He followed the detective into No. 12, and found that there was no necessity to use the buffet entrance, for the communicating door was unlocked. He stepped into No. 13; it was in complete darkness.
“Humph!” said Mr. Reeder, and sniffed. “One of you go along this wall and find the switch. Be careful you don’t step on something.”
“What is there?”
“I think you’ll find… however, turn on the light.”
The detective felt his way along the wall, and presently his finger touched a switch and he turned it down. And then they saw all that Mr. Reeder suspected. Sprawled across the table was a still figure – a horrible sight, for the man who had killed Emanuel Legge had used the poker which, twisted and bloodstained, lay amidst the wreckage of rare glass and once snowy napery.
Chapter XXVIII
It was unnecessary to call a doctor to satisfy the police. Emanuel Legge had passed beyond the sphere of his evil activities.
“The poker came from – where?” mused Mr. Reeder, examining the weapon thoughtfully. He glanced down at the little fireplace. The poker and tongs and shovel were intact, and this was of a heavier type than was used in the sittingrooms.
Deftly he searched the dead man’s pockets, and in the waistcoat he found a little card inscribed with a telephone number, “Horsham 98753.” Peter’s. That had no special significance at the moment, and Reeder put it with the other documents that he had extracted from the dead man’s pockets. Later came an inspector to take charge of the case.
“There was some sort of struggle, I imagine,” said Mr. Reeder. “The right wrist, I think you’ll find, is broken. Legge’s revolver was underneath the table. He probably pulled it, and it was struck from his hand. I don’t think you’ll want me any more, inspector.”
He was examining the main corridor when the telephone switchboard at the back of Stevens’s little desk gave him an idea. He put through a call to Horsham, and, in spite of the earliness of the hour, was almost immediately answered.
“Who is that?” he asked.
“I’m Mr. Kane’s servant,” said a husky voice.
“Oh, is it Barney? Is your master at home yet?”
“No, sir. Who is it speaking?”
“It is Mr. Reeder… Will you tell Miss Kane to come to the telephone?”
“She’s not here either. I’ve been trying to get on to Johnny Gray all night, but his servant says he’s out.”
“Where is Miss Kane?” asked Reeder quickly.
“I don’t know, sir. Somebody came for her in the night in a car, and she went away, leaving the door open. It was the wind slamming it that woke me up.”
It was so long before Mr. Reeder answered that Barney thought he had gone away.
“Did nobody call for her during the evening? Did she have any telephone messages?”
“One, sir, about ten o’clock. I think it was her father, from the way she was speaking.”
Again a long interval of silence, and then: “I will come straight down to Horsham,” said Mr. Reeder, and from the pleasant and conversational quality of his voice, Barney took comfort; though, if he had known the man better, he would have realised that Mr. Reeder was most ordinary when he was most perturbed.
Mr. Reeder pushed the telephone away from him and stood up.
So they had got Marney. There was no other explanation. The dinner party had been arranged to dispose of the men who could protect her. Where had they been taken?
He went back to the old man’s office, which was undergoing a search at the hands of a police officer.
“I particularly want to see immediately any document referring to Mr Peter Kane,” he said “any road maps which you may find here, and especially letters address to Emanuel Legge by his son. You know, of course, that this office was broken into? There should be something in the shape of clues.”
The officer shook his head. “I’m afraid, Mr. Reeder, we won’t find much here,” he said. “So far, I’ve only come across old bills and business letters which you might find in any office.”
The detective looked round.
“There is no safe?” he asked.
All the timidity and deference in his manner had gone. He was patently a man of affairs.
“Yes, sir, the safe’s behind that panelling. I’ll get it open this morning. But I shouldn’t imagine that Legge would leave anything compromising on the premises. Besides, his son has had charge of the Highlow for years. Previous to that, they had a manager who is now doing time. Before him, if I remember right, that fellow Fenner, who has been in boob for burglary.”
“Fenner?” said the other sharply. “I didn’t know he ever managed this club.”
“He used to, but he had a quarrel with the old man. I’ve got an idea they were in jug together.”
Fenner’s was not the type of mentality one would expect to find among the officers of a club, even a club of the standing of the Highlow: but there was this about the Highlow, that it required less intelligence than sympathy with a certain type of client.
Reeder was assisting the officer by taking out the contents of the pigeonholes, when his hand touched a knob.
“Hallo, what is this?” he said, and turned it.
The whole desk shifted slightly, and, pulling, he revealed the door to the spiral staircase.
“This is very interesting,” he said. He ascended as far as the top landing. There was evidently a door here, but every effort he made to force it ended in failure. He came down again, continuing to the basement, and this time he was joined by the inspector in charge of the case.
“Rather hot,” said Mr. Reeder, as he opened the door. “I should say there is a fire burning here.”
It took him some time to discover the light connections, and when he did, he whistled. For, lying by the side of the red-hot stove, he saw a piece of shining metal and recognised it. It was an engraver’s plate, and one glance told him that it was the finished plate from which £5 notes could be printed.
The basement was empty, and for a second the mystery of the copper plate baffled him.
“We may not have found the Big Printer, but we’ve certainly found the Big Engraver,” he said. “This plate was engraved somewhere upstairs.” He pointed to the shaft. “What is it doing down here? Of course!” He slapped his thigh exultantly. “I never dreamt he was right – but he always is right!”
“Who?” asked the officer.
“An old friend of mine, whose theory was that the plates from which the slush was printed were engraved within easy reach of a furnace, into which, in case of a police visitation, they could be pushed and destroyed. And, of course, the engraving plant is somewhere upstairs. But why they should throw down a perfectly new piece of work, and at a time when the attendant was absent, is beyond me. Unless… Get me an axe; I want to see the room on the roof.”
The space was too limited for the full swing of an axe, and it was nearly an hour before at last the door leading to the engraver’s room was smashed in. The room was flooded with