‘Open this door,’ he commanded, and there came to him the sound of a deep laugh.
Mr. Reeder tugged at the stout handle of his umbrella. There was a flicker of steel as he dropped the lower end, and in his hand appeared six inches of knife blade.
The first stab at the panel sliced through the thin wood as though it were paper. In a second there was a jagged gap through which the black muzzle of an automatic was thrust.
‘Put down that jug or I will blow your features into comparative chaos!’ said Mr. Reeder pedantically.
The room was brightly lit, and he could see plainly. Mrs. Welford stood by the side of a big square funnel, the narrow end of which ran into the floor. In her hand was a huge enamelled iron jug, and ranged about her were six others. In one corner of the room was a wide circular tank, and beyond, at half its height, depended a large copper pipe. 114
The woman’s face turned to him was blank, expressionless.
‘He wanted to run away with her,’ she said simply, ‘and after all I have done for him!’
‘Open the door.’
Mrs. Welford set down the jug and ran her huge hand across her forehead.
‘Sidney is my own darling,’ she said. ‘I’ve nursed him, and taught him, and there was a million-all in gold-in the ship. But they robbed him.’
She was talking of one of the illfated enterprises of Telfers Consolidated Trust-that sunken treasure ship to recover which the money of the company had been poured out like water. And she was mad. He had guessed the weakness of this domineering woman from the first.
‘Open the door; we will talk it over. I’m perfectly sure that the treasure ship scheme was a sound one.’
‘Are you?’ she asked eagerly, and the next minute the door was open and Mr. J.G. Reeder was in that room of death.
‘First of all, let me have the key of the telephone-room-you are quite wrong about that young lady: she is my wife.’
The woman stared at him blankly.
‘Your wife?’ A slow smile transfigured the face. ‘Why-I was silly. Here is the key.’
He persuaded her to come downstairs with him, and when the frightened girl was released, he whispered a few words to her, and she flew out of the house.
‘Shall we go into the drawingroom?’ he asked, and Mrs. Welford led the way.
‘And now will you tell me how you knew-about the jugs?’ he asked gently.
She was sitting on the edge of a sofa, her hands clasped on her knees, her deepset eyes staring at the carpet.
‘John-that was my first husband-told me. He was a professor of chemistry and natural science, and also about the electric furnace. It is so easy to make if you have power-we use nothing but electricity in this house for heating and everything. And then I saw my poor darling being ruined through me, and I found how much money there was in the bank, and I told Billingham to draw it and bring it to me without Sidney knowing. He came here in the evening. I sent Sidney away-to Brighton, I think. I did everything-put the new lock on the telephone box and fixed the shaft from the roof to the little room-it was easy to disperse everything with all the doors open and an electric fan working on the floor-’
She was telling him about the improvised furnace in the greenhouse when the police arrived with the divisional surgeon, and she went away with them, weeping because there would be nobody to press Sidney’s ties or put out his shirts.
Mr. Reeder took the inspector up to the little room and showed him its contents.
‘This funnel leads to the telephone box-’ he began.
‘But the jugs are empty,’ interrupted the officer.
Mr. J.G. Reeder struck a match and, waiting until it burnt freely, lowered it into the jug. Half an inch lower than the rim the light went out.
‘Carbon monoxide,’ he said, ‘which is made by steeping marble chips in hydrochloric acid-you will find the mixture in the tank. The gas is colourless and odourless-and heavy. You can pour it out of a jug like water. She could have bought the marble, but was afraid of arousing suspicion. Billingham was killed that way. She got him to go to the telephone box, probably closed the door on him herself, and then killed him painlessly.’
‘What did she do with the body?’ asked the horrified officer.
‘Come out into the hothouse,’ said Mr. Reeder, ‘and pray do not expect to see horrors: an electric furnace will dissolve a diamond to its original elements.’
Mr. Reeder went home that night in a state of mental perturbation, and for an hour paced the floor of his large study in Brockley Road.
Over and over in his mind he turned one vital problem: did he owe an apology to Margaret Belman for saying that she was his wife?
Chapter 5
Sheer Melodrama
It was Mr. Reeder who planned the raid on Tommy Fenalow’s snide shop and worked out all the details except the composition of the raiding force. Tommy had a depot at Golders Green whither trusted agents came, purchasing Treasury notes for £7 10s. per hundred, or £70 a thousand. Only experts could tell the difference between Tommy’s currency and that authorised by and printed for H.M. Treasury. They were the right shades of brown and green, the numbers were of issued series, the paper was exact. They were printed in Germany at £3 a thousand, and Tommy made thousands per cent. profit.
Mr. Reeder discovered all about Tommy’s depot in his spare time, and reported the matter to his chief, the Director of Public Prosecutions. From Whitehall to Scotland Yard is two minutes’ walk, and in just that time the information got across.
‘Take Inspector Greyash with you and superintend the raid,’ were his instructions.
He left the inspector to make all the arrangements, and amongst those who learnt of the projected coup was a certain detective officer who made more money from questionable associations than he did from Government. This officer ‘blew’ the raid to Tommy, and when Mr. Reeder and his bold men arrived at Golders Green, there was Tommy and three friends playing a quiet game of auction bridge, and the only Treasury notes discoverable were veritable old masters.
‘It is a pity,’ sighed J.G. when they reached the street; ‘a great pity. Of course I hadn’t the least idea that Detective-Constable Wilshore was in our party. He is-er-not quite loyal.’
‘Wilshore?’ asked the officer, aghast. ‘Do you mean he “blew” the raid to Tommy?’
Mr. Reeder scratched his nose and said gently, that he thought so.
‘He has quite a big income from various sources-by the way, he banks with the Midland and Derbyshire, and his account is in his wife’s maiden name. I tell you this in case-er-it may be useful.’
It was useful enough to secure the summary ejection of the unfaithful Wilshore from the force, but it was not sufficiently useful to catch Tommy, whose parting words were:
‘You’re clever, Reeder; but you’ve got to be lucky to catch me!’
Tommy was in the habit of repeating this scrap of conversation to such as were interested. It was an encounter of which he was justifiably proud, for few dealers in ‘slush’ and ‘snide’ have ever come up against Mr. J.G. and got away with it.
‘It’s worth a thousand pounds to me-ten thousand! I’d pay that money