Red Aces (22 page)

“Well, it’s a difficult story to tell.”

He rose from his seat and paced up and down the room, his hands thrust into his pockets, a frown on his face.

“Do you remember the night of the fight? I don’t suppose that’s graven on your memory. It arose out of something I said to our friend as we left the City hall. Apparently – I only discovered this afterwards – there was a man out there waiting to see Southers, but in the excitement of our little fracas – which began in the City, by the way – Southers didn’t see the man, who either followed him to Lewisham or came on ahead of him. He must have been present in the street when the fight took place. When I got home that night the hall-porter asked me if I would see a very seedy-looking individual, and, as I wasn’t in the mood to see anybody, I refused. A few days later I was stopped in Piccadilly by a man who I thought was a beggar – a healthy-looking beggar, but most beggars are that way. He started by telling me he’d seen the fight, and said he could tell me something about Southers. I wasn’t feeling so very savage then as I had been, and I’d have hoofed him off, but he was so insistent, and in the end I told him to call at my flat. He came that night and told me the most extraordinary story. He said his name was” – Clive Desboyne frowned – “the name’s slipped me for the moment, but it will come back. He was a mate or assistant on a barge run by a man named Attymar–”

“Ligsey?” suggested Mr Reeder, and the other nodded.

“That’s the name – Ligsey. I’m cutting the story short because it took a tremendous long time to tell, and I don’t want it to bore you as it bored me. They’ve been running some kind of contraband up the river on the barge, for apparently Attymar is a smuggler on a large scale. That was a yarn I didn’t believe at first, though, from the things he told me, it seemed very likely that he spoke the truth. Certain articles were smuggled up the river on the barge, and others were passed through the Customs by Southers.”

Mr Reeder opened his mouth very wide.

“Now I’ll tell you the truth.” Clive Desboyne’s voice was very earnest. “I wanted to believe that story. In my heart of hearts I dislike John Southers – I’d be inhuman if I didn’t. At the same time I wanted to play the game. I told this fellow he was a liar, but he swore it was true. He thinks the police are going to arrest Attymar, and when they do, Attymar will spill the beans, to use his own expression. In the meantime I have recommended Southers to a very important and responsible job in Singapore, and naturally, if this story comes out, I’m going to look pretty foolish. I don’t mind that,” he added quietly, “but I do mind Anna Welford marrying this man.”

Mr Reeder plucked at his lower lip.

“Do you know Attymar?”

The young man shook his head.

“I can’t even say that I know Ligsey, but if he keeps his promise I shall know Attymar tomorrow morning.”

“What was his promise?” asked Mr Reeder.

“He says Attymar has documentary proof – he didn’t use that expression but that is what he meant – and that he was going to Attymar’s house tonight to get it.”

Again Mr Reeder thought, staring into vacancy.

“When did you see him last?”

“The morning I wrote to you, or rather the morning you received the letter.” He made a little gesture of despair. “Whatever happens, Anna’s going to think I’m the biggest cad–”

The telephone bell rang sharply. Mr Reeder, with a murmured apology, took up the receiver and listened with a face that did not move. He only asked “What time?” and, after a long pause, said “Yes.” As he was hanging up the receiver, Desboyne went on: “What I should like to do is to see Attymar–”

Mr Reeder shook his head.

“I’m afraid you won’t see Attymar. He was murdered between nine and ten tonight.”

It was half past twelve when Mr Reeder’s taxi brought him into Shadwick Lane, which was alive with people. A police cordon was drawn across the gate, but Gaylor, who was waiting for him, conducted him into the yard.

“We’re dragging the river for the body,” he explained.

“Where was it committed?” asked Mr Reeder.

“Come inside,” said the other grimly, “and then you will ask no questions.”

It was not a pleasant sight that met Mr Reeder’s eyes, though he was a man not easily sickened. The little sitting-room was a confusion of smashed furniture, the walls splashed with red. A corner table, however, had been left untouched. Here were two glasses of whisky, one full, the other half-empty. A half-smoked cigar was carefully laid on a piece of paper by the side of these.

“The murder was committed here and the body was dragged to the edge of the wharf and thrown into the water,” said Gaylor. “There’s plenty of evidence of that.

“We’ve taken possession of a lot of papers, and we found a letter on the mantelpiece from a man named Southers – John Southers. No address, but evidently from the handwriting a person of some education. At nine twenty-five tonight Attymar had a visitor, a young man who was admitted through the wicket gate, and who was seen to leave at twenty-five minutes to ten, about ten minutes after he arrived.”

Gaylor opened an attache case and took out a battered, cheap silver watch, which had evidently been under somebody’s heel. The glass was smashed, the case was bent out of shape. The hands stood at nine-thirty.

“One of the people here recognized this as Ligsey’s – a woman who lives in the street who had pawned it for him on one occasion. It’s important, because it probably gives us the hour of the murder, if you allow the watch to be a little fast or slow. It’s hardly likely to be accurate. We have sent a description round of Southers, though it isn’t a very good one, but it will probably be sufficient. I’m having a facsimile of the writing–”

“I can save you the trouble; here is the young man’s address.” Mr Reeder took a notebook from his pocket, scribbled a few lines and handed it to the detective. He looked glumly at the bloodstained room and the evidence of tragedy, followed the detective in silence, whilst Gaylor, with the aid of a powerful light, showed the telltale stains leading from the wharf, and…

“Very interesting,” said Mr Reeder. “When you recover the bodies I should like to see them.”

He stared out over the river, which was covered by a faint mist – not sufficient to impede navigation, but enough to shroud and make indistinct objects thirty or forty yards away.

“The barge is at Greenwich, I think,” he said, after a long silence. “Could I borrow a police launch?”

One of the launches was brought in to the crazy wharf and Mr Reeder lowered himself gingerly, never losing grip of the umbrella which no man had seen unfurled. It was a chilly night, an easterly wind blowing up the river, but he sat in the bow of the launch motionless, sphinx-like, staring ahead as the boat streaked eastwards towards Greenwich.

It drew up by the side of the barge, which was moored close to the Surrey shore, and a quavering voice hailed them.

“That you, Ligsey?”

Mr Reeder pulled himself on board before he replied.

“No, my boy,” he said gently, “it is not Ligsey. Were you expecting him?”

The youth held up his lantern, surveyed Mr Reeder and visibly quailed.

“You’re a copper, ain’t yer?” he asked tremulously. “Have you pinched Ligsey?”

“I have not pinched Ligsey,” said Mr Reeder, patting the boy gently on the back. “How long has he been gone?”

“He went about eight, soon after it was dark; the guv’nor come down for him.”

“The guv’nor come down for him,” repeated Mr Reeder in a murmur. “Did you see the governor?”

“No, sir; he shouted for me to go below. Ligsey always makes me go below when him and the guv’nor have a talk.”

Mr Reeder drew from his pocket a yellow carton of cigarettes and lit one before he pursued his inquiries.

“Then what happened?”

“Ligsey come down and packed his ditty box, and told me I was to hang on all night, but that I could go to sleep. I was frightened about being left alone on the barge–”

Mr Reeder was already making his way down the companion to Ligsey’s quarters. Evidently all the man’s kit had been removed; even the sheets on his bed must have been folded and taken away, for the bunk was tumbled.

On a little swing table, which was a four-foot plank suspended from the deck above, was a letter. It was not fastened, and Mr Reeder made no scruple in opening and reading its contents. It was in the handprint which, he had been informed, was the only kind of writing Attymar knew.

Dear Mr Southers,

If you come aboard the stuff is in the engine-room. I have got to be very careful because the police are watching.

When he questioned the boy, whose name was Hobbs, he learned that Ligsey had come down and left the letter. Mr Reeder went aft and found the hatchway over the little engine-room unfastened, and descended into the strong-smelling depths where the engine was housed. It was here evidently that Attymar remained during his short voyages. There was a signal bell above his head, and a comfortable armchair had been fixed within reach of the levers.

His search here was a short one. Inside an open locker he found a small, square package, wrapped in oiled paper, and a glance at the label told him its contents, even though he did not read Dutch.

Returning to the boy, he questioned him closely. It was no unusual thing for Attymar to pick up his mate from the barge. The boy had once seen the launch, and described it as a very small tender. He knew nothing of Mr Southers, had never seen him on board the ship, though occasionally people did come, on which occasions he was sent below.

At his request, Mr Reeder was put ashore at Greenwich and got on the telephone to Gaylor. It was now two o’clock in the morning, and much had happened.

“We arrested that man Southers; found his trousers covered with blood. He admits he was at Attymar’s house tonight, and tells a cock-and-bull story of what he did subsequently. He didn’t get home till nearly twelve.”

“Extraordinary,” said Mr Reeder, and the mildness of the comment evidently irritated Inspector Gaylor.

“That’s one way of putting it, but I think we’ve made a pretty good capture,” he said. “We’ve got enough evidence to hang him. Attymar’s left all sorts of notes on his invoices.”

“Amazing,” said Mr Reeder, and gathered from the abruptness with which he was cut off that, for some mysterious reason, he had annoyed the man at Scotland Yard.

He sent back a short report with the documents and the drugs to Scotland Yard, and drove home by taxi. It was three o’clock by the time he reached Brockley Road, and he was not surprised to find his housekeeper up and to hear that Anna Welford was waiting for him.

She was very white and her manner was calm.

“You’ve heard about Johnny being arrested – ” she began.

Mr Reeder nodded.

“Yes, I gave them the necessary information as to where he was to be found,” he said, and he saw the colour come and go in her face.

“I – I suppose you – you had to do your duty?” she said haltingly. “But you know it’s not true, Mr Reeder. You know Johnny…he couldn’t…” Her voice choked.

Mr Reeder shook his head.

“I don’t know Johnny really,” he said apologetically. “He is – um – the merest acquaintance, Miss Welford. I am not saying that in disparagement of him, because obviously quite a number of people who aren’t my friends are respectable citizens. Did you see him before he was arrested?”

She nodded.

“Immediately before?”

“Half-an-hour before. He was terribly disappointed; he had gone to see about this partnership but he had a feeling that he’d been tricked, for nothing came of it. He had arranged to see me, and I waited up for him…he was crossing the road to his own house when he was arrested.”

“Did he wear a blue suit or a grey suit?”

“A blue suit,” she said quickly.

Mr Reeder looked at the ceiling.

“Of course he wore a blue suit; otherwise – um…” He scratched his chin irritably. “It was a cold night, too. I can’t understand until I have seen his – um – trousers.”

She looked at him in bewilderment, a little fearfully. And then suddenly Mr Reeder gave one of his rare smiles and dropped a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“I shouldn’t be too worried if I were you,” he said, with a kindly look in his eyes. “You’ve got quite a number of good friends, and you will find Mr Desboyne will do a lot to help your Johnny.”

She shook her head.

“Clive doesn’t like Johnny,” she said.

“That I can well believe,” said Mr Reeder good-humouredly. “Nevertheless, unless I’m a bad prophet, you will find Mr Desboyne the one person who can clear up this – um – unpleasantness.”

“But who was the man who was killed? It’s all so terribly unreal to me. Attymar was his name, wasn’t it? Johnny didn’t know anybody named Attymar. At least, he didn’t tell me so. I’m absolutely stunned by this news, Mr Reeder. I can’t realize its gravity. It seems just a stupid joke that somebody’s played on us. Johnny couldn’t do harm to any man.”

“I’m sure he couldn’t,” said Mr Reeder soothingly, but that meant nothing.

Mr Reeder’s housekeeper had, since his arrival, behaved with a certain secretiveness which could only mean that she had something important to communicate. It was after he had seen the girl to her house that he learned what the mystery was all about.

“The young gentleman who came to see you last night,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve put him in the waiting-room.”

“Mr Desboyne?”

“That’s the name,” she nodded. “He said he wouldn’t go until he’d seen you.”

In a few seconds Clive Desboyne was shown in.

“I’ve only just heard about Southers’ arrest – it’s monstrous! And I was being so beastly about him tonight. Mr Reeder, I’ll spend all the money you want to get this young man out of his trouble. My God, it’s awful for Anna!”

Mr Reeder pulled at his long nose and said he thought it was rather unpleasant.

“And,” he added, “for everybody.”

“They say this man Ligsey is also dead. If I’d had any sense I’d have brought over the note I had of our conversation.”