The “young lady” herself opened the door to his ring.
“Look who’s here!” she said in surprise, and stood aside to let him in.
She was dressed in an old kimono and did not look as attractive as usual.
“In another half-hour I’d have been out,” she said. “I didn’t get up till after lunch. These late nights are surely hell!”
She led the way to a sitting-room that was hazy with cigarette smoke. It was a large room, its floor covered with a soft carpet that had once cost a lot of money but was now mottled with stains. Before the fire was a big divan, and on this she had been reclining. The furnishing and appointments of the room were of that style which is believed to be oriental by quite a large number of people. The whole room was half way to blowsiness. It had a stale, sweet scent. Before the fire, in a shallow basket lined with red silk, a Pekingese dog opened his weary eyes to survey the newcomer, and instantly closed them again.
“Well, my dear, what brings you up to town? I told you to snatch a few hours sleep – round about one you looked like a boiled owl, and that’s not the state to be in when you’re chasing money.”
She was dark and good-looking by certain standards. Her figure was robust, and nature had given generously to the amplification of her visible charms. The red of her full lips was a natural red; the clear skin was of fine texture; her face was scarcely powdered.
For a very long time they talked, head to head. She was an excellent listener; her sympathy had a sincere note. At half-past five:
“Now off you pop and don’t worry. The governor will be seeing you tonight – talk it over with him. I think you’d better, in case anything turns up…you know what I mean.”
He took a letter out of his pocket and gave it to her with an air of embarrassment.
“I wrote it, or rather started it, this morning…I couldn’t finish it. I mean every word I say.”
She kissed him loudly.
“You’re a darling!” she said.
Mr Kingfether came back to his office to find only a junior in charge. McKay, despite instructions to the contrary, had gone, and the sub-manager sat down to a rough examination of important books in no condition to do justice to his task. He possessed one of those slow-starting tempers that gathers momentum from its own weight. A little grievance and a long brooding brought him to a condition of senseless and unrestrainable fury.
He was in this state when Kenneth McKay returned.
“I asked you to stay in, didn’t I?” He glowered at his subordinate.
“Did you? Well, I stayed in until I finished my work. Then the bank inspector came.”
Mr Kingfether’s face went white.
“What did he want? Redman didn’t tell me he called.”
“Well, he did.” Kenneth passed into the outer office.
Kingfether sat scribbling oddly on his blotting-pad for a moment, and then for the first time saw the letter that had been placed on the mantelpiece. It was marked “Urgent. Confidential. Deliver by hand,” and was from head office.
He took it up with a shaking hand, and, after a long hesitation, tore the seal. There was a little mirror on the wall above the fireplace, and he caught sight of his face and could hardly believe that that ghost of a man was himself.
There was no need to read the letter twice through. Already he knew every word, every comma. He stood blinking at his reflection, and then went into the outer office. He found Kenneth collecting some personal belongings from his desk.
“I suppose the inspector came about the Wentford cheque?” he said.
The young man looked round at him.
“Wentford cheque? I don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t mean the cheque I cashed for the woman?”
It required an effort on the manager’s part to affirm this.
“What was wrong with it?”
“It was forged, that is all.”
“Forged?” Kenneth frowned at him.
“Yes…didn’t the inspector say anything? He left a letter for me, didn’t he?”
Kenneth shook his head.
“No. He was surprised to find that you weren’t here. I told him you had gone up to the head office. I’m getting a bit sick of lying about you. What is the yarn about this cheque?”
Again it required a painful effort on the manager’s part to speak.
“It was forged. You’ve to report to head office tomorrow morning…some of the banknotes have been traced to you…the cheque was out of your office book.” It was out, yet he felt no relief.
McKay was looking at him open-mouthed.
“You mean the cheque that was changed by that woman?” The word “woman” irritated Mr Kingfether.
“A lady was supposed to have called, a veiled lady–”
“What do you mean by ‘supposed’?” demanded Kenneth. “You say that the notes were traced to me – I issued them: is that what you mean?”
“You have them – some of them – in your private possession; that’s all.”
Incredulity showed in Kenneth’s face.
“I? You mean that I stole them?”
Kingfether had reached the limit of endurance.
“How the hell do I know what you did?” he almost shouted. “Head office have written to say that some of the notes you paid over the counter have been traced through a moneylender named Stuart to you.”
The young man’s faced changed suddenly.
“Stuart…oh!” was all that he said. A moment later he went blundering out of the side door, leaving Mr Kingfether to continue his aimless scribblings on his blotting-pad.
Kenneth reached Marlow just before the dinner hour, and he came into the study where old George McKay was usually to be found, working out his eternal combinations. To Kenneth’s amazement, his father greeted him with a smile. Instead of the cards, his table was covered with packages of documents and the paraphernalia of correspondence.
“Hullo, son – we’ve had a stroke of luck. The arbitrators have decided in my favour. I knew jolly well I hadn’t parted with my rights in the dyeing process when I sold out, and the company has to pay close on a hundred thousand back royalties.”
Kenneth knew of this wrangle between his father and his late company that had gone on through the years, but he had never paid very much attention to it.
“That means a steady income for years, and this time I’m going to look after things – here!”
He pointed to the grate. The fireplace was filled with half-burnt playing cards.
“They’ve asked me to rejoin the board as chairman. What is the matter, Kenny?”
Kenneth was sitting on the opposite side of the table, and his father had seen his face.
Briefly he told his story, and George McKay listened without comment until he had finished.
“Wentford, eh? He is going to be a curse to me to the end of my days.”
Kenneth gasped his amazement.
“Did you know him?”
Old George nodded.
“I knew him all right!” he said grimly. “Reeder was here this morning–”
“About me?” asked the other quickly.
“About me,” said his father. “I rather gathered that he suspected me of the murder.”
Kenneth came to his feet, horrified.
“You? But he’s mad! Why should you–”
Mr McKay smiled dourly.
“There was quite a good reason why I should murder him,” he said calmly; “such a good reason that I have been expecting the police all the afternoon.”
Then abruptly he changed the subject.
“Tell me about these banknotes. Of course I knew that you had borrowed the money from Stuart, my boy. I was a selfish old fellow to let you do it – how did the money come to you?”
Kenneth’s story was a surprising one.
“I had it a couple of days ago,” he said. “I came down to breakfast and found a letter. It was not registered and the address was hand-printed. I opened it, never dreaming what it contained. Just then I was terribly rattled over Stuart – I thought head office might get to know about my borrowing money. And when I found inside the letter twenty ten-pound notes you could have knocked me out.”
“Was there any letter?”
“None. Not even ‘from a friend.’”
“Who knew about your being in debt?”
One name came instantly to Kenneth’s mind.
“You told your Margot, did you…Wentford’s niece? His real name was Lynn, by the way. Could she have sent it?”
“It was not she who drew the money, I’ll swear! I should have known her. And though she was veiled, I could recognize her again if I met her. Kingfether’s line is that no woman came; he is suggesting that the cheque was cashed by me. He even says that the cheque was out of a book which I keep in my drawer for the use of customers who come to the bank without their cheque books.”
George McKay fingered his chin, his keen eyes on his son.
“If you were in any kind of trouble you’d tell me the truth, my boy, wouldn’t you? All this worry has come through me. You’re telling me the truth now, aren’t you?”
“Yes, father.”
The older man smiled.
“Fathers have the privilege of asking ‘Are you a thief?’ without having their heads punched! And most young people do stupid things – and most old people too! Lordy! I once carried a quarter of a million bank at baccarat! Nobody would believe that, but it’s true. Come and eat, then go along and see your Margot.”
“Father, who killed that man Wentford?”
There was a twinkle in McKay’s eyes when he answered: “J G Reeder, I should think. He knows more about it than any honest man should know!”
When her visitor was gone, Ena opened the letter he had left with her, read a few lines of it, then threw letter and envelope into the fire. Funny, the sameness of men…they all wrote the same sort of stuff… raw stuff dressed up poetically…yet they thought they were being different from all other men. She did not resent these stereotypes of passion, nor did she feel sorry for those who used them. They were just normal experiences. She sat clasping her knees, her eyes alternately on the fire and the sleeping dog. Then she got up, dressed quickly, and, going into Gower Street, found a cab.
She was set down at a house in a fashionable Mayfair street, and a liveried footman admitted her and told her there was company. There usually was in the early evening. She found twenty men and women sitting round a green table, watching a croupier with a large green shade over his eyes. He was turning up cards in two rows, and big monies, staked in compartments marked on the green table, went into the croupier’s well or was pushed, with additions, to the fortunate winner.
The usual crowd, she noted. One pretty girl looked up and smiled, then turned her eyes quickly and significantly to the young man by her side.
Ena found the governor in his room. He was smoking alone and reading the evening newspaper when she came in.
“Shut the door,” he ordered. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing much. Only Feathers is a bit worried.” She told him why.
Mr Machfield smiled.
“Don’t
you
worry, my pet,” he said kindly. “There has been a murder down his way – did he tell you anything about that? I’ve just been reading about it. I should be surprised if old Reeder didn’t get to the bottom of it – clever fellow, Reeder.”
He picked up his newspaper from the floor and his cigar from the ash-tray where he had laid it.
“Rather a coincidence, wasn’t it, Ena? Feathers pickin’ on that account – Wentford’s?”
She looked at him thoughtfully.
“Was it a coincidence?” she asked. “That is what is worrying me. Did he pick on this poor man’s account because he knew that he was going to be dead in a few days? I got a horrible creepy feeling when he was sitting beside me. I kept looking at his hands and wondering if there was blood on them!”
“Shuh!” said Mr Machfield contemptuously. “That rabbit!” He opened a panel in the wall – it was nothing more romantic than a serving hatch when it was built – and glanced at the gamesters.
“They’re playing for marbles!” he said in fine scorn. “But they never do play high in the afternoon. Look at Lamontaine: he’s bored sick!”
And certainly the croupier did not look happy. He closed the panel.
“I suppose you’ll be raided one of these days?” she said.
“Sure!” he answered easily. “But I’ve got another couple of houses ready for starting.”
“What do you think about Feathers? Will he squeal when they find him out?”
“Like a stuck pig,” said Mr Machfield. “He’ll go down for nine months and get religion. That’s the kind of fellow who gives the prison chaplain an interest in life. Ena, I’ve got a little job for you.”
She was alert, suspicious.
“Nothing much. I’ll tell you all about it. Shall I open a bottle?”
“Yes, if it’s milk,” she said. “What’s the little job and how much does it carry?”
“Would you faint if I said a thousand?” he asked, and opened the hatch again, looking through and closing it.
“Who are you expecting?” she asked. “…all right, don’t be rude. No, thousands never make me faint. Especially when they’re talked about–”
“Now listen.”
Mr Machfield was too good a talker to be brief. He led from a preamble to sections, into subsections…
“One minute.”
He interrupted his explanation to lift the hatch. She saw him bringing it down; then unexpectedly he raised it again. Was it the effect of odd lighting, or had his face changed colour? He dropped the hatch softly and gaped round at her.
“Who let him in? That doorman has ‘shopped’ me–”
“Who is it?” she asked.
He beckoned her to his side, lifting the panel an inch. “Stoop!” he hissed. “Look…that fellow with the side-whiskers.”
“Oh – is he anybody?” She did not recognize the visitor. Possibly he was a bailiff; he looked hopelessly suburban, like the people who serve writs. They always wear ready-to-wear ties and coloured handkerchiefs that stick out of their breast pockets.
“Reeder… J G Reeder!”
She wanted to raise the hatch and look, but he would not allow this.
“Go out and see what you can do…wait a bit.”
He lifted a house telephone and pressed a knob.
“Who was that fellow…the old fellow with side-whiskers?… Got a card…what name…Reeder?”
He put down the ’phone unsteadily. Mr Machfield gave small membership cards to the right people. They were issued with the greatest care and after elaborate enquiries had been made as to the antecedents of the man or woman so honoured.