawned on her, and her whole attitude towards him changed as +she gripped his arm. + +“You mean, you want me out of London in case something happens? But +what could happen? He’s in Broadmoor, isn’t he?” + +Mr. Reeder scratched his chin and looked up at the roof of the cab. + +“He escaped a week ago--hum! He is, I think, in London at this +moment.” + +Margaret Belman gasped. + +“Does this Italian--this Ravini man--know?” + +“He does not know,” said Mr. Reeder carefully, “but I think he will +learn--yes, I think he will learn.” + +A week later, after Margaret Belman had gone, with some misgivings, to +take up her new appointment, all Mr. Reeder’s doubts as to the +location of John Flack were dissipated. + + * * * * * + +There was some slight disagreement between Margaret Belman and Mr. +Reeder, and it happened at lunch on the day she left London. It +started in fun--not that Mr. Reeder was ever kittenish--by a certain +suggestion she made. Mr. Reeder demurred. How she ever summoned the +courage to tell him he was old-fashioned, Margaret never knew--but she +did. + +“Of course, you could shave them off,” she said scornfully. “It would +make you look ten years younger.” + +“I don’t think, my dear--Miss--um--Margaret, that I wish to look ten +years younger,” said Mr. Reeder. + +A certain tenseness followed, and she went down to Siltbury feeling a +little uncomfortable. Yet her heart warmed to him as she realised that +his anxiety to get her out of London was dictated by a desire for her +own safety. It was not until she was nearing her destination that she +realised that he himself was in no ordinary danger. She must write and +tell him she was sorry. She wondered who the Flacks were; the name was +familiar to her, though in the days of their activity she gave little +or no attention to people of their kind. + +Mr. Daver, looking more impish than ever, gave her a brief interview +on her arrival. It was he who took her to her bureau and very briefly +explained her duties. They were neither heavy nor complicated, and she +was relieved to discover that she had practically nothing whatever to +do with the management of Larmes Keep. That was in the efficient hands +of Mrs. Burton. + +The staff of the hotel were housed in two cottages about a quarter of +a mile from the Keep, only Mrs. Burton living on the premises. + +“This keeps us more select,” said Mr. Daver. “Servants are an +abominable nuisance. You agree with me? I thought you would. If they +are needed in the night, both cottages have telephones, and Grainger, +the porter, has a pass-key to the outer door. That is an excellent +arrangement, of which you approve? I am sure you do.” + +Conversation with Mr. Daver was a little superfluous. He supplied his +own answers to all questions. + +He was leaving the bureau when she remembered his great study. + +“Mr. Daver, do you know anything about the Flacks?” + +He frowned. + +“Flax? Let me see, what is flax----” + +She spelt the name. + +“A friend of mine told me about them the other day,” she said. “I +thought you would know the name. They are a gang of criminals----” + +“Flack! To be sure, to be sure! Dear me, how very interesting! Are you +also a criminologist? John Flack, George Flack, Augustus Flack”--he +spoke rapidly, ticking them off on his long, tobacco-stained fingers. +“John Flack is in a criminal lunatic asylum; his two brothers escaped +to the Argentine. Terrible fellows, terrible, terrible fellows! What a +marvellous institution is our police force! How wonderful is Scotland +Yard! You agree with me? I was sure you would. Flack!” He frowned and +shook his head. “I thought of dealing with these people in a short +monograph, but my data are not complete. Do you know them?” + +She shook her head smilingly. + +“No, I haven’t that advantage.” + +“Terrible creatures,” said Mr. Daver. “Amazing creatures. Who is your +friend, Miss Belman? I would like to meet him. Perhaps he could tell +me something more about them.” + +Margaret received the suggestion with dismay. + +“Oh no, you’re not likely to meet him,” she said hurriedly, “and I +don’t think he would talk even if you met him--perhaps it was +indiscreet of me to mention him at all.” + +The conversation must have weighed on Mr. Daver’s mind, for just as +she was leaving her office that night for her room, a very tired girl, +he knocked at the door, opened it at her invitation and stood in the +doorway. + +“I have been going into the records of the Flacks,” he said, “and it +is surprising how little information there is. I have a newspaper +cutting which says that John Flack is dead. He was the man who went +into Broadmoor. Is he dead?” + +Margaret shook her head. + +“I couldn’t tell you,” she replied untruthfully. “I only heard a +casual reference to him.” + +Mr. Daver scratched his round chin. + +“I thought possibly somebody might have told you a few facts which +you, so to speak--a laywoman!”--he giggled--“might have regarded as +unimportant, but which I----” + +He hesitated expectantly. + +“That is all I know, Mr. Daver,” said Margaret. + +She slept soundly that night, the distant hush-hush of the waves as +they rolled up the long beach of Siltbury Bay lulling her to dreamless +slumber. + +Her duties did not begin till after breakfast, which she had in her +bureau, and the largest part was the checking of the accounts. +Apparently Mrs. Burton attended to that side of the management, and it +was only at the month’s end, when cheques were to be drawn, that her +work was likely to be heavy. In the main her day was taken up with +correspondence. There were some 140 applicants for her post who had to +be answered; there were in addition a number of letters from people +who desired accommodation at Larmes Keep. All these had to be taken to +Mr. Daver, and it was remarkable how fastidious a man he was. For +example: + +“The Reverend John Quinton? No, no; we have one parson in the house, +that is enough. Tell him we are very sorry, but we are full up. Mrs. +Bagley wishes to bring her daughter? Certainly not! I cannot have +children distracting me with their noise. You agree? I see you do. Who +is this woman… ‘coming for a rest cure’? That means she’s ill. I +cannot have Larmes Keep turned into a sanitorium. You may tell them +all that there will be no accommodation until after Christmas. After +Christmas they can all come--I am going abroad.” + +The evenings were her own. She could, if she desired, go into +Siltbury, which boasted two cinemas and a pierrot party, and Mr. Daver +put the hotel car at her disposal for the purpose. She preferred, +however, to wander through the grounds. The estate was a much larger +one than she had supposed. Behind, to the south of the house, it +extended for half a mile, the boundary to the east being represented +by the cliffs, along which a breast-high rubble wall had been built, +and with excellent reason, for here the cliff fell sheer two hundred +feet to the rocks below. At one place there had been a little +landslide, the wall had been carried away and the gap had been +temporarily filled by a wooden fence. Some attempt had been made to +create a nine-hole golf course, she saw as she wandered round, but +evidently Mr. Daver had grown tired of this enterprise, for the greens +were knee-deep in waving grasses. + +At the south-west corner of the house, and distant about a hundred +yards, was a big clump of rhododendrons, and this she explored, +following a twisting path that led to the heart of the bushes. Quite +unexpectedly she came upon an old well. The brickwork about it was in +ruins; the well itself was boarded in. On the weather-beaten +roof-piece above the windlass was a small wooden notice-board, +evidently fixed for the enlightenment of visitors: + + + “This well was used from 935 to 1794. It was filled in by the present + owners of the property in May 1914, one hundred and thirty-five + cart-loads of rock and gravel being used for the purpose.” + + +It was a pleasant occupation, standing by that ancient well and +picturing the collar serfs and bare-footed peasants who through the +ages had stood where she was standing. As she came out of the bushes +she saw the pale-faced Olga Crewe. + +Margaret had not spoken either to the colonel or to the clergyman; +either she had avoided them, or they her. Olga Crewe she had not seen, +and now she would have turned away, but the girl moved across to +intercept her. + +“You are the new secretary, aren’t you?” + +Her voice was musical, rather alluring. “Custardy” was Margaret’s +mental classification. + +“Yes, I’m Miss Belman.” + +The girl nodded. + +“My name you know, I suppose? Are you going to be terribly bored +here?” + +“I don’t think so,” smiled Margaret. “It is a beautiful spot.” + +The eyes of Olga Crewe surveyed the scene critically. + +“I suppose it is: very beautiful, yes, but one gets very tired of +beauty after a few years.” + +Margaret listened in astonishment. + +“Have you been here so long?” + +“I’ve practically lived here since I was a child. I thought Joe would +have told you that: he’s an inveterate old gossip.” + +“Joe?” She was puzzled. + +“The cab-driver, news-gatherer, and distributor.” + +She looked at Larmes Keep and frowned. + +“Do you know what they used to call this place, Miss Belman? The House +of Tears--the Château des Larmes.” + +“Why ever?” asked Margaret. + +Olga Crewe shrugged her pretty shoulders. + +“Some sort of tradition, I suppose, that goes back to the days of the +Baron Augernvert, who built it. The locals have corrupted the name to +Larmes Keep. You ought to see the dungeons.” + +“Are there dungeons?” asked Margaret in surprise, and Olga nodded. For +the first time she seemed amused. + +“If you saw them and the chains and the rings in the walls and the +stone floors worn thin by bare feet, you might guess how its name +arose.” + +Margaret stared back towards the Keep. The sun was setting behind it, +and silhouetted as it was against the red light there was something +ominous and sinister in that dark, squat pile. + +“How very unpleasant!” she said, and shivered. + +Olga Crewe laughed. + +“Have you seen the cliffs?” she said, and led the way back to the long +wall, and for a quarter of an hour they stood, their arms resting on +the parapet, looking down into the gloom. + +“You ought to get some one to row you round the face of the cliff. +It’s simply honeycombed with caves,” she said. “There’s one at the +water’s edge that tunnels right under the Keep. When the tides are +unusually high they are flooded. I wonder Daver doesn’t write a book +about it.” + +There was just the faintest hint of a sneer in her tone, but it did +not escape Margaret’s attention. + +“That must be the entrance,” she said, pointing down to a swirl of +water that seemed to run right up to the face of the cliff. + +Olga nodded. + +“At high tide you wouldn’t notice that,” she said, and then, turning +abruptly, she asked the girl if she had seen the bathing-pool. + +This was an oblong bath, sheltered by high box hedges and lined +throughout with blue tiles; a delightfully inviting plunge. + +“Nobody uses it but myself. Daver would die at the thought of jumping +in.” + +Whenever she referred to Mr. Daver it was in a scarcely veiled tone of +contempt. She was not more charitable when she referred to the other +guests. As they were nearing the house Olga said, _à propos_ of +nothing: + +“I shouldn’t talk too much to Daver if I were you. Let him do the +talking: he likes it.” + +“What do you mean?” asked Margaret quietly; but at that moment Olga +left her side without any word of farewell and went towards the +colonel, who was standing, a cigar between his teeth, watching their +approach. + +The House of Tears! + +Margaret remembered the title as she was undressing that night, and, +despite her self-possession, shivered a little. + + + + + CHAPTER IV + +/The/ policeman who stood on the corner where Bennett Street meets +Hyde Lane had the world to himself. It was nearing three o’clock on a +sultry spring morning, airless, unpleasantly warm. Somewhere in South +London there was a thunderstorm; the hollow echoes of it came at odd +intervals. The good and bad of Mayfair slept--all, apparently, except +Mr. J. G. Reeder, Friend of the Law and Terror of Criminals. +Police-Officer Dyer saw the yellow light behind the casemented window +and smiled benevolently. + +It was so still a night that when he heard a key turn in a lock, he +looked over his shoulder, thinking the noise was from the house +immediately behind him. But the door did not move. Instead he saw a +woman appear on the top doorstep five houses away. She wore a flimsy +négligée. + +“Officer!” + +The voice was low, cultured, very urgent. He moved more quickly +towards her than policemen usually move. + +“Anything wrong, miss?” + +Her face, he noticed in his worldly way, was “made up”; the cheeks +heavily rouged, the lips a startling red for one who was afraid. He +supposed her to be pretty in normal circumstances, but was doubtful as +to her age. She wore a long black dressing-gown, fastened up to her +chin. Also he saw that the hand that gripped the railing which flanked +the steps glittered in the light of the street lamps. + +“I don’t know… quite. I am alone in the house and I thought I heard… +something.” + +Three words to a breath. Obviously she was terrified. + +“Haven’t you any servants in the house?” + +The constable was surprised, a little shocked. + +“No. I only came back from Paris at midnight--we took the house +furnished--I think the servants I engaged mistook the date of my +return. I am Mrs. Granville Fornese.” + +In a dim way he remembered the name. It had that value of familiarity +which makes even the most assured hesitate to deny acquaintance. It +sounded grand, too--the name of a Somebody. And Bennett Street was a +place where Somebodies live. + +The officer peered into the dark hall. + +“If you would put the light on, madam, I will look round.” + +She shook her head: he almost felt the shiver of her. + +“The lights aren’t working. That is what frightened me. They were +quite all right when I went to bed at one o’clock. Something woke me… +I don’t know what… and I switched on the lamp by the side of my bed. +And there was no light. I keep a little portable battery lamp in my +bag. I found this and turned it on.” + +She stopped, set her teeth in a mirthless smile. Police-Officer Dyer +saw the dark eyes were staringly wide. + +“I saw… I don’t know what it was… just a patch of black, like somebody +crouching by the wall. Then it disappeared. And the door of my room +was wide open. I closed and locked it when I went to bed.” + +The officer pushed open the door wider, sent a white beam of light +along the passage. There was a small hall table against the wall, +where a telephone instrument stood. Striding into the hall, he took up +the instrument and lifted the hook: the ’phone was dead. + +“Does this----” + +So far he got with the question, and then stopped. From somewhere +above him he heard a faint but sustained creak--the sound of a foot +resting on a faulty floor-board. Mrs. Fornese was still standing in +the open doorway, and he went back to her. + +“Have you a key to this door?” he asked, and she shook her head. + +He felt along the inner surface of the lock and found a stop-catch, +pushed it up. + +“I’ll have to ’phone from somewhere. You’d better…” + +What had she best do? He was a plain police-constable, and was +confronted with a delicate situation. + +“Is there anywhere you could go… friends?” + +“No.” There was no indecision in that word. And then: “Doesn’t Mr. +Reeder live opposite? Somebody told me…” + +In the house opposite a light showed. Mr. Dyer surveyed the lighted +window dubiously. It stood for the elegant apartment of one who held a +post superior to chief constables. No. 7 Bennett Street had been at a +recent period converted into flats, and into one of these Mr. Reeder +had moved from his suburban home. Why he should take a flat in that +exclusive and interesting neighbourhood, nobody knew. He was credited +by criminals with being fabulously rich; he was undoubtedly a snug +man. + +The constable hesitated, searched his pocket for the smallest coin of +the realm, and, leaving the lady on the doorstep, crossed the road and +tossed a ha’penny to the window. A second and the casement window was +pushed open. + +“Excuse me, Mr. Reeder, could I see you for a second?” + +The head and shoulders disappeared, and in a very short time Mr. +Reeder appeared in the doorway. He was so fully dressed that he might +have been expecting the summons. The frock coat was as tightly +buttoned, on the back of his head his flat-topped felt hat, on his +nose the pince-nez through which he never looked were askew. + +“Anything wrong, constable?” he asked gently. + +“Could I use your ’phone? There is a lady over there--Mrs. Fornese… +alone… heard somebody in the house. I heard it too…” + +He heard a short scream… a crash, and jumped round. The door of No. 4 +was closed. Mrs. Fornese had disappeared. + +In six strides Mr. Reeder had crossed the road and was at the door. +Stooping, he pressed in the flap of the letter-box and listened. No +noise but the ticking of a clock… a faint sighing sound. + +“Hum!” said Mr. Reeder, scratching his long nose thoughtfully. “Hum… +would you be so kind as to tell me all about this--um--happening?” + +The police-constable repeated the story, more coherently. + +“You fastened the spring lock so that it would not move? A wise +precaution.” + +Mr. Reeder frowned. Without another word he crossed the road and +disappeared into his flat. There was a small drawer at the back of his +writing bureau, and this he unlocked. Taking out a leather hold-all, +he unrolled this, and selecting three curious steel instruments that +were not unlike small hooks, fitted one into a wooden handle and +returned to the constable. + +“This, I fear, is… I will not say ‘unlawful,’ for a gentleman of my +position is incapable of an unlawful act.… Shall I say ‘unusual’?” + +All the time he talked in his soft, apologetic way he was working at +the lock, turning the instrument first one way and then the other. +Presently with a click the lock turned and Mr. Reeder pushed open the +door. + +“I think I had best borrow your lamp--thank you.” + +He took the electric lamp from the constable’s hand and flung a white +circle of light into the hall. There was no sign of life. He cast the +beam up the stairs, and, stooping his head, listened. There came to +his ear no sound, and noiselessly he stepped further into the hall. + +The passage continued beyond the foot of the stairs, and at the end +was a door which apparently gave to the domestic quarters of the +house. To the policeman’s surprise, it was this door which Mr. Reeder +examined. He turned the handle, but the door did not move, and, +stooping, he squinted through the keyhole. + +“There was somebody… upstairs,” began the policeman with respectful +hesitation. + +“There was somebody upstairs,” repeated Mr. Reeder absently. “You +heard a creaky board, I think.” + +He came slowly back to the foot of the stairs and looked up. Then he +cast his lamp along the floor of the hall. + +“No sawdust,” he said, speaking to himself, “so it can’t be _that_.” + +“Shall I go up, sir?” said the policeman, and his foot was on the +lower tread when Mr. Reeder, displaying unexpected strength in so +weary-looking a man, pushed him back. + +“I think not, constable,” he said firmly. “If the lady is upstairs she +will have heard our voices. But the lady is not upstairs.” + +“Do you think she’s in the kitchen, sir?” asked the puzzled policeman. + +Mr. Reeder shook his head sadly. + +“Alas! how few modern women spend their time in a kitchen!” he said, +and made an impatient clucking noise, but whether this was a protest +against the falling-off of woman’s domestic qualities, or whether he +“tchk’d” for some other reason, it was difficult to say, for he was a +very preoccupied man. + +He swung the lamp back to the door. + +“I thought so,” he said, with a note of relief in his voice. “There +are two walking-sticks in the hall stand. Will you get one of them, +constable?” + +Wondering, the officer obeyed, and came back, handing a long +cherrywood stick with a crooked handle to Mr. Reeder, who examined it +in the light of his lamp. + +“Dust-covered, and left by the previous owner. The spike in place of +the ferrule shows that it was purchased in Switzerland--probably you +are not interested in detective stories and have never read of the +gentleman whose method I am plagiarising?” + +“No, sir,” said the mystified officer. + +Mr. Reeder examined the stick again. + +“It is a thousand pities that it is not a fishing-rod,” he said. “Will +you stay here?--and don’t move.” + +And then he began to crawl up the stairs on his knees, waving his +stick in front of him in the most eccentric manner. He held it up, +lifting the full length of his arm, and as he crawled upwards he +struck at imaginary obstacles. Higher and higher he went, silhouetted +against the reflected light of the lamp he carried, and +Police-Constable Dyer watched him open-mouthed. + +“Don’t you think I’d better----” + +He got as far as this when the thing happened. There was an explosion +that deafened him; the air was suddenly filled with flying clouds of +smoke and dust; he heard the crackle of wood and the pungent scent of +something burning. Dazed and stupefied, he stood stock still, gaping +up at Mr. Reeder, who was sitting on a stair, picking little splinters +of wood from his coat. + +“I think you may come up in perfect safety,” said Mr. Reeder, with +great calmness. + +“What--what was it?” asked the officer. + +The enemy of criminals was dusting his hat tenderly, though this the +officer could not see. + +“You may come up.” + +P.-C. Dyer ran up the stairs and followed the other along the broad +landing till he stopped and focussed in the light of his lamp a +queer-looking and obviously home-made spring gun, the muzzle of which +was trained through the banisters so that it covered the stairs up +which he had ascended. + +“There was,” said Mr. Reeder carefully, “a piece of black thread +stretched across the stairs, so that any person who bulged or broke +that thread was certain to fire the gun.” + +“But--but the lady?” + +Mr. Reeder coughed. + +“I do not think she is in the house,” he said, ever so gently. “I +rather imagine that she went through the back. There is a back +entrance to the mews, is there not? And that by this time she is a +long way from the house. I sympathise with her--this little incident +has occurred too late for the morning newspapers, and she will have to +wait for the sporting editions before she learns that I am still +alive.” + +The police-officer drew a long breath. + +“I think I’d better report this, sir.” + +“I think you had,” sighed Mr. Reeder. “And will you ring up Inspector +Simpson and tell him that if he comes this way I should like to see +him?” + +Again the policeman hesitated. + +“Don’t you think we’d better search the house?… they may have done +away with this woman.” + +Mr. Reeder shook his head. + +“They have not done away with any woman,” he said decisively. “The +only thing they have done away with is one of Mr. Simpson’s pet +theories.” + +“But, Mr. Reeder, why did this lady come to the door----” + +Mr. Reeder patted him benignantly on the arm, as a mother might pat a +child who asked a foolish question. + +“The lady had been standing at the door for half-an-hour,” he said +gently; “on and off for half-an-hour, constable, hoping against hope, +one imagines, that she would attract my attention. But I was looking +at her from a room that was not--er--illuminated. I did not show +myself because I--er--have a very keen desire to live!” + +On this baffling note Mr. Reeder went into his house. + + + + + CHAPTER V + +/Mr. Reeder/ sat at his ease, wearing a pair of grotesquely painted +velvet slippers, a cigarette hanging from his lips, and explained to +the detective inspector, who had called in the early hours of the +morning, his reason for adopting a certain conclusion. + +“I do not imagine for one moment that it was my friend Ravini. He is +less subtle, in addition to which he has little or no intelligence. +You will find that this coup has been planned for months, though it +has only been put into execution to-day. No. 307 Bennett Street is the +property of an old gentleman who spends most of his life in Italy. He +has been in the habit of letting the house furnished for years: in +fact, it was vacated only a month ago.” + +“You think, then,” said the puzzled Simpson, “that the people, whoever +they were, rented the house----” + +Mr. Reeder shook his head. + +“Even that I doubt,” he said. “They have probably an order to view, +and in some way got rid of the caretaker. They knew I would be at home +last night, because I am always at home--um--on most nights since…” +Mr. Reeder coughed in his embarrassment. “A young friend of mine has +recently left London… I do not like going out alone.” + +And to Simpson’s horror, a pinkish flush suffused the sober +countenance of Mr. Reeder. + +“A few weeks ago,” he went on, with a pitiable attempt at airiness, “I +used to dine out, attend a concert or one of those exquisite +melodramas which have such an appeal for me.” + +“Whom do you suspect?” interrupted Simpson, who had not been called +from his bed in the middle of the night to discuss the virtues of +melodrama. “The Gregorys or the Donovans?” He named two groups that +had excellent reason to be annoyed with Mr. Reeder and his methods. + +J. G. Reeder shook his head. + +“Neither,” he said. “I think--indeed I am sure--that we must go back +to ancient history for the cause.” + +Simpson opened his eyes. + +“Not Flack?” he asked incredulously. “He’s hiding--he wouldn’t start +anything so soon.” + +Mr. Reeder nodded. + +“John Flack. Who else could have planned such a thing? The art of it! +And, Mr. Simpson”--he leaned over and tapped the inspector on the +breast--“there has not been a big robbery in London since Flack went +to Broadmoor. You’ll get the biggest of all in a week! The coup of +coups! His mad brain is planning it now!” + +“He’s finished,” said Simpson with a frown. + +Mr. Reeder smiled wanly. + +“We shall see. This little affair of to-night is a sighting shot--a +mere nothing. But I am rather glad I am not--er--dining out in these +days. On the other hand, our friend Georgio Ravini is a notorious +diner-out--would you mind calling up Vine Street police station and +finding out whether they have any casualties to report?” + +Vine Street, which knew the movements of so many people, replied +instantly that Mr. Georgio Ravini was out of town; it was believed he +was in Paris. + +“Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder, in his feeble, aimless way. “How very wise +of Georgio--and how much wiser it will be if he stays there!” + +Inspector Simpson rose and shook himself. He was a stout, hearty man +who had that habit. + +“I’ll get down to the Yard and report this,” he said. “It may not have +been Flack after all. He’s a gang leader and he’d be useless without +his crowd, and they are scattered. Most of them are in the +Argentine----” + +“Ha, ha!” said Mr. Reeder, without any evidence of joy. + +“What the devil are you laughing about?” + +The other was instantly apologetic. + +“It was what I would describe as a sceptical laugh. The Argentine! Do +criminals really go to the Argentine except in those excellent works +of fiction which one reads on trains? A tradition, Mr. Simpson, dating +back to the ancient times when there was no extradition treaty between +the two countries. Scattered, yes. I look forward to the day when I +shall gather them all together under one roof. It will be a very +pleasant morning for me, Mr. Simpson, when I can walk along the +gallery, looking through the little peep-holes, and watch them sewing +mail-bags--I know of no more sedative occupation than a little +needlework! In the meantime, watch your banks--old John is seventy +years of age and has no time to waste. History will be made in the +City of London before many days are past! I wonder where I could find +Mr. Ravini?” + + * * * * * + +George Ravini was not the type of man whose happiness depended upon +the good opinion which others held of him. Otherwise, he might well +have spent his life in abject misery. As for Mr. Reeder--he discussed +that interesting police official over a glass of wine and a good cigar +in his Half Moon Street flat. It was a showy, even a flashy, little +menage, for Mr. Ravini’s motto was everything of the best and as much +of it as possible, and his drawing-room was rather like an +over-ornamented French clock--all gilt and enamel where it was not +silk and damask. To his subordinate, one Lew Steyne, Mr. Ravini +revealed his mind. + +“If that old So-and-so knew half he pretends to know, I’d be taking +the first train to Bordighera,” he said. “But Reeder’s a bluff. He’s +clever up to a point, but you can say that about almost any bogey you +ever met.” + +“You could show _him_ a few points,” said the sycophantic Lew, and Mr. +Ravini smiled and stroked his trim moustache. + +“I wouldn’t be surprised if the old nut is crazy about that girl. May +and December--can you beat it!” + +“What’s she like?” asked Lew. “I never got a proper look at her face.” + +Mr. Ravini kissed the tips of his fingers ecstatically and threw the +caress to the painted ceiling. + +“Anyway, he can’t frighten me, Lew--you know what I am: if I want +anything I go after it, and I keep going after it till I get it! I’ve +never seen anybody like her. Quite the lady and everything, and what +she can see in an old such-and-such like Reeder licks me!” + +“Women are funny,” mused Lew. “You wouldn’t think that a typewriter +would chuck a man like you----” + +“She hasn’t chucked me,” said Mr. Ravini curtly. “I’m simply not +acquainted with her, that’s all. But I’m going to be. Where’s this +place?” + +“Siltbury,” said Lew. + +He took a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket, unfolded it and +read the pencilled words. + +“Larmes Keep, Siltbury--it’s on the Southern. I trailed her when she +left London with her boxes--old Reeder came down to see her off, and +looked about as happy as a wet cat.” + +“A boarding-house,” mused Ravini. “That’s a queer sort of job.” + +“She’s secretary,” reported Lew. (He had conveyed this information at +least four times, but Mr. Ravini was one of those curious people who +like to treat old facts as new sensations.) + +“It’s a posh place, too,” said Lew. “Not like the ordinary +boarding-house--only swells go there. They charge twenty guineas a +week for a room, and you’re lucky if you get in.” + +Ravini thought on this, fondling his chin. + +“This is a free country,” he said. “What’s to stop me staying +at--what’s the name of the place? Larmes Keep? I’ve never taken ‘No’ +from a woman in my life. Half the time they don’t mean it. Anyway, +she’s got to give me a room if I’ve the money to pay for it.” + +“Suppose she writes to Reeder?” suggested Lew. + +“Let her write!” Ravini’s tone was defiant, whatever might be the +state of his mind. “What’ll he have on me? It’s no crime to pay your +rent at a boarding-house, is it?” + +“Try her with one of your Luck Rings,” grinned Lew. + +Ravini looked at them admiringly. + +“I couldn’t get ’em off,” he said, “and I’d never dream of parting +with my luck that way. She’ll be easy as soon as she knows me--don’t +you worry.” + +By a curious coincidence, as he was turning out of Half Moon Street +the next morning he met the one man in the world he did not wish to +see. Fortunately, Lew had taken his suit-case on to the station, and +there was nothing in Mr. Ravini’s appearance to suggest that he was +setting forth on an affair of gallantry. + +Mr. Reeder looked at the man’s diamonds glittering in the daylight. +They seemed to exercise a peculiar fascination on the detective. + +“The luck still holds, Georgio,” he said, and Georgio smiled +complacently. “And whither do you go on this beautiful September +morning? To bank your nefarious gains, or to get a quick visa to your +passport?” + +“Strolling round,” said Ravini airily. “Just taking a little +constitutional.” And then, with a spice of mischief: “What’s happened +to that busy you were putting on to tail me up? I haven’t seen him.” + +Mr. Reeder looked past him to the distance. + +“He has never been far from you, Georgio,” he said gently. “He +followed you from the Flotsam last night to that peculiar little party +you attended in Maida Vale, and he followed you home at 2.15 a.m.” + +Georgio’s jaw dropped. + +“You don’t mean he’s----” He looked round. The only person visible was +a benevolent-looking man who might have been a doctor, from his frock +coat and top hat. + +“That’s not him?” frowned Ravini. + +“He,” corrected Mr. Reeder. “Your English is not yet perfect.” + +Ravini did not leave London immediately. It was two o’clock before he +had shaken off the watcher, and five minutes later he was on the +Southern Express. The same old cabman who had brought Margaret Belman +to Larmes Keep carried him up the long, winding hill road through the +broad gates to the front of the house, and deposited him under the +portico. An elderly porter, in a smart, well-fitting uniform, came out +to greet the stranger. + +“Mr. ----?” + +“Ravini,” said that gentleman. “I haven’t booked a room.” + +The porter shook his head. + +“I’m afraid we have no accommodation,” he said. “Mr. Daver makes it a +rule not to take guests unless they’ve booked their rooms in advance. +I will see the secretary.” + +Ravini followed him into the spacious hall and sat down on one of the +beautiful chairs. This, he decided, was something outside the usual +run of boarding-houses. It was luxurious even for an hotel. No other +guests were visible. Presently he heard a step on the flagged floor +and rose to meet the eyes of Margaret Belman. Though they were +unfriendly, she betrayed no sign of recognition. He might have been +the veriest stranger. + +“The proprietor makes it a rule not to accept guests without previous +correspondence,” she said. “In those circumstances I am afraid we +cannot offer you accommodation.” + +“I’ve already written to the proprietor,” said Ravini, never at a loss +for a glib lie. “Go along, young lady, be a sport and see what you can +do for me.” + +Margaret hesitated. Her own inclination was to order his suit-case to +be put in the waiting cab; but she was part of the organisation of the +place, and she could not let her private prejudices interfere with her +duties. + +“Will you wait?” she said, and went in search of Mr. Daver. + +That great criminologist was immersed in a large book and looked up +over his horn-rimmed spectacles. + +“Ravini? A foreign gentleman? Of course he is. A stranger within our +gate, as you would say. It is very irregular, but in the +circumstances--yes, I think so.” + +“He isn’t the type of man you ought to have here, Mr. Daver,” she said +firmly. “A friend of mine who knows these people says he is a member +of the criminal classes.” + +Mr. Daver’s ludicrous eyebrows rose. + +“The criminal classes! What an extraordinary opportunity to study, as +it were, at first hand! You agree? I knew you would! Let him stay. If +he bores me, I will send him away.” + +Margaret went back, a little disappointed, feeling rather foolish if +the truth be told. She found Ravini waiting, caressing his moustache, +a little less assured than he had been when she had left him. + +“Mr. Daver said you may stay. I will send the housekeeper to you,” she +said, and went in search of Mrs. Burton, and gave that doleful woman +the necessary instructions. + +She was angry with herself that she had not been more explicit in +dealing with Mr. Daver. She might have told him that if Ravini stayed +she would leave. She might even have explained the reason why she did +not wish the Italian to remain in the house. She was in the fortunate +position, however, that she had not to see the guests unless they +expressed a wish to interview her, and Ravini was too wise to pursue +his advantage. + +That night, when she went to her room, she sat down and wrote a long +letter to Mr. Reeder, but thought better of it and tore it up. She +could not run to J. G. Reeder every time she was annoyed. He had a +sufficiency of trouble, she decided, and here she was right. Even as +she wrote, Mr. Reeder was examining with great interest the spring gun +which had been devised for his destruction. + + + + + CHAPTER VI + +/To/ do Ravini justice, he made no attempt to approach the girl, +though she had seen him at a distance. He had passed her on the lawn +the second day after his arrival with no more than a nod and a smile, +and indeed he seemed to have found another diversion, if not another +objective, for he was scarcely away from Olga Crewe’s side. Margaret +saw them in the evening, leaning over the cliff wall, and George +Ravini seemed remarkably pleased with himself. He was exhibiting his +famous Luck Stones to Olga. Margaret saw her examine the rings and +evidently make some remark upon them which sent Ravini into fits of +laughter. + +It was on the third day of his stay that he spoke to Margaret. They +met in the big hall, and she would have passed on, but he stood in her +way. + +“I hope we’re not going to be bad friends, Miss Belman,” he said. “I’m +not giving you any trouble, and I’m ready to apologise for the past. +Could a gentleman be fairer than that?” + +“I don’t think you’ve anything to apologise for, Mr. Ravini,” she +said, a little relieved by his tone, and more inclined to be civil. +“Now that you have so obviously found another interest in life, are +you enjoying your stay?” + +“It’s perfectly marvellous,” he said conventionally, for he was a man +who loved superlatives. “And say, Miss Belman, who is this young lady +staying here, Miss Olga Crewe?” + +“She’s a guest: I know nothing about her.” + +“What a peach!” he said enthusiastically, and Margaret was amused. + +“And a lady, every inch of her,” he went on. “I must say I’m putty in +the hands of real ladies! There’s something about ’em that’s different +from shop-girls and typists and people of that kind. Not that you’re a +typist,” he went on hastily. “I regard you as a lady too. Every inch +of one. I’m thinking about sending for my Rolls to take her a drive +round the country. You’re not jealous?” + +Anger and amusement struggled for expression, but Margaret’s sense of +humour won, and she laughed long and silently all the way to her +office. + +Soon after this Mr. Ravini disappeared. So also did Olga. Margaret saw +them coming into the hall about eleven, and the girl looked paler than +usual, and, sweeping past her without a word, ran up the stairs. +Margaret surveyed the young man curiously. His face was flushed, his +eyes of an unusual brightness. + +“I’m going up to town to-morrow,” he said. “Early train… you needn’t +’phone for a cab: I can walk down the hill.” + +He was almost incoherent. + +“You’re tired of Larmes Keep?” + +“Eh? Tired? No, by God I’m not! This is the place for me!” + +He smoothed back his dark hair and she saw his hand trembling so much +that the Luck Stones flickered and flashed like fire. She waited until +he had disappeared, and then she went upstairs and knocked at Olga’s +door. The girl’s room was next to hers. + +“Who’s that?” asked a voice sharply. + +“Miss Belman.” + +The key turned, the door opened. Only one light was burning in the +room, so that Olga’s face was in shadow. + +“Do you want anything?” she asked. + +“Can I come in?” asked Margaret. “There’s something I wish to say to +you.” + +Olga hesitated. Then: + +“Come in,” she said. “I’ve been snivelling. I hope you don’t mind.” + +Her eyes were red, the stains of tears were still on her face. + +“This damned place depresses me awfully,” she excused herself as she +dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief. “What do you want to see me +about?” + +“Mr. Ravini. I suppose you know he is a--crook?” + +Olga stared at her and her eyes went hard. + +“I don’t know that I am particularly interested in Mr. Ravini,” she +said slowly. “Why do you come to tell me this?” + +Margaret was in a dilemma. + +“I don’t know… I thought you were getting rather friendly with him… it +was very impertinent of me.” + +“I think it was,” said Olga Crewe coldly, and the rebuff was such that +Margaret’s face went scarlet. + +She was angry with herself when she went into her own room that night, +and anger is a bad bedmate, and the most wakeful of all human +emotions. She tossed from side to side in her bed, tried to forget +there were such persons as Olga Crewe and George Ravini, tried every +device she could think of to induce sleep, and was almost successful +when… + +She sat up in bed. Fingers were scrabbling on the panel of her door; +not exactly scratching nor tapping. She switched on the light, and, +getting out of bed, walked to the door and listened. Somebody was +there. The handle turned in her hand. + +“Who’s there?” she asked. + +“Let me in, let me in!…” + +It was a frantic whisper, but she recognised the voice--Ravini! + +“I can’t let you in. Go away, please, or I’ll telephone…” + +She heard a sound, a curious muffled sound… sobbing… a man! And then +the voice ceased. Her heart racing madly, she stood by the door, her +ear to the panel, listening, but no other sound came. She spent the +rest of the night sitting up in bed, a quilt about her shoulders, +listening, listening… + +Day broke greyly; the sun came up. She lay down and fell asleep. It +was the maid bringing tea that woke her, and, getting out of bed, she +opened the door.… Something attracted her attention. + +“A nice morning, miss,” said the fresh-faced country girl brightly. + +Margaret nodded. As soon as the girl was gone she opened the door +again to examine more closely the thing she had seen. It was a +triangular patch of stuff that had been torn and caught in one of the +splinters of the old oaken door. She took it off carefully and laid it +in the palm of her hand. A jagged triangle of pink silk. She put it on +her dressing-table wonderingly. There must be an end to this. If +Ravini was not leaving that morning, or Mr. Daver would not ask him to +go, she would leave for London that night. + +As she left her room she met the housemaid. + +“That man in No. 7 has gone, miss,” the woman reported, “but he’s left +his pyjamas behind.” + +“Gone already?” + +“Must have gone last night, miss. His bed hasn’t been slept in.” + +Margaret followed her along the passage to Ravini’s room. His bag was +gone, but on the pillow, neatly folded, was a suit of pink silk +pyjamas, and, bending over, she saw that the breast was slightly torn. +A little triangular patch of pink silk had been ripped out! + + + + + CHAPTER VII + +/When/ a nimble old man dropped from a high wall at midnight and, +stopping only to wipe the blood from his hands--for he had come upon a +guard patrolling the grounds in his flight--and walked briskly towards +London, peering into every side lane for the small car that had been +left for him, he brought a new complication into many lives, and for +three people at least marked the date of their passing in the Book of +Fate. + +Police headquarters were not slow to employ the press to advertise +their wants. But the escape from Broadmoor of a homicidal maniac is +something which is not to be rushed immediately into print. Not once +but many times had the help of the public been enlisted in a vain +endeavour to bring old John Flack to justice. His description had been +circulated, his haunts notified, without there being any successful +issue to the broadcast. + +There was a conference at Scotland Yard, which Mr. Reeder attended; +and they were five very serious men who gathered round the +superintendent’s desk, and mainly the talk was of bullion and of +“noses,” by which inelegant term is meant the inevitable police +informer. + +Crazy John “fell” eventually through the treachery of an outside +helper. Ravini, the most valuable of gang leaders, had been employed +to “cover” a robbery at the Leadenhall Bank. Bullion was John Flack’s +specialty: it was not without its interest for Mr. Ravini. + +The theft had been successful. One Sunday morning two cars drove out +of the courtyard of the Leadenhall Bank. By the side of the driver of +each car sat a man in the uniform of the Metropolitan Police--inside +each car was another officer. A City policeman saw the cars depart, +but accepted the presence of the uniformed men and did not challenge +the drivers. It was not an unusual event: transfers of gold or stocks +on Sunday morning had been witnessed before, but usually the City +authorities were notified. He called Old Jewry station on the +telephone to report the occurrence, but by this time John Flack was +well away. + +It was Ravini, cheated, as he thought, of his fair share of the +plunder, who betrayed the old man--the gold was never recovered. + +England had been ransacked to find John Flack’s headquarters, but +without success. There was not an hotel or boarding-house keeper who +had not received his portrait--nor one who recognised him in any +guise. + +The exhaustive inquiries which followed his arrest did little to +increase the knowledge of the police. Flack’s lodgings were found--a +furnished room in Bloomsbury which he had occupied at rare intervals +for years. But here were discovered no documents which gave the +slightest clue to the real headquarters of the gang. Probably they had +none. They were chosen and discarded as opportunity arose or emergency +dictated, though it was clear that the old man had something in the +nature of a general staff to assist him. + +“Anyway,” said Big Bill Gordon, Chief of the Big Five, “he’ll not +start anything in the way of a bullion steal--his mind will be fully +occupied with ways and means of getting out of the country.” + +It was Mr. Reeder’s head which shook. + +“The nature of criminals may change, but their vanities persist,” he +said, in his precise, grandiloquent way. “Mr. Flack does not pride +himself upon his murders, but upon his robberies, and he will signify +his return to freedom in the usual manner.” + +“His gang is scattered----” began Simpson. + +J. G. Reeder silenced him with a sad, sweet smile. + +“There is plenty of evidence, Mr. Simpson, that the gang has +coagulated again. It is--um--an ugly word, but I can think of no +better. Mr. Flack’s escape from the--er--public institution where he +was confined shows evidence of good team work. The rope, the knife +with which he killed the unfortunate warder, the kit of tools, the +almost certainty that there was a car waiting to take him away, are +all symptomatic of gang work. And what has Mr. Flack----” + +“I wish to God you wouldn’t call him ‘Mr.’ Flack!” said Big Bill +explosively. + +J. G. Reeder blinked. + +“I have an ineradicable respect for age,” he said in a hushed voice, +“but a greater respect for the dead. I am hoping to increase my +respect for Mr. Flack in the course of the next month.” + +“If it’s gang work,” interrupted Simpson, “who are with him? The old +crowd is either gaoled or out of the country. I know what you’re +thinking about, Mr. Reeder: you’ve got your mind on what happened last +night. I’ve been thinking it over, and it’s quite likely that the +man-trap wasn’t fixed by Flack at all, but by one of the other crowd. +Do you know Donovan’s out of Dartmoor? He has no reason for loving +you.” + +Mr. Reeder raised his hand in protest. + +“On the contrary, Joe Donovan, when I saw him in the early hours of +this morning, was a very affable and penitent man who deeply regretted +the unkind things he said of me as he left the Old Bailey dock. He +lives at Kilburn, and spent last evening at a local cinema with his +wife and daughter--no, it wasn’t Donovan. He is not a brainy man. Only +John Flack, with his dramatic sense, could have staged that little +comedy which was so nearly a tragedy.” + +“You were nearly killed, they tell me, Reeder?” said Big Bill. + +Mr. Reeder shook his head. + +“I was not thinking of that particular tragedy. It was in my mind +before I went up the stairs to force the door into the kitchen. If I +had done that, I think I should have shot Mr. Flack, and there would +have been an end of all our speculations and troubles.” + +Mr. Simpson was examining some papers that were on the table before +him. + +“If Flack’s going after bullion he’s got very little chance. The only +big movement is that of a hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns which +goes to Tilbury to-morrow morning or the next day from the Bank of +England, and it is impossible that Flack could organise a steal at +such short notice.” + +Mr. Reeder was suddenly alert and interested. + +“A hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns,” he murmured, rubbing his +chin irritably. “Ten tons. It goes by train?” + +“By lorry, with ten armed men--one per ton,” said Simpson humorously. +“I don’t think you need worry about that.” + +Mr. J. G. Reeder’s lips were pursed as though he were whistling, but +no sound issued. Presently he spoke. + +“Flack was originally a chemist,” he said slowly. “I don’t suppose +there is a better criminal chemist in England than Mr. Flack.” + +“Why do you say that?” asked Simpson with a frown. + +Mr. Reeder shrugged his shoulders. + +“I have a sixth sense,” he said, almost apologetically, “and +invariably I associate some peculiar quality with every man and woman +who--um--passes under review. For example, Mr. Simpson, when I think +of you, I have an instinctive, shadowy thought of a prize ring where I +first had the pleasure of seeing you.” (Simpson, who had been an +amateur welter weight, grinned appreciatively.) “And my mind never +rests upon Mr. Flack except in the surroundings of a laboratory with +test tubes and all the paraphernalia of experimental chemistry. As for +the little affair last night, I was not unprepared for it, but I +suspected a trap--literally a--um--trap. Some evilly disposed person +once tried the same trick with me; cut away the landing so that I +should fall upon very unpleasant sharp spikes. I looked for sawdust +the moment I went into the house, and when that was not present I +guessed the gun.” + +“But how did you know there was anything?” asked Big Bill curiously. + +Mr. Reeder smiled. + +“I have a criminal mind,” he said. + +He went back to his flat in Bennett Street, his mind equally divided +between Margaret Belman, safe in Sussex, and the ability of one normal +trolley to carry a hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns. Such little +details interested Mr. Reeder. Almost the first thing he did when he +reached his flat was to call up a haulage contractor to discover +whether such trucks were in use. For somehow he knew that if the Flack +gang were after this shipment to Australia, it was necessary that the +gold should be carried in one vehicle. And why he should think this, +not even Mr. Reeder knew. But he had, as he said, a criminal mind. + +That afternoon he addressed himself to a novel and not unpleasing +task. It was a letter--the first letter he had written to Margaret +Belman,--and in its way it was a curiosity. + + + “My dear Miss Margaret,” it began, “I trust you will not be annoyed + that I should write to you; but certain incidents which disfigured + perhaps our parting, and which may cause you (I say this, knowing your + kind heart) a little unhappiness, induce this letter----” + + +Mr. Reeder paused here to discover a method by which he could convey +his regret at not seeing her, without offering an embarrassing +revelation of his more secret thoughts. At five o’clock, when his +servant brought in his tea, he was still sitting before the unfinished +letter. Mr. Reeder took up the cup, carried it to his writing-table, +and stared at it as though for inspiration. + +And then he saw, on the surface of the steaming cup, a thread-like +formation of froth which had a curious metallic quality. He dipped his +forefinger delicately in the froth and put his finger to his tongue. + +“Hum!” said Mr. Reeder, and rang the bell. + +His man came instantly. + +“Is there anything you want, sir?” He bent his head respectfully, and +for a long time Mr. Reeder did not answer. + +“The milk, of course!” he said. + +“The milk, sir?” said the puzzled servant, “The milk’s fresh, sir: it +came this afternoon.” + +“You did not take it from the milkman, naturally. It was in a bottle +outside the door.” + +The man nodded. + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Good!” said Mr. Reeder, almost cheerfully. “In future, will you +arrange to receive the milk from the milkman’s own hands? You have not +drunk any yourself, I see?” + +“No, sir. I have had my tea, but I don’t take milk with it, sir,” said +the servant, and Mr. Reeder favoured him with one of his rare smiles. + +“That, Peters,” he said, “is why you are alive and well. Bring the +rest of the milk to me, and a new cup of tea. I also will dispense +with the lacteal fluid.” + +“Don’t you like milk, sir?” said the bewildered man. + +“I like milk,” replied Mr. Reeder gently, “but I prefer it without +strychnine. I think, Peters, we’re going to have a very interesting +week. Have you any dependants?” + +“I have an old mother, sir,” said the mystified man. + +“Are you insured?” asked Mr. Reeder, and Peters nodded dumbly. + +“You have the advantage of me,” said J. G. Reeder. “Yes, I think we +are going to have an interesting week.” + +And his prediction was fully justified. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII + +/London/ heard the news of John Flack’s escape and grew fearful or +indignant according to its several temperaments. A homicidal planner +of great and spectacular thefts was in its midst. It was not very +pleasant hearing for law-abiding citizens. And the news was more than +a week old: why had Scotland Yard not taken the public into its +confidence? Why suppress this news of such vital interest? Who was +responsible for the suppression of this important information? +Headlines asked these questions in the more sensational sheets. The +news of the Bennett Street outrage was public property: to his +enormous embarrassment, Mr. Reeder found himself a Matter of Public +Interest. + +Mr. Reeder used to sit alone in his tiny bureau at the Public +Prosecutor’s Office and for hours on end do little more than twiddle +his thumbs and gaze disconsolately at the virgin white of his +blotting-pad. + +In what private day-dreams he indulged, whether they concerned +fabulous fortunes and their disposition, or whether they centred about +a very pretty pink-and-white young lady, or whether indeed he thought +at all and his mind was not a complete blank, those who interrupted +his reveries and had the satisfaction of seeing him start guiltily had +no means of knowing. + +At this particular moment his mind was, in truth, completely occupied +by his newest as well as his oldest enemy. + +There were three members of the Flack gang originally--John, George, +and Augustus--and they began operations in the days when it was +considered scientific and a little wonderful to burn out the lock of a +safe. + +Augustus Flack was killed by the night watchman of Carr’s Bank in +Lombard Street during an attempt to rob the gold vault; George Flack, +the youngest of the three, was sent to penal servitude for ten years +as the result of a robbery in Bond Street, and died there; and only +John, the mad master-mind of the family, escaped detection and arrest. + +It was he who brought into the organisation one O. Sweizer, the Yankee +bank-smasher; he who recruited Adolphe Victoire; and those brought +others to the good work. For this was Crazy Jack’s peculiar +asset--that he could attract to himself, almost at a minute’s notice, +the best brains of the underworld. Though the rest of the Flacks were +either dead or gaoled, the organisation was stronger than ever, and +strongest because lurking somewhere in the background was this kinky +brain. + +Thus matters stood when Mr. J. G. Reeder came into the case--being +brought into the matter not so much because the London police had +failed, but because the Public Prosecutor recognised that the breaking +up of the Flacks was going to be a lengthy business, occupying one +man’s complete attention. + +Cutting the tentacles of the organisation was an easy matter, +comparatively. + +Mr. Reeder took O. Sweizer, that stocky Swiss-American, when he and a +man unknown were engaged in removing a safe from the Bedford Street +post-office one Sunday morning. Sweizer was ready for fight, but Mr. +Reeder grabbed him just a little too quickly. + +“Let up!” gasped Sweizer in Italian. “You’re choking me, Reeder.” + +Mr. Reeder turned him on to his face and handcuffed him behind, then +he lifted him by the scruff of his neck and went to the assistance of +his admirable colleagues who were taking the other two men. + +Victoire was arrested one night at the Charlton, when he was dining +with Denver May. He gave no trouble, because the police took him on a +purely fictitious charge and one which he knew he could easily +disprove. + +“My dear Mr. Reeder,” said he in his elegant, languid way, “you are +making quite an absurd mistake, but I will humour you. I can prove +that when the pearls were taken from Hertford Street I was in Nice.” + +This was on the way to the station. + +They put him in the dock and searched him, discovering certain lethal +weapons handily disposed about his person, but he was only amused. He +was less amused when he was charged with smashing the Bank of Lens, +the attempted murder of a night watchman, and one or two other little +matters which need not be particularised. + +They got him into the cells, and as he was carried, struggling and +raving like a lunatic, Mr. Reeder offered him a piece of advice which +he rejected with considerable violence. + +“Say you were in Nice at the time,” he said gently. + +Then one day the police pulled in a man in Somers Town, on the very +prosaic charge of beating his wife in public. When they searched him +they found a torn scrap of a letter, which was sent at once to Mr. +Reeder. It ran: + + + “Any night about eleven in Whitehall Avenue. Reeder is a man of medium + height, elderly-looking, sandy-greyish hair and side-whiskers rather + thick, always carries an umbrella. Recommend you to wear rubber boots + and take a length of iron to him. You can easily find out who he is + and what he looks like. Take your time… fifty on acc… der when the job + is finished…” + + +This was the first hint Mr. Reeder had that he was especially +unpopular with the mysterious John Flack. + +The day Crazy Jack was sent down to Broadmoor had been a day of mild +satisfaction for Mr. Reeder. He was not exactly happy or even relieved +about it. He had the comfort of an accountant who had signed a +satisfactory balance-sheet, or the builder who was surveying his +finished work. There were other balance-sheets to be signed, other +buildings to be erected--they differed only in their shapes and +quantities. + +One thing was certain, that on what other project Flack’s mind was +fixed, he was devoting a considerable amount of thought to J. G. +Reeder--whether in reprisal for events that had passed or as a +precautionary measure to check his activities in the future, the +detective could only guess: but he was a good guesser. + +The telephone bell, set in a remote corner of the room, rang sharply. +Mr. Reeder took up the instrument with a pained expression. The +operator of the office exchange told him that there was a call from +Horsham. He pulled a writing-pad towards him and waited. And then a +voice spoke, and hardly was the first word uttered when he knew his +man, for J. G. Reeder never forgot voices. + +“That you, Reeder?… Know who I am?…” + +The same thin, tense voice that had babbled threats from the dock of +the Old Bailey, the same little chuckling laugh that punctured every +second. + +Mr. Reeder touched a bell and began to write rapidly on his pad. + +“Know who I am?--I’ll bet you do! Thought you’d got rid of me, didn’t +you? but you haven’t!… Listen, Reeder, you can tell the Yard I’m +busy--I’m going to give them the shock of their lives. Mad, am I? I’ll +show you whether I’m mad or not… And I’ll get you, Reeder…” + +A messenger came in. Mr. Reeder tore off the slip and handed it to him +with an urgent gesture. The man read and bolted from the room. + +“Is that Mr. Flack?” asked Reeder softly. + +“Is it Mr. Flack, you old hypocrite!… Have you got the parcel? I +wondered if you had. What do you think of it?” + +“The parcel?” said Reeder, gentlier than ever, and before the man +could reply: “You will get into serious trouble for trying to hoax the +Public Prosecutor’s Office, my friend,” said Mr. Reeder reproachfully. +“You are not Crazy John Flack… I know his voice. Mr. Flack spoke with +a curious Cockney accent which is not easy to imitate, and Mr. Flack +at this moment is in the hands of the police.” + +He counted on the effect of this provocative speech, and he had made +no mistake. + +“You lie!” screamed the voice. “You know I’m Flack… Crazy Jack, eh?… +Crazy old John Flack… Mad, am I? You’ll learn!… you put me in that +hell upon earth, and I’m going to serve you worse than I treated that +damned dago…” + +The voice ceased abruptly. There was a click as the receiver was put +down. Reeder listened expectantly, but no other call came through. +Then he rang the bell again and the messenger returned. + +“Yes, sir, I got through straight away to the Horsham police station. +The inspector is sending three men in a car to the post-office.” + +Mr. Reeder gazed at the ceiling. + +“Then I fear he has sent too late,” he said. “The venerable bandit +will have gone.” + +A quarter of an hour later came confirmation of his prediction. The +police had arrived at the post-office, but the bird had flown. The +clerk did not remember anybody old or wild-looking booking a call; he +thought that the message had not come from the post-office itself, +which was also the telephone exchange, but from an outlying call-box. + +Mr. Reeder went in to report to the Public Prosecutor, but neither he +nor his assistant was in the office. He rang up Scotland Yard and +passed on his information to Simpson. + +“I respectfully suggest that you should get into touch with the French +police and locate Ravini. He may not be in Paris at all.” + +“Where do you think he is?” asked Simpson. + +“That,” replied Mr. Reeder in a hushed voice, “is a question which has +never been definitely settled in my mind. I should not like to say +that he was in heaven, because I cannot imagine Georgio Ravini with +his Luck Stones----” + +“Do you mean that he’s dead?” asked Simpson quickly. + +“It is very likely; in fact, it is extremely likely.” + +There was a long silence at the other end of the telephone. + +“Have you had the parcel?” + +“That I am awaiting with the greatest interest,” said Mr. Reeder, and +went back to his office to twiddle his thumbs and stare at his white +blotting-pad. + +The parcel came at three o’clock that afternoon, when Mr. Reeder had +returned from his frugal lunch, which he invariably took at a large +and popular teashop in Whitehall. It was a very small parcel, about +three inches square; it was registered, and had been posted in London. +He weighed it carefully, shook it and listened, but the lightness of +the package precluded any possibility of there being concealed behind +the paper wrapping anything that bore a resemblance to an infernal +machine. He cut the paper tape that fastened it, took off the paper, +and there was revealed a small cardboard box such as jewellers employ. +Removing the lid, he found a small pad of cotton-wool, and in the +midst of this three gold rings, each with three brilliant diamonds. He +put them on his blotting-pad and gazed at them for a long time. + +They were George Ravini’s Luck Stones, and for ten minutes Mr. Reeder +sat in a profound reverie, for he knew that George Ravini was dead, +and it did not need the card which accompanied the rings to know who +was responsible for the drastic and gruesome ending to Mr. Ravini’s +life. The sprawling “J. F.” on the little card was in Mr. Flack’s +writing, and the three words “Your turn next” were instructive, even +if they were not, as they were intended to be, terrifying. + +Half an hour later Mr. Reeder met Inspector Simpson by appointment at +Scotland Yard. Simpson examined the rings curiously, and pointed out a +small, dark-brown speck at the edge of one of the Luck Stones. + +“I don’t doubt that Ravini is dead,” he said. “The first thing to +discover is where he went when he said he was going to Paris.” + +This task presented fewer difficulties than Simpson had imagined. He +remembered Lew Steyne and his association with the Italian, and a +telephone call put through to the City police located Lew in five +minutes. + +“Bring him along in a taxi,” said Simpson, and, as he hung up the +receiver: “The question is, what is Crazy Jack’s coup? murder on a +large scale, or just picturesque robbery?” + +“I think the latter,” said Mr. Reeder thoughtfully. “Murder, with Mr. +Flack, is a mere incidental to the--er--more important business of +money-making.” + +He pinched his lip thoughtfully. + +“Forgive me if I seem to repeat myself, but I would again remind you +that Mr. Flack’s specialty is bullion, if I remember aright,” he said. +“Didn’t he smash the strong room of the _Megantic_… bullion, hum!” He +scratched his chin and looked up over his glasses at Simpson. + +The inspector shook his head. + +“I only wish Crazy Jack was crazy enough to try to get out of the +country by steamer--he won’t. And the Leadenhall Bank stunt couldn’t +be repeated to-day. No, there’s no chance of a bullion steal.” + +Mr. Reeder looked unconvinced. + +“Would you ring up the Bank of England and find out if the money has +gone to Australia?” he pleaded. + +Simpson pulled the instrument towards him, gave a number and, after +five minutes’ groping through various departments, reached an +exclusive personage. Mr. Reeder sat, with his hands clasped about the +handle of his umbrella, a pained expression on his face, his eyes +closed, and seemingly oblivious of the conversation. Presently Simpson +hung up the receiver. + +“The consignment should have gone this morning, but the sailing of the +_Olanic_ has been delayed by a stevedore strike--it goes to-morrow +morning,” he reported. “The gold is taken on a lorry to Tilbury with a +guard. At Tilbury it is put into the _Olanic’s_ strong-room, which is +the newest and safest of its kind. I don’t suppose that John will +begin operations there.” + +“Why not?” J. G. Reeder’s voice was almost bland; his face was screwed +into its nearest approach to a smile. “On the contrary, as I have said +before, that is the very consignment I should expect Mr. Flack to go +after.” + +“I pray that you’re a true prophet,” said Simpson grimly. “I could +wish for nothing better.” + +They were still talking of Flack and his passion for ready gold when +Mr. Lew Steyne arrived in the charge of a local detective. No crook, +however hardened, can step into the gloomy approaches of Scotland Yard +without experiencing some uneasiness, and Lew’s attempt to display his +indifference was rather pathetic. + +“What’s the idea, Mr. Simpson?” he asked, in a grieved tone. “I’ve +done nothing.” + +He scowled at Reeder, who was known to him, and whom he regarded, very +rightly, as being responsible for his appearance at this best-hated +spot. + +Simpson put a question, and Mr. Lew Steyne shrugged his shoulders. + +“I ask you, Mr. Simpson, am I Ravini’s keeper? I know nothing about +the Italian crowd, and Ravini’s scarcely an acquaintance.” + +Mr. Reeder shook his head. + +“You spent two hours with him last Thursday evening,” he said, and Lew +was a little taken aback. + +“I had a little bit of business with him, I admit,” he said. “Over a +house I’m trying to rent----” + +His shifty eyes had become suddenly steadfast; he was looking +open-mouthed at the three rings that lay on the table. Reeder saw him +frown, and then: + +“What are those?” asked Lew huskily. “They’re not Georgio’s Luck +Stones?” + +Simpson nodded and pushed the little square of white paper on which +they lay towards the visitor. + +“Do you know them?” he asked. + +Lew picked up one of the rings and turned it round in his hand. + +“What’s the idea?” he asked suspiciously. “Ravini told me himself he +could never get these off.” + +And then, as the significance of their presence dawned upon him, he +gasped. + +“What’s happened to him?” he asked quickly. “Is he----” + +“I fear,” said Mr. Reeder soberly, “that Georgio Ravini is no longer +with us.” + +“Dead?” Lew almost shrieked the word. His yellow face went a chalky +white. “Where… who did it?…” + +“That is exactly what we want to know,” said Simpson. “Now, Lew, +you’ve got to spill it. Where is Ravini? He said he was going to +Paris, I know, but actually where did he go?” + +The thief’s eyes strayed to Mr. Reeder. + +“He was after that ‘bird,’ that’s all I know,” he said sullenly. + +“Which bird?” asked Simpson, but Mr. Reeder had no need to have its +identity explained. + +“He was after--Miss Belman?” + +Lew nodded. + +“Yes, a girl he knew… she went down into the country to take a job as +hotel manager or something. I saw her go, as a matter of fact. Ravini +wanted to get better acquainted, so he went down to stay at the +hotel.” + +Even as he spoke, Mr. Reeder had reached for the telephone, and had +given the peculiar code word which is equivalent to a command for a +clear line. + +A high-pitched voice answered him. + +“I am Mr. Daver, the proprietor… Miss Belman? I’m afraid she is out +just now. She will be back in a few minutes. Who is it speaking?” + +Mr. Reeder replied diplomatically. He was anxious to get into touch +with George Ravini, and for two minutes he allowed the voluble Mr. +Daver to air a grievance. + +“Yes, he went in the early morning, without paying his bill…” + +“I will come down and pay it,” said Mr. Reeder. + + + + + CHAPTER IX + +“/The/ point is,” said Mr. Daver, “the only point--I think you will +agree with me here--that really has any interest for us, is that Mr. +Ravini left without paying his bill. This was the point I emphasised +to a friend of his who called me on the telephone this morning. That +is to me the supreme mystery of his disappearance--he left without +paying his bill!” + +He leaned back in his chair and beamed at the girl in the manner of +one who had expounded an unanswerable problem. With his finger-tips +together he had an appearance which was oddly reminiscent. + +“The fact that he left behind a pair of pyjamas which are practically +valueless merely demonstrates that he left in a hurry. You agree with +me? I am sure you do. Why he should leave in a hurry is naturally +beyond my understanding. You say he was a crook: possibly he received +information that he had been detected.” + +“He had no telephone calls and no letters while he was here,” insisted +Margaret. + +Mr. Daver shook his head. + +“That proves nothing. Such a man would have associates. I am sorry he +has gone. I hoped to have an opportunity of studying his type. And by +the way, I have discovered something about Flack--the famous John +Flack--did you know that he had escaped from the lunatic asylum? I +gather from your alarm that you didn’t. I am an observer, Miss B. +Years of study of this fascinating subject have produced in me a sixth +sense--the sense of observation, which is atrophied in ordinary +individuals.” + +He took a long envelope from his drawer and pulled out a small bundle +of press cuttings. These he sorted on to his table, and presently +unfolded a newspaper portrait of an elderly man and laid it before +her. + +“Flack,” he said briefly. + +She was surprised at the age of the man; the thin face, the grizzled +moustache and beard, the deep-set, intelligent eyes suggested almost +anything rather than that confirmed and dangerous criminal. + +“My press-cutting agency supplied these,” he said. “And here is +another portrait which may interest you, and in a sense the arrival of +this photograph is a coincidence. I am sure you will agree with me +when I tell you why. It is a picture of a man called Reeder.” + +Mr. Daver did not look up or he would have seen the red come to the +girl’s face. + +“A clever old gentleman attached to the Public Prosecutor’s +Department----” + +“He is not very old,” said Margaret coldly. + +“He looks old,” said Mr. Daver, and Margaret had to agree that the +newspaper portrait was not a very flattering one. + +“This is the gentleman who was instrumental in arresting Flack, and +the coincidence--now what do you imagine the coincidence is?” + +She shook her head. + +“He’s coming here to-day!” + +Margaret Belman’s mouth opened in amazement. + +“I had a wire from him this afternoon saying he was coming to-night, +and asking if I could accommodate him. But for my interest in this +case I should not have known his name or had the slightest idea of his +identity. In all probability I should have refused him a room.” + +He looked up suddenly. + +“You say he is not so old: do you know him? I see that you do. That is +even a more remarkable coincidence. I am looking forward with the +utmost delight to discussing with him my pet subject. It will be an +intellectual treat.” + +“I don’t think Mr. Reeder discusses crime,” she said. “He is rather +reticent on the subject.” + +“We shall see,” said Mr. Daver, and from his manner she guessed that +he at any rate had no doubt that the man from the Public Prosecutor’s +Office would respond instantly to a sympathetic audience. + +Mr. Reeder came just before seven, and to her surprise he had +abandoned his frock-coat and curious hat and was almost jauntily +attired in grey flannels. He brought with him two very solid and +heavy-looking steamer trunks. + +The meeting was not without its moment of embarrassment. + +“I trust you will not think, Miss--um--Margaret, that I am being +indiscreet. But the truth is, I--um--am in need of a holiday.” + +He never looked less in need of a holiday: compared with the Reeder +she knew, this man was most unmistakably alert. + +“Will you come to my office?” she said, a little unsteadily. + +When they reached her bureau, Mr. Reeder opened the door reverently. +She had a feeling that he was holding his breath, and she was seized +with an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh. Instead, she preceded +him into her sanctum. When the door closed: + +“I was an awful pig to you, Mr. Reeder,” she began rapidly. “I ought +to have written… the whole thing was so absurd… the quarrel, I mean.” + +“The disagreement,” murmured Mr. Reeder. “I am old-fashioned, I admit, +but an old man----” + +“Forty-eight isn’t old,” she scoffed. “And why shouldn’t you wear +side-whiskers? It was unpardonable of me… feminine curiosity: I wanted +to see how you looked.” + +Mr. Reeder raised his hand. His voice was almost gay. + +“The fault was entirely mine, Miss Margaret. I am old-fashioned. You +do not think--er--it is indecorous, my paying a visit to Larmes Keep?” + +He looked round at the door and lowered his voice. + +“When did Mr. Ravini leave?” he asked. + +She looked at him amazed. + +“Did you come down about that?” + +He nodded slowly. + +“I heard he was here. Somebody told me. When did he go?” + +Very briefly she told him the story of her night’s experience, and he +listened, his face growing longer and longer, until she had finished. + +“Before that, can you remember what happened? Did you see him the +night before he left?” + +She knit her forehead and tried to remember. + +“Yes,” she said suddenly, “he was in the grounds, walking with Miss +Crewe. He came in rather late----” + +“With Miss Crewe?” asked Reeder quickly. “Miss Crewe? Was that the +rather interesting young lady I saw playing croquet with a clergyman +as I came across the lawn?” + +She looked at him in surprise. + +“Did you come across the lawn? I thought you drove up to the front of +the house----” + +“I descended from the vehicle at the top of the hill,” Mr. Reeder +hastily explained. “At my age a little exercise is vitally necessary. +The approaches to the Keep are charming. A young lady, rather pale, +with dark eyes… hum!” + +He was looking at her searchingly, his head a little on one side. + +“So she and Ravini went out. Were they acquainted?” + +She shook her head. + +“I don’t think Ravini had met her until he came here.” + +She went on to tell him of Ravini’s agitation, and of how she had +found Olga Crewe in tears. + +“Weeping… ah!” Mr. Reeder fondled his nose. “You have seen her since?” + +And, when the girl shook her head: + +“She got up late the next morning--had a headache possibly?” he asked +eagerly, and her eyes opened in astonishment. + +“Why, yes. How did you know----” + +But Mr. Reeder was not in an informative mood. + +“The number of your room is----?” + +“No. 4. Miss Crewe’s is No. 5.” + +Reeder nodded. + +“And Ravini was in No. 7: that is two doors away.” Then, suddenly: +“Where have you put me?” + +She hesitated. + +“In No. 7. Those were Mr. Daver’s orders. It is one of the best rooms +in the house. I warn you, Mr. Reeder, the proprietor is a +criminologist and is most anxious to discuss his hobby.” + +“Delighted,” murmured Mr. Reeder, but he was thinking of something +else. “Could I see Mr. Daver?” + +The quarter-of-an-hour gong had already sounded, and she took him +along to the office in the annexe. Mr. Daver’s desk was surprisingly +tidy. He was surveying an account-book through large horn-rimmed +spectacles, and looked up inquiringly as she came in. + +“This is Mr. Reeder,” she said, and withdrew. + +For a second they looked at one another, the detective and the +Puck-faced little proprietor; and then, with a magnificent wave of his +hand, Mr. Daver invited his visitor to a seat. + +“This is a very proud moment for me, Mr. Reeder,” he said, and bent +himself double in a profound bow. “As an humble student of those great +authorities whose works, I have no doubt, are familiar to you, I am +honoured at this privilege of meeting one whom I may describe as a +modern Lombroso. You agree with me? I was certain you would.” + +Mr. Reeder looked up at the ceiling. + +“Lombroso?” he repeated slowly. “An--um--Italian gentleman, I think? +The name is almost familiar.” + +Margaret Belman had not quite closed the door, and Mr. Daver rose and +shut it; returned to his chair with an outflung hand and seated +himself. + +“I am glad you have come. In fact, Mr. Reeder, you have relieved my +mind of a great unease. Ever since yesterday morning I have been +wondering whether I ought not to call up Scotland Yard, that splendid +institution, and ask them to despatch an officer to clear up this +strange and possibly revolting mystery.” + +He paused impressively. + +“I refer to the disappearance of Mr. George Ravini, a guest of Larmes +Keep, who left this house at a quarter to five yesterday morning and +was seen making his way into Siltbury.” + +“By whom?” asked Mr. Reeder. + +“By an inhabitant of Siltbury, whose name for the moment I forget. +Indeed, I never knew. I met him quite by chance walking down into the +town.” + +He leaned forward over his desk and stared owlishly into Mr. Reeder’s +eyes. + +“You have come about Ravini, have you not? Do not answer me: I see you +have! Naturally, one did not expect you to carry, so to speak, your +heart on your sleeve. Am I right? I think I am.” + +Mr. Reeder did not confirm this conclusion. He seemed strangely +unwilling to speak, and in ordinary circumstances Mr. Daver would not +have resented this diffidence. + +“Very naturally I do not wish a scandal to attach to this house,” he +said, “and I may rely upon your discretion. The only matter which +touches me is that Ravini left without paying his bill; a small and +unimportant aspect of what may possibly be a momentous case. You see +my point of view? I am certain that you do.” + +He paused, and now Mr. Reeder spoke. + +“At a quarter to five,” he said thoughtfully, as though speaking to +himself, “it was scarcely light, was it?” + +“The dawn was possibly breaking o’er the sea,” said Mr. Daver +poetically. + +“Going to Siltbury? Carrying his bag?” + +Mr. Daver nodded. + +“May I see his room?” + +Daver came to his feet with a flourish. + +“That is a request I expected, and it is a reasonable request. Will +you follow me?” + +Mr. Reeder followed him through the great hall, which was occupied +solely by a military-looking gentleman, who cast a quick sidelong +glance at him as he passed. Mr. Daver was leading the way to the wide +stairs when Mr. Reeder stopped and pointed. + +“How very interesting!” he said. + +The most unlikely things interested Mr. Reeder. On this occasion the +point of interest was a large safe--larger than any safe he had seen +in a private establishment. It was six feet in height and half that +width, and it was fitted under the first flight of stairs. + +“What is it?” asked Mr. Daver, and turned back. His face screwed up +into a smile when he saw the object of the detective’s attention. + +“Ah! My safe! I have many rare and valuable documents which I keep +here. It is a French model, you will observe--too large for my modest +establishment, you will say? I agree. Sometimes, however, we have very +rich people staying here… jewels and the like… it would take a very +clever burglar to open that, and yet I, with a little key----” + +He drew a chain from his pocket and fitted one of the keys at the end +into a thin keyhole, turned a handle, and the heavy door swung open. + +Mr. Reeder peeped in curiously. On the two steel shelves at the back +of the safe were three small tin boxes--otherwise the safe was empty. +The doors were of an extraordinary thickness, and their inner face +smooth except for a slab of steel the object of which apparently was +to back and strengthen the lock. All this he saw at once, but he saw +something else. The white enamelled floor of the safe was brighter in +hue than the walls. Only a man of Mr. Reeder’s powers of observation +would have noticed this fact. And the steel slab at the back of the +lock…? Mr. Reeder knew quite a lot about safes. + +“A treasure-house--it almost makes me feel rich,” chuckled Mr. Daver +as he locked the door and led the way up the stairs. “The psychology +of it will appeal to you, Mr. Reeder!” + +At the head of the stairs they came to a broad corridor; Daver, +stopping before the door of No. 7, inserted a key. + +“This is also your room,” he explained. “I had a feeling which +amounted almost to a certainty, that your visit was not wholly +unconnected with this curious disappearance of Mr. Ravini, who left +without paying his bill.” He chuckled a little and apologised. “Excuse +me for my insistence upon this point, but it touches me rather +nearly.” + +Mr. Reeder followed his host into the big room. It was panelled from +ceiling to floor and furnished with a luxury which surprised him. The +articles of furniture were few, but there was not one which a +connoisseur would not have noted with admiration. The four-poster bed +was Jacobean; the square of carpet was genuine Teheran; a +dressing-table with a settle before it was also of the Jacobean +period. + +“That was his bed, where the pyjamas were found.” + +Mr. Daver pointed dramatically. But Mr. Reeder was looking at the +casement windows, one of which was open. + +He leaned out and looked down, and immediately began to take in the +view. He could see Siltbury lying in the shadow of the downs, its +lights just then beginning to twinkle; but the view of the Siltbury +road was shut out by a belt of firs. To the left he had a glimpse of +the hill road up which his cab had climbed. + +Mr. Reeder came out from the room and cast his eyes up and down the +corridor. + +“This is a very beautiful house you have, Mr. Daver,” he said. + +“You like it? I was sure you would!” said Mr. Daver enthusiastically. +“Yes, it is a delightful property. To you it may seem a sacrilege that +I should use it as a boarding-house, but perhaps our dear young friend +Miss Belman has explained that it is a hobby of mine. I hate +loneliness; I dislike intensely the exertion of making friends. My +position is unique; I can pick and choose my guests.” + +Mr. Reeder was looking aimlessly towards the head of the stairs. + +“Did you ever have a guest named Holden?” he asked. + +Mr. Daver shook his head. + +“Or a guest named Willington…? Two friends of mine who may have come +here about eight years ago?” + +“No,” said Mr. Daver promptly. “I never forget names. You may inspect +our guest-list for the past twelve years at any time you wish. Would +they be likely to come for any reason”--Mr. Daver was amusingly +embarrassed--“in other names than their own? No, I see they wouldn’t.” + +As he was speaking, a door at the far end of the corridor opened and +closed instantly. Mr. Reeder, who missed nothing, caught one glimpse +of a figure before the door shut. + +“Whose room is that?” he asked. + +Mr. Daver was genuinely embarrassed this time. + +“That,” he said, with a nervous little cough, “is my suite. You saw +Mrs. Burton, my housekeeper--a quiet, rather sad soul, who has had a +great deal of trouble in her life.” + +“Life,” said Mr. Reeder tritely, “is full of trouble,” and Mr. Daver +agreed with a sorrowful shake of his head. + +Now, the eyesight of J. G. Reeder was peculiarly good, and though he +had not as yet met the housekeeper, he was quite certain that the +rather beautiful face he had glimpsed for a moment did not belong to +any sad woman who had seen a lot of trouble. As he dressed leisurely +for dinner, he wondered why Miss Olga Crewe had been so anxious that +she should not be seen coming from the proprietor’s suite. A natural +and proper modesty, no doubt; and modesty was the quality in woman of +which Mr. Reeder most heartily approved. + +He was struggling with his tie when Daver, who seemed to have +constituted himself a sort of personal attendant, knocked at the door +and asked permission to come in. He was a little breathless, and +carried a number of press cuttings in his hand. + +“You were talking about two gentlemen, Mr. Willington and Mr. Holden,” +he said. “The names seemed rather familiar. I had the irritating sense +of knowing them without knowing them, if you understand, dear Mr. +Reeder? And then I recalled the circumstances.” He flourished the +press cuttings. “I saw their names here.” + +Mr. Reeder, staring at his reflection in the glass, adjusted his tie +nicely. + +“Here?” he repeated mechanically, and, looking round, accepted the +printed slips which his host thrust upon him. + +“I am, as you probably know, Mr. Reeder, a humble disciple of Lombroso +and of those other great criminologists who have elevated the study of +abnormality to a science. It was Miss Belman who quite unconsciously +directed my thoughts to the Flack organisation, and during the past +day or two I have been getting a number of particulars concerning +those miscreants. The names of Holden and Willington occur. They were +two detectives who went out in search of Flack and never returned--I +remember their disappearance very well now the matter is recalled to +my mind. There was also a third gentleman who disappeared.” + +Mr. Reeder nodded. + +“Ah, you remember?” said Mr. Daver triumphantly. “Naturally you would. +A lawyer named Biggerthorpe, who was called from his office one day on +some excuse, and was never seen again. May I add”--he smiled +good-humouredly--“that Mr. Biggerthorpe has never stayed here? Why +should you imagine he had, Mr. Reeder?” + +“I never did.” Mr. Reeder gave blandness for blandness. “Biggerthorpe? +I had forgotten him. He was an important witness against Flack if he’d +ever been caught--hum!” + +And then: + +“You are a student of criminal practices, Mr. Daver?” + +“A humble one,” said Mr. Daver, and his humility was manifest in his +attitude. + +And then he suddenly dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. + +“Shall I tell you something, Mr. Reeder?” + +“You may tell me,” said Mr. Reeder, as he buttoned his waistcoat, +“anything that pleases you. I am in the mood for stories. In this +delightful atmosphere, amidst these beautiful surroundings, I should +prefer--um--fairy stories--or shall we say ghost stories? Is Larmes +Keep haunted, Mr. Daver? Ghosts are my specialty. I have probably seen +and arrested more ghosts than any other living representative of the +law. Some time I intend writing a monumental work on the subject. +‘Ghosts I have Seen, or a Guide to the Spirit World,’ in sixty-three +volumes. You were about to say----?” + +“I was about to say,” said Mr. Daver, and his voice was curiously +strained, “that in my opinion Flack himself once stayed here. I have +not mentioned this fact to Miss Belman, but I am convinced in my mind +that I am not in error. Seven years ago”--he was very impressive--“a +grey-bearded, rather thin-faced man came here at ten o’clock at night +and asked for a lodging. He had plenty of money, but this did not +influence me. Ordinarily I should have asked him to make the usual +application, but it was late, a bitterly cold and snowy night, and I +hadn’t the heart to turn one of his age away from my door.” + +“How long did he stay?” asked Mr. Reeder. “And why do you think he was +Flack?” + +“Because”--Daver’s voice had sunk until it was an eerie moan--“he left +just as Ravini left--early one morning, without paying his bill, and +left his pyjamas behind him!” + +Very slowly Mr. Reeder turned his head and surveyed the host. + +“That comes into the category of humorous stories, and I am too hungry +to laugh,” he said calmly. “What time do we dine?” + +The gong sounded at that moment. + +Margaret Belman usually dined with the other guests at a table apart. +She went red and felt more than a little awkward when Mr. Reeder came +across to her table, dragging a chair with him, and ordered another +place to be set. The other three guests dined at separate tables. + +“An unsociable lot of people,” said Mr. Reeder as he shook out his +napkin and glanced round the room. + +“What do you think of Mr. Daver?” + +J. G. Reeder smiled gently. + +“He is a very amusing person,” he said, and she laughed, but grew +serious immediately. + +“Have you found out anything about Ravini?” + +Mr. Reeder shook his head. + +“I had a talk with the hall porter: he seems a very honest and +straightforward fellow. He told me that when he came down the morning +after Ravini disappeared, the front door had been unbolted and +unlocked. An observant fellow. Who is Mrs. Burton?” he asked abruptly. + +“The housekeeper.” Margaret smiled and shook her head. “She is rather +a miserable lady, who spends quite a lot of time hinting at the good +times she should be having, instead of being ‘buried alive’--those are +her words--at Siltbury.” + +Mr. Reeder put down his knife and fork. + +“Dear me!” he said mildly. “Is she a lady who has seen better days?” + +Margaret laughed softly. + +“I should have thought she had never had such a time as she is having +now,” she said. “She’s rather common and terribly illiterate. Her +accounts that come up to me are fearful and wonderful things! But +seriously, I think she must have been in good circumstances. The first +night I was here I went into her room to ask about an account I did +not understand--of course it was a waste of time, for books are +mysteries to her--and she was sitting at a table admiring her hands.” + +“Hands?” he said. + +She nodded. + +“They were covered with the most beautiful rings you could possibly +imagine,” said Margaret, and was satisfied with the impression she +made, for Mr. Reeder dropped knife and fork to his plate with a crash. + +“Rings…?” + +“Huge diamonds and emeralds. They took my breath away. The moment she +saw these she put her hand behind her, and the next morning she +explained that they were presents given to her by a theatrical lady +who had stayed here, and that they had no value.” + +“Props, in fact,” said Mr. Reeder. + +“What is a prop?” she asked curiously, and Mr. Reeder waggled his +head, and she had learnt that when he waggled his head in that fashion +he was advertising his high spirits and good humour. + +After dinner he sent a waitress to find Mr. Daver, and when that +gentleman arrived Mr. Reeder had to tell him that he had a lot of work +to do, and request the loan of blotting-pad and a special +writing-table for his room. Margaret wondered why he had not asked +her, but she supposed that it was because he did not know that such +things came into her province. + +“You’re a great writer, Mr. Reeder--he, he!” Daver was convulsed at +his own little joke. “So am I! I am never happy without a pen in my +hand. Tell me, as a matter of interest, do you do your best work in +the morning or in the evening? Personally, it is a question that I +have never decided to my own satisfaction.” + +“I shall now write steadily till two o’clock,” said Mr. Reeder, +glancing at his watch. “That is a habit of years. From nine to two are +my writing hours, after which I smoke a cigarette, drink a glass of +milk--would you be good enough to see that I have a glass of milk put +in my room at once?--and from two I sleep steadily till nine.” + +Margaret Belman was an interested and somewhat startled audience of +this personal confession. It was unusual in Mr. Reeder to speak of +himself, unthinkable that he should discuss his work. In all her life +she had not met an individual who was more reticent about his private +affairs. Perhaps the holiday spirit was on him, she thought. He was +certainly younger-looking that evening than she had ever known him. + +She went out to find Mrs. Burton and convey the wishes of the guest. +The woman accepted the order with a sniff. + +“Milk? He looks the kind of person who drinks milk. _He’s_ nothing to +be afraid of!” + +“Why should he be afraid?” asked Margaret sharply, but the reproach +was lost upon Mrs. Burton. + +“Nobody likes detectives nosing about a place--do they, Miss Belman? +And he’s not my idea of a detective.” + +“Who told you he was a detective?” + +Mrs. Burton looked at her for a second from under her heavy lids, and +then jerked her head in the direction of Daver’s office. + +“He did,” she said. “Detectives! And me sitting here, slaving from +morning till night, when I might be doing the grand in Paris or one of +them places, with servants to wait on me instead of me waiting on +people. It’s sickening!” + +Twice since she had been at Larmes Keep, Margaret had witnessed these +little outbursts of fretfulness and irritation. She had an idea that +the faded woman would like some excuse to make her a confidante, but +the excuse was neither found nor sought. Margaret had nothing in +common with this rather dull and terribly ordinary lady, and they +could find no mutual interest which would lead to the breakdown of the +barriers. Mrs. Burton was a weakling; tears were never far from her +eyes or voice, nor the sense of her mysterious grievances against the +world far from her mind. + +“They treat me like dirt,” she went on, her voice trembling with her +feeble anger, “and she treats me worst of all. I asked her to come and +have a cup of tea and a chat in my room the other day, and what do you +think she said?” + +“Whom are you talking about?” asked Margaret curiously. It did not +occur to her, that the “she” in question might be Olga Crewe--it would +have required a very powerful effort of imagination to picture the +cold and worldly Olga talking commonplaces with Mrs. Burton over a +friendly cup of tea; yet it was of Olga that the woman spoke. But at +the very suggestion that she was being questioned her thin lips closed +tight. + +“Nobody in particular… milk, did you say? I’ll take it up to him +myself.” + +Mr. Reeder was struggling into a dressing-jacket when she brought the +milk to him. One of the servants had already placed pen, ink, and +stationery on the table, and there were two fat manuscript-books +visible to any caller, and anticipating eloquently Mr. Reeder’s +literary activities. + +He took the tray from the woman’s hand and put it on the table. + +“You have a nice house, Mrs. Burton,” he said encouragingly. “A +beautiful house. Have you been here long?” + +“A few years,” she answered. + +She made to go, but lingered at the door. Mr. Reeder recognised the +symptoms. Discreet she might be, a gossip she undoubtedly was, aching +for human converse with any who could advance a programme of those +trivialities which made up her conversational life. + +“No, sir, we never get many visitors here. Mr. Daver likes to pick and +choose.” + +“And very wise of Mr. Daver. By the way, which is his room?” + +She walked through the doorway and pointed along the corridor. + +“Oh yes, I remember, he told me. A charming situation. I saw you +coming out this evening.” + +“You have made a mistake--I never go into his room,” said the woman +sharply. “You may have seen----” + +She stopped, and added: + +“--somebody else. Are you going to work late, sir?” + +Mr. Reeder repeated in detail his plans for the evening. + +“I would be glad if you would tell Mr. Daver that I do not wish to be +interrupted. I am a very slow thinker, and the slightest disturbance +to my train of thought is fatal to my--er--power of composition,” he +said, as he closed the door upon her and, waiting until she had time +to get down the stairs, locked it and pushed home the one bolt. + +He drew the heavy curtains across the open windows, pushed the +writing-table against the curtains so that they could not blow back, +and, opening the two exercise-books, so placed them that they formed a +shade that prevented the light falling upon the bed. This done, he +changed quickly into a lounge suit, and, lying on the bed, pulled the +coverlet over him and was asleep in five minutes. + +Margaret Belman had it in her mind to send up to his room after +eleven, before she herself retired, to discover whether there was +anything he wanted, but fortunately she changed her mind--fortunately, +because Mr. Reeder had planned to snatch five solid hours’ sleep +before he began his unofficial inspection of the house, or +alternatively before the period arrived when it would be necessary +that he should be wide awake. + +At two o’clock to the second he woke and sat up on the edge of the +bed, blinking at the light. Opening one of his trunks, he took out a +small wooden box from which he drew a spirit stove and the +paraphernalia of tea-making. He lit the little lamp, and while the +tiny tin kettle was boiling he went to the bathroom, undressed, and +lowered his shivering body into a cold bath. He returned fully +dressed, to find the kettle boiling. + +Mr. Reeder was a very methodical man; he was, moreover, a careful man. +All his life he had had a suspicion of milk. He used to wander round +the suburban streets in the early hours of the morning, watch the cans +hanging on the knockers, the bottles deposited in corners of +doorsteps, and ruminate upon the enormous possibilities for wholesale +murder that this light-hearted custom of milk delivery presented to +the criminally minded. He had calculated that a nimble homicide, +working on systematic lines, could decimate London in a month. + +He drank his tea without milk, munched a biscuit, and then, +methodically clearing away the spirit-stove and kettle, he took from +his grip a pair of thick-soled felt slippers and drew them on his +feet. In his trunk he found a short length of stiff rubber, which, in +the hands of a skilful man, was as deadly a weapon as a knife. This he +put in the inside pocket of his jacket. He put his hand in the trunk +again and brought out something that looked like a thin rubber +sponge-bag, except that it was fitted with two squares of mica and a +small metal nozzle. He hesitated about this, turning it over and over +in his hand, and eventually this went back into the trunk. The stubby +Browning pistol, which was his next find, Mr. Reeder regarded with +disfavour, for the value of firearms, except in the most desperate +circumstances, had always seemed to him to be problematical. + +The last thing to be extracted was a hollow bamboo, which contained +another, and was in truth the fishing-rod for which he had once +expressed a desire. At the end of the thinner was a spring loop, and +after he had screwed the two lengths together he fitted upon this loop +a small electric hand-lamp and carefully threaded the thin wires +through the eyelets of the rod, connecting them up with a tiny switch +at the handle, near where the average fisherman has his grip. He +tested the switch, found it satisfactory, and when this was done he +gave a final look round the room before extinguishing the table lamp. + +In the broad light of day he would have presented a somewhat comic +figure, sitting cross-legged on his bed, his long fishing-rod reaching +out to the middle of the room and resting on the footboard; but at the +moment Mr. J. G. Reeder had no sense of the ridiculous, and moreover +there were no witnesses. From time to time he swayed the rod left and +right, like an angler making a fresh cast. He was very wide awake, his +ears tuned to differentiate between the normal noises of the +night--the rustle of trees, the soft purr of the wind--and the sounds +which could only come from human activity. + +He sat for more than half an hour, his fishing-rod moving to and fro, +and then he was suddenly conscious of a cold draught blowing from the +door. He had heard no sound, not so much as the clink of a lock; but +he knew that the door was wide open. + +Noiselessly he drew in the rod till it was clear of the posts of the +bed, brought it round towards the door, paying out until it was a +couple of yards from where he sat--with one foot on the ground now, +ready to leap or drop, as events dictated. + +The end of the rod met with no obstruction. Reeder held his breath… +listening. The corridor outside was heavily carpeted. He expected no +sound of footsteps. But people must breathe, thought Mr. Reeder, and +it is difficult to breathe noiselessly. Conscious that he himself was +a little too silent for a supposedly sleeping man, he emitted a +lifelike snore and gurgle which might be expected from a middle-aged +man in the first stages of slumber.… + +Something touched the end of the rod, pushing it aside. Mr. Reeder +turned the switch and a blinding ray of light leapt from the lamp and +focussed in a circle on the opposite wall of the corridor. + +The door was open, but there was nothing human in sight. + +And then, despite his wonderful nerve, his flesh began to go goosey, +and a cold sensation tingled up his spine. Somebody was there--hiding… +waiting for the man who carried the lamp, as they thought, to emerge. + +Reaching out at full arm’s-length, he thrust the end of the rod +through the doorway into the corridor. + +_Swish!_ + +Something struck the rod and snapped it. The lamp fell on the floor, +lens uppermost, and flooded the ceiling of the corridor. In an instant +Reeder was off the bed, moving swiftly, till he came to the cover +afforded by the wide-open door. Through the crack he had a limited +view of what might happen outside. + +There was a deadly silence. In the hall downstairs a clock ticked +solemnly, whirred and struck the quarter to three. But there was no +movement; nothing came within the range of the upturned lamp, until… + +He had just a momentary flash of vision. The thin, white face, the +hairy lips parted in a grin, wild, dirty white hair, and a bald crown, +a short bristle of white beard, a claw-like hand reaching for the +lamp.… + +Pistol or rubber? Mr. Reeder elected for the rubber. As the hand +closed over the lamp he left the cover of the room and struck. He +heard a snarl like that of a wild beast, then the lamp was +extinguished as the apparition staggered back, snapping the thin wire. + +The corridor was in darkness. He struck again and missed; the violence +of the stroke was such that he overbalanced and fell on one knee, and +the truncheon flew from his grasp. He threw out his hand, gripped an +arm, and with a quick jerk brought his capture into the room and +switched on the light. + +A round, soft hand, covered with a silken sleeve… + +As the lights leapt to life, he found himself looking into the pale +face of Olga Crewe! + + + + + CHAPTER X + +/For/ a moment they stared at one another, she fearful, he amazed. +Olga Crewe! + +Then he became conscious that he was still gripping the arm, and let +it drop. The arm fascinated Mr. Reeder: he scarcely looked at anything +else. + +“I am very sorry,” said Mr. Reeder. “Where did you come from?” + +Her lips were quivering; she tried to speak, but no words came. Then +she mastered her momentary paralysis and began to speak, slowly, +laboriously. + +“I--heard--a noise--in--the--corridor--and--came--out. A +noise--I--was--frightened.” + +She was rubbing her arm mechanically; he saw a red weal where his hand +had gripped. The wonder was that he had not broken her arm. + +“Is--anything--wrong?” + +Every word was created and articulated painfully. She seemed to be +considering its formation before her tongue gave it sound. + +“Where is the light-switch in the hall?” asked Mr. Reeder. This was a +more practical matter--he lost interest in her arm. + +“Opposite my room.” + +“Turn it on,” he said, and she obeyed meekly. + +Only when the corridor was illuminated did he step out of his room, +and even then in some doubt, if the Browning in his hand meant +anything. + +“Is anything wrong?” she asked again. By now she had taken command of +herself. A little colour had come to her white face, but the live eyes +were still beholding terrible visions. + +“Did you see anything in the passage?” he answered. + +She shook her head slowly. + +“No, I saw nothing--nothing. I heard a noise and I came out.” + +She was lying: he did not trouble to doubt this. She had had time to +pull on her slippers and find the flimsy wrap she wore, and the fight +had not lasted more than two seconds. Moreover, he had not heard her +door open; therefore it had been open all the time, and she had been +spectator or audience of all that had happened. + +He went down the corridor, retrieved his rubber truncheon, and came +back to her. She was half standing, half leaning against the +door-post, rubbing her arm. She was staring past him so intently that +he looked round, though there was nothing to be seen. + +“You hurt me,” she said simply. + +“Did I? I’m sorry.” + +The mark on the white flesh had gone blue, and Mr. Reeder was +naturally a sympathetic man. Yet, if the truth be told, there was +nothing of sorrow in his mind at that moment. Regret, yes. But the +regret had nothing to do with her hurt. + +“I think you’d better go to your bed, young lady. My nightmare is +ended. I hope yours will end as quickly, though I shall be surprised +if it does. Mine is for the moment; yours, unless I am greatly +mistaken, is for life!” + +Her dark, inscrutable eyes did not leave his face as she spoke. + +“I think it must have been a nightmare,” she said. “It will last all +my life? I think it will!” + +With a nod she turned away, and presently he heard her door close and +the lock fasten. + +Mr. Reeder went back to the far side of his bed, pulled up a chair and +sat down. He did not attempt to close the door. Whilst his room was in +darkness and the corridor lighted, he did not expect a repetition of +his bad and substantial dream. + +The rubber truncheon was a mistake, he admitted regretfully. He wished +he had not such a repugnance to a noisier weapon. He laid the pistol +on the cover of the bed within reach of his hand. If the bad dream +came again---- + +Voices! + +The murmur of a whispered colloquy and a fierce, hissing whisper that +dominated the others. Not in the corridor, but in the hall below. He +tiptoed to the door and listened. + +Somebody laughed under his breath, a strange blood-curdling little +mutter of a laugh; and then he heard a key turn and a door open and a +voice demand: + +“Who is there?” + +It was Margaret. Her room faced the head of the stairs, he remembered. +Slipping the pistol into his pocket, he ran round the end of the bed +and into the corridor. She was standing by the banisters, looking down +into the dark. The whispering voices had ceased. She saw him out of +the corner of her eye and turned with a start. + +“What is wrong, Mr. Reeder? Who put the corridor light on? I heard +somebody speaking in the vestibule.” + +“It was only me.” + +His smile would in ordinary circumstances have been very reassuring, +but now she was frightened, childishly frightened. She had an insane +desire to cling to him and weep. + +“Something has been happening here,” she said. “I’ve been lying in bed +listening, and haven’t had the courage to get up. I’m horribly scared, +Mr. Reeder.” + +He beckoned her to him, and as she came, wondering, he slipped past +her and took her place at the banisters. She saw him lean over and the +light from a hand-lamp sweep the space below. + +“There’s nobody there,” he said airily. + +She was whiter than he had ever seen her. + +“There _was_ somebody there,” she insisted. “I heard their feet moving +on the tiled paving after you put on your flash-lamp.” + +“Probably Mrs. Burton,” he suggested. “I thought I heard her +voice----” + +And now came a newcomer on the scene. Mr. Daver had appeared at the +end of the corridor. He wore a flowered silk dressing-gown buttoned up +to his chin. + +“Whatever is the matter, Miss Belman?” he asked. “Don’t tell me that +he tried to get into _your_ window! I’m afraid you’re going to tell me +that! I hope you’re not, but I’m afraid you will! Dear me, what an +unpleasant thing to happen!” + +“What has happened?” asked Mr. Reeder. + +“I don’t know, but I have an uncomfortable feeling that somebody has +been trying to break into this house,” said Mr. Daver. + +He was genuinely agitated; the girl could almost hear his teeth +chatter. + +“I heard somebody trying the catch of my window and looked out, and +I’ll swear I saw--something! What a dreadful thing to happen! I have +half a mind to telephone for the police.” + +“An excellent idea,” murmured Mr. Reeder, suddenly his old deferential +and agreeable self. “You were asleep, I suppose, when you heard the +noise?” + +Mr. Daver hesitated. + +“Not exactly asleep,” he said. “Between sleeping and waking. I was +very restless to-night for some reason.” + +He put his hand to his throat, his dressing-gown had gaped for a +second. He was not quite quick enough. + +“You were probably restless,” said Mr. Reeder softly, “because you +omitted to take off your collar and tie. I know of nothing more +disturbing.” + +Mr. Daver made a characteristic grimace. + +“I dressed myself rather hurriedly----” he began. + +“Better to undress yourself hurriedly,” chided Mr. Reeder, almost +playfully. “People who go to bed in stiff white collars occasionally +choke themselves to death. And there is sorrow in the home of the +cheated hangman. Your burglar probably saved your life.” + +Daver made as though to speak, suddenly retreated and slammed the +door. + +Margaret was looking at Mr. Reeder apprehensively. + +“What is the mystery--was there a burglar?--Oh, please tell me the +truth! I shall get hysterical if you don’t!” + +“The truth,” said Mr. Reeder, his eyes twinkling, “is very nearly what +that curious man told you--there was somebody in the house, somebody +who had no right to be here, but I think he has gone, and you can go +to bed without the slightest anxiety.” + +She looked at him oddly. + +“Are you going to bed too?” + +“In a very few moments,” said Mr. Reeder cheerfully. + +She held out her hand with an impulsive gesture. He took it in both of +his. + +“You are my idea of a guardian angel,” she smiled, though she was near +to tears. + +“I’ve never heard,” said Mr. Reeder, “of guardian angels with +side-whiskers.” + +It was a mean advantage to take of her, yet he was ridiculously +pleased as he repeated his little _jeu d’esprit_ to himself in the +seclusion of his room. + + + + + CHAPTER XI + +/Mr. Reeder/ closed the door, put on the lights, and set himself to +unravel the inexplicable mystery of its opening. Before he went to bed +he had shot home the bolt, had turned the key in the lock, and the key +was still on the inside. It struck him, as he turned it, that he had +never heard a lock that moved so silently, or a bolt that slipped so +easily into its groove. Both lock and bolt had been recently oiled. He +began a scrutiny of the inside face of the door, and found a simple +solution of the somewhat baffling incident of its opening. + +The door consisted of eight panels, carved in small lozenge-shaped +ornaments. The panel immediately above the lock moved slightly when he +pressed it, but it was a long time before he found the tiny spring +which held it in place. When that was found, the panel opened like a +miniature door. He could thrust his hand through the aperture and +slide back the bolt with the greatest ease. + +There was nothing very unusual or sinister about this. He knew that +many hotels and boarding-houses had methods by which a door could be +unlocked from the outside--a very necessary precaution in certain +eventualities. Mr. Reeder wondered whether he would find a similar +safety panel on the door of Margaret Belman’s room. + +By the time he had completed his inspection it was daylight, and, +pulling back the curtains, he drew a chair to the window and made a +survey of as much of the grounds as lay within his line of vision. + +There were two or three matters which were puzzling him. If Larmes +Keep was the headquarters of the Flack gang, in what manner and for +what reason had Olga Crewe been brought into the confederation? He +judged her age at twenty-four; she had been a constant visitor, if not +a resident, at Larmes Keep for at least ten years, and he knew enough +of the ways of the underworld to realise that they did not employ +children. Also she had been to a public school of some kind, and that +would have absorbed at least four of the ten years--Mr. Reeder shook +his head in doubt. + +Nothing would happen now until dark, he decided, and, stretching +himself upon the bed, he pulled the coverlet over him and slept till +a tapping at the door announced the coming of the maid with his +morning tea. + +She was a round-faced woman, just past her first youth, with a +disagreeable Cockney accent and the brusque and familiar manner of one +who was an indispensable part of the establishment. Mr. Reeder +remembered that the girl had waited on him at dinner. + +“Why, sir, you haven’t undressed!” she said. + +“I seldom undress,” said Mr. Reeder, sitting up and taking the tea +from her. “It is such a waste of time. For no sooner are your clothes +off than it is necessary to put them on again.” + +She looked at him hard, but he did not smile. + +“You’re a detective, ain’t you? Everybody at the cottage knows that +you are. What have you come down about?” + +Mr. Reeder could afford to smile cryptically. There was a suppressed +anxiety in the girl’s voice. + +“It is not for me, my dear young lady, to disclose your employer’s +business.” + +“He brought you down? Well, he’s got a nerve!” + +Mr. Reeder put his finger to his lips. + +“About the candlesticks?” + +He nodded. + +“He still thinks somebody in the house took them?” + +Her face was very red, her eyes snapped angrily. Here was exposed one +of the minor scandals of the hotel. + +It was not an uninteresting sidelight. For if ever guilt was written +on a woman’s face it was on hers. What these candlesticks were and how +they disappeared, Mr. Reeder could guess. Petty larceny runs in +well-defined channels. + +“Well, you can tell him from me----” she began shrilly, and he raised +a solemn hand. + +“Keep the matter to yourself--regard me as your friend,” he begged. + +He was in his lighter moments a most mischievous man, a weakness that +few suspected in Mr. J. G. Reeder. Moreover, he wanted badly some +inside information about the household, and he had an idea that this +infuriated girl who flounced out and slammed the door behind her would +supply him with that information. In his optimistic moments he could +not dream that in her raw hands she held the secret of Larmes Keep. + +As soon as he came down Mr. Reeder decided to go to Daver’s office; he +was curious to learn the true story of the missing candlesticks. The +sound of an angry voice reached him, and as his hand was raised to +knock at the door it was opened by somebody who was holding the handle +on the inside, and he heard a woman’s angry voice. + +“You’ve treated me shabbily: that’s all I can say to you, Mr. Daver! +I’ve been working for you five years and I’ve never said a word about +your business to anybody! And now you bring a detective down to spy on +me! I won’t be treated as if I was a thief or something! If you think +that’s behaving fair and square, after all I’ve done for you, and +minding my own business… yes, I know I’ve been well paid, but I could +get just as much money somewhere else… I’ve got my pride, Mr. Daver, +the same as you have… and I think you’ve been very underhand, the way +you’ve treated me… I’ll go to-night, don’t you worry!” + +The door was flung open and a red-faced girl of twenty-five flounced +out and dashed past the eavesdropper, scarcely noticing him in her +fury. The door shut behind her; evidently Mr. Daver was in as bad a +temper as the girl--a fortunate circumstance, as it proved, and Mr. +Reeder decided it might be inadvisable to advertise that he had +overheard the whole or part of the conversation. + +When he strolled out into the sunlit grounds, of all the people who +had been disturbed during the night he was the brightest and showed +the least sign of fatigue. He met the Rev. Mr. Dean and the Colonel, +who was carrying a golf-bag, and they bade him a gruff good-morning. +The Colonel, he thought, was a little haggard; Mr. Dean gave him a +scowl as he passed. + +Walking up and down the lawn, he examined the front of the house with +a critical eye. The lines of the Keep were very definite: harsh and +angular, not even the Tudor windows, that at some remote period had +been introduced to its stony face, could disguise its ancient +grimness. + +Turning an angle of the house, he reached the strip of lawn which +faced his own window. Behind the lawn was a mass of rhododendron +bushes, which might serve a useful purpose, but which in certain +circumstances might also be a danger-point. + +Immediately beneath his window was an angle of the drawing-room, a +circumstance which gave him cause for satisfaction. Mr. Reeder’s +experience favoured a bedroom which was above a public apartment. + +He went back on his tracks and came to the other end of the block. +Those three windows, brightly curtained, were evidently Mr. Daver’s +private suite. The wall was black beneath them, the actual stone being +obscured by a thick growth of ivy. He wondered what this lightless and +doorless space contained. + +As he returned to the front of the house he saw Margaret Belman. She +was standing in front of the doorway, shading her eyes from the sun, +evidently searching her limited landscape for somebody. Seeing him, +she came quickly to meet him. + +“Oh, there you are!” she said, with a sigh of relief. “I wondered what +had happened to you--you didn’t come down to breakfast.” + +She looked a little peaked, he thought. Evidently she had not rounded +off the night as agreeably as he. + +“I haven’t slept since I saw you,” she said, answering his unspoken +question. “What happened, Mr. Reeder? Did somebody really try to get +into the house--a burglar?” + +“I think they tried, and I think they succeeded,” said Mr. Reeder +carefully. “Burglaries happen even in--um--hotels, Miss--um--Margaret. +Has Mr. Daver notified the police?” + +She shook her head. + +“I don’t know. He has been telephoning all the morning--I went to his +room just now and it was locked, but I heard his voice. And, Mr. +Reeder, you didn’t tell me the terrible thing that happened the night +I left London. I saw it in the newspaper this morning.” + +“Terrible thing?” + +J. G. Reeder was puzzled. Almost he had forgotten the adventure of the +spring gun. + +“Oh, you mean the little joke?” + +“Joke!” she said, shocked. + +“Criminals have a perverted sense of humour,” said Mr. Reeder airily. +“The whole thing was--um--an elaborate jest designed to frighten me. +One expects such things. They are the examination papers which are set +to test one’s intelligence from time to time.” + +“But who did it?” she asked. + +Mr. Reeder’s gaze wandered absently over the placid countryside. She +had a feeling that it bored him even to recall so trivial an incident +in a busy life. + +“Our young friend,” he said suddenly, and, following the direction of +his eyes, she saw Olga Crewe. + +She was wearing a dark grey knitted suit and a big black hat that +shaded her face, and there was nothing of embarrassment in the half +smile with which she greeted her fellow-guest. + +“Good morning, Mr. Reeder. I think we have met before this morning.” +She rubbed her arm good-humouredly. + +Mr. Reeder was all apologies. + +“I don’t even know now what happened,” she said; and Margaret Belman +learnt for the first time what had occurred before she had made her +appearance. + +“I never thought you were so strong--look!” Olga Crewe pulled back her +sleeve and showed a big blue-black patch on her forearm, cutting short +his expression of remorse with a little laugh. + +“Have you shown Mr. Reeder all the attractions of the estate?” she +asked, a hint of sarcasm in her tone. “I almost expected to find you +at the bathing-pool this morning.” + +“I didn’t even know there was a bathing-pool,” said Mr. Reeder. “In +fact, after my terrible scare last night, this--um--beautiful house +has assumed so sinister an aspect that I expect to bathe in nothing +less dramatic than blood!” + +She was not amused. He saw her eyes close quickly, and she shivered a +little. + +“How gruesome you are! Come along, Miss Belman.” + +Inwardly Margaret resented the tone, which was almost a command, but +she walked by their side. Clear of the house, Olga stopped and +pointed. + +“You must see the well. Are you interested in old things?” asked Olga, +as she led the way to the shrubbery. + +“I am more interested in new things, especially new experiences,” said +Mr. Reeder, quite gaily. “And new people fascinate me!” + +Again that quick frightened smile of hers. + +“Then you should be having the time of your life, Mr. Reeder,” she +said, “for you’re meeting people here whom you’ve never met before.” + +He screwed up his forehead in a frown. + +“Yes, there are two people in this house I have never met before,” he +said, and she looked round at him quickly. + +“Only two? You’ve never met me before!” + +“I’ve seen you,” said Mr. Reeder, “but I have never met you.” + +By this time they had arrived at the well, and he read the inscription +slowly, before he tested with his foot the board that covered the top +of the well. + +“It has been closed for years,” said the girl. “I shouldn’t touch it,” +she added hastily, as Reeder stooped and, catching the edge of a +board, swung it back trap fashion, leaving an oblong cavity. + +The trap did not squeak or creak as he turned it back; the hinges were +oiled; there was no accumulation of dust between the two doors. Going +on to his hands and knees, he looked down into the darkness. + +“How many loads of rubble and rock were used to fill up this well?” he +asked. + +Margaret read from the little notice-board. + +“Hum!” said Mr. Reeder, searched in his pockets, brought out a +two-shilling piece, poised the silver coin carefully and let it drop. + +For a long, long time he listened, and then a faint metallic tinkle +came up to him. + +“Nine seconds!” He looked up into Olga’s face. “Deduct from the +velocity of a falling object the speed at which sound travels, and +tell me how deep this hole is.” + +He got up to his feet, dusted the knees of his trousers, and carefully +dropped the trap into position. + +“Rock there may be,” he said, “but there is no water. I must work out +the number of loads requisite to fill this well entirely--it will be +an interesting morning’s occupation for one who in his youth was +something of a mathematical genius.” + +Olga Crewe led the way back to the shrubbery in silence. When they +came to the open: + +“I think you had better show Mr. Reeder the rest of the +establishment,” she said. “I’m rather tired.” + +And with a nod she turned away and walked towards the house, and Mr. +Reeder gazed after her with something like admiration in his eyes. + +“The rouge would of course make a tremendous difference,” he said, +half speaking to himself, “but it is very difficult to disguise +voices--even the best of actors fail in this respect.” + +Margaret stared at him. + +“Are you talking to me?” + +“To me,” said Mr. Reeder humbly. “It is a bad habit of mine, peculiar +to my age, I fear.” + +“But Miss Crewe never uses rouge.” + +“Who does--in the country?” asked Mr. Reeder, and pointed with his +walking-stick to the wall along the cliff. “Where does that lead? What +is on the other side?” + +“Sudden death,” said Margaret, and laughed. + +For a quarter of an hour they stood leaning on the parapet of the low +wall, looking down at the strip of beach below. The small channel that +led to the cave interested him. He asked her how deep it was. She +thought that it was quite shallow, a conclusion with which he did not +agree. + +“Underground caves sound romantic, and that channel is deeper than +most. I think I must explore the cave. How does one get down?” + +He looked left and right. The beach was enclosed in a deep little bay, +circled on one side by sheer cliff, on the other by a high reef of +rock that ran far out to sea. Mr. Reeder pointed to the horizon. + +“Sixty miles from here is France.” + +He had a disconcerting habit of going off at a tangent. + +“I think I will do a little exploring this afternoon. The walk should +freshen me.” + +They were returning to the house when he remembered the bathing-pool +and asked to see it. + +“I wonder Mr. Daver doesn’t let it run dry,” she said. “It is an awful +expense. I was going through the municipality’s account yesterday, and +they charge a fabulous sum for pumping up fresh water.” + +“How long has it been built?” + +“That is the surprising thing,” she said. “It was made twelve years +ago, when private swimming-pools were things unheard of in this +country.” + +The pool was oblong in shape; one end of it was tiled and obviously +artificially created. The further end, however, had for its sides and +bottom natural rock. A great dome-shaped mass served as a +diving-platform. Mr. Reeder walked all round, gazing into the limpid +water. It was deepest at the rocky end, and here he stayed longest, +and his inspection was most thorough. There seemed a space--how deep +he could not tell--at the bottom of the bath, where the rock overhung. + +“Very interesting,” said Mr. Reeder at last. “I think I will go back +to the house and get my bathing-suit. Happily, I brought one.” + +“I didn’t know you were a swimmer,” smiled the girl. + +“I am the merest tyro in most things,” said Mr. Reeder modestly. + +He went up to his room, undressed and slipped into a bathing-suit, +over which he put his overcoat. Olga Crewe and Mr. Daver had gone down +to Siltbury. To his satisfaction he saw the hotel car descending the +hill road cautiously in a cloud of dust. + +When Mr. Reeder threw off his coat to make the plunge there was +something comically ferocious in his appearance, for about his waist +he had fastened a belt to which was attached in a sheath a long-bladed +hunting-knife, and in addition there dangled a waterproof bag in which +he had placed one of the many little hand-lamps that he invariably +carried about with him. He made the most human preparations: put his +toes into the cold water, and shivered ecstatically before he made his +plunge. Losing no time in preliminaries, he swam along the bottom to +the slit in the rock which he had seen. + +It was about two feet high and eight feet in length, and into this he +pulled his way, gripping the roof to aid his progress. The roof ended +abruptly; he found nothing but water above him, and he allowed himself +to come to the surface, catching hold of a projecting ledge to keep +himself afloat whilst he detached the waterproof bag from his belt, +and, planting it upon the shelf, took out his flash-lamp. + +He was in a natural stone chamber, with a broad, vaulted roof. He was +in fact inside the dome-shaped rock that formed one end of the pool. +At the farthermost corner of the chamber was an opening about four +feet in height and two feet in width. A rock passage that led +downward, he saw. He followed this for about fifty yards, and noted +that although nature had hewn or worn this queer corridor at some +remote age--possibly it had been an underground waterway before some +gigantic upheaval of nature had raised the land above water level--the +passage owed something of its practicability to human agency. At one +place there were marks of a chisel; at another, unmistakable signs of +blasting. Mr. Reeder retraced his steps and came back to the water. He +fastened and resealed his lamp, and, drawing a long breath, dived to +the bottom and wormed his way through the aperture to the bath and to +open air. He came to the surface to gaze into the horror-stricken face +of Margaret Belman. + +“Oh, Mr. Reeder!” she gasped. “You--you frightened me!… I heard you +jump in, but when I came here and found the bath empty I thought I +must have been mistaken.… Where have you been? You couldn’t stay under +water all that time…” + +“Will you hand me my overcoat?” said Mr. Reeder modestly, and when he +had hastily buttoned this about his person: “I have been to see that +the County Council’s requirements are fully satisfied,” he said +solemnly. + +She listened, dazed. + +“In all theatres, as you probably know, my dear Miss--um--Margaret, it +is essential that there should be certain exits in case of +necessity--I have already inspected two this morning, but I rather +imagine that the most important of all has so far escaped my +observation. What a man! Surely madness is akin to genius!” + +He lunched alone, and apparently no man was less interested in his +fellow-guests than Mr. J. G. Reeder. The two golfers had returned and +were eating at the same table. Miss Crewe, who came in late and +favoured him with a smile, sat at a little table facing him. + +“She is uneasy,” said Mr. Reeder to himself. “That is the second time +she has dropped her fork. Presently she will get up, sit with her back +to me… I wonder on what excuse?” + +Apparently no excuse was necessary. The girl called a waitress towards +her and had her glass and table shifted to the other side. Mr. Reeder +was rather pleased with himself. + +Daver minced into the dining-room as Mr. Reeder was peeling an apple. + +“Good morning, Mr. Reeder. Have you got over your nightmare? I see +that you have! A man of iron nerve. I admire that tremendously. +Personally, I am the most dreadful coward, and the very hint of a +burglar makes me shiver. You wouldn’t believe it, but I had a quarrel +with a servant this morning, and she left me shaking! You are not +affected that way? I see that you are not! Miss Belman tells me that +you tried our swimming-pool this morning. You enjoyed it? I am sure +you did!” + +“Won’t you sit down and have coffee?” asked Mr. Reeder politely, but +Daver declined the invitation with a flourish and a bow. + +“No, no, I have my work--I cannot tell you how grateful I am to Miss +Belman for putting me on the track of the most fascinating character +of modern times. What a man!” said Mr. Daver, unconsciously repeating +J. G. Reeder’s tribute. “I’ve been trying to trace his early +career--no, no, I’ll stand: I must run away in a minute or two. Is +anything known about his early life? Was he married?” + +Mr. Reeder nodded. He had not the slightest idea that John Flack was +married, but it seemed a moment to assert the universality of his +knowledge. He was quite unprepared for the effect upon Daver. The jaw +of the yellow-faced man dropped. + +“Married?” he squeaked. “Who told you he was married? Where was he +married?” + +“That is a matter,” said Mr. Reeder gravely, “which I cannot discuss.” + +“Married!” Daver rubbed his little round head irritably, but did not +pursue the subject. He made some inane reference to the weather and +bustled out of the room. + +Mr. Reeder settled himself in what he called the banqueting-hall with +an illustrated paper, awaiting an opportunity which he knew must +present itself sooner or later. The servants he had passed under +review. Girls were employed to wait at table, and these lived in a +small cottage on the Siltbury side of the estate. The men servants, +including the hall porter, seemed above suspicion. The porter was an +old army man with a row of medals across his uniform jacket; his +assistant was a chinless youth recruited from Siltbury. He apparently +was the only member of the staff that did not live in one of the +cottages. In the main the women servants were an unpromising lot--the +infuriated waitress was his only hope, although as likely as not she +would talk of nothing but her grievances. + +From where he sat he had a view of the lawn. At three o’clock the +Colonel and the Rev. Mr. Dean and Olga Crewe passed out of the main +gate, evidently bound for Siltbury. He rang the bell, and to his +satisfaction the aggrieved waitress came and took his order for tea. + +“This is a nice place,” said Mr. Reeder conversationally. + +The girl’s “Yes, sir” was snappy. + +“I suppose,” mused Mr. Reeder, looking out of the window, “that this +is the sort of situation that a lot of girls would give their heads to +get and break their hearts to lose?” + +Evidently she did not agree. + +“The upstairs work isn’t so bad,” she said, “and there’s not much to +do in the dining-room. But it’s too slow for me. I was at a big hotel +before I came here. I’m going to a better job--and the sooner the +better.” + +She admitted that the money was good, but she had a longing for that +imponderable quantity which she described as “life.” She also +expressed a preference for men guests. + +“Miss Crewe--so called--gives more trouble than all the rest of the +people put together,” she said. “I can’t make her out. First she wants +one room, then she wants another. Why she can’t stay with her husband +I don’t know.” + +“With her----?” Mr. Reeder looked at her in pained surprise. “Perhaps +they don’t get on well together?” + +“They used to get on all right. If they weren’t married I could +understand all the mystery they’re making--pretending they’re not, him +in his room and she in hers, and meeting like strangers. When all that +kind of deceit is going on, things are bound to get lost,” she added +inconsequently. + +“How long has this been--er--going on?” asked Mr. Reeder. + +“Only the last week or so,” said the girl viciously. “I know they’re +married, because I’ve seen her marriage certificate--they’ve been +married six years. She keeps it in her dressing-case.” + +She looked at him with sudden suspicion. + +“I oughtn’t to have told you that. I don’t want to make trouble for +anybody, and I bear them no malice, though they’ve treated me worse ’n +a dog,” she said. “Nobody else in the house but me knows. I was her +maid for two years. But if people don’t treat me right I don’t treat +them right.” + +“Married six years? Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder. + +And then he suddenly turned his head and faced her. + +“Would you like fifty pounds?” he asked. “That is the immense sum I +will give you for just one little peep at that marriage certificate.” + +The girl went red. + +“You’re trying to catch me,” she said, hesitated, and then: “I don’t +want to get her into trouble.” + +“I am a detective,” said Mr. Reeder, “but I am working on behalf of +the Chief Registrar, and we have a doubt as to whether that marriage +was legal. I could of course search the young lady’s room and find the +certificate for myself, but if you would care to help me, and fifty +pounds has any attraction for you----” + +She paused irresolutely and said she would see. Half an hour later she +came into the hall with the news that she had been unsuccessful in her +search. She had found the envelope in which the certificate had been +kept, but the document itself was gone. + +Mr. Reeder did not ask the name of the bridegroom, nor was he +mentioned, for he was pretty certain that he knew that fortunate man. +He put a question, and the girl answered as he had expected. + +“There is one thing I would like to ask you: do you remember the name +of the girl’s father?” + +“John Crewe, merchant,” she said promptly. “The mother’s name was +Hannah. He made me swear on the Bible I’d never tell a soul that I +knew they were married.” + +“Does anybody else know? You said ‘nobody,’ I think?” + +The girl hesitated. + +“Yes, Mrs. Burton knows. She knows everything.” + +“Thank you,” said Mr. Reeder, and, opening his pocket-book, took out +two five-pound notes. “What was the husband’s profession: do you +remember that?” + +The woman’s lips curled. + +“Secretary--why call himself secretary, I don’t know, and him an +independent gentleman!” + +“Thank you,” said Mr. Reeder again. + +He telephoned to Siltbury for a taxicab. + +“Are you going out?” asked Margaret, finding him waiting under the +portico. + +“I am buying a few presents for friends in London,” said Mr. Reeder +glibly; “a butter-dish or two, suitably inscribed, would, I feel sure, +be very acceptable.” + +The taxi did not take him to Siltbury. Instead, he followed a road +which ran parallel to the sea-coast, and which eventually landed him +in an impossible sandy track, from which the ancient taxi was +extricated with some difficulty. + +“I told you this led nowhere, sir,” said the aggrieved driver. + +“Then we have evidently reached our destination,” replied Mr. Reeder, +applying his weight to push the machine to a more solid foundation. + +Siltbury was not greatly favoured by London visitors, the driver told +him on the way back. The town had a pebbly beach, and people preferred +sand. + +“There are some wonderful beaches about here,” said the driver, “but +you can’t reach ’em.” + +They had taken the left-hand road, which would bring them eventually +to the town, and had been driving for a quarter of an hour when Mr. +Reeder, who sat by the driver, pointed to a large scar in the face of +the downs on his right. + +“Siltbury quarries,” explained the cabman. “They’re not worked now: +there are too many holes.” + +“Holes?” + +“The downs are like a sponge,” said the man. “You could lose yourself +in the caves. Old Mr. Kimpon used to work the quarries many years ago, +and it broke him. There’s a big cave there you can drive a +coach-and-four into! About twenty years ago three fellows went in to +explore the caves and never come out again.” + +“Who owns the quarry now?” + +Mr. Reeder wasn’t very interested, but when his mind was occupied with +a pressing problem he had a trick of flogging along a conversation +with appropriate questions, and if he was oblivious of the answers +they produced, the sound of the human voice had a sedative effect. + +“Mr. Daver owns it now. He bought it after the people were lost in the +caves, and had the entrance boarded up. You’ll see it in a minute.” + +They were climbing a gentle slope. As they came to the crest he +pointed down a tidy-looking roadway to where, about two hundred yards +distant, Reeder saw an oblong gap in the white face of the quarry. +Across this, and filling the cavity except for an irregular space at +the top, was a heavy wooden gate. + +“You can’t see it from here,” said the driver, “but the top hole is +blocked with barbed wire.” + +“Is that a gate or a hoarding he has fixed across?” + +“A gate, sir. Mr. Daver owns all the land from here to the sea. He +used to farm about a hundred acres of the downs, but it’s very poor +land. In those days he kept his wagons inside the cave.” + +“When did he give up farming?” asked Mr. Reeder, interested. + +“About six years ago,” was the reply, and it was exactly the reply Mr. +Reeder had expected. “I used to see a lot of Mr. Daver before then,” +said the driver. “In the old times I had a horse cab, and I was always +driving him about. He used to work like a galley slave--on the farm in +the morning, down in the town buying things in the afternoon. He was +more like a servant than a master. He used to meet all the trains when +visitors arrived--and they had a lot of visitors in those days, more +than they have now. Sometimes he went up to London to bring them +down--he always went to meet Miss Crewe when the young lady was at +school.” + +“Do you know Miss Crewe?” + +Apparently the driver had seen her frequently, but his acquaintance +with her was very limited. + +Reeder got down from the cab and climbed the barred gate on to the +private roadway. The soil was chalky and the road had the appearance +of having been recently overhauled. He mentioned this fact to the +cabman, and learnt that Mr. Daver kept two old men constantly at work +making up the road, though why he should do so he had no idea. + +“Where would you like to go now, sir?” + +“To a quiet place where I can telephone,” said Mr. Reeder. + +These were the facts that he carried with him, and vital facts they +were. During the past six years the life of Mr. Daver had undergone a +considerable change. From being a harassed man of affairs, “more like +a servant than a master,” he had become a gentleman of leisure. The +mystery of the Keep was a mystery no longer. He got Inspector Simpson +on the telephone and conveyed to him the gist of his discovery. + +“By the way,” said Simpson at the finish, “the gold hasn’t been sent +to Australia yet. There has been trouble at the docks. You don’t +seriously anticipate a Flack ‘operation,’ do you?” + +Mr. Reeder, who had forgotten all about the gold-convoy, made a +cautious and non-committal reply. + +By the time he returned to Larmes Keep the other guests had returned. +The hall porter said they were expecting a “party” on the morrow, but +as he had volunteered that information on the previous evening, Mr. +Reeder did not take it very seriously. He gathered that the man spoke +in good faith, without any wish to deceive, but he saw no signs of +unusual activity; nor, indeed, was there accommodation at the Keep for +more than a few more visitors. + +He looked round for the aggrieved servant and missed her. A discreet +inquiry revealed the fact that she had left that afternoon. + +Mr. Reeder went to his room, locked the door, and busied himself in +the examination of two great scrap-books which he had brought down +with him. They were the official records of Flack and his gang. +Perhaps “gang” was hardly a proper description, for he seemed to use +and change his associates as a theatrical manager uses and changes his +cast. The police knew close on a score of men who from time to time +had assisted John Flack in his nefarious transactions. Some had gone +to prison, and had spent the hours of their recovered liberty in a +vain endeavour to re-establish touch with so generous a paymaster. +Some, known to be in his employ, had vanished, and were generally +supposed to be living in luxury abroad. + +Reeder went through the book, which was full of essential facts, and +jotted down the amounts which this strange man had acquired in the +course of twenty years’ depredations. The total was a staggering one. +Flack had worked feverishly, and though he had paid well he had spent +little. Somewhere in England was an enormous reserve. And that +somewhere, Mr. Reeder guessed, was very close to his hand. + +For what had John Flack worked? To what end was this accumulation of +money? Was the sheer greed of the miser behind his thefts? Was he +working aimlessly, as a madman works, towards some visionary +objective? + +Flack’s greed was proverbial. Nothing satisfied him. The robbery of +the Leadenhall Bank had been followed a week later by an attack upon +the London Trust Syndicate, carried out, the police discovered, by an +entirely new confederation, gathered within a few days of the robbery +and yet so perfectly rehearsed that the plan was carried through +without a hitch. + +Mr. Reeder locked away his books and went downstairs in search of +Margaret Belman. The crisis was very near at hand, and it was +necessary for his peace of mind that the girl should leave Larmes Keep +without delay. + +He was half-way down the stairs when he met Daver coming up, and at +that moment he received an inspiration. + +“You are the very gentleman I wished to meet,” he said. “I wonder if +you would do me a great favour?” + +Daver’s careworn face wreathed in smiles. + +“My dear Mr. Reeder,” he said enthusiastically, “do you a favour? +Command me!” + +“I have been thinking about last night and my extraordinary +experience,” said Mr. Reeder. + +“You mean the burglar?” interrupted the other quickly. + +“The burglar,” agreed Mr. Reeder. “He was an alarming person, and I am +not disposed to let the matter rest where it is. Fortunately for me, I +have found a finger-print on the panel of my door.” + +He saw Daver’s face change. + +“When I say I have found a finger-print, I have found something which +has the appearance of a finger-print, and I can only be sure if I +examine it by means of a dactyscope. Unfortunately, I did not imagine +that I should have need for such an instrument, and I am wondering if +you could send somebody to London to bring it down for me?” + +“With all the pleasure in life,” said Daver, though his tone lacked +heartiness. “One of the men----” + +“I was thinking of Miss Belman,” interrupted J. G. Reeder, “who is a +friend of mine and would, moreover, take the greatest possible care of +that delicate piece of mechanism.” + +Daver was silent for a moment, turning this over in his mind. + +“Would it not be better if a man… and the last train down----” + +“She could come down by car: I can arrange that.” + +Mr. Reeder fumbled his chin. + +“Perhaps it would be better if I brought down a couple of men from the +Yard.” + +“No, no,” said Daver quickly. “You can send Miss Belman. I haven’t the +slightest objection. I will tell her.” + +Mr. Reeder looked at his watch. + +“The next train is at eight thirty-five, and that is the last train, I +think. The young lady will be able to get her dinner before she +starts.” + +It was he who brought the news to the astonished Margaret Belman. + +“Of course I’ll go up to town; but don’t you think somebody else could +get this instrument for you, Mr. Reeder? Couldn’t you have it sent +down----” + +She saw the look in his eyes and stopped. + +“What is it?” she asked, in a lower voice. + +“Will you do this for--um--me, Miss--um--Margaret?” said Mr. Reeder, +almost humbly. + +He went to the lounge and scribbled a note, while Margaret telephoned +for the cab. It was growing dark when the closed landau drew up before +the hotel and J. G. Reeder, who accompanied her, opened the door. + +“There’s a man inside,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. +“Please don’t scream: he’s an officer of police, and he’s going with +you to London.” + +“But--but----” she stammered. + +“And you’ll stay in London to-night,” said Mr. Reeder. “I will join +you in the morning--I hope.” + + + + + CHAPTER XII + +/Mr. Reeder/ was in his room, laying out his moderate toilet +requirements on the dressing-table, and meditating upon the waste of +time involved in conforming to fashion--for he had dressed for +dinner--when there came a tap at the door. He paused, a well-worn +hairbrush in his hand, and looked round. + +“Come in,” he said, and added: “if you please.” + +The little head of Mr. Daver appeared round the opening of the door, +anxiety and apology in every line of his peculiar face. + +“Am I interrupting you?” he asked. “I am terribly sorry to bother you +at all, but Miss Belman being away, you quite understand? I’m sure you +do…?” + +Mr. Reeder was courtesy itself. + +“Come in, come in, sir,” he said. “I was merely preparing for the +night. I am a very tired man, and the sea air----” + +He saw the face of the proprietor fall. + +“Then, Mr. Reeder, I have come upon a useless errand. The truth +is”--he slipped inside the door, closed it carefully behind him, as +though he had an important statement to make which he did not wish to +be overheard--“my three guests are anxious to play bridge, and they +deputed me to ask if you would care to join them?” + +“With every pleasure in life,” said Mr. Reeder graciously. “I am an +indifferent player, but if they will bear with me, I will be down in a +few minutes.” + +Mr. Daver withdrew, babbling his gratitude and apologies. The door was +hardly closed upon him before Mr. Reeder crossed the room and locked +it. Stooping, he opened one of the trunks, took out a long, flexible +rope-ladder, and dropped it through the open window into the darkness +below, fastening one end to the leg of the four-poster. Leaning out of +the window, he said something in a low voice, and braced himself +against the bed to support the weight of the man who came nimbly up +the ladder into the room. This done, he replaced the rope-ladder in +his trunk, locked it, and, walking to a corner of the room, pulled at +one of the solid panels. It hinged open and revealed the deep cupboard +which Mr. Daver had shown him. + +“That is as good a place as any, Brill,” he said. “I’m sorry I must +leave you for two hours, but I have an idea that nobody will disturb +you there. I am leaving the lamp burning, which will give you enough +light.” + +“Very good, sir,” said the man from Scotland Yard, and took up his +post. + +Five minutes later Mr. Reeder locked the door of his room and went +downstairs to the waiting party. + +They were in the big hall, a very silent and preoccupied trio, until +his arrival galvanised them into something that might pass for light +conversation. There was, indeed, a fourth present when he came in: a +sallow-faced woman in black, who melted out of the hall at his +approach, and he guessed her to be the melancholy Mrs. Burton. The two +men rose at his approach, and after the usual self-deprecatory +exchange which preceded the cutting for partners, Mr. Reeder found +himself sitting opposite the military-looking Colonel Hothling. On his +left was the pale girl; on his right the hard-faced Rev. Mr. Dean. + +“What do we play for?” growled the Colonel, caressing his moustache, +his steely blue eyes fixed on Mr. Reeder. + +“A modest stake, I hope,” begged that gentleman. “I am such an +indifferent player.” + +“I suggest sixpence a hundred,” said the clergyman. “It is as much as +a poor parson can afford.” + +“Or a poor pensioner either,” grumbled the Colonel, and sixpence a +hundred was agreed. + +They played two games in comparative silence. Reeder was sensitive of +a strained atmosphere, but did nothing to relieve it. His partner was +surprisingly nervous for one who, as he remarked casually, had spent +his life in military service. + +“A wonderful life,” said Mr. Reeder in his affable way. + +Once or twice he detected the girl’s hand, as she held the cards, +tremble ever so slightly. Only the clergyman remained still and +unmoved, and, incidentally, played without error. + +It was after an atrocious revoke on the part of his partner, a revoke +which gave his opponents the game and rubber, that Mr. Reeder pushed +back his chair. + +“What a strange world this is!” he remarked sententiously. “How like a +game of cards!” + +Those who were best acquainted with Mr. Reeder knew that he was most +dangerous when he was most philosophical. The three people who sat +about the table heard only a boring commonplace, in keeping with their +conception of this somewhat dull-looking man. + +“There are some people,” mused Mr. Reeder, looking up at the lofty +ceiling, “who are never happy unless they have all the aces. I, on the +contrary, am most cheerful when I have in my hand all the knaves.” + +“You play a very good game, Mr. Reeder.” + +It was the girl who spoke, and her voice was husky, her tone hesitant, +as though she were forcing herself to speak. + +“I play one or two games rather well,” said Mr. Reeder. “Partly, I +think, because I have such an extraordinary memory--I never forget +knaves.” + +There was a silence. This time the reference was too direct to be +mistaken. + +“There used to be in my younger days,” Mr. Reeder went on, addressing +nobody in particular, “a Knave of Hearts, who eventually became a +Knave of Clubs, and drifted down into heaven knows what other welters +of knavery! In plain words, he started his professional--um--life as a +bigamist, continued his interesting and romantic career as a tout for +gambling hells, and was concerned in a bank robbery in Denver. I have +not seen him for years, but he is colloquially known to his associates +as ‘The Colonel’; a military-looking gentleman with a pleasing +appearance and a glib tongue.” + +He was not looking at the Colonel as he spoke, so he did not see the +man’s face go pale. + +“I have not met him since he grew a moustache, but I could recognise +him anywhere by the peculiar colour of his eyes and by the fact that +he has a scar at the back of his head, a souvenir of some unfortunate +fracas in which he was engaged. They tell me that he became an expert +user of knives--I gather he sojourned a while in Latin America--a +knave of clubs and a knave of hearts--hum!” + +The Colonel sat rigid, not a muscle of his face moving. + +“One supposes,” Mr. Reeder continued, looking at the girl +thoughtfully, “that he has by this time acquired a competence which +enables him to stay at the very best hotels without any fear of police +supervision.” + +Her dark eyes were fixed unwaveringly on his. The full lips were +closed, the jaws set. + +“How very interesting you are, Mr. Reeder!” she drawled at last. “Mr. +Daver tells me you are associated with the police force?” + +“Remotely, only remotely,” said Mr. Reeder. + +“Are you acquainted with any other knaves, Mr. Reeder?” + +It was the cool voice of the clergyman, and Mr. Reeder beamed round at +him. + +“With the Knave of Diamonds,” he said softly. “What a singularly +appropriate name for one who spent five years in the profitable +pursuit of illicit diamond-buying in South Africa, and five +unprofitable years on the Breakwater in Capetown, becoming, as one +might say, a knave of spades from the continuous use of that necessary +and agricultural implement, and a knave of pickaxes too, one supposes! +He was flogged, if I remember rightly, for an outrageous assault upon +a warder, and on his release from prison was implicated in a robbery +in Johannesburg. I am relying on my memory, and I cannot recall at the +moment whether he reached Pretoria Central--which is the colloquial +name for the Transvaal prison--or whether he escaped. I seem to +remember that he was concerned in a banknote case which I once had in +hand. Now what was his name?” + +He looked thoughtfully at the clergyman. + +“Gregory Dones! That is it--Mr. Gregory Dones! It is beginning to come +back to me now. He had an angel tattooed on his left forearm, a piece +of decoration which one would have imagined sufficient to keep him to +the narrow paths of virtue, and even to bring him eventually within +the fold of the church.” + +The Rev. Mr. Dean got up from the table, put his hand in his pocket +and took out some money. + +“You lost the rubber, but I think you win on points,” he said. “What +do I owe you, Mr. Reeder?” + +“What you can never pay me,” said Mr. Reeder, shaking his head. +“Believe me, Gregory, your score and mine will never be wholly settled +to your satisfaction!” + +With a shrug of his shoulders and a smile, the hard-faced clergyman +strolled away. Mr. Reeder watched him out of the corner of his eye and +saw him disappear towards the vestibule. + +“Are all your knaves masculine?” asked Olga Crewe. + +Reeder nodded gravely. + +“I hope so, Miss Crewe.” + +Her challenging eyes met his. + +“In other words, you don’t know me?” she said bluntly. And then, with +sudden vehemence: “I wish to God you did! I wish you did!” + +Turning abruptly, she almost ran from the hall. + +Mr. Reeder stood where she had left him, his eyes roving left and +right. In the shadowy entrance of the hall, made all the more obscure +by the heavy dark curtains which covered it, he saw a dim figure +standing. Only for a second, and then it disappeared. The woman +Burton, he thought. + +It was time to go to his room. He had taken only two steps from the +table when all the lights in the hall went out. In such moments as +these Mr. Reeder was a very nimble man. He spun round and made for the +nearest wall, and stood waiting, his back to the panelling. And then +he heard the plaintive voice of Mr. Daver. + +“Who on earth has put the lights out? Where are you, Mr. Reeder?” + +“Here!” said Mr. Reeder, in a loud voice, and dropped instantly to the +ground. Only in time: he heard a whistle, a thud, and something struck +the panel above his head. + +Mr. Reeder emitted a deep groan and crawled rapidly and noiselessly +across the floor. + +Again came Daver’s voice: + +“What on earth was that? Has anything happened, Mr. Reeder?” + +The detective made no reply. Nearer and nearer he was crawling towards +where Daver stood. And then, as unexpectedly as they had been +extinguished, the lights went up. Daver was standing in front of the +curtained doorway, and on the proprietor’s face was a look of blank +dismay as Mr. Reeder rose at his feet. + +Daver shrank back, his big white teeth set in a fearful grin, his +round eyes wide open. He tried to speak, and his mouth opened and +closed, but no sound issued. From Reeder his eyes strayed to the +panelled wall--but Reeder had already seen the knife buried in the +wood. + +“Let me think,” he said gently. “Was that the Colonel or the highly +intelligent representative of the church?” + +He went across to the wall and with an effort pulled out the knife. It +was long and broad. + +“A murderous weapon,” said Mr. Reeder. + +Daver found his voice. + +“A murderous weapon,” he echoed hollowly. “Was it--thrown at you, Mr. +Reeder?… how very terrible!” + +Mr. Reeder was gazing at him sombrely. + +“Your idea?” he asked, but by now Mr. Daver was incapable of replying. + +Reeder left the shaken proprietor lying limply in one of the big +arm-chairs, and walked up the carpeted stairs to the corridor. And if +against his black coat the automatic was not visible, it was +nevertheless there. + +He stopped before his door, unlocked it, and threw it wide open. The +lamp by the side of the bed was still burning. Mr. Reeder switched on +the wall light, peeped through the crack between the door and the wall +before he ventured inside. + +He shut the door, locked it, and walked over to the cupboard. + +“You may come out, Brill,” he said. “I presume nobody has been here?” + +There was no answer, and he pulled open the cupboard door quickly. + +It was empty! + +“Well, well!” said Mr. Reeder, and that meant that matters were +everything but well. + +There was no sign of a struggle; nothing in the world to suggest that +Detective Brill had not walked out of his own free will and made his +exit by the window, which was still open. + +Mr. Reeder tiptoed back to the light-switch and turned it; stretched +across the bed and extinguished the lamp; and then he sidled +cautiously to the window and peeped round the stone framing. It was a +very dark night, and he could distinguish no object below. + +Events were moving only a little faster than he had anticipated: for +this, however, he was responsible. He had forced the hands of the +Flack confederation, and they were extremely able hands. + +He was unlocking his trunk when he heard a faint sound of steel +against steel. Somebody was fitting a key into the lock, and he +waited, his automatic covering the door. Nothing further happened, and +he went forward to investigate. His flash-lamp showed him what had +happened. Somebody outside had inserted a key, turned it and left it +in the lock, so that it was impossible for the door to be unlocked +from the inside. + +“I am rather glad,” said Mr. Reeder, speaking his thoughts aloud, +“that Miss--um--Margaret is on her way to London!” + +He pursed his lips reflectively. Would he be glad if he also was at +this moment en route for London? Mr. Reeder was not very certain about +this. + +On one point he was satisfied--the Flacks were going to give him a +very small margin of time, and that margin must be used to the best +advantage. + +So far as he could tell, the trunks had not been opened. He pulled out +the rope-ladder, groped down to the bottom, and presently withdrew his +hand, holding a long white cardboard cylinder. Crawling under the +window, he put up his hand and fixed an end of the cylinder in one of +the china flower-pots that stood on the broad window-sill and which he +had moved to allow the ingress of Brill. When this had been done to +his satisfaction, he struck a match and, reaching up, set fire to a +little touch-paper at the cylinder’s free end. He brought his hand +down just in time; something whizzed into the room and struck the +panelling of the opposite wall with an angry smack. There was no sound +of explosion. Whoever fired was using an air pistol. Again and again +in rapid succession came the pellets, but by now the cylinder was +burning and spluttering, and in another instant the grounds were +brilliantly illuminated as the flare burst into a dazzling red flame +that, he knew, could be seen for miles. + +He heard a scampering of feet below, but dared not look out. By the +time the first tender-load of detectives had come flying up the drive, +the grounds were deserted. + +With the exception of the servants, there were only two people at +Larmes Keep when the police began their search. Mr. Daver and the +faded Mrs. Burton alone remained. “Colonel Hothling” and “the Rev. Mr. +Dean” had disappeared as though they had been whisked from the face of +the earth. + +Big Bill Gordon interviewed the proprietor. + +“This is Flack’s headquarters, and you know it. You’ll be well advised +to spill everything and save your own skin.” + +“But I don’t know the man; I’ve never seen him!” wailed Mr. Daver. +“This is the most terrible thing that has happened to me in my life! +Can you make me responsible for the character of my guests? You’re a +reasonable man? I see you are! If these people are friends of Flack, I +have never heard of them in that connection. You may search my house +from cellar to garret, and if you find anything that in the least +incriminates me, take me off to prison. I ask that as a favour. Is +that the statement of an honest man? I see you are convinced!” + +Neither he nor Mrs. Burton nor any of the servants who were questioned +in the early hours of the morning could afford the slightest clue to +the identity of the visitors. Miss Crewe had been in the habit of +coming every year and of staying four and sometimes five months. +Hothling was a newcomer, as also was the parson. Inquiries made by +telephone of the chief of the Siltbury police confirmed Mr. Daver’s +statement that he had been the proprietor of Larmes Keep for +twenty-five years, and that his past was blameless. He himself +produced his title-deeds. A search of his papers, made at his +invitation, and of the three tin boxes in the safe, produced nothing +but support for his protestations of innocence. + +Big Bill interviewed Mr. Reeder in the hall over a cup of coffee at +three o’clock in the morning. + +“There’s no doubt at all that these people were members of the Flack +crowd, probably engaged in advance against his escape, and how they +got away the Lord knows! I have had six men on duty on the road since +dark, and neither the woman nor the two men passed me.” + +“Did you see Brill?” asked Mr. Reeder, suddenly remembering the absent +detective. + +“Brill?” said the other in astonishment. “He’s with you, isn’t he? You +told me to have him under your window----” + +In a few words Mr. Reeder explained the situation, and together they +went up to No. 7. There was nothing in the cupboard to afford the +slightest clue to Brill’s whereabouts. The panels were sounded, but +there was no evidence of secret doors--a romantic possibility which +Mr. Reeder had not excluded, for this was the type of house where he +might expect to find them. + +Two men were sent to search the grounds for the missing detective, and +Reeder and the police chief went back to finish their coffee. + +“Your theory has turned out accurate so far, but there is nothing to +connect Daver.” + +“Daver’s in it,” said Mr. Reeder. “He was not the knife-thrower: his +job was to locate me on behalf of the Colonel. But Daver brought Miss +Belman down here in preparation for Flack’s escape.” + +Big Bill nodded. + +“She was to be hostage for your good behaviour.” He scratched his head +irritably. “That’s like one of Crazy Jack’s schemes. But why did he +try to shoot you up? Why wasn’t he satisfied with her being at Larmes +Keep?” + +Mr. Reeder had no immediate explanation. He was dealing with a madman, +a thing of whims. Consistency was not to be expected from Mr. Flack. + +He passed his fingers through his scanty hair. + +“It is all rather puzzling and inexplicable,” he said. “I think I’ll +go to bed.” + +He was sleeping dreamlessly, under the watchful eye of a Scotland Yard +detective, when Big Bill came bursting into the room. + +“Get up, Reeder!” he said roughly. + +Mr. Reeder sat up in bed, instantly awake. + +“What is wrong?” he asked. + +“Wrong! That gold-lorry left the Bank of England this morning at five +o’clock on its way to Tilbury and hasn’t been seen since!” + + + + + CHAPTER XIII + +/At/ the last moment the bank authorities had changed their mind, and +overnight had sent £53,000 worth of gold for conveyance to the ship. +They had borrowed for the purpose an army lorry from Woolwich, a +service which is sometimes claimed by the national banking +institution. + +The lorry had been accompanied by eight detectives, the military +driver being also armed. Tilbury was reached at half-past eleven +o’clock at night, and the lorry, a high-powered Lassavar, had returned +to London at two o’clock in the morning and had been loaded in the +bank courtyard under the eyes of the officer, sergeant, and two men of +the guard which is on duty on the bank premises from sunset to +sunrise. A new detachment of picked men from Scotland Yard, each +carrying an automatic pistol, loaded the lorry for its second journey, +the amount of gold this time being £73,000 worth. After the boxes had +been put into the van, they had climbed up and the lorry had driven +away from the bank. Each of the eight men guarding this treasure was +passed under review by a high officer of Scotland Yard who knew every +one personally. The lorry was seen in Commercial Road by a +detective-inspector of the division, and its progress was also noted +by a police-cyclist patrol who was on duty at the junction of the +Ripple and Barking roads. + +The main Tilbury road runs within a few hundred yards of the village +of Rainham, and it was at this point, only a few miles distant from +Tilbury, that the lorry disappeared. Two motor-cyclist policemen who +had gone out to meet the gold-convoy, and who had received a telephone +message from the Ripple road to say that it had passed, grew uneasy +and telephoned to Tilbury. + +It was an airless morning, with occasional banks of mist lying in the +hollows, and part of the road, especially near the river, was patchily +covered with white fog, which dispersed about eight o’clock in the +morning under a southeasterly wind. The mist had almost disappeared +when the search party from Tilbury pursued their investigations and +came upon the one evidence of tragedy which the morning was to reveal. +This was an old Ford motor car that had evidently run from the road, +miraculously missed a telegraph pole, and ditched itself. The machine +had not overturned; there were no visible marks of injury; yet the man +who sat at the wheel was stone dead when he was found. An immediate +medical examination failed to discover an injury of any kind to the +man, who was a small farmer of Rainham, and on the face of it it +looked as though he had died of a heart attack whilst on his way to +town. + +Just beyond the place where he was found the road dips steeply between +high banks. It is known as Coles Hollow, and at its deepest part the +cutting is crossed by a single-track bridge which connects two +portions of the farm through which the road runs. The dead farmer and +his machine had been removed when Reeder and the chief of Scotland +Yard arrived on the spot. No news of any kind had been received of the +lorry; but the local police, who had been following its tracks, had +made two discoveries. Apparently, going through the cutting, the front +wheels of the trolley had collided with the side, for there was a deep +scoop in the clayey soil which the impact had hollowed out. + +“It almost appears,” said Simpson, who had been put in charge of the +case, “that the trolley swerved here to avoid the farmer’s car. There +are his wheel tracks, and you notice they were wobbling from side to +side. Probably the man was already dying.” + +“Have you traced the trolley tracks from here?” asked Reeder. + +Simpson nodded, and called a sergeant of the Essex Constabulary, who +had charted the tracks. + +“They seem to have turned up north towards Becontree,” he said. “As a +matter of fact, a policeman at Becontree said he saw a large trolley +come out of the mist and pass him, but that had a tilt on it and was +going towards London. It was an army trolley, too, and was driven by a +soldier.” + +Mr. Reeder had lit a cigarette and was holding the flaming match in +his hand, staring at it solemnly. + +“Dear me!” he said, and dropped the match and watched it extinguish. + +And then he began what seemed to be a foolish search of the ground, +striking match after match. + +“Isn’t there light enough for you, Mr. Reeder?” asked Simpson +irritably. + +The detective straightened his back and smiled. Only for a second was +he amused, and then his long face went longer than ever. + +“Poor fellow!” he said softly. “Poor fellow!” + +“Who are you talking about?” demanded Simpson, but Mr. Reeder did not +reply. Instead, he pointed up to the bridge, in the centre of which +was an old and rusted water-wagon, the type which certain English +municipalities still use. He climbed up to the bank and examined the +iron tank, opened the hatches and groped inside, lighting matches to +aid his examination. + +“Is it empty?” asked Simpson. + +“I am afraid it is,” said Mr. Reeder, and inspected the worn hose +leading from its iron spindles. He descended the cutting more +melancholy than ever. + +“Have you thought how easy it is to disguise an ordinary army lorry?” +he asked. “A tilt, I think the sergeant said, and on its way to +London.” + +“Do you think that was the gold-van?” + +Mr. Reeder nodded. + +“I’m certain,” he said. + +“Where was it attacked?” + +Mr. Reeder pointed to the mark of the wheels on the side of the road. + +“There,” he said simply, and Simpson growled impatiently. + +“Stuff! Nobody heard a shot fired, and you don’t think our people +would go down without a fight, do you? They could have held their own +against five times their number, and no crowd has been seen on this +road!” + +Mr. Reeder nodded. + +“Nevertheless, this is where the convoy was attacked and overcome,” he +said. “I think you ought to look for the trolley with the tilt, and +get on to your Becontree man and get a closer description of the +machine he saw.” + +In a quarter of an hour the police car brought them to the little +Essex village, and the policeman who had seen the wagon was +interviewed. It was a few minutes before he went off duty, he said. +There was a thick mist at the time, and he heard the rumble of the +lorry wheels before it came into sight. He described it as a typical +army wagon. So far as he could tell, it was grey, and had a black tilt +with “W.D.” and a broad-arrow painted on the side, “W.D.” standing for +War Department, the broad-arrow being the sign of Government. He saw +one soldier driving and another sitting by his side. The back of the +tilt was laced up and he could not see into the interior. The soldier +as he passed had waved his hand in greeting, and the policeman had +thought no more about the matter until the robbery of the gold convoy +was reported. + +“Yes, sir,” he said, in answer to Reeder’s inquiry, “I think it was +loaded. It went very heavily on the road. We often get these trolleys +coming up from Shoeburyness.” + +Simpson had put through a telephone inquiry to the Barking police, who +had seen the military wagon. But army convoys were no unusual sight in +the region of the docks. Either that or one similar was seen entering +the Blackwall Tunnel, but the Greenwich police, on the south side of +the river, had failed to identify it, and from there on all trace of +the lorry was lost. + +“We’re probably chasing a shadow anyway,” said Simpson. “If your +theory is right, Reeder--it can’t be right! They couldn’t have caught +these men of ours so unprepared that somebody didn’t shoot, and +there’s no sign of shooting.” + +“There was no shooting,” said Mr. Reeder, shaking his head. + +“Then where are the men?” asked Simpson. + +“Dead,” said Mr. Reeder quietly. + +It was at Scotland Yard, in the presence of an incredulous and +horrified Commissioner, that Mr. J. G. Reeder reconstructed the crime. + +“Flack is a chemist: I think I impressed it upon you. Did you notice, +Simpson, on the bridge, across the cutting, was an old water-cart? I +think you have since learnt that it does not belong to the farmer who +owns the land, and that he has never seen it before. It may be +possible to discover where that was purchased. In all probability you +will find that it was bought a few days ago at the sale of some +municipal stores. I noticed in _The Times_ there was an advertisement +of such a sale. Do you realise how easy it would be not only to store +under pressure, but to make, in that tank, large quantities of a +deadly gas, one important element of which is carbon monoxide? Suppose +this, or, as it may prove, a more deadly gas, has been so stored, do +you realise how simple a matter it would be on a still, breathless +morning to throw a big hose over the bridge and fill the hollow with +the gas? That is, I am sure, what happened. Whatever else was used, +there is still carbon monoxide in the cutting, for when I dropped a +match it was immediately extinguished, and every match I burnt near +the ground went out. If the car had run right through and climbed the +other slope of the cutting, the driver and the men inside the trolley +might have escaped death. As it was, rendered momentarily unconscious, +the driver turned his wheel and ran into the bank, stopping the +trolley. They were probably dead before Flack and his associate, +whoever it was, jumped down, wearing gas masks, lifted the driver back +into the trolley and drove on.” + +“And the farmer----” began the Commissioner. + +“His death probably occurred some time after the trolley had passed. +He also descended into that death hollow, but the speed at which his +car was going carried him up nearer the cutting, though he must have +been dead by the time he got out.” + +He rose and stretched himself wearily. + +“Now I think I will go and interview Miss Belman and set her mind at +rest,” he said. “Did you send her to the hotel, as I asked you, Mr. +Simpson?” + +Simpson stared at him in blank astonishment. + +“Miss Belman?” he said. “I haven’t seen Miss Belman!” + + + + + CHAPTER XIV + +/Her/ head in a whirl, Margaret Belman had stepped into the cab that +was waiting at the door of Larmes Keep. The door was immediately +slammed behind her, and the cab moved off. She saw her companion: he +had shrunk into a corner of the landau, and greeted her with a little +embarrassed grin. He did not speak until the cab was some distance +from the house. + +“My name’s Gray,” he said. “Mr. Reeder hadn’t a chance of introducing +me. Sergeant Gray, C.I.D.” + +“Mr. Gray, what does all this mean? This instrument I am to get…?” + +Gray coughed. He knew nothing about the instrument, he explained, but +his instructions were to put her into a car that would be waiting at +the foot of the hill road. + +“Mr. Reeder wants you to go up by car. You didn’t see Brill anywhere, +did you?” + +“Brill?” she frowned. “Who is Brill?” + +He explained that there had been two officers inside the grounds, +himself and the man he had mentioned. + +“But what is happening? Is there anything wrong at Larmes Keep?” she +asked. + +She had no need to ask the question. That look in J. G. Reeder’s eyes +had told her that something indeed was very wrong. + +“I don’t know, miss,” said Gray diplomatically. “All I know is that +the Chief Inspector is down here with a dozen men, and that looks like +business. I suppose Mr. Reeder wanted to get you out of it.” + +She didn’t “suppose”--she knew, and her heart beat a little quicker. + +What was the mystery of Larmes Keep? Had all this to do with the +disappearance of Ravini? She tried hard to think calmly and logically, +but her thoughts were out of control. + +The station fly stopped at the foot of the hill, and Gray jumped out. +A little ahead of him she saw the tail light of a car drawn up by the +side of the roadway. + +“You’ve got the letter, miss? The car will take you straight to +Scotland Yard, and Mr. Simpson will look after you.” + +He followed her to the car and held open the door for her, and stood +in the roadway watching till the tail light disappeared round a bend +of the road. + +It was a big, cosy landaulette, and Margaret made herself comfortable +in the corner, pulled the rug over her knees, and settled down to the +two hours’ journey. The air was a little close: she tried +unsuccessfully to pull down one of the windows, then tried the other. +Not only was there no glass to the windows, but the shutters were +immovable. Something scratched her knuckle. She felt along the frame +of the window.… Screws, recently inserted. It was a splinter of the +raw wood which had cut her. + +With growing uneasiness she felt for the inside handle of the door, +but there was none. A search of the second door revealed a like state +of affairs. + +Her movements must have attracted the attention of the driver, for the +glass panel was pushed back and a harsh voice greeted her. + +“You can sit down and keep quiet! This isn’t Reeder’s car: I’ve sent +it home.” + +The voice went into a chuckle that made her blood run cold. + +“You’re coming with me… to see life.… Reeder’s going to weep tears of +blood. You know me, eh?… Reeder knows me. I wanted to get him +to-night. But you’ll do, my dear.” + +Suddenly the glass panel was shut to. He turned off the main road and +was following a secondary, his object being, she guessed, to avoid the +big towns and villages en route. She put out her hand and felt the +wall of the car. It was an all-weather body with a leather back. If +she had a knife she might cut---- + +She gasped as a thought struck her, and, reaching up, she felt the +metal fastening that kept the leather hood attached. Exerting all her +strength, she thrust back the flat hook and, bracing her feet against +the front of the machine, dragged at the leather hood. A rush of cold +air came in as the hood began slowly to collapse. The closed car was +now an open car. She could afford to lose no time. The car was making +thirty miles an hour, but she must take the risk of injury. Scrambling +over the back of the hood, she gripped tight at the edge, and let +herself drop into the roadway. + +Although she turned a complete somersault, she escaped injury in some +miraculous fashion, and, coming to her feet, cold with fear and +trembling in every limb, she looked round for a way of escape. The +hedge on her left was high and impenetrable. On her right was a low +wooden fence, and over this she climbed as she heard the squeak of +brakes and saw the car come to a standstill. + +Even as she fled, she was puzzled to know what kind of land she was +on. It was not cultivated; it was more like common land, for there was +springy down beneath her feet, and clumps of gorse bushes sent out +their spiny fingers to clutch at her dress as she flew past. She +thought she heard the man hailing her, but fled on in the darkness. + +Somewhere near at hand was the sea. She could smell the fragrance of +it. Once when she stopped to take breath she could hear the distant +thunder of the waves as they rolled up some unseen beach. She +listened, almost deafened by the beating of her heart. + +“Where are you? Come back, you fool…” + +The voice was near at hand. Not a dozen yards away she saw a black +figure moving, and had all her work to stifle the scream that rose in +her throat. She crouched down behind a bush and waited, and then to +her horror she saw a beam of light spring from the darkness. He had an +electric lamp and was fanning it across the ground. + +Detection was inevitable, and, springing to her feet, she ran, +doubling from side to side in the hope of outwitting her pursuer. Now +she found the ground sloping under her feet, and that gave her +additional speed. She had need of it, for he saw her against the +skyline, and came on after her, a babbling, shrieking fury of a man. +And now capture seemed inevitable. She made one wild leap to escape +his outstretched hands, and her feet suddenly trod on nothing. Before +she could recover, she was falling, falling. She struck a bush, and +the shock and pain of the impact almost made her faint. She was +falling down a steep slope, and her wild hands clutched tree and sand +and grass, and then, just as she had given up all hope, she found +herself rolling over and over on a level plateau, and came to rest +with one leg hanging over a sheer drop of two hundred feet. Happily, +it was dark. + +Margaret Belman did not realise how near to death she had been till +the dawn came up. + +Below her was the sea and a slither of yellow sand. She was looking +into a little bay that held no human dwelling so far as she could see. +This was not astonishing, for the beach was only approachable from the +water. Somewhere on the other side of the northern bluff, she guessed, +was Siltbury. Beneath her a sheer fall over the chalky face of the +cliff; above her, a terribly steep slope, but which might be +negotiated, she thought hopefully. + +She had lost one shoe in her fall, and after a little search found +this, so near to the edge of the cliff that she grew dizzy as she +stooped to pick it up. + +The plateau was about fifty yards long, in the shape of a half-moon, +and was almost entirely covered with gorse bushes. The fact that she +found dozens of nests was sufficient proof that this spot was not +visited even by the most daring of cliff-climbers. She understood now +the significance of the low rail on the side of the road, which +evidently followed the sea-coast westwards for some miles. How far was +she from Larmes Keep? she wondered--until the absurdity of considering +such a matter occurred to her. How near was she to starvation and +death was a more present problem. + +Her task was to escape from the plateau. There was a chance that she +might be observed from the sea, but it was a remote one. The few +pleasure-boats that went out from Siltbury did not go westward; the +fishing fleet invariably tacked south. Lying face downward, she looked +over the edge, in the vain hope that she would find an easy descent, +but none was visible. She was hungry, but, though she searched the +nests, there were no eggs to be found. + +There was nothing to be done but to make a complete exploration of the +plateau. Westward it yielded nothing, but on the eastern side she +discovered a scrub-covered slope which apparently led to yet another +plateau, not so broad as the one she was on. + +To slide down was an easy matter; to check herself so that she did not +go beyond the plateau offered greater difficulty. With infinite labour +she broke off two stout branches of a thick furze bush, and, using +these as a skier uses her stick to check her progress, she began to +shuffle down, feet first. She could move slowly enough when the face +of the declivity was composed of sand or loam, or when there were +friendly bushes to hold, but there were broad stretches of weatherworn +rock to slide across, and on these the stick made no impression and +her velocity increased at an alarming rate. + +And then, to her horror, she discovered that she was not keeping +direction; that, try as she did, she was slipping to the left of the +plateau, and though she strove desperately to move further to the +right, she made no progress. The bushes that littered the upper slope +were more infrequent here. There was indication of a recent landslide, +which might continue down to the sea-level or might end abruptly and +disastrously over the edge of some steep cliff. Slipping, sometimes on +her back, sometimes sideways, sometimes on her face, she felt her +momentum increase with every yard she covered. The ends of the +ski-sticks were frayed to feathery splinters, and already the desired +plateau was above her. Turning her head, she saw the white face of it +dropping to the unseen deeps. + +Now she knew the worst. The slope twisted round a huge rock and +dropped at an acute angle into the sea. Almost before she could +realise the danger ahead, she was slipping faster and faster through +the loam and sand, the centre of a new landslide she had created. +Boulders of a terrifying size accompanied her--by a hair’s-breadth she +escaped being crushed under one. + +And then without warning she was shot into the air as from a catapult. +She had a swift vision of tumbling green below, and in another second +the water had closed over her and she was striking out with all her +strength.… + +It seemed almost an eternity before she came to the surface. +Fortunately, she was a good swimmer, and, looking round, she saw that +the yellow beach was less than fifty yards away. But it was fifty +yards against a falling tide, and she was utterly exhausted when she +dragged herself ashore and fell on the sand. + +She ached from head to foot; her hands and limbs were lacerated. She +felt that her body was one huge bruise. As she lay recovering her +breath she heard one comforting sound, the splash of falling water. +Half-way down the cliff face was a spring, and, staggering across the +beach, she drank eagerly from her cupped hands. She was parched; her +throat was so dry that she could hardly articulate. Hunger she might +bear, but thirst was unendurable. She might remain alive for days, +supposing she were not discovered before that time. + +There was now no need for her to make a long reconnaissance of the +beach: the way of escape lay open to her. A water-hollowed tunnel led +through the bluff and showed her yet another beach beyond. Siltbury +was not in sight. She had no idea how far she was from that desirable +habitation of human people, and did not trouble to think. After she +had satisfied her thirst she took off her shoes and stockings and made +for the tunnel. + +The second bay was larger and the beach longer. There were, she found, +small masses of rocks jutting far into the sea that had to be +negotiated with bare feet. The beach was longer than she had thought, +and so far as she could see there was no outlet, nor did the cliff +diminish in height. She had expected to find a cliff path, and this +hope was strengthened when she discovered the rotting hull of a boat +drawn high and dry on the beach. It was, she judged, about eight +o’clock in the morning. She had started wet through, but the warm +September sun dried her rags--for rags they were. She had all the +sensations of a shipwrecked mariner on a desert island, and after a +while the loneliness and absence of all kinds of human society began +to get on her nerves. + +Before she reached the end of the beach she saw that the only way into +the next bay was by swimming to where the rocky barrier was low enough +to be climbed. She could with great comfort to herself have discarded +what remained of her clothes, but beyond these rocks might lie +civilisation, and, tying her wet shoes and stockings together, she +made fast her shoes, and, knotting them about her waist, waded into +the sea and swam steadily, looking for a likely place to land. This +she found--a step-shaped pyramid of rocks that looked easier to +negotiate than in fact they were. By dint of hard climbing she came to +the summit. + +The beach here was shorter, the cliff considerably higher. Across the +shoulder of rock running to the sea she saw the white houses of +Siltbury, and the sight gave her courage. Descending from the rocky +ridge was even more difficult than climbing, and she was grateful when +at last she sat upon a flat ledge and dangled her bruised feet in the +water. + +Swimming back to the land taxed her strength to the full. It was +nearly an hour before her feet touched firm sand and she staggered up +the beach. Here she rested, until the pangs of hunger drove her +towards the last visible obstacle. + +There was one which was not visible. After a quarter of an hour’s walk +she found her way barred by a deep sea river which ran under the +overhung cliff. She had seen this place before: where was it? And then +she remembered, with an exclamation. + +This was the cave that Olga had told her about, the cave that ran +under Larmes Keep. Shading her eyes, she looked up. Yes, there was the +little landslide; part of the wall that had been carried away +projected from a heap of rubble on the cliff side. + +Suddenly Margaret saw something which made her breath come faster. On +the edge of the deep channel which the water had cut in the sand was +the print of a boot, a large, square-toed boot with a rubber heel. It +had been recently made. She looked farther along the channel and saw +another: it led to the mouth of the cave. On either side of the rugged +entrance was a billow of firm sand left by the retreating waters, and +again she saw the footprint. A visitor to the cave, perhaps, she +thought. Presently he would come out and she would explain her plight, +though her appearance left little need for explanation. + +She waited, but there was no sign of the man. Stooping, she tried to +peer into its dark depths. Perhaps, if she were inside out of the +light, she could see better. She walked gingerly along the sand ledge, +but as yet her eyes, unaccustomed to the darkness, revealed nothing. + +She took another step, passed into the entrance of the cave; and then, +from somewhere behind, a bare arm was flung round her shoulder, a big +hand closed over her mouth. In terror she struggled madly, but the man +held her in a grip of iron, and then her senses left her and she sank +limply into his arms. + + + + + CHAPTER XV + +/Mr. Reeder/ was not an emotional man. For the first time in his life +Inspector Simpson learnt that behind the calm and imperturbable +demeanour of the Public Prosecutor’s chief detective lay an immense +capacity for violent language. He fired a question at the officer, and +Simpson nodded. + +“Yes, the car returned. The driver said that he had orders to go back +to London. I thought you had changed your plans. You’re staying with +this bullion robbery, Reeder?” + +Mr. Reeder glared across the desk, and despite his hardihood Inspector +Simpson winced. + +“Staying with hell!” hissed Reeder. + +Simpson was seeing the real and unsuspected J. G. Reeder and was +staggered. + +“I’m going back to interview that monkey-faced criminologist, and I’m +going to introduce him to forms of persuasion which have been +forgotten since the Inquisition!” + +Before Simpson could reply, Mr. Reeder was out of the door and flying +down the stairs. + + * * * * * + +It was the hour after lunch, and Daver was sitting at his desk, +twiddling his thumbs, when the door was pushed open unceremoniously +and Mr. Reeder came in. He did not recognise the detective, for a man +who in a moment of savage humour slices off his side-whiskers brings +about an amazing change in his appearance. And with the vanishing of +those ornaments there had been a remarkable transformation in Mr. +Reeder’s demeanour. Gone were his useless pince-nez which had +fascinated a generation of law-breakers; gone the gentle, apologetic +voice, the shyly diffident manner. + +“I want you, Daver!” + +“Mr. Reeder!” gasped the yellow-faced man, and turned a shade paler. + +Reeder slammed the door to behind him, pulled up a chair with a crash, +and sat down opposite the hotel-proprietor. + +“Where is Miss Belman?” + +“Miss Belman?” + +Astonishment was expressed in every feature. “Good gracious, Mr. +Reeder, surely you know? She went up to get your dactyscope--is that +the word? I intended asking you to be good enough to let me see +this----” + +“Where--is--Miss--Belman?--Spill it, Daver, and save yourself a lot of +unhappiness.” + +“I swear to you, my dear Mr. Reeder----” + +Reeder leaned across the table and rang the bell. + +“Do--do you want anything?” stammered the manager. + +“I want to speak to Mrs. Flack--you call her Mrs. Burton, but Mrs. +Flack is good enough for me.” + +Daver’s face was ghastly now. He had become suddenly wizened and old. + +“I’m one of the few people who happen to know that John Flack is +married,” said Reeder; “one of the few who know he has a daughter! The +question is, does John Flack know all that I know?” + +He glowered down at the shrinking man. + +“Does he know that after he was sent to Broadmoor his sneaking worm of +a secretary, his toady and parasite and slave, decided to carry on in +the Flack tradition, and used his influence and his knowledge to +compel the unfortunate daughter of mad John Flack to marry him?” + +A frenzied, almost incoherent voice wailed: + +“For God’s sake… don’t talk so loud…!” + +But Mr. Reeder went on. + +“Before Flack went to prison he put into the care of his daughter his +famous encyclopaedia of crime. She was the only person he trusted: his +wife was a weak slave whom he had always despised. Mr. Daver, the +secretary, got possession of those books a year after Flack was put in +gaol. He organised his own little gang at Flack’s old headquarters, +which were nominally bought by you. Ever since you knew John Flack was +planning an escape--an escape in which you had to assist him--you’ve +been living in terror that he would discover how you had +double-crossed him. Tell me I’m a liar and I’ll beat your miserable +little head off! Where is Margaret Belman?” + +“I don’t know,” said the man sullenly. “Flack had a car waiting for +her: that’s all I know.” + +Something in his tone, something in the shifty slant of his eyes, +infuriated Reeder. He stretched out a long arm, gripped the man by the +collar and jerked him savagely across the desk. As a feat of physical +strength it was remarkable; as a piece of propaganda of the +frightfulness that was to follow, it had a strange effect upon Daver. +He lay limp for a second, and then, with a quick jerk of his collar, +he wrenched himself from Reeder’s grip and fled from the room, +slamming the door behind him. By the time Reeder had kicked an +overturned chair from his path and opened the door, Daver had +disappeared. + +When Reeder reached the hall it was empty. He met none of the servants +(he learnt later that the majority had been discharged that morning, +paid a month’s wages and sent to town by the first train). He ran out +of the main entrance on to the lawn, but the man he sought was not in +sight. The other side of the house drew blank. One of the detectives +on duty in the grounds, attracted by Mr. Reeder’s hasty exit, came +running into the vestibule as he reached the bottom of the stairs. + +“Nobody came out, sir,” he said, when Reeder explained the object of +his search. + +“How many men are there in the grounds?” asked Reeder shortly. “Four? +Bring them into the house. Lock every door, and bring back a crowbar +with you. I am going to do a little investigation that may cost me a +lot of money. No sign of Brill?” + +“No, sir,” said the detective, shaking his head sadly. “Poor old +Brill! I’m afraid they’ve done him. The young lady get to town all +right, sir?” + +Mr. Reeder scowled at him. + +“The young lady--what do you know about her?” he asked sharply. + +“I saw her to the car,” said Detective Gray. + +Reeder gripped him by the coat and led him along the vestibule. + +“Now tell me, and tell me quickly, what sort of car was it?” + +“I don’t know, Mr. Reeder,” said the man in surprise. “An ordinary +kind of car, except that the windows were shuttered, but I thought +that was your idea.” + +“What sort of body was it?” + +The man described the machine as accurately as possible; he had only +made a superficial inspection. He thought, however, it was an +all-weather body. The news was no more than Reeder had +expected--neither added to nor diminished his anxiety. When Gray had +gone back to his companions and the door was locked, Mr. Reeder, from +the landing above, called them up to the first floor. A very thorough +search had already been made by the police that morning; but, so far, +Daver’s room had escaped anything but superficial attention. It was +situated at the far end of the corridor, and was locked when the +search-party arrived. It took less than two minutes to force an +entrance. Mr. Daver’s suite consisted of a sitting-room, a bedroom, +and a handsomely-fitted bathroom. There was a number of books in the +former, a small Empire table on which were neatly arranged a pile of +accounts, but there was nothing in the way of documents to reveal his +relationship with the Flack gang. + +The bedroom was beautifully furnished. Here again, from Reeder’s point +of view, the search was unsatisfactory. + +The suite formed one of the angles of the old Keep, and Reeder was +leaving the room when his eyes, roving back for a last look round, +were arrested by the curious position of a brown leather divan in one +corner of the room. He went back and tried to pull it away from the +wall, but apparently it was a fixture. He kicked at the draped side +and it gave forth a hollow wooden sound. + +“What has he got in that divan?” he asked. + +After considerable search Gray found a hidden bolt, and, this thrown +back, the top of the divan came up like the lid of a box. It was +empty. + +“The rum thing about this house, sir,” said Gray as they went +downstairs together, “is that one always seems on the point of making +an important discovery, and it always turns out to be a dud.” + +Reeder did not reply: he was too preoccupied with his growing +distress. After a while he spoke. + +“There are many queer things about this house----” he began. + +And then there came a sound which froze the marrow of his bones. It +was a shrill shriek; the scream of a human soul in agony. + +“Help!… Help, Reeder!” + +It came from the direction of the room he had left, and he recognised +Daver’s voice. + +“Oh, God…!” + +The sound of a door slamming. Reeder took the stairs three at a time, +the detectives following him. Daver’s door he had left ajar, but in +the short time he had been downstairs it had been shut and bolted. + +“The crowbar, quick!” + +Gray had left it below, and, flying down, returned in a few seconds. + +No sound came from the room. Pushing the claw of the crowbar between +architrave and door at the point where he had seen the bolt, Reeder +levered it back and the door flew open with a crash. One step into the +apartment and then he stood stock still, glaring at the bed, unable to +believe his eyes. + +On the silken counterpane, sprawled in an indescribable attitude, his +round, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, was Daver. Mr. Reeder +knew that he was dead before he saw the terrible wound, or the +brown-hilted knife that stuck out from his side. + +Reeder listened at the heart--felt the pulse of the warm wrist, but it +was a waste of time, as he knew. He made a quick search of the +clothing. There was an inside pocket in the waistcoat, and here he +found a thick pad of banknotes. + +“All thousands,” said Mr. Reeder, “and ninety-five of them. What’s in +that packet?” + +It was a little cardboard folder, and contained a steamship ticket +from Southampton to New York, made out in the name of “Sturgeon”; and +in the coat pocket Reeder found a passport which was stamped by the +American Embassy and bore the same name. + +“He was ready to jump--but he delayed it too long,” he said. “Poor +devil!” + +“How did he get here, sir?” asked Gray. “They couldn’t have carried +him----” + +“He was alive enough when we heard him,” said Reeder curtly. “He was +being killed when we heard him shriek. There is a way into this room +we haven’t discovered yet. What’s that?” + +It was the sound of a muffled thud, as if a heavy door had been +closed. It seemed to come from somewhere in the room. Reeder took the +crowbar from the detective’s hand and attacked the panel behind the +settee. Beneath was solid wall. He ripped down another strip, with no +more enlightening result. Again he opened the divan. Its bottom was +made of a thin layer of oak. This too was ripped off; beneath this +again was the stone floor. + +“Strip it,” said Reeder, and when this was done he stepped inside the +divan and seesawed gingerly from one end to the other. + +“There’s nothing here,” he said. “Go downstairs and ’phone Mr. +Simpson. Tell him what has happened.” + +When the man had gone he resumed his examination of the body. Daver +had carried, attached to one of the buttons of his trousers, a long +gold chain. This was gone: he found it broken off close to the link, +and the button itself hanging by a thread. It was whilst he was making +his examination that his hand touched a bulky package in the dead +man’s hip pocket. It was a worn leather case, filled with scraps of +memoranda, mostly undecipherable. They were written in a formless +hand, generally with pencil, and the writing was large and irregular, +whilst the paper used for these messages was of every variety. One was +a scrawled chemical formula; another was a brief note which ran: + + + “House opposite Reeder to let. Engage or get key. Communicate usual + place.” + + +Some of these notes were understandable, some beyond Mr. Reeder’s +comprehension. But he came at last to a scrap which swept the colour +from his cheeks. It was written in the same hand on the selvedge of a +newspaper, and was crumpled into a ball: + + + “Belman fell over cliff 6 miles west Larme. Send men to get body + before police discover.” + + +Mr. J. G. Reeder read and the room spun round. + + + + + CHAPTER XVI + +/When/ Margaret Belman recovered consciousness she was in the open +air, lying in a little recess, effectively hidden from the mouth of +the cave. A man in a torn shirt and ragged trousers was standing by +her side, looking down at her. As she opened her eyes she saw him put +his finger to his mouth, as though to signal silence. His hair was +unkempt; streaks of dried blood zigzagged down his face, and the hair +above, she saw, was matted. Yet there was a certain kindliness in his +disfigured face which reassured her as he knelt down and, making a +funnel of his hands, whispered: + +“Be quiet! I’m sorry to have frightened you, but I was scared you’d +shout if you saw me. I suppose I look pretty awful.” + +His grin was very reassuring. + +“Who are you?” she asked in the same tone. + +“My name’s Brill, C.I.D.” + +“How did you get here?” she asked. + +“I’d like to be able to tell you,” he answered grimly. “You’re Miss +Belman, aren’t you?” + +She nodded. He lifted his head, listening, and, flattening himself +against the rock, craned out slowly and peeped round the edge of his +hiding-place. He did not move for about five minutes, and by this time +she had risen to her feet. Her knees were dreadfully shaky; she felt +physically sick, and once again her mouth was dry and parched. + +Apparently satisfied, he crept back to her side. + +“I was left on duty in Reeder’s room. I thought I heard him calling +from the window--you can’t distinguish voices when they whisper--and +asking me to come out quick, as he wanted me. I’d hardly dropped to +the ground before--cosh!” He touched his head gingerly and winced. +“That’s all I remember till I woke up and found myself drowning. I’ve +been in the cave all the morning--naturally.” + +“Why naturally?” she whispered. + +“Because the beach is covered with water at high tide and the cave’s +the only place. It is a little too densely populated for me just now.” + +She stared at him in amazement. + +“Populated? What do you mean?” + +“Whisper!” he warned her, for she had raised her voice. + +Again he listened. + +“I’d like to know how they get down--Daver and that old devil.” + +She felt herself going white. + +“You mean… Flack?” + +He nodded. + +“Flack’s only been here about an hour, and how he got down God knows. +I suppose our fellows are patrolling the house?” + +“The police?” she asked in astonishment. + +“Flack’s headquarters--didn’t you know it? I suppose you wouldn’t. I +thought Reeder--I mean Mr. Reeder--told you everything.” + +He was rather a talkative young man, more than a little exuberant at +finding himself alive, and with good reason. + +“I’ve been dodging in and out the cave all the morning. They’ve got a +sentry on duty up there”--he nodded towards Siltbury. “It’s a +marvellous organisation. They held up a gold convoy this morning and +got away with it--I heard the old man telling his daughter. The funny +thing is that though he wasn’t there to superintend the steal, his +plan worked out like clockwork. It’s a curious thing, any crook will +work for old Flack. He’s employed the cleverest people in the +business, and Ravini is the only man that ever sold him.” + +“Do you know what has happened to Mr. Ravini?” she asked, and he shook +his head. + +“He’s dead, I expect. There are a lot of things in the cave that I +haven’t seen, and some that I have. They’ve got a petrol boat inside… +as big as a church!… the boat, I mean… hush!” + +Again he shrank against the cliff. Voices were coming nearer and +nearer. Perhaps it was the peculiar acoustics of the cave which gave +him the illusion that the speakers were standing almost at their +elbow. Brill recognised the thin, harsh voice of the old man and +grinned again, but it was not a pleasant smile to see. + +“There’s something wrong, something damnably wrong. What is it, Olga?” + +“Nothing, father.” + +Margaret recognised the voice of Olga Crewe. + +“You have been very good and very patient, my love, and I would not +have planned to come out, but I wanted to see you settled in life. I +am very ambitious for you, Olga.” + +A pause, and then: + +“Yes, father.” + +Olga Crewe’s voice was a little dispirited, but apparently the old man +did not notice this. + +“You are to have the finest husband in the land, my dear. You shall +have a house that any princess would envy. It shall be of white marble +with golden cupolas… you shall be the richest woman in the land, Olga. +I have planned this for you. Night after night as I lay in bed in that +dreadful place I said to myself: ‘I must go out and settle Olga’s +future.’ That is why I came out--only for that reason. All my life I +have worked for you.” + +“Mother says----” began the girl. + +“Pah!” Old John Flack almost spat the word. “An unimaginative +commoner, with the soul of a housekeeper! She has looked after you +well? Good. All the better for her. I would never have forgiven her if +she had neglected you. And Daver? He has been respectful? He has given +you all the money you wanted?” + +“Yes, father.” + +Margaret thought she detected a catch in the girl’s voice. + +“Daver is a good servant. I will make his fortune. The scum of the +gutter--but faithful. I told him to be your watch-dog. I am pleased +with him. Be patient a little while longer. I am going to see all my +dreams come true.” + +The voice of the madman was tender, so transfigured by love and pride +that it seemed to be a different man who was speaking. Then his voice +changed again. + +“The Colonel will be back to-night. He is a trustworthy man… Gregory +also. They shall be paid like ambassadors. You must bear with me a +little while, Olga. All these unpleasant matters will be cleared up. +Reeder we shall dispose of. To-morrow at high tide we leave…” + +The sound of the voices receded until they became an indistinguishable +murmur. Brill looked round at the girl and smiled again. + +“Can you beat him?” he asked admiringly. “Crazy as a barn coot! But he +has the cleverest brain in London: even Reeder says that. God! I’d +give ten years’ salary and all my chance of promotion for a gun!” + +“What shall we do?” she asked after a long silence. + +“Stay here till the tide turns, then we’ll have to take our chance in +the cave. We’d be smashed to pieces if we waited on the beach.” + +“There’s no way up the cliff?” + +He shook his head. + +“There’s a way out through the cave if we can only find it,” he said. +“One way? A dozen! I tell you that this cliff is like a honeycomb. One +of these days it will collapse like froth on a glass of beer! I heard +Daver say so, and the mad fellow agreed. Mad? I wish I had his brain! +He’s going to dispose of Reeder, is he? The cemeteries are full of +people who’ve tried to dispose of Reeder!” + + + + + CHAPTER XVII + +/It/ seemed an eternity before the tide turned and began slowly to +make its noisy way up the beach. Most of the time she was alone in the +little recess, for Brill made periodical reconnaissances into the +mouth of the cave. She would have accompanied him, but he explained +the difficulties she would find. + +“It is quite dark until the tide comes in, and then we get the +reflected light from the water and you can see your way about quite +easily.” + +“Is there anybody there?” + +He nodded. + +“Two chaps who are tinkering about with a boat. She’s high and dry at +present on the bed of the channel, but she floats out quite easily.” + +The first whirl of water was around them when he came out from the +cave and beckoned her. + +“Keep close to the wall,” he whispered, “and hold fast to my sleeve.” + +She obeyed and followed him and they slipped round to the left, +following a fairly level path. Before they had come into the cave, he +had warned her that under no circumstances must she speak, not even +whisper, except through hollowed hands placed against his ear. The +properties of the cave were such that the slightest sound was +magnified. + +They went a long way to the left, and she thought that they were +following a passage; it was not until later that she discovered the +huge dimensions of this water-hollowed cavern. After a while he +reached back and touched her right hand, as a signal that he was +turning to the right. + +Whilst they were waiting on the beach he had drawn a rough plan in the +sand, and assured her that the ledge on which they now walked offered +no obstacle. He pressed her hand to warn her he was stopping, and, +bending down, he groped at the rocky wall where he had left his shoes. +Up and up they went; she began to see dimly now, though the cave +remained in darkness and she was unable with any accuracy to pick out +distant objects. His arm came back and she found herself guided into a +deep niche, and he patted her shoulder to tell her she could sit down. + +They had to wait another hour before a thin sheet of water showed at +the mouth of the cave, and then, as if by magic, the interior was +illuminated by a ghostly green light. The greatest height of the cave +it was impossible to tell from where she sat, because just above them +was a low and jagged roof. The farther side of the cave was distant +some fifty yards, and here the rocky wall seemed to run straight down +from the roof to the sandy bottom. It was under this that she saw the +motor boat, a long grey craft, entirely devoid of any superstructure. +It lay heeled over on its side, and she saw a figure walk along the +canted deck and disappear down a hatchway. The farther the water came +into the cave, the brighter grew the light. He circled his two hands +about her ear and whispered: + +“Shall we stay here or try to find a way out?” and she replied in like +fashion: + +“Let us try.” + +He nodded, and silently led the way. It was no longer necessary for +her to hold on to him. The path they were following had undoubtedly +been shaped by human hands. Every dozen yards was a rough-hewn block +of stone put across the path step fashion. They were ascending, and +now had the advantage of being screened by the cave from people on the +boat, for on their right rose a jagged screen of rock. + +They had not progressed a hundred yards before screen and wall joined, +and beyond this point progress seemed impossible. The passage was in +darkness. Apparently Brill had explored the way, for, taking the girl +by the arm, he moved to the right, feeling along the uneven wall. The +path beneath was more difficult, and the rocky floor made walking a +pain. She was near to exhaustion when she saw, ahead of her, an +irregular patch of grey light. Apparently this curious gallery led +back to the far end of the cave, but before they reached the opening +Brill signalled her to halt. + +“You’d better sit down,” he whispered. “We can put on our shoes.” + +The stockings that she had knotted about her waist were still wet, and +her shoes two soggy masses, but she was glad to have some protection +for her feet. Whilst she was putting them on, Brill crept forward to +the opening and took observation. + +The water which had now flooded the cave was some fifty feet below +him, and a few paces would bring them to a broad ledge of rock which +formed a natural landing for a flight of steps leading down from the +misty darkness of the roof to water-level. The steps were cut in the +side of the bare rock; they were about two feet in breadth and were +unprotected even by a makeshift handrail. It would be, he saw, a +nerve-racking business for the girl to attempt the climb, and he was +not even sure that it would be worth the attempt. That they led to one +of the many exits from the cave, he knew, because he had seen people +climbing up and down those steps and disappearing in the darkness at +the top. Possibly the stairs broadened nearer the roof, but even so it +was a very severe test for a half-starved girl, who he guessed was on +the verge of hysteria; he was not quite certain that he himself would +not be attacked by vertigo if he made the attempt. + +There was a space behind the steps that brought him to the edge of the +rock, part of the floor of the cave, and it was this way that he +intended to guide Margaret. There was no sound; far away to his right +the men on the launch were apparently absorbed in their work, and, +returning, he told the girl his plan, and she accompanied him to the +foot of the steps. At the sight of that terrifying stairway she +shuddered. + +“I couldn’t possibly climb those,” she whispered as he pointed upwards +into the gloom. + +“I have an idea there is a sort of balcony running the width of the +cave, and it was from there I was thrown,” he said. “I have reason to +know that there is a fairly deep pool at the foot of it. When the tide +is up, the water reaches the back wall--that is where I found myself +when I came to my senses.” + +“Is there any other way from the cave?” she asked. + +He shook his head. + +“I’m blest if I know. I’ve only had a very hasty look round, but there +seems to be a sort of tunnel at the far end. It’s worth while +exploring--nobody is about, and we are too far from the boat for them +to see us.” + +They waited for a while, listening, and then, Brill walking ahead, +they passed the foot of the stairs and followed a stony path which, to +the girl’s relief, broadened as they progressed. + +Margaret Belman never forgot that nightmare walk, with the towering +rock face on her left, the straight drop to the floor of the cave on +her right hand. + +They had now reached the limit of the rocky chamber, and found +themselves confronted by the choice of four openings. There was one +immediately facing them, another--and this was also accessible--about +forty feet to the right, and two others which apparently could not be +reached. Leaving Margaret, Brill groped his way into the nearest. He +was gone half an hour before he returned with a story of failure. + +“The whole cliff is absolutely bored with rock passages,” he said. “I +gave it up because it is impossible to go far without a light.” + +The second opening promised better. The floor was even, and it had +this advantage that it ran straight in line with the mouth of the +cave, and there was light for a considerable distance. She followed +him along this passage. + +“It is worth trying,” he said, and she nodded her agreement. + +They had not gone far before he discovered something which he had +overlooked on his first trip. At regular intervals there were niches +in the wall. He had noticed these, but had failed to observe their +extraordinary regularity. The majority were blocked with loose stone, +but he found one that had not been so guarded, and felt his way round +the wall. It was a square, cell-like chamber, so exactly proportioned +that it must have been created by the hand of man. He came back to +announce his intention of exploring the next of the closed cells. + +“These walls haven’t been built up for nothing,” he told her, and +there was a note of suppressed excitement in his voice. + +The farther they progressed, the poorer and more inadequate was the +light. They had to feel their way along the wall until the next recess +was reached. Flat slabs of rock, laid one on the other, had been piled +up in the entrance, and the work of removing the top layers was a +painful one. Margaret could not help him. She sat with her back to the +wall and fell into the uneasy sleep of exhaustion. She had almost +ceased to be hungry, though her throat was parched with a maddening +thirst. She woke heavily and found Brill shaking her shoulder. + +“I’ve been inside”--his voice was quavering with excitement. “Hold out +your hands, both together!” + +She obeyed mechanically, and felt something cold drip into her palms, +and, drooping her head, drank. The sting of the wine took her breath +away. + +“Champagne,” he whispered. “Don’t drink too much or you’ll get tight!” + +She sipped again. Never had wine tasted so delicious. + +“It’s a storehouse; boxes of food, I think, and hundreds of bottles of +wine. Hold your hands.” + +He poured more wine into her palms; most of it escaped through her +fingers, but she drank eagerly the few drops that remained. + +“Wait here.” + +She was very much awake now; peered into the darkness towards the +place where he had disappeared. Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour +passed, and then to her joy there appeared from behind the stony +barrier, revealing in silhouette the hole through which Brill had +crawled, a white and steady light. She heard the crack and crash of a +box being opened, saw the bulk of the detective as he appeared in the +hole, and in a second he was by her side. + +“Biscuits,” he said. “Luckily the box was labelled.” + +“What was the light?” she asked, as she seized the crackers eagerly. + +“A small battery lantern; I knocked it over as I was groping. The +place is simply stocked with grub! Here’s a drink for you.” + +He handed her a flat, round tin, guided her finger to the hole he had +punched. + +“Preserved milk--German and good stuff,” he said. + +She drank thirstily, not taking her lips from the tin until it was +empty. + +“This seems to be the ship’s store,” he said, “but the great blessing +is the lamp. I’m going in to see if I can find a box of refills; there +isn’t a great deal of juice left in the battery.” + +His search occupied a considerable time, and then she saw the light go +out and her heart sank, until the light flashed up again, this time +more brilliant than ever. He scrambled out and dropped down the rugged +wall and pushed something heavy into her hand. + +“A spare lamp,” he said. “There are half a dozen there, and enough +refills to last us a month.” + +He struck the stone wall with something that clanged. + +“A case-opener,” he explained, “and a useful weapon. I wonder which of +these storehouses holds the guns?” + +The exploration of the passage could now be made in comparative +comfort. There was need of the lamps, for a few yards further on the +tunnel turned abruptly to the right, and the floor became more +irregular. Brill turned on his light and showed the way. Now the +passage turned to the left, and he pointed out how smooth were the +walls. + +“Water action,” he said. “There must have been a subterranean river +here at some time.” + +Twisting and turning, the gallery led now up, now down, now taking +almost a hairpin turn, now sweeping round in an almost perfect curve, +but leading apparently nowhere. + +Brill was walking ahead, the beam of his lamp sweeping along the +ground, when she saw him stop suddenly, and, stooping, he picked +something from the ground. + +“How the dickens did this get here?” + +On the palm of his hand lay a bright silver florin, a little battered +at the edge, but unmistakably a two-shilling piece. + +“Somebody has been here----” he began, and then she uttered a cry. + +“Oh!” gasped Margaret. “That was Mr. Reeder’s!” + +She told him of the incident at the well; how J. G. Reeder had dropped +the coin to test the distance. Brill put the light of his lamp on the +ceiling; it was solid rock. And then he sent the rays moving along, +and presently the lamp focussed on a large round opening. + +“Here is the well that never was a well,” he said grimly; and flashing +the light upward, looked open-mouthed at the steel rungs fitted every +few inches in the side of the well. + +“A ladder,” he said slowly. “What do you know about that?” + +He reached up, standing on tiptoe, but the nearest rung was at least a +yard beyond his hand, and he looked round for some loose stones which +he could pile and from the top of which he could reach the lowest bar +of the ladder. But none was in sight, except a few splinters of stone +which were valueless for his purpose. And then he remembered the +case-opener; it had a hook at the end, and, holding this above his +head, he leapt. The first time he missed; the second time the hook +caught the steel rung and the handle slipped from his grip, leaving +the case-opener dangling. He rubbed his hands on the dusty floor and +sprang again. This time he caught and held, and with a superhuman +effort pulled himself up until his hand gripped the lower rung. +Another struggle, and he had drawn himself up hand over hand till his +feet rested on the bar. + +“Do you think if I pulled you up you have strength to climb?” he +asked. + +She shook her head. + +“I’m afraid not. Go up alone; I will wait here.” + +“Keep clear of the bottom,” he warned her. “I may not fall, but as +likely as not I shall dislodge a few chunks of rock in my progress.” + +The warning was well justified, she found. There was a continuous +shower of stone and earth as he progressed. From time to time he +stopped to rest. Once he shouted down something which she could not +distinguish. It was probably a warning, for a few seconds later a mass +of rock as large as a man’s head crashed down and smashed on the +floor, sending fragments flying in all directions. + +Peeping up from time to time, she could see the glimmer of his lamp +growing fainter; and now, left alone, she began to grow nervous, and +for company switched on her light. She had hardly done so when she +heard a sound which brought her heart to her mouth. It was the sound +of footsteps; somebody was walking along the passage towards her. + +She turned the switch of the lamp and listened. The old man’s voice! +Only his, and none other. He was talking to himself, a babble of +growling sound that was becoming more and more distinct. And then, far +away, she saw the glow of a reflected light, for the passage swept +round at this point and he would not be visible until he was upon her. + +Slipping off her shoes, she sped along in the darkness, tumbling and +sliding on the uneven pathway. After a while panic left her and she +stopped and looked back. The light was no longer visible; there was +neither sound nor sign of him; and, plucking up courage, after a few +minutes she retraced her steps. She dared not put on the light, and +must guess where the well opening was. In the darkness she passed it, +and she was soon a considerable distance beyond the place where Brill +had left her. + +Where had Flack gone? There were no side passages. She was standing by +one of the recesses, her hand resting on the improvised stone screen, +when to her horror she felt it moving away from her, and had just time +to shrink back when she saw a crack of light appear on the opposite +wall and broaden until there was outlined the shape of a doorway. + +“… To-night, my dear, to-night.… I’m going up to see Daver. Daver is +worrying me… you are sure nothing has happened that might shake my +confidence in him?” + +“Nothing, father. What could have happened?” + +It was Olga Crewe’s voice. She said something else which Margaret +could not hear, and then she heard the chuckling laugh of the old man. + +“Reeder? He’s busy in London! But he’ll be back to-night…” + +Again a question which Margaret could not catch. + +“The body hasn’t been found. I didn’t want to hurt the girl, but she +was useful… my best card.… I could have caught Reeder with her--had it +all arranged.” + +Another question. + +“I suppose so. The tide is very high. Anyway, I saw her fall…” + +Margaret knew they were talking about her, but this interested her +less than the possibility of discovery. She walked backward, step by +step, hoping and praying that she would find a niche into which she +could shrink. Presently she found what she wanted. + +Flack had come out into the passage and was standing talking back into +the room. + +“All right, I’ll leave the door open… imagination. There’s plenty of +air. The well supplies that. I’ll be back this evening.” + +She dared not look, but after a while his footsteps became fainter. +The door was still open, and she saw a shadow growing larger on the +opposite wall, as Olga approached the entrance. Presently she heard a +sigh; the shadow became small again, and finally disappeared. Margaret +crept forward, hardly daring to breathe, until she came behind the +open door. + +It was, she guessed, made of stout oak, and the surface had been so +cunningly camouflaged with splinters of rock that it differed in no +respect from the walled recess into which Brill had broken. + +Curiosity is dominant in the most rational of individuals, and, +despite her terrible danger, Margaret was curious to see the inside of +that rocky home of the Flacks. With the utmost caution she peeped +round. She was surprised at the size of the room and a little +disappointed in its furnishing. She had pictured rich rugs and +gorgeous furniture, the walls perhaps covered with silken hangings. +Instead, she saw a plain deal table on which stood a lamp, a strip of +threadbare carpet, two basket chairs, and a camp bed. Olga was +standing by the table, looking down at a newspaper; her back was +towards the girl, and Margaret had time to make a more prolonged +scrutiny. + +Near the table were three or four suit-cases, packed and strapped as +though in preparation for a journey. A fur coat lay across the bed, +and that was the only evidence of luxury in this grim apartment. There +was a second person in the room. Margaret distinguished in the shadow +the drooping figure of a woman--Mrs. Burton. + +She took a step forward to see better; her feet slipped upon the +smooth surface of the rock, and she fell forward against the door, +half closing it. + +“Who is there? Is that you, father?” + +Margaret’s heart nearly stopped beating, and for a moment she stood +paralysed, incapable of movement. Then, as Olga’s footsteps sounded, +she turned and fled along the passage, gripping tight her lantern. +Olga’s voice challenged her, but on and on she ran. The corridor was +growing lighter, and with a gasp of horror she realised that in the +confusion of the moment she had taken the wrong direction and she was +running towards the great cave, possibly into the old madman’s hands. + +She heard the quick patter of footsteps behind her, and flew on. And +now she was in the almost bright light of the huge cavern. There was +nobody in sight, and she followed the twisting ledge that ran under +the wall of rock until she came to the foot of the long stairs. And +then she heard a shout. Somebody on the boat had seen her. As she +stood motionless with fear, mad John Flack appeared. He was coming +towards her through the passage by which she and Brill had reached the +interior of the cave. For a second he stared at her as though she were +some ghastly apparition of his mad dreams, and then with a roar he +leapt towards her. + +She hesitated no longer. In a second she was flying up that awful +staircase, death on her right hand, but a more hideous fate behind. +Higher and higher up those unrailed stairs… she dared not look, she +dared not think, she could only keep her eyes steadfastly upwards into +the misty gloom where this interminable Jacob’s-ladder ended on some +solid floor. Not for a fortune would she have looked behind, or +vertigo would have seized her. Her breath was coming in long sobs; her +heart beat as though it would burst. She dared pause for an +infinitesimal time to recover breath before she continued her flight. +He was an old man; she could outdistance him. But he was a madman, a +thing of terrible and abnormal energy. Panic was leaving her; it +exhausted too much of her strength. Upward and upward she climbed, +until she was in gloom, and then, when it seemed that she could get no +farther, she reached the head of the stairs. A broad, flat space, with +a rocky roof which, for some reason, had been strengthened with +concrete pillars. There were dozens of these pillars… once she had +taken a fortnight’s holiday in Spain; there was a cathedral in +Cordova, of which this broad vault reminded her… all sense of +direction was lost now. She came with terrifying suddenness to a blank +wall; ran along it until she came to a narrow opening where there were +five steps, and here she stopped to turn on her light. Facing her was +a steel door with a great iron handle, and the steel door was ajar. + +She pulled it towards her, ran through, pulled the door behind her; it +fastened with a click. It had something attached to its inner side, a +steel projection… as she shut the door a box fell with a crash. There +was yet another door before her, and this was immovable. She was in a +tiny white box of a room, three feet wide, little more in depth. She +had no time to continue her observations. Some one was fumbling with +the handle of the door through which she had come. She gripped in +desperation at the iron shelf and felt it slide a little to the right. +Though she did not know this, the back part of the shelf acted as a +bolt. Again she heard the fumbling at the handle and the click of a +key turning, but the steel door remained immovable, and Margaret +Belman sank in a heap to the ground. + + + + + CHAPTER XVIII + +/J. G. Reeder/ came downstairs, and those who saw his face realised +that it was not the tragedy he had almost witnessed which had made him +so white and drawn. + +He found Gray in Daver’s office, waiting for his call to London. It +came through as Reeder entered the room, and he took the instrument +from his subordinate’s hand. He dismissed the death of Daver in a few +words, and went on: + +“I want all the local policemen we can muster, Simpson, though I think +it would be better if we could get soldiers. There’s a garrison town +five miles from here; the beaches have to be searched, and I want +these caves explored. There is another thing: I think it would be +advisable to get a destroyer or something to patrol the water before +Siltbury. I’m pretty sure that Flack has a motor boat--there’s a +channel deep enough to take it, and apparently there is a cave that +stretches right under the cliff.… Miss Belman? I don’t know. That is +what I want to find out.” + +Simpson told him that the gold-wagon had been seen at Sevenoaks, and +it required a real effort on Mr. Reeder’s part to bring his mind to +such a triviality. + +“I think soldiers will be best. I’d like a strong party posted near +the quarry. There’s another cave there where Daver used to keep his +wagons. I have an idea you might pick up the money to-night. That,” he +added, a little bitterly, “will induce the authorities to use the +military!” + +After the ambulance had come and the pitiable wreck of Daver had been +removed, he returned to the man’s suite with a party of masons he had +brought up from Siltbury. Throwing open the lid of the divan, he +pointed to the stone floor. + +“That flag works on a pivot,” he said, “but I think it is fastened +with a bolt or a bar underneath. Break it down.” + +A quarter of an hour was sufficient to shatter the stone flooring, and +then, as he had expected, he found a narrow flight of stairs leading +to a square stone room which remained very much as it had been for six +hundred years. A dusty, bare apartment, which yielded its secret. +There was a small open door and a very narrow passage, along which a +stout man would walk with some difficulty, and which led to behind the +panelling of Daver’s private office. Mr. Reeder realised that anybody +concealed here could hear every word that was spoken. And now he +understood Daver’s frantic plea that he should lower his voice when he +spoke of the marriage. Crazy Jack had learnt the secret of his +daughter’s degradation--from that moment Daver’s death was inevitable. + +How had the madman escaped? That required very little explanation. At +some remote period Larmes Keep had evidently been used as a show +place. He found an ancient wooden inscription fixed to the wall, which +told the curious that this was the torture-chamber of the old Counts +of Larme; it added the useful information that the dungeons were +immediately beneath and approached through a stone trap. This the +detectives found, and Mr. Reeder had his first view of the vaulted +dungeons of Larmes Keep. + +It was neither an impressive nor a thrilling exploration. All that was +obvious was that there were three routes by which the murderer could +escape, and that all three ways led back to the house, one exit being +between the kitchen and the vestibule. + +“There is another way out,” said Reeder shortly, “and we haven’t found +it yet.” + +His nerves were on edge. He roamed from room to room, turning out +boxes, breaking open cupboards, emptying trunks. One find he made: it +was the marriage certificate, and it was concealed in the lining of +Olga Crewe’s dressing-bag. + +At seven o’clock the first detachment of troops arrived by motor van. +The local police had already reported that they had found no trace of +Margaret Belman. They pointed out that the tide was falling when the +girl left Larmes Keep, and that, unless she was lying on some +invisible ledge, she might have reached the beach in safety. There +was, however, a very faint hope that she was alive. How faint, J. G. +Reeder would not admit. + +A local cook had been brought in to prepare dinner for the detective, +but Reeder contented himself with a cup of strong coffee--food, he +felt, would have choked him. + +He had posted a detachment in the quarry, and, returning to the house, +was sitting in the big hall pondering the events of the day, when Gray +came flying into the room. + +“Brill!” he gasped. + +J. G. Reeder sprang to his feet with a bound. + +“Brill?” he repeated huskily. “Where is Brill?” + +There was no need for Gray to point. A dishevelled and grimy figure, +supported by a detective, staggered through the doorway. + +“Where have you come from?” asked Reeder. + +The man could not speak for a second. He pointed to the ground, and +then, hoarsely: + +“From the bottom of the well… Miss Belman is down there now!” + +Brill was in a state of collapse, and not until he had had a stiff +dose of brandy was he able to articulate a coherent story. Reeder led +a party to the shrubbery, and the windlass was tested. + +“It won’t bear even the weight of a woman, and there’s not sufficient +rope,” said Gray, who made the test. + +One of the officers remembered that, in searching the kitchen, he had +found two window-cleaners’ belts, stout straps with a safety-hook +attached. He went in search of these, whilst Mr. Reeder stripped his +coat and vest. + +“There’s a gap of four feet half-way down,” warned Brill. “The stone +came away when I put my foot on it, and I nearly fell.” + +Reeder, his lamp swung round his neck, peered down into the hole. + +“It’s strange I didn’t see this ladder when I saw the well before,” he +said, and then remembered that he had only opened one half of the +flap. + +Gray, who was also equipped with a belt, descended first, as he was +the lighter of the two. By this time half a company of soldiers were +on the scene, and by the greatest of good fortune the unit that had +been turned out to assist the police was a company of the Royal +Engineers. Whilst one party went in search of ropes, the other began +to extemporise a hauling gear. + +The two men worked their way down without a word. The lamps were +fairly useless, for they could not show them the next rung, and after +a while they began to move more cautiously. Gray found the gap and +called a halt whilst he bridged it. The next rung was none too secure, +Mr. Reeder thought, as he lowered his weight upon it, but they passed +the danger zone with no other mishap than that which was caused by big +pebbles dropping on Reeder’s head. + +It seemed as though they would never reach the bottom, and the strain +was already telling upon the older man, when Gray whispered: + +“This is the bottom, I think,” and sent the light of his lamp +downwards. Immediately afterwards he dropped to the rocky floor of the +passage, Mr. Reeder following. + +“Margaret!” he called in a whisper. + +There was no reply. He threw the light first one way and then the +other, but Margaret was not in sight, and his heart sank. + +“You go farther along the passage,” he whispered to Gray. “I’ll take +the other direction.” + +With the light of his lamp on the ground, he half walked, half ran +along the twisting gallery. Ahead of him he heard the sound of a +movement not easily identified, and he stopped to extinguish the +light. Moving cautiously forward, he turned an angle of the passage +and saw at the far end indication of daylight. Sitting down, he looked +along, and after a while he thought he saw a figure moving against +this artificial skyline. Mr. Reeder crept forward, and this time he +was not relying upon a rubber truncheon. He thumbed down the +safety-catch of his Browning and drew nearer and nearer to the figure. +Most unexpectedly it spoke. + +“Olga, where has your father gone?” + +It was Mrs. Burton, and Reeder showed his teeth in an unamused grin. + +He did not hear the reply: it came from some recessed place, and the +sound was muffled. + +“Have they found that girl?” + +Mr. Reeder listened breathlessly, craning his neck forward. The “No” +was very distinct. + +Then Olga said something that he could not hear, and Mrs. Burton’s +voice took on her old whine of complaint. + +“What’s the use of hanging about? That’s the way you’ve always treated +me.… Nobody would think I was your mother.… I wonder I’m not dead, the +trouble I’ve had.… I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t murder me some +day, you mark my words!” + +There came an impatient protest from the hidden girl. + +“If you’re sick of it, what about me?” said Mrs. Burton shrilly. +“Where’s Daver? It’s funny your father hasn’t said anything about +Daver. Do you think he’s got into trouble?” + +“Oh, damn Daver!” + +Olga’s voice was distinct now. The passion and weariness in it would +have made Mr. Reeder sorry for her in any other circumstances. He was +too busy being sorry for Margaret Belman to worry about this fateful +young woman. + +She did not know, at any rate, that she was a widow. Mr. Reeder +derived a certain amount of gruesome satisfaction from the superiority +of his intelligence. + +“Where is he now? Your father, I mean?” + +A pause, as she listened to a reply which was not intelligible to Mr. +Reeder. + +“On the boat? He’ll never get across. I hate ships, but a tiny little +boat like that…! Why couldn’t he let us go, when we got him out? I +begged and prayed him to… we might have been in Venice or somewhere by +now, doing the grand.” + +The girl interrupted her angrily, and then Mrs. Burton apparently +melted into the wall. + +There was no sound of a closing door, but Mr. Reeder guessed what had +happened. He came forward stealthily till he saw the bar of light on +the opposite wall, and, reaching the door, listened. The voices were +clear enough now; clearer because Mrs. Burton did most of the talking. + +“Do you think your father knows?” She sounded rather anxious. “About +Daver, I mean? You can keep that dark, can’t you? He’d kill me if he +knew. He’s got such high ideas about you--princes and dukes and such +rubbish! If he hadn’t been mad he’d have cleared out of this game +years ago, as I told him, but he’d never take much notice of me.” + +“Has anybody ever taken any notice of you?” asked the girl wearily. “I +wanted the old man to let you go. I knew you would be useless in a +crisis.” + +Mr. Reeder heard the sound of a sob. Mrs. Burton cried rather easily. + +“He’s only stopping to get Reeder,” she whimpered. “What a fool trick! +That silly old man! Why, I could have got him myself if I was wicked +enough!” + +From farther along the corridor came the sound of a quick step. + +“There’s your father,” said Mrs. Burton, and Reeder pulled back the +jacket of his Browning, sacrificing the cartridge that was already in +the chamber, in order that there should be no mistake. + +The footsteps stopped abruptly, and at the same time came a booming +voice from the far end of the passage. It was asking a question. +Evidently Flack turned back: his footsteps died away. Mr. Reeder +decided that this was not his lucky day. + +Lying full length on the ground, he could see John Flack clearly. A +pressure of his finger, and the problem of this evil man would be +settled eternally. It was a fond idea. Mr. Reeder’s finger closed +around the trigger, but all his instincts were against killing in cold +blood. + +Somebody was coming from the other direction. Gray, he guessed. He +must go back and warn him. Coming to his feet, he went gingerly along +the passage. The thing he feared happened. Gray must have seen him, +for he called out in stentorian tones: + +“There’s nothing at the other end of the passage, Mr. Reeder----” + +“Hush, you fool!” snarled Reeder, but he guessed that the mischief was +done. + +He turned round, stooped again and looked. Old John Flack was standing +at the entrance of the tunnel, his head bent. Somebody else had heard +the detective’s voice. With a squeak of fear, Mrs. Burton had bolted +into the passage, followed by her daughter--an excursion which +effectively prevented the use of the pistol, for they completely +masked the man whose destruction J. G. Reeder had privately sworn. + +By the time he came to the end of the passage overlooking the great +cave, the two women and Flack had disappeared. + +Mr. Reeder’s eyesight was of the keenest. He immediately located the +boat, which was now floating on an even keel, and presently saw the +three fugitives. They had descended to the water’s edge by a +continuance of the long stairway which led to the roof, and were +making for the rocky platform which served as a pier for the craft.… + +Something smacked against the rock above his head. There was a shower +of stone and dust, and the echoes of the explosion which followed were +deafening. + +“Firing from the boat,” said Mr. Reeder calmly. “You had better lie +down, Gray--I should hate to see so noisy a man as you reduced to +compulsory silence.” + +“I’m very sorry, Mr. Reeder,” said the penitent detective. “I had no +idea----” + +“Ideas!” said Mr. Reeder accurately. + +_Smack… smack!_ + +One bullet struck to the left of him, the other passed exactly between +him and Gray. He was lying down now, with a small projection of rock +for cover. + +Was Margaret on the boat? Even as the thought occurred to him, he +remembered “Mrs. Burton’s” inquiry. As he saw another flash from the +deck of the launch, he threw forward his hand. There was a double +explosion which reverberated back from the arched roof, and although +he could not see the effect of his shots, he was satisfied that the +bullets fell on the launch. + +She was pushing off from the side. The three Flacks were aboard. And +now he heard the crackle and crash of her engine as her nose swung +round to face the cave opening. And then into his eyes from the +darkening sea outside the cave flashed a bright light that illuminated +the rocky shelf on which he lay, and threw the motor boat into relief. + +The destroyer! + +“Thank God for that!” said Mr. Reeder fervently. + +Those on the motor launch had seen the vessel and guessed its portent. +The launch swung round until her nose pointed to where the two +detectives lay, and from her deck came a roar louder than ever. So +terrible was the noise in that confined space that for a second Mr. +Reeder was too dazed even to realise that he was lying half buried in +a heap of debris, until Gray pulled him back to the passage. + +“They’re using a gun, a quick-firer!” he gasped. + +Mr. Reeder did not reply. He was gazing, fascinated, at something that +was happening in the middle of the cave, where the water was leaping +at irregular intervals from some mysterious cause. Then he realised +what was taking place. Great rocks, disturbed by the concussion, were +falling from the roof. He saw the motor boat heel over to the right, +swing round again, and head for the open. It was less than a dozen +yards from the cave entrance when, with a sound that was +indescribable, so terrific, so terrifying, that J. G. Reeder was +rooted to the spot, the entrance to the cave disappeared! + + + + + CHAPTER XIX + +/In/ an instant the air was filled with choking dust. Roar followed +roar as the rocks continued to fall. + +“The mouth of the cave has collapsed!” roared Reeder in the other’s +ear. “And the subsidence hasn’t finished.” + +His first instinct was to fly along the passage to safety, but +somewhere in that awful void were two women. He switched on his light +and crept gingerly back to the bench whence he had seen the +catastrophe. But the rays of the lamp could not penetrate into the fog +of dust for more than a few yards. + +Crawling forward to the edge of the platform, he strove to pierce the +darkness. All about him, above, below, on either side, a terrible +cracking and groaning was going on, as though the earth itself was in +mortal pain. Rocks, big and small, were falling from the roof; he +heard the splash of them as they struck the water--one fell on the +edge of the platform with a terrific din and bounded into the pit +below. + +“For God’s sake, don’t stay here, Mr. Reeder. You will be killed.” + +It was Gray shouting at him, but J. G. Reeder was already feeling his +way towards the steps which led down to where the boat had been +moored, and to which he guessed it would drift. He had to hold the +lamp almost at his feet. Breathing had become a pain. His face was +covered with powder; his eyes smarted excruciatingly; dust was in his +mouth, his nose; but still he went on, and was rewarded. + +Out of the dust-mist came groping the ghostly figure of a woman. It +was Olga Crewe. + +He gripped her by the arm as she swayed, and pushed her against the +rocky wall. + +“Where is your mother?” he shouted. + +She shook her head and said something: he lowered his ear to her +mouth. + +“… boat… great rock… killed.” + +“Your mother?” + +She nodded. Gripping her by the arm, he half led, half dragged her up +the stairs. He found Gray waiting at the top. As easily as though she +were a child, Mr. Reeder caught her up in his arms and staggered the +distance that separated them from the mouth of the passage. + +The pandemonium of splintering rock and crashing boulder was +continuous. The air was thicker than ever. Gray’s lamp went out, and +Mr. Reeder’s was almost useless. It seemed a thousand years before +they pushed into the mouth of the tunnel. The air was filled with dust +even here, but as they progressed it grew clearer, more breathable. + +“Let me down: I can walk,” said the husky voice of Olga Crewe, and +Reeder lowered her gently to her feet. + +She was very weak, but she could walk with the assistance that the two +men afforded. They stopped at the entrance of the living-room. Mr. +Reeder wanted the lamp--wanted more the water which she suggested +would be found in that apartment. + +A cold draught of spring water worked wonders on the girl too. + +“I don’t know what happened,” she said; “but when the cave opening +fell in, I think we drifted towards the stage… we always called that +place the stage. I was so frightened that I jumped immediately to +safety, and I’d hardly reached the rock when I heard a most awful +crash. I think a portion of the wall must have fallen on to the boat. +I screamed, but hardly heard myself in the noise… this is +punishment--this is punishment! I knew it would come! I knew it, I +knew it!” + +She covered her grimy face with her hands, and her shoulders shook in +the excess of her sorrow and grief. + +“There’s no sense in crying.” Mr. Reeder’s voice was sharp and stern. +“Where is Miss Belman?” + +She shook her head. + +“Where did she go?” + +“Up the stairway… father said she escaped. Haven’t you seen her?” she +asked, raising her tearful face as she began slowly to realise the +drift of his question. + +He shook his head, his narrowed eyes surveying her steadily. + +“Tell me the truth, Olga Flack. Did Margaret Belman escape, or did +your father----?” + +She was shaking her head before he had completed his sentence, and +then, with a little moan, she drooped and would have fallen had not +Gray supported her. + +“We had better leave the questioning till later.” + +Mr. Reeder seized the lamp from the table and went out into the +tunnel. He had hardly passed the door before there was a crash, and +the infernal noises which had come from the cave were suddenly +muffled. He looked backward, but could see nothing. He guessed what +had happened. + +“There is a general subsidence going on in this mass of earth,” he +said. “We shall be lucky if we get away.” + +He ran ahead to the opening of the well, and a glad sight met his +eyes. On the floor lay a coil of new rope, to which was attached a +body belt. He did not see the thin wire which came down from the mouth +of the well, but presently he detected a tiny telephone receiver that +the engineers had lowered. This he picked up, and his hail was +immediately answered. + +“Are you all right? Up here it feels as if there’s an earthquake +somewhere.” + +Gray was fastening the belt about the girl’s waist, and after it was +firmly buckled: + +“You mustn’t faint--do you understand, Miss Crewe? They will haul you +up gently, but you must keep away from the side of the well.” + +She nodded, and Reeder gave the signal. The rope grew taut, and +presently the girl was drawn up out of sight. + +“Up you go,” said Reeder. + +Gray hesitated. + +“What about you, sir?” + +For answer Mr. Reeder pointed to the lowest rung, and, stooping, +gripped the leg of the detective and, displaying an unsuspected +strength, lifted him bodily so that he was able to grip the lower +rung. + +“Fix your belt to the rod, hold fast to the nearest rung, and I will +climb up over you,” said Mr. Reeder. + +Never an acrobat moved with greater nimbleness than this man who so +loved to pose as an ancient. There was need for hurry. The very iron +to which he was clinging trembled and vibrated in his grasp. The fall +of stone down the well was continuous and constituted a very real +danger. Some of the rungs, displaced by the earth tremors, came away +in their grasp. They were less than half-way up when the air was +filled with a sighing and a hissing that brought Reeder’s heart to his +mouth. + +Holding on to a rung of the ladder, he put out his hand. The opposite +wall, which should have been well beyond his reach, was at less than +arm’s-length away! + +The well was bulging under unexpected and tremendous stresses. + +“Why have you stopped?” asked Gray anxiously. + +“To scratch my head,” snarled Reeder. “Hurry!” + +They climbed another forty or fifty feet, when from below came a +rumble and a crash that set the whole well shivering. + +They could see starlight now, and distant objects, which might be +heads, that overhung the mouth of the well. + +“Hurry!” breathed J. G. Reeder, and moved as rapidly as his younger +companion. + +_Boom!_ + +The sound of a great gun, followed by a thunderous rumbling, surged up +the well. + +J. G. Reeder set his teeth. Please God Margaret Belman had escaped +from that hell--or was mercifully dead! + +Nearer and nearer to the mouth they climbed, and every step they took +was accompanied by some new and awful noise from behind them. Gray’s +breath was coming in gasps. + +“I can’t go any further!” croaked the detective. “My strength has +gone!” + +“Go on, you miserable…!” yelled Reeder, and whether it was the shock +of hearing such violent language from so mild a man, or the discovery +that he was within a few feet of safety, Gray took hold of himself, +climbed a few more rungs, and then felt hands grip his arm and drag +him to safety. + +Mr. Reeder staggered out into the night air and blinked at the ring of +men who stood in the light of a naphtha flare. + +Was it his imagination, or was the ground swaying beneath his feet? + +“Nobody else to come up, Mr. Reeder?” + +The officer in charge of the Engineers asked the question, and Reeder +shook his head. + +“Then all you fellows clear!” said the officer sharply. “Move towards +the house and take the road to Siltbury--the cliff is collapsing in +sections.” + +The flare was put out, and the soldiers, abandoning their apparatus, +broke into a steady run towards Larmes Keep. + +“Where is the girl--Miss Crewe?” asked Reeder, suddenly remembering +her. + +“They’ve taken her to the house,” said Big Bill Gordon, who had made a +mysterious appearance from nowhere. “And, Reeder, we have captured the +gold-convoy! The two men in charge were a fellow who calls himself +Hothling and another named Dean--I think you know their real names.… +Caught them just as the trolley was driving into the quarry cave. This +means a big thing for you----” + +“To hell with you and your big things!” stormed Reeder in a fury. +“What big things do I want, my man, but the big thing I have lost?” + +Very wisely, Big Bill Gordon made no attempt to argue the matter. + +They found the banqueting-hall crowded with policemen, detectives, and +soldiers. The girl had been taken into Daver’s office, and here he +found her in the hands of the three women servants who had been +commandeered to run the establishment whilst the police were in +occupation. The dust had been washed from her face, and she was +conscious, but still in that half-bemused condition in which Reeder +had found her. + +She stared at him for a long time as though she did not recognise him +and was striving to recall that portion of her past in which he had +figured. When she spoke, it was to ask a question. + +“There is no news of--father?” + +“None,” said Reeder, almost brutally. “I think it will be better for +you, young lady, if he is dead.” + +She nodded. + +“He _is_ dead,” she said with conviction. And then, rousing herself, +she struggled to a sitting position and looked at the servants. Mr. +Reeder interpreted that glance and sent the women away. + +“I don’t know what you are going to do with me,” she said, “but I +suppose I am to be arrested--I should be arrested, for I have known +all that was happening, and I tried to lure you to your death.” + +“In Bennett Street, of course,” said Mr. Reeder. “I recognised you the +moment I saw you here--you were the lady with the rouged face.” + +She nodded and continued. + +“Before you take me away, I wish you would let me have some papers +that are in the safe,” she said. “They have no value to anybody but +myself.” + +He was curious enough to ask her what they were. + +“They are letters… in the big, flat box that is locked.… Even Daver +did not dare open that. You see, Mr. Reeder”--her breath came more +quickly--“before I met my--husband, I had a little romance--the sort +of romance that a young girl has when she is innocent enough to dream +and has enough faith in God to hope. Is my husband arrested?” she +asked suddenly. + +Mr. Reeder was silent for a moment. Sooner or later she must know the +truth, and he had an idea that this awful truth would not cause her +very much distress. + +“Your husband is dead,” he said. + +Her eyes opened wider. + +“Did my father----” + +“Your father killed him--I suppose so. I am afraid I was the cause. +Coming back to find Margaret Belman, I told Daver all that I knew +about your marriage. Your father must have been hiding behind the +panelling and heard.” + +“I see,” she said simply. “Of course it was father who killed him--I +knew that would happen as soon as he learnt the truth. Would you think +I was heartless if I said I am glad? I don’t think I am really glad: +I’m just relieved. Will you get the box for me?” + +She put her hand down her blouse, and pulled out a gold chain at the +end of which were two keys. + +“The first of these is the key of the safe. If you want to see +the--the letters, I will show them to you, but I would rather not.” + +At that moment he heard hurrying footsteps in the passage outside; the +door was pulled open, and a young officer of Engineers appeared. + +“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but Captain Merriman thinks we ought to +abandon this house. I’ve got out all the servants and we’re rushing +them down to Siltbury.” + +Reeder stooped down and drew the girl to her feet. + +“Take this lady with you,” he said, and, to Olga: “I will get your +box, and I may not--I am not quite sure--ask you to open it for me.” + +He waited till the officer had gone, and added: + +“Just now I am feeling rather--tender towards young lovers. That is a +concession which an old lover may make to youth.” + +His voice had grown husky. There was something in his face that +brought the tears to her eyes. + +“Was it… not Margaret Belman?” she asked in a hushed voice, and she +knew before he answered that she had guessed well. + +Tragedy dignified this strange-looking man, so far past youth, yet +holding the germ of youth in his heart. His hand fell gently on her +shoulder. + +“Go, my dear,” he said. “I will do what I can for you--perhaps I can +save you a great deal of unhappiness.” + +He waited until she had gone, then strolled into the deserted lounge. +What an eternity had passed since he had sat there, munching his toast +and drinking his cup of tea, with an illustrated newspaper on his +knees! + +The place in the half gloom seemed full of ancient ghosts. The House +of Tears! These walls had held sorrows more poignant, more hopeless +than his. + +He went to the panelled wall and rubbed his finger down the little +scar in the wood that a thrown knife had made, and smiled at the +triviality of that offence. + +He had reason to remember the circumstances, without the dramatic +reminder which nature gave. Suddenly the floor beneath him swayed, and +the two lights went out. He guessed that the earth tremors were +responsible for the snapping of wires, and he hurried into the +vestibule, and had passed from the house, when he remembered Olga +Crewe’s request. + +The lantern was still hanging about his neck. He switched it on and +went back to the safe and inserted the key. As he did so, the house +swayed backwards and forwards like a drunken man. The clatter of +glass, the crackle of overturned wardrobes, startled him, so that he +almost fled with his mission unperformed. He even hesitated; but a +promise was a promise to J. G. Reeder. He put the key in again, turned +the lock and pulled open one of the great doors--and Margaret Belman +fell into his arms! + + + + + CHAPTER XX + +/He/ stood, holding the half-swooning girl, peering into the face he +could only see by the reflected light of his lantern, and then +suddenly the safe fell back from him without warning, leaving a gaping +cavern. + +He lifted her in his arms, ran across the vestibule into the open air. +Somebody shouted his name in the distance, and he ran blindly towards +the voice. Once he stumbled over a great crack that had appeared in +the earth, but managed to recover himself, though he was forced to +release his grip of the girl. + +She was alive… breathing… her breath fanned his cheek and gave him new +strength.… + +The sound of falling walls behind him; immense, hideous roarings and +groanings; thunder of sliding chalk and rock and earth--he heard only +the breathing of his burden, felt only the faint beating of her heart +against his breast. + +“Here you are!” + +Somebody lifted Margaret Belman from his arms. A big soldier pushed +him into a wagon, where he sprawled at full length, breathless, more +dead than alive, by the side of the woman he loved; and then, with a +whirr of wheels, the ambulance sped down the hillside towards safety. +Behind him, in the darkness, the House of Tears shivered and crackled, +and the work of ancient masons vanished piecemeal, tumbling over new +cliffs, to be everlastingly engulfed and hidden from the sight of man. + +Dawn came and showed to an interested party that had travelled by road +and train to the scene of the great landslide, one grey wall, standing +starkly on the edge of a precipice. A portion of the wrecked floor +still adhered to the ruins, and on that floor the blood-stained bed +where old man Flack had laid his murdered servant.… + +The story which Olga Flack told the police, which appears in the +official records of the place, was not exactly the same as the story +she told to Mr. Reeder that afternoon when, at his invitation, she +came to the flat in Bennett Street. Mr. Reeder, minus his glasses and +his general air of respectability, which his vanished side-whiskers +had so enhanced, was at some disadvantage. + +“Yes, I think Ravini was killed,” she said, “but you are wrong in +supposing that I brought him to my room at the request of my father. +Ravini was a very quick-witted man, and recognised me. He came to +Larmes Keep because he”--she hesitated--“well, he was rather fond of +Miss Belman. He told me this, and I was rather amused. At that time I +did not know his name, although my husband did, and I certainly did +not connect him with my father’s arrest. He revealed his identity, and +I suppose there was something in my attitude, or something I said, +which recalled the schoolgirl he had met years before. The moment he +recognised me as John Flack’s daughter, he also recognised Larmes Keep +as my father’s headquarters. + +“He began to ask me questions: whether I knew where the Flack million, +as he called it, was hidden. And of course I was horrified, for I knew +why Daver had allowed him to come. + +“My father had recently escaped from Broadmoor, and I was worried sick +for fear he knew the trick that Daver had played. I wasn’t normal, I +suppose, and I came near to betraying my father, for I told Ravini of +his escape. Ravini did not take this as I had expected--he rather +overrated his own power, and was very confident. Of course, he did not +know that father was practically in the house, that he came up from +the cave every night----” + +“The real entrance to the cave was through the safe in the vestibule?” +said Mr. Reeder. “That was an ingenious idea. I must confess that the +safe was the last place in the world I should have considered.” + +“My father had it put there twenty years ago,” she said. “There always +was an entrance from the centre of the Keep to the caves below, many +of which were used as prisons or as burying-places by the ancient +owners of Larmes.” + +“Why did Ravini go to your room?” asked Mr. Reeder. “You will excuse +the--um--indelicacy of the question, but I want----” + +She nodded. + +“It was a last desperate effort on my part to scare Ravini from the +house--I took it on my way back that night. You mustn’t forget that I +was watched all the time; Daver or my mother were never far from me, +and I dared not let them know, and through them my father, that Ravini +was being warned. Naturally, Ravini, being what he was, saw another +reason for the invitation. He had decided to stay on until I made my +request for an interview, and told him that I wanted him to leave by +the first train in the morning after he learnt what I had to tell +him.” + +“And what had you to tell him?” asked Mr. Reeder. + +She did not answer immediately, and he repeated the question. + +“That my father had decided to kill him----” + +Mr. Reeder’s eyes almost closed. + +“Are you telling me the truth, Olga?” he asked gently, and she went +red and white. + +“I am not a good liar, am I?” Her tone was almost defiant. “Now, I’ll +tell you. I met Ravini when I was little more than a child. He meant… +a tremendous lot to me, and I don’t think I meant very much to him. He +used to come down to see me in the country where I was at school…” + +“He’s dead?” + +She could only nod her head. Her lips were quivering. + +“That is the truth,” she said at last. “The horror of it was that he +did not recognise me when he came to Larmes Keep. I had passed +completely from his mind, until I revealed myself in the garden that +night.” + +“Is he dead?” asked Mr. Reeder for the second time. + +“Yes,” she said. “They struck him down outside my room.… I don’t know +what they did with him. They put him through the safe, I think.” She +shuddered. + +J. G. Reeder patted her hand. + +“You have your memories, my child,” he said to the weeping girl, “and +your letters.” + +It occurred to him after Olga had gone that Ravini must have written +rather interesting letters. + + + + + CHAPTER XXI + +/Miss Margaret Belman/ decided to take a holiday in the only pleasure +resort that seemed worth while or endurable. She conveyed this +intention to Mr. Reeder by letter. + + + “There are only two places in the world where I can feel happy and + safe,” she said. “One place is London and the other New York, where a + policeman is to be found at every corner, and all the amusements of a + country life are to be had in an intensified form. So, if you please, + can you spare the time to come with me to the theatres I have written + down on the back of this sheet, to the National Gallery, the British + Museum, the Tower of London (no, on consideration I do not think I + should like to include the Tower of London: it is too mediaeval and + ghostly), to Kensington Gardens and similar centres of hectic gaiety. + Seriously, dear J. G. (the familiarity will make you wince, but I have + cast all shame outside), I want to be one of a large, sane mass--I am + tired of being an isolated, hysterical woman.” + + +There was much more in the same strain. Mr. Reeder took his engagement +book and ran a blue pencil through all his appointments before he +wrote, with some labour, a letter which, because of its caution and +its somewhat pompous terminology, sent Margaret Belman into fits of +silent laughter. + +She had not mentioned Richmond Park, and with good reason, one might +suppose, for Richmond Park in the late autumn, when chilly winds +abound, and the deer have gone into winter quarters--if deer ever go +into winter quarters--is picturesque without being comfortable, and +only a pleasure to the aesthetic eyes of those whose bodies are +suitably clothed in woollen underwear. + +Yet, one drab, grey afternoon, Mr. Reeder chartered a taxicab, sat +solemnly by the side of Miss Margaret Belman as the cab bumped and +jerked down Clarence Lane, possibly the worst road in England, before +it turned through the iron gates of the park. + +They came at last to a stretch of grass land and bush, a place in +early summer of flowering rhododendrons, and here Mr. Reeder stopped +the cab and they both descended and walked aimlessly through a little +wood. The ground sloped down to a little carpeted hollow. Mr. Reeder, +with a glance of suspicion and some reference to rheumatism, seated +himself by Miss Belman’s side. + +“But why Richmond Park?” asked Margaret. + +Mr. Reeder coughed. + +“I have--um--a romantic interest in Richmond Park,” he said. “I +remember the first arrest I ever made----” + +“Don’t be gruesome,” she warned him. “There’s nothing romantic about +an arrest. Talk of something pretty.” + +“Let us then talk of you,” said Mr. Reeder daringly; “and it is +exactly because I want to talk of you, my dear Miss--um--Margaret… +Margaret, that I have asked you to come here.” + +He took her hand with great gentleness as though he were handling a +rare _objet d’art_, and played with her fingers awkwardly. + +“The truth is, my dear----” + +“Don’t say ‘Miss,’” she begged. + +“My dear Margaret”--this with an effort--“I have decided that life is +too--um--short to delay any longer a step which I have very carefully +considered--in fact”--here he floundered hopelessly into a succession +of “ums” which were only relieved by occasional “ers.” + +He tried again. + +“A man of my age and peculiar temperament should perhaps be +considering matters more serious--in fact, you may consider it very +absurd of me, but the truth is----” + +Whatever the truth was could not be easily translated into words. + +“The truth is,” she said quietly, “that you think you’re in love with +somebody?” + +First Mr. Reeder nodded, then he shook his head with equal vigour. + +“I don’t think--it has gone beyond the stage of hypothesis. I am no +longer young--I am in fact a confirmed--no, not a confirmed, +but--er----” + +“You’re a confirmed bachelor,” she helped him out. + +“Not confirmed,” he insisted firmly. + +She half turned and faced him, her hands on his shoulders, looking +into his eyes. + +“My dear,” she said, “you think of being married, and you want +somebody to marry you. But you feel that you are too old to blight her +young life.” + +He nodded dumbly. + +“Is it my young life, my dear? Because, if it is----” + +“It is.” J. G. Reeder’s voice was very husky. + +“Please blight,” said Margaret Belman. + +And for the first time in his life Mr. J. G. Reeder, who had had so +many experiences, mainly unpleasant, felt the soft lips of a woman +against his. + +“Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder breathlessly, a few seconds later. “That +was rather nice.” + + THE END + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + +The Doubleday, Doran, & Co. (1929, New York) was consulted for some +of the changes listed below. + +Minor spelling inconsistencies (_e.g._ frock-coat/frock coat, +search-party/search party, etc.) have been preserved. + +Some differences between this and the Doubleday edition: + +[Chapter V] + +(He had conveyed this information at least four times, but Mr. Ravini +was one of those curious people who like to treat old facts as new +sensations.) for _Ravini_ read _Lew Steyne_. + +[Chapter VIII] + +(“Let up!” gasped Sweizer in Italian. “You’re choking me, Reeder.”) +for _Italian_ read _French_. + +(He was less amused when he was charged with smashing the Bank of +Lens) for _Lens_ read _Lena_. + +[Chapter XIII] + +(“Who are you talking about?” demanded Simpson…) for _Who_ read +_Whom_. + +[Chapter XVIII] + +(“It’s strange I didn’t see this ladder when I saw the well before,” +he said, and then remembered that he had only opened one half of the +flap.) for _flap_ read _trap_. + +Alterations to the text: + +Add ToC. + +Merge disjointed contractions. + +[Chapter I] + +Change “A gentle wind carried the fragrance of the _pinks_ to her” to +_pines_. + +Change (“I think-) to (“I think----”). + +[Chapter V] + +“five minutes later he was on the Southern _express_” to _Express_. + +[Chapter VIII] + +(“Know who I am--I’ll bet you do! Thought you’d got rid of me, didn’t +you?) add question mark after _am_. + +“and gazed at them for a long _itme_” to _time_. + +[Chapter XI] + +(“Only two? You’ve never met me before?”) change question mark to an +exclamation mark. + +(“Deduct from the velocity… and tell me how deep this hole is?”) +change the question mark to a period. + +[Chapter XVII] + +“The stockings that _he_ had knotted about her waist were still wet” +to _she_. + +[Chapter XVIII] + +“to realise that he _way_ lying half buried in a heap of debris” to +_was_. + +[Chapter XIX] + +(“They are letters… in the big flat box that is locked”) add comma +after _big_. + + [End of text] + + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75949 *** diff --git a/75949-h/75949-h.htm b/75949-h/75949-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..14b7caa --- /dev/null +++ b/75949-h/75949-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10884 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Terror keep | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +/* Headers and Divisions */ + h1, h2, h3, h4 {margin:2em 0em 1em 0em; page-break-before:always; text-align:center;} + +/* General */ + + body {margin:0% 5% 0% 5%;} + + .nobreak {page-break-before:avoid;} + + p {margin:0em 0em 0em 0em; text-align:justify; text-indent:1em;} + .center {margin:0em 0em 0em 0em; text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} + .noindent {text-indent:0em;} + .spacer {margin:0.5em 0em 0.5em 0em; text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} + + hr {margin:1em auto 1em auto; text-align:center; width:20%;} + + .toc_l {font-variant:small-caps; margin:0em 0em 0em 2em; text-indent:-2em;} + + .font80 {font-size:80%;} + .sc {font-variant:small-caps;} + +/* special formatting */ + + blockquote {margin:1em 2em 1em 2em;} + + .mt1 {margin-top:1em;} + .mt6 {margin-top:4em;} + +</style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75949 ***</div> + +<h1> +TERROR KEEP +</h1> + +<p class="center"> +<span class="font80">BY</span><br> +EDGAR WALLACE +</p> + +<p class="center mt6"> +HODDER AND STOUGHTON<br> +LIMITED LONDON +</p> + + +<h2> +[DEDICATION] +</h2> + +<p class="center"> +TO<br> +LESLIE FABER<br> +(“<span class="sc">The Ringer</span>”) +</p> + + +<h2> +CONTENTS +</h2> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch00">FOREWARD</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch01">CHAPTER I</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch02">CHAPTER II</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch03">CHAPTER III</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch04">CHAPTER IV</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch05">CHAPTER V</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch06">CHAPTER VI</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch07">CHAPTER VII</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch08">CHAPTER VIII</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch09">CHAPTER IX</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch10">CHAPTER X</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch11">CHAPTER XI</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch12">CHAPTER XII</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch13">CHAPTER XIII</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch14">CHAPTER XIV</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch15">CHAPTER XV</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch16">CHAPTER XVI</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch17">CHAPTER XVII</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch18">CHAPTER XVIII</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch19">CHAPTER XIX</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch20">CHAPTER XX</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch21">CHAPTER XXI</a> +</p> + + +<h2> +TERROR KEEP +</h2> + +<h3 class="nobreak" id="ch00"> +FOREWARD +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Rightly</span> speaking, it is improper, not to say illegal, for those +sadly privileged few who go in and out of Broadmoor Criminal Asylum, +to have pointed out to them any particular character, however +notorious he may have been or to what heights of public interest his +infamy had carried him, before the testifying doctors and a merciful +jury consigned him to this place without hope. But often had John +Flack been pointed out as he shuffled about the grounds, his hands +behind him, his chin on his breast, a tall, lean old man in an +ill-fitting suit of drab clothing, who spoke to nobody and was spoken +to by few. +</p> + +<p> +“That is Flack—the Flack; the cleverest crook in the world… Crazy +John Flack… nine murders…” +</p> + +<p> +Men who were in Broadmoor for isolated homicides were rather proud of +Old John in their queer, sane moments. The officers who locked him up +at night and watched him as he slept had little to say against him, +because he gave no trouble, and through all the six years of his +incarceration had never once been seized of those frenzies which so +often end in the hospital for some poor innocent devil, and a +rubber-padded cell for the frantic author of misfortune. +</p> + +<p> +He spent most of his time writing and reading, for he was something of +a genius with his pen, and wrote with extraordinary rapidity. He +filled hundreds of little exercise books with his great treatise on +crime. The Governor humoured him; allowed him to retain the books, +expecting in due course to add them to his already interesting museum. +</p> + +<p> +Once, as a great concession, old Jack gave him a book to read, and the +Governor read and gasped. It was entitled “Method of robbing a bank +vault when only two guards are employed.” The Governor, who had been +a soldier, read and read, stopping now and then to rub his head; for +this document, written in the neat, legible hand of John Flack, was +curiously reminiscent of a divisional order for attack. No detail was +too small to be noted; every contingency was provided for. Not only +were the constituents of the drug to be employed to “settle the outer +watchman” given, but there was an explanatory note which may be +quoted: +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“If this drug is not procurable, I advise that the operator should +call upon a suburban doctor and describe the following symptoms… The +doctor will then prescribe the drug in a minute quantity. Six bottles +of this medicine should be procured, and the following method adopted +to extract the drug…” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +“Have you written much like this, Flack?” asked the wondering officer. +</p> + +<p> +“This?” John Flack shrugged his lean shoulders. “I am doing this for +amusement, just to test my memory. I have already written sixty-three +books on the subject, and those works are beyond improvement. During +the six years I have been here, I have not been able to think of a +single improvement to my old system.” +</p> + +<p> +Was he jesting? Was this a flight of a disordered mind? The Governor, +used as he was to his charges and their peculiar ways, was not +certain. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean you have written an encyclopaedia of crime?” he asked +incredulously. “Where is it to be found?” +</p> + +<p> +Old Flack’s thin lips curled in a disdainful smile, but he made no +answer. +</p> + +<p> +Sixty-three hand-written volumes represented the life work of John +Flack. It was the one achievement upon which he prided himself. +</p> + +<p> +On another occasion when the Governor referred to his extraordinary +literary labours, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“I have put a huge fortune in the hands of any clever man—providing, +of course,” he mused, “that he is a man of resolution and the books +fall into his hands at a very early date—in these days of scientific +discovery, what is a novelty to-day is a commonplace to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +The Governor had his doubts as to the existence of these deplorable +volumes, but very soon after the conversation took place he had to +revise his judgment. Scotland Yard, which seldom if ever chases +chimerae, sent down one Chief-Inspector Simpson, who was a man +entirely without imagination and had been promoted for it. His +interview with Crazy John Flack was a brief one. +</p> + +<p> +“About these books of yours, Jack,” he said. “It would be terrible if +they fell into wrong hands. Ravini says you’ve got a hundred volumes +hidden somewhere——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ravini?” Old John Flack showed his teeth. “Listen, Simpson! You don’t +think you’re going to keep me in this awful place all my life, do you? +If you do, you’ve got another guess coming. I’ll skip one of these odd +nights—you can tell the Governor if you like—and then Ravini and I +are going to have a little talk.” +</p> + +<p> +His voice grew high and shrill. The old mad glitter that Simpson had +seen before came back to his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you ever have day-dreams, Simpson? I have three! I’ve got a new +method of getting away with a million: that’s one, but it’s not +important. Another one is Reeder: you can tell J. G. what I say. It’s +a dream of meeting him alone one nice, dark, foggy night, when the +police can’t tell which way the screams are coming. And the third is +Ravini. George Ravini’s got one chance, and that is for him to die +before I get out!” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re mad,” said Simpson. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what I’m here for,” said John Flack truthfully. +</p> + +<p> +This conversation with Simpson and that with the Governor were two of +the longest he ever had, all the six years he was in Broadmoor. Mostly +when he wasn’t writing he strolled about the grounds, his chin on his +chest, his hands clasped behind him. Occasionally he reached a certain +place near the high wall, and it is said that he threw letters over, +though this is very unlikely. What is more possible is that he found a +messenger who carried his many and cryptic letters to the outer world +and brought in exchange monosyllabic replies. He was a very good +friend of the officer in charge of his ward, and one early morning +this man was discovered with his throat cut. The ward door was open, +and John Flack had gone out into the world to realise his day-dreams. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch01"> +CHAPTER I +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">There</span> were two subjects which irritated the mind of Margaret Belman +as the Southern Express carried her towards Selford Junction and the +branch-line train which crawled from the junction to Siltbury. The +first of these was, not unnaturally, the drastic changes she now +contemplated, and the effect they already had had upon Mr. J. G. +Reeder, that mild and middle-aged man. +</p> + +<p> +When she had announced that she was seeking a post in the country, he +might at least have shown some evidence of regret: a certain glumness +would have been appropriate at any rate. Instead he had brightened +visibly at the prospect. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid I shan’t be able to come to London very often,” she had +said. +</p> + +<p> +“That is good news,” said Mr. Reeder, and added some banality about +the value of periodical changes of air and the beauty of getting near +to nature. In fact, he had been more cheerful than he had been for a +week, which was rather exasperating. +</p> + +<p> +Margaret Belman’s pretty face puckered as she recalled her +disappointment and chagrin. All thoughts of dropping this application +of hers disappeared. Not that she imagined for one moment that a +six-hundred-a-year secretaryship was going to fall into her lap for +the mere asking. She was wholly unsuited for the job, she had no +experience of hotel work, and the chances of her being accepted were +remote. +</p> + +<p> +As to the Italian man who had made so many attempts to make her +acquaintance, he was one of the unpleasant commonplaces so familiar to +a girl who worked for her living that in ordinary circumstances she +would not have given him a second thought. +</p> + +<p> +But that morning he had followed her to the station, and she was +certain that he had heard her tell the girl who came with her that she +was returning by the 6.15. A policeman would deal effectively with +him—if she cared to risk the publicity. But a girl, however sane, +shrinks from such an ordeal, and she must deal with him in her own +way. +</p> + +<p> +That was not a happy prospect, and the two matters in combination were +sufficient to spoil what otherwise might have been a very happy or +interesting afternoon. As to Mr. Reeder… +</p> + +<p> +Margaret Belman frowned. She was twenty-three, an age when youngish +men are rather tiresome. On the other hand, men in the region of fifty +are not especially attractive; and she loathed Mr. Reeder’s +side-whiskers, that made him look rather like a Scottish butler. Of +course, he was a dear.… +</p> + +<p> +Here the train reached the junction. She found herself at the +surprisingly small station of Siltbury before she had quite made up +her mind whether she was in love with Mr. Reeder or merely annoyed +with him. +</p> + +<p> +The driver of the station cab stopped his unhappy-looking horse before +the small gateway and pointed with his whip. +</p> + +<p> +“This is the best way in for you, miss,” he said. “Mr. Daver’s office +is at the end of the path.” +</p> + +<p> +He was a shrewd old man, who had driven many applicants for the post +of secretary to Larmes Keep, and he guessed that this, the prettiest +of all, did not come as a guest. In the first place, she brought no +baggage, and then too the ticket-collector had come running after her +to hand back the return half of the railway ticket which she had +absent-mindedly surrendered. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d better wait for you, miss…?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, please,” said Margaret Belman hastily as she got down from +the dilapidated victoria. +</p> + +<p> +“You got an appointment?” +</p> + +<p> +The cabman was a local character, and local characters assume +privileges. +</p> + +<p> +“I ast you,” he explained carefully, “because lots of young wimmin +have come up to Larmes without appointments and Mr. Daver wouldn’t see +’em. They just cut out the advertisement and come along, but the ad. +says <i>write</i>. I suppose I’ve made a dozen journeys with young wimmin +who ain’t got appointments. I’m telling you for your own good.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“You might have warned them before they left the station,” she said +good-humouredly, “and saved them the cab fare. Yes, I have an +appointment.” +</p> + +<p> +From where she stood by the gate she had a clear view of Larmes Keep. +It bore no resemblance to an hotel and less to the superior +boarding-house that she knew it to be. That part of the house which +had been the original Keep was easily distinguished, though the grey, +straight walls were masked with ivy that covered also part of the +buildings which had been added in the course of the years. +</p> + +<p> +She looked across a smooth green lawn, on which were set a few wicker +chairs and tables, to a rose garden which, even in late autumn, was a +blaze of colour. Behind this was a belt of pine trees that seemed to +run to the cliff’s edge. She had a glimpse of a grey-blue sea and a +blur of dim smoke from a steamer invisible below the straight horizon. +A gentle wind carried the fragrance of the pines to her, and she +sniffed ecstatically. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t it gorgeous?” she breathed. +</p> + +<p> +The cabman said it “wasn’t bad,” and pointed with his whip again. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s that little square place—only built a few years ago. Mr. Daver +is more of a writing gentleman than a boarding-house gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +She unlatched the oaken gate and walked up the stone path towards the +sanctum of the writing gentleman. On either side of the crazy pavement +was a deep border of flowers—she might have been passing through a +cottage garden. +</p> + +<p> +There was a long window and a small green door to the annexe. +Evidently she had been seen, for, as her hand went up to the brass +bell-push, the door opened. +</p> + +<p> +It was obviously Mr. Daver himself. A tall, thin man of fifty, with a +yellow, elf-like face and a smile that brought all her sense of humour +into play. Very badly she wanted to laugh. The long upper lip overhung +the lower, and except that the face was thin and lined, he had the +appearance of some grotesque and foolish mascot. The staring, round, +brown eyes, the puckered forehead, and a twist of hair that stood +upright on the crown of his head, made him more brownie-like than +ever. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Belman?” he asked, with a certain eagerness. +</p> + +<p> +He lisped slightly, and had a trick of clasping his hands as if he +were in an agony of apprehension lest his manner should displease. +</p> + +<p> +“Come into my den,” he said, and gave such emphasis to the last word +that she nearly laughed again. +</p> + +<p> +The “den” was a very comfortably furnished study, one wall of which +was covered with books. Closing the door behind her, he pushed up a +chair with a little nervous laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m so very glad you came. Did you have a comfortable journey? I’m +sure you did. And is London hot and stuffy? I’m afraid it is. Would +you like a cup of tea? Of course you would.” +</p> + +<p> +He fired question and answer so rapidly that she had no chance of +replying, and he had taken up a telephone and ordered the tea before +she could express a wish on the subject. +</p> + +<p> +“You are young—very young,”—he shook his head sadly. +“Twenty-four—no? Do you use the typewriter? What a ridiculous +question to ask!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very kind of you to see me, Mr. Daver,” she said, “and I don’t +suppose for one moment that I shall suit you. I have had no experience +of hotel management, and I realise, from the salary you offer——” +</p> + +<p> +“Quiet,” said Mr. Daver, shaking his head solemnly: “that is what I +require. There is very little work, but I wished to be relieved even +of that little. My own labours”—he waved his hand to a pedestal desk +littered with papers—“are colossal. I need a lady to keep +accounts—to watch my interests. Somebody I can trust. I believe in +faces, do you? I see that you do. And in the character of handwriting? +You believe in that also. I have advertised for three months and have +interviewed thirty-five applicants. Impossible! Their +voices—terrible! I judge people by their voices—so do you. On Monday +when you telephoned I said to myself, ‘The Voice!’ ” +</p> + +<p> +He was clasping his hands together so tightly that his knuckles showed +white, and this time her laughter was almost beyond arrest. +</p> + +<p> +“But, Mr. Daver, I know nothing of hotel management. I think I could +learn, and I want the position, naturally. The salary is terribly +generous.” +</p> + +<p> +“ ‘Terribly generous,’ ” repeated the man in a murmur. “How curious +those words sound in juxtaposition! My housekeeper. How kind of you to +bring the tea, Mrs. Burton!” +</p> + +<p> +The door had opened and a woman bearing a silver tray came in. She was +dressed very neatly in black. The faded eyes scarcely looked at +Margaret as she stood meekly waiting whilst Mr. Daver spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Burton, this is the new secretary to the company. She must have +the best room in the Keep—the Blue Room. But—ah!”—he pinched his +lip anxiously—“blue may not be your colour?” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Any colour is my colour,” she said. “But I haven’t decided——” +</p> + +<p> +“Go with Mrs. Burton; see the house—your office, your room. Mrs. +Burton!” +</p> + +<p> +He pointed to the door, and before the girl knew what she was doing +she had followed the housekeeper through the door. A narrow passage +connected the private office of Mr. Daver with the house, and Margaret +was ushered into a large and lofty room which covered the superficial +area of the Keep. +</p> + +<p> +“The Banquittin’ ’All,” said Mrs. Burton in a thin, Cockney voice +remarkable for its monotony. “It’s used as a lounge. We’ve only got +three boarders. Mr. Daver’s very partic’lar. We get a lot in for the +winter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Three boarders isn’t a very paying proposition,” said the girl. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Burton sniffed. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Daver don’t want it to pay. It’s the company he likes. He only +turned it into a boardin’ house because he likes to see people come +and go without having to talk to ’em. It’s a nobby.” +</p> + +<p> +“A what?” asked the puzzled girl. “Oh, you mean a hobby?” +</p> + +<p> +“I said a nobby,” said Mrs. Burton, in her listless, uncomplaining +way. +</p> + +<p> +Beyond the hall was a small and cosier sitting-room with French +windows opening on to the lawn. Outside the window three people sat at +tea. One was an elderly clergyman with a strong, hard face. He was +eating toast and reading a church paper, oblivious of his companion. +The second of the party was a pale-faced girl about Margaret’s own +age. In spite of her pallor she was extraordinarily beautiful. A pair +of big, dark eyes surveyed the visitor for a moment and then returned +to her companion, a military-looking man of forty. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Burton waited until they were ascending the broad stairway to the +upper floor before she “introduced” them. +</p> + +<p> +“The clergyman’s a Reverend Dean from South Africa, the young lady’s +Miss Olga Crewe, the other gent is Colonel Hothling—they’re boarders. +This is your room, miss.” +</p> + +<p> +It was indeed a gem of an apartment; the sort of room that Margaret +Belman had dreamt about. It was exquisitely furnished, and, like all +the other rooms at Larmes Keep (as she discovered later), was provided +with its private bathroom. The walls were panelled to half their +height, the ceilings heavily beamed. She guessed that beneath the +parquet underneath was the original stone-flagged floor. +</p> + +<p> +Margaret looked and sighed. It was going to be very hard to refuse +this post—and why she should think of refusing at all she could not +for the life of her understand. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a beautiful room,” she said, and Mrs. Burton cast an apathetic +eye round the apartment. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s old,” she said. “I don’t like old houses. I used to live in +Brixton——” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped abruptly, sniffed in a deprecating way, and jingled the +keys that she carried in her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re suited, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Suited? You mean am I taking the appointment? I don’t know yet.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Burton looked round vaguely. The girl had the impression that she +was trying to say something in praise of the place—something that +would prejudice her in favour of accepting the appointment. Then she +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“The food’s good,” she said, and Margaret smiled. +</p> + +<p> +When she came back through the hall she saw the three people she had +seen at tea. The colonel was walking by himself; the clergyman and the +pale-faced girl were strolling across the lawn talking to one another. +Mr. Daver was sitting at his desk, his high forehead resting on his +palm, and he was biting the end of a pen as Mrs. Burton closed the +door on them. +</p> + +<p> +“You like the room: naturally. You will start—when? Next Monday week, +I think. What a relief! You have seen Mrs. Burton.” He wagged a finger +at her roguishly. “Ah! Now you know! It is impossible! Can I leave her +to meet the duchess and speed the duke? Can I trust her to adjust the +little quarrels that naturally arise between guests? You are right—I +can’t. I must have a lady here—I must, I must!” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded emphatically, his impish brown eyes fixed on hers, the +bulging upper lip grotesquely curved in a delighted grin. +</p> + +<p> +“My work suffers, as you say: constantly to be brought from my studies +to settle such matters as the fixing of a tennis net—intolerable!” +</p> + +<p> +“You write a great deal?” she managed to ask. She felt she must +postpone her decision to the last possible moment. +</p> + +<p> +“A great deal. On crime. Ah, you are interested? I am preparing an +encyclopaedia of crime!” He said this impressively, dramatically. +</p> + +<p> +“On crime?” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“It is one of my hobbies. I am a rich man and can afford hobbies. This +place is a hobby. I lose four thousand a year, but I am satisfied. I +pick and choose my own guests. If one bores me I tell him to go—that +his room has been taken. Could I do that if they were my friends? No. +They interest me. They fill the house; they give me company and +amusement. When will you come?” +</p> + +<p> +She hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“I think——” +</p> + +<p> +“Monday week? Excellent!” He shook her hand vigorously. “You need not +be lonely. If my guests bore you, invite your own friends. Let them +come as the guests of the house. Until Monday!” +</p> + +<p> +She was walking down the garden path to the waiting cabman, a little +dazed, more than a little undecided. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you get the place, miss?” asked the friendly cabman. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose I did,” replied Margaret. +</p> + +<p> +She looked back towards Larmes Keep. The lawns were empty, but near at +hand she had one glimpse of a woman. Only for a second, and then she +disappeared in a belt of laurel that ran parallel with the boundary +wall of the property. Evidently there was a rough path through the +bushes, and Mrs. Burton had sought this hiding-place. Her hands +covered her face as she staggered forward blindly, and the faint sound +of her sobs came back to the astonished girl. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the housekeeper—she’s a bit mad,” said the cabman calmly. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch02"> +CHAPTER II +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">George Ravini</span> was not an unpleasant-looking man. From his own point +of view, which was naturally prejudiced, he was extremely attractive, +with his crisp brown hair, his handsome Neapolitan features, his +height, and his poise. And when to his natural advantages were added +the best suit that Savile Row could create, the most spotless of grey +hats, and the malacca sword-stick on which one kid-gloved hand rested +as upon the hilt of a foil, the shiniest of enamelled shoes and the +finest of grey silk socks, the picture was well framed and +embellished. Greatest embellishment of all were George Ravini’s Luck +Rings. He was a superstitious man and was addicted to charms. On the +little finger of his right hand were three gold rings, and in each +ring three large diamonds. The Luck Stones of Ravini were one of the +traditions of Saffron Hill. +</p> + +<p> +Most of the time he had the half-amused, half-bored smile of a man for +whom life held no mysteries and could offer, in experience, little +that was new. And the smile was justified, for George knew most of the +things that were happening in London or likely to happen. He had +worked outward from a one-room home in Saffron Hill, where he first +saw the light, had enlarged the narrow horizons which surrounded his +childhood, so that now, in place of the poverty-stricken child who had +shared a bed with his father’s performing monkey, he was not only the +possessor of a classy flat in Half Moon Street but the owner of the +block in which it was situate. His balance at the Continental Bank was +a generous one; he had securities which brought him an income beyond +his needs, and a larger revenue from the two night clubs and spieling +houses which were in his control, to say nothing of the perquisites +which came his way from a score of other sources. The word of Ravini +was law from Leyton to Clerkenwell, his fiats were obeyed within a +mile radius of Fitzroy Square, and no other gang leader in London +might raise his head without George’s permission save at the risk of +waking in the casualty ward of the Middlesex Hospital entirely +surrounded by bandages. +</p> + +<p> +He waited patiently on the broad space of Waterloo Station, +occasionally consulting his gold wrist-watch, and surveyed with a +benevolent and proprietorial eye the stream of life that flowed from +the barriers. +</p> + +<p> +The station clock showed a quarter after six: he glanced at his watch +and scanned the crowd that was debouching from No. 7 platform. After a +few minutes’ scrutiny he saw the girl, and with a pat to his cravat +and a touch to the brim of his hat which set it tilting, he strolled +to meet her. +</p> + +<p> +Margaret Belman was too intent with her own thoughts to be thinking +about the debonair and youngish man who had so often sought an +introduction by the conventional method of pretending they had met +before. Indeed, in the excitement of her visit to Larmes Keep, she had +forgotten that this pestiferous gallant existed or was likely to be +waiting for her on her return from the country. +</p> + +<p> +George Ravini stopped and waited for her approach, smiling his +approval. He liked slim girls of her colouring: girls who dressed +rather severely and wore rather nice stockings and plain little hats. +He raised his hat; the Luck Stones glittered beautifully. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said Margaret Belman, and stopped too. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening, Miss Belman,” said George, flashing his white teeth. +“Quite a coincidence meeting you again.” +</p> + +<p> +As she went to walk past him he fell in by her side. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I had my car here, I might have driven you home,” he said +conversationally. “I’ve got a new 20 Rolls—rather a neat little +machine. I don’t use it a great deal—I like to walk from Half Moon +Street.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you walking to Half Moon Street now?” she asked quietly. +</p> + +<p> +But George was a man of experience. +</p> + +<p> +“Your way is my way,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“What is your name?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Smith—Anderton Smith,” he answered readily. “Why do you want to +know?” +</p> + +<p> +“I want to tell the next policeman we meet,” she said, and Mr. Ravini, +not unaccustomed to such threats, was amused. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be a silly little girl,” he said. “I’m doing no harm, and you +don’t want to get your name in the newspapers. Besides, I should +merely say that you asked me to walk with you and that we were old +friends.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him steadily. +</p> + +<p> +“I may meet a friend very soon who will need a lot of convincing,” she +said. “Will you please go away?” +</p> + +<p> +George was pleased to stay, as he explained. +</p> + +<p> +“What a foolish young lady you are!” he began. “I’m merely offering +you the common courtesies——” +</p> + +<p> +A hand gripped his arm and slowly pulled him round—and this in broad +daylight on Waterloo Station, under the eyes of at least two of his +own tribe. Mr. Ravini’s dark eyes snapped dangerously. +</p> + +<p> +And yet seemingly his assailant was a most inoffensive man. He was +tall and rather melancholy-looking. He wore a frock coat buttoned +tightly across his breast, and a high, flat-crowned, hard felt hat. On +his biggish nose a pair of steel-rimmed pince-nez were set at an +awkward angle. A slither of sandy side-whiskers decorated his cheek, +and hooked to his arm was a lightly furled umbrella. Not that George +examined these details with any care: they were rather familiar to +him, for he knew Mr. J. G. Reeder, Detective to the Public +Prosecutor’s Office, and the fight went out of his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Mr. Reeder!” he said, with a geniality that almost sounded +sincere. “This <i>is</i> a pleasant surprise. Meet my young lady friend, +Miss Belman—I was just taking her along——” +</p> + +<p> +“Not to the Flotsam Club for a cup of tea?” murmured Mr. Reeder in a +tone of pain. “Not to Harraby’s Restaurant? Don’t tell me that, +Georgio! Dear me! How interesting either experience would be!” +</p> + +<p> +He beamed upon the scowling Italian. +</p> + +<p> +“At the Flotsam,” he went on, “you would have been able to show the +young lady where your friends caught young Lord Fallon for three +thousand pounds only the night before last—so they tell me. At +Harraby’s you might have shown her that interesting little room where +the police come in by the back way whenever you consider it expedient +to betray one of your friends. She has missed a treat!” +</p> + +<p> +George Ravini’s smile did not harmonise with his sudden pallor. +</p> + +<p> +“Now listen, Mr. Reeder——” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry I can’t, Georgio.” Mr. Reeder shook his head mournfully. +“My time is precious. Yet, I will spare you one minute to tell you +that Miss Belman is a very particular friend of mine. If her +experience of to-day is repeated, who knows what might happen, for I +am, as you probably know, a malicious man.” He eyed the Italian +thoughtfully. “Is it malice, I wonder, which inhibits a most +interesting revelation which I have on the tip of my tongue? I wonder. +The human mind, Mr. Ravini, is a curious and complex thing. Well, +well, I must be getting along. Give my regards to your criminal +associates, and if you find yourself shadowed by a gentleman from +Scotland Yard, bear him no resentment. He is doing his duty. And do +not lose sight of my—um—warning about this lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have said nothing to this young lady that a gentleman shouldn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder peered at Ravini. +</p> + +<p> +“If you have,” he said, “you may expect to see me some time this +evening—and I shall not come alone. In fact,”—this in a most +confidential tone—“I shall bring sufficient strong men with me to +take from you the keys of your box in the Fetter Lane Safe Deposit.” +</p> + +<p> +That was all he said, and Ravini reeled under the threat. Before he +had quite recovered, Mr. J. G. Reeder and his charge had disappeared +into the throng. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch03"> +CHAPTER III +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +“<span class="sc">An</span> interesting man,” said Mr. Reeder, as the cab crossed +Westminster Bridge. “He is in fact the most interesting man I know at +this particular moment. It was fate that I should walk into him as I +did. But I wish he wouldn’t wear diamond rings!” +</p> + +<p> +He stole a sidelong glance at his companion. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, did you—um—like the place?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very beautiful,” she said, without enthusiasm, “but it is +rather far away from London.” +</p> + +<p> +His face fell. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you declined the post?” he asked anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +She half turned in the seat and looked at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Reeder, I honestly believe you wish to see the back of me!” +</p> + +<p> +To her surprise Mr. Reeder went very red. +</p> + +<p> +“Why—um—of course I do—I don’t, I mean. But it seems a very good +position, even as a temporary position.” He blinked at her. “I shall +miss you, I really shall miss you, Miss—um—Margaret. We have become +such”—here he swallowed something—“good friends, but the—a certain +business is on my mind—I mean, I am rather perturbed.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked from one window to the other as though he suspected an +eavesdropper riding on the step of the cab, and then, lowering his +voice: +</p> + +<p> +“I have never discussed with you, my dear Miss—um—Margaret, the +rather unpleasant details of my trade; but there is, or was, a +gentleman named Flack—F-l-a-c-k,” he spelt it. “You remember?” he +asked anxiously, and when she shook her head: “I hoped that you would. +One reads about these things in the public press. But five years ago +you would have been a child——” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re very flattering,” she smiled. “I was in fact a grown-up young +lady of eighteen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were you really?” asked Mr. Reeder in a hushed voice. “You surprise +me! Well… Mr. Flack was the kind of person one so frequently reads +about in the pages of the sensational novelist—who has not too keen a +regard for the probabilities and facts of life. A master criminal, the +organiser of—um—a confederation, or, as vulgar people would call it, +gang.” +</p> + +<p> +He sighed and closed his eyes, and she thought for one moment he was +praying for the iniquitous criminal. +</p> + +<p> +“A brilliant criminal—it is a terrible thing to confess, but I have +had a reluctant admiration for him. You see, as I have so often +explained to you, I am cursed with a criminal mind. But he was mad.” +</p> + +<p> +“All criminals are mad: you have explained that so often,” she said, a +little tartly, for she was not anxious that the conversation should +drift from her immediate affairs. +</p> + +<p> +“But he was really mad,” said Mr. Reeder with great earnestness, and +tapped his forehead deliberately. “His very madness was his salvation. +He did daring things, but with the cunning of a madman. He shot down +two policemen in cold blood—he did this at midday in a crowded City +street and got away. We caught him at last, of course. People like +that are always caught in this country. I—um—assisted. In fact, +I—well, I assisted! That is why I am thinking of our friend Georgio; +for it was Mr. Ravini who betrayed him to us for two thousand pounds. +I negotiated the deal, Mr. Ravini being a criminal…” +</p> + +<p> +She stared at him open-mouthed. +</p> + +<p> +“That Italian man? You don’t mean that?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Ravini had dealings with the Flack gang, and by chance learnt of +Old John’s whereabouts. We took old John Flack in his sleep.” Mr. +Reeder sighed again. “He said some very bitter things about me. +People, when they are arrested, frequently exaggerate the shortcomings +of their—er—captors.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was he tried?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“He was tried,” said Mr. Reeder, “on a charge of murder. But of course +he was mad. ‘Guilty but insane’ was the verdict, and he was sent to +Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum.” +</p> + +<p> +He searched feebly in his pockets, produced a very limp packet of +cigarettes, extracted one and asked permission to smoke. She watched +the damp squib of a thing drooping pathetically from his lower lip. +His eyes were staring sombrely through the window at the green of the +park through which they were passing, and he seemed entirely absorbed +in his contemplation of nature. +</p> + +<p> +“But what has that to do with my going into the country?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder brought his eyes round to survey her. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Flack was a very vindictive man,” he said. “A very brilliant +man—I hate confessing this. And he has—um—a particular grudge +against me, and being what he is, it would not be long before he +discovered that I—er—I—am rather attached to you, Miss—Margaret.” +</p> + +<p> +A light dawned on her, and her whole attitude towards him changed as +she gripped his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean, you want me out of London in case something happens? But +what could happen? He’s in Broadmoor, isn’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder scratched his chin and looked up at the roof of the cab. +</p> + +<p> +“He escaped a week ago—hum! He is, I think, in London at this +moment.” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret Belman gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“Does this Italian—this Ravini man—know?” +</p> + +<p> +“He does not know,” said Mr. Reeder carefully, “but I think he will +learn—yes, I think he will learn.” +</p> + +<p> +A week later, after Margaret Belman had gone, with some misgivings, to +take up her new appointment, all Mr. Reeder’s doubts as to the +location of John Flack were dissipated. +</p> + +<p class="spacer"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +There was some slight disagreement between Margaret Belman and Mr. +Reeder, and it happened at lunch on the day she left London. It +started in fun—not that Mr. Reeder was ever kittenish—by a certain +suggestion she made. Mr. Reeder demurred. How she ever summoned the +courage to tell him he was old-fashioned, Margaret never knew—but she +did. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, you could shave them off,” she said scornfully. “It would +make you look ten years younger.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think, my dear—Miss—um—Margaret, that I wish to look ten +years younger,” said Mr. Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +A certain tenseness followed, and she went down to Siltbury feeling a +little uncomfortable. Yet her heart warmed to him as she realised that +his anxiety to get her out of London was dictated by a desire for her +own safety. It was not until she was nearing her destination that she +realised that he himself was in no ordinary danger. She must write and +tell him she was sorry. She wondered who the Flacks were; the name was +familiar to her, though in the days of their activity she gave little +or no attention to people of their kind. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Daver, looking more impish than ever, gave her a brief interview +on her arrival. It was he who took her to her bureau and very briefly +explained her duties. They were neither heavy nor complicated, and she +was relieved to discover that she had practically nothing whatever to +do with the management of Larmes Keep. That was in the efficient hands +of Mrs. Burton. +</p> + +<p> +The staff of the hotel were housed in two cottages about a quarter of +a mile from the Keep, only Mrs. Burton living on the premises. +</p> + +<p> +“This keeps us more select,” said Mr. Daver. “Servants are an +abominable nuisance. You agree with me? I thought you would. If they +are needed in the night, both cottages have telephones, and Grainger, +the porter, has a pass-key to the outer door. That is an excellent +arrangement, of which you approve? I am sure you do.” +</p> + +<p> +Conversation with Mr. Daver was a little superfluous. He supplied his +own answers to all questions. +</p> + +<p> +He was leaving the bureau when she remembered his great study. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Daver, do you know anything about the Flacks?” +</p> + +<p> +He frowned. +</p> + +<p> +“Flax? Let me see, what is flax——” +</p> + +<p> +She spelt the name. +</p> + +<p> +“A friend of mine told me about them the other day,” she said. “I +thought you would know the name. They are a gang of criminals——” +</p> + +<p> +“Flack! To be sure, to be sure! Dear me, how very interesting! Are you +also a criminologist? John Flack, George Flack, Augustus Flack”—he +spoke rapidly, ticking them off on his long, tobacco-stained fingers. +“John Flack is in a criminal lunatic asylum; his two brothers escaped +to the Argentine. Terrible fellows, terrible, terrible fellows! What a +marvellous institution is our police force! How wonderful is Scotland +Yard! You agree with me? I was sure you would. Flack!” He frowned and +shook his head. “I thought of dealing with these people in a short +monograph, but my data are not complete. Do you know them?” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head smilingly. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I haven’t that advantage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Terrible creatures,” said Mr. Daver. “Amazing creatures. Who is your +friend, Miss Belman? I would like to meet him. Perhaps he could tell +me something more about them.” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret received the suggestion with dismay. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, you’re not likely to meet him,” she said hurriedly, “and I +don’t think he would talk even if you met him—perhaps it was +indiscreet of me to mention him at all.” +</p> + +<p> +The conversation must have weighed on Mr. Daver’s mind, for just as +she was leaving her office that night for her room, a very tired girl, +he knocked at the door, opened it at her invitation and stood in the +doorway. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been going into the records of the Flacks,” he said, “and it +is surprising how little information there is. I have a newspaper +cutting which says that John Flack is dead. He was the man who went +into Broadmoor. Is he dead?” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t tell you,” she replied untruthfully. “I only heard a +casual reference to him.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Daver scratched his round chin. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought possibly somebody might have told you a few facts which +you, so to speak—a laywoman!”—he giggled—“might have regarded as +unimportant, but which I——” +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated expectantly. +</p> + +<p> +“That is all I know, Mr. Daver,” said Margaret. +</p> + +<p> +She slept soundly that night, the distant hush-hush of the waves as +they rolled up the long beach of Siltbury Bay lulling her to dreamless +slumber. +</p> + +<p> +Her duties did not begin till after breakfast, which she had in her +bureau, and the largest part was the checking of the accounts. +Apparently Mrs. Burton attended to that side of the management, and it +was only at the month’s end, when cheques were to be drawn, that her +work was likely to be heavy. In the main her day was taken up with +correspondence. There were some 140 applicants for her post who had to +be answered; there were in addition a number of letters from people +who desired accommodation at Larmes Keep. All these had to be taken to +Mr. Daver, and it was remarkable how fastidious a man he was. For +example: +</p> + +<p> +“The Reverend John Quinton? No, no; we have one parson in the house, +that is enough. Tell him we are very sorry, but we are full up. Mrs. +Bagley wishes to bring her daughter? Certainly not! I cannot have +children distracting me with their noise. You agree? I see you do. Who +is this woman… ‘coming for a rest cure’? That means she’s ill. I +cannot have Larmes Keep turned into a sanitorium. You may tell them +all that there will be no accommodation until after Christmas. After +Christmas they can all come—I am going abroad.” +</p> + +<p> +The evenings were her own. She could, if she desired, go into +Siltbury, which boasted two cinemas and a pierrot party, and Mr. Daver +put the hotel car at her disposal for the purpose. She preferred, +however, to wander through the grounds. The estate was a much larger +one than she had supposed. Behind, to the south of the house, it +extended for half a mile, the boundary to the east being represented +by the cliffs, along which a breast-high rubble wall had been built, +and with excellent reason, for here the cliff fell sheer two hundred +feet to the rocks below. At one place there had been a little +landslide, the wall had been carried away and the gap had been +temporarily filled by a wooden fence. Some attempt had been made to +create a nine-hole golf course, she saw as she wandered round, but +evidently Mr. Daver had grown tired of this enterprise, for the greens +were knee-deep in waving grasses. +</p> + +<p> +At the south-west corner of the house, and distant about a hundred +yards, was a big clump of rhododendrons, and this she explored, +following a twisting path that led to the heart of the bushes. Quite +unexpectedly she came upon an old well. The brickwork about it was in +ruins; the well itself was boarded in. On the weather-beaten +roof-piece above the windlass was a small wooden notice-board, +evidently fixed for the enlightenment of visitors: +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“This well was used from 935 to 1794. It was filled in by the present +owners of the property in May 1914, one hundred and thirty-five +cart-loads of rock and gravel being used for the purpose.” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +It was a pleasant occupation, standing by that ancient well and +picturing the collar serfs and bare-footed peasants who through the +ages had stood where she was standing. As she came out of the bushes +she saw the pale-faced Olga Crewe. +</p> + +<p> +Margaret had not spoken either to the colonel or to the clergyman; +either she had avoided them, or they her. Olga Crewe she had not seen, +and now she would have turned away, but the girl moved across to +intercept her. +</p> + +<p> +“You are the new secretary, aren’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +Her voice was musical, rather alluring. “Custardy” was Margaret’s +mental classification. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I’m Miss Belman.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“My name you know, I suppose? Are you going to be terribly bored +here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think so,” smiled Margaret. “It is a beautiful spot.” +</p> + +<p> +The eyes of Olga Crewe surveyed the scene critically. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it is: very beautiful, yes, but one gets very tired of +beauty after a few years.” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret listened in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you been here so long?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve practically lived here since I was a child. I thought Joe would +have told you that: he’s an inveterate old gossip.” +</p> + +<p> +“Joe?” She was puzzled. +</p> + +<p> +“The cab-driver, news-gatherer, and distributor.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at Larmes Keep and frowned. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know what they used to call this place, Miss Belman? The House +of Tears—the Château des Larmes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why ever?” asked Margaret. +</p> + +<p> +Olga Crewe shrugged her pretty shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Some sort of tradition, I suppose, that goes back to the days of the +Baron Augernvert, who built it. The locals have corrupted the name to +Larmes Keep. You ought to see the dungeons.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are there dungeons?” asked Margaret in surprise, and Olga nodded. For +the first time she seemed amused. +</p> + +<p> +“If you saw them and the chains and the rings in the walls and the +stone floors worn thin by bare feet, you might guess how its name +arose.” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret stared back towards the Keep. The sun was setting behind it, +and silhouetted as it was against the red light there was something +ominous and sinister in that dark, squat pile. +</p> + +<p> +“How very unpleasant!” she said, and shivered. +</p> + +<p> +Olga Crewe laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you seen the cliffs?” she said, and led the way back to the long +wall, and for a quarter of an hour they stood, their arms resting on +the parapet, looking down into the gloom. +</p> + +<p> +“You ought to get some one to row you round the face of the cliff. +It’s simply honeycombed with caves,” she said. “There’s one at the +water’s edge that tunnels right under the Keep. When the tides are +unusually high they are flooded. I wonder Daver doesn’t write a book +about it.” +</p> + +<p> +There was just the faintest hint of a sneer in her tone, but it did +not escape Margaret’s attention. +</p> + +<p> +“That must be the entrance,” she said, pointing down to a swirl of +water that seemed to run right up to the face of the cliff. +</p> + +<p> +Olga nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“At high tide you wouldn’t notice that,” she said, and then, turning +abruptly, she asked the girl if she had seen the bathing-pool. +</p> + +<p> +This was an oblong bath, sheltered by high box hedges and lined +throughout with blue tiles; a delightfully inviting plunge. +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody uses it but myself. Daver would die at the thought of jumping +in.” +</p> + +<p> +Whenever she referred to Mr. Daver it was in a scarcely veiled tone of +contempt. She was not more charitable when she referred to the other +guests. As they were nearing the house Olga said, <i>à propos</i> of +nothing: +</p> + +<p> +“I shouldn’t talk too much to Daver if I were you. Let him do the +talking: he likes it.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” asked Margaret quietly; but at that moment Olga +left her side without any word of farewell and went towards the +colonel, who was standing, a cigar between his teeth, watching their +approach. +</p> + +<p> +The House of Tears! +</p> + +<p> +Margaret remembered the title as she was undressing that night, and, +despite her self-possession, shivered a little. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch04"> +CHAPTER IV +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> policeman who stood on the corner where Bennett Street meets +Hyde Lane had the world to himself. It was nearing three o’clock on a +sultry spring morning, airless, unpleasantly warm. Somewhere in South +London there was a thunderstorm; the hollow echoes of it came at odd +intervals. The good and bad of Mayfair slept—all, apparently, except +Mr. J. G. Reeder, Friend of the Law and Terror of Criminals. +Police-Officer Dyer saw the yellow light behind the casemented window +and smiled benevolently. +</p> + +<p> +It was so still a night that when he heard a key turn in a lock, he +looked over his shoulder, thinking the noise was from the house +immediately behind him. But the door did not move. Instead he saw a +woman appear on the top doorstep five houses away. She wore a flimsy +négligée. +</p> + +<p> +“Officer!” +</p> + +<p> +The voice was low, cultured, very urgent. He moved more quickly +towards her than policemen usually move. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything wrong, miss?” +</p> + +<p> +Her face, he noticed in his worldly way, was “made up”; the cheeks +heavily rouged, the lips a startling red for one who was afraid. He +supposed her to be pretty in normal circumstances, but was doubtful as +to her age. She wore a long black dressing-gown, fastened up to her +chin. Also he saw that the hand that gripped the railing which flanked +the steps glittered in the light of the street lamps. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know… quite. I am alone in the house and I thought I heard… +something.” +</p> + +<p> +Three words to a breath. Obviously she was terrified. +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t you any servants in the house?” +</p> + +<p> +The constable was surprised, a little shocked. +</p> + +<p> +“No. I only came back from Paris at midnight—we took the house +furnished—I think the servants I engaged mistook the date of my +return. I am Mrs. Granville Fornese.” +</p> + +<p> +In a dim way he remembered the name. It had that value of familiarity +which makes even the most assured hesitate to deny acquaintance. It +sounded grand, too—the name of a Somebody. And Bennett Street was a +place where Somebodies live. +</p> + +<p> +The officer peered into the dark hall. +</p> + +<p> +“If you would put the light on, madam, I will look round.” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head: he almost felt the shiver of her. +</p> + +<p> +“The lights aren’t working. That is what frightened me. They were +quite all right when I went to bed at one o’clock. Something woke me… +I don’t know what… and I switched on the lamp by the side of my bed. +And there was no light. I keep a little portable battery lamp in my +bag. I found this and turned it on.” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped, set her teeth in a mirthless smile. Police-Officer Dyer +saw the dark eyes were staringly wide. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw… I don’t know what it was… just a patch of black, like somebody +crouching by the wall. Then it disappeared. And the door of my room +was wide open. I closed and locked it when I went to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +The officer pushed open the door wider, sent a white beam of light +along the passage. There was a small hall table against the wall, +where a telephone instrument stood. Striding into the hall, he took up +the instrument and lifted the hook: the ’phone was dead. +</p> + +<p> +“Does this——” +</p> + +<p> +So far he got with the question, and then stopped. From somewhere +above him he heard a faint but sustained creak—the sound of a foot +resting on a faulty floor-board. Mrs. Fornese was still standing in +the open doorway, and he went back to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you a key to this door?” he asked, and she shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +He felt along the inner surface of the lock and found a stop-catch, +pushed it up. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll have to ’phone from somewhere. You’d better…” +</p> + +<p> +What had she best do? He was a plain police-constable, and was +confronted with a delicate situation. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there anywhere you could go… friends?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” There was no indecision in that word. And then: “Doesn’t Mr. +Reeder live opposite? Somebody told me…” +</p> + +<p> +In the house opposite a light showed. Mr. Dyer surveyed the lighted +window dubiously. It stood for the elegant apartment of one who held a +post superior to chief constables. No. 7 Bennett Street had been at a +recent period converted into flats, and into one of these Mr. Reeder +had moved from his suburban home. Why he should take a flat in that +exclusive and interesting neighbourhood, nobody knew. He was credited +by criminals with being fabulously rich; he was undoubtedly a snug +man. +</p> + +<p> +The constable hesitated, searched his pocket for the smallest coin of +the realm, and, leaving the lady on the doorstep, crossed the road and +tossed a ha’penny to the window. A second and the casement window was +pushed open. +</p> + +<p> +“Excuse me, Mr. Reeder, could I see you for a second?” +</p> + +<p> +The head and shoulders disappeared, and in a very short time Mr. +Reeder appeared in the doorway. He was so fully dressed that he might +have been expecting the summons. The frock coat was as tightly +buttoned, on the back of his head his flat-topped felt hat, on his +nose the pince-nez through which he never looked were askew. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything wrong, constable?” he asked gently. +</p> + +<p> +“Could I use your ’phone? There is a lady over there—Mrs. Fornese… +alone… heard somebody in the house. I heard it too…” +</p> + +<p> +He heard a short scream… a crash, and jumped round. The door of No. 4 +was closed. Mrs. Fornese had disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +In six strides Mr. Reeder had crossed the road and was at the door. +Stooping, he pressed in the flap of the letter-box and listened. No +noise but the ticking of a clock… a faint sighing sound. +</p> + +<p> +“Hum!” said Mr. Reeder, scratching his long nose thoughtfully. “Hum… +would you be so kind as to tell me all about this—um—happening?” +</p> + +<p> +The police-constable repeated the story, more coherently. +</p> + +<p> +“You fastened the spring lock so that it would not move? A wise +precaution.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder frowned. Without another word he crossed the road and +disappeared into his flat. There was a small drawer at the back of his +writing bureau, and this he unlocked. Taking out a leather hold-all, +he unrolled this, and selecting three curious steel instruments that +were not unlike small hooks, fitted one into a wooden handle and +returned to the constable. +</p> + +<p> +“This, I fear, is… I will not say ‘unlawful,’ for a gentleman of my +position is incapable of an unlawful act.… Shall I say ‘unusual’?” +</p> + +<p> +All the time he talked in his soft, apologetic way he was working at +the lock, turning the instrument first one way and then the other. +Presently with a click the lock turned and Mr. Reeder pushed open the +door. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I had best borrow your lamp—thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +He took the electric lamp from the constable’s hand and flung a white +circle of light into the hall. There was no sign of life. He cast the +beam up the stairs, and, stooping his head, listened. There came to +his ear no sound, and noiselessly he stepped further into the hall. +</p> + +<p> +The passage continued beyond the foot of the stairs, and at the end +was a door which apparently gave to the domestic quarters of the +house. To the policeman’s surprise, it was this door which Mr. Reeder +examined. He turned the handle, but the door did not move, and, +stooping, he squinted through the keyhole. +</p> + +<p> +“There was somebody… upstairs,” began the policeman with respectful +hesitation. +</p> + +<p> +“There was somebody upstairs,” repeated Mr. Reeder absently. “You +heard a creaky board, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +He came slowly back to the foot of the stairs and looked up. Then he +cast his lamp along the floor of the hall. +</p> + +<p> +“No sawdust,” he said, speaking to himself, “so it can’t be <i>that</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I go up, sir?” said the policeman, and his foot was on the +lower tread when Mr. Reeder, displaying unexpected strength in so +weary-looking a man, pushed him back. +</p> + +<p> +“I think not, constable,” he said firmly. “If the lady is upstairs she +will have heard our voices. But the lady is not upstairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think she’s in the kitchen, sir?” asked the puzzled policeman. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder shook his head sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! how few modern women spend their time in a kitchen!” he said, +and made an impatient clucking noise, but whether this was a protest +against the falling-off of woman’s domestic qualities, or whether he +“tchk’d” for some other reason, it was difficult to say, for he was a +very preoccupied man. +</p> + +<p> +He swung the lamp back to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought so,” he said, with a note of relief in his voice. “There +are two walking-sticks in the hall stand. Will you get one of them, +constable?” +</p> + +<p> +Wondering, the officer obeyed, and came back, handing a long +cherrywood stick with a crooked handle to Mr. Reeder, who examined it +in the light of his lamp. +</p> + +<p> +“Dust-covered, and left by the previous owner. The spike in place of +the ferrule shows that it was purchased in Switzerland—probably you +are not interested in detective stories and have never read of the +gentleman whose method I am plagiarising?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” said the mystified officer. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder examined the stick again. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a thousand pities that it is not a fishing-rod,” he said. “Will +you stay here?—and don’t move.” +</p> + +<p> +And then he began to crawl up the stairs on his knees, waving his +stick in front of him in the most eccentric manner. He held it up, +lifting the full length of his arm, and as he crawled upwards he +struck at imaginary obstacles. Higher and higher he went, silhouetted +against the reflected light of the lamp he carried, and +Police-Constable Dyer watched him open-mouthed. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think I’d better——” +</p> + +<p> +He got as far as this when the thing happened. There was an explosion +that deafened him; the air was suddenly filled with flying clouds of +smoke and dust; he heard the crackle of wood and the pungent scent of +something burning. Dazed and stupefied, he stood stock still, gaping +up at Mr. Reeder, who was sitting on a stair, picking little splinters +of wood from his coat. +</p> + +<p> +“I think you may come up in perfect safety,” said Mr. Reeder, with +great calmness. +</p> + +<p> +“What—what was it?” asked the officer. +</p> + +<p> +The enemy of criminals was dusting his hat tenderly, though this the +officer could not see. +</p> + +<p> +“You may come up.” +</p> + +<p> +P.-C. Dyer ran up the stairs and followed the other along the broad +landing till he stopped and focussed in the light of his lamp a +queer-looking and obviously home-made spring gun, the muzzle of which +was trained through the banisters so that it covered the stairs up +which he had ascended. +</p> + +<p> +“There was,” said Mr. Reeder carefully, “a piece of black thread +stretched across the stairs, so that any person who bulged or broke +that thread was certain to fire the gun.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—but the lady?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder coughed. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think she is in the house,” he said, ever so gently. “I +rather imagine that she went through the back. There is a back +entrance to the mews, is there not? And that by this time she is a +long way from the house. I sympathise with her—this little incident +has occurred too late for the morning newspapers, and she will have to +wait for the sporting editions before she learns that I am still +alive.” +</p> + +<p> +The police-officer drew a long breath. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I’d better report this, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you had,” sighed Mr. Reeder. “And will you ring up Inspector +Simpson and tell him that if he comes this way I should like to see +him?” +</p> + +<p> +Again the policeman hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think we’d better search the house?… they may have done +away with this woman.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“They have not done away with any woman,” he said decisively. “The +only thing they have done away with is one of Mr. Simpson’s pet +theories.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Mr. Reeder, why did this lady come to the door——” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder patted him benignantly on the arm, as a mother might pat a +child who asked a foolish question. +</p> + +<p> +“The lady had been standing at the door for half-an-hour,” he said +gently; “on and off for half-an-hour, constable, hoping against hope, +one imagines, that she would attract my attention. But I was looking +at her from a room that was not—er—illuminated. I did not show +myself because I—er—have a very keen desire to live!” +</p> + +<p> +On this baffling note Mr. Reeder went into his house. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch05"> +CHAPTER V +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Mr. Reeder</span> sat at his ease, wearing a pair of grotesquely painted +velvet slippers, a cigarette hanging from his lips, and explained to +the detective inspector, who had called in the early hours of the +morning, his reason for adopting a certain conclusion. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not imagine for one moment that it was my friend Ravini. He is +less subtle, in addition to which he has little or no intelligence. +You will find that this coup has been planned for months, though it +has only been put into execution to-day. No. 307 Bennett Street is the +property of an old gentleman who spends most of his life in Italy. He +has been in the habit of letting the house furnished for years: in +fact, it was vacated only a month ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“You think, then,” said the puzzled Simpson, “that the people, whoever +they were, rented the house——” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Even that I doubt,” he said. “They have probably an order to view, +and in some way got rid of the caretaker. They knew I would be at home +last night, because I am always at home—um—on most nights since…” +Mr. Reeder coughed in his embarrassment. “A young friend of mine has +recently left London… I do not like going out alone.” +</p> + +<p> +And to Simpson’s horror, a pinkish flush suffused the sober +countenance of Mr. Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +“A few weeks ago,” he went on, with a pitiable attempt at airiness, “I +used to dine out, attend a concert or one of those exquisite +melodramas which have such an appeal for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whom do you suspect?” interrupted Simpson, who had not been called +from his bed in the middle of the night to discuss the virtues of +melodrama. “The Gregorys or the Donovans?” He named two groups that +had excellent reason to be annoyed with Mr. Reeder and his methods. +</p> + +<p> +J. G. Reeder shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Neither,” he said. “I think—indeed I am sure—that we must go back +to ancient history for the cause.” +</p> + +<p> +Simpson opened his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Not Flack?” he asked incredulously. “He’s hiding—he wouldn’t start +anything so soon.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“John Flack. Who else could have planned such a thing? The art of it! +And, Mr. Simpson”—he leaned over and tapped the inspector on the +breast—“there has not been a big robbery in London since Flack went +to Broadmoor. You’ll get the biggest of all in a week! The coup of +coups! His mad brain is planning it now!” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s finished,” said Simpson with a frown. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder smiled wanly. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall see. This little affair of to-night is a sighting shot—a +mere nothing. But I am rather glad I am not—er—dining out in these +days. On the other hand, our friend Georgio Ravini is a notorious +diner-out—would you mind calling up Vine Street police station and +finding out whether they have any casualties to report?” +</p> + +<p> +Vine Street, which knew the movements of so many people, replied +instantly that Mr. Georgio Ravini was out of town; it was believed he +was in Paris. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder, in his feeble, aimless way. “How very wise +of Georgio—and how much wiser it will be if he stays there!” +</p> + +<p> +Inspector Simpson rose and shook himself. He was a stout, hearty man +who had that habit. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll get down to the Yard and report this,” he said. “It may not have +been Flack after all. He’s a gang leader and he’d be useless without +his crowd, and they are scattered. Most of them are in the +Argentine——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ha, ha!” said Mr. Reeder, without any evidence of joy. +</p> + +<p> +“What the devil are you laughing about?” +</p> + +<p> +The other was instantly apologetic. +</p> + +<p> +“It was what I would describe as a sceptical laugh. The Argentine! Do +criminals really go to the Argentine except in those excellent works +of fiction which one reads on trains? A tradition, Mr. Simpson, dating +back to the ancient times when there was no extradition treaty between +the two countries. Scattered, yes. I look forward to the day when I +shall gather them all together under one roof. It will be a very +pleasant morning for me, Mr. Simpson, when I can walk along the +gallery, looking through the little peep-holes, and watch them sewing +mail-bags—I know of no more sedative occupation than a little +needlework! In the meantime, watch your banks—old John is seventy +years of age and has no time to waste. History will be made in the +City of London before many days are past! I wonder where I could find +Mr. Ravini?” +</p> + +<p class="spacer"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +George Ravini was not the type of man whose happiness depended upon +the good opinion which others held of him. Otherwise, he might well +have spent his life in abject misery. As for Mr. Reeder—he discussed +that interesting police official over a glass of wine and a good cigar +in his Half Moon Street flat. It was a showy, even a flashy, little +menage, for Mr. Ravini’s motto was everything of the best and as much +of it as possible, and his drawing-room was rather like an +over-ornamented French clock—all gilt and enamel where it was not +silk and damask. To his subordinate, one Lew Steyne, Mr. Ravini +revealed his mind. +</p> + +<p> +“If that old So-and-so knew half he pretends to know, I’d be taking +the first train to Bordighera,” he said. “But Reeder’s a bluff. He’s +clever up to a point, but you can say that about almost any bogey you +ever met.” +</p> + +<p> +“You could show <i>him</i> a few points,” said the sycophantic Lew, and Mr. +Ravini smiled and stroked his trim moustache. +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldn’t be surprised if the old nut is crazy about that girl. May +and December—can you beat it!” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s she like?” asked Lew. “I never got a proper look at her face.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Ravini kissed the tips of his fingers ecstatically and threw the +caress to the painted ceiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Anyway, he can’t frighten me, Lew—you know what I am: if I want +anything I go after it, and I keep going after it till I get it! I’ve +never seen anybody like her. Quite the lady and everything, and what +she can see in an old such-and-such like Reeder licks me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Women are funny,” mused Lew. “You wouldn’t think that a typewriter +would chuck a man like you——” +</p> + +<p> +“She hasn’t chucked me,” said Mr. Ravini curtly. “I’m simply not +acquainted with her, that’s all. But I’m going to be. Where’s this +place?” +</p> + +<p> +“Siltbury,” said Lew. +</p> + +<p> +He took a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket, unfolded it and +read the pencilled words. +</p> + +<p> +“Larmes Keep, Siltbury—it’s on the Southern. I trailed her when she +left London with her boxes—old Reeder came down to see her off, and +looked about as happy as a wet cat.” +</p> + +<p> +“A boarding-house,” mused Ravini. “That’s a queer sort of job.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s secretary,” reported Lew. (He had conveyed this information at +least four times, but Mr. Ravini was one of those curious people who +like to treat old facts as new sensations.) +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a posh place, too,” said Lew. “Not like the ordinary +boarding-house—only swells go there. They charge twenty guineas a +week for a room, and you’re lucky if you get in.” +</p> + +<p> +Ravini thought on this, fondling his chin. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a free country,” he said. “What’s to stop me staying +at—what’s the name of the place? Larmes Keep? I’ve never taken ‘No’ +from a woman in my life. Half the time they don’t mean it. Anyway, +she’s got to give me a room if I’ve the money to pay for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose she writes to Reeder?” suggested Lew. +</p> + +<p> +“Let her write!” Ravini’s tone was defiant, whatever might be the +state of his mind. “What’ll he have on me? It’s no crime to pay your +rent at a boarding-house, is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Try her with one of your Luck Rings,” grinned Lew. +</p> + +<p> +Ravini looked at them admiringly. +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t get ’em off,” he said, “and I’d never dream of parting +with my luck that way. She’ll be easy as soon as she knows me—don’t +you worry.” +</p> + +<p> +By a curious coincidence, as he was turning out of Half Moon Street +the next morning he met the one man in the world he did not wish to +see. Fortunately, Lew had taken his suit-case on to the station, and +there was nothing in Mr. Ravini’s appearance to suggest that he was +setting forth on an affair of gallantry. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder looked at the man’s diamonds glittering in the daylight. +They seemed to exercise a peculiar fascination on the detective. +</p> + +<p> +“The luck still holds, Georgio,” he said, and Georgio smiled +complacently. “And whither do you go on this beautiful September +morning? To bank your nefarious gains, or to get a quick visa to your +passport?” +</p> + +<p> +“Strolling round,” said Ravini airily. “Just taking a little +constitutional.” And then, with a spice of mischief: “What’s happened +to that busy you were putting on to tail me up? I haven’t seen him.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder looked past him to the distance. +</p> + +<p> +“He has never been far from you, Georgio,” he said gently. “He +followed you from the Flotsam last night to that peculiar little party +you attended in Maida Vale, and he followed you home at 2.15 a.m.” +</p> + +<p> +Georgio’s jaw dropped. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t mean he’s——” He looked round. The only person visible was +a benevolent-looking man who might have been a doctor, from his frock +coat and top hat. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s not him?” frowned Ravini. +</p> + +<p> +“He,” corrected Mr. Reeder. “Your English is not yet perfect.” +</p> + +<p> +Ravini did not leave London immediately. It was two o’clock before he +had shaken off the watcher, and five minutes later he was on the +Southern Express. The same old cabman who had brought Margaret Belman +to Larmes Keep carried him up the long, winding hill road through the +broad gates to the front of the house, and deposited him under the +portico. An elderly porter, in a smart, well-fitting uniform, came out +to greet the stranger. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. ——?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ravini,” said that gentleman. “I haven’t booked a room.” +</p> + +<p> +The porter shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid we have no accommodation,” he said. “Mr. Daver makes it a +rule not to take guests unless they’ve booked their rooms in advance. +I will see the secretary.” +</p> + +<p> +Ravini followed him into the spacious hall and sat down on one of the +beautiful chairs. This, he decided, was something outside the usual +run of boarding-houses. It was luxurious even for an hotel. No other +guests were visible. Presently he heard a step on the flagged floor +and rose to meet the eyes of Margaret Belman. Though they were +unfriendly, she betrayed no sign of recognition. He might have been +the veriest stranger. +</p> + +<p> +“The proprietor makes it a rule not to accept guests without previous +correspondence,” she said. “In those circumstances I am afraid we +cannot offer you accommodation.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve already written to the proprietor,” said Ravini, never at a loss +for a glib lie. “Go along, young lady, be a sport and see what you can +do for me.” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret hesitated. Her own inclination was to order his suit-case to +be put in the waiting cab; but she was part of the organisation of the +place, and she could not let her private prejudices interfere with her +duties. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you wait?” she said, and went in search of Mr. Daver. +</p> + +<p> +That great criminologist was immersed in a large book and looked up +over his horn-rimmed spectacles. +</p> + +<p> +“Ravini? A foreign gentleman? Of course he is. A stranger within our +gate, as you would say. It is very irregular, but in the +circumstances—yes, I think so.” +</p> + +<p> +“He isn’t the type of man you ought to have here, Mr. Daver,” she said +firmly. “A friend of mine who knows these people says he is a member +of the criminal classes.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Daver’s ludicrous eyebrows rose. +</p> + +<p> +“The criminal classes! What an extraordinary opportunity to study, as +it were, at first hand! You agree? I knew you would! Let him stay. If +he bores me, I will send him away.” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret went back, a little disappointed, feeling rather foolish if +the truth be told. She found Ravini waiting, caressing his moustache, +a little less assured than he had been when she had left him. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Daver said you may stay. I will send the housekeeper to you,” she +said, and went in search of Mrs. Burton, and gave that doleful woman +the necessary instructions. +</p> + +<p> +She was angry with herself that she had not been more explicit in +dealing with Mr. Daver. She might have told him that if Ravini stayed +she would leave. She might even have explained the reason why she did +not wish the Italian to remain in the house. She was in the fortunate +position, however, that she had not to see the guests unless they +expressed a wish to interview her, and Ravini was too wise to pursue +his advantage. +</p> + +<p> +That night, when she went to her room, she sat down and wrote a long +letter to Mr. Reeder, but thought better of it and tore it up. She +could not run to J. G. Reeder every time she was annoyed. He had a +sufficiency of trouble, she decided, and here she was right. Even as +she wrote, Mr. Reeder was examining with great interest the spring gun +which had been devised for his destruction. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch06"> +CHAPTER VI +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">To</span> do Ravini justice, he made no attempt to approach the girl, +though she had seen him at a distance. He had passed her on the lawn +the second day after his arrival with no more than a nod and a smile, +and indeed he seemed to have found another diversion, if not another +objective, for he was scarcely away from Olga Crewe’s side. Margaret +saw them in the evening, leaning over the cliff wall, and George +Ravini seemed remarkably pleased with himself. He was exhibiting his +famous Luck Stones to Olga. Margaret saw her examine the rings and +evidently make some remark upon them which sent Ravini into fits of +laughter. +</p> + +<p> +It was on the third day of his stay that he spoke to Margaret. They +met in the big hall, and she would have passed on, but he stood in her +way. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope we’re not going to be bad friends, Miss Belman,” he said. “I’m +not giving you any trouble, and I’m ready to apologise for the past. +Could a gentleman be fairer than that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think you’ve anything to apologise for, Mr. Ravini,” she +said, a little relieved by his tone, and more inclined to be civil. +“Now that you have so obviously found another interest in life, are +you enjoying your stay?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s perfectly marvellous,” he said conventionally, for he was a man +who loved superlatives. “And say, Miss Belman, who is this young lady +staying here, Miss Olga Crewe?” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s a guest: I know nothing about her.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a peach!” he said enthusiastically, and Margaret was amused. +</p> + +<p> +“And a lady, every inch of her,” he went on. “I must say I’m putty in +the hands of real ladies! There’s something about ’em that’s different +from shop-girls and typists and people of that kind. Not that you’re a +typist,” he went on hastily. “I regard you as a lady too. Every inch +of one. I’m thinking about sending for my Rolls to take her a drive +round the country. You’re not jealous?” +</p> + +<p> +Anger and amusement struggled for expression, but Margaret’s sense of +humour won, and she laughed long and silently all the way to her +office. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after this Mr. Ravini disappeared. So also did Olga. Margaret saw +them coming into the hall about eleven, and the girl looked paler than +usual, and, sweeping past her without a word, ran up the stairs. +Margaret surveyed the young man curiously. His face was flushed, his +eyes of an unusual brightness. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going up to town to-morrow,” he said. “Early train… you needn’t +’phone for a cab: I can walk down the hill.” +</p> + +<p> +He was almost incoherent. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re tired of Larmes Keep?” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh? Tired? No, by God I’m not! This is the place for me!” +</p> + +<p> +He smoothed back his dark hair and she saw his hand trembling so much +that the Luck Stones flickered and flashed like fire. She waited until +he had disappeared, and then she went upstairs and knocked at Olga’s +door. The girl’s room was next to hers. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s that?” asked a voice sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Belman.” +</p> + +<p> +The key turned, the door opened. Only one light was burning in the +room, so that Olga’s face was in shadow. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want anything?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Can I come in?” asked Margaret. “There’s something I wish to say to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Olga hesitated. Then: +</p> + +<p> +“Come in,” she said. “I’ve been snivelling. I hope you don’t mind.” +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes were red, the stains of tears were still on her face. +</p> + +<p> +“This damned place depresses me awfully,” she excused herself as she +dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief. “What do you want to see me +about?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Ravini. I suppose you know he is a—crook?” +</p> + +<p> +Olga stared at her and her eyes went hard. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know that I am particularly interested in Mr. Ravini,” she +said slowly. “Why do you come to tell me this?” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret was in a dilemma. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know… I thought you were getting rather friendly with him… it +was very impertinent of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it was,” said Olga Crewe coldly, and the rebuff was such that +Margaret’s face went scarlet. +</p> + +<p> +She was angry with herself when she went into her own room that night, +and anger is a bad bedmate, and the most wakeful of all human +emotions. She tossed from side to side in her bed, tried to forget +there were such persons as Olga Crewe and George Ravini, tried every +device she could think of to induce sleep, and was almost successful +when… +</p> + +<p> +She sat up in bed. Fingers were scrabbling on the panel of her door; +not exactly scratching nor tapping. She switched on the light, and, +getting out of bed, walked to the door and listened. Somebody was +there. The handle turned in her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s there?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me in, let me in!…” +</p> + +<p> +It was a frantic whisper, but she recognised the voice—Ravini! +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t let you in. Go away, please, or I’ll telephone…” +</p> + +<p> +She heard a sound, a curious muffled sound… sobbing… a man! And then +the voice ceased. Her heart racing madly, she stood by the door, her +ear to the panel, listening, but no other sound came. She spent the +rest of the night sitting up in bed, a quilt about her shoulders, +listening, listening… +</p> + +<p> +Day broke greyly; the sun came up. She lay down and fell asleep. It +was the maid bringing tea that woke her, and, getting out of bed, she +opened the door.… Something attracted her attention. +</p> + +<p> +“A nice morning, miss,” said the fresh-faced country girl brightly. +</p> + +<p> +Margaret nodded. As soon as the girl was gone she opened the door +again to examine more closely the thing she had seen. It was a +triangular patch of stuff that had been torn and caught in one of the +splinters of the old oaken door. She took it off carefully and laid it +in the palm of her hand. A jagged triangle of pink silk. She put it on +her dressing-table wonderingly. There must be an end to this. If +Ravini was not leaving that morning, or Mr. Daver would not ask him to +go, she would leave for London that night. +</p> + +<p> +As she left her room she met the housemaid. +</p> + +<p> +“That man in No. 7 has gone, miss,” the woman reported, “but he’s left +his pyjamas behind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Gone already?” +</p> + +<p> +“Must have gone last night, miss. His bed hasn’t been slept in.” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret followed her along the passage to Ravini’s room. His bag was +gone, but on the pillow, neatly folded, was a suit of pink silk +pyjamas, and, bending over, she saw that the breast was slightly torn. +A little triangular patch of pink silk had been ripped out! +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch07"> +CHAPTER VII +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">When</span> a nimble old man dropped from a high wall at midnight and, +stopping only to wipe the blood from his hands—for he had come upon a +guard patrolling the grounds in his flight—and walked briskly towards +London, peering into every side lane for the small car that had been +left for him, he brought a new complication into many lives, and for +three people at least marked the date of their passing in the Book of +Fate. +</p> + +<p> +Police headquarters were not slow to employ the press to advertise +their wants. But the escape from Broadmoor of a homicidal maniac is +something which is not to be rushed immediately into print. Not once +but many times had the help of the public been enlisted in a vain +endeavour to bring old John Flack to justice. His description had been +circulated, his haunts notified, without there being any successful +issue to the broadcast. +</p> + +<p> +There was a conference at Scotland Yard, which Mr. Reeder attended; +and they were five very serious men who gathered round the +superintendent’s desk, and mainly the talk was of bullion and of +“noses,” by which inelegant term is meant the inevitable police +informer. +</p> + +<p> +Crazy John “fell” eventually through the treachery of an outside +helper. Ravini, the most valuable of gang leaders, had been employed +to “cover” a robbery at the Leadenhall Bank. Bullion was John Flack’s +specialty: it was not without its interest for Mr. Ravini. +</p> + +<p> +The theft had been successful. One Sunday morning two cars drove out +of the courtyard of the Leadenhall Bank. By the side of the driver of +each car sat a man in the uniform of the Metropolitan Police—inside +each car was another officer. A City policeman saw the cars depart, +but accepted the presence of the uniformed men and did not challenge +the drivers. It was not an unusual event: transfers of gold or stocks +on Sunday morning had been witnessed before, but usually the City +authorities were notified. He called Old Jewry station on the +telephone to report the occurrence, but by this time John Flack was +well away. +</p> + +<p> +It was Ravini, cheated, as he thought, of his fair share of the +plunder, who betrayed the old man—the gold was never recovered. +</p> + +<p> +England had been ransacked to find John Flack’s headquarters, but +without success. There was not an hotel or boarding-house keeper who +had not received his portrait—nor one who recognised him in any +guise. +</p> + +<p> +The exhaustive inquiries which followed his arrest did little to +increase the knowledge of the police. Flack’s lodgings were found—a +furnished room in Bloomsbury which he had occupied at rare intervals +for years. But here were discovered no documents which gave the +slightest clue to the real headquarters of the gang. Probably they had +none. They were chosen and discarded as opportunity arose or emergency +dictated, though it was clear that the old man had something in the +nature of a general staff to assist him. +</p> + +<p> +“Anyway,” said Big Bill Gordon, Chief of the Big Five, “he’ll not +start anything in the way of a bullion steal—his mind will be fully +occupied with ways and means of getting out of the country.” +</p> + +<p> +It was Mr. Reeder’s head which shook. +</p> + +<p> +“The nature of criminals may change, but their vanities persist,” he +said, in his precise, grandiloquent way. “Mr. Flack does not pride +himself upon his murders, but upon his robberies, and he will signify +his return to freedom in the usual manner.” +</p> + +<p> +“His gang is scattered——” began Simpson. +</p> + +<p> +J. G. Reeder silenced him with a sad, sweet smile. +</p> + +<p> +“There is plenty of evidence, Mr. Simpson, that the gang has +coagulated again. It is—um—an ugly word, but I can think of no +better. Mr. Flack’s escape from the—er—public institution where he +was confined shows evidence of good team work. The rope, the knife +with which he killed the unfortunate warder, the kit of tools, the +almost certainty that there was a car waiting to take him away, are +all symptomatic of gang work. And what has Mr. Flack——” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish to God you wouldn’t call him ‘Mr.’ Flack!” said Big Bill +explosively. +</p> + +<p> +J. G. Reeder blinked. +</p> + +<p> +“I have an ineradicable respect for age,” he said in a hushed voice, +“but a greater respect for the dead. I am hoping to increase my +respect for Mr. Flack in the course of the next month.” +</p> + +<p> +“If it’s gang work,” interrupted Simpson, “who are with him? The old +crowd is either gaoled or out of the country. I know what you’re +thinking about, Mr. Reeder: you’ve got your mind on what happened last +night. I’ve been thinking it over, and it’s quite likely that the +man-trap wasn’t fixed by Flack at all, but by one of the other crowd. +Do you know Donovan’s out of Dartmoor? He has no reason for loving +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder raised his hand in protest. +</p> + +<p> +“On the contrary, Joe Donovan, when I saw him in the early hours of +this morning, was a very affable and penitent man who deeply regretted +the unkind things he said of me as he left the Old Bailey dock. He +lives at Kilburn, and spent last evening at a local cinema with his +wife and daughter—no, it wasn’t Donovan. He is not a brainy man. Only +John Flack, with his dramatic sense, could have staged that little +comedy which was so nearly a tragedy.” +</p> + +<p> +“You were nearly killed, they tell me, Reeder?” said Big Bill. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I was not thinking of that particular tragedy. It was in my mind +before I went up the stairs to force the door into the kitchen. If I +had done that, I think I should have shot Mr. Flack, and there would +have been an end of all our speculations and troubles.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Simpson was examining some papers that were on the table before +him. +</p> + +<p> +“If Flack’s going after bullion he’s got very little chance. The only +big movement is that of a hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns which +goes to Tilbury to-morrow morning or the next day from the Bank of +England, and it is impossible that Flack could organise a steal at +such short notice.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder was suddenly alert and interested. +</p> + +<p> +“A hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns,” he murmured, rubbing his +chin irritably. “Ten tons. It goes by train?” +</p> + +<p> +“By lorry, with ten armed men—one per ton,” said Simpson humorously. +“I don’t think you need worry about that.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. J. G. Reeder’s lips were pursed as though he were whistling, but +no sound issued. Presently he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Flack was originally a chemist,” he said slowly. “I don’t suppose +there is a better criminal chemist in England than Mr. Flack.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you say that?” asked Simpson with a frown. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“I have a sixth sense,” he said, almost apologetically, “and +invariably I associate some peculiar quality with every man and woman +who—um—passes under review. For example, Mr. Simpson, when I think +of you, I have an instinctive, shadowy thought of a prize ring where I +first had the pleasure of seeing you.” (Simpson, who had been an +amateur welter weight, grinned appreciatively.) “And my mind never +rests upon Mr. Flack except in the surroundings of a laboratory with +test tubes and all the paraphernalia of experimental chemistry. As for +the little affair last night, I was not unprepared for it, but I +suspected a trap—literally a—um—trap. Some evilly disposed person +once tried the same trick with me; cut away the landing so that I +should fall upon very unpleasant sharp spikes. I looked for sawdust +the moment I went into the house, and when that was not present I +guessed the gun.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how did you know there was anything?” asked Big Bill curiously. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“I have a criminal mind,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +He went back to his flat in Bennett Street, his mind equally divided +between Margaret Belman, safe in Sussex, and the ability of one normal +trolley to carry a hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns. Such little +details interested Mr. Reeder. Almost the first thing he did when he +reached his flat was to call up a haulage contractor to discover +whether such trucks were in use. For somehow he knew that if the Flack +gang were after this shipment to Australia, it was necessary that the +gold should be carried in one vehicle. And why he should think this, +not even Mr. Reeder knew. But he had, as he said, a criminal mind. +</p> + +<p> +That afternoon he addressed himself to a novel and not unpleasing +task. It was a letter—the first letter he had written to Margaret +Belman,—and in its way it was a curiosity. +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“My dear Miss Margaret,” it began, “I trust you will not be annoyed +that I should write to you; but certain incidents which disfigured +perhaps our parting, and which may cause you (I say this, knowing your +kind heart) a little unhappiness, induce this letter——” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder paused here to discover a method by which he could convey +his regret at not seeing her, without offering an embarrassing +revelation of his more secret thoughts. At five o’clock, when his +servant brought in his tea, he was still sitting before the unfinished +letter. Mr. Reeder took up the cup, carried it to his writing-table, +and stared at it as though for inspiration. +</p> + +<p> +And then he saw, on the surface of the steaming cup, a thread-like +formation of froth which had a curious metallic quality. He dipped his +forefinger delicately in the froth and put his finger to his tongue. +</p> + +<p> +“Hum!” said Mr. Reeder, and rang the bell. +</p> + +<p> +His man came instantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there anything you want, sir?” He bent his head respectfully, and +for a long time Mr. Reeder did not answer. +</p> + +<p> +“The milk, of course!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“The milk, sir?” said the puzzled servant, “The milk’s fresh, sir: it +came this afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +“You did not take it from the milkman, naturally. It was in a bottle +outside the door.” +</p> + +<p> +The man nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good!” said Mr. Reeder, almost cheerfully. “In future, will you +arrange to receive the milk from the milkman’s own hands? You have not +drunk any yourself, I see?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir. I have had my tea, but I don’t take milk with it, sir,” said +the servant, and Mr. Reeder favoured him with one of his rare smiles. +</p> + +<p> +“That, Peters,” he said, “is why you are alive and well. Bring the +rest of the milk to me, and a new cup of tea. I also will dispense +with the lacteal fluid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you like milk, sir?” said the bewildered man. +</p> + +<p> +“I like milk,” replied Mr. Reeder gently, “but I prefer it without +strychnine. I think, Peters, we’re going to have a very interesting +week. Have you any dependants?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have an old mother, sir,” said the mystified man. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you insured?” asked Mr. Reeder, and Peters nodded dumbly. +</p> + +<p> +“You have the advantage of me,” said J. G. Reeder. “Yes, I think we +are going to have an interesting week.” +</p> + +<p> +And his prediction was fully justified. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch08"> +CHAPTER VIII +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">London</span> heard the news of John Flack’s escape and grew fearful or +indignant according to its several temperaments. A homicidal planner +of great and spectacular thefts was in its midst. It was not very +pleasant hearing for law-abiding citizens. And the news was more than +a week old: why had Scotland Yard not taken the public into its +confidence? Why suppress this news of such vital interest? Who was +responsible for the suppression of this important information? +Headlines asked these questions in the more sensational sheets. The +news of the Bennett Street outrage was public property: to his +enormous embarrassment, Mr. Reeder found himself a Matter of Public +Interest. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder used to sit alone in his tiny bureau at the Public +Prosecutor’s Office and for hours on end do little more than twiddle +his thumbs and gaze disconsolately at the virgin white of his +blotting-pad. +</p> + +<p> +In what private day-dreams he indulged, whether they concerned +fabulous fortunes and their disposition, or whether they centred about +a very pretty pink-and-white young lady, or whether indeed he thought +at all and his mind was not a complete blank, those who interrupted +his reveries and had the satisfaction of seeing him start guiltily had +no means of knowing. +</p> + +<p> +At this particular moment his mind was, in truth, completely occupied +by his newest as well as his oldest enemy. +</p> + +<p> +There were three members of the Flack gang originally—John, George, +and Augustus—and they began operations in the days when it was +considered scientific and a little wonderful to burn out the lock of a +safe. +</p> + +<p> +Augustus Flack was killed by the night watchman of Carr’s Bank in +Lombard Street during an attempt to rob the gold vault; George Flack, +the youngest of the three, was sent to penal servitude for ten years +as the result of a robbery in Bond Street, and died there; and only +John, the mad master-mind of the family, escaped detection and arrest. +</p> + +<p> +It was he who brought into the organisation one O. Sweizer, the Yankee +bank-smasher; he who recruited Adolphe Victoire; and those brought +others to the good work. For this was Crazy Jack’s peculiar +asset—that he could attract to himself, almost at a minute’s notice, +the best brains of the underworld. Though the rest of the Flacks were +either dead or gaoled, the organisation was stronger than ever, and +strongest because lurking somewhere in the background was this kinky +brain. +</p> + +<p> +Thus matters stood when Mr. J. G. Reeder came into the case—being +brought into the matter not so much because the London police had +failed, but because the Public Prosecutor recognised that the breaking +up of the Flacks was going to be a lengthy business, occupying one +man’s complete attention. +</p> + +<p> +Cutting the tentacles of the organisation was an easy matter, +comparatively. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder took O. Sweizer, that stocky Swiss-American, when he and a +man unknown were engaged in removing a safe from the Bedford Street +post-office one Sunday morning. Sweizer was ready for fight, but Mr. +Reeder grabbed him just a little too quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Let up!” gasped Sweizer in Italian. “You’re choking me, Reeder.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder turned him on to his face and handcuffed him behind, then +he lifted him by the scruff of his neck and went to the assistance of +his admirable colleagues who were taking the other two men. +</p> + +<p> +Victoire was arrested one night at the Charlton, when he was dining +with Denver May. He gave no trouble, because the police took him on a +purely fictitious charge and one which he knew he could easily +disprove. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Mr. Reeder,” said he in his elegant, languid way, “you are +making quite an absurd mistake, but I will humour you. I can prove +that when the pearls were taken from Hertford Street I was in Nice.” +</p> + +<p> +This was on the way to the station. +</p> + +<p> +They put him in the dock and searched him, discovering certain lethal +weapons handily disposed about his person, but he was only amused. He +was less amused when he was charged with smashing the Bank of Lens, +the attempted murder of a night watchman, and one or two other little +matters which need not be particularised. +</p> + +<p> +They got him into the cells, and as he was carried, struggling and +raving like a lunatic, Mr. Reeder offered him a piece of advice which +he rejected with considerable violence. +</p> + +<p> +“Say you were in Nice at the time,” he said gently. +</p> + +<p> +Then one day the police pulled in a man in Somers Town, on the very +prosaic charge of beating his wife in public. When they searched him +they found a torn scrap of a letter, which was sent at once to Mr. +Reeder. It ran: +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“Any night about eleven in Whitehall Avenue. Reeder is a man of medium +height, elderly-looking, sandy-greyish hair and side-whiskers rather +thick, always carries an umbrella. Recommend you to wear rubber boots +and take a length of iron to him. You can easily find out who he is +and what he looks like. Take your time… fifty on acc… der when the job +is finished…” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +This was the first hint Mr. Reeder had that he was especially +unpopular with the mysterious John Flack. +</p> + +<p> +The day Crazy Jack was sent down to Broadmoor had been a day of mild +satisfaction for Mr. Reeder. He was not exactly happy or even relieved +about it. He had the comfort of an accountant who had signed a +satisfactory balance-sheet, or the builder who was surveying his +finished work. There were other balance-sheets to be signed, other +buildings to be erected—they differed only in their shapes and +quantities. +</p> + +<p> +One thing was certain, that on what other project Flack’s mind was +fixed, he was devoting a considerable amount of thought to J. G. +Reeder—whether in reprisal for events that had passed or as a +precautionary measure to check his activities in the future, the +detective could only guess: but he was a good guesser. +</p> + +<p> +The telephone bell, set in a remote corner of the room, rang sharply. +Mr. Reeder took up the instrument with a pained expression. The +operator of the office exchange told him that there was a call from +Horsham. He pulled a writing-pad towards him and waited. And then a +voice spoke, and hardly was the first word uttered when he knew his +man, for J. G. Reeder never forgot voices. +</p> + +<p> +“That you, Reeder?… Know who I am?…” +</p> + +<p> +The same thin, tense voice that had babbled threats from the dock of +the Old Bailey, the same little chuckling laugh that punctured every +second. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder touched a bell and began to write rapidly on his pad. +</p> + +<p> +“Know who I am?—I’ll bet you do! Thought you’d got rid of me, didn’t +you? but you haven’t!… Listen, Reeder, you can tell the Yard I’m +busy—I’m going to give them the shock of their lives. Mad, am I? I’ll +show you whether I’m mad or not… And I’ll get you, Reeder…” +</p> + +<p> +A messenger came in. Mr. Reeder tore off the slip and handed it to him +with an urgent gesture. The man read and bolted from the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that Mr. Flack?” asked Reeder softly. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it Mr. Flack, you old hypocrite!… Have you got the parcel? I +wondered if you had. What do you think of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“The parcel?” said Reeder, gentlier than ever, and before the man +could reply: “You will get into serious trouble for trying to hoax the +Public Prosecutor’s Office, my friend,” said Mr. Reeder reproachfully. +“You are not Crazy John Flack… I know his voice. Mr. Flack spoke with +a curious Cockney accent which is not easy to imitate, and Mr. Flack +at this moment is in the hands of the police.” +</p> + +<p> +He counted on the effect of this provocative speech, and he had made +no mistake. +</p> + +<p> +“You lie!” screamed the voice. “You know I’m Flack… Crazy Jack, eh?… +Crazy old John Flack… Mad, am I? You’ll learn!… you put me in that +hell upon earth, and I’m going to serve you worse than I treated that +damned dago…” +</p> + +<p> +The voice ceased abruptly. There was a click as the receiver was put +down. Reeder listened expectantly, but no other call came through. +Then he rang the bell again and the messenger returned. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, I got through straight away to the Horsham police station. +The inspector is sending three men in a car to the post-office.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder gazed at the ceiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I fear he has sent too late,” he said. “The venerable bandit +will have gone.” +</p> + +<p> +A quarter of an hour later came confirmation of his prediction. The +police had arrived at the post-office, but the bird had flown. The +clerk did not remember anybody old or wild-looking booking a call; he +thought that the message had not come from the post-office itself, +which was also the telephone exchange, but from an outlying call-box. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder went in to report to the Public Prosecutor, but neither he +nor his assistant was in the office. He rang up Scotland Yard and +passed on his information to Simpson. +</p> + +<p> +“I respectfully suggest that you should get into touch with the French +police and locate Ravini. He may not be in Paris at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where do you think he is?” asked Simpson. +</p> + +<p> +“That,” replied Mr. Reeder in a hushed voice, “is a question which has +never been definitely settled in my mind. I should not like to say +that he was in heaven, because I cannot imagine Georgio Ravini with +his Luck Stones——” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean that he’s dead?” asked Simpson quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very likely; in fact, it is extremely likely.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a long silence at the other end of the telephone. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you had the parcel?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I am awaiting with the greatest interest,” said Mr. Reeder, and +went back to his office to twiddle his thumbs and stare at his white +blotting-pad. +</p> + +<p> +The parcel came at three o’clock that afternoon, when Mr. Reeder had +returned from his frugal lunch, which he invariably took at a large +and popular teashop in Whitehall. It was a very small parcel, about +three inches square; it was registered, and had been posted in London. +He weighed it carefully, shook it and listened, but the lightness of +the package precluded any possibility of there being concealed behind +the paper wrapping anything that bore a resemblance to an infernal +machine. He cut the paper tape that fastened it, took off the paper, +and there was revealed a small cardboard box such as jewellers employ. +Removing the lid, he found a small pad of cotton-wool, and in the +midst of this three gold rings, each with three brilliant diamonds. He +put them on his blotting-pad and gazed at them for a long time. +</p> + +<p> +They were George Ravini’s Luck Stones, and for ten minutes Mr. Reeder +sat in a profound reverie, for he knew that George Ravini was dead, +and it did not need the card which accompanied the rings to know who +was responsible for the drastic and gruesome ending to Mr. Ravini’s +life. The sprawling “J. F.” on the little card was in Mr. Flack’s +writing, and the three words “Your turn next” were instructive, even +if they were not, as they were intended to be, terrifying. +</p> + +<p> +Half an hour later Mr. Reeder met Inspector Simpson by appointment at +Scotland Yard. Simpson examined the rings curiously, and pointed out a +small, dark-brown speck at the edge of one of the Luck Stones. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t doubt that Ravini is dead,” he said. “The first thing to +discover is where he went when he said he was going to Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +This task presented fewer difficulties than Simpson had imagined. He +remembered Lew Steyne and his association with the Italian, and a +telephone call put through to the City police located Lew in five +minutes. +</p> + +<p> +“Bring him along in a taxi,” said Simpson, and, as he hung up the +receiver: “The question is, what is Crazy Jack’s coup? murder on a +large scale, or just picturesque robbery?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think the latter,” said Mr. Reeder thoughtfully. “Murder, with Mr. +Flack, is a mere incidental to the—er—more important business of +money-making.” +</p> + +<p> +He pinched his lip thoughtfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me if I seem to repeat myself, but I would again remind you +that Mr. Flack’s specialty is bullion, if I remember aright,” he said. +“Didn’t he smash the strong room of the <i>Megantic</i>… bullion, hum!” He +scratched his chin and looked up over his glasses at Simpson. +</p> + +<p> +The inspector shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I only wish Crazy Jack was crazy enough to try to get out of the +country by steamer—he won’t. And the Leadenhall Bank stunt couldn’t +be repeated to-day. No, there’s no chance of a bullion steal.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder looked unconvinced. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you ring up the Bank of England and find out if the money has +gone to Australia?” he pleaded. +</p> + +<p> +Simpson pulled the instrument towards him, gave a number and, after +five minutes’ groping through various departments, reached an +exclusive personage. Mr. Reeder sat, with his hands clasped about the +handle of his umbrella, a pained expression on his face, his eyes +closed, and seemingly oblivious of the conversation. Presently Simpson +hung up the receiver. +</p> + +<p> +“The consignment should have gone this morning, but the sailing of the +<i>Olanic</i> has been delayed by a stevedore strike—it goes to-morrow +morning,” he reported. “The gold is taken on a lorry to Tilbury with a +guard. At Tilbury it is put into the <i>Olanic’s</i> strong-room, which is +the newest and safest of its kind. I don’t suppose that John will +begin operations there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” J. G. Reeder’s voice was almost bland; his face was screwed +into its nearest approach to a smile. “On the contrary, as I have said +before, that is the very consignment I should expect Mr. Flack to go +after.” +</p> + +<p> +“I pray that you’re a true prophet,” said Simpson grimly. “I could +wish for nothing better.” +</p> + +<p> +They were still talking of Flack and his passion for ready gold when +Mr. Lew Steyne arrived in the charge of a local detective. No crook, +however hardened, can step into the gloomy approaches of Scotland Yard +without experiencing some uneasiness, and Lew’s attempt to display his +indifference was rather pathetic. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the idea, Mr. Simpson?” he asked, in a grieved tone. “I’ve +done nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +He scowled at Reeder, who was known to him, and whom he regarded, very +rightly, as being responsible for his appearance at this best-hated +spot. +</p> + +<p> +Simpson put a question, and Mr. Lew Steyne shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“I ask you, Mr. Simpson, am I Ravini’s keeper? I know nothing about +the Italian crowd, and Ravini’s scarcely an acquaintance.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“You spent two hours with him last Thursday evening,” he said, and Lew +was a little taken aback. +</p> + +<p> +“I had a little bit of business with him, I admit,” he said. “Over a +house I’m trying to rent——” +</p> + +<p> +His shifty eyes had become suddenly steadfast; he was looking +open-mouthed at the three rings that lay on the table. Reeder saw him +frown, and then: +</p> + +<p> +“What are those?” asked Lew huskily. “They’re not Georgio’s Luck +Stones?” +</p> + +<p> +Simpson nodded and pushed the little square of white paper on which +they lay towards the visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know them?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Lew picked up one of the rings and turned it round in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the idea?” he asked suspiciously. “Ravini told me himself he +could never get these off.” +</p> + +<p> +And then, as the significance of their presence dawned upon him, he +gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s happened to him?” he asked quickly. “Is he——” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear,” said Mr. Reeder soberly, “that Georgio Ravini is no longer +with us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dead?” Lew almost shrieked the word. His yellow face went a chalky +white. “Where… who did it?…” +</p> + +<p> +“That is exactly what we want to know,” said Simpson. “Now, Lew, +you’ve got to spill it. Where is Ravini? He said he was going to +Paris, I know, but actually where did he go?” +</p> + +<p> +The thief’s eyes strayed to Mr. Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +“He was after that ‘bird,’ that’s all I know,” he said sullenly. +</p> + +<p> +“Which bird?” asked Simpson, but Mr. Reeder had no need to have its +identity explained. +</p> + +<p> +“He was after—Miss Belman?” +</p> + +<p> +Lew nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, a girl he knew… she went down into the country to take a job as +hotel manager or something. I saw her go, as a matter of fact. Ravini +wanted to get better acquainted, so he went down to stay at the +hotel.” +</p> + +<p> +Even as he spoke, Mr. Reeder had reached for the telephone, and had +given the peculiar code word which is equivalent to a command for a +clear line. +</p> + +<p> +A high-pitched voice answered him. +</p> + +<p> +“I am Mr. Daver, the proprietor… Miss Belman? I’m afraid she is out +just now. She will be back in a few minutes. Who is it speaking?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder replied diplomatically. He was anxious to get into touch +with George Ravini, and for two minutes he allowed the voluble Mr. +Daver to air a grievance. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he went in the early morning, without paying his bill…” +</p> + +<p> +“I will come down and pay it,” said Mr. Reeder. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch09"> +CHAPTER IX +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +“<span class="sc">The</span> point is,” said Mr. Daver, “the only point—I think you will +agree with me here—that really has any interest for us, is that Mr. +Ravini left without paying his bill. This was the point I emphasised +to a friend of his who called me on the telephone this morning. That +is to me the supreme mystery of his disappearance—he left without +paying his bill!” +</p> + +<p> +He leaned back in his chair and beamed at the girl in the manner of +one who had expounded an unanswerable problem. With his finger-tips +together he had an appearance which was oddly reminiscent. +</p> + +<p> +“The fact that he left behind a pair of pyjamas which are practically +valueless merely demonstrates that he left in a hurry. You agree with +me? I am sure you do. Why he should leave in a hurry is naturally +beyond my understanding. You say he was a crook: possibly he received +information that he had been detected.” +</p> + +<p> +“He had no telephone calls and no letters while he was here,” insisted +Margaret. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Daver shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“That proves nothing. Such a man would have associates. I am sorry he +has gone. I hoped to have an opportunity of studying his type. And by +the way, I have discovered something about Flack—the famous John +Flack—did you know that he had escaped from the lunatic asylum? I +gather from your alarm that you didn’t. I am an observer, Miss B. +Years of study of this fascinating subject have produced in me a sixth +sense—the sense of observation, which is atrophied in ordinary +individuals.” +</p> + +<p> +He took a long envelope from his drawer and pulled out a small bundle +of press cuttings. These he sorted on to his table, and presently +unfolded a newspaper portrait of an elderly man and laid it before +her. +</p> + +<p> +“Flack,” he said briefly. +</p> + +<p> +She was surprised at the age of the man; the thin face, the grizzled +moustache and beard, the deep-set, intelligent eyes suggested almost +anything rather than that confirmed and dangerous criminal. +</p> + +<p> +“My press-cutting agency supplied these,” he said. “And here is +another portrait which may interest you, and in a sense the arrival of +this photograph is a coincidence. I am sure you will agree with me +when I tell you why. It is a picture of a man called Reeder.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Daver did not look up or he would have seen the red come to the +girl’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“A clever old gentleman attached to the Public Prosecutor’s +Department——” +</p> + +<p> +“He is not very old,” said Margaret coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“He looks old,” said Mr. Daver, and Margaret had to agree that the +newspaper portrait was not a very flattering one. +</p> + +<p> +“This is the gentleman who was instrumental in arresting Flack, and +the coincidence—now what do you imagine the coincidence is?” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s coming here to-day!” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret Belman’s mouth opened in amazement. +</p> + +<p> +“I had a wire from him this afternoon saying he was coming to-night, +and asking if I could accommodate him. But for my interest in this +case I should not have known his name or had the slightest idea of his +identity. In all probability I should have refused him a room.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked up suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“You say he is not so old: do you know him? I see that you do. That is +even a more remarkable coincidence. I am looking forward with the +utmost delight to discussing with him my pet subject. It will be an +intellectual treat.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think Mr. Reeder discusses crime,” she said. “He is rather +reticent on the subject.” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall see,” said Mr. Daver, and from his manner she guessed that +he at any rate had no doubt that the man from the Public Prosecutor’s +Office would respond instantly to a sympathetic audience. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder came just before seven, and to her surprise he had +abandoned his frock-coat and curious hat and was almost jauntily +attired in grey flannels. He brought with him two very solid and +heavy-looking steamer trunks. +</p> + +<p> +The meeting was not without its moment of embarrassment. +</p> + +<p> +“I trust you will not think, Miss—um—Margaret, that I am being +indiscreet. But the truth is, I—um—am in need of a holiday.” +</p> + +<p> +He never looked less in need of a holiday: compared with the Reeder +she knew, this man was most unmistakably alert. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you come to my office?” she said, a little unsteadily. +</p> + +<p> +When they reached her bureau, Mr. Reeder opened the door reverently. +She had a feeling that he was holding his breath, and she was seized +with an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh. Instead, she preceded +him into her sanctum. When the door closed: +</p> + +<p> +“I was an awful pig to you, Mr. Reeder,” she began rapidly. “I ought +to have written… the whole thing was so absurd… the quarrel, I mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“The disagreement,” murmured Mr. Reeder. “I am old-fashioned, I admit, +but an old man——” +</p> + +<p> +“Forty-eight isn’t old,” she scoffed. “And why shouldn’t you wear +side-whiskers? It was unpardonable of me… feminine curiosity: I wanted +to see how you looked.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder raised his hand. His voice was almost gay. +</p> + +<p> +“The fault was entirely mine, Miss Margaret. I am old-fashioned. You +do not think—er—it is indecorous, my paying a visit to Larmes Keep?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked round at the door and lowered his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“When did Mr. Ravini leave?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him amazed. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you come down about that?” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“I heard he was here. Somebody told me. When did he go?” +</p> + +<p> +Very briefly she told him the story of her night’s experience, and he +listened, his face growing longer and longer, until she had finished. +</p> + +<p> +“Before that, can you remember what happened? Did you see him the +night before he left?” +</p> + +<p> +She knit her forehead and tried to remember. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said suddenly, “he was in the grounds, walking with Miss +Crewe. He came in rather late——” +</p> + +<p> +“With Miss Crewe?” asked Reeder quickly. “Miss Crewe? Was that the +rather interesting young lady I saw playing croquet with a clergyman +as I came across the lawn?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him in surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you come across the lawn? I thought you drove up to the front of +the house——” +</p> + +<p> +“I descended from the vehicle at the top of the hill,” Mr. Reeder +hastily explained. “At my age a little exercise is vitally necessary. +The approaches to the Keep are charming. A young lady, rather pale, +with dark eyes… hum!” +</p> + +<p> +He was looking at her searchingly, his head a little on one side. +</p> + +<p> +“So she and Ravini went out. Were they acquainted?” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think Ravini had met her until he came here.” +</p> + +<p> +She went on to tell him of Ravini’s agitation, and of how she had +found Olga Crewe in tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Weeping… ah!” Mr. Reeder fondled his nose. “You have seen her since?” +</p> + +<p> +And, when the girl shook her head: +</p> + +<p> +“She got up late the next morning—had a headache possibly?” he asked +eagerly, and her eyes opened in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, yes. How did you know——” +</p> + +<p> +But Mr. Reeder was not in an informative mood. +</p> + +<p> +“The number of your room is——?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. 4. Miss Crewe’s is No. 5.” +</p> + +<p> +Reeder nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“And Ravini was in No. 7: that is two doors away.” Then, suddenly: +“Where have you put me?” +</p> + +<p> +She hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“In No. 7. Those were Mr. Daver’s orders. It is one of the best rooms +in the house. I warn you, Mr. Reeder, the proprietor is a +criminologist and is most anxious to discuss his hobby.” +</p> + +<p> +“Delighted,” murmured Mr. Reeder, but he was thinking of something +else. “Could I see Mr. Daver?” +</p> + +<p> +The quarter-of-an-hour gong had already sounded, and she took him +along to the office in the annexe. Mr. Daver’s desk was surprisingly +tidy. He was surveying an account-book through large horn-rimmed +spectacles, and looked up inquiringly as she came in. +</p> + +<p> +“This is Mr. Reeder,” she said, and withdrew. +</p> + +<p> +For a second they looked at one another, the detective and the +Puck-faced little proprietor; and then, with a magnificent wave of his +hand, Mr. Daver invited his visitor to a seat. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a very proud moment for me, Mr. Reeder,” he said, and bent +himself double in a profound bow. “As an humble student of those great +authorities whose works, I have no doubt, are familiar to you, I am +honoured at this privilege of meeting one whom I may describe as a +modern Lombroso. You agree with me? I was certain you would.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder looked up at the ceiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Lombroso?” he repeated slowly. “An—um—Italian gentleman, I think? +The name is almost familiar.” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret Belman had not quite closed the door, and Mr. Daver rose and +shut it; returned to his chair with an outflung hand and seated +himself. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad you have come. In fact, Mr. Reeder, you have relieved my +mind of a great unease. Ever since yesterday morning I have been +wondering whether I ought not to call up Scotland Yard, that splendid +institution, and ask them to despatch an officer to clear up this +strange and possibly revolting mystery.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused impressively. +</p> + +<p> +“I refer to the disappearance of Mr. George Ravini, a guest of Larmes +Keep, who left this house at a quarter to five yesterday morning and +was seen making his way into Siltbury.” +</p> + +<p> +“By whom?” asked Mr. Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +“By an inhabitant of Siltbury, whose name for the moment I forget. +Indeed, I never knew. I met him quite by chance walking down into the +town.” +</p> + +<p> +He leaned forward over his desk and stared owlishly into Mr. Reeder’s +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“You have come about Ravini, have you not? Do not answer me: I see you +have! Naturally, one did not expect you to carry, so to speak, your +heart on your sleeve. Am I right? I think I am.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder did not confirm this conclusion. He seemed strangely +unwilling to speak, and in ordinary circumstances Mr. Daver would not +have resented this diffidence. +</p> + +<p> +“Very naturally I do not wish a scandal to attach to this house,” he +said, “and I may rely upon your discretion. The only matter which +touches me is that Ravini left without paying his bill; a small and +unimportant aspect of what may possibly be a momentous case. You see +my point of view? I am certain that you do.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused, and now Mr. Reeder spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“At a quarter to five,” he said thoughtfully, as though speaking to +himself, “it was scarcely light, was it?” +</p> + +<p> +“The dawn was possibly breaking o’er the sea,” said Mr. Daver +poetically. +</p> + +<p> +“Going to Siltbury? Carrying his bag?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Daver nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“May I see his room?” +</p> + +<p> +Daver came to his feet with a flourish. +</p> + +<p> +“That is a request I expected, and it is a reasonable request. Will +you follow me?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder followed him through the great hall, which was occupied +solely by a military-looking gentleman, who cast a quick sidelong +glance at him as he passed. Mr. Daver was leading the way to the wide +stairs when Mr. Reeder stopped and pointed. +</p> + +<p> +“How very interesting!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The most unlikely things interested Mr. Reeder. On this occasion the +point of interest was a large safe—larger than any safe he had seen +in a private establishment. It was six feet in height and half that +width, and it was fitted under the first flight of stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” asked Mr. Daver, and turned back. His face screwed up +into a smile when he saw the object of the detective’s attention. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! My safe! I have many rare and valuable documents which I keep +here. It is a French model, you will observe—too large for my modest +establishment, you will say? I agree. Sometimes, however, we have very +rich people staying here… jewels and the like… it would take a very +clever burglar to open that, and yet I, with a little key——” +</p> + +<p> +He drew a chain from his pocket and fitted one of the keys at the end +into a thin keyhole, turned a handle, and the heavy door swung open. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder peeped in curiously. On the two steel shelves at the back +of the safe were three small tin boxes—otherwise the safe was empty. +The doors were of an extraordinary thickness, and their inner face +smooth except for a slab of steel the object of which apparently was +to back and strengthen the lock. All this he saw at once, but he saw +something else. The white enamelled floor of the safe was brighter in +hue than the walls. Only a man of Mr. Reeder’s powers of observation +would have noticed this fact. And the steel slab at the back of the +lock…? Mr. Reeder knew quite a lot about safes. +</p> + +<p> +“A treasure-house—it almost makes me feel rich,” chuckled Mr. Daver +as he locked the door and led the way up the stairs. “The psychology +of it will appeal to you, Mr. Reeder!” +</p> + +<p> +At the head of the stairs they came to a broad corridor; Daver, +stopping before the door of No. 7, inserted a key. +</p> + +<p> +“This is also your room,” he explained. “I had a feeling which +amounted almost to a certainty, that your visit was not wholly +unconnected with this curious disappearance of Mr. Ravini, who left +without paying his bill.” He chuckled a little and apologised. “Excuse +me for my insistence upon this point, but it touches me rather +nearly.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder followed his host into the big room. It was panelled from +ceiling to floor and furnished with a luxury which surprised him. The +articles of furniture were few, but there was not one which a +connoisseur would not have noted with admiration. The four-poster bed +was Jacobean; the square of carpet was genuine Teheran; a +dressing-table with a settle before it was also of the Jacobean +period. +</p> + +<p> +“That was his bed, where the pyjamas were found.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Daver pointed dramatically. But Mr. Reeder was looking at the +casement windows, one of which was open. +</p> + +<p> +He leaned out and looked down, and immediately began to take in the +view. He could see Siltbury lying in the shadow of the downs, its +lights just then beginning to twinkle; but the view of the Siltbury +road was shut out by a belt of firs. To the left he had a glimpse of +the hill road up which his cab had climbed. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder came out from the room and cast his eyes up and down the +corridor. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a very beautiful house you have, Mr. Daver,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“You like it? I was sure you would!” said Mr. Daver enthusiastically. +“Yes, it is a delightful property. To you it may seem a sacrilege that +I should use it as a boarding-house, but perhaps our dear young friend +Miss Belman has explained that it is a hobby of mine. I hate +loneliness; I dislike intensely the exertion of making friends. My +position is unique; I can pick and choose my guests.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder was looking aimlessly towards the head of the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever have a guest named Holden?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Daver shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Or a guest named Willington…? Two friends of mine who may have come +here about eight years ago?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Mr. Daver promptly. “I never forget names. You may inspect +our guest-list for the past twelve years at any time you wish. Would +they be likely to come for any reason”—Mr. Daver was amusingly +embarrassed—“in other names than their own? No, I see they wouldn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +As he was speaking, a door at the far end of the corridor opened and +closed instantly. Mr. Reeder, who missed nothing, caught one glimpse +of a figure before the door shut. +</p> + +<p> +“Whose room is that?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Daver was genuinely embarrassed this time. +</p> + +<p> +“That,” he said, with a nervous little cough, “is my suite. You saw +Mrs. Burton, my housekeeper—a quiet, rather sad soul, who has had a +great deal of trouble in her life.” +</p> + +<p> +“Life,” said Mr. Reeder tritely, “is full of trouble,” and Mr. Daver +agreed with a sorrowful shake of his head. +</p> + +<p> +Now, the eyesight of J. G. Reeder was peculiarly good, and though he +had not as yet met the housekeeper, he was quite certain that the +rather beautiful face he had glimpsed for a moment did not belong to +any sad woman who had seen a lot of trouble. As he dressed leisurely +for dinner, he wondered why Miss Olga Crewe had been so anxious that +she should not be seen coming from the proprietor’s suite. A natural +and proper modesty, no doubt; and modesty was the quality in woman of +which Mr. Reeder most heartily approved. +</p> + +<p> +He was struggling with his tie when Daver, who seemed to have +constituted himself a sort of personal attendant, knocked at the door +and asked permission to come in. He was a little breathless, and +carried a number of press cuttings in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“You were talking about two gentlemen, Mr. Willington and Mr. Holden,” +he said. “The names seemed rather familiar. I had the irritating sense +of knowing them without knowing them, if you understand, dear Mr. +Reeder? And then I recalled the circumstances.” He flourished the +press cuttings. “I saw their names here.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder, staring at his reflection in the glass, adjusted his tie +nicely. +</p> + +<p> +“Here?” he repeated mechanically, and, looking round, accepted the +printed slips which his host thrust upon him. +</p> + +<p> +“I am, as you probably know, Mr. Reeder, a humble disciple of Lombroso +and of those other great criminologists who have elevated the study of +abnormality to a science. It was Miss Belman who quite unconsciously +directed my thoughts to the Flack organisation, and during the past +day or two I have been getting a number of particulars concerning +those miscreants. The names of Holden and Willington occur. They were +two detectives who went out in search of Flack and never returned—I +remember their disappearance very well now the matter is recalled to +my mind. There was also a third gentleman who disappeared.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you remember?” said Mr. Daver triumphantly. “Naturally you would. +A lawyer named Biggerthorpe, who was called from his office one day on +some excuse, and was never seen again. May I add”—he smiled +good-humouredly—“that Mr. Biggerthorpe has never stayed here? Why +should you imagine he had, Mr. Reeder?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never did.” Mr. Reeder gave blandness for blandness. “Biggerthorpe? +I had forgotten him. He was an important witness against Flack if he’d +ever been caught—hum!” +</p> + +<p> +And then: +</p> + +<p> +“You are a student of criminal practices, Mr. Daver?” +</p> + +<p> +“A humble one,” said Mr. Daver, and his humility was manifest in his +attitude. +</p> + +<p> +And then he suddenly dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I tell you something, Mr. Reeder?” +</p> + +<p> +“You may tell me,” said Mr. Reeder, as he buttoned his waistcoat, +“anything that pleases you. I am in the mood for stories. In this +delightful atmosphere, amidst these beautiful surroundings, I should +prefer—um—fairy stories—or shall we say ghost stories? Is Larmes +Keep haunted, Mr. Daver? Ghosts are my specialty. I have probably seen +and arrested more ghosts than any other living representative of the +law. Some time I intend writing a monumental work on the subject. +‘Ghosts I have Seen, or a Guide to the Spirit World,’ in sixty-three +volumes. You were about to say——?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was about to say,” said Mr. Daver, and his voice was curiously +strained, “that in my opinion Flack himself once stayed here. I have +not mentioned this fact to Miss Belman, but I am convinced in my mind +that I am not in error. Seven years ago”—he was very impressive—“a +grey-bearded, rather thin-faced man came here at ten o’clock at night +and asked for a lodging. He had plenty of money, but this did not +influence me. Ordinarily I should have asked him to make the usual +application, but it was late, a bitterly cold and snowy night, and I +hadn’t the heart to turn one of his age away from my door.” +</p> + +<p> +“How long did he stay?” asked Mr. Reeder. “And why do you think he was +Flack?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because”—Daver’s voice had sunk until it was an eerie moan—“he left +just as Ravini left—early one morning, without paying his bill, and +left his pyjamas behind him!” +</p> + +<p> +Very slowly Mr. Reeder turned his head and surveyed the host. +</p> + +<p> +“That comes into the category of humorous stories, and I am too hungry +to laugh,” he said calmly. “What time do we dine?” +</p> + +<p> +The gong sounded at that moment. +</p> + +<p> +Margaret Belman usually dined with the other guests at a table apart. +She went red and felt more than a little awkward when Mr. Reeder came +across to her table, dragging a chair with him, and ordered another +place to be set. The other three guests dined at separate tables. +</p> + +<p> +“An unsociable lot of people,” said Mr. Reeder as he shook out his +napkin and glanced round the room. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you think of Mr. Daver?” +</p> + +<p> +J. G. Reeder smiled gently. +</p> + +<p> +“He is a very amusing person,” he said, and she laughed, but grew +serious immediately. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you found out anything about Ravini?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I had a talk with the hall porter: he seems a very honest and +straightforward fellow. He told me that when he came down the morning +after Ravini disappeared, the front door had been unbolted and +unlocked. An observant fellow. Who is Mrs. Burton?” he asked abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +“The housekeeper.” Margaret smiled and shook her head. “She is rather +a miserable lady, who spends quite a lot of time hinting at the good +times she should be having, instead of being ‘buried alive’—those are +her words—at Siltbury.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder put down his knife and fork. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me!” he said mildly. “Is she a lady who has seen better days?” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret laughed softly. +</p> + +<p> +“I should have thought she had never had such a time as she is having +now,” she said. “She’s rather common and terribly illiterate. Her +accounts that come up to me are fearful and wonderful things! But +seriously, I think she must have been in good circumstances. The first +night I was here I went into her room to ask about an account I did +not understand—of course it was a waste of time, for books are +mysteries to her—and she was sitting at a table admiring her hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hands?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“They were covered with the most beautiful rings you could possibly +imagine,” said Margaret, and was satisfied with the impression she +made, for Mr. Reeder dropped knife and fork to his plate with a crash. +</p> + +<p> +“Rings…?” +</p> + +<p> +“Huge diamonds and emeralds. They took my breath away. The moment she +saw these she put her hand behind her, and the next morning she +explained that they were presents given to her by a theatrical lady +who had stayed here, and that they had no value.” +</p> + +<p> +“Props, in fact,” said Mr. Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +“What is a prop?” she asked curiously, and Mr. Reeder waggled his +head, and she had learnt that when he waggled his head in that fashion +he was advertising his high spirits and good humour. +</p> + +<p> +After dinner he sent a waitress to find Mr. Daver, and when that +gentleman arrived Mr. Reeder had to tell him that he had a lot of work +to do, and request the loan of blotting-pad and a special +writing-table for his room. Margaret wondered why he had not asked +her, but she supposed that it was because he did not know that such +things came into her province. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a great writer, Mr. Reeder—he, he!” Daver was convulsed at +his own little joke. “So am I! I am never happy without a pen in my +hand. Tell me, as a matter of interest, do you do your best work in +the morning or in the evening? Personally, it is a question that I +have never decided to my own satisfaction.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall now write steadily till two o’clock,” said Mr. Reeder, +glancing at his watch. “That is a habit of years. From nine to two are +my writing hours, after which I smoke a cigarette, drink a glass of +milk—would you be good enough to see that I have a glass of milk put +in my room at once?—and from two I sleep steadily till nine.” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret Belman was an interested and somewhat startled audience of +this personal confession. It was unusual in Mr. Reeder to speak of +himself, unthinkable that he should discuss his work. In all her life +she had not met an individual who was more reticent about his private +affairs. Perhaps the holiday spirit was on him, she thought. He was +certainly younger-looking that evening than she had ever known him. +</p> + +<p> +She went out to find Mrs. Burton and convey the wishes of the guest. +The woman accepted the order with a sniff. +</p> + +<p> +“Milk? He looks the kind of person who drinks milk. <i>He’s</i> nothing to +be afraid of!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should he be afraid?” asked Margaret sharply, but the reproach +was lost upon Mrs. Burton. +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody likes detectives nosing about a place—do they, Miss Belman? +And he’s not my idea of a detective.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who told you he was a detective?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Burton looked at her for a second from under her heavy lids, and +then jerked her head in the direction of Daver’s office. +</p> + +<p> +“He did,” she said. “Detectives! And me sitting here, slaving from +morning till night, when I might be doing the grand in Paris or one of +them places, with servants to wait on me instead of me waiting on +people. It’s sickening!” +</p> + +<p> +Twice since she had been at Larmes Keep, Margaret had witnessed these +little outbursts of fretfulness and irritation. She had an idea that +the faded woman would like some excuse to make her a confidante, but +the excuse was neither found nor sought. Margaret had nothing in +common with this rather dull and terribly ordinary lady, and they +could find no mutual interest which would lead to the breakdown of the +barriers. Mrs. Burton was a weakling; tears were never far from her +eyes or voice, nor the sense of her mysterious grievances against the +world far from her mind. +</p> + +<p> +“They treat me like dirt,” she went on, her voice trembling with her +feeble anger, “and she treats me worst of all. I asked her to come and +have a cup of tea and a chat in my room the other day, and what do you +think she said?” +</p> + +<p> +“Whom are you talking about?” asked Margaret curiously. It did not +occur to her, that the “she” in question might be Olga Crewe—it would +have required a very powerful effort of imagination to picture the +cold and worldly Olga talking commonplaces with Mrs. Burton over a +friendly cup of tea; yet it was of Olga that the woman spoke. But at +the very suggestion that she was being questioned her thin lips closed +tight. +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody in particular… milk, did you say? I’ll take it up to him +myself.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder was struggling into a dressing-jacket when she brought the +milk to him. One of the servants had already placed pen, ink, and +stationery on the table, and there were two fat manuscript-books +visible to any caller, and anticipating eloquently Mr. Reeder’s +literary activities. +</p> + +<p> +He took the tray from the woman’s hand and put it on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“You have a nice house, Mrs. Burton,” he said encouragingly. “A +beautiful house. Have you been here long?” +</p> + +<p> +“A few years,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +She made to go, but lingered at the door. Mr. Reeder recognised the +symptoms. Discreet she might be, a gossip she undoubtedly was, aching +for human converse with any who could advance a programme of those +trivialities which made up her conversational life. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, we never get many visitors here. Mr. Daver likes to pick and +choose.” +</p> + +<p> +“And very wise of Mr. Daver. By the way, which is his room?” +</p> + +<p> +She walked through the doorway and pointed along the corridor. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, I remember, he told me. A charming situation. I saw you +coming out this evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have made a mistake—I never go into his room,” said the woman +sharply. “You may have seen——” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped, and added: +</p> + +<p> +“—somebody else. Are you going to work late, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder repeated in detail his plans for the evening. +</p> + +<p> +“I would be glad if you would tell Mr. Daver that I do not wish to be +interrupted. I am a very slow thinker, and the slightest disturbance +to my train of thought is fatal to my—er—power of composition,” he +said, as he closed the door upon her and, waiting until she had time +to get down the stairs, locked it and pushed home the one bolt. +</p> + +<p> +He drew the heavy curtains across the open windows, pushed the +writing-table against the curtains so that they could not blow back, +and, opening the two exercise-books, so placed them that they formed a +shade that prevented the light falling upon the bed. This done, he +changed quickly into a lounge suit, and, lying on the bed, pulled the +coverlet over him and was asleep in five minutes. +</p> + +<p> +Margaret Belman had it in her mind to send up to his room after +eleven, before she herself retired, to discover whether there was +anything he wanted, but fortunately she changed her mind—fortunately, +because Mr. Reeder had planned to snatch five solid hours’ sleep +before he began his unofficial inspection of the house, or +alternatively before the period arrived when it would be necessary +that he should be wide awake. +</p> + +<p> +At two o’clock to the second he woke and sat up on the edge of the +bed, blinking at the light. Opening one of his trunks, he took out a +small wooden box from which he drew a spirit stove and the +paraphernalia of tea-making. He lit the little lamp, and while the +tiny tin kettle was boiling he went to the bathroom, undressed, and +lowered his shivering body into a cold bath. He returned fully +dressed, to find the kettle boiling. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder was a very methodical man; he was, moreover, a careful man. +All his life he had had a suspicion of milk. He used to wander round +the suburban streets in the early hours of the morning, watch the cans +hanging on the knockers, the bottles deposited in corners of +doorsteps, and ruminate upon the enormous possibilities for wholesale +murder that this light-hearted custom of milk delivery presented to +the criminally minded. He had calculated that a nimble homicide, +working on systematic lines, could decimate London in a month. +</p> + +<p> +He drank his tea without milk, munched a biscuit, and then, +methodically clearing away the spirit-stove and kettle, he took from +his grip a pair of thick-soled felt slippers and drew them on his +feet. In his trunk he found a short length of stiff rubber, which, in +the hands of a skilful man, was as deadly a weapon as a knife. This he +put in the inside pocket of his jacket. He put his hand in the trunk +again and brought out something that looked like a thin rubber +sponge-bag, except that it was fitted with two squares of mica and a +small metal nozzle. He hesitated about this, turning it over and over +in his hand, and eventually this went back into the trunk. The stubby +Browning pistol, which was his next find, Mr. Reeder regarded with +disfavour, for the value of firearms, except in the most desperate +circumstances, had always seemed to him to be problematical. +</p> + +<p> +The last thing to be extracted was a hollow bamboo, which contained +another, and was in truth the fishing-rod for which he had once +expressed a desire. At the end of the thinner was a spring loop, and +after he had screwed the two lengths together he fitted upon this loop +a small electric hand-lamp and carefully threaded the thin wires +through the eyelets of the rod, connecting them up with a tiny switch +at the handle, near where the average fisherman has his grip. He +tested the switch, found it satisfactory, and when this was done he +gave a final look round the room before extinguishing the table lamp. +</p> + +<p> +In the broad light of day he would have presented a somewhat comic +figure, sitting cross-legged on his bed, his long fishing-rod reaching +out to the middle of the room and resting on the footboard; but at the +moment Mr. J. G. Reeder had no sense of the ridiculous, and moreover +there were no witnesses. From time to time he swayed the rod left and +right, like an angler making a fresh cast. He was very wide awake, his +ears tuned to differentiate between the normal noises of the +night—the rustle of trees, the soft purr of the wind—and the sounds +which could only come from human activity. +</p> + +<p> +He sat for more than half an hour, his fishing-rod moving to and fro, +and then he was suddenly conscious of a cold draught blowing from the +door. He had heard no sound, not so much as the clink of a lock; but +he knew that the door was wide open. +</p> + +<p> +Noiselessly he drew in the rod till it was clear of the posts of the +bed, brought it round towards the door, paying out until it was a +couple of yards from where he sat—with one foot on the ground now, +ready to leap or drop, as events dictated. +</p> + +<p> +The end of the rod met with no obstruction. Reeder held his breath… +listening. The corridor outside was heavily carpeted. He expected no +sound of footsteps. But people must breathe, thought Mr. Reeder, and +it is difficult to breathe noiselessly. Conscious that he himself was +a little too silent for a supposedly sleeping man, he emitted a +lifelike snore and gurgle which might be expected from a middle-aged +man in the first stages of slumber.… +</p> + +<p> +Something touched the end of the rod, pushing it aside. Mr. Reeder +turned the switch and a blinding ray of light leapt from the lamp and +focussed in a circle on the opposite wall of the corridor. +</p> + +<p> +The door was open, but there was nothing human in sight. +</p> + +<p> +And then, despite his wonderful nerve, his flesh began to go goosey, +and a cold sensation tingled up his spine. Somebody was there—hiding… +waiting for the man who carried the lamp, as they thought, to emerge. +</p> + +<p> +Reaching out at full arm’s-length, he thrust the end of the rod +through the doorway into the corridor. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Swish!</i> +</p> + +<p> +Something struck the rod and snapped it. The lamp fell on the floor, +lens uppermost, and flooded the ceiling of the corridor. In an instant +Reeder was off the bed, moving swiftly, till he came to the cover +afforded by the wide-open door. Through the crack he had a limited +view of what might happen outside. +</p> + +<p> +There was a deadly silence. In the hall downstairs a clock ticked +solemnly, whirred and struck the quarter to three. But there was no +movement; nothing came within the range of the upturned lamp, until… +</p> + +<p> +He had just a momentary flash of vision. The thin, white face, the +hairy lips parted in a grin, wild, dirty white hair, and a bald crown, +a short bristle of white beard, a claw-like hand reaching for the +lamp.… +</p> + +<p> +Pistol or rubber? Mr. Reeder elected for the rubber. As the hand +closed over the lamp he left the cover of the room and struck. He +heard a snarl like that of a wild beast, then the lamp was +extinguished as the apparition staggered back, snapping the thin wire. +</p> + +<p> +The corridor was in darkness. He struck again and missed; the violence +of the stroke was such that he overbalanced and fell on one knee, and +the truncheon flew from his grasp. He threw out his hand, gripped an +arm, and with a quick jerk brought his capture into the room and +switched on the light. +</p> + +<p> +A round, soft hand, covered with a silken sleeve… +</p> + +<p> +As the lights leapt to life, he found himself looking into the pale +face of Olga Crewe! +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch10"> +CHAPTER X +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">For</span> a moment they stared at one another, she fearful, he amazed. +Olga Crewe! +</p> + +<p> +Then he became conscious that he was still gripping the arm, and let +it drop. The arm fascinated Mr. Reeder: he scarcely looked at anything +else. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very sorry,” said Mr. Reeder. “Where did you come from?” +</p> + +<p> +Her lips were quivering; she tried to speak, but no words came. Then +she mastered her momentary paralysis and began to speak, slowly, +laboriously. +</p> + +<p> +“I—heard—a noise—in—the—corridor—and—came—out. A +noise—I—was—frightened.” +</p> + +<p> +She was rubbing her arm mechanically; he saw a red weal where his hand +had gripped. The wonder was that he had not broken her arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Is—anything—wrong?” +</p> + +<p> +Every word was created and articulated painfully. She seemed to be +considering its formation before her tongue gave it sound. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is the light-switch in the hall?” asked Mr. Reeder. This was a +more practical matter—he lost interest in her arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Opposite my room.” +</p> + +<p> +“Turn it on,” he said, and she obeyed meekly. +</p> + +<p> +Only when the corridor was illuminated did he step out of his room, +and even then in some doubt, if the Browning in his hand meant +anything. +</p> + +<p> +“Is anything wrong?” she asked again. By now she had taken command of +herself. A little colour had come to her white face, but the live eyes +were still beholding terrible visions. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you see anything in the passage?” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I saw nothing—nothing. I heard a noise and I came out.” +</p> + +<p> +She was lying: he did not trouble to doubt this. She had had time to +pull on her slippers and find the flimsy wrap she wore, and the fight +had not lasted more than two seconds. Moreover, he had not heard her +door open; therefore it had been open all the time, and she had been +spectator or audience of all that had happened. +</p> + +<p> +He went down the corridor, retrieved his rubber truncheon, and came +back to her. She was half standing, half leaning against the +door-post, rubbing her arm. She was staring past him so intently that +he looked round, though there was nothing to be seen. +</p> + +<p> +“You hurt me,” she said simply. +</p> + +<p> +“Did I? I’m sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +The mark on the white flesh had gone blue, and Mr. Reeder was +naturally a sympathetic man. Yet, if the truth be told, there was +nothing of sorrow in his mind at that moment. Regret, yes. But the +regret had nothing to do with her hurt. +</p> + +<p> +“I think you’d better go to your bed, young lady. My nightmare is +ended. I hope yours will end as quickly, though I shall be surprised +if it does. Mine is for the moment; yours, unless I am greatly +mistaken, is for life!” +</p> + +<p> +Her dark, inscrutable eyes did not leave his face as she spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it must have been a nightmare,” she said. “It will last all +my life? I think it will!” +</p> + +<p> +With a nod she turned away, and presently he heard her door close and +the lock fasten. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder went back to the far side of his bed, pulled up a chair and +sat down. He did not attempt to close the door. Whilst his room was in +darkness and the corridor lighted, he did not expect a repetition of +his bad and substantial dream. +</p> + +<p> +The rubber truncheon was a mistake, he admitted regretfully. He wished +he had not such a repugnance to a noisier weapon. He laid the pistol +on the cover of the bed within reach of his hand. If the bad dream +came again—— +</p> + +<p> +Voices! +</p> + +<p> +The murmur of a whispered colloquy and a fierce, hissing whisper that +dominated the others. Not in the corridor, but in the hall below. He +tiptoed to the door and listened. +</p> + +<p> +Somebody laughed under his breath, a strange blood-curdling little +mutter of a laugh; and then he heard a key turn and a door open and a +voice demand: +</p> + +<p> +“Who is there?” +</p> + +<p> +It was Margaret. Her room faced the head of the stairs, he remembered. +Slipping the pistol into his pocket, he ran round the end of the bed +and into the corridor. She was standing by the banisters, looking down +into the dark. The whispering voices had ceased. She saw him out of +the corner of her eye and turned with a start. +</p> + +<p> +“What is wrong, Mr. Reeder? Who put the corridor light on? I heard +somebody speaking in the vestibule.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was only me.” +</p> + +<p> +His smile would in ordinary circumstances have been very reassuring, +but now she was frightened, childishly frightened. She had an insane +desire to cling to him and weep. +</p> + +<p> +“Something has been happening here,” she said. “I’ve been lying in bed +listening, and haven’t had the courage to get up. I’m horribly scared, +Mr. Reeder.” +</p> + +<p> +He beckoned her to him, and as she came, wondering, he slipped past +her and took her place at the banisters. She saw him lean over and the +light from a hand-lamp sweep the space below. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nobody there,” he said airily. +</p> + +<p> +She was whiter than he had ever seen her. +</p> + +<p> +“There <i>was</i> somebody there,” she insisted. “I heard their feet moving +on the tiled paving after you put on your flash-lamp.” +</p> + +<p> +“Probably Mrs. Burton,” he suggested. “I thought I heard her +voice——” +</p> + +<p> +And now came a newcomer on the scene. Mr. Daver had appeared at the +end of the corridor. He wore a flowered silk dressing-gown buttoned up +to his chin. +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever is the matter, Miss Belman?” he asked. “Don’t tell me that +he tried to get into <i>your</i> window! I’m afraid you’re going to tell me +that! I hope you’re not, but I’m afraid you will! Dear me, what an +unpleasant thing to happen!” +</p> + +<p> +“What has happened?” asked Mr. Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, but I have an uncomfortable feeling that somebody has +been trying to break into this house,” said Mr. Daver. +</p> + +<p> +He was genuinely agitated; the girl could almost hear his teeth +chatter. +</p> + +<p> +“I heard somebody trying the catch of my window and looked out, and +I’ll swear I saw—something! What a dreadful thing to happen! I have +half a mind to telephone for the police.” +</p> + +<p> +“An excellent idea,” murmured Mr. Reeder, suddenly his old deferential +and agreeable self. “You were asleep, I suppose, when you heard the +noise?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Daver hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“Not exactly asleep,” he said. “Between sleeping and waking. I was +very restless to-night for some reason.” +</p> + +<p> +He put his hand to his throat, his dressing-gown had gaped for a +second. He was not quite quick enough. +</p> + +<p> +“You were probably restless,” said Mr. Reeder softly, “because you +omitted to take off your collar and tie. I know of nothing more +disturbing.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Daver made a characteristic grimace. +</p> + +<p> +“I dressed myself rather hurriedly——” he began. +</p> + +<p> +“Better to undress yourself hurriedly,” chided Mr. Reeder, almost +playfully. “People who go to bed in stiff white collars occasionally +choke themselves to death. And there is sorrow in the home of the +cheated hangman. Your burglar probably saved your life.” +</p> + +<p> +Daver made as though to speak, suddenly retreated and slammed the +door. +</p> + +<p> +Margaret was looking at Mr. Reeder apprehensively. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the mystery—was there a burglar?—Oh, please tell me the +truth! I shall get hysterical if you don’t!” +</p> + +<p> +“The truth,” said Mr. Reeder, his eyes twinkling, “is very nearly what +that curious man told you—there was somebody in the house, somebody +who had no right to be here, but I think he has gone, and you can go +to bed without the slightest anxiety.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him oddly. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going to bed too?” +</p> + +<p> +“In a very few moments,” said Mr. Reeder cheerfully. +</p> + +<p> +She held out her hand with an impulsive gesture. He took it in both of +his. +</p> + +<p> +“You are my idea of a guardian angel,” she smiled, though she was near +to tears. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve never heard,” said Mr. Reeder, “of guardian angels with +side-whiskers.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a mean advantage to take of her, yet he was ridiculously +pleased as he repeated his little <i>jeu d’esprit</i> to himself in the +seclusion of his room. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch11"> +CHAPTER XI +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Mr. Reeder</span> closed the door, put on the lights, and set himself to +unravel the inexplicable mystery of its opening. Before he went to bed +he had shot home the bolt, had turned the key in the lock, and the key +was still on the inside. It struck him, as he turned it, that he had +never heard a lock that moved so silently, or a bolt that slipped so +easily into its groove. Both lock and bolt had been recently oiled. He +began a scrutiny of the inside face of the door, and found a simple +solution of the somewhat baffling incident of its opening. +</p> + +<p> +The door consisted of eight panels, carved in small lozenge-shaped +ornaments. The panel immediately above the lock moved slightly when he +pressed it, but it was a long time before he found the tiny spring +which held it in place. When that was found, the panel opened like a +miniature door. He could thrust his hand through the aperture and +slide back the bolt with the greatest ease. +</p> + +<p> +There was nothing very unusual or sinister about this. He knew that +many hotels and boarding-houses had methods by which a door could be +unlocked from the outside—a very necessary precaution in certain +eventualities. Mr. Reeder wondered whether he would find a similar +safety panel on the door of Margaret Belman’s room. +</p> + +<p> +By the time he had completed his inspection it was daylight, and, +pulling back the curtains, he drew a chair to the window and made a +survey of as much of the grounds as lay within his line of vision. +</p> + +<p> +There were two or three matters which were puzzling him. If Larmes +Keep was the headquarters of the Flack gang, in what manner and for +what reason had Olga Crewe been brought into the confederation? He +judged her age at twenty-four; she had been a constant visitor, if not +a resident, at Larmes Keep for at least ten years, and he knew enough +of the ways of the underworld to realise that they did not employ +children. Also she had been to a public school of some kind, and that +would have absorbed at least four of the ten years—Mr. Reeder shook +his head in doubt. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing would happen now until dark, he decided, and, stretching +himself upon the bed, he pulled the coverlet over him and slept till +a tapping at the door announced the coming of the maid with his +morning tea. +</p> + +<p> +She was a round-faced woman, just past her first youth, with a +disagreeable Cockney accent and the brusque and familiar manner of one +who was an indispensable part of the establishment. Mr. Reeder +remembered that the girl had waited on him at dinner. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, sir, you haven’t undressed!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I seldom undress,” said Mr. Reeder, sitting up and taking the tea +from her. “It is such a waste of time. For no sooner are your clothes +off than it is necessary to put them on again.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him hard, but he did not smile. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a detective, ain’t you? Everybody at the cottage knows that +you are. What have you come down about?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder could afford to smile cryptically. There was a suppressed +anxiety in the girl’s voice. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not for me, my dear young lady, to disclose your employer’s +business.” +</p> + +<p> +“He brought you down? Well, he’s got a nerve!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder put his finger to his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“About the candlesticks?” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“He still thinks somebody in the house took them?” +</p> + +<p> +Her face was very red, her eyes snapped angrily. Here was exposed one +of the minor scandals of the hotel. +</p> + +<p> +It was not an uninteresting sidelight. For if ever guilt was written +on a woman’s face it was on hers. What these candlesticks were and how +they disappeared, Mr. Reeder could guess. Petty larceny runs in +well-defined channels. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you can tell him from me——” she began shrilly, and he raised +a solemn hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Keep the matter to yourself—regard me as your friend,” he begged. +</p> + +<p> +He was in his lighter moments a most mischievous man, a weakness that +few suspected in Mr. J. G. Reeder. Moreover, he wanted badly some +inside information about the household, and he had an idea that this +infuriated girl who flounced out and slammed the door behind her would +supply him with that information. In his optimistic moments he could +not dream that in her raw hands she held the secret of Larmes Keep. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as he came down Mr. Reeder decided to go to Daver’s office; he +was curious to learn the true story of the missing candlesticks. The +sound of an angry voice reached him, and as his hand was raised to +knock at the door it was opened by somebody who was holding the handle +on the inside, and he heard a woman’s angry voice. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve treated me shabbily: that’s all I can say to you, Mr. Daver! +I’ve been working for you five years and I’ve never said a word about +your business to anybody! And now you bring a detective down to spy on +me! I won’t be treated as if I was a thief or something! If you think +that’s behaving fair and square, after all I’ve done for you, and +minding my own business… yes, I know I’ve been well paid, but I could +get just as much money somewhere else… I’ve got my pride, Mr. Daver, +the same as you have… and I think you’ve been very underhand, the way +you’ve treated me… I’ll go to-night, don’t you worry!” +</p> + +<p> +The door was flung open and a red-faced girl of twenty-five flounced +out and dashed past the eavesdropper, scarcely noticing him in her +fury. The door shut behind her; evidently Mr. Daver was in as bad a +temper as the girl—a fortunate circumstance, as it proved, and Mr. +Reeder decided it might be inadvisable to advertise that he had +overheard the whole or part of the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +When he strolled out into the sunlit grounds, of all the people who +had been disturbed during the night he was the brightest and showed +the least sign of fatigue. He met the Rev. Mr. Dean and the Colonel, +who was carrying a golf-bag, and they bade him a gruff good-morning. +The Colonel, he thought, was a little haggard; Mr. Dean gave him a +scowl as he passed. +</p> + +<p> +Walking up and down the lawn, he examined the front of the house with +a critical eye. The lines of the Keep were very definite: harsh and +angular, not even the Tudor windows, that at some remote period had +been introduced to its stony face, could disguise its ancient +grimness. +</p> + +<p> +Turning an angle of the house, he reached the strip of lawn which +faced his own window. Behind the lawn was a mass of rhododendron +bushes, which might serve a useful purpose, but which in certain +circumstances might also be a danger-point. +</p> + +<p> +Immediately beneath his window was an angle of the drawing-room, a +circumstance which gave him cause for satisfaction. Mr. Reeder’s +experience favoured a bedroom which was above a public apartment. +</p> + +<p> +He went back on his tracks and came to the other end of the block. +Those three windows, brightly curtained, were evidently Mr. Daver’s +private suite. The wall was black beneath them, the actual stone being +obscured by a thick growth of ivy. He wondered what this lightless and +doorless space contained. +</p> + +<p> +As he returned to the front of the house he saw Margaret Belman. She +was standing in front of the doorway, shading her eyes from the sun, +evidently searching her limited landscape for somebody. Seeing him, +she came quickly to meet him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, there you are!” she said, with a sigh of relief. “I wondered what +had happened to you—you didn’t come down to breakfast.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked a little peaked, he thought. Evidently she had not rounded +off the night as agreeably as he. +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t slept since I saw you,” she said, answering his unspoken +question. “What happened, Mr. Reeder? Did somebody really try to get +into the house—a burglar?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think they tried, and I think they succeeded,” said Mr. Reeder +carefully. “Burglaries happen even in—um—hotels, Miss—um—Margaret. +Has Mr. Daver notified the police?” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. He has been telephoning all the morning—I went to his +room just now and it was locked, but I heard his voice. And, Mr. +Reeder, you didn’t tell me the terrible thing that happened the night +I left London. I saw it in the newspaper this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Terrible thing?” +</p> + +<p> +J. G. Reeder was puzzled. Almost he had forgotten the adventure of the +spring gun. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you mean the little joke?” +</p> + +<p> +“Joke!” she said, shocked. +</p> + +<p> +“Criminals have a perverted sense of humour,” said Mr. Reeder airily. +“The whole thing was—um—an elaborate jest designed to frighten me. +One expects such things. They are the examination papers which are set +to test one’s intelligence from time to time.” +</p> + +<p> +“But who did it?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder’s gaze wandered absently over the placid countryside. She +had a feeling that it bored him even to recall so trivial an incident +in a busy life. +</p> + +<p> +“Our young friend,” he said suddenly, and, following the direction of +his eyes, she saw Olga Crewe. +</p> + +<p> +She was wearing a dark grey knitted suit and a big black hat that +shaded her face, and there was nothing of embarrassment in the half +smile with which she greeted her fellow-guest. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning, Mr. Reeder. I think we have met before this morning.” +She rubbed her arm good-humouredly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder was all apologies. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t even know now what happened,” she said; and Margaret Belman +learnt for the first time what had occurred before she had made her +appearance. +</p> + +<p> +“I never thought you were so strong—look!” Olga Crewe pulled back her +sleeve and showed a big blue-black patch on her forearm, cutting short +his expression of remorse with a little laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you shown Mr. Reeder all the attractions of the estate?” she +asked, a hint of sarcasm in her tone. “I almost expected to find you +at the bathing-pool this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t even know there was a bathing-pool,” said Mr. Reeder. “In +fact, after my terrible scare last night, this—um—beautiful house +has assumed so sinister an aspect that I expect to bathe in nothing +less dramatic than blood!” +</p> + +<p> +She was not amused. He saw her eyes close quickly, and she shivered a +little. +</p> + +<p> +“How gruesome you are! Come along, Miss Belman.” +</p> + +<p> +Inwardly Margaret resented the tone, which was almost a command, but +she walked by their side. Clear of the house, Olga stopped and +pointed. +</p> + +<p> +“You must see the well. Are you interested in old things?” asked Olga, +as she led the way to the shrubbery. +</p> + +<p> +“I am more interested in new things, especially new experiences,” said +Mr. Reeder, quite gaily. “And new people fascinate me!” +</p> + +<p> +Again that quick frightened smile of hers. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you should be having the time of your life, Mr. Reeder,” she +said, “for you’re meeting people here whom you’ve never met before.” +</p> + +<p> +He screwed up his forehead in a frown. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, there are two people in this house I have never met before,” he +said, and she looked round at him quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Only two? You’ve never met me before!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve seen you,” said Mr. Reeder, “but I have never met you.” +</p> + +<p> +By this time they had arrived at the well, and he read the inscription +slowly, before he tested with his foot the board that covered the top +of the well. +</p> + +<p> +“It has been closed for years,” said the girl. “I shouldn’t touch it,” +she added hastily, as Reeder stooped and, catching the edge of a +board, swung it back trap fashion, leaving an oblong cavity. +</p> + +<p> +The trap did not squeak or creak as he turned it back; the hinges were +oiled; there was no accumulation of dust between the two doors. Going +on to his hands and knees, he looked down into the darkness. +</p> + +<p> +“How many loads of rubble and rock were used to fill up this well?” he +asked. +</p> + +<p> +Margaret read from the little notice-board. +</p> + +<p> +“Hum!” said Mr. Reeder, searched in his pockets, brought out a +two-shilling piece, poised the silver coin carefully and let it drop. +</p> + +<p> +For a long, long time he listened, and then a faint metallic tinkle +came up to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Nine seconds!” He looked up into Olga’s face. “Deduct from the +velocity of a falling object the speed at which sound travels, and +tell me how deep this hole is.” +</p> + +<p> +He got up to his feet, dusted the knees of his trousers, and carefully +dropped the trap into position. +</p> + +<p> +“Rock there may be,” he said, “but there is no water. I must work out +the number of loads requisite to fill this well entirely—it will be +an interesting morning’s occupation for one who in his youth was +something of a mathematical genius.” +</p> + +<p> +Olga Crewe led the way back to the shrubbery in silence. When they +came to the open: +</p> + +<p> +“I think you had better show Mr. Reeder the rest of the +establishment,” she said. “I’m rather tired.” +</p> + +<p> +And with a nod she turned away and walked towards the house, and Mr. +Reeder gazed after her with something like admiration in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“The rouge would of course make a tremendous difference,” he said, +half speaking to himself, “but it is very difficult to disguise +voices—even the best of actors fail in this respect.” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret stared at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you talking to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“To me,” said Mr. Reeder humbly. “It is a bad habit of mine, peculiar +to my age, I fear.” +</p> + +<p> +“But Miss Crewe never uses rouge.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who does—in the country?” asked Mr. Reeder, and pointed with his +walking-stick to the wall along the cliff. “Where does that lead? What +is on the other side?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sudden death,” said Margaret, and laughed. +</p> + +<p> +For a quarter of an hour they stood leaning on the parapet of the low +wall, looking down at the strip of beach below. The small channel that +led to the cave interested him. He asked her how deep it was. She +thought that it was quite shallow, a conclusion with which he did not +agree. +</p> + +<p> +“Underground caves sound romantic, and that channel is deeper than +most. I think I must explore the cave. How does one get down?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked left and right. The beach was enclosed in a deep little bay, +circled on one side by sheer cliff, on the other by a high reef of +rock that ran far out to sea. Mr. Reeder pointed to the horizon. +</p> + +<p> +“Sixty miles from here is France.” +</p> + +<p> +He had a disconcerting habit of going off at a tangent. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I will do a little exploring this afternoon. The walk should +freshen me.” +</p> + +<p> +They were returning to the house when he remembered the bathing-pool +and asked to see it. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder Mr. Daver doesn’t let it run dry,” she said. “It is an awful +expense. I was going through the municipality’s account yesterday, and +they charge a fabulous sum for pumping up fresh water.” +</p> + +<p> +“How long has it been built?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is the surprising thing,” she said. “It was made twelve years +ago, when private swimming-pools were things unheard of in this +country.” +</p> + +<p> +The pool was oblong in shape; one end of it was tiled and obviously +artificially created. The further end, however, had for its sides and +bottom natural rock. A great dome-shaped mass served as a +diving-platform. Mr. Reeder walked all round, gazing into the limpid +water. It was deepest at the rocky end, and here he stayed longest, +and his inspection was most thorough. There seemed a space—how deep +he could not tell—at the bottom of the bath, where the rock overhung. +</p> + +<p> +“Very interesting,” said Mr. Reeder at last. “I think I will go back +to the house and get my bathing-suit. Happily, I brought one.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t know you were a swimmer,” smiled the girl. +</p> + +<p> +“I am the merest tyro in most things,” said Mr. Reeder modestly. +</p> + +<p> +He went up to his room, undressed and slipped into a bathing-suit, +over which he put his overcoat. Olga Crewe and Mr. Daver had gone down +to Siltbury. To his satisfaction he saw the hotel car descending the +hill road cautiously in a cloud of dust. +</p> + +<p> +When Mr. Reeder threw off his coat to make the plunge there was +something comically ferocious in his appearance, for about his waist +he had fastened a belt to which was attached in a sheath a long-bladed +hunting-knife, and in addition there dangled a waterproof bag in which +he had placed one of the many little hand-lamps that he invariably +carried about with him. He made the most human preparations: put his +toes into the cold water, and shivered ecstatically before he made his +plunge. Losing no time in preliminaries, he swam along the bottom to +the slit in the rock which he had seen. +</p> + +<p> +It was about two feet high and eight feet in length, and into this he +pulled his way, gripping the roof to aid his progress. The roof ended +abruptly; he found nothing but water above him, and he allowed himself +to come to the surface, catching hold of a projecting ledge to keep +himself afloat whilst he detached the waterproof bag from his belt, +and, planting it upon the shelf, took out his flash-lamp. +</p> + +<p> +He was in a natural stone chamber, with a broad, vaulted roof. He was +in fact inside the dome-shaped rock that formed one end of the pool. +At the farthermost corner of the chamber was an opening about four +feet in height and two feet in width. A rock passage that led +downward, he saw. He followed this for about fifty yards, and noted +that although nature had hewn or worn this queer corridor at some +remote age—possibly it had been an underground waterway before some +gigantic upheaval of nature had raised the land above water level—the +passage owed something of its practicability to human agency. At one +place there were marks of a chisel; at another, unmistakable signs of +blasting. Mr. Reeder retraced his steps and came back to the water. He +fastened and resealed his lamp, and, drawing a long breath, dived to +the bottom and wormed his way through the aperture to the bath and to +open air. He came to the surface to gaze into the horror-stricken face +of Margaret Belman. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mr. Reeder!” she gasped. “You—you frightened me!… I heard you +jump in, but when I came here and found the bath empty I thought I +must have been mistaken.… Where have you been? You couldn’t stay under +water all that time…” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you hand me my overcoat?” said Mr. Reeder modestly, and when he +had hastily buttoned this about his person: “I have been to see that +the County Council’s requirements are fully satisfied,” he said +solemnly. +</p> + +<p> +She listened, dazed. +</p> + +<p> +“In all theatres, as you probably know, my dear Miss—um—Margaret, it +is essential that there should be certain exits in case of +necessity—I have already inspected two this morning, but I rather +imagine that the most important of all has so far escaped my +observation. What a man! Surely madness is akin to genius!” +</p> + +<p> +He lunched alone, and apparently no man was less interested in his +fellow-guests than Mr. J. G. Reeder. The two golfers had returned and +were eating at the same table. Miss Crewe, who came in late and +favoured him with a smile, sat at a little table facing him. +</p> + +<p> +“She is uneasy,” said Mr. Reeder to himself. “That is the second time +she has dropped her fork. Presently she will get up, sit with her back +to me… I wonder on what excuse?” +</p> + +<p> +Apparently no excuse was necessary. The girl called a waitress towards +her and had her glass and table shifted to the other side. Mr. Reeder +was rather pleased with himself. +</p> + +<p> +Daver minced into the dining-room as Mr. Reeder was peeling an apple. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning, Mr. Reeder. Have you got over your nightmare? I see +that you have! A man of iron nerve. I admire that tremendously. +Personally, I am the most dreadful coward, and the very hint of a +burglar makes me shiver. You wouldn’t believe it, but I had a quarrel +with a servant this morning, and she left me shaking! You are not +affected that way? I see that you are not! Miss Belman tells me that +you tried our swimming-pool this morning. You enjoyed it? I am sure +you did!” +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you sit down and have coffee?” asked Mr. Reeder politely, but +Daver declined the invitation with a flourish and a bow. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, I have my work—I cannot tell you how grateful I am to Miss +Belman for putting me on the track of the most fascinating character +of modern times. What a man!” said Mr. Daver, unconsciously repeating +J. G. Reeder’s tribute. “I’ve been trying to trace his early +career—no, no, I’ll stand: I must run away in a minute or two. Is +anything known about his early life? Was he married?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder nodded. He had not the slightest idea that John Flack was +married, but it seemed a moment to assert the universality of his +knowledge. He was quite unprepared for the effect upon Daver. The jaw +of the yellow-faced man dropped. +</p> + +<p> +“Married?” he squeaked. “Who told you he was married? Where was he +married?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is a matter,” said Mr. Reeder gravely, “which I cannot discuss.” +</p> + +<p> +“Married!” Daver rubbed his little round head irritably, but did not +pursue the subject. He made some inane reference to the weather and +bustled out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder settled himself in what he called the banqueting-hall with +an illustrated paper, awaiting an opportunity which he knew must +present itself sooner or later. The servants he had passed under +review. Girls were employed to wait at table, and these lived in a +small cottage on the Siltbury side of the estate. The men servants, +including the hall porter, seemed above suspicion. The porter was an +old army man with a row of medals across his uniform jacket; his +assistant was a chinless youth recruited from Siltbury. He apparently +was the only member of the staff that did not live in one of the +cottages. In the main the women servants were an unpromising lot—the +infuriated waitress was his only hope, although as likely as not she +would talk of nothing but her grievances. +</p> + +<p> +From where he sat he had a view of the lawn. At three o’clock the +Colonel and the Rev. Mr. Dean and Olga Crewe passed out of the main +gate, evidently bound for Siltbury. He rang the bell, and to his +satisfaction the aggrieved waitress came and took his order for tea. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a nice place,” said Mr. Reeder conversationally. +</p> + +<p> +The girl’s “Yes, sir” was snappy. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose,” mused Mr. Reeder, looking out of the window, “that this +is the sort of situation that a lot of girls would give their heads to +get and break their hearts to lose?” +</p> + +<p> +Evidently she did not agree. +</p> + +<p> +“The upstairs work isn’t so bad,” she said, “and there’s not much to +do in the dining-room. But it’s too slow for me. I was at a big hotel +before I came here. I’m going to a better job—and the sooner the +better.” +</p> + +<p> +She admitted that the money was good, but she had a longing for that +imponderable quantity which she described as “life.” She also +expressed a preference for men guests. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Crewe—so called—gives more trouble than all the rest of the +people put together,” she said. “I can’t make her out. First she wants +one room, then she wants another. Why she can’t stay with her husband +I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“With her——?” Mr. Reeder looked at her in pained surprise. “Perhaps +they don’t get on well together?” +</p> + +<p> +“They used to get on all right. If they weren’t married I could +understand all the mystery they’re making—pretending they’re not, him +in his room and she in hers, and meeting like strangers. When all that +kind of deceit is going on, things are bound to get lost,” she added +inconsequently. +</p> + +<p> +“How long has this been—er—going on?” asked Mr. Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +“Only the last week or so,” said the girl viciously. “I know they’re +married, because I’ve seen her marriage certificate—they’ve been +married six years. She keeps it in her dressing-case.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him with sudden suspicion. +</p> + +<p> +“I oughtn’t to have told you that. I don’t want to make trouble for +anybody, and I bear them no malice, though they’ve treated me worse ’n +a dog,” she said. “Nobody else in the house but me knows. I was her +maid for two years. But if people don’t treat me right I don’t treat +them right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Married six years? Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +And then he suddenly turned his head and faced her. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you like fifty pounds?” he asked. “That is the immense sum I +will give you for just one little peep at that marriage certificate.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl went red. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re trying to catch me,” she said, hesitated, and then: “I don’t +want to get her into trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am a detective,” said Mr. Reeder, “but I am working on behalf of +the Chief Registrar, and we have a doubt as to whether that marriage +was legal. I could of course search the young lady’s room and find the +certificate for myself, but if you would care to help me, and fifty +pounds has any attraction for you——” +</p> + +<p> +She paused irresolutely and said she would see. Half an hour later she +came into the hall with the news that she had been unsuccessful in her +search. She had found the envelope in which the certificate had been +kept, but the document itself was gone. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder did not ask the name of the bridegroom, nor was he +mentioned, for he was pretty certain that he knew that fortunate man. +He put a question, and the girl answered as he had expected. +</p> + +<p> +“There is one thing I would like to ask you: do you remember the name +of the girl’s father?” +</p> + +<p> +“John Crewe, merchant,” she said promptly. “The mother’s name was +Hannah. He made me swear on the Bible I’d never tell a soul that I +knew they were married.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does anybody else know? You said ‘nobody,’ I think?” +</p> + +<p> +The girl hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mrs. Burton knows. She knows everything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Mr. Reeder, and, opening his pocket-book, took out +two five-pound notes. “What was the husband’s profession: do you +remember that?” +</p> + +<p> +The woman’s lips curled. +</p> + +<p> +“Secretary—why call himself secretary, I don’t know, and him an +independent gentleman!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Mr. Reeder again. +</p> + +<p> +He telephoned to Siltbury for a taxicab. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going out?” asked Margaret, finding him waiting under the +portico. +</p> + +<p> +“I am buying a few presents for friends in London,” said Mr. Reeder +glibly; “a butter-dish or two, suitably inscribed, would, I feel sure, +be very acceptable.” +</p> + +<p> +The taxi did not take him to Siltbury. Instead, he followed a road +which ran parallel to the sea-coast, and which eventually landed him +in an impossible sandy track, from which the ancient taxi was +extricated with some difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +“I told you this led nowhere, sir,” said the aggrieved driver. +</p> + +<p> +“Then we have evidently reached our destination,” replied Mr. Reeder, +applying his weight to push the machine to a more solid foundation. +</p> + +<p> +Siltbury was not greatly favoured by London visitors, the driver told +him on the way back. The town had a pebbly beach, and people preferred +sand. +</p> + +<p> +“There are some wonderful beaches about here,” said the driver, “but +you can’t reach ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +They had taken the left-hand road, which would bring them eventually +to the town, and had been driving for a quarter of an hour when Mr. +Reeder, who sat by the driver, pointed to a large scar in the face of +the downs on his right. +</p> + +<p> +“Siltbury quarries,” explained the cabman. “They’re not worked now: +there are too many holes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Holes?” +</p> + +<p> +“The downs are like a sponge,” said the man. “You could lose yourself +in the caves. Old Mr. Kimpon used to work the quarries many years ago, +and it broke him. There’s a big cave there you can drive a +coach-and-four into! About twenty years ago three fellows went in to +explore the caves and never come out again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who owns the quarry now?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder wasn’t very interested, but when his mind was occupied with +a pressing problem he had a trick of flogging along a conversation +with appropriate questions, and if he was oblivious of the answers +they produced, the sound of the human voice had a sedative effect. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Daver owns it now. He bought it after the people were lost in the +caves, and had the entrance boarded up. You’ll see it in a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +They were climbing a gentle slope. As they came to the crest he +pointed down a tidy-looking roadway to where, about two hundred yards +distant, Reeder saw an oblong gap in the white face of the quarry. +Across this, and filling the cavity except for an irregular space at +the top, was a heavy wooden gate. +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t see it from here,” said the driver, “but the top hole is +blocked with barbed wire.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that a gate or a hoarding he has fixed across?” +</p> + +<p> +“A gate, sir. Mr. Daver owns all the land from here to the sea. He +used to farm about a hundred acres of the downs, but it’s very poor +land. In those days he kept his wagons inside the cave.” +</p> + +<p> +“When did he give up farming?” asked Mr. Reeder, interested. +</p> + +<p> +“About six years ago,” was the reply, and it was exactly the reply Mr. +Reeder had expected. “I used to see a lot of Mr. Daver before then,” +said the driver. “In the old times I had a horse cab, and I was always +driving him about. He used to work like a galley slave—on the farm in +the morning, down in the town buying things in the afternoon. He was +more like a servant than a master. He used to meet all the trains when +visitors arrived—and they had a lot of visitors in those days, more +than they have now. Sometimes he went up to London to bring them +down—he always went to meet Miss Crewe when the young lady was at +school.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know Miss Crewe?” +</p> + +<p> +Apparently the driver had seen her frequently, but his acquaintance +with her was very limited. +</p> + +<p> +Reeder got down from the cab and climbed the barred gate on to the +private roadway. The soil was chalky and the road had the appearance +of having been recently overhauled. He mentioned this fact to the +cabman, and learnt that Mr. Daver kept two old men constantly at work +making up the road, though why he should do so he had no idea. +</p> + +<p> +“Where would you like to go now, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“To a quiet place where I can telephone,” said Mr. Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +These were the facts that he carried with him, and vital facts they +were. During the past six years the life of Mr. Daver had undergone a +considerable change. From being a harassed man of affairs, “more like +a servant than a master,” he had become a gentleman of leisure. The +mystery of the Keep was a mystery no longer. He got Inspector Simpson +on the telephone and conveyed to him the gist of his discovery. +</p> + +<p> +“By the way,” said Simpson at the finish, “the gold hasn’t been sent +to Australia yet. There has been trouble at the docks. You don’t +seriously anticipate a Flack ‘operation,’ do you?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder, who had forgotten all about the gold-convoy, made a +cautious and non-committal reply. +</p> + +<p> +By the time he returned to Larmes Keep the other guests had returned. +The hall porter said they were expecting a “party” on the morrow, but +as he had volunteered that information on the previous evening, Mr. +Reeder did not take it very seriously. He gathered that the man spoke +in good faith, without any wish to deceive, but he saw no signs of +unusual activity; nor, indeed, was there accommodation at the Keep for +more than a few more visitors. +</p> + +<p> +He looked round for the aggrieved servant and missed her. A discreet +inquiry revealed the fact that she had left that afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder went to his room, locked the door, and busied himself in +the examination of two great scrap-books which he had brought down +with him. They were the official records of Flack and his gang. +Perhaps “gang” was hardly a proper description, for he seemed to use +and change his associates as a theatrical manager uses and changes his +cast. The police knew close on a score of men who from time to time +had assisted John Flack in his nefarious transactions. Some had gone +to prison, and had spent the hours of their recovered liberty in a +vain endeavour to re-establish touch with so generous a paymaster. +Some, known to be in his employ, had vanished, and were generally +supposed to be living in luxury abroad. +</p> + +<p> +Reeder went through the book, which was full of essential facts, and +jotted down the amounts which this strange man had acquired in the +course of twenty years’ depredations. The total was a staggering one. +Flack had worked feverishly, and though he had paid well he had spent +little. Somewhere in England was an enormous reserve. And that +somewhere, Mr. Reeder guessed, was very close to his hand. +</p> + +<p> +For what had John Flack worked? To what end was this accumulation of +money? Was the sheer greed of the miser behind his thefts? Was he +working aimlessly, as a madman works, towards some visionary +objective? +</p> + +<p> +Flack’s greed was proverbial. Nothing satisfied him. The robbery of +the Leadenhall Bank had been followed a week later by an attack upon +the London Trust Syndicate, carried out, the police discovered, by an +entirely new confederation, gathered within a few days of the robbery +and yet so perfectly rehearsed that the plan was carried through +without a hitch. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder locked away his books and went downstairs in search of +Margaret Belman. The crisis was very near at hand, and it was +necessary for his peace of mind that the girl should leave Larmes Keep +without delay. +</p> + +<p> +He was half-way down the stairs when he met Daver coming up, and at +that moment he received an inspiration. +</p> + +<p> +“You are the very gentleman I wished to meet,” he said. “I wonder if +you would do me a great favour?” +</p> + +<p> +Daver’s careworn face wreathed in smiles. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Mr. Reeder,” he said enthusiastically, “do you a favour? +Command me!” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been thinking about last night and my extraordinary +experience,” said Mr. Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean the burglar?” interrupted the other quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“The burglar,” agreed Mr. Reeder. “He was an alarming person, and I am +not disposed to let the matter rest where it is. Fortunately for me, I +have found a finger-print on the panel of my door.” +</p> + +<p> +He saw Daver’s face change. +</p> + +<p> +“When I say I have found a finger-print, I have found something which +has the appearance of a finger-print, and I can only be sure if I +examine it by means of a dactyscope. Unfortunately, I did not imagine +that I should have need for such an instrument, and I am wondering if +you could send somebody to London to bring it down for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“With all the pleasure in life,” said Daver, though his tone lacked +heartiness. “One of the men——” +</p> + +<p> +“I was thinking of Miss Belman,” interrupted J. G. Reeder, “who is a +friend of mine and would, moreover, take the greatest possible care of +that delicate piece of mechanism.” +</p> + +<p> +Daver was silent for a moment, turning this over in his mind. +</p> + +<p> +“Would it not be better if a man… and the last train down——” +</p> + +<p> +“She could come down by car: I can arrange that.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder fumbled his chin. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it would be better if I brought down a couple of men from the +Yard.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” said Daver quickly. “You can send Miss Belman. I haven’t the +slightest objection. I will tell her.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder looked at his watch. +</p> + +<p> +“The next train is at eight thirty-five, and that is the last train, I +think. The young lady will be able to get her dinner before she +starts.” +</p> + +<p> +It was he who brought the news to the astonished Margaret Belman. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I’ll go up to town; but don’t you think somebody else could +get this instrument for you, Mr. Reeder? Couldn’t you have it sent +down——” +</p> + +<p> +She saw the look in his eyes and stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” she asked, in a lower voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you do this for—um—me, Miss—um—Margaret?” said Mr. Reeder, +almost humbly. +</p> + +<p> +He went to the lounge and scribbled a note, while Margaret telephoned +for the cab. It was growing dark when the closed landau drew up before +the hotel and J. G. Reeder, who accompanied her, opened the door. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a man inside,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. +“Please don’t scream: he’s an officer of police, and he’s going with +you to London.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—but——” she stammered. +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ll stay in London to-night,” said Mr. Reeder. “I will join +you in the morning—I hope.” +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch12"> +CHAPTER XII +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Mr. Reeder</span> was in his room, laying out his moderate toilet +requirements on the dressing-table, and meditating upon the waste of +time involved in conforming to fashion—for he had dressed for +dinner—when there came a tap at the door. He paused, a well-worn +hairbrush in his hand, and looked round. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in,” he said, and added: “if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +The little head of Mr. Daver appeared round the opening of the door, +anxiety and apology in every line of his peculiar face. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I interrupting you?” he asked. “I am terribly sorry to bother you +at all, but Miss Belman being away, you quite understand? I’m sure you +do…?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder was courtesy itself. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, come in, sir,” he said. “I was merely preparing for the +night. I am a very tired man, and the sea air——” +</p> + +<p> +He saw the face of the proprietor fall. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, Mr. Reeder, I have come upon a useless errand. The truth +is”—he slipped inside the door, closed it carefully behind him, as +though he had an important statement to make which he did not wish to +be overheard—“my three guests are anxious to play bridge, and they +deputed me to ask if you would care to join them?” +</p> + +<p> +“With every pleasure in life,” said Mr. Reeder graciously. “I am an +indifferent player, but if they will bear with me, I will be down in a +few minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Daver withdrew, babbling his gratitude and apologies. The door was +hardly closed upon him before Mr. Reeder crossed the room and locked +it. Stooping, he opened one of the trunks, took out a long, flexible +rope-ladder, and dropped it through the open window into the darkness +below, fastening one end to the leg of the four-poster. Leaning out of +the window, he said something in a low voice, and braced himself +against the bed to support the weight of the man who came nimbly up +the ladder into the room. This done, he replaced the rope-ladder in +his trunk, locked it, and, walking to a corner of the room, pulled at +one of the solid panels. It hinged open and revealed the deep cupboard +which Mr. Daver had shown him. +</p> + +<p> +“That is as good a place as any, Brill,” he said. “I’m sorry I must +leave you for two hours, but I have an idea that nobody will disturb +you there. I am leaving the lamp burning, which will give you enough +light.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, sir,” said the man from Scotland Yard, and took up his +post. +</p> + +<p> +Five minutes later Mr. Reeder locked the door of his room and went +downstairs to the waiting party. +</p> + +<p> +They were in the big hall, a very silent and preoccupied trio, until +his arrival galvanised them into something that might pass for light +conversation. There was, indeed, a fourth present when he came in: a +sallow-faced woman in black, who melted out of the hall at his +approach, and he guessed her to be the melancholy Mrs. Burton. The two +men rose at his approach, and after the usual self-deprecatory +exchange which preceded the cutting for partners, Mr. Reeder found +himself sitting opposite the military-looking Colonel Hothling. On his +left was the pale girl; on his right the hard-faced Rev. Mr. Dean. +</p> + +<p> +“What do we play for?” growled the Colonel, caressing his moustache, +his steely blue eyes fixed on Mr. Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +“A modest stake, I hope,” begged that gentleman. “I am such an +indifferent player.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suggest sixpence a hundred,” said the clergyman. “It is as much as +a poor parson can afford.” +</p> + +<p> +“Or a poor pensioner either,” grumbled the Colonel, and sixpence a +hundred was agreed. +</p> + +<p> +They played two games in comparative silence. Reeder was sensitive of +a strained atmosphere, but did nothing to relieve it. His partner was +surprisingly nervous for one who, as he remarked casually, had spent +his life in military service. +</p> + +<p> +“A wonderful life,” said Mr. Reeder in his affable way. +</p> + +<p> +Once or twice he detected the girl’s hand, as she held the cards, +tremble ever so slightly. Only the clergyman remained still and +unmoved, and, incidentally, played without error. +</p> + +<p> +It was after an atrocious revoke on the part of his partner, a revoke +which gave his opponents the game and rubber, that Mr. Reeder pushed +back his chair. +</p> + +<p> +“What a strange world this is!” he remarked sententiously. “How like a +game of cards!” +</p> + +<p> +Those who were best acquainted with Mr. Reeder knew that he was most +dangerous when he was most philosophical. The three people who sat +about the table heard only a boring commonplace, in keeping with their +conception of this somewhat dull-looking man. +</p> + +<p> +“There are some people,” mused Mr. Reeder, looking up at the lofty +ceiling, “who are never happy unless they have all the aces. I, on the +contrary, am most cheerful when I have in my hand all the knaves.” +</p> + +<p> +“You play a very good game, Mr. Reeder.” +</p> + +<p> +It was the girl who spoke, and her voice was husky, her tone hesitant, +as though she were forcing herself to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“I play one or two games rather well,” said Mr. Reeder. “Partly, I +think, because I have such an extraordinary memory—I never forget +knaves.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a silence. This time the reference was too direct to be +mistaken. +</p> + +<p> +“There used to be in my younger days,” Mr. Reeder went on, addressing +nobody in particular, “a Knave of Hearts, who eventually became a +Knave of Clubs, and drifted down into heaven knows what other welters +of knavery! In plain words, he started his professional—um—life as a +bigamist, continued his interesting and romantic career as a tout for +gambling hells, and was concerned in a bank robbery in Denver. I have +not seen him for years, but he is colloquially known to his associates +as ‘The Colonel’; a military-looking gentleman with a pleasing +appearance and a glib tongue.” +</p> + +<p> +He was not looking at the Colonel as he spoke, so he did not see the +man’s face go pale. +</p> + +<p> +“I have not met him since he grew a moustache, but I could recognise +him anywhere by the peculiar colour of his eyes and by the fact that +he has a scar at the back of his head, a souvenir of some unfortunate +fracas in which he was engaged. They tell me that he became an expert +user of knives—I gather he sojourned a while in Latin America—a +knave of clubs and a knave of hearts—hum!” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel sat rigid, not a muscle of his face moving. +</p> + +<p> +“One supposes,” Mr. Reeder continued, looking at the girl +thoughtfully, “that he has by this time acquired a competence which +enables him to stay at the very best hotels without any fear of police +supervision.” +</p> + +<p> +Her dark eyes were fixed unwaveringly on his. The full lips were +closed, the jaws set. +</p> + +<p> +“How very interesting you are, Mr. Reeder!” she drawled at last. “Mr. +Daver tells me you are associated with the police force?” +</p> + +<p> +“Remotely, only remotely,” said Mr. Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you acquainted with any other knaves, Mr. Reeder?” +</p> + +<p> +It was the cool voice of the clergyman, and Mr. Reeder beamed round at +him. +</p> + +<p> +“With the Knave of Diamonds,” he said softly. “What a singularly +appropriate name for one who spent five years in the profitable +pursuit of illicit diamond-buying in South Africa, and five +unprofitable years on the Breakwater in Capetown, becoming, as one +might say, a knave of spades from the continuous use of that necessary +and agricultural implement, and a knave of pickaxes too, one supposes! +He was flogged, if I remember rightly, for an outrageous assault upon +a warder, and on his release from prison was implicated in a robbery +in Johannesburg. I am relying on my memory, and I cannot recall at the +moment whether he reached Pretoria Central—which is the colloquial +name for the Transvaal prison—or whether he escaped. I seem to +remember that he was concerned in a banknote case which I once had in +hand. Now what was his name?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked thoughtfully at the clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +“Gregory Dones! That is it—Mr. Gregory Dones! It is beginning to come +back to me now. He had an angel tattooed on his left forearm, a piece +of decoration which one would have imagined sufficient to keep him to +the narrow paths of virtue, and even to bring him eventually within +the fold of the church.” +</p> + +<p> +The Rev. Mr. Dean got up from the table, put his hand in his pocket +and took out some money. +</p> + +<p> +“You lost the rubber, but I think you win on points,” he said. “What +do I owe you, Mr. Reeder?” +</p> + +<p> +“What you can never pay me,” said Mr. Reeder, shaking his head. +“Believe me, Gregory, your score and mine will never be wholly settled +to your satisfaction!” +</p> + +<p> +With a shrug of his shoulders and a smile, the hard-faced clergyman +strolled away. Mr. Reeder watched him out of the corner of his eye and +saw him disappear towards the vestibule. +</p> + +<p> +“Are all your knaves masculine?” asked Olga Crewe. +</p> + +<p> +Reeder nodded gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so, Miss Crewe.” +</p> + +<p> +Her challenging eyes met his. +</p> + +<p> +“In other words, you don’t know me?” she said bluntly. And then, with +sudden vehemence: “I wish to God you did! I wish you did!” +</p> + +<p> +Turning abruptly, she almost ran from the hall. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder stood where she had left him, his eyes roving left and +right. In the shadowy entrance of the hall, made all the more obscure +by the heavy dark curtains which covered it, he saw a dim figure +standing. Only for a second, and then it disappeared. The woman +Burton, he thought. +</p> + +<p> +It was time to go to his room. He had taken only two steps from the +table when all the lights in the hall went out. In such moments as +these Mr. Reeder was a very nimble man. He spun round and made for the +nearest wall, and stood waiting, his back to the panelling. And then +he heard the plaintive voice of Mr. Daver. +</p> + +<p> +“Who on earth has put the lights out? Where are you, Mr. Reeder?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here!” said Mr. Reeder, in a loud voice, and dropped instantly to the +ground. Only in time: he heard a whistle, a thud, and something struck +the panel above his head. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder emitted a deep groan and crawled rapidly and noiselessly +across the floor. +</p> + +<p> +Again came Daver’s voice: +</p> + +<p> +“What on earth was that? Has anything happened, Mr. Reeder?” +</p> + +<p> +The detective made no reply. Nearer and nearer he was crawling towards +where Daver stood. And then, as unexpectedly as they had been +extinguished, the lights went up. Daver was standing in front of the +curtained doorway, and on the proprietor’s face was a look of blank +dismay as Mr. Reeder rose at his feet. +</p> + +<p> +Daver shrank back, his big white teeth set in a fearful grin, his +round eyes wide open. He tried to speak, and his mouth opened and +closed, but no sound issued. From Reeder his eyes strayed to the +panelled wall—but Reeder had already seen the knife buried in the +wood. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me think,” he said gently. “Was that the Colonel or the highly +intelligent representative of the church?” +</p> + +<p> +He went across to the wall and with an effort pulled out the knife. It +was long and broad. +</p> + +<p> +“A murderous weapon,” said Mr. Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +Daver found his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“A murderous weapon,” he echoed hollowly. “Was it—thrown at you, Mr. +Reeder?… how very terrible!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder was gazing at him sombrely. +</p> + +<p> +“Your idea?” he asked, but by now Mr. Daver was incapable of replying. +</p> + +<p> +Reeder left the shaken proprietor lying limply in one of the big +arm-chairs, and walked up the carpeted stairs to the corridor. And if +against his black coat the automatic was not visible, it was +nevertheless there. +</p> + +<p> +He stopped before his door, unlocked it, and threw it wide open. The +lamp by the side of the bed was still burning. Mr. Reeder switched on +the wall light, peeped through the crack between the door and the wall +before he ventured inside. +</p> + +<p> +He shut the door, locked it, and walked over to the cupboard. +</p> + +<p> +“You may come out, Brill,” he said. “I presume nobody has been here?” +</p> + +<p> +There was no answer, and he pulled open the cupboard door quickly. +</p> + +<p> +It was empty! +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well!” said Mr. Reeder, and that meant that matters were +everything but well. +</p> + +<p> +There was no sign of a struggle; nothing in the world to suggest that +Detective Brill had not walked out of his own free will and made his +exit by the window, which was still open. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder tiptoed back to the light-switch and turned it; stretched +across the bed and extinguished the lamp; and then he sidled +cautiously to the window and peeped round the stone framing. It was a +very dark night, and he could distinguish no object below. +</p> + +<p> +Events were moving only a little faster than he had anticipated: for +this, however, he was responsible. He had forced the hands of the +Flack confederation, and they were extremely able hands. +</p> + +<p> +He was unlocking his trunk when he heard a faint sound of steel +against steel. Somebody was fitting a key into the lock, and he +waited, his automatic covering the door. Nothing further happened, and +he went forward to investigate. His flash-lamp showed him what had +happened. Somebody outside had inserted a key, turned it and left it +in the lock, so that it was impossible for the door to be unlocked +from the inside. +</p> + +<p> +“I am rather glad,” said Mr. Reeder, speaking his thoughts aloud, +“that Miss—um—Margaret is on her way to London!” +</p> + +<p> +He pursed his lips reflectively. Would he be glad if he also was at +this moment en route for London? Mr. Reeder was not very certain about +this. +</p> + +<p> +On one point he was satisfied—the Flacks were going to give him a +very small margin of time, and that margin must be used to the best +advantage. +</p> + +<p> +So far as he could tell, the trunks had not been opened. He pulled out +the rope-ladder, groped down to the bottom, and presently withdrew his +hand, holding a long white cardboard cylinder. Crawling under the +window, he put up his hand and fixed an end of the cylinder in one of +the china flower-pots that stood on the broad window-sill and which he +had moved to allow the ingress of Brill. When this had been done to +his satisfaction, he struck a match and, reaching up, set fire to a +little touch-paper at the cylinder’s free end. He brought his hand +down just in time; something whizzed into the room and struck the +panelling of the opposite wall with an angry smack. There was no sound +of explosion. Whoever fired was using an air pistol. Again and again +in rapid succession came the pellets, but by now the cylinder was +burning and spluttering, and in another instant the grounds were +brilliantly illuminated as the flare burst into a dazzling red flame +that, he knew, could be seen for miles. +</p> + +<p> +He heard a scampering of feet below, but dared not look out. By the +time the first tender-load of detectives had come flying up the drive, +the grounds were deserted. +</p> + +<p> +With the exception of the servants, there were only two people at +Larmes Keep when the police began their search. Mr. Daver and the +faded Mrs. Burton alone remained. “Colonel Hothling” and “the Rev. Mr. +Dean” had disappeared as though they had been whisked from the face of +the earth. +</p> + +<p> +Big Bill Gordon interviewed the proprietor. +</p> + +<p> +“This is Flack’s headquarters, and you know it. You’ll be well advised +to spill everything and save your own skin.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I don’t know the man; I’ve never seen him!” wailed Mr. Daver. +“This is the most terrible thing that has happened to me in my life! +Can you make me responsible for the character of my guests? You’re a +reasonable man? I see you are! If these people are friends of Flack, I +have never heard of them in that connection. You may search my house +from cellar to garret, and if you find anything that in the least +incriminates me, take me off to prison. I ask that as a favour. Is +that the statement of an honest man? I see you are convinced!” +</p> + +<p> +Neither he nor Mrs. Burton nor any of the servants who were questioned +in the early hours of the morning could afford the slightest clue to +the identity of the visitors. Miss Crewe had been in the habit of +coming every year and of staying four and sometimes five months. +Hothling was a newcomer, as also was the parson. Inquiries made by +telephone of the chief of the Siltbury police confirmed Mr. Daver’s +statement that he had been the proprietor of Larmes Keep for +twenty-five years, and that his past was blameless. He himself +produced his title-deeds. A search of his papers, made at his +invitation, and of the three tin boxes in the safe, produced nothing +but support for his protestations of innocence. +</p> + +<p> +Big Bill interviewed Mr. Reeder in the hall over a cup of coffee at +three o’clock in the morning. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no doubt at all that these people were members of the Flack +crowd, probably engaged in advance against his escape, and how they +got away the Lord knows! I have had six men on duty on the road since +dark, and neither the woman nor the two men passed me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you see Brill?” asked Mr. Reeder, suddenly remembering the absent +detective. +</p> + +<p> +“Brill?” said the other in astonishment. “He’s with you, isn’t he? You +told me to have him under your window——” +</p> + +<p> +In a few words Mr. Reeder explained the situation, and together they +went up to No. 7. There was nothing in the cupboard to afford the +slightest clue to Brill’s whereabouts. The panels were sounded, but +there was no evidence of secret doors—a romantic possibility which +Mr. Reeder had not excluded, for this was the type of house where he +might expect to find them. +</p> + +<p> +Two men were sent to search the grounds for the missing detective, and +Reeder and the police chief went back to finish their coffee. +</p> + +<p> +“Your theory has turned out accurate so far, but there is nothing to +connect Daver.” +</p> + +<p> +“Daver’s in it,” said Mr. Reeder. “He was not the knife-thrower: his +job was to locate me on behalf of the Colonel. But Daver brought Miss +Belman down here in preparation for Flack’s escape.” +</p> + +<p> +Big Bill nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“She was to be hostage for your good behaviour.” He scratched his head +irritably. “That’s like one of Crazy Jack’s schemes. But why did he +try to shoot you up? Why wasn’t he satisfied with her being at Larmes +Keep?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder had no immediate explanation. He was dealing with a madman, +a thing of whims. Consistency was not to be expected from Mr. Flack. +</p> + +<p> +He passed his fingers through his scanty hair. +</p> + +<p> +“It is all rather puzzling and inexplicable,” he said. “I think I’ll +go to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +He was sleeping dreamlessly, under the watchful eye of a Scotland Yard +detective, when Big Bill came bursting into the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Get up, Reeder!” he said roughly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder sat up in bed, instantly awake. +</p> + +<p> +“What is wrong?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Wrong! That gold-lorry left the Bank of England this morning at five +o’clock on its way to Tilbury and hasn’t been seen since!” +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch13"> +CHAPTER XIII +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">At</span> the last moment the bank authorities had changed their mind, and +overnight had sent £53,000 worth of gold for conveyance to the ship. +They had borrowed for the purpose an army lorry from Woolwich, a +service which is sometimes claimed by the national banking +institution. +</p> + +<p> +The lorry had been accompanied by eight detectives, the military +driver being also armed. Tilbury was reached at half-past eleven +o’clock at night, and the lorry, a high-powered Lassavar, had returned +to London at two o’clock in the morning and had been loaded in the +bank courtyard under the eyes of the officer, sergeant, and two men of +the guard which is on duty on the bank premises from sunset to +sunrise. A new detachment of picked men from Scotland Yard, each +carrying an automatic pistol, loaded the lorry for its second journey, +the amount of gold this time being £73,000 worth. After the boxes had +been put into the van, they had climbed up and the lorry had driven +away from the bank. Each of the eight men guarding this treasure was +passed under review by a high officer of Scotland Yard who knew every +one personally. The lorry was seen in Commercial Road by a +detective-inspector of the division, and its progress was also noted +by a police-cyclist patrol who was on duty at the junction of the +Ripple and Barking roads. +</p> + +<p> +The main Tilbury road runs within a few hundred yards of the village +of Rainham, and it was at this point, only a few miles distant from +Tilbury, that the lorry disappeared. Two motor-cyclist policemen who +had gone out to meet the gold-convoy, and who had received a telephone +message from the Ripple road to say that it had passed, grew uneasy +and telephoned to Tilbury. +</p> + +<p> +It was an airless morning, with occasional banks of mist lying in the +hollows, and part of the road, especially near the river, was patchily +covered with white fog, which dispersed about eight o’clock in the +morning under a southeasterly wind. The mist had almost disappeared +when the search party from Tilbury pursued their investigations and +came upon the one evidence of tragedy which the morning was to reveal. +This was an old Ford motor car that had evidently run from the road, +miraculously missed a telegraph pole, and ditched itself. The machine +had not overturned; there were no visible marks of injury; yet the man +who sat at the wheel was stone dead when he was found. An immediate +medical examination failed to discover an injury of any kind to the +man, who was a small farmer of Rainham, and on the face of it it +looked as though he had died of a heart attack whilst on his way to +town. +</p> + +<p> +Just beyond the place where he was found the road dips steeply between +high banks. It is known as Coles Hollow, and at its deepest part the +cutting is crossed by a single-track bridge which connects two +portions of the farm through which the road runs. The dead farmer and +his machine had been removed when Reeder and the chief of Scotland +Yard arrived on the spot. No news of any kind had been received of the +lorry; but the local police, who had been following its tracks, had +made two discoveries. Apparently, going through the cutting, the front +wheels of the trolley had collided with the side, for there was a deep +scoop in the clayey soil which the impact had hollowed out. +</p> + +<p> +“It almost appears,” said Simpson, who had been put in charge of the +case, “that the trolley swerved here to avoid the farmer’s car. There +are his wheel tracks, and you notice they were wobbling from side to +side. Probably the man was already dying.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you traced the trolley tracks from here?” asked Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +Simpson nodded, and called a sergeant of the Essex Constabulary, who +had charted the tracks. +</p> + +<p> +“They seem to have turned up north towards Becontree,” he said. “As a +matter of fact, a policeman at Becontree said he saw a large trolley +come out of the mist and pass him, but that had a tilt on it and was +going towards London. It was an army trolley, too, and was driven by a +soldier.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder had lit a cigarette and was holding the flaming match in +his hand, staring at it solemnly. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me!” he said, and dropped the match and watched it extinguish. +</p> + +<p> +And then he began what seemed to be a foolish search of the ground, +striking match after match. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t there light enough for you, Mr. Reeder?” asked Simpson +irritably. +</p> + +<p> +The detective straightened his back and smiled. Only for a second was +he amused, and then his long face went longer than ever. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor fellow!” he said softly. “Poor fellow!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who are you talking about?” demanded Simpson, but Mr. Reeder did not +reply. Instead, he pointed up to the bridge, in the centre of which +was an old and rusted water-wagon, the type which certain English +municipalities still use. He climbed up to the bank and examined the +iron tank, opened the hatches and groped inside, lighting matches to +aid his examination. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it empty?” asked Simpson. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid it is,” said Mr. Reeder, and inspected the worn hose +leading from its iron spindles. He descended the cutting more +melancholy than ever. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you thought how easy it is to disguise an ordinary army lorry?” +he asked. “A tilt, I think the sergeant said, and on its way to +London.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think that was the gold-van?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m certain,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Where was it attacked?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder pointed to the mark of the wheels on the side of the road. +</p> + +<p> +“There,” he said simply, and Simpson growled impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“Stuff! Nobody heard a shot fired, and you don’t think our people +would go down without a fight, do you? They could have held their own +against five times their number, and no crowd has been seen on this +road!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Nevertheless, this is where the convoy was attacked and overcome,” he +said. “I think you ought to look for the trolley with the tilt, and +get on to your Becontree man and get a closer description of the +machine he saw.” +</p> + +<p> +In a quarter of an hour the police car brought them to the little +Essex village, and the policeman who had seen the wagon was +interviewed. It was a few minutes before he went off duty, he said. +There was a thick mist at the time, and he heard the rumble of the +lorry wheels before it came into sight. He described it as a typical +army wagon. So far as he could tell, it was grey, and had a black tilt +with “W.D.” and a broad-arrow painted on the side, “W.D.” standing for +War Department, the broad-arrow being the sign of Government. He saw +one soldier driving and another sitting by his side. The back of the +tilt was laced up and he could not see into the interior. The soldier +as he passed had waved his hand in greeting, and the policeman had +thought no more about the matter until the robbery of the gold convoy +was reported. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” he said, in answer to Reeder’s inquiry, “I think it was +loaded. It went very heavily on the road. We often get these trolleys +coming up from Shoeburyness.” +</p> + +<p> +Simpson had put through a telephone inquiry to the Barking police, who +had seen the military wagon. But army convoys were no unusual sight in +the region of the docks. Either that or one similar was seen entering +the Blackwall Tunnel, but the Greenwich police, on the south side of +the river, had failed to identify it, and from there on all trace of +the lorry was lost. +</p> + +<p> +“We’re probably chasing a shadow anyway,” said Simpson. “If your +theory is right, Reeder—it can’t be right! They couldn’t have caught +these men of ours so unprepared that somebody didn’t shoot, and +there’s no sign of shooting.” +</p> + +<p> +“There was no shooting,” said Mr. Reeder, shaking his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Then where are the men?” asked Simpson. +</p> + +<p> +“Dead,” said Mr. Reeder quietly. +</p> + +<p> +It was at Scotland Yard, in the presence of an incredulous and +horrified Commissioner, that Mr. J. G. Reeder reconstructed the crime. +</p> + +<p> +“Flack is a chemist: I think I impressed it upon you. Did you notice, +Simpson, on the bridge, across the cutting, was an old water-cart? I +think you have since learnt that it does not belong to the farmer who +owns the land, and that he has never seen it before. It may be +possible to discover where that was purchased. In all probability you +will find that it was bought a few days ago at the sale of some +municipal stores. I noticed in <i>The Times</i> there was an advertisement +of such a sale. Do you realise how easy it would be not only to store +under pressure, but to make, in that tank, large quantities of a +deadly gas, one important element of which is carbon monoxide? Suppose +this, or, as it may prove, a more deadly gas, has been so stored, do +you realise how simple a matter it would be on a still, breathless +morning to throw a big hose over the bridge and fill the hollow with +the gas? That is, I am sure, what happened. Whatever else was used, +there is still carbon monoxide in the cutting, for when I dropped a +match it was immediately extinguished, and every match I burnt near +the ground went out. If the car had run right through and climbed the +other slope of the cutting, the driver and the men inside the trolley +might have escaped death. As it was, rendered momentarily unconscious, +the driver turned his wheel and ran into the bank, stopping the +trolley. They were probably dead before Flack and his associate, +whoever it was, jumped down, wearing gas masks, lifted the driver back +into the trolley and drove on.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the farmer——” began the Commissioner. +</p> + +<p> +“His death probably occurred some time after the trolley had passed. +He also descended into that death hollow, but the speed at which his +car was going carried him up nearer the cutting, though he must have +been dead by the time he got out.” +</p> + +<p> +He rose and stretched himself wearily. +</p> + +<p> +“Now I think I will go and interview Miss Belman and set her mind at +rest,” he said. “Did you send her to the hotel, as I asked you, Mr. +Simpson?” +</p> + +<p> +Simpson stared at him in blank astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Belman?” he said. “I haven’t seen Miss Belman!” +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch14"> +CHAPTER XIV +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Her</span> head in a whirl, Margaret Belman had stepped into the cab that +was waiting at the door of Larmes Keep. The door was immediately +slammed behind her, and the cab moved off. She saw her companion: he +had shrunk into a corner of the landau, and greeted her with a little +embarrassed grin. He did not speak until the cab was some distance +from the house. +</p> + +<p> +“My name’s Gray,” he said. “Mr. Reeder hadn’t a chance of introducing +me. Sergeant Gray, C.I.D.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gray, what does all this mean? This instrument I am to get…?” +</p> + +<p> +Gray coughed. He knew nothing about the instrument, he explained, but +his instructions were to put her into a car that would be waiting at +the foot of the hill road. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Reeder wants you to go up by car. You didn’t see Brill anywhere, +did you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Brill?” she frowned. “Who is Brill?” +</p> + +<p> +He explained that there had been two officers inside the grounds, +himself and the man he had mentioned. +</p> + +<p> +“But what is happening? Is there anything wrong at Larmes Keep?” she +asked. +</p> + +<p> +She had no need to ask the question. That look in J. G. Reeder’s eyes +had told her that something indeed was very wrong. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, miss,” said Gray diplomatically. “All I know is that +the Chief Inspector is down here with a dozen men, and that looks like +business. I suppose Mr. Reeder wanted to get you out of it.” +</p> + +<p> +She didn’t “suppose”—she knew, and her heart beat a little quicker. +</p> + +<p> +What was the mystery of Larmes Keep? Had all this to do with the +disappearance of Ravini? She tried hard to think calmly and logically, +but her thoughts were out of control. +</p> + +<p> +The station fly stopped at the foot of the hill, and Gray jumped out. +A little ahead of him she saw the tail light of a car drawn up by the +side of the roadway. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve got the letter, miss? The car will take you straight to +Scotland Yard, and Mr. Simpson will look after you.” +</p> + +<p> +He followed her to the car and held open the door for her, and stood +in the roadway watching till the tail light disappeared round a bend +of the road. +</p> + +<p> +It was a big, cosy landaulette, and Margaret made herself comfortable +in the corner, pulled the rug over her knees, and settled down to the +two hours’ journey. The air was a little close: she tried +unsuccessfully to pull down one of the windows, then tried the other. +Not only was there no glass to the windows, but the shutters were +immovable. Something scratched her knuckle. She felt along the frame +of the window.… Screws, recently inserted. It was a splinter of the +raw wood which had cut her. +</p> + +<p> +With growing uneasiness she felt for the inside handle of the door, +but there was none. A search of the second door revealed a like state +of affairs. +</p> + +<p> +Her movements must have attracted the attention of the driver, for the +glass panel was pushed back and a harsh voice greeted her. +</p> + +<p> +“You can sit down and keep quiet! This isn’t Reeder’s car: I’ve sent +it home.” +</p> + +<p> +The voice went into a chuckle that made her blood run cold. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re coming with me… to see life.… Reeder’s going to weep tears of +blood. You know me, eh?… Reeder knows me. I wanted to get him +to-night. But you’ll do, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly the glass panel was shut to. He turned off the main road and +was following a secondary, his object being, she guessed, to avoid the +big towns and villages en route. She put out her hand and felt the +wall of the car. It was an all-weather body with a leather back. If +she had a knife she might cut—— +</p> + +<p> +She gasped as a thought struck her, and, reaching up, she felt the +metal fastening that kept the leather hood attached. Exerting all her +strength, she thrust back the flat hook and, bracing her feet against +the front of the machine, dragged at the leather hood. A rush of cold +air came in as the hood began slowly to collapse. The closed car was +now an open car. She could afford to lose no time. The car was making +thirty miles an hour, but she must take the risk of injury. Scrambling +over the back of the hood, she gripped tight at the edge, and let +herself drop into the roadway. +</p> + +<p> +Although she turned a complete somersault, she escaped injury in some +miraculous fashion, and, coming to her feet, cold with fear and +trembling in every limb, she looked round for a way of escape. The +hedge on her left was high and impenetrable. On her right was a low +wooden fence, and over this she climbed as she heard the squeak of +brakes and saw the car come to a standstill. +</p> + +<p> +Even as she fled, she was puzzled to know what kind of land she was +on. It was not cultivated; it was more like common land, for there was +springy down beneath her feet, and clumps of gorse bushes sent out +their spiny fingers to clutch at her dress as she flew past. She +thought she heard the man hailing her, but fled on in the darkness. +</p> + +<p> +Somewhere near at hand was the sea. She could smell the fragrance of +it. Once when she stopped to take breath she could hear the distant +thunder of the waves as they rolled up some unseen beach. She +listened, almost deafened by the beating of her heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are you? Come back, you fool…” +</p> + +<p> +The voice was near at hand. Not a dozen yards away she saw a black +figure moving, and had all her work to stifle the scream that rose in +her throat. She crouched down behind a bush and waited, and then to +her horror she saw a beam of light spring from the darkness. He had an +electric lamp and was fanning it across the ground. +</p> + +<p> +Detection was inevitable, and, springing to her feet, she ran, +doubling from side to side in the hope of outwitting her pursuer. Now +she found the ground sloping under her feet, and that gave her +additional speed. She had need of it, for he saw her against the +skyline, and came on after her, a babbling, shrieking fury of a man. +And now capture seemed inevitable. She made one wild leap to escape +his outstretched hands, and her feet suddenly trod on nothing. Before +she could recover, she was falling, falling. She struck a bush, and +the shock and pain of the impact almost made her faint. She was +falling down a steep slope, and her wild hands clutched tree and sand +and grass, and then, just as she had given up all hope, she found +herself rolling over and over on a level plateau, and came to rest +with one leg hanging over a sheer drop of two hundred feet. Happily, +it was dark. +</p> + +<p> +Margaret Belman did not realise how near to death she had been till +the dawn came up. +</p> + +<p> +Below her was the sea and a slither of yellow sand. She was looking +into a little bay that held no human dwelling so far as she could see. +This was not astonishing, for the beach was only approachable from the +water. Somewhere on the other side of the northern bluff, she guessed, +was Siltbury. Beneath her a sheer fall over the chalky face of the +cliff; above her, a terribly steep slope, but which might be +negotiated, she thought hopefully. +</p> + +<p> +She had lost one shoe in her fall, and after a little search found +this, so near to the edge of the cliff that she grew dizzy as she +stooped to pick it up. +</p> + +<p> +The plateau was about fifty yards long, in the shape of a half-moon, +and was almost entirely covered with gorse bushes. The fact that she +found dozens of nests was sufficient proof that this spot was not +visited even by the most daring of cliff-climbers. She understood now +the significance of the low rail on the side of the road, which +evidently followed the sea-coast westwards for some miles. How far was +she from Larmes Keep? she wondered—until the absurdity of considering +such a matter occurred to her. How near was she to starvation and +death was a more present problem. +</p> + +<p> +Her task was to escape from the plateau. There was a chance that she +might be observed from the sea, but it was a remote one. The few +pleasure-boats that went out from Siltbury did not go westward; the +fishing fleet invariably tacked south. Lying face downward, she looked +over the edge, in the vain hope that she would find an easy descent, +but none was visible. She was hungry, but, though she searched the +nests, there were no eggs to be found. +</p> + +<p> +There was nothing to be done but to make a complete exploration of the +plateau. Westward it yielded nothing, but on the eastern side she +discovered a scrub-covered slope which apparently led to yet another +plateau, not so broad as the one she was on. +</p> + +<p> +To slide down was an easy matter; to check herself so that she did not +go beyond the plateau offered greater difficulty. With infinite labour +she broke off two stout branches of a thick furze bush, and, using +these as a skier uses her stick to check her progress, she began to +shuffle down, feet first. She could move slowly enough when the face +of the declivity was composed of sand or loam, or when there were +friendly bushes to hold, but there were broad stretches of weatherworn +rock to slide across, and on these the stick made no impression and +her velocity increased at an alarming rate. +</p> + +<p> +And then, to her horror, she discovered that she was not keeping +direction; that, try as she did, she was slipping to the left of the +plateau, and though she strove desperately to move further to the +right, she made no progress. The bushes that littered the upper slope +were more infrequent here. There was indication of a recent landslide, +which might continue down to the sea-level or might end abruptly and +disastrously over the edge of some steep cliff. Slipping, sometimes on +her back, sometimes sideways, sometimes on her face, she felt her +momentum increase with every yard she covered. The ends of the +ski-sticks were frayed to feathery splinters, and already the desired +plateau was above her. Turning her head, she saw the white face of it +dropping to the unseen deeps. +</p> + +<p> +Now she knew the worst. The slope twisted round a huge rock and +dropped at an acute angle into the sea. Almost before she could +realise the danger ahead, she was slipping faster and faster through +the loam and sand, the centre of a new landslide she had created. +Boulders of a terrifying size accompanied her—by a hair’s-breadth she +escaped being crushed under one. +</p> + +<p> +And then without warning she was shot into the air as from a catapult. +She had a swift vision of tumbling green below, and in another second +the water had closed over her and she was striking out with all her +strength.… +</p> + +<p> +It seemed almost an eternity before she came to the surface. +Fortunately, she was a good swimmer, and, looking round, she saw that +the yellow beach was less than fifty yards away. But it was fifty +yards against a falling tide, and she was utterly exhausted when she +dragged herself ashore and fell on the sand. +</p> + +<p> +She ached from head to foot; her hands and limbs were lacerated. She +felt that her body was one huge bruise. As she lay recovering her +breath she heard one comforting sound, the splash of falling water. +Half-way down the cliff face was a spring, and, staggering across the +beach, she drank eagerly from her cupped hands. She was parched; her +throat was so dry that she could hardly articulate. Hunger she might +bear, but thirst was unendurable. She might remain alive for days, +supposing she were not discovered before that time. +</p> + +<p> +There was now no need for her to make a long reconnaissance of the +beach: the way of escape lay open to her. A water-hollowed tunnel led +through the bluff and showed her yet another beach beyond. Siltbury +was not in sight. She had no idea how far she was from that desirable +habitation of human people, and did not trouble to think. After she +had satisfied her thirst she took off her shoes and stockings and made +for the tunnel. +</p> + +<p> +The second bay was larger and the beach longer. There were, she found, +small masses of rocks jutting far into the sea that had to be +negotiated with bare feet. The beach was longer than she had thought, +and so far as she could see there was no outlet, nor did the cliff +diminish in height. She had expected to find a cliff path, and this +hope was strengthened when she discovered the rotting hull of a boat +drawn high and dry on the beach. It was, she judged, about eight +o’clock in the morning. She had started wet through, but the warm +September sun dried her rags—for rags they were. She had all the +sensations of a shipwrecked mariner on a desert island, and after a +while the loneliness and absence of all kinds of human society began +to get on her nerves. +</p> + +<p> +Before she reached the end of the beach she saw that the only way into +the next bay was by swimming to where the rocky barrier was low enough +to be climbed. She could with great comfort to herself have discarded +what remained of her clothes, but beyond these rocks might lie +civilisation, and, tying her wet shoes and stockings together, she +made fast her shoes, and, knotting them about her waist, waded into +the sea and swam steadily, looking for a likely place to land. This +she found—a step-shaped pyramid of rocks that looked easier to +negotiate than in fact they were. By dint of hard climbing she came to +the summit. +</p> + +<p> +The beach here was shorter, the cliff considerably higher. Across the +shoulder of rock running to the sea she saw the white houses of +Siltbury, and the sight gave her courage. Descending from the rocky +ridge was even more difficult than climbing, and she was grateful when +at last she sat upon a flat ledge and dangled her bruised feet in the +water. +</p> + +<p> +Swimming back to the land taxed her strength to the full. It was +nearly an hour before her feet touched firm sand and she staggered up +the beach. Here she rested, until the pangs of hunger drove her +towards the last visible obstacle. +</p> + +<p> +There was one which was not visible. After a quarter of an hour’s walk +she found her way barred by a deep sea river which ran under the +overhung cliff. She had seen this place before: where was it? And then +she remembered, with an exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +This was the cave that Olga had told her about, the cave that ran +under Larmes Keep. Shading her eyes, she looked up. Yes, there was the +little landslide; part of the wall that had been carried away +projected from a heap of rubble on the cliff side. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Margaret saw something which made her breath come faster. On +the edge of the deep channel which the water had cut in the sand was +the print of a boot, a large, square-toed boot with a rubber heel. It +had been recently made. She looked farther along the channel and saw +another: it led to the mouth of the cave. On either side of the rugged +entrance was a billow of firm sand left by the retreating waters, and +again she saw the footprint. A visitor to the cave, perhaps, she +thought. Presently he would come out and she would explain her plight, +though her appearance left little need for explanation. +</p> + +<p> +She waited, but there was no sign of the man. Stooping, she tried to +peer into its dark depths. Perhaps, if she were inside out of the +light, she could see better. She walked gingerly along the sand ledge, +but as yet her eyes, unaccustomed to the darkness, revealed nothing. +</p> + +<p> +She took another step, passed into the entrance of the cave; and then, +from somewhere behind, a bare arm was flung round her shoulder, a big +hand closed over her mouth. In terror she struggled madly, but the man +held her in a grip of iron, and then her senses left her and she sank +limply into his arms. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch15"> +CHAPTER XV +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Mr. Reeder</span> was not an emotional man. For the first time in his life +Inspector Simpson learnt that behind the calm and imperturbable +demeanour of the Public Prosecutor’s chief detective lay an immense +capacity for violent language. He fired a question at the officer, and +Simpson nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the car returned. The driver said that he had orders to go back +to London. I thought you had changed your plans. You’re staying with +this bullion robbery, Reeder?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder glared across the desk, and despite his hardihood Inspector +Simpson winced. +</p> + +<p> +“Staying with hell!” hissed Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +Simpson was seeing the real and unsuspected J. G. Reeder and was +staggered. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going back to interview that monkey-faced criminologist, and I’m +going to introduce him to forms of persuasion which have been +forgotten since the Inquisition!” +</p> + +<p> +Before Simpson could reply, Mr. Reeder was out of the door and flying +down the stairs. +</p> + +<p class="spacer"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +It was the hour after lunch, and Daver was sitting at his desk, +twiddling his thumbs, when the door was pushed open unceremoniously +and Mr. Reeder came in. He did not recognise the detective, for a man +who in a moment of savage humour slices off his side-whiskers brings +about an amazing change in his appearance. And with the vanishing of +those ornaments there had been a remarkable transformation in Mr. +Reeder’s demeanour. Gone were his useless pince-nez which had +fascinated a generation of law-breakers; gone the gentle, apologetic +voice, the shyly diffident manner. +</p> + +<p> +“I want you, Daver!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Reeder!” gasped the yellow-faced man, and turned a shade paler. +</p> + +<p> +Reeder slammed the door to behind him, pulled up a chair with a crash, +and sat down opposite the hotel-proprietor. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Miss Belman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Belman?” +</p> + +<p> +Astonishment was expressed in every feature. “Good gracious, Mr. +Reeder, surely you know? She went up to get your dactyscope—is that +the word? I intended asking you to be good enough to let me see +this——” +</p> + +<p> +“Where—is—Miss—Belman?—Spill it, Daver, and save yourself a lot of +unhappiness.” +</p> + +<p> +“I swear to you, my dear Mr. Reeder——” +</p> + +<p> +Reeder leaned across the table and rang the bell. +</p> + +<p> +“Do—do you want anything?” stammered the manager. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to speak to Mrs. Flack—you call her Mrs. Burton, but Mrs. +Flack is good enough for me.” +</p> + +<p> +Daver’s face was ghastly now. He had become suddenly wizened and old. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m one of the few people who happen to know that John Flack is +married,” said Reeder; “one of the few who know he has a daughter! The +question is, does John Flack know all that I know?” +</p> + +<p> +He glowered down at the shrinking man. +</p> + +<p> +“Does he know that after he was sent to Broadmoor his sneaking worm of +a secretary, his toady and parasite and slave, decided to carry on in +the Flack tradition, and used his influence and his knowledge to +compel the unfortunate daughter of mad John Flack to marry him?” +</p> + +<p> +A frenzied, almost incoherent voice wailed: +</p> + +<p> +“For God’s sake… don’t talk so loud…!” +</p> + +<p> +But Mr. Reeder went on. +</p> + +<p> +“Before Flack went to prison he put into the care of his daughter his +famous encyclopaedia of crime. She was the only person he trusted: his +wife was a weak slave whom he had always despised. Mr. Daver, the +secretary, got possession of those books a year after Flack was put in +gaol. He organised his own little gang at Flack’s old headquarters, +which were nominally bought by you. Ever since you knew John Flack was +planning an escape—an escape in which you had to assist him—you’ve +been living in terror that he would discover how you had +double-crossed him. Tell me I’m a liar and I’ll beat your miserable +little head off! Where is Margaret Belman?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” said the man sullenly. “Flack had a car waiting for +her: that’s all I know.” +</p> + +<p> +Something in his tone, something in the shifty slant of his eyes, +infuriated Reeder. He stretched out a long arm, gripped the man by the +collar and jerked him savagely across the desk. As a feat of physical +strength it was remarkable; as a piece of propaganda of the +frightfulness that was to follow, it had a strange effect upon Daver. +He lay limp for a second, and then, with a quick jerk of his collar, +he wrenched himself from Reeder’s grip and fled from the room, +slamming the door behind him. By the time Reeder had kicked an +overturned chair from his path and opened the door, Daver had +disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +When Reeder reached the hall it was empty. He met none of the servants +(he learnt later that the majority had been discharged that morning, +paid a month’s wages and sent to town by the first train). He ran out +of the main entrance on to the lawn, but the man he sought was not in +sight. The other side of the house drew blank. One of the detectives +on duty in the grounds, attracted by Mr. Reeder’s hasty exit, came +running into the vestibule as he reached the bottom of the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody came out, sir,” he said, when Reeder explained the object of +his search. +</p> + +<p> +“How many men are there in the grounds?” asked Reeder shortly. “Four? +Bring them into the house. Lock every door, and bring back a crowbar +with you. I am going to do a little investigation that may cost me a +lot of money. No sign of Brill?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” said the detective, shaking his head sadly. “Poor old +Brill! I’m afraid they’ve done him. The young lady get to town all +right, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder scowled at him. +</p> + +<p> +“The young lady—what do you know about her?” he asked sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw her to the car,” said Detective Gray. +</p> + +<p> +Reeder gripped him by the coat and led him along the vestibule. +</p> + +<p> +“Now tell me, and tell me quickly, what sort of car was it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, Mr. Reeder,” said the man in surprise. “An ordinary +kind of car, except that the windows were shuttered, but I thought +that was your idea.” +</p> + +<p> +“What sort of body was it?” +</p> + +<p> +The man described the machine as accurately as possible; he had only +made a superficial inspection. He thought, however, it was an +all-weather body. The news was no more than Reeder had +expected—neither added to nor diminished his anxiety. When Gray had +gone back to his companions and the door was locked, Mr. Reeder, from +the landing above, called them up to the first floor. A very thorough +search had already been made by the police that morning; but, so far, +Daver’s room had escaped anything but superficial attention. It was +situated at the far end of the corridor, and was locked when the +search-party arrived. It took less than two minutes to force an +entrance. Mr. Daver’s suite consisted of a sitting-room, a bedroom, +and a handsomely-fitted bathroom. There was a number of books in the +former, a small Empire table on which were neatly arranged a pile of +accounts, but there was nothing in the way of documents to reveal his +relationship with the Flack gang. +</p> + +<p> +The bedroom was beautifully furnished. Here again, from Reeder’s point +of view, the search was unsatisfactory. +</p> + +<p> +The suite formed one of the angles of the old Keep, and Reeder was +leaving the room when his eyes, roving back for a last look round, +were arrested by the curious position of a brown leather divan in one +corner of the room. He went back and tried to pull it away from the +wall, but apparently it was a fixture. He kicked at the draped side +and it gave forth a hollow wooden sound. +</p> + +<p> +“What has he got in that divan?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +After considerable search Gray found a hidden bolt, and, this thrown +back, the top of the divan came up like the lid of a box. It was +empty. +</p> + +<p> +“The rum thing about this house, sir,” said Gray as they went +downstairs together, “is that one always seems on the point of making +an important discovery, and it always turns out to be a dud.” +</p> + +<p> +Reeder did not reply: he was too preoccupied with his growing +distress. After a while he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“There are many queer things about this house——” he began. +</p> + +<p> +And then there came a sound which froze the marrow of his bones. It +was a shrill shriek; the scream of a human soul in agony. +</p> + +<p> +“Help!… Help, Reeder!” +</p> + +<p> +It came from the direction of the room he had left, and he recognised +Daver’s voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, God…!” +</p> + +<p> +The sound of a door slamming. Reeder took the stairs three at a time, +the detectives following him. Daver’s door he had left ajar, but in +the short time he had been downstairs it had been shut and bolted. +</p> + +<p> +“The crowbar, quick!” +</p> + +<p> +Gray had left it below, and, flying down, returned in a few seconds. +</p> + +<p> +No sound came from the room. Pushing the claw of the crowbar between +architrave and door at the point where he had seen the bolt, Reeder +levered it back and the door flew open with a crash. One step into the +apartment and then he stood stock still, glaring at the bed, unable to +believe his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +On the silken counterpane, sprawled in an indescribable attitude, his +round, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, was Daver. Mr. Reeder +knew that he was dead before he saw the terrible wound, or the +brown-hilted knife that stuck out from his side. +</p> + +<p> +Reeder listened at the heart—felt the pulse of the warm wrist, but it +was a waste of time, as he knew. He made a quick search of the +clothing. There was an inside pocket in the waistcoat, and here he +found a thick pad of banknotes. +</p> + +<p> +“All thousands,” said Mr. Reeder, “and ninety-five of them. What’s in +that packet?” +</p> + +<p> +It was a little cardboard folder, and contained a steamship ticket +from Southampton to New York, made out in the name of “Sturgeon”; and +in the coat pocket Reeder found a passport which was stamped by the +American Embassy and bore the same name. +</p> + +<p> +“He was ready to jump—but he delayed it too long,” he said. “Poor +devil!” +</p> + +<p> +“How did he get here, sir?” asked Gray. “They couldn’t have carried +him——” +</p> + +<p> +“He was alive enough when we heard him,” said Reeder curtly. “He was +being killed when we heard him shriek. There is a way into this room +we haven’t discovered yet. What’s that?” +</p> + +<p> +It was the sound of a muffled thud, as if a heavy door had been +closed. It seemed to come from somewhere in the room. Reeder took the +crowbar from the detective’s hand and attacked the panel behind the +settee. Beneath was solid wall. He ripped down another strip, with no +more enlightening result. Again he opened the divan. Its bottom was +made of a thin layer of oak. This too was ripped off; beneath this +again was the stone floor. +</p> + +<p> +“Strip it,” said Reeder, and when this was done he stepped inside the +divan and seesawed gingerly from one end to the other. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing here,” he said. “Go downstairs and ’phone Mr. +Simpson. Tell him what has happened.” +</p> + +<p> +When the man had gone he resumed his examination of the body. Daver +had carried, attached to one of the buttons of his trousers, a long +gold chain. This was gone: he found it broken off close to the link, +and the button itself hanging by a thread. It was whilst he was making +his examination that his hand touched a bulky package in the dead +man’s hip pocket. It was a worn leather case, filled with scraps of +memoranda, mostly undecipherable. They were written in a formless +hand, generally with pencil, and the writing was large and irregular, +whilst the paper used for these messages was of every variety. One was +a scrawled chemical formula; another was a brief note which ran: +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“House opposite Reeder to let. Engage or get key. Communicate usual +place.” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +Some of these notes were understandable, some beyond Mr. Reeder’s +comprehension. But he came at last to a scrap which swept the colour +from his cheeks. It was written in the same hand on the selvedge of a +newspaper, and was crumpled into a ball: +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“Belman fell over cliff 6 miles west Larme. Send men to get body +before police discover.” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +Mr. J. G. Reeder read and the room spun round. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch16"> +CHAPTER XVI +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">When</span> Margaret Belman recovered consciousness she was in the open +air, lying in a little recess, effectively hidden from the mouth of +the cave. A man in a torn shirt and ragged trousers was standing by +her side, looking down at her. As she opened her eyes she saw him put +his finger to his mouth, as though to signal silence. His hair was +unkempt; streaks of dried blood zigzagged down his face, and the hair +above, she saw, was matted. Yet there was a certain kindliness in his +disfigured face which reassured her as he knelt down and, making a +funnel of his hands, whispered: +</p> + +<p> +“Be quiet! I’m sorry to have frightened you, but I was scared you’d +shout if you saw me. I suppose I look pretty awful.” +</p> + +<p> +His grin was very reassuring. +</p> + +<p> +“Who are you?” she asked in the same tone. +</p> + +<p> +“My name’s Brill, C.I.D.” +</p> + +<p> +“How did you get here?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d like to be able to tell you,” he answered grimly. “You’re Miss +Belman, aren’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +She nodded. He lifted his head, listening, and, flattening himself +against the rock, craned out slowly and peeped round the edge of his +hiding-place. He did not move for about five minutes, and by this time +she had risen to her feet. Her knees were dreadfully shaky; she felt +physically sick, and once again her mouth was dry and parched. +</p> + +<p> +Apparently satisfied, he crept back to her side. +</p> + +<p> +“I was left on duty in Reeder’s room. I thought I heard him calling +from the window—you can’t distinguish voices when they whisper—and +asking me to come out quick, as he wanted me. I’d hardly dropped to +the ground before—cosh!” He touched his head gingerly and winced. +“That’s all I remember till I woke up and found myself drowning. I’ve +been in the cave all the morning—naturally.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why naturally?” she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Because the beach is covered with water at high tide and the cave’s +the only place. It is a little too densely populated for me just now.” +</p> + +<p> +She stared at him in amazement. +</p> + +<p> +“Populated? What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Whisper!” he warned her, for she had raised her voice. +</p> + +<p> +Again he listened. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d like to know how they get down—Daver and that old devil.” +</p> + +<p> +She felt herself going white. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean… Flack?” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Flack’s only been here about an hour, and how he got down God knows. +I suppose our fellows are patrolling the house?” +</p> + +<p> +“The police?” she asked in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Flack’s headquarters—didn’t you know it? I suppose you wouldn’t. I +thought Reeder—I mean Mr. Reeder—told you everything.” +</p> + +<p> +He was rather a talkative young man, more than a little exuberant at +finding himself alive, and with good reason. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been dodging in and out the cave all the morning. They’ve got a +sentry on duty up there”—he nodded towards Siltbury. “It’s a +marvellous organisation. They held up a gold convoy this morning and +got away with it—I heard the old man telling his daughter. The funny +thing is that though he wasn’t there to superintend the steal, his +plan worked out like clockwork. It’s a curious thing, any crook will +work for old Flack. He’s employed the cleverest people in the +business, and Ravini is the only man that ever sold him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know what has happened to Mr. Ravini?” she asked, and he shook +his head. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s dead, I expect. There are a lot of things in the cave that I +haven’t seen, and some that I have. They’ve got a petrol boat inside… +as big as a church!… the boat, I mean… hush!” +</p> + +<p> +Again he shrank against the cliff. Voices were coming nearer and +nearer. Perhaps it was the peculiar acoustics of the cave which gave +him the illusion that the speakers were standing almost at their +elbow. Brill recognised the thin, harsh voice of the old man and +grinned again, but it was not a pleasant smile to see. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s something wrong, something damnably wrong. What is it, Olga?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, father.” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret recognised the voice of Olga Crewe. +</p> + +<p> +“You have been very good and very patient, my love, and I would not +have planned to come out, but I wanted to see you settled in life. I +am very ambitious for you, Olga.” +</p> + +<p> +A pause, and then: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, father.” +</p> + +<p> +Olga Crewe’s voice was a little dispirited, but apparently the old man +did not notice this. +</p> + +<p> +“You are to have the finest husband in the land, my dear. You shall +have a house that any princess would envy. It shall be of white marble +with golden cupolas… you shall be the richest woman in the land, Olga. +I have planned this for you. Night after night as I lay in bed in that +dreadful place I said to myself: ‘I must go out and settle Olga’s +future.’ That is why I came out—only for that reason. All my life I +have worked for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mother says——” began the girl. +</p> + +<p> +“Pah!” Old John Flack almost spat the word. “An unimaginative +commoner, with the soul of a housekeeper! She has looked after you +well? Good. All the better for her. I would never have forgiven her if +she had neglected you. And Daver? He has been respectful? He has given +you all the money you wanted?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, father.” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret thought she detected a catch in the girl’s voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Daver is a good servant. I will make his fortune. The scum of the +gutter—but faithful. I told him to be your watch-dog. I am pleased +with him. Be patient a little while longer. I am going to see all my +dreams come true.” +</p> + +<p> +The voice of the madman was tender, so transfigured by love and pride +that it seemed to be a different man who was speaking. Then his voice +changed again. +</p> + +<p> +“The Colonel will be back to-night. He is a trustworthy man… Gregory +also. They shall be paid like ambassadors. You must bear with me a +little while, Olga. All these unpleasant matters will be cleared up. +Reeder we shall dispose of. To-morrow at high tide we leave…” +</p> + +<p> +The sound of the voices receded until they became an indistinguishable +murmur. Brill looked round at the girl and smiled again. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you beat him?” he asked admiringly. “Crazy as a barn coot! But he +has the cleverest brain in London: even Reeder says that. God! I’d +give ten years’ salary and all my chance of promotion for a gun!” +</p> + +<p> +“What shall we do?” she asked after a long silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Stay here till the tide turns, then we’ll have to take our chance in +the cave. We’d be smashed to pieces if we waited on the beach.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no way up the cliff?” +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a way out through the cave if we can only find it,” he said. +“One way? A dozen! I tell you that this cliff is like a honeycomb. One +of these days it will collapse like froth on a glass of beer! I heard +Daver say so, and the mad fellow agreed. Mad? I wish I had his brain! +He’s going to dispose of Reeder, is he? The cemeteries are full of +people who’ve tried to dispose of Reeder!” +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch17"> +CHAPTER XVII +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">It</span> seemed an eternity before the tide turned and began slowly to +make its noisy way up the beach. Most of the time she was alone in the +little recess, for Brill made periodical reconnaissances into the +mouth of the cave. She would have accompanied him, but he explained +the difficulties she would find. +</p> + +<p> +“It is quite dark until the tide comes in, and then we get the +reflected light from the water and you can see your way about quite +easily.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is there anybody there?” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Two chaps who are tinkering about with a boat. She’s high and dry at +present on the bed of the channel, but she floats out quite easily.” +</p> + +<p> +The first whirl of water was around them when he came out from the +cave and beckoned her. +</p> + +<p> +“Keep close to the wall,” he whispered, “and hold fast to my sleeve.” +</p> + +<p> +She obeyed and followed him and they slipped round to the left, +following a fairly level path. Before they had come into the cave, he +had warned her that under no circumstances must she speak, not even +whisper, except through hollowed hands placed against his ear. The +properties of the cave were such that the slightest sound was +magnified. +</p> + +<p> +They went a long way to the left, and she thought that they were +following a passage; it was not until later that she discovered the +huge dimensions of this water-hollowed cavern. After a while he +reached back and touched her right hand, as a signal that he was +turning to the right. +</p> + +<p> +Whilst they were waiting on the beach he had drawn a rough plan in the +sand, and assured her that the ledge on which they now walked offered +no obstacle. He pressed her hand to warn her he was stopping, and, +bending down, he groped at the rocky wall where he had left his shoes. +Up and up they went; she began to see dimly now, though the cave +remained in darkness and she was unable with any accuracy to pick out +distant objects. His arm came back and she found herself guided into a +deep niche, and he patted her shoulder to tell her she could sit down. +</p> + +<p> +They had to wait another hour before a thin sheet of water showed at +the mouth of the cave, and then, as if by magic, the interior was +illuminated by a ghostly green light. The greatest height of the cave +it was impossible to tell from where she sat, because just above them +was a low and jagged roof. The farther side of the cave was distant +some fifty yards, and here the rocky wall seemed to run straight down +from the roof to the sandy bottom. It was under this that she saw the +motor boat, a long grey craft, entirely devoid of any superstructure. +It lay heeled over on its side, and she saw a figure walk along the +canted deck and disappear down a hatchway. The farther the water came +into the cave, the brighter grew the light. He circled his two hands +about her ear and whispered: +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we stay here or try to find a way out?” and she replied in like +fashion: +</p> + +<p> +“Let us try.” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded, and silently led the way. It was no longer necessary for +her to hold on to him. The path they were following had undoubtedly +been shaped by human hands. Every dozen yards was a rough-hewn block +of stone put across the path step fashion. They were ascending, and +now had the advantage of being screened by the cave from people on the +boat, for on their right rose a jagged screen of rock. +</p> + +<p> +They had not progressed a hundred yards before screen and wall joined, +and beyond this point progress seemed impossible. The passage was in +darkness. Apparently Brill had explored the way, for, taking the girl +by the arm, he moved to the right, feeling along the uneven wall. The +path beneath was more difficult, and the rocky floor made walking a +pain. She was near to exhaustion when she saw, ahead of her, an +irregular patch of grey light. Apparently this curious gallery led +back to the far end of the cave, but before they reached the opening +Brill signalled her to halt. +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better sit down,” he whispered. “We can put on our shoes.” +</p> + +<p> +The stockings that she had knotted about her waist were still wet, and +her shoes two soggy masses, but she was glad to have some protection +for her feet. Whilst she was putting them on, Brill crept forward to +the opening and took observation. +</p> + +<p> +The water which had now flooded the cave was some fifty feet below +him, and a few paces would bring them to a broad ledge of rock which +formed a natural landing for a flight of steps leading down from the +misty darkness of the roof to water-level. The steps were cut in the +side of the bare rock; they were about two feet in breadth and were +unprotected even by a makeshift handrail. It would be, he saw, a +nerve-racking business for the girl to attempt the climb, and he was +not even sure that it would be worth the attempt. That they led to one +of the many exits from the cave, he knew, because he had seen people +climbing up and down those steps and disappearing in the darkness at +the top. Possibly the stairs broadened nearer the roof, but even so it +was a very severe test for a half-starved girl, who he guessed was on +the verge of hysteria; he was not quite certain that he himself would +not be attacked by vertigo if he made the attempt. +</p> + +<p> +There was a space behind the steps that brought him to the edge of the +rock, part of the floor of the cave, and it was this way that he +intended to guide Margaret. There was no sound; far away to his right +the men on the launch were apparently absorbed in their work, and, +returning, he told the girl his plan, and she accompanied him to the +foot of the steps. At the sight of that terrifying stairway she +shuddered. +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t possibly climb those,” she whispered as he pointed upwards +into the gloom. +</p> + +<p> +“I have an idea there is a sort of balcony running the width of the +cave, and it was from there I was thrown,” he said. “I have reason to +know that there is a fairly deep pool at the foot of it. When the tide +is up, the water reaches the back wall—that is where I found myself +when I came to my senses.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is there any other way from the cave?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m blest if I know. I’ve only had a very hasty look round, but there +seems to be a sort of tunnel at the far end. It’s worth while +exploring—nobody is about, and we are too far from the boat for them +to see us.” +</p> + +<p> +They waited for a while, listening, and then, Brill walking ahead, +they passed the foot of the stairs and followed a stony path which, to +the girl’s relief, broadened as they progressed. +</p> + +<p> +Margaret Belman never forgot that nightmare walk, with the towering +rock face on her left, the straight drop to the floor of the cave on +her right hand. +</p> + +<p> +They had now reached the limit of the rocky chamber, and found +themselves confronted by the choice of four openings. There was one +immediately facing them, another—and this was also accessible—about +forty feet to the right, and two others which apparently could not be +reached. Leaving Margaret, Brill groped his way into the nearest. He +was gone half an hour before he returned with a story of failure. +</p> + +<p> +“The whole cliff is absolutely bored with rock passages,” he said. “I +gave it up because it is impossible to go far without a light.” +</p> + +<p> +The second opening promised better. The floor was even, and it had +this advantage that it ran straight in line with the mouth of the +cave, and there was light for a considerable distance. She followed +him along this passage. +</p> + +<p> +“It is worth trying,” he said, and she nodded her agreement. +</p> + +<p> +They had not gone far before he discovered something which he had +overlooked on his first trip. At regular intervals there were niches +in the wall. He had noticed these, but had failed to observe their +extraordinary regularity. The majority were blocked with loose stone, +but he found one that had not been so guarded, and felt his way round +the wall. It was a square, cell-like chamber, so exactly proportioned +that it must have been created by the hand of man. He came back to +announce his intention of exploring the next of the closed cells. +</p> + +<p> +“These walls haven’t been built up for nothing,” he told her, and +there was a note of suppressed excitement in his voice. +</p> + +<p> +The farther they progressed, the poorer and more inadequate was the +light. They had to feel their way along the wall until the next recess +was reached. Flat slabs of rock, laid one on the other, had been piled +up in the entrance, and the work of removing the top layers was a +painful one. Margaret could not help him. She sat with her back to the +wall and fell into the uneasy sleep of exhaustion. She had almost +ceased to be hungry, though her throat was parched with a maddening +thirst. She woke heavily and found Brill shaking her shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been inside”—his voice was quavering with excitement. “Hold out +your hands, both together!” +</p> + +<p> +She obeyed mechanically, and felt something cold drip into her palms, +and, drooping her head, drank. The sting of the wine took her breath +away. +</p> + +<p> +“Champagne,” he whispered. “Don’t drink too much or you’ll get tight!” +</p> + +<p> +She sipped again. Never had wine tasted so delicious. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a storehouse; boxes of food, I think, and hundreds of bottles of +wine. Hold your hands.” +</p> + +<p> +He poured more wine into her palms; most of it escaped through her +fingers, but she drank eagerly the few drops that remained. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait here.” +</p> + +<p> +She was very much awake now; peered into the darkness towards the +place where he had disappeared. Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour +passed, and then to her joy there appeared from behind the stony +barrier, revealing in silhouette the hole through which Brill had +crawled, a white and steady light. She heard the crack and crash of a +box being opened, saw the bulk of the detective as he appeared in the +hole, and in a second he was by her side. +</p> + +<p> +“Biscuits,” he said. “Luckily the box was labelled.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was the light?” she asked, as she seized the crackers eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“A small battery lantern; I knocked it over as I was groping. The +place is simply stocked with grub! Here’s a drink for you.” +</p> + +<p> +He handed her a flat, round tin, guided her finger to the hole he had +punched. +</p> + +<p> +“Preserved milk—German and good stuff,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She drank thirstily, not taking her lips from the tin until it was +empty. +</p> + +<p> +“This seems to be the ship’s store,” he said, “but the great blessing +is the lamp. I’m going in to see if I can find a box of refills; there +isn’t a great deal of juice left in the battery.” +</p> + +<p> +His search occupied a considerable time, and then she saw the light go +out and her heart sank, until the light flashed up again, this time +more brilliant than ever. He scrambled out and dropped down the rugged +wall and pushed something heavy into her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“A spare lamp,” he said. “There are half a dozen there, and enough +refills to last us a month.” +</p> + +<p> +He struck the stone wall with something that clanged. +</p> + +<p> +“A case-opener,” he explained, “and a useful weapon. I wonder which of +these storehouses holds the guns?” +</p> + +<p> +The exploration of the passage could now be made in comparative +comfort. There was need of the lamps, for a few yards further on the +tunnel turned abruptly to the right, and the floor became more +irregular. Brill turned on his light and showed the way. Now the +passage turned to the left, and he pointed out how smooth were the +walls. +</p> + +<p> +“Water action,” he said. “There must have been a subterranean river +here at some time.” +</p> + +<p> +Twisting and turning, the gallery led now up, now down, now taking +almost a hairpin turn, now sweeping round in an almost perfect curve, +but leading apparently nowhere. +</p> + +<p> +Brill was walking ahead, the beam of his lamp sweeping along the +ground, when she saw him stop suddenly, and, stooping, he picked +something from the ground. +</p> + +<p> +“How the dickens did this get here?” +</p> + +<p> +On the palm of his hand lay a bright silver florin, a little battered +at the edge, but unmistakably a two-shilling piece. +</p> + +<p> +“Somebody has been here——” he began, and then she uttered a cry. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” gasped Margaret. “That was Mr. Reeder’s!” +</p> + +<p> +She told him of the incident at the well; how J. G. Reeder had dropped +the coin to test the distance. Brill put the light of his lamp on the +ceiling; it was solid rock. And then he sent the rays moving along, +and presently the lamp focussed on a large round opening. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is the well that never was a well,” he said grimly; and flashing +the light upward, looked open-mouthed at the steel rungs fitted every +few inches in the side of the well. +</p> + +<p> +“A ladder,” he said slowly. “What do you know about that?” +</p> + +<p> +He reached up, standing on tiptoe, but the nearest rung was at least a +yard beyond his hand, and he looked round for some loose stones which +he could pile and from the top of which he could reach the lowest bar +of the ladder. But none was in sight, except a few splinters of stone +which were valueless for his purpose. And then he remembered the +case-opener; it had a hook at the end, and, holding this above his +head, he leapt. The first time he missed; the second time the hook +caught the steel rung and the handle slipped from his grip, leaving +the case-opener dangling. He rubbed his hands on the dusty floor and +sprang again. This time he caught and held, and with a superhuman +effort pulled himself up until his hand gripped the lower rung. +Another struggle, and he had drawn himself up hand over hand till his +feet rested on the bar. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think if I pulled you up you have strength to climb?” he +asked. +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid not. Go up alone; I will wait here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Keep clear of the bottom,” he warned her. “I may not fall, but as +likely as not I shall dislodge a few chunks of rock in my progress.” +</p> + +<p> +The warning was well justified, she found. There was a continuous +shower of stone and earth as he progressed. From time to time he +stopped to rest. Once he shouted down something which she could not +distinguish. It was probably a warning, for a few seconds later a mass +of rock as large as a man’s head crashed down and smashed on the +floor, sending fragments flying in all directions. +</p> + +<p> +Peeping up from time to time, she could see the glimmer of his lamp +growing fainter; and now, left alone, she began to grow nervous, and +for company switched on her light. She had hardly done so when she +heard a sound which brought her heart to her mouth. It was the sound +of footsteps; somebody was walking along the passage towards her. +</p> + +<p> +She turned the switch of the lamp and listened. The old man’s voice! +Only his, and none other. He was talking to himself, a babble of +growling sound that was becoming more and more distinct. And then, far +away, she saw the glow of a reflected light, for the passage swept +round at this point and he would not be visible until he was upon her. +</p> + +<p> +Slipping off her shoes, she sped along in the darkness, tumbling and +sliding on the uneven pathway. After a while panic left her and she +stopped and looked back. The light was no longer visible; there was +neither sound nor sign of him; and, plucking up courage, after a few +minutes she retraced her steps. She dared not put on the light, and +must guess where the well opening was. In the darkness she passed it, +and she was soon a considerable distance beyond the place where Brill +had left her. +</p> + +<p> +Where had Flack gone? There were no side passages. She was standing by +one of the recesses, her hand resting on the improvised stone screen, +when to her horror she felt it moving away from her, and had just time +to shrink back when she saw a crack of light appear on the opposite +wall and broaden until there was outlined the shape of a doorway. +</p> + +<p> +“… To-night, my dear, to-night.… I’m going up to see Daver. Daver is +worrying me… you are sure nothing has happened that might shake my +confidence in him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, father. What could have happened?” +</p> + +<p> +It was Olga Crewe’s voice. She said something else which Margaret +could not hear, and then she heard the chuckling laugh of the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“Reeder? He’s busy in London! But he’ll be back to-night…” +</p> + +<p> +Again a question which Margaret could not catch. +</p> + +<p> +“The body hasn’t been found. I didn’t want to hurt the girl, but she +was useful… my best card.… I could have caught Reeder with her—had it +all arranged.” +</p> + +<p> +Another question. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose so. The tide is very high. Anyway, I saw her fall…” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret knew they were talking about her, but this interested her +less than the possibility of discovery. She walked backward, step by +step, hoping and praying that she would find a niche into which she +could shrink. Presently she found what she wanted. +</p> + +<p> +Flack had come out into the passage and was standing talking back into +the room. +</p> + +<p> +“All right, I’ll leave the door open… imagination. There’s plenty of +air. The well supplies that. I’ll be back this evening.” +</p> + +<p> +She dared not look, but after a while his footsteps became fainter. +The door was still open, and she saw a shadow growing larger on the +opposite wall, as Olga approached the entrance. Presently she heard a +sigh; the shadow became small again, and finally disappeared. Margaret +crept forward, hardly daring to breathe, until she came behind the +open door. +</p> + +<p> +It was, she guessed, made of stout oak, and the surface had been so +cunningly camouflaged with splinters of rock that it differed in no +respect from the walled recess into which Brill had broken. +</p> + +<p> +Curiosity is dominant in the most rational of individuals, and, +despite her terrible danger, Margaret was curious to see the inside of +that rocky home of the Flacks. With the utmost caution she peeped +round. She was surprised at the size of the room and a little +disappointed in its furnishing. She had pictured rich rugs and +gorgeous furniture, the walls perhaps covered with silken hangings. +Instead, she saw a plain deal table on which stood a lamp, a strip of +threadbare carpet, two basket chairs, and a camp bed. Olga was +standing by the table, looking down at a newspaper; her back was +towards the girl, and Margaret had time to make a more prolonged +scrutiny. +</p> + +<p> +Near the table were three or four suit-cases, packed and strapped as +though in preparation for a journey. A fur coat lay across the bed, +and that was the only evidence of luxury in this grim apartment. There +was a second person in the room. Margaret distinguished in the shadow +the drooping figure of a woman—Mrs. Burton. +</p> + +<p> +She took a step forward to see better; her feet slipped upon the +smooth surface of the rock, and she fell forward against the door, +half closing it. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is there? Is that you, father?” +</p> + +<p> +Margaret’s heart nearly stopped beating, and for a moment she stood +paralysed, incapable of movement. Then, as Olga’s footsteps sounded, +she turned and fled along the passage, gripping tight her lantern. +Olga’s voice challenged her, but on and on she ran. The corridor was +growing lighter, and with a gasp of horror she realised that in the +confusion of the moment she had taken the wrong direction and she was +running towards the great cave, possibly into the old madman’s hands. +</p> + +<p> +She heard the quick patter of footsteps behind her, and flew on. And +now she was in the almost bright light of the huge cavern. There was +nobody in sight, and she followed the twisting ledge that ran under +the wall of rock until she came to the foot of the long stairs. And +then she heard a shout. Somebody on the boat had seen her. As she +stood motionless with fear, mad John Flack appeared. He was coming +towards her through the passage by which she and Brill had reached the +interior of the cave. For a second he stared at her as though she were +some ghastly apparition of his mad dreams, and then with a roar he +leapt towards her. +</p> + +<p> +She hesitated no longer. In a second she was flying up that awful +staircase, death on her right hand, but a more hideous fate behind. +Higher and higher up those unrailed stairs… she dared not look, she +dared not think, she could only keep her eyes steadfastly upwards into +the misty gloom where this interminable Jacob’s-ladder ended on some +solid floor. Not for a fortune would she have looked behind, or +vertigo would have seized her. Her breath was coming in long sobs; her +heart beat as though it would burst. She dared pause for an +infinitesimal time to recover breath before she continued her flight. +He was an old man; she could outdistance him. But he was a madman, a +thing of terrible and abnormal energy. Panic was leaving her; it +exhausted too much of her strength. Upward and upward she climbed, +until she was in gloom, and then, when it seemed that she could get no +farther, she reached the head of the stairs. A broad, flat space, with +a rocky roof which, for some reason, had been strengthened with +concrete pillars. There were dozens of these pillars… once she had +taken a fortnight’s holiday in Spain; there was a cathedral in +Cordova, of which this broad vault reminded her… all sense of +direction was lost now. She came with terrifying suddenness to a blank +wall; ran along it until she came to a narrow opening where there were +five steps, and here she stopped to turn on her light. Facing her was +a steel door with a great iron handle, and the steel door was ajar. +</p> + +<p> +She pulled it towards her, ran through, pulled the door behind her; it +fastened with a click. It had something attached to its inner side, a +steel projection… as she shut the door a box fell with a crash. There +was yet another door before her, and this was immovable. She was in a +tiny white box of a room, three feet wide, little more in depth. She +had no time to continue her observations. Some one was fumbling with +the handle of the door through which she had come. She gripped in +desperation at the iron shelf and felt it slide a little to the right. +Though she did not know this, the back part of the shelf acted as a +bolt. Again she heard the fumbling at the handle and the click of a +key turning, but the steel door remained immovable, and Margaret +Belman sank in a heap to the ground. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch18"> +CHAPTER XVIII +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">J. G. Reeder</span> came downstairs, and those who saw his face realised +that it was not the tragedy he had almost witnessed which had made him +so white and drawn. +</p> + +<p> +He found Gray in Daver’s office, waiting for his call to London. It +came through as Reeder entered the room, and he took the instrument +from his subordinate’s hand. He dismissed the death of Daver in a few +words, and went on: +</p> + +<p> +“I want all the local policemen we can muster, Simpson, though I think +it would be better if we could get soldiers. There’s a garrison town +five miles from here; the beaches have to be searched, and I want +these caves explored. There is another thing: I think it would be +advisable to get a destroyer or something to patrol the water before +Siltbury. I’m pretty sure that Flack has a motor boat—there’s a +channel deep enough to take it, and apparently there is a cave that +stretches right under the cliff.… Miss Belman? I don’t know. That is +what I want to find out.” +</p> + +<p> +Simpson told him that the gold-wagon had been seen at Sevenoaks, and +it required a real effort on Mr. Reeder’s part to bring his mind to +such a triviality. +</p> + +<p> +“I think soldiers will be best. I’d like a strong party posted near +the quarry. There’s another cave there where Daver used to keep his +wagons. I have an idea you might pick up the money to-night. That,” he +added, a little bitterly, “will induce the authorities to use the +military!” +</p> + +<p> +After the ambulance had come and the pitiable wreck of Daver had been +removed, he returned to the man’s suite with a party of masons he had +brought up from Siltbury. Throwing open the lid of the divan, he +pointed to the stone floor. +</p> + +<p> +“That flag works on a pivot,” he said, “but I think it is fastened +with a bolt or a bar underneath. Break it down.” +</p> + +<p> +A quarter of an hour was sufficient to shatter the stone flooring, and +then, as he had expected, he found a narrow flight of stairs leading +to a square stone room which remained very much as it had been for six +hundred years. A dusty, bare apartment, which yielded its secret. +There was a small open door and a very narrow passage, along which a +stout man would walk with some difficulty, and which led to behind the +panelling of Daver’s private office. Mr. Reeder realised that anybody +concealed here could hear every word that was spoken. And now he +understood Daver’s frantic plea that he should lower his voice when he +spoke of the marriage. Crazy Jack had learnt the secret of his +daughter’s degradation—from that moment Daver’s death was inevitable. +</p> + +<p> +How had the madman escaped? That required very little explanation. At +some remote period Larmes Keep had evidently been used as a show +place. He found an ancient wooden inscription fixed to the wall, which +told the curious that this was the torture-chamber of the old Counts +of Larme; it added the useful information that the dungeons were +immediately beneath and approached through a stone trap. This the +detectives found, and Mr. Reeder had his first view of the vaulted +dungeons of Larmes Keep. +</p> + +<p> +It was neither an impressive nor a thrilling exploration. All that was +obvious was that there were three routes by which the murderer could +escape, and that all three ways led back to the house, one exit being +between the kitchen and the vestibule. +</p> + +<p> +“There is another way out,” said Reeder shortly, “and we haven’t found +it yet.” +</p> + +<p> +His nerves were on edge. He roamed from room to room, turning out +boxes, breaking open cupboards, emptying trunks. One find he made: it +was the marriage certificate, and it was concealed in the lining of +Olga Crewe’s dressing-bag. +</p> + +<p> +At seven o’clock the first detachment of troops arrived by motor van. +The local police had already reported that they had found no trace of +Margaret Belman. They pointed out that the tide was falling when the +girl left Larmes Keep, and that, unless she was lying on some +invisible ledge, she might have reached the beach in safety. There +was, however, a very faint hope that she was alive. How faint, J. G. +Reeder would not admit. +</p> + +<p> +A local cook had been brought in to prepare dinner for the detective, +but Reeder contented himself with a cup of strong coffee—food, he +felt, would have choked him. +</p> + +<p> +He had posted a detachment in the quarry, and, returning to the house, +was sitting in the big hall pondering the events of the day, when Gray +came flying into the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Brill!” he gasped. +</p> + +<p> +J. G. Reeder sprang to his feet with a bound. +</p> + +<p> +“Brill?” he repeated huskily. “Where is Brill?” +</p> + +<p> +There was no need for Gray to point. A dishevelled and grimy figure, +supported by a detective, staggered through the doorway. +</p> + +<p> +“Where have you come from?” asked Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +The man could not speak for a second. He pointed to the ground, and +then, hoarsely: +</p> + +<p> +“From the bottom of the well… Miss Belman is down there now!” +</p> + +<p> +Brill was in a state of collapse, and not until he had had a stiff +dose of brandy was he able to articulate a coherent story. Reeder led +a party to the shrubbery, and the windlass was tested. +</p> + +<p> +“It won’t bear even the weight of a woman, and there’s not sufficient +rope,” said Gray, who made the test. +</p> + +<p> +One of the officers remembered that, in searching the kitchen, he had +found two window-cleaners’ belts, stout straps with a safety-hook +attached. He went in search of these, whilst Mr. Reeder stripped his +coat and vest. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a gap of four feet half-way down,” warned Brill. “The stone +came away when I put my foot on it, and I nearly fell.” +</p> + +<p> +Reeder, his lamp swung round his neck, peered down into the hole. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s strange I didn’t see this ladder when I saw the well before,” he +said, and then remembered that he had only opened one half of the +flap. +</p> + +<p> +Gray, who was also equipped with a belt, descended first, as he was +the lighter of the two. By this time half a company of soldiers were +on the scene, and by the greatest of good fortune the unit that had +been turned out to assist the police was a company of the Royal +Engineers. Whilst one party went in search of ropes, the other began +to extemporise a hauling gear. +</p> + +<p> +The two men worked their way down without a word. The lamps were +fairly useless, for they could not show them the next rung, and after +a while they began to move more cautiously. Gray found the gap and +called a halt whilst he bridged it. The next rung was none too secure, +Mr. Reeder thought, as he lowered his weight upon it, but they passed +the danger zone with no other mishap than that which was caused by big +pebbles dropping on Reeder’s head. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed as though they would never reach the bottom, and the strain +was already telling upon the older man, when Gray whispered: +</p> + +<p> +“This is the bottom, I think,” and sent the light of his lamp +downwards. Immediately afterwards he dropped to the rocky floor of the +passage, Mr. Reeder following. +</p> + +<p> +“Margaret!” he called in a whisper. +</p> + +<p> +There was no reply. He threw the light first one way and then the +other, but Margaret was not in sight, and his heart sank. +</p> + +<p> +“You go farther along the passage,” he whispered to Gray. “I’ll take +the other direction.” +</p> + +<p> +With the light of his lamp on the ground, he half walked, half ran +along the twisting gallery. Ahead of him he heard the sound of a +movement not easily identified, and he stopped to extinguish the +light. Moving cautiously forward, he turned an angle of the passage +and saw at the far end indication of daylight. Sitting down, he looked +along, and after a while he thought he saw a figure moving against +this artificial skyline. Mr. Reeder crept forward, and this time he +was not relying upon a rubber truncheon. He thumbed down the +safety-catch of his Browning and drew nearer and nearer to the figure. +Most unexpectedly it spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Olga, where has your father gone?” +</p> + +<p> +It was Mrs. Burton, and Reeder showed his teeth in an unamused grin. +</p> + +<p> +He did not hear the reply: it came from some recessed place, and the +sound was muffled. +</p> + +<p> +“Have they found that girl?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder listened breathlessly, craning his neck forward. The “No” +was very distinct. +</p> + +<p> +Then Olga said something that he could not hear, and Mrs. Burton’s +voice took on her old whine of complaint. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the use of hanging about? That’s the way you’ve always treated +me.… Nobody would think I was your mother.… I wonder I’m not dead, the +trouble I’ve had.… I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t murder me some +day, you mark my words!” +</p> + +<p> +There came an impatient protest from the hidden girl. +</p> + +<p> +“If you’re sick of it, what about me?” said Mrs. Burton shrilly. +“Where’s Daver? It’s funny your father hasn’t said anything about +Daver. Do you think he’s got into trouble?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, damn Daver!” +</p> + +<p> +Olga’s voice was distinct now. The passion and weariness in it would +have made Mr. Reeder sorry for her in any other circumstances. He was +too busy being sorry for Margaret Belman to worry about this fateful +young woman. +</p> + +<p> +She did not know, at any rate, that she was a widow. Mr. Reeder +derived a certain amount of gruesome satisfaction from the superiority +of his intelligence. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is he now? Your father, I mean?” +</p> + +<p> +A pause, as she listened to a reply which was not intelligible to Mr. +Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +“On the boat? He’ll never get across. I hate ships, but a tiny little +boat like that…! Why couldn’t he let us go, when we got him out? I +begged and prayed him to… we might have been in Venice or somewhere by +now, doing the grand.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl interrupted her angrily, and then Mrs. Burton apparently +melted into the wall. +</p> + +<p> +There was no sound of a closing door, but Mr. Reeder guessed what had +happened. He came forward stealthily till he saw the bar of light on +the opposite wall, and, reaching the door, listened. The voices were +clear enough now; clearer because Mrs. Burton did most of the talking. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think your father knows?” She sounded rather anxious. “About +Daver, I mean? You can keep that dark, can’t you? He’d kill me if he +knew. He’s got such high ideas about you—princes and dukes and such +rubbish! If he hadn’t been mad he’d have cleared out of this game +years ago, as I told him, but he’d never take much notice of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has anybody ever taken any notice of you?” asked the girl wearily. “I +wanted the old man to let you go. I knew you would be useless in a +crisis.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder heard the sound of a sob. Mrs. Burton cried rather easily. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s only stopping to get Reeder,” she whimpered. “What a fool trick! +That silly old man! Why, I could have got him myself if I was wicked +enough!” +</p> + +<p> +From farther along the corridor came the sound of a quick step. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s your father,” said Mrs. Burton, and Reeder pulled back the +jacket of his Browning, sacrificing the cartridge that was already in +the chamber, in order that there should be no mistake. +</p> + +<p> +The footsteps stopped abruptly, and at the same time came a booming +voice from the far end of the passage. It was asking a question. +Evidently Flack turned back: his footsteps died away. Mr. Reeder +decided that this was not his lucky day. +</p> + +<p> +Lying full length on the ground, he could see John Flack clearly. A +pressure of his finger, and the problem of this evil man would be +settled eternally. It was a fond idea. Mr. Reeder’s finger closed +around the trigger, but all his instincts were against killing in cold +blood. +</p> + +<p> +Somebody was coming from the other direction. Gray, he guessed. He +must go back and warn him. Coming to his feet, he went gingerly along +the passage. The thing he feared happened. Gray must have seen him, +for he called out in stentorian tones: +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing at the other end of the passage, Mr. Reeder——” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, you fool!” snarled Reeder, but he guessed that the mischief was +done. +</p> + +<p> +He turned round, stooped again and looked. Old John Flack was standing +at the entrance of the tunnel, his head bent. Somebody else had heard +the detective’s voice. With a squeak of fear, Mrs. Burton had bolted +into the passage, followed by her daughter—an excursion which +effectively prevented the use of the pistol, for they completely +masked the man whose destruction J. G. Reeder had privately sworn. +</p> + +<p> +By the time he came to the end of the passage overlooking the great +cave, the two women and Flack had disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder’s eyesight was of the keenest. He immediately located the +boat, which was now floating on an even keel, and presently saw the +three fugitives. They had descended to the water’s edge by a +continuance of the long stairway which led to the roof, and were +making for the rocky platform which served as a pier for the craft.… +</p> + +<p> +Something smacked against the rock above his head. There was a shower +of stone and dust, and the echoes of the explosion which followed were +deafening. +</p> + +<p> +“Firing from the boat,” said Mr. Reeder calmly. “You had better lie +down, Gray—I should hate to see so noisy a man as you reduced to +compulsory silence.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very sorry, Mr. Reeder,” said the penitent detective. “I had no +idea——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ideas!” said Mr. Reeder accurately. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Smack… smack!</i> +</p> + +<p> +One bullet struck to the left of him, the other passed exactly between +him and Gray. He was lying down now, with a small projection of rock +for cover. +</p> + +<p> +Was Margaret on the boat? Even as the thought occurred to him, he +remembered “Mrs. Burton’s” inquiry. As he saw another flash from the +deck of the launch, he threw forward his hand. There was a double +explosion which reverberated back from the arched roof, and although +he could not see the effect of his shots, he was satisfied that the +bullets fell on the launch. +</p> + +<p> +She was pushing off from the side. The three Flacks were aboard. And +now he heard the crackle and crash of her engine as her nose swung +round to face the cave opening. And then into his eyes from the +darkening sea outside the cave flashed a bright light that illuminated +the rocky shelf on which he lay, and threw the motor boat into relief. +</p> + +<p> +The destroyer! +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God for that!” said Mr. Reeder fervently. +</p> + +<p> +Those on the motor launch had seen the vessel and guessed its portent. +The launch swung round until her nose pointed to where the two +detectives lay, and from her deck came a roar louder than ever. So +terrible was the noise in that confined space that for a second Mr. +Reeder was too dazed even to realise that he was lying half buried in +a heap of debris, until Gray pulled him back to the passage. +</p> + +<p> +“They’re using a gun, a quick-firer!” he gasped. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder did not reply. He was gazing, fascinated, at something that +was happening in the middle of the cave, where the water was leaping +at irregular intervals from some mysterious cause. Then he realised +what was taking place. Great rocks, disturbed by the concussion, were +falling from the roof. He saw the motor boat heel over to the right, +swing round again, and head for the open. It was less than a dozen +yards from the cave entrance when, with a sound that was +indescribable, so terrific, so terrifying, that J. G. Reeder was +rooted to the spot, the entrance to the cave disappeared! +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch19"> +CHAPTER XIX +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">In</span> an instant the air was filled with choking dust. Roar followed +roar as the rocks continued to fall. +</p> + +<p> +“The mouth of the cave has collapsed!” roared Reeder in the other’s +ear. “And the subsidence hasn’t finished.” +</p> + +<p> +His first instinct was to fly along the passage to safety, but +somewhere in that awful void were two women. He switched on his light +and crept gingerly back to the bench whence he had seen the +catastrophe. But the rays of the lamp could not penetrate into the fog +of dust for more than a few yards. +</p> + +<p> +Crawling forward to the edge of the platform, he strove to pierce the +darkness. All about him, above, below, on either side, a terrible +cracking and groaning was going on, as though the earth itself was in +mortal pain. Rocks, big and small, were falling from the roof; he +heard the splash of them as they struck the water—one fell on the +edge of the platform with a terrific din and bounded into the pit +below. +</p> + +<p> +“For God’s sake, don’t stay here, Mr. Reeder. You will be killed.” +</p> + +<p> +It was Gray shouting at him, but J. G. Reeder was already feeling his +way towards the steps which led down to where the boat had been +moored, and to which he guessed it would drift. He had to hold the +lamp almost at his feet. Breathing had become a pain. His face was +covered with powder; his eyes smarted excruciatingly; dust was in his +mouth, his nose; but still he went on, and was rewarded. +</p> + +<p> +Out of the dust-mist came groping the ghostly figure of a woman. It +was Olga Crewe. +</p> + +<p> +He gripped her by the arm as she swayed, and pushed her against the +rocky wall. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is your mother?” he shouted. +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head and said something: he lowered his ear to her +mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“… boat… great rock… killed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your mother?” +</p> + +<p> +She nodded. Gripping her by the arm, he half led, half dragged her up +the stairs. He found Gray waiting at the top. As easily as though she +were a child, Mr. Reeder caught her up in his arms and staggered the +distance that separated them from the mouth of the passage. +</p> + +<p> +The pandemonium of splintering rock and crashing boulder was +continuous. The air was thicker than ever. Gray’s lamp went out, and +Mr. Reeder’s was almost useless. It seemed a thousand years before +they pushed into the mouth of the tunnel. The air was filled with dust +even here, but as they progressed it grew clearer, more breathable. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me down: I can walk,” said the husky voice of Olga Crewe, and +Reeder lowered her gently to her feet. +</p> + +<p> +She was very weak, but she could walk with the assistance that the two +men afforded. They stopped at the entrance of the living-room. Mr. +Reeder wanted the lamp—wanted more the water which she suggested +would be found in that apartment. +</p> + +<p> +A cold draught of spring water worked wonders on the girl too. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what happened,” she said; “but when the cave opening +fell in, I think we drifted towards the stage… we always called that +place the stage. I was so frightened that I jumped immediately to +safety, and I’d hardly reached the rock when I heard a most awful +crash. I think a portion of the wall must have fallen on to the boat. +I screamed, but hardly heard myself in the noise… this is +punishment—this is punishment! I knew it would come! I knew it, I +knew it!” +</p> + +<p> +She covered her grimy face with her hands, and her shoulders shook in +the excess of her sorrow and grief. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no sense in crying.” Mr. Reeder’s voice was sharp and stern. +“Where is Miss Belman?” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Where did she go?” +</p> + +<p> +“Up the stairway… father said she escaped. Haven’t you seen her?” she +asked, raising her tearful face as she began slowly to realise the +drift of his question. +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head, his narrowed eyes surveying her steadily. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me the truth, Olga Flack. Did Margaret Belman escape, or did +your father——?” +</p> + +<p> +She was shaking her head before he had completed his sentence, and +then, with a little moan, she drooped and would have fallen had not +Gray supported her. +</p> + +<p> +“We had better leave the questioning till later.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder seized the lamp from the table and went out into the +tunnel. He had hardly passed the door before there was a crash, and +the infernal noises which had come from the cave were suddenly +muffled. He looked backward, but could see nothing. He guessed what +had happened. +</p> + +<p> +“There is a general subsidence going on in this mass of earth,” he +said. “We shall be lucky if we get away.” +</p> + +<p> +He ran ahead to the opening of the well, and a glad sight met his +eyes. On the floor lay a coil of new rope, to which was attached a +body belt. He did not see the thin wire which came down from the mouth +of the well, but presently he detected a tiny telephone receiver that +the engineers had lowered. This he picked up, and his hail was +immediately answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you all right? Up here it feels as if there’s an earthquake +somewhere.” +</p> + +<p> +Gray was fastening the belt about the girl’s waist, and after it was +firmly buckled: +</p> + +<p> +“You mustn’t faint—do you understand, Miss Crewe? They will haul you +up gently, but you must keep away from the side of the well.” +</p> + +<p> +She nodded, and Reeder gave the signal. The rope grew taut, and +presently the girl was drawn up out of sight. +</p> + +<p> +“Up you go,” said Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +Gray hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“What about you, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +For answer Mr. Reeder pointed to the lowest rung, and, stooping, +gripped the leg of the detective and, displaying an unsuspected +strength, lifted him bodily so that he was able to grip the lower +rung. +</p> + +<p> +“Fix your belt to the rod, hold fast to the nearest rung, and I will +climb up over you,” said Mr. Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +Never an acrobat moved with greater nimbleness than this man who so +loved to pose as an ancient. There was need for hurry. The very iron +to which he was clinging trembled and vibrated in his grasp. The fall +of stone down the well was continuous and constituted a very real +danger. Some of the rungs, displaced by the earth tremors, came away +in their grasp. They were less than half-way up when the air was +filled with a sighing and a hissing that brought Reeder’s heart to his +mouth. +</p> + +<p> +Holding on to a rung of the ladder, he put out his hand. The opposite +wall, which should have been well beyond his reach, was at less than +arm’s-length away! +</p> + +<p> +The well was bulging under unexpected and tremendous stresses. +</p> + +<p> +“Why have you stopped?” asked Gray anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +“To scratch my head,” snarled Reeder. “Hurry!” +</p> + +<p> +They climbed another forty or fifty feet, when from below came a +rumble and a crash that set the whole well shivering. +</p> + +<p> +They could see starlight now, and distant objects, which might be +heads, that overhung the mouth of the well. +</p> + +<p> +“Hurry!” breathed J. G. Reeder, and moved as rapidly as his younger +companion. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Boom!</i> +</p> + +<p> +The sound of a great gun, followed by a thunderous rumbling, surged up +the well. +</p> + +<p> +J. G. Reeder set his teeth. Please God Margaret Belman had escaped +from that hell—or was mercifully dead! +</p> + +<p> +Nearer and nearer to the mouth they climbed, and every step they took +was accompanied by some new and awful noise from behind them. Gray’s +breath was coming in gasps. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t go any further!” croaked the detective. “My strength has +gone!” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, you miserable…!” yelled Reeder, and whether it was the shock +of hearing such violent language from so mild a man, or the discovery +that he was within a few feet of safety, Gray took hold of himself, +climbed a few more rungs, and then felt hands grip his arm and drag +him to safety. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder staggered out into the night air and blinked at the ring of +men who stood in the light of a naphtha flare. +</p> + +<p> +Was it his imagination, or was the ground swaying beneath his feet? +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody else to come up, Mr. Reeder?” +</p> + +<p> +The officer in charge of the Engineers asked the question, and Reeder +shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Then all you fellows clear!” said the officer sharply. “Move towards +the house and take the road to Siltbury—the cliff is collapsing in +sections.” +</p> + +<p> +The flare was put out, and the soldiers, abandoning their apparatus, +broke into a steady run towards Larmes Keep. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is the girl—Miss Crewe?” asked Reeder, suddenly remembering +her. +</p> + +<p> +“They’ve taken her to the house,” said Big Bill Gordon, who had made a +mysterious appearance from nowhere. “And, Reeder, we have captured the +gold-convoy! The two men in charge were a fellow who calls himself +Hothling and another named Dean—I think you know their real names.… +Caught them just as the trolley was driving into the quarry cave. This +means a big thing for you——” +</p> + +<p> +“To hell with you and your big things!” stormed Reeder in a fury. +“What big things do I want, my man, but the big thing I have lost?” +</p> + +<p> +Very wisely, Big Bill Gordon made no attempt to argue the matter. +</p> + +<p> +They found the banqueting-hall crowded with policemen, detectives, and +soldiers. The girl had been taken into Daver’s office, and here he +found her in the hands of the three women servants who had been +commandeered to run the establishment whilst the police were in +occupation. The dust had been washed from her face, and she was +conscious, but still in that half-bemused condition in which Reeder +had found her. +</p> + +<p> +She stared at him for a long time as though she did not recognise him +and was striving to recall that portion of her past in which he had +figured. When she spoke, it was to ask a question. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no news of—father?” +</p> + +<p> +“None,” said Reeder, almost brutally. “I think it will be better for +you, young lady, if he is dead.” +</p> + +<p> +She nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“He <i>is</i> dead,” she said with conviction. And then, rousing herself, +she struggled to a sitting position and looked at the servants. Mr. +Reeder interpreted that glance and sent the women away. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what you are going to do with me,” she said, “but I +suppose I am to be arrested—I should be arrested, for I have known +all that was happening, and I tried to lure you to your death.” +</p> + +<p> +“In Bennett Street, of course,” said Mr. Reeder. “I recognised you the +moment I saw you here—you were the lady with the rouged face.” +</p> + +<p> +She nodded and continued. +</p> + +<p> +“Before you take me away, I wish you would let me have some papers +that are in the safe,” she said. “They have no value to anybody but +myself.” +</p> + +<p> +He was curious enough to ask her what they were. +</p> + +<p> +“They are letters… in the big, flat box that is locked.… Even Daver +did not dare open that. You see, Mr. Reeder”—her breath came more +quickly—“before I met my—husband, I had a little romance—the sort +of romance that a young girl has when she is innocent enough to dream +and has enough faith in God to hope. Is my husband arrested?” she +asked suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder was silent for a moment. Sooner or later she must know the +truth, and he had an idea that this awful truth would not cause her +very much distress. +</p> + +<p> +“Your husband is dead,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes opened wider. +</p> + +<p> +“Did my father——” +</p> + +<p> +“Your father killed him—I suppose so. I am afraid I was the cause. +Coming back to find Margaret Belman, I told Daver all that I knew +about your marriage. Your father must have been hiding behind the +panelling and heard.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” she said simply. “Of course it was father who killed him—I +knew that would happen as soon as he learnt the truth. Would you think +I was heartless if I said I am glad? I don’t think I am really glad: +I’m just relieved. Will you get the box for me?” +</p> + +<p> +She put her hand down her blouse, and pulled out a gold chain at the +end of which were two keys. +</p> + +<p> +“The first of these is the key of the safe. If you want to see +the—the letters, I will show them to you, but I would rather not.” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment he heard hurrying footsteps in the passage outside; the +door was pulled open, and a young officer of Engineers appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but Captain Merriman thinks we ought to +abandon this house. I’ve got out all the servants and we’re rushing +them down to Siltbury.” +</p> + +<p> +Reeder stooped down and drew the girl to her feet. +</p> + +<p> +“Take this lady with you,” he said, and, to Olga: “I will get your +box, and I may not—I am not quite sure—ask you to open it for me.” +</p> + +<p> +He waited till the officer had gone, and added: +</p> + +<p> +“Just now I am feeling rather—tender towards young lovers. That is a +concession which an old lover may make to youth.” +</p> + +<p> +His voice had grown husky. There was something in his face that +brought the tears to her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Was it… not Margaret Belman?” she asked in a hushed voice, and she +knew before he answered that she had guessed well. +</p> + +<p> +Tragedy dignified this strange-looking man, so far past youth, yet +holding the germ of youth in his heart. His hand fell gently on her +shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Go, my dear,” he said. “I will do what I can for you—perhaps I can +save you a great deal of unhappiness.” +</p> + +<p> +He waited until she had gone, then strolled into the deserted lounge. +What an eternity had passed since he had sat there, munching his toast +and drinking his cup of tea, with an illustrated newspaper on his +knees! +</p> + +<p> +The place in the half gloom seemed full of ancient ghosts. The House +of Tears! These walls had held sorrows more poignant, more hopeless +than his. +</p> + +<p> +He went to the panelled wall and rubbed his finger down the little +scar in the wood that a thrown knife had made, and smiled at the +triviality of that offence. +</p> + +<p> +He had reason to remember the circumstances, without the dramatic +reminder which nature gave. Suddenly the floor beneath him swayed, and +the two lights went out. He guessed that the earth tremors were +responsible for the snapping of wires, and he hurried into the +vestibule, and had passed from the house, when he remembered Olga +Crewe’s request. +</p> + +<p> +The lantern was still hanging about his neck. He switched it on and +went back to the safe and inserted the key. As he did so, the house +swayed backwards and forwards like a drunken man. The clatter of +glass, the crackle of overturned wardrobes, startled him, so that he +almost fled with his mission unperformed. He even hesitated; but a +promise was a promise to J. G. Reeder. He put the key in again, turned +the lock and pulled open one of the great doors—and Margaret Belman +fell into his arms! +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch20"> +CHAPTER XX +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">He</span> stood, holding the half-swooning girl, peering into the face he +could only see by the reflected light of his lantern, and then +suddenly the safe fell back from him without warning, leaving a gaping +cavern. +</p> + +<p> +He lifted her in his arms, ran across the vestibule into the open air. +Somebody shouted his name in the distance, and he ran blindly towards +the voice. Once he stumbled over a great crack that had appeared in +the earth, but managed to recover himself, though he was forced to +release his grip of the girl. +</p> + +<p> +She was alive… breathing… her breath fanned his cheek and gave him new +strength.… +</p> + +<p> +The sound of falling walls behind him; immense, hideous roarings and +groanings; thunder of sliding chalk and rock and earth—he heard only +the breathing of his burden, felt only the faint beating of her heart +against his breast. +</p> + +<p> +“Here you are!” +</p> + +<p> +Somebody lifted Margaret Belman from his arms. A big soldier pushed +him into a wagon, where he sprawled at full length, breathless, more +dead than alive, by the side of the woman he loved; and then, with a +whirr of wheels, the ambulance sped down the hillside towards safety. +Behind him, in the darkness, the House of Tears shivered and crackled, +and the work of ancient masons vanished piecemeal, tumbling over new +cliffs, to be everlastingly engulfed and hidden from the sight of man. +</p> + +<p> +Dawn came and showed to an interested party that had travelled by road +and train to the scene of the great landslide, one grey wall, standing +starkly on the edge of a precipice. A portion of the wrecked floor +still adhered to the ruins, and on that floor the blood-stained bed +where old man Flack had laid his murdered servant.… +</p> + +<p> +The story which Olga Flack told the police, which appears in the +official records of the place, was not exactly the same as the story +she told to Mr. Reeder that afternoon when, at his invitation, she +came to the flat in Bennett Street. Mr. Reeder, minus his glasses and +his general air of respectability, which his vanished side-whiskers +had so enhanced, was at some disadvantage. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I think Ravini was killed,” she said, “but you are wrong in +supposing that I brought him to my room at the request of my father. +Ravini was a very quick-witted man, and recognised me. He came to +Larmes Keep because he”—she hesitated—“well, he was rather fond of +Miss Belman. He told me this, and I was rather amused. At that time I +did not know his name, although my husband did, and I certainly did +not connect him with my father’s arrest. He revealed his identity, and +I suppose there was something in my attitude, or something I said, +which recalled the schoolgirl he had met years before. The moment he +recognised me as John Flack’s daughter, he also recognised Larmes Keep +as my father’s headquarters. +</p> + +<p> +“He began to ask me questions: whether I knew where the Flack million, +as he called it, was hidden. And of course I was horrified, for I knew +why Daver had allowed him to come. +</p> + +<p> +“My father had recently escaped from Broadmoor, and I was worried sick +for fear he knew the trick that Daver had played. I wasn’t normal, I +suppose, and I came near to betraying my father, for I told Ravini of +his escape. Ravini did not take this as I had expected—he rather +overrated his own power, and was very confident. Of course, he did not +know that father was practically in the house, that he came up from +the cave every night——” +</p> + +<p> +“The real entrance to the cave was through the safe in the vestibule?” +said Mr. Reeder. “That was an ingenious idea. I must confess that the +safe was the last place in the world I should have considered.” +</p> + +<p> +“My father had it put there twenty years ago,” she said. “There always +was an entrance from the centre of the Keep to the caves below, many +of which were used as prisons or as burying-places by the ancient +owners of Larmes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why did Ravini go to your room?” asked Mr. Reeder. “You will excuse +the—um—indelicacy of the question, but I want——” +</p> + +<p> +She nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a last desperate effort on my part to scare Ravini from the +house—I took it on my way back that night. You mustn’t forget that I +was watched all the time; Daver or my mother were never far from me, +and I dared not let them know, and through them my father, that Ravini +was being warned. Naturally, Ravini, being what he was, saw another +reason for the invitation. He had decided to stay on until I made my +request for an interview, and told him that I wanted him to leave by +the first train in the morning after he learnt what I had to tell +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what had you to tell him?” asked Mr. Reeder. +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer immediately, and he repeated the question. +</p> + +<p> +“That my father had decided to kill him——” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder’s eyes almost closed. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you telling me the truth, Olga?” he asked gently, and she went +red and white. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not a good liar, am I?” Her tone was almost defiant. “Now, I’ll +tell you. I met Ravini when I was little more than a child. He meant… +a tremendous lot to me, and I don’t think I meant very much to him. He +used to come down to see me in the country where I was at school…” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s dead?” +</p> + +<p> +She could only nod her head. Her lips were quivering. +</p> + +<p> +“That is the truth,” she said at last. “The horror of it was that he +did not recognise me when he came to Larmes Keep. I had passed +completely from his mind, until I revealed myself in the garden that +night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he dead?” asked Mr. Reeder for the second time. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said. “They struck him down outside my room.… I don’t know +what they did with him. They put him through the safe, I think.” She +shuddered. +</p> + +<p> +J. G. Reeder patted her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“You have your memories, my child,” he said to the weeping girl, “and +your letters.” +</p> + +<p> +It occurred to him after Olga had gone that Ravini must have written +rather interesting letters. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch21"> +CHAPTER XXI +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Miss Margaret Belman</span> decided to take a holiday in the only pleasure +resort that seemed worth while or endurable. She conveyed this +intention to Mr. Reeder by letter. +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“There are only two places in the world where I can feel happy and +safe,” she said. “One place is London and the other New York, where a +policeman is to be found at every corner, and all the amusements of a +country life are to be had in an intensified form. So, if you please, +can you spare the time to come with me to the theatres I have written +down on the back of this sheet, to the National Gallery, the British +Museum, the Tower of London (no, on consideration I do not think I +should like to include the Tower of London: it is too mediaeval and +ghostly), to Kensington Gardens and similar centres of hectic gaiety. +Seriously, dear J. G. (the familiarity will make you wince, but I have +cast all shame outside), I want to be one of a large, sane mass—I am +tired of being an isolated, hysterical woman.” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +There was much more in the same strain. Mr. Reeder took his engagement +book and ran a blue pencil through all his appointments before he +wrote, with some labour, a letter which, because of its caution and +its somewhat pompous terminology, sent Margaret Belman into fits of +silent laughter. +</p> + +<p> +She had not mentioned Richmond Park, and with good reason, one might +suppose, for Richmond Park in the late autumn, when chilly winds +abound, and the deer have gone into winter quarters—if deer ever go +into winter quarters—is picturesque without being comfortable, and +only a pleasure to the aesthetic eyes of those whose bodies are +suitably clothed in woollen underwear. +</p> + +<p> +Yet, one drab, grey afternoon, Mr. Reeder chartered a taxicab, sat +solemnly by the side of Miss Margaret Belman as the cab bumped and +jerked down Clarence Lane, possibly the worst road in England, before +it turned through the iron gates of the park. +</p> + +<p> +They came at last to a stretch of grass land and bush, a place in +early summer of flowering rhododendrons, and here Mr. Reeder stopped +the cab and they both descended and walked aimlessly through a little +wood. The ground sloped down to a little carpeted hollow. Mr. Reeder, +with a glance of suspicion and some reference to rheumatism, seated +himself by Miss Belman’s side. +</p> + +<p> +“But why Richmond Park?” asked Margaret. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reeder coughed. +</p> + +<p> +“I have—um—a romantic interest in Richmond Park,” he said. “I +remember the first arrest I ever made——” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be gruesome,” she warned him. “There’s nothing romantic about +an arrest. Talk of something pretty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us then talk of you,” said Mr. Reeder daringly; “and it is +exactly because I want to talk of you, my dear Miss—um—Margaret… +Margaret, that I have asked you to come here.” +</p> + +<p> +He took her hand with great gentleness as though he were handling a +rare <i>objet d’art</i>, and played with her fingers awkwardly. +</p> + +<p> +“The truth is, my dear——” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t say ‘Miss,’ ” she begged. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Margaret”—this with an effort—“I have decided that life is +too—um—short to delay any longer a step which I have very carefully +considered—in fact”—here he floundered hopelessly into a succession +of “ums” which were only relieved by occasional “ers.” +</p> + +<p> +He tried again. +</p> + +<p> +“A man of my age and peculiar temperament should perhaps be +considering matters more serious—in fact, you may consider it very +absurd of me, but the truth is——” +</p> + +<p> +Whatever the truth was could not be easily translated into words. +</p> + +<p> +“The truth is,” she said quietly, “that you think you’re in love with +somebody?” +</p> + +<p> +First Mr. Reeder nodded, then he shook his head with equal vigour. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think—it has gone beyond the stage of hypothesis. I am no +longer young—I am in fact a confirmed—no, not a confirmed, +but—er——” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a confirmed bachelor,” she helped him out. +</p> + +<p> +“Not confirmed,” he insisted firmly. +</p> + +<p> +She half turned and faced him, her hands on his shoulders, looking +into his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” she said, “you think of being married, and you want +somebody to marry you. But you feel that you are too old to blight her +young life.” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded dumbly. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it my young life, my dear? Because, if it is——” +</p> + +<p> +“It is.” J. G. Reeder’s voice was very husky. +</p> + +<p> +“Please blight,” said Margaret Belman. +</p> + +<p> +And for the first time in his life Mr. J. G. Reeder, who had had so +many experiences, mainly unpleasant, felt the soft lips of a woman +against his. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder breathlessly, a few seconds later. “That +was rather nice.” +</p> + +<p class="center mt1"> +THE END +</p> + + +<h2> +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES +</h2> + +<p> +The Doubleday, Doran, & Co. (1929, New York) was consulted for some +of the changes listed below. +</p> + +<p> +Minor spelling inconsistencies (<i>e.g.</i> frock-coat/frock coat, +search-party/search party, etc.) have been preserved. +</p> + +<p class="mt1"> +Some differences between this and the Doubleday edition: +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter V] + +<p> +(He had conveyed this information at least four times, but Mr. Ravini +was one of those curious people who like to treat old facts as new +sensations.) for <i>Ravini</i> read <i>Lew Steyne</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter VIII] +</p> + +<p> +(“Let up!” gasped Sweizer in Italian. “You’re choking me, Reeder.”) +for <i>Italian</i> read <i>French</i>. +</p> + +<p> +(He was less amused when he was charged with smashing the Bank of +Lens) for <i>Lens</i> read <i>Lena</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XIII] +</p> + +<p> +(“Who are you talking about?” demanded Simpson…) for <i>Who</i> read +<i>Whom</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XVIII] +</p> + +<p> +(“It’s strange I didn’t see this ladder when I saw the well before,” +he said, and then remembered that he had only opened one half of the +flap.) for <i>flap</i> read <i>trap</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent mt1"> +<b>Alterations to the text</b>: +</p> + +<p> +Add ToC. +</p> + +<p> +Merge disjointed contractions. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter I] +</p> + +<p> +Change “A gentle wind carried the fragrance of the <i>pinks</i> to her” to +<i>pines</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Change (“I think-) to (“I think——”). +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter V] +</p> + +<p> +“five minutes later he was on the Southern <i>express</i>” to <i>Express</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter VIII] +</p> + +<p> +(“Know who I am—I’ll bet you do! Thought you’d got rid of me, didn’t +you?) add question mark after <i>am</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“and gazed at them for a long <i>itme</i>” to <i>time</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XI] +</p> + +<p> +(“Only two? You’ve never met me before?”) change question mark to an +exclamation mark. +</p> + +<p> +(“Deduct from the velocity… and tell me how deep this hole is?”) +change the question mark to a period. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XVII] +</p> + +<p> +“The stockings that <i>he</i> had knotted about her waist were still wet” +to <i>she</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XVIII] +</p> + +<p> +“to realise that he <i>way</i> lying half buried in a heap of debris” to +<i>was</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XIX] +</p> + +<p> +(“They are letters… in the big flat box that is locked”) add comma +after <i>big</i>. +</p> + +<p class="center mt1"> +[End of text] +</p> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75949 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/75949-h/images/cover.jpg b/75949-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..77a84c8 --- /dev/null +++ b/75949-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b5dba15 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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