Terror Keep · Chapter 9 (1/3)

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 emphasized 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 fingertips together, he had an appearance which was oddly reminiscent.

“The fact that he left behind a pair of pajamas 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 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 this day!”

Margaret Belman’s mouth opened in amazement.

“I had a wire from him this afternoon saying he was coming tonight, 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 gray 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 office, 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 annex. 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 a 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 uneasiness. Ever since yesterday morning I have been wondering whether I ought not to call up Scotland Yard, that splendid institution, and ask them to dispatch 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 that 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 in 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 apologized. “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 tallboy and dressing table with a settee before it were also of the Jacobean period.

“That was his bed, where the pajamas 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 toward 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.