The Mind of Mr. J. G. Reeder · The Treasure Hunt (2/3)

He said this in the manner of one bestowing praise for good conduct.

“I suppose you’ve got a pretty good idea of why I have come, eh? I’m a bad forgetter, Reeder, and a man in Dartmoor has time to think.”

The older man lifted his sandy eyebrows, the steel-rimmed glasses on his nose slipped further askew.

“That phrase seems familiar,” he said, and the eyebrows lowered in a frown. “Now let me think⁠—it was in a melodrama, of course, but was it Souls in Harness or The Marriage Vow?”

He appeared genuinely anxious for assistance in solving this problem.

“This is going to be a different kind of play,” said the long-faced Lew through his teeth. “I’m going to get you, Reeder⁠—you can go along and tell your boss, the Public Prosecutor. But I’ll get you sweet! There will be no evidence to swing me. And I’ll get that nice little stocking of yours, Reeder!”

The legend of Reeder’s fortune was accepted even by so intelligent a man as Kohl.

“You’ll get my stocking! Dear me, I shall have to go barefooted,” said Mr. Reeder, with a faint show of humour.

“You know what I mean⁠—think that over. Some hour and day you’ll go out, and all Scotland Yard won’t catch me for the killing! I’ve thought it out⁠—”

“One has time to think in Dartmoor,” murmured Mr. J. G. Reeder encouragingly. “You’re becoming one of the world’s thinkers, Kohl. Do you know Rodin’s masterpiece⁠—a beautiful statue throbbing with life⁠—”

“That’s all.” Lew Kohl rose, the smile still trembling at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe you’ll turn this over in your mind, and in a day or two you won’t be feeling so gay.”

Reeder’s face was pathetic in its sadness. His untidy sandy-grey hair seemed to be standing on end; the large ears, that stood out at right angles to his face, gave the illusion of quivering movement.

Lew Kohl’s hand was on the doorknob.

“Womp!”

It was the sound of a dull weight striking a board; something winged past his cheek, before his eyes a deep hole showed in the wall, and his face was stung by flying grains of plaster. He spun round with a whine of rage.

Mr. Reeder had a long-barrelled Browning in his hand, with a barrel-shaped silencer over the muzzle, and he was staring at the weapon open-mouthed.

“Now how on earth did that happen?” he asked in wonder.

Lew Kohl stood trembling with rage and fear, his face yellow-white.

“You⁠—you swine!” he breathed. “You tried to shoot me!”

Mr. Reeder stared at him over his glasses.

“Good gracious⁠—you think that? Still thinking of killing me, Kohl?”

Kohl tried to speak but found no words, and, flinging open the door, he strode down the stairs and through the front entrance. His foot was on the first step when something came hurtling past him and crashed to fragments at his feet. It was a large stone vase that had decorated the windowsill of Mr. Reeder’s bedroom. Leaping over the debris of stone and flower mould, he glared up into the surprised face of Mr. J. G. Reeder.

“I’ll get you!” he spluttered.

“I hope you’re not hurt?” asked the man at the window in a tone of concern. “These things happen. Some day and some hour⁠—”

As Lew Kohl strode down the street, the detective was still talking.

Mr. Stan Bride was at his morning ablutions when his friend and sometime prison associate came into the little room that overlooked Fitzroy Square.

Stan Bride, who bore no resemblance to anything virginal, being a stout and stumpy man with a huge, red face and many chins, stopped in the act of drying himself and gazed over the edge of the towel.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked sharply. “You look as if you’d been chased by a busy. What did you go out so early for?”

Lew told him, and the jovial countenance of his roommate grew longer and longer⁠—

“You poor fish!” he hissed. “To go after Reeder with that stuff! Don’t you think he was waiting for you? Do you suppose he didn’t know the very moment you left the Moor?”

“I’ve scared him, anyway,” said the other, and Mr. Bride laughed.

“Good scout!” he sneered. “Scare that old person!” (He did not say “person.”) “If he’s as white as you, he is scared! But he’s not. Of course he shot past you⁠—if he’d wanted to shoot you, you’d have been stiff by now. But he didn’t. Thinker, eh⁠—he’s given you somep’n’ to think about.”

“Where that gun came from I don’t⁠—”

There was a knock at the door and the two men exchanged glances.

“Who’s there?” asked Bride, and a familiar voice answered.

“It’s that busy from the Yard,” whispered Bride, and opened the door.

The “busy” was Sergeant Allford, C.I.D., an affable and portly man and a detective of some promise.

“Morning, boys⁠—not been to church, Stan?”

Stan grinned politely.

“How’s trade, Lew?”

“Not so bad.” The forger was alert, suspicious.

“Come to see you about a gun⁠—got an idea you’re carrying one, Lew—Colt automatic R.7/94318. That’s not right, Lew—guns don’t belong to this country.”

“I’ve got no gun,” said Lew sullenly.

Bride had suddenly become an old man, for he also was a convict on licence, and the discovery might send him back to serve his unfinished sentence.

“Will you come a little walk to the station, or will you let me go over you?”

“Go over me,” said Lew, and put out his arms stiffly whilst the detective rubbed him down.

“I’ll have a look round,” said the detective, and his “look round” was very thorough.

“Must have been mistaken,” said Sergeant Allford. And then, suddenly: “Was that what you chucked into the river as you were walking along the Embankment?”

Lew started. It was the first intimation he had received that he had been “tailed” that morning.

Bride waited till the detective was visible from the window crossing Fitzroy Square; then he turned in a fury on his companion.

“Clever, ain’t you! That old hound knew you had a gun⁠—knew the number. And if Allford had found it you’d have been ‘dragged’ and me too!”

“I threw it in the river,” said Lew sulkily.

“Brains⁠—not many but some!” said Bride, breathing heavily. “You cut out Reeder⁠—he’s hell and poison, and if you don’t know it you’re deaf! Scared him? You big stiff! He’d cut your throat and write a hymn about it.”

“I didn’t know they were tailing me,” growled Kohl; “but I’ll get him! And his money too.”

“Get him from another lodging,” said Bride curtly. “A crook I don’t mind, being one; a murderer I don’t mind, but a talking jackass makes me sick. Get his stuff if you can⁠—I’ll bet it’s all invested in real estate, and you can’t lift houses⁠—but don’t talk about it. I like you, Lew, up to a point; you’re miles before the point and out of sight. I don’t like Reeder⁠—I don’t like snakes, but I keep away from the Zoo.”

So Lew Kohl went into new diggings on the top floor of an Italian’s house in Dean Street, and here he had leisure and inclination to brood upon his grievances and to plan afresh the destruction of his enemy. And new plans were needed, for the schemes which had seemed so watertight in the quietude of a Devonshire cell showed daylight through many crevices.

Lew’s homicidal urge had undergone considerable modification. He had been experimented upon by a very clever psychologist⁠—though he never regarded Mr. Reeder in this light, and, indeed, had the vaguest idea as to what the word meant. But there were other ways of hurting Reeder, and his mind fell constantly back to the dream of discovering this peccant detective’s hidden treasure.

It was nearly a week later that Mr. Reeder invited himself into the Director’s private sanctum, and that great official listened spellbound while his subordinate offered his outrageous theory about Sir James Tithermite and his dead wife. When Mr. Reeder had finished, the Director pushed back his chair from the table.

“My dear man,” he said, a little irritably, “I can’t possibly give a warrant on the strength of your surmises⁠—not even a search warrant. The story is so fantastic, so incredible, that it would be more at home in the pages of a sensational story than in a Public Prosecutor’s report.”

“It was a wild night, and yet Lady Tithermite was not ill,” suggested the detective gently. “That is a fact to remember, sir.”

The Director shook his head.

“I can’t do it⁠—not on the evidence,” he said. “I should raise a storm that’d swing me into Whitehall. Can’t you do anything⁠—unofficially?”

Mr. Reeder shook his head.

“My presence in the neighbourhood has been remarked,” he said primly. “I think it would be impossible to⁠—er⁠—cover up my traces. And yet I have located the place, and could tell you within a few inches⁠—”

Again the Director shook his head.

“No, Reeder,” he said quietly, “the whole thing is sheer deduction on your part. Oh, yes, I know you have a criminal mind⁠—I think you have told me that before. And that is a good reason why I should not issue a warrant. You’re simply crediting this unfortunate man with your ingenuity. Nothing doing!”

Mr. Reeder sighed and went back to his bureau, not entirely despondent, for there had intruded a new element into his investigations.

Mr. Reeder had been to Maidstone several times during the week, and he had not gone alone; though seemingly unconscious of the fact that he had developed a shadow, for he had seen Lew Kohl on several occasions, and had spent an uncomfortable few minutes wondering whether his experiment had failed.

On the second occasion an idea had developed in the detective’s mind, and if he were a laughing man he would have chuckled aloud when he slipped out of Maidstone station one evening and, in the act of hiring a cab, had seen Lew Kohl negotiating for another.

Mr. Bride was engaged in the tedious but necessary practice of so cutting a pack of cards that the ace of diamonds remained at the bottom, when his former co-lodger burst in upon him, and there was a light of triumph in Lew’s cold eye which brought Mr. Bride’s heart to his boots.

“I’ve got him!” said Lew.

Bride put aside the cards and stood up.

“Got who?” he asked coldly. “And if it’s killing, you needn’t answer, but get out!”

“There’s no killing.”

Lew sat down squarely at the table, his hands in his pockets, a real smile on his face.

“I’ve been trailing Reeder for a week, and that fellow wants some trailing!”

“Well?” asked the other, when he paused dramatically.

“I’ve found his stocking!”

Bride scratched his chin, and was half convinced.

“You never have?”

Lew nodded.

“He’s been going to Maidstone a lot lately, and driving to a little village about five miles out. There I always lost him. But the other night, when he came back to the station to catch the last train, he slipped into the waiting-room and I found a place where I could watch him. What do you think he did?”

Mr. Bride hazarded no suggestion.

“He opened his bag,” said Lew impressively, “and took out a wad of notes as thick as that! He’d been drawing on his bank! I trailed him up to London. There’s a restaurant on the station and he went in to get a cup of coffee, with me keeping well out of his sight. As he came out of the restaurant he took out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth. He didn’t see the little book that dropped, but I did. I was scared sick that somebody else would see it, or that he’d wait long enough to find it himself. But he went out of the station and I got that book before you could say ‘knife.’ Look!”

It was a well-worn little notebook, covered with faded red morocco. Bride put out his hand to take it.

“Wait a bit,” said Lew. “Are you in this with me fifty-fifty, because I want some help?”

Bride hesitated.

“If it’s just plain thieving, I’m with you,” he said.

“Plain thieving⁠—and sweet,” said Lew exultantly, and pushed the book across the table.

For the greater part of the night they sat together talking in low tones, discussing impartially the methodical bookkeeping of Mr. J. G. Reeder and his exceeding dishonesty.

The Monday night was wet. A storm blew up from the southwest, and the air was filled with falling leaves as Lew and his companion footed the five miles which separated them from the village. Neither carried any impedimenta that was visible, yet under Lew’s waterproof coat was a kit of tools of singular ingenuity, and Mr. Bride’s coat pockets were weighted down with the sections of a powerful jemmy.

They met nobody in their walk, and the church bell was striking eleven when Lew gripped the bars of the South Lodge gates, pulled himself up to the top and dropped lightly on the other side. He was followed by Mr. Bride, who, in spite of his bulk, was a singularly agile man. The ruined lodge showed in the darkness, and they passed through the creaking gates to the door and Lew flashed his lantern upon the keyhole before he began manipulation with the implements which he had taken from his kit.

The door was opened in ten minutes and a few seconds later they stood in a low-roofed little room, the principal feature of which was a deep, grateless fireplace. Lew took off his mackintosh and stretched it over the window before he spread the light in his lamp, and, kneeling down, brushed the debris from the hearth, examining the joints of the big stone carefully.

“This work’s been botched,” he said. “Anybody could see that.”

He put the claw of the jemmy into a crack and levered up the stone, and it moved slightly. Stopping only to dig a deeper crevice with a chisel and hammer he thrust the claw of the jemmy farther down. The stone came up above the edge of the floor and Bride slipped the chisel underneath.

“Now together,” grunted Lew.

They got their fingers beneath the hearthstone and with one heave hinged it up. Lew picked up the lamp and, kneeling down, flashed a light into the dark cavity. And then:

“Oh, my God!” he shrieked.

A second later two terrified men rushed from the house into the drive. And a miracle had happened, for the gates were open and a dark figure stood squarely before them.

“Put up your hands, Kohl!” said a voice, and hateful as it was to Lew Kohl, he could have fallen on the neck of Mr. Reeder.

At twelve o’clock that night Sir James Tithermite was discussing matters with his bride-to-be: the stupidity of her lawyer, who wished to safeguard her fortune, and his own cleverness and foresight in securing complete freedom of action for the girl who was to be his wife.

“These blackguards think of nothing but their fees,” he began, when his footman came in unannounced, and behind him the Chief Constable of the county and a man he remembered seeing before.

“Sir James Tithermite?” said the Chief Constable unnecessarily, for he knew Sir James very well.

“Yes, Colonel, what is it?” asked the baronet, his face twitching.

“I am taking you into custody on a charge of wilfully murdering your wife, Eleanor Mary Tithermite.”

“The whole thing turned upon the question as to whether Lady Tithermite was a good or a bad sailor,” explained J. G. Reeder to his chief. “If she were a bad sailor, it was unlikely that she would be on the ship, even for five minutes, without calling for the stewardess. The stewardess did not see her ladyship, nor did anybody on board, for the simple reason that she was not on board! She was murdered within the grounds of the Manor; her body was buried beneath the hearthstone of the old lodge, and Sir James continued his journey by car to Dover, handing over his packages to a porter and telling him to take them to his cabin before he returned to put the car into the hotel garage. He had timed his arrival so that he passed on board with a crowd of passengers from the boat train, and nobody knew whether he was alone or whether he was accompanied, and, for the matter of that, nobody cared. The purser gave him his key, and he put the baggage, including his wife’s hat, into the cabin, paid the porter and dismissed him. Officially, Lady Tithermite was on board, for he surrendered her ticket to the collector and received her landing voucher. And then he discovered she had disappeared. The ship was searched, but of course the unfortunate lady was not found. As I remarked before⁠—”