Mr. J. G. Reeder Returns (7 page)

He was a little confusing. His reference to the stock market interested Mr Reeder to the extent of inducing him to wade through the tape prices that night. Stock was falling rapidly in Wall Street; there was panic selling and gloomy forecasts of a complete collapse. He could only wonder how Larry’s mercurial mind could have leapt to this mundane fact in his emotional moment.

He had a considerable amount of work to do that afternoon, inquiries to pursue at certain banks, reports to read and digest, and it was nearly nine o’clock before he went home, so tired that he fell asleep almost before he pulled the covers over his shoulders.

Pamela Lane Leonard drove back into Kent that morning, silent, resentful, a little frightened.

“Why do you allow Lidgett to talk to you like that, Uncle Digby?” she asked.

Major Digby Olbude blinked and looked at her. “Like what, my dear?” he asked irritably. “Lidgett is an old friend of the family, and retainers have certain privileges.”

“Did you tell Mr Reeder that he and Buckingham had quarrelled?”

Olbude did not answer for a while.

“I wasn’t aware that they had quarrelled,” he said, “and I certainly should not have told Mr Reeder – how do you come to be acquainted with Mr Reeder?”

She shook her head.

“I’m not acquainted with him. I’ve read a lot about him – he’s very clever.” And then: “Why do you allow Lidgett to talk to you so rudely, and why do you let him talk to me as if I were – well, a servant?”

The major drew a long breath.

“You’re altogether mistaken, my dear. Lidgett is a little uncouth, but he’s a very faithful servant. I will speak to him.”

Another long silence.

“When did they quarrel – Buckingham and Lidgett, I mean?” asked Olbude.

“I saw them in the woods one day. Buckingham knocked him down.”

Olbude ran his fingers through his grey hair.

“It is all very difficult,” he said. “Your lamented father gave special instructions to me that on no account was Lidgett to be discharged; and until you are twenty-five I am afraid you have no voice in the matter, my dear.”

Then, suddenly:

“What did you say to that young man?”

This was the second time he had asked the question. “I’ve told you,” she answered shortly. “He’s the man who saved me from being killed by a car, and I thanked him.”

She was not telling the truth, but her conscience was curiously clear.

There was something she wanted to tell him, but she could not. The very fact that the man she hated and feared was sitting within a yard of her, beyond the glass panel which separated chauffeur from passenger, was sufficient to stop her; it was Olbude who returned to the subject.

“Lidgett is a rough diamond. You’ve got to put his loyalty in the scale against his uncouthness, Pamela. He is devoted to the family–”

“He is devoted to me!” she said, her voice trembling with indignation. “Are you aware, Uncle Digby, that this man has asked me to marry him?”

He turned to her, open-mouthed.

“Asked you to marry him?” he said incredulously. “He actually asked you? I told him that in no circumstances was he to dare mention such a thing–”

It was her turn to be amazed.

“Surely he hasn’t discussed it with you? And did you listen to him? Oh, no! Didn’t you – uncle, what did you do?”

He moved uneasily, avoiding her eyes.

“He’s a rough diamond,” he repeated in a low voice. “There is a lot about Lidgett which is very admirable. Naturally, he is not particularly well educated, and he’s twenty years older than you, but he’s a man with many great qualities.”

She could only subside helplessly in the corner of her seat and regard him with wondering eyes. He might have thought that she was impressed by his eulogy, for he went on.

“Lidgett is a man who has saved a lot of money. In fact, I think, thanks to the generosity of your stepfather, Lidgett is very rich. And the disparity of your ages isn’t really as important as it appears.”

Then, as a thought struck him, he asked quickly: “You didn’t tell O’Ryan this?”

“O’Ryan?” she repeated. “Do you know him?”

“You seem to,” he answered quickly. “Did he tell you his name in the few seconds you saw him?”

She nodded.

“Yes, he told me his name. Where did you meet him?”

He evaded the question.

“That’s neither here nor there. I don’t suppose he knows me. He was quite a child when I saw him last – he didn’t say he knew me, did he?” he asked anxiously.

She shook her head.

“No, we hardly discussed you.”

“What did you discuss?” he asked.

She hesitated.

“Nothing that would interest you,” she said.

She went straight to her room when she arrived, and sat down to write a letter. It would probably go the way of other letters she had written; the servants of Sevenways were completely dominated by Lidgett, and she knew by experience that every letter she wrote passed through his hands.

The situation was an intolerable one, but she had grown up in it. Ever since she had returned from school, Lidgett had been master of the house, and her uncle the merest cipher. It was Lidgett who chose the servants, Lidgett who discharged them without reference to his employer; Lidgett took out the car when he wanted it, even ordered improvements to the estate without consulting his employer.

He had walked into the drawing room one afternoon when she was reading, and without preliminary had put his monstrous proposal.

“I dare say this is going to shock you, Miss Pamela, but I’ve saved a bit of money and want to get married, and I’m in love with you, and that’s the beginning and end of it.”

“With me?” She could hardly believe her ears.

“That’s the idea,” he said coolly. “I haven’t talked the matter over with the major, but don’t think he’ll object. Lots of ladies have married their chauffeurs, and I will make you as good a husband as any of these la-di-dah fellows you are likely to meet.”

That had been the proposal, in almost exactly those words. She had been too staggered to make an adequate reply.

She was desperate now. Lidgett made no disguise of his dominant position. He had dared even in the presence of Larry to order her into her car and, even as she was writing, there came a knock at her door and his hateful voice called her. She put the letter hastily between sheets of blotting paper, unlocked the door and opened it.

“What was that fellow saying to you in French?” he asked.

“What he said was unimportant, Lidgett,” she said quietly. “It is what I said that mattered. I told him that I was virtually a prisoner in this house, that you were in control and had asked me to marry you. I told him I was terribly afraid, and asked him to communicate with the police.”

His face went red, livid, then a sickly white.

“Oh, you did, did you?” His voice was high and squeaky. “That’s what you said – told lies about me!”

He was frightened; she recognised the symptoms and her heart leapt.

“The day I nearly had the accident,” she went on, “I was on my way to see Mr Reeder, the detective. I will not be treated as you are treating me. There’s something wrong in this house and I’m going to find out what it is. Major Olbude has no authority; you govern him as you govern me, and there must be some reason. Mr O’Ryan will find out what that reason is.”

“Mr O’Ryan will, will he? You know what he is, I suppose? A lag – he stood his trial for burglary. That’s the kind of friend you want!”

He spoke breathlessly. Between rage and fear he was as near to being speechless as he had ever been.

“Well, we’ll see about that!”

He turned on his heel and walked quickly away. She closed and locked the door. For the first time there came to her a feeling of hope. And who knew what the night would bring? For she had said something else to Larry O’Ryan, something she had not revealed to her gaoler.

Mr Reeder slept soundly, invariably for the same length of time every night. He had gone to bed a little after ten: it was a little after four when he awoke, rose, put on the kettle for his tea, and turned on the water for his bath.

At half-past four he was working at his desk. At this hour his mind was crystal-clear, and he had fewer illusions.

He had an excellent library, dealing with the peculiarities of mankind. There was one volume which he took down and skimmed rapidly. Yes, there were any number of precedents for the gold store. There was the case of Schneider, and Mr Van der Hyn, and the Polish baron Poduski, and the banker Lamonte, and that eccentric American millionaire Mr John G Grundewald – they had all been great hoarders of gold. Two of them had left wills similar to Mr Lane Leonard’s. One had made so many eccentric requests in his will that the court put it aside. There was nothing remarkable, then, about Lane Leonard’s distrust of stock. Mr Reeder had to confess that the latest news from America justified the caution of the dead millionaire.

He tried to reconstruct the business life of Buckingham. Here was a man who acted as a guard for treasure of immense value. It could not be truly said that he had opportunities for stealing, and yet in some way he had obtained immense sums of money, and that money had been paid into the bank in gold. That was the discovery that Reeder had made on the previous afternoon. Large sums of gold had been paid into the account of the Land Development Company, as much as fifty and sixty thousand pounds at a time; so much so that the company had been asked politely to account for its possession of so much bullion, and had retorted, less politely, that if the bank did not wish to act for the directors, other banking accommodation would be found.

When could it have been stolen? The man was found dead on the Sunday, and Major Olbude had visited the vault on the Friday. Probably that morning, when he again made an inspection, Mr Reeder would receive an urgent telephone message calling him into Kent.

It began to get light. Mr Reeder pulled up the blinds and looked out into the rain-sodden street. Overhead the skies were grey and leaden. J G brewed himself another cup of tea, and when it was made walked again to the window and stared down into the deserted thoroughfare.

He heard the whine of the car as it came round from the Lewisham High Road, pursuing a groggy course which suggested that the driver had overstayed his supper. It was a red sports car, nearly new, with a long bonnet; to Mr Reeder’s surprise it finished its erratic course in front of his door. A little time passed before a man staggered out, clutching for support to the side of the car. He walked unsteadily through the gate and stumbled up the stone steps. Before he reached the door Mr Reeder was down the stairs and had opened it. He caught Larry O’Ryan in his arms and steadied him.

“I’m all right,” muttered Larry. “I want some water. Can I sit down for a minute?”

Mr Reeder closed the door with his disengaged hand, and led the young man to the hall seat.

“I’ll be all right in a second. I’ve lost a little blood,” muttered Larry.

The shoulders of his light mackintosh were red with it, and his face was hardly distinguishable under the broad, red streaks.

“It’s all right,” he said again. “Just a little knight-errantry.” He chuckled feebly. “There’s no fracture, though driving was rather a bother. I’m glad I didn’t carry a gun – I should have used it. I think I can move now.”

He got up, swaying. Mr Reeder guided him up the stairs through his room into the bathroom, and, soaking a towel in water, cleaned his face and the long and ugly wound beneath his matted hair.

“I think it was the chauffeur; I’m not sure. I parked the car about half a mile from Sevenways Castle, and went on foot to reconnoitre.”

All this jerkily, his head bent over a basin of red water whilst Mr Reeder applied iodine and cut away long strands of hair with a pair of office scissors.

“Anyway, I saw her.”

“You saw her?” asked Mr Reeder in astonishment. “Yes; only for a few seconds. She couldn’t get out of the window – it was barred. And the door was locked. But we had a little talk. I took a light, collapsible ladder with me to reach the window. You’ll find it in a plantation near the drive.”

Mr Reeder looked at him glumly.

“Are you suggesting she is a prisoner?”

“I’m not suggesting, I’m stating the fact. An absolute prisoner. There are servants in the house, but they’ve all been chosen by the same man. And the best part of his money is gone.”

J G Reeder said nothing for a while.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“I went in and looked,” was the calm reply. “The major will probably say that I pinched it, but that was a physical impossibility. I always intended to see that treasure house – I have photographs of every key to every strongroom that the Monarch Company turned out in the last twenty years. There is a duplicate room in the office. I won’t tell you how I got the photographs, because you would be pained, but I did. And I got into the treasure house as easily as falling asleep.”

“The guards–?”

Larry incautiously shook his head and winced.

“Ouch! That hurt! There are no guards. That story is bunk. There probably were in Lane Leonard’s time, but not now. I got in all right and I got out. More than half the containers are empty! I managed to get away from the park and I was within a few yards of my car when I was attacked; whoever it was must have spotted the car and waited for my return and I always thought I was clever – prided myself upon my wideness. I saw nobody, but I heard a sound and turned round, and probably that saved my life. Cosh!”

“You didn’t see the man that hit you?”

“No, it was quite dark, but I’ll know him again, and he’ll remember me for a long time. I carried a sword cane – one of those things you buy for a joke when you’re in Spain and never expect to use. As I wasn’t taking a gun because of my awful criminal record, I thought I’d be on the safe side and take that. Fortunately, I didn’t lose hold of it, and before he could give me a second blow I gave him two slashes with it that made him yap and bolt. I couldn’t see anything for blood, but I heard him smashing through a hedge. I don’t know how I got back to the car and how I got to London.”