when, in the early part of 1914, Lew Kohl was sentenced for ten years, he neither screamed his imprecations nor registered a vow to tear Mr. Reeder’s heart, lungs and important organs from his frail body.
Lew just smiled and his eyes caught the detective’s for the space of a second-the forger’s eyes were pale blue and speculative, and they held neither hate nor fury. Instead, they said in so many words:
‘At the first opportunity I will kill you.’
Mr. Reeder read the message and sighed heavily, for he disliked fuss of all kinds, and resented, in so far as he could resent anything, the injustice of being made personally responsible for the performance of a public duty.
Many years had passed, and considerable changes had occurred in Mr. Reeder’s fortune. He had transferred from the specialised occupation of detecting the makers of forged banknotes to the more general practice of the Public Prosecutor’s bureau, but he never forgot Lew’s smile.
The work in Whitehall was not heavy and it was very interesting. To Mr. Reeder came most of the anonymous letters which the Director received in shoals. In the main they were self-explanatory, and it required no particular intelligence to discover their motive. Jealousy, malice, plain mischief-making, and occasionally a sordid desire to benefit financially by the information which was conveyed, were behind the majority. But occasionally:
‘Sir James is going to marry his cousin, and it’s not three months since his poor wife fell overboard from the Channel steamer crossing to Calais. There’s something very fishy about this business. Miss Margaret doesn’t like him, for she knows he’s after her money. Why was I sent away to London that night? He doesn’t like driving in the dark, either. It’s strange that he wanted to drive that night when it was raining like blazes.’
This particular letter was signed ‘A Friend.’ Justice has many such friends.
‘Sir James’ was Sir James Tithermite, who had been a director of some new public department during the war and had received a baronetcy for his services.
‘Look it up,’ said the Director when he saw the letter. ‘I seem to remember that Lady Tithermite was drowned at sea.’
‘On the nineteenth of December last year,’ said Mr. Reeder solemnly. ‘She and Sir James were going to Monte Carlo, breaking their journey in Paris. Sir James, who has a house near Maidstone, drove to Dover, garaging the car at the Lord Wilson Hotel. The night was stormy and the ship had a rough crossing-they were halfway across when Sir James came to the purser and said that he had missed his wife. Her baggage was in the cabin, her passport, rail ticket and hat, but the lady was not found, indeed was never seen again.’
The Director nodded.
‘I see, you’ve read up the case.’
‘I remember it,’ said Mr. Reeder. ‘The case is a favourite speculation of mine. Unfortunately I see evil in everything and I have often thought how easy-but I fear that I take a warped view of life. It is a horrible handicap to possess a criminal mind.’
The Director looked at him suspiciously. He was never quite sure whether Mr. Reeder was serious. At that moment, his sobriety was beyond challenge.
‘A discharged chauffeur wrote that letter, of course,’ he began.
‘Thomas Dayford, of 179, Barrack Street, Maidstone,’ concluded Mr. Reeder. ‘He is at present in the employ of the Kent MotorBus Company, and has three children, two of whom are twins and bonny little rascals.’
The Chief laughed helplessly.
“I’ll take it that you know!” he said. ‘See what there is behind the letter. Sir James is a big fellow in Kent, a Justice of the Peace, and he has powerful political influences. There is nothing in this letter, of course. Go warily, Reeder-if any kick comes back to this office, it goes on to you-intensified!’
Mr. Reeder’s idea of walking warily was peculiarly his own. He travelled down to Maidstone the next morning, and, finding a bus that passed the lodge gates of Elfreda Manor, he journeyed comfortably and economically, his umbrella between his knees. He passed through the lodge gates, up a long and winding avenue of poplars, and presently came within sight of the grey manor house.
In a deep chair on the lawn he saw a girl sitting, a book on her knees, and evidently she saw him, for she rose as he crossed the lawn and came towards him eagerly.
‘I’m Miss Margaret Letherby-are you from – ?’ She mentioned the name of a well-known firm of lawyers, and her face fell when Mr. Reeder regretfully disclaimed connection with those legal lights.
She was as pretty as a perfect complexion and a round, not too intellectual, face could, in combination, make her.
‘I thought-do you wish to see Sir James? He is in the library. If you ring, one of the maids will take you to him.’
Had Mr. Reeder been the sort of man who could be puzzled by anything, he would have been puzzled by the suggestion that any girl with money of her own should marry a man much older than herself against her own wishes. There was little mystery in the matter now. Miss Margaret would have married any strong-willed man who insisted.
‘Even me,’ said Mr. Reeder to himself, with a certain melancholy pleasure.
There was no need to ring the bell. A tall, broad man in a golfing suit stood in the doorway. His fair hair was long and hung over his forehead in a thick flat strand; a heavy tawny moustache hid his mouth and swept down over a chin that was long and powerful.
‘Well?’ he asked aggressively.
‘I’m from the Public Prosecutor’s office,’ murmured Mr. Reeder. ‘I have had an anonymous letter.’
His pale eyes did not leave the face of the other man.
‘Come in,’ said Sir James gruffly. As he closed the door he glanced quickly first to the girl and then to the poplar avenue. ‘I’m expecting a fool of a lawyer,’ he said, as he flung open the door of what was evidently the library.
His voice was steady; not by a flicker of eyelash had he betrayed the slightest degree of anxiety when Reeder had told his mission.
‘Well-what about this anonymous letter? You don’t take much notice of that kind of trash, do you?’
Mr. Reeder deposited his umbrella and flat-crowned hat on a chair before he took a document from his pocket and handed it to the baronet, who frowned as he read. Was it Mr. Reeder’s vivid imagination, or did the hard light in the eyes of Sir James soften as he read?
‘This is a cock and bull story of somebody having seen my wife’s jewellery on sale in Paris,’ he said. ‘There is nothing in it. I can account for every one of my poor wife’s trinkets. I brought back the jewel case after that awful night. I don’t recognise the handwriting: who is the lying scoundrel who wrote this?’
Mr. Reeder had never before been called a lying scoundrel, but he accepted the experience with admirable meekness.
“I thought it untrue,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I followed the details of the case very thoroughly. You left here in the afternoon-’
‘At night,’ said the other brusquely. He was not inclined to discuss the matter, but Mr. Reeder’s appealing look was irresistible. ‘It is only eighty minutes’ run to Dover. We got to the pier at eleven o’clock, about the same time as the boat train, and we went on board at once. I got my cabin key from the purser and put her ladyship and her baggage inside.’
‘Her ladyship was a good sailor?’
‘Yes, a very good sailor; she was remarkably well that night. I left her in the cabin dozing, and went for a stroll on the deck-’
‘Raining very heavily and a strong sea running,’ nodded Reeder, as though in agreement with something the other man had said.
‘Yes-I’m a pretty good sailor-anyway, that