CHAPTER IV

It was half past twelve when Mr. Reeder’s taxi brought him into Shadwick Lane, which was alive with people. A police cordon was drawn across the gate, but Gaylor, who was waiting for him, conducted him into the yard.

“We’re dragging the river for the body,” he explained.

“Where was it committed?” asked Mr. Reeder.

“Come inside,” said the other grimly, “and then you will ask no questions.”

It was not a pleasant sight that met Mr. Reeder’s eyes, though he was a man not easily sickened. The little sitting-room was a confusion of smashed furniture, the walls splashed with red. A corner table, however, had been left untouched. Here were two glasses of whisky, one full, the other half-empty. A half-smoked cigar was carefully laid on a piece of paper by the side of these.

“The murder was committed here and the body was dragged to the edge of the wharf and thrown into the water,” said Gaylor. “There’s plenty of evidence of that.

“We’ve taken possession of a lot of papers, and we found a letter on the mantelpiece from a man named Southers--John Southers. No address, but evidently from the handwriting a person of some education. At nine twenty-five to-night Attymar had a visitor, a young man who was admitted through the wicket gate, and who was seen to leave at twenty-five minutes to ten, about ten minutes after he arrived.”

Gaylor opened an attaché case and took out a battered, cheap silver watch, which had evidently been under somebody’s heel. The glass was smashed, the case was bent out of shape. The hands stood at nine-thirty.

“One of the people here recognized this as Ligsey’s--a woman who lives in the street who had pawned it for him on one occasion. It’s important, because it probably gives us the hour of the murder, if you allow the watch to be a little fast or slow. It’s hardly likely to be accurate. We have sent a description round of Southers, though it isn’t a very good one, but it will probably be sufficient. I’m having a facsimile of the writing----”

“I can save you the trouble; here is the young man’s address.”

Mr. Reeder took a notebook from his pocket, scribbled a few lines and handed it to the detective. He looked glumly at the bloodstained room and the evidence of tragedy, followed the detective in silence, whilst Gaylor, with the aid of a powerful light, showed the telltale stains leading from the wharf, and…

“Very interesting,” said Mr. Reeder. “When you recover the bodies I should like to see them.”

He stared out over the river, which was covered by a faint mist--not sufficient to impede navigation, but enough to shroud and make indistinct objects thirty or forty yards away.

“The barge is at Greenwich, I think,” he said, after a long silence. “Could I borrow a police launch?”

One of the launches was brought in to the crazy wharf and Mr. Reeder lowered himself gingerly, never losing grip of the umbrella which no man had seen unfurled. It was a chilly night, an easterly wind blowing up the river, but he sat in the bow of the launch motionless, sphinx-like, staring ahead as the boat streaked eastwards towards Greenwich.

It drew up by the side of the barge, which was moored close to the Surrey shore, and a quavering voice hailed them.

“That you, Ligsey?”

Mr. Reeder pulled himself on board before he replied.

“No, my boy,” he said gently, “it is not Ligsey. Were you expecting him?”

The youth held up his lantern, surveyed Mr. Reeder and visibly quailed.

“You’re a copper, ain’t yer?” he asked tremulously. “Have you pinched Ligsey?”

“I have not pinched Ligsey,” said Mr. Reeder, patting the boy gently on the back. “How long has he been gone?”

“He went about eight, soon after it was dark; the guv’nor come down for him.”

“The guv’nor come down for him,” repeated Mr. Reeder in a murmur. “Did you see the governor?”

“No, sir; he shouted for me to go below. Ligsey always makes me go below when him and the guv’nor have a talk.”

Mr. Reeder drew from his pocket a yellow carton of cigarettes and lit one before he pursued his inquiries.

“Then what happened?”

“Ligsey come down and packed his ditty box, and told me I was to hang on all night, but that I could go to sleep. I was frightened about being left alone on the barge----”

Mr. Reeder was already making his way down the companion to Ligsey’s quarters. Evidently all the man’s kit had been removed; even the sheets on his bed must have been folded and taken away, for the bunk was tumbled.

On a little swing table, which was a four-foot plank suspended from the deck above, was a letter. It was not fastened, and Mr. Reeder made no scruple in opening and reading its contents. It was in the handprint which, he had been informed, was the only kind of writing Attymar knew.

“Dear Mr. Southers, If you come aboard the stuff is in the engine-room. I have got to be very careful because the police are watching.”

When he questioned the boy, whose name was Hobbs, he learned that Ligsey had come down and left the letter. Mr. Reeder went aft and found the hatchway over the little engine-room unfastened, and descended into the strong-smelling depths where the engine was housed. It was here evidently that Attymar remained during his short voyages. There was a signal bell above his head, and a comfortable armchair had been fixed within reach of the levers.

His search here was a short one. Inside an open locker he found a small, square package, wrapped in oiled paper, and a glance at the label told him its contents, even though he did not read Dutch.

Returning to the boy, he questioned him closely. It was no unusual thing for Attymar to pick up his mate from the barge. The boy had once seen the launch, and described it as a very small tender. He knew nothing of Mr. Southers, had never seen him on board the ship, though occasionally people did come, on which occasions he was sent below.

At his request, Mr. Reeder was put ashore at Greenwich and got on the telephone to Gaylor. It was now two o’clock in the morning, and much had happened.

“We arrested that man Southers; found his trousers covered with blood. He admits he was at Attymar’s house to-night, and tells a cock-and-bull story of what he did subsequently. He didn’t get home till nearly twelve.”

“Extraordinary,” said Mr. Reeder, and the mildness of the comment evidently irritated Inspector Gaylor.

“That’s one way of putting it, but I think we’ve made a pretty good capture,” he said. “We’ve got enough evidence to hang him. Attymar’s left all sorts of notes on his invoices.”

“Amazing,” said Mr. Reeder, and gathered from the abruptness with which he was cut off that, for some mysterious reason, he had annoyed the man at Scotland Yard.

He sent back a short report with the documents and the drugs to Scotland Yard, and drove home by taxi. It was three o’clock by the time he reached Brockley Road, and he was not surprised to find his housekeeper up and to hear that Anna Welford was waiting for him.

She was very white and her manner was calm.

“You’ve heard about Johnny being arrested----” she began.

Mr. Reeder nodded.

“Yes, I gave them the necessary information as to where he was to be found,” he said, and he saw the colour come and go in her face.

“I--I suppose you--you had to do your duty?” she said haltingly. “But you know it’s not true, Mr. Reeder. You know Johnny… he couldn’t…” Her voice choked.

Mr. Reeder shook his head.

“I don’t know Johnny really,” he said apologetically. “He is--um--the merest acquaintance, Miss Welford. I am not saying that in disparagement of him, because obviously quite a number of people who aren’t my friends are respectable citizens. Did you see him before he was arrested?”

She nodded.

“Immediately before?”

“Half-an-hour before. He was terribly disappointed; he had gone to see about this partnership but he had a feeling that he’d been tricked, for nothing came of it. He had arranged to see me, and I waited up for him… he was crossing the road to his own house when he was arrested.”

“Did he wear a blue suit or a grey suit?”

“A blue suit,” she said quickly.

Mr. Reeder looked at the ceiling.

“Of course he wore a blue suit; otherwise--um…” He scratched his chin irritably. “It was a cold night, too. I can’t understand until I have seen his--um--trousers.”

She looked at him in bewilderment, a little fearfully. And then suddenly Mr. Reeder gave one of his rare smiles and dropped a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“I shouldn’t be too worried if I were you,” he said, with a kindly look in his eyes. “You’ve got quite a number of good friends, and you will find Mr. Desboyne will do a lot to help your Johnny.”

She shook her head.

“Clive doesn’t like Johnny,” she said.

“That I can well believe,” said Mr. Reeder good-humouredly. “Nevertheless, unless I’m a bad prophet, you will find Mr. Desboyne the one person who can clear up this--um--unpleasantness.”

“But who was the man who was killed? It’s all so terribly unreal to me. Attymar was his name, wasn’t it? Johnny didn’t know anybody named Attymar. At least, he didn’t tell me so. I’m absolutely stunned by this news, Mr. Reeder. I can’t realize its gravity. It seems just a stupid joke that somebody’s played on us. Johnny couldn’t do harm to any man.”

“I’m sure he couldn’t,” said Mr. Reeder soothingly, but that meant nothing.