For a quarter of an hour he sat with his hands folded on his lap, his pale eyes fixed vacantly on the chimney-pot of a house on the opposite side of the street, and then he heard a knock on the outer door. Rising slowly, he went out and opened it. The last person he expected to see was Inspector Gaylor.
“The Litnoff murder – are you interested?”
Mr Reeder was interested in all murders, but not especially in the Litnoff case.
“Do you know that Jake Alsby was on his way to see you?”
Jake Alsby – Mr Reeder frowned; he knew the name, and, going over the file of his mind, could place him.
“So far as my own opinion goes, Jake is a dead man,” said Gaylor. “He had been drinking with the Russian, who had quite a lot of money in his possession. A few minutes after they left the bar Litnoff was shot, and Jake, bolting for his life, was found in possession of a loaded pistol. Men have been hanged on less evidence than that.”
“I – um – doubt it. Not the fact that men have been – er – hanged on insufficient evidence, but that our poor friend was the guilty person. Jake is a ‘regular’, and regulars do not carry guns – not in this country.”
Gaylor smiled significantly.
“He was searching for you,” he said. “He admits as much, and that makes his present attitude a little queer. For now he wants you to get him out of his trouble!”
“Dear me!” said Mr Reeder, faintly amused.
“He thinks if he could see you for a few minutes and tell you what happened, you would walk out of Brixton Prison and lay your hand upon the man who committed the murder. There’s a compliment for you!”
“Seriously?” J G Reeder was frowning again.
Gaylor nodded.
“It’s rum, isn’t it? The fellow was undoubtedly on his way to give you hell and yet the first thing he does when he gets into trouble is to squeak to you for help! Anyway, the Public Prosecutor says he would like you to see him. Brixton has been notified. They know you there, and if you feel like listening to a few more or less fantastic lies, you ought to have an interesting evening.”
He had in his pocket-book two press cuttings which fairly covered the Litnoff shooting. Mr Reeder accepted them with every evidence of gratitude, although he had very complete particulars of the case in the drawer of his writing table.
Gaylor had one quality which Mr Reeder admired – he was no “lingerer”. There were many interesting people in the world who did not know where their interest ended: men who outstayed the excuse for their presence and dawdled from subject to subject. Gaylor was blessed with a sense of drama and could make his abrupt exit upon an effective line. He made such an exit now.
“You needn’t ask him to tell you about the diamond clasp,” he said. “He’ll tell you that! But don’t forget that the last time Litnoff was charged that bizarre note came into the evidence.”
Inspector Gaylor was a well read man and used words like “bizarre” without self-conscious effort.
When he had gone, Mr Reeder fixed his glasses and read the cuttings which the detective had left. He found nothing that he did not already know. Jake Alsby was, as he had said, a “regular”, an habitual criminal with a working knowledge of the common law in so far as it affected himself. No old lag carries firearms, especially an old lag who is a convict on licence, and is liable to be arrested at sight. Judges are most unsympathetic in their attitude toward armed criminals, and Jake and his fellows knew too well the penalties of illicit armament to take the dreadful risk of being found in possession of an automatic pistol.
J G had a criminal mind. He knew exactly what he would have done had he been Jake Alsby and had shot his companion. He would have thrown away the pistol before he bolted. That Jake had not done so was proof to him that he was unaware that the pistol was in his pocket.
He was musing on this matter when he heard the door of the outer office open and the sound of low voices. A moment later Miss Gillette came in, a little out of breath. She closed the door behind her.
“I’ve brought them both,” she said rapidly. “I ’phoned to Joan – she was just going out… Can I ask them to come in?”
He felt that it was almost an act of humility that she should ask his permission, and bowed his assent.
Tommy Anton was a tall young man; the sort that perhaps two women in the course of the years would regard as good-looking, but the rest would scarcely notice. Joan Ralph, on the other hand, was distinctly pretty and unusual. She was dark and clear-skinned, and had one of those supple figures that gave Mr Reeder the impression that its owner did not wear sufficient clothes for warmth or safety.
“This is Tommy, and this is Joan.” Miss Gillette introduced them unnecessarily, for Mr Reeder could hardly have mistaken one for the other.
The moment he saw them, he knew they would have nothing new to tell him if they were left to tell their own stories. He listened with great patience to the repetition of all he knew.
Tommy Anton gave a graphic description of his own amazement, consternation and emotions when he had discovered that his partner had vanished. He paid a loyal tribute to the character and qualities of the missing man –
“Did Mr Seafield ever talk to you about a diamond brooch?” interrupted Mr Reeder.
Tommy stared at him.
“No – we were in the car trade. He seldom discussed his private affairs. Of course, I knew about Joan–”
“Did your father ever speak of a diamond brooch or clasp?” Mr Reeder addressed the girl, and she shook her head.
“Never…he never spoke about jewellery except – that was years ago when I first met Frank – Daddy put some money into the Pizarro expedition and so did Frank; they were awfully enthusiastic about it.”
Mr Reeder looked up at the ceiling and went rapidly over the folders of his memory. When she was on the point of explaining, he stopped her with a gesture.
“Pizarro expedition…1923…to recover the buried treasure of the Incas. It was organized by Antonio Pizarro, who claimed to be a descendant of the conqueror of Peru…his real name was Bendini –a New York Italian with three convictions for high-class swindles…the company was registered in London, and all the people who put money into the scheme lost it – isn’t that right?”
He beamed at her triumphantly and she smiled.
“I don’t know so much about it as you. Daddy put five hundred pounds into it and Frank put a hundred – he was at Oxford then. I know they lost their money. Frank didn’t mind very much, but Daddy was annoyed, because he was sure there were great treasure houses in Peru that had yet to be discovered.”
“And was there a talk of diamond brooches?” asked Mr Reeder.
She hesitated.
“Jewels – I don’t remember that there was anything said about brooches.”
J G wrote down three words, one of which, she saw, was “Pizarro”. The second seemed to bear some resemblance to “Murphy”. She thought the association of the two names was a little incongruous. He questioned her shortly about her own situation. She had a small private income and there was no immediate urgency so far as money was concerned.
And then she asked if she could see him alone. Mr Reeder had a happy feeling that Miss Gillette entirely disapproved of the request. She could do no less than withdraw, taking her Tommy with her. He found himself being sorry for that dumb and ordinary young man – so ordinary indeed that Mr Reeder for the first time became conscious of his mental superiority to his secretary.
He had even the courage to open the door and look out. The murmur of voices from Miss Gillette’s room assured him that they were safe from the eavesdropping propensities of that curious young lady.
“Mr Reeder,” he realized from her tone that Joan Ralph was finding some difficulty in fitting her thoughts into words, “I suppose it has occurred to you that my father may have gone off with – somebody. I am not stupid about these things and I know that men of his age do have – well, affairs. But I am perfectly sure that Daddy had none. Dr Ingham hinted tactfully that this might be the situation; the doctor was awfully sweet about it, but I know that theory is wrong. Daddy had no friends. I used to open all his letters and there was never one that he objected to my seeing.”
“The letters that came to the office too?” he asked.
She smiled at the question.
“Naturally I did not see those – those were very few, and Daddy had nothing furtive in his composition. I did know that he was corresponding with Dr Ingham; my father was what is known as a High Churchman and wrote letters to the Church papers. That is practically the only friend he had outside our little circle at Bishop’s Stortford.”
Mr Reeder looked at her thoughtfully.
“Did you think Frank Seafield had – um – a lady friend?” he asked.
She was emphatic on this point. He would have been surprised if she had not been.
He guided her to Miss Gillette’s room and presently he heard the three go out. That Miss Gillette should have left the office without asking permission was not remarkable.
With great care he composed three telegrams, and, calling at the post office, handed them in. One was certainly addressed to Murphy.
A tramcar deposited him within walking distance of Brixton Prison, where men under remand are segregated.
Mr Reeder was not unknown at Brixton, though his visits were rare, and within a few minutes of his arrival he was taken to a bare waiting-room where he was joined by Jake Alsby.
The man was shaken. The rather defiant impertinent criminal Mr Reeder had known had disappeared, and in his place was a man terror-stricken by the fate which had overcome him.
“You know me, Mr Reeder.” His manner was a little wild, and the hand that emphasized almost every sentence was trembling. “I never had a gun in my life, and I would no more think of shooting a man than I would of cutting my own throat. I bashed a fellow or two–”
“And there are one or two that you intended bashing,” said Mr Reeder, pleasantly.
“It was drink, Mr Reeder,” pleaded Jake. “I suppose Gaylor told you that I was coming to see you. That dirty dog would say anything to put me wrong. Besides, Mr Reeder, I didn’t know this Russian – why should I want to shoot him?”
Mr Reeder shook his head.
“People sometimes shoot the merest acquaintances,” he said brightly. “Now tell me all about it, Alsby, with fewer lies than usual. Maybe I can help you. I don’t say that I can, but it may be possible.”
Alsby told his story as coherently as he could. Occasionally Mr Reeder had to bring him back from rambling side issues, but, on the whole, the tale he had to tell was convincing. He forgot, however, one important detail.
“When that man was charged with being drunk some days ago,” said Mr Reeder, “he talked to the police in his – um – intoxication, of a diamond clasp–”
“That’s right, sir,” interrupted the man eagerly. “He mentioned it to me, too. I’d forgotten all about that. He told me I could see it. I thought it was just being soused that made him speak that way, and, to tell you the truth, I’d forgotten all about it.” And then a new note of anxiety came into his tone: “Has that been lost? I swear I never saw it.”
J G Reeder looked at him long and fixedly. A gentle glow of satisfaction came to him. He had spoken of the clasp to Joan Ralph for no other reason than his recollection of the police court proceedings against Litnoff. That reference to the diamond brooch had intrigued him at the time he had read of it. Litnoff had no history as a receiver – that fact had been brought out in court.
“Try to remember, Alsby, what other things he said.”
Alsby knitted his forehead in an agony of recollection.
“I can’t remember anything, Mr Reeder. I wasn’t with him long after we left the boozer – the public house. He was going home; he lived in Bloomsbury – Lammington Buildings. That was a funny thing: I had known of Lammington Buildings through a pal of mine, who got five years for slush printing. He had a friend who lived there.”
Mr Reeder was interested mainly because the only address which the police knew in connection with Litnoff was his lodging in Pimlico.
“How did all this come out, that he was living in Lammington Buildings?” he asked.
“He wanted to take a taxi. I told him I was living in Holborn. He said ‘You can drop me at Lammington Buildings.’ After that he sort of corrected himself, but I knew he had let his address slip out. You are going to do something for me, ain’t you, Mr Reeder? You have always been fair to me.”
“That is not my recollection of your expressed opinion,” said Mr Reeder acidly.
Going back to town he pondered on the possibility that Litnoff also might have had a “friend” in this block of flats.
It was raining heavily when his ’bus dropped him at the corner of Southampton Row; but it had been raining more or less all day, and since he wore his shabby yellow mackintosh which, coming almost to his heels, gave him, despite his bent shoulders, a giant-like appearance, he did not think it necessary to unfurl the umbrella which he carried on his arm, summer and winter, although it was never known to be opened.
He found Lammington Buildings without much trouble. It was situate in a side turning off Gower Street.
Mr Reeder opened his enquiries with the hall porter. The name of Litnoff was unknown; but the hall porter was a reader of newspapers and had seen a portrait of the murdered man. Almost before Mr Reeder could put a question, the porter blurted out his suspicion.
“I bet that’s Schmidt. If it isn’t, it’s his twin brother. In fact, I was just writing a letter to the
Daily Megaphone
. I always thought that Schmidt was a queer customer. He only slept here once or twice a month. I was talking to Mrs Adderly this afternoon about him. As a matter of fact, she’s in his flat now, though she’s one of those kind of women who wouldn’t talk. You can’t get a word out of her. I says to her ‘Suppose the police come here and want to know?’ ‘Let ’em come,’ she says. What can you do with a woman like that?”
Mr Reeder could supply no reply to this pertinent question, and then, surprisingly, the hall porter said: “I know you, Mr Reeder, the moment I put my eyes on you. You were in the Orderley Street affair. I was the porter at the hotel, if you will remember, who saw the man getting out of the window…”