CHAPTER VIII

Mr. Reeder was conscious of a headache and that the light shining in his eyes was painful. It was a tiny globe which burned in the roof of the cabin. Somebody was talking very distressedly; the falsetto voices Mr. Reeder loathed. His senses came back gradually.

He was shocked to find himself one of the figures in a most fantastical scene; something which did not belong to the great world of reality in which he lived and had his being. He was part of an episode, torn bodily from a most imaginative and impossible work of fiction.

The man who sat in one corner of the lounge, clasping his knees, was… Mr. Reeder puzzled for a word. Theatrical, of course. That red silk robe, that Mephistophelian cap, and the long black mask with the lace fringe that even hid the speaker’s chin. His hands were covered with jewelled rings which scintillated in the feeble light overhead.

Mr. Reeder could not very well move; he was handcuffed, his legs were strapped painfully together, and in his mouth was a piece of wood lightly tied behind his ears. It was not painful, but it could be, he realized. At any rate he was spared the necessity of replying to the exultant man who sat at the other end of the settee.

“… Did you hear what I said, my master of mystery?”

He spoke with a slightly foreign accent, this man in the red robe.

“You are so clever, and yet I am more clever, eh? All of it I planned out of my mind. The glittering silver pistol on the floor--that was the only way I could get you to stoop and bring your head into the gas. It was a very heavy gas which does not easily escape, but I was afraid you might have dropped a cigarette, and that would have betrayed everything. If you had waited a little time the gas would have rolled out of the open door; but no, you must have the pistol, so you stooped and picked it up, and _voila!_”

His hands glittered dazzlingly.

“You are used to criminals of the stupid kind,” he went on. “For the first time, my Reeder, you meet one who has planned everything step by step. Pardon me.”

He stepped down to the floor, leaned forward and untied the gag.

“I find it difficult if conversation is one-sided,” he said pleasantly. “If you make a fuss I shall shoot you and that will be the end. At present I desire that you should know everything. You know me?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t that pleasure,” said Mr. Reeder, and the man chuckled.

“If you had lived, I would have been your chief case, your _chef d’œuvre_, the one man of your acquaintance who could plan murder and--what is the expression?--get away with it! Do you know where you are?”

“I’m on the _Zaira_,” said Mr. Reeder.

“Do you know who is her owner?”

“She is owned by Mr. Clive Desboyne.”

The man chuckled at this.

“Poor fellow! The lovesick one, eh? For him this boat is--where do you think?--at Twickenham, for its spring repairs. He told you perhaps he had been mad enough to let it for two months? No, he did not tell you? Ah, that is interesting. Perhaps he forgot.”

Mr. Reeder nodded slowly.

“Now tell me, my friend--my time is very short and I cannot waste it here with you--do you know who killed Attymar?”

“You are Attymar,” said Mr. Reeder, and was rewarded by a shrill chuckle of delighted laughter.

“So clever, after all! It is a good thing I have you, eh? Otherwise”--he shrugged his shoulders lightly. “That is the very best joke--I am Attymar! Do I speak like him, yes? Possibly--who knows?”

He slipped from his seat and came stealthily towards Reeder and fixed the gag a little tighter.

“Where shall you be this night, do you think, with a big, heavy chain fastened around you? I know all the deepest holes in this river, and years and years will pass before they find your body. To think that this great London shall lose its Mr. Reeder! So many people have tried to kill you, my friend, but they have failed because they are criminals--just stupid fellows who cannot plan like a general.”

Mr. Reeder said nothing; he could not raise his hand far enough to relieve the pressure on his mouth, for attached to the centre link of the handcuffs was a cord fastened to the strap about his ankles.

The man in the red cloak bent over him, his eyes glaring through the holes in the mask.

“Last night I tried you. I say to myself, ‘Is this man stupid or is he clever?’” He spoke quickly and in a low voice. “So I send you the little bomb. I would have sent it also to Desboyne--he also will die to-night, and our friend Mr. Southers will be hanged, and there will be the end of you all! And I will go sailing to the southern seas, and no man will raise his hand against me, because I am clever.”

Mr. Reeder thought he was a little monotonous. In spite of his terrible position, he was intensely bored. The man in the red cloak must have heard something, for he went quickly to the door and listened more intently, then, mounting the stairs, slammed the door behind him and put on the padlock. Presently Mr. Reeder heard him mount the side of the boat and guessed he had stepped ashore to meet whatever interruption was threatened. It was, in truth, the boat-builder, who had come to make inquiries, and the grey-haired man with the stoop and the white moustache and twisted face was able to assure him that Mr. Reeder had made an offer for the boat, but it had been rejected, and that the detective had gone on to Marlow.

The prisoner had a quarter of an hour to consider his unfortunate position and to supply a remedy. Mr. Reeder satisfied himself that it was a simple matter to free his hands from the steel cuffs. He had peculiarly thin wrists and his large, bony hands were very deceptive. He freed one, adjusted the gag to a less uncomfortable tension, and brought himself to a sitting position. He swayed and would have fallen to the floor but for a stroke of luck. The effort showed him how dangerous it would be to make an attempt to escape before he recovered strength. His pistol had been taken from him; the silver-handled revolver had also been removed. He resumed his handcuffs and had not apparently moved when his captor opened the door, only to look in.

“I’m afraid you will have to do without food to-day--does it matter?”

Now Mr. Reeder saw that on the inside of the saloon door was a steel door. It was painted the same colour as the woodwork, and it was on this discovery that he based his hope of life. For some reason, which he never understood, his enemy switched on two lights from the outside, and this afforded him an opportunity of taking stock of his surroundings.

The portholes were impossible--he understood now why they had been made airtight with brown paper. It would be as much as he could do to get his arms through them. Having decided upon his plan of campaign, Mr. Reeder acted with his customary energy. He could not allow his life to depend upon the caprice of this man. Evidently the intention was to take him out late at night, loaded with chains, and drop him overboard; but he might have cause to change his mind. And that, Mr. Reeder thought, would be very unfortunate.

His worst forebodings were in a fair way to being realized, did he but know. The man who stood in his shirt sleeves, prodding at the centre of the backwater, had suddenly realized the danger which might follow the arrival of a curious-minded policeman. The boat-builder would certainly gossip. Reeder had something of an international reputation, and the local police would be only too anxious to make his acquaintance.

Gossip runs up and down a river with a peculiar facility. He went into the engine cabin, where he had stowed his fantastic robe and hat, and dragged out a little steel cylinder. Unfasten that nozzle, leave it on the floor near where the helpless man lay, and in a quarter of an hour perhaps…

He cold-bloodedly pulled out two links of heavy chain and dropped them with a crash on the deck. Mr. Reeder heard the sound; he wrenched one hand free of the cuff, not without pain, broke the gag, and, drawing himself up into a sitting position, unfastened the first of the two straps. His head was splitting from the effect of the gas. As his feet touched the floor he reeled. The second cuff he removed at his leisure. He was so close to the door now that he could drop the bar. It stuck for a little while, but presently he drew it down. It fell with a clatter into the pocket.

The man on the deck heard, ran to the door and tugged, drew off the padlock and tried to force his way in.

“I’m afraid you’re rather late,” said Mr. Reeder politely.

He could almost feel the vibration of the man’s fury. His vanity had been hurt; he had been proved a bungler by the one man in the world he wished to impress, whilst life held any impressions for him.

Then the man on the bridge heard a smash and saw some splinters of glass fly from one of the ports. There were five tiny airholes in one of the doors, but four of these had been plugged with clay. Taking the cylinder, he smashed the nozzle end through the obstruction. A wild, desperate idea came to the harassed man. Reeder heard the starting wheel turn, and presently the low hum of machinery. He heard the patter of feet across the deck and peered through the porthole, but it was below the level of the bank.

He looked round for a weapon but could find none. Of one thing he was certain: Mr. Red Robe would not dare to run for the river. There was quite enough traffic there for him to attract attention. He could not afford to wait for darkness to fall; his position was as desperate as Reeder’s own had been----

Bang!

It was the sound of a pistol shot, followed by another. Reeder heard somebody shout, then the sound of a man crashing through the bushes. Then he heard the deep voice of Clive Desboyne.

“Reeder… are you there? How are you?”

Mr. Reeder, a slave to politeness, put his mouth up to the broken porthole.

It was some time before Desboyne could knock off the padlock. Presently the door was opened and Mr. Reeder came out.

“Thank God, you’re safe!” said the other breathlessly. “Who was the old bird who shot at me?”

He pointed towards the place where the backwater turned.

“Is there a house there or a road or something? That’s the way he went. What has happened?”

Mr. Reeder was sitting on a little deck chair, his throbbing head between his hands. After a while he raised his face.

“I have met the greatest criminal in the world,” he said solemnly. “He’s so clever that he’s alive. His name is Attymar!”

Clive Desboyne opened his mouth in amazement.

“Attymar? But he’s dead!”

“I hope so,” said Mr. Reeder viciously, “but I have reason to know that he isn’t. No, no, young man, I won’t tell you what happened. I’m rather ashamed of myself. Anyway, I am not particularly proud of being caught by this”--he paused--“amateur. Why did you come?”

“It was only by luck. I don’t know why I came. I happened to ’phone through to Twickenham about some repairs to the boat--by the way, you must have seen a picture of it hanging in my hall. In fact, it was in that picture where you were so smart as to tell the date. I lent the _Zaira_ at times; I lent it a few months ago to an Italian or Serbian fellow, but he so ill-used it that I sent a message that it was to be sent back to the yard. They telephoned along the river for news of it, and that’s when I learnt you were down here--you look rotten.”

“I feel rotten,” said Mr. Reeder. “And you came----”

“I drove down. I had a sort of feeling in my mind that something was wrong. Then I met a man who’d seen the builder, and he told me about the little old fellow. Until then I didn’t know that he was in the boat, and I came along to make inquiries. For some reason, which I can’t understand, he no sooner saw me than he pulled a gun and let fly at me, and, turning, went like mad through those bushes.”

“Have you a gun?” asked Mr. Reeder.

Desboyne smiled.

“No, I don’t carry such things.”

“In that case it would be foolish to pursue my ancient enemy. Let one of the Buckingham Constabulary carry on the good work. Is your car anywhere handy?”

There was a road apparently within fifty yards.

“By Jove!” said Desboyne suddenly. “I left it outside the gates of an empty house. I wonder whether that’s the place where the old bird went--and whether my car is still there?”

It was there, in the drive of a deserted house: the two-seater coupe which had so excited the disgust of poor Johnny Southers. With some difficulty Clive started it up, and the action recalled something to him.

“Did we leave the engines of that boat running?” he asked suddenly. “If you don’t mind I’ll go back and turn them off; then I’ll notify the police, and I’ll send a man to bring the _Zaira_ into Maidenhead.”

He was gone ten minutes. Mr. Reeder had an opportunity of walking round the car and admiring it.

Rain had fallen in the night: he made this interesting discovery before Desboyne returned.

“We’ll run up to Marlow and I’ll get a man to go down and collect the boat,” he said as he climbed in. “I’ve never heard anything more amazing. Tell me exactly what happened to you?”

Mr. Reeder smiled sadly.

“You will pardon me if I do not?” he asked gently. “The truth is, I have been asked by a popular newspaper to write my reminiscences, and I want to save every personal experience for that important volume.”

He would talk about other subjects, however; for example, of the fortunate circumstance that Desboyne’s car was still there though it was within reach of the enemy.

“I’ve never met him before. I hope I’ll never meet him again,” said Desboyne. “But I think he can be traced. Naturally, I don’t want to go into court against him. I think it’s the most ridiculous experience, to be shot at without replying.”

“Why bother?” asked Mr. Reeder. “I personally never go into court to gratify a private vendetta, though there is a possibility that in the immediate future I may break the habit of years!”

He got down at the boathouse and was a silent listener whilst Clive Desboyne rang up a Twickenham number and described the exact location of the boat.

“They’ll collect it,” he said as he hung up. “Now, Mr. Reeder, what am I to do about the police?”

Mr. Reeder shook his head.

“I shouldn’t report it,” he said. “They’d never understand.”

On the way back to town he grew more friendly to Clive Desboyne than he had ever been before, and certainly he was more communicative than he had been regarding the Attymar murder.

“You’ve never seen a murder case at first hand----”

“And I’m not very anxious to,” interrupted the other.

“I applaud that sentiment. Young people are much too morbid,” said Mr. Reeder. “But this is a crime particularly interesting, because it was obviously planned by one who has studied the art of murder and the methods of the average criminal. He had studied it to such good purpose that he was satisfied that if a crime of this character were committed by a man of intelligence and acumen, he would--um--escape the consequence of his deed.”

“And will he?” asked the other, interested.

“No,” said Mr. Reeder, rubbing his nose. He thought for a long time. “I don’t think so. I think he will hang; I am pretty certain he will hang.”

Another long pause.

“And yet in a sense he was very clever. For example, he had to attract the attention of the policeman on the beat and establish the fact that a murder had been committed. He left open the wicket gate on the--um--wharf, and placed a lantern on the ground and another within the open door of his little house, so that the policeman, even if he had been entirely devoid of curiosity, could not fail to investigate.”

Clive Desboyne frowned.

“Upon my life I don’t know who is murdered! It can’t be Attymar, because you saw him to-day; and it can’t possibly be Ligsey, because, according to your statement, he is alive. Why did Johnny Southers go there?”

“Because he’d been offered a job, a partnership with Attymar. Attymar had two or three barges, and with vigorous management it looked as if his business might grow into a more important concern. Southers didn’t even know that this man Attymar was the type of creature he was. An appointment was made on the telephone; Southers attended; he interviewed Attymar or somebody in the dark, during which time I gather he was sprinkled with blood--whose blood, we shall discover. There was a similar case in France in eighteen-forty-seven. Madame Puyeres…”

He gave the history of the Puyeres case at length.

“That was our friend’s cleverness, the blood-sprinkling, the lantern-placing, the removal of Mr.--um--I forget his name for the moment, the theatrical agent of unsavoury reputation. But he made one supreme error. You know the house--no, of course, you’ve never been there.”

“Which house?” asked Clive curiously.

“Attymar’s house. It’s little more than a weighing shed. You haven’t been there? No, I see you haven’t. If you would like a little lecture, or a little demonstration of criminal error, I would like to show you at first-hand.”

“Will it save Johnny Southers--this mistake?” asked Desboyne curiously.

Mr. Reeder nodded.

“Nothing is more certain. How amazing are the--um--vagaries of the human mind! How peculiar are the paths into which--um--vanity leads us!”

He closed his eyes and seemed to be communing with himself all the way through Shepherd’s Bush. Mr. Desboyne put him down at Scotland Yard, and they arranged to meet at the end of Shadwick Lane that same afternoon.

“There is no further news of Ligsey,” said Gaylor when Reeder came into his office.

“I should have been surprised if there had been,” said Mr. Reeder cheerfully, “partly because he’s dead, and partly because--well, I didn’t expect any communication from him.”

“You know he telephoned to the chief last night?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised at that,” said Mr. Reeder, almost flippantly.

They talked about Johnny Southers and the case against him, and of the disappointing results of a careful search of the garden. They had dug up every bed and had done incalculable damage to Mr. Southers’ herbaceous borders.

“Our information was that he had a couple of thousand pounds cached there in real money, but we found nothing.”

“How much was there in the box you discovered in the tool shed?”

“Oh, only a hundred pounds or so,” said Gaylor. “The big money was hidden in the garden, according to what we were told. We didn’t find a cent!”

“Too bad,” said Mr. Reeder sympathetically. Then, remembering: “Do you mind if I take a young--um--friend of mine over Attymar’s house this afternoon? He is not exactly interested in the crime of wilful murder, but as he is providing for the defence of young Mr. Southers----”

“I don’t mind,” said Gaylor, “but you had better ask the chief.”

The Chief Constable was out, and the opportunity of meeting him was rendered more remote when Clive Desboyne rang him up, as he said, on the off-chance of getting him at Scotland Yard, and invited him out to lunch.

“Anna Welford is coming. I have told her you think that Johnny’s innocence can be established, and she’s most anxious to meet you.”

Mr. Reeder was in something of a predicament, but, as usual, he rose to the occasion. He instantly cancelled two important engagements to meet this, and at lunch-time he sat between a delighted girl and a rather exhilarated benefactor. The one difficulty he had anticipated did not, however, arise. She had some shopping to do that afternoon, so he went alone with Clive Desboyne to what the latter described as “the most gruesome after-lunch entertainment” he had ever experienced.