‘He ought to,’ was the grim reply. ‘I did my best to send him to prison before he skipped from England.’
‘Humph!’ said Mr Reeder. ‘I’m sorry he knows you.’
‘Why?’ The inspector stopped on the stairs to ask the question.
‘Because he saw us getting out of the cab. I caught sight of his face, and–’
He stopped suddenly. The sound of a shot thundered through the house, and in another second the inspector was racing up the stairs two at a time and had burst into the suite which Carlin occupied.
A glimpse of the prostrate figure told them they were too late. The inspector bent over the dead man.
‘That has saved the country the cost of a murder trial,’ he said.
‘I think not,’ said Mr Reeder gently, and explained his reasons.
Half an hour later, as Mr Lassard walked out of his office, a detective tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Your name is Elter,’ he said, ‘and I want you for murder.’
‘It was a very simple case really, sir,’ explained Mr Reeder to his chief. ‘Elter, of course, was known to me personally, but I remember especially that he could not spell the word “able”, and I recognized this peculiarity in our friend the moment I saw the letter which he wrote to his patron asking for the money. It was Elter himself who drew the five thousand pounds; of that I am convinced. The man is, and always has been, an inveterate gambler, and I did not have to make many inquiries before I discovered that he was owing a large sum of money and that one bookmaker had threatened to bring him before Tattersall’s Committee unless he paid. That would have meant the end of Mr Lassard, the philanthropic custodian of children. Which, by the way, was always Elter’s role. He ran bogus charitable societies – it is extraordinarily easy to find dupes who are willing to subscribe for philanthropic objects. Many years ago, when I was a young man, I was instrumental in getting him seven years. I’d lost sight of him since then until I saw the letter he sent to Lord Sellington. Unfortunately for him, one line ran: “I shall be glad if you are able to let my messenger have the money” – and he spelt “able” in the Elter way. I called on him and made sure. And then I wrote to his lordship, who apparently did not open the letter till late that night.
‘Elter had called on him earlier in the evening and had had a long talk with him. I only surmise that Lord Sellington had expressed a doubt as to whether he ought to leave his nephew penniless, scoundrel though he was; and Elter was terrified that his scheme for getting possession of the old man’s money was in danger of failing. Moreover, my appearance in the case had scared him. He decided to kill Lord Sellington that night, took aconitine with him to the house and introduced it into the medicine, a bottle of which always stood on Sellington’s desk. Whether the old man destroyed the will which disinherited his nephew before he discovered he had been poisoned, or whether he did it after, we shall never know. When I had satisfied myself that Lassard was Elter, I sent a letter by special messenger to Stratford Place–’
‘That was the letter delivered by special messenger?’
Mr Reeder nodded.
‘It is possible that Sellington was already under the influence of the drug when he burnt the will, and burnt too the four bills which Carlin had forged and which the old man had held over his head as a threat. Carlin may have known his uncle was dead; he certainly recognized the inspector when he stepped out of the cab, and, thinking he was to be arrested for forgery, shot himself.’
Mr Reeder pursed his lips and his melancholy face grew longer.
‘I wish I had never known Mrs Carlin – my acquaintance with her introduces that element of coincidence which is permissible in stories but is so distressing in actual life. It shakes one’s confidence in the logic of things.’
There are eight million people in Greater London and each one of those eight millions is in theory and practice equal under the law and commonly precious to the community. So that, if one is wilfully wronged, another must be punished; and if one dies of premeditated violence, his slayer must hang by the neck until lie be dead.
It is rather difficult for the sharpest law-eyes to keep tag of eight million people, at least one million of whom never keep still and are generally unattached to any particular domicile. It is equally difficult to place an odd twenty thousand or so who have domiciles but no human association. These include tramps, aged maiden ladies in affluent circumstances, peripatetic members of the criminal classes and other friendless individuals.
Sometimes uneasy inquiries come through to headquarters. Mainly they are most timid and deferential. Mr X has not seen his neighbour, Mr Y, for a week. No, he doesn’t know Mr Y. Nobody does. A little old man who had no friends and spent his fine days pottering in a garden overlooked by his more gregarious neighbour. And now Mr Y potters no more. His milk has not been taken in; his blinds are drawn. Comes a sergeant of police and a constable who breaks a window and climbs through, and Mr Y is dead somewhere – dead of starvation or a fit or suicide. Should this be the case, all is plain sailing. But suppose the house empty and Mr Y disappeared. Here the situation becomes difficult and delicate.
Miss Elver went away to Switzerland. She was a middle-aged spinster who had the appearance of being comfortably circumstanced. She went away, locked up her house and never came back. Switzerland looked for her; the police of Italy searched north Italy from Domodessola to Montecattini. And the search did not yield a thin-faced maiden lady with a slight squint.
And then Mr Charles Boyson Middlekirk, an eccentric and overpowering old man who quarrelled with his neighbours about their noisy children, he too went away. He told nobody where he was going. He lived alone with his three cats and was not on speaking terms with anybody else. He did not return to his grimy house.
He too was well off and reputedly a miser. So was Mrs Athbell Marting, a dour widow who lived with her drudge of a niece. This lady was in the habit of disappearing without any preliminary announcement of her intention. The niece was allowed to order from the local tradesmen just sufficient food to keep body and soul together, and when Mrs Marting returned (as she invariably did) the bills were settled with a great deal of grumbling, and that was that. It was believed that Mrs Marting went to Boulogne or to Paris or even to Brussels. But one day she went out and never came back. Six months later her niece advertised for her; she chose the cheapest papers – having an eye to the day of reckoning.
‘Queer sort of thing,’ said the Public Prosecutor, who had before him the dossiers of four people (three women and a man) who had so vanished in three months.
He frowned, pressed a bell and Mr Reeder came in. Mr Reeder took the chair that was indicated, looked owlishly over his glasses and shook his head as though he understood the reason for his summons and denied his understanding in advance.
‘What do you make of these disappearances?’ asked his chief.
‘You cannot make any positive of a negative,’ said Mr Reeder carefully. ‘London is a large place full of strange, mad people who live such – um – commonplace lives that the wonder is that more of them do not disappear in order to do something different from what they are accustomed to doing.’
‘Have you seen these particulars?’
Mr Reeder nodded.
‘I have copies of them,’ he said. ‘Mr Salter very kindly–’
The Public Prosecutor rubbed his head in perplexity. ‘I see nothing in these cases – nothing in common, I mean. Four is a fairly low average for a big city–’
‘Twenty-seven in twelve months,’ interrupted his detective apologetically.
‘Twenty-seven – are you sure?’ The great official was astounded.
Mr Reeder nodded again.
‘They were all people with a little money; all were drawing a fairly large income, which was paid to them in banknotes on the first of every month – nineteen of them were, at any rate. I have yet to verify eight – and they were all most reticent as to where their revenues came from. None of them had any personal friends or relatives who were on terms of friendship, except Mrs Marting. Beyond these points of resemblance there was nothing to connect one with the other.’
The Prosecutor looked at him sharply, but Mr Reeder was never sarcastic. Not obviously so, at any rate.
‘There is another point which I omitted to mention,’ he went on. ‘After their disappearance no further money came for them. It came for Mrs Marting when she was away on her jaunts, but it ceased when she went away on her final journey.’
‘But twenty-seven – are you sure?’
Mr Reeder reeled off the list, giving name, address and date of disappearance.
‘What do you think has happened to them?’
Mr Reeder considered for a moment, staring glumly at the carpet.
‘I should imagine that they were murdered,’ he said, almost cheerfully, and the Prosecutor half rose from his chair.
‘You are in your gayest mood this morning, Mr Reeder,’ he said sardonically. ‘Why on earth should they be murdered?’
Mr Reeder did not explain. The interview took place in the late afternoon, and he was anxious to be gone, for he had a tacit appointment to meet a young lady of exceeding charm who at five minutes after five would be waiting on the corner of Westminster Bridge and Thames Embankment for the Lee bus.
The sentimental qualities of Mr Reeder were entirely unknown. There are those who say that his sorrow over those whom fate and ill-fortune brought into his punitive hands was the veriest hypocrisy. There were others who believed that he was genuinely pained to see a fellow-creature sent behind bars through his efforts and evidence.
His housekeeper, who thought he was a woman-hater, told her friends in confidence that he was a complete stranger to the tender emotions which enlighten and glorify humanity. In the ten years which she had sacrificed to his service he had displayed neither emotion nor tenderness except to inquire whether her sciatica was better or to express a wish that she should take a holiday by the sea. She was a woman beyond middle age, but there is no period of life wherein a woman gives up hoping for the best. Though the most perfect of servants in all respects, she secretly despised him, called him, to her intimates, a frump, and suspected him of living apart from an ill-treated wife. This lady was a widow (as she had told him when he first engaged her) and she had seen better – far better – days.
Her visible attitude towards Mr Reeder was one of respect and awe. She excused the queer character of his callers and his low acquaintances. She forgave him his old-fashioned shoes and his aged bowler, and even admired the ready-made tie he wore and which was fastened behind the collar with a little buckle, the prongs of which invariably punctured his fingers when he fastened it. But there is a limit to all hero-worship, and when she discovered that Mr Reeder was in the habit of waiting to escort a young lady to town every day, and frequently found it convenient to escort her home, the limit was reached.
Mrs Hambleton told her friends – and they agreed – that there was no fool like an old fool, and that marriages between the old and the young invariably end in the divorce court (December v. May and July). She used to leave copies of a favourite Sunday newspaper on his table, where he could not fail to see the flaring headlines:
Old Man's Wedding Romance Wife's Deceit brings Grey Hair in Sorrow to the Law Courts
Whether Mr Reeder perused these human documents she did not know. He never referred to the tragedies of ill-assorted unions, and went on meeting Miss Belman every morning at nine o’clock, and at five-five in the afternoons whenever his work permitted.
He so rarely discussed his own business or introduced the subject that was exercising his mind that it was remarkable he should make even an oblique reference to his work. Possibly he would not have done so if Miss Margaret Belman had not introduced (unwillingly) a leader of conversation which traced indirectly to the disappearances.
They had been talking of holidays: Margaret was going to Cromer for a fortnight.
‘I shall leave on the second. My monthly dividends – doesn’t that sound grand? – are due on the first–’
‘What!’
Reeder turned in surprise. Dividends in most companies are paid at half-yearly intervals.
‘Dividends, Miss Margaret?’
She flushed a little at his surprise and then laughed.
‘You didn’t realize that I was a woman of property?’ she teased him. ‘I receive ten pounds a month – my father left me a small country cottage. I sold it two years ago for a thousand pounds and found a wonderful investment.’
Mr Reeder made a rapid calculation.
‘You are drawing something like 12½ per cent,’ he said. ‘That is indeed a wonderful investment. What is the name of the company?’
She hesitated.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. You see – well, it’s rather secret. It’s to do with a South American syndicate that supplies arms to – what do you call them – insurgents! I know it’s rather dreadful to make money that way – I mean out of arms and things, but it pays terribly well and I can’t afford to miss the opportunity.’
Reeder frowned.
‘But why is it such a terrible secret?’ he asked. ‘Quite a number of respectable people make money out of armament concerns.’
Again she showed reluctance to explain her meaning.
‘We are pledged – the shareholders, I mean – not to divulge our connexion with the company,’ she said. ‘That is one of the agreements I had to sign. And the money comes regularly. I have had nearly £300 of my thousand back in dividends already.’
‘Humph!’ said Mr Reeder wise enough not to press his question. There was another day tomorrow.
But the opportunity to which he looked forward on the following morning was denied to him. Somebody played a grim ‘joke’ on him – the kind of joke to which he was accustomed, for there were men who had good reason to hate him, and never a year passed but one or the other sought to repay him for his unkindly attentions.
‘Your name’s Reeder, ain’t it?’