Terror Keep/Chapter 5

by Edgar Wallace

 

TERROR KEEP CHAPTER V

 

Mr. Reeder sat at his ease, wearing a pair of grotesquely painted velvet slippers, a cigarette hanging from his lips, and explained to the detective-inspector who had called in the early hours of the morning his reason for adopting a certain conclusion.

"I do not imagine for one moment that it was my friend Ravini. He is less subtle, in addition to which he has little or no intelligence. You will find that this coup has been planned for months, though it has only been put into execution to-day. No. 307 Bennett Street is the property of an old gentleman who spends most of his time in Italy. He has been in the habit of letting the house furnished for years: in fact, it was only vacated a month ago."

"You think, then," said the puzzled Simpson, "That the people, whoever they were, rented the house——"

Mr. Reeder shook his head.

"Even that I doubt," he said. "They have probably an order in view, and in some way got rid of the caretaker. They knew I would be at home last night, because I am always at home—um—on most nights since ..." Mr. Reeder coughed in his embarrassment. "A young friend of mine has recently left London—I do not like going out alone."

And to Simpson's horror, a pinkish flush suffused the sober countenance of Mr. Reeder.

"A few weeks ago," he went on, with a pitiable attempt at airiness, "I used to dine out, attend a concert or one of those exquisite melodramas which have such an appeal to me."

"Whom do you suspect?" interrupted Simpson, who had not been called from his bed in the middle of the night to discuss the virtue of melodrama. "The Gregorys or the Donovans?" He named two groups that had excellent reason to be annoyed with Mr. Reeder and his methods.

J.G. Reeder shook his head.

"Neither," he said. "I think—indeed I am sure—that we must go back to ancient history for the cause."

Simpson opened his eyes.

"Not Flack?" he asked incredulously. "He's hiding—he wouldn't start anything so soon."

Mr. Reeder nodded.

"John Flack. Who else could have planned such a thing? The art of it! And, Mr. Simpson"—he leaned over and tapped the inspector on the breast—"there has not been a big robbery in London since Flack went to Broadmoor. You'll get the biggest of all in a week! The coup of coups! His mad brain is planning it now!"

"He's finished," said Simpson with a frown.

Mr. Reeder smiled wanly.

"We shall see. This little affair of to-night is a sighting shot—a mere nothing. But I am rather glad I am not—er—dining out in these days. On the other hand, our friend Giorgio Ravini is a notorious diner-out—would you mind calling up Vine Street police station and finding out whether they have any casualties to report?"

Vine Street, which knew the movements of so many people, replied instantly that Mr. Giorgio Ravini was out of town; it was believed he was in Paris.

"Dear me!" said Mr. Reeder, in his feeble, aimless way. "How very wise of Giorgio—and how much wiser it will be if he stays there!"

Inspector Simpson rose and shook himself. He was a stout, hearty man who had that habit.

"I'll get down to the Yard and report this," he said. "It may not have been Flack, after all. He's a gang leader and he'd be useless without his crowd, and they are scattered. Most of them are in the Argentine——"

"Ha-ha!" said Mr. Reeder, without any evidence of joy.

"What the devil are you laughing about?"

The other was instantly apologetic.

"It was what I would describe as a sceptical laugh. The Argentine! Do criminals really go to the Argentine except in those excellent works of fiction which one reads on trains? A tradition, Mr. Simpson, dating back to the ancient times when there was no extradition treaty between the two countries. Scattered, yes. I look forward to the day when I shall gather them all together under one roof. It will be a very pleasant morning for me, Mr. Simpson, when I can walk along the gallery, looking through the little peep-holes and watch them sewing mail bags—I know of no more sedative occupation than a little needle-work! In the meantime, watch your banks—old John is seventy years of age and has no time to waste. History will be made in the City of London before many days are past! I wonder where in Paris I could find Ravini?"

*****

George Ravini was not the type of man whose happiness depended upon the good opinion which others held of him. Otherwise, he might well have spent his life in abject misery. As for Mr. Reeder—he discussed that interesting police official over a glass of wine and a good cigar in his Half Moon Street flat. It was a showy, even a flashy, little ménage, for Mr. Ravini's motto was everything of the best and as much of it as possible, and his drawing room was rather like an over-ornamented French clock—all gilt and enamel where it was not silk and damask. To his subordinate, one Lew Steyne, Mr. Ravini revealed his mind.

"If that old So-and-so knew half he pretends to know, I'd be taking the first train to Bordighera," he said. "But Reeder's a bluff. He's clever up to a point, but you can say that about almost any bogey you ever met."

"You could show him a few points," said the sycophantic Lew, and Mr. Ravini smiled and stroked his trim moustache.

"I wouldn't be surprised if the old nut is crazy about that girl. May and December—can you beat it!"

"What's she like?" asked Lew. "I never got a proper look at her face."

Mr. Ravini kissed the tips of his fingers ecstatically and threw the caress to the painted ceiling.

"Anyway, he can't frighten me, Lew—you know what I am. If I want anything I go after it, and I keep going after it till I get it! I've never seen anybody like her. Quite the lady and everything, and what she can see in an old such-and-such like Reeder licks me!"

"Women are funny," mused Lew. "You wouldn't think that a typist would chuck a man like you——"

"She hasn't chucked me," said Mr. Ravini curtly. "I'm simply not acquainted with her, that's all. But I'm going to be. Where's this place?"

"Siltbury," said Lew.

He took a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket, unfolded it, and read the pencilled words.

"Larmes Keep, Siltbury—it's on the Southern. I trailed her when she left London with her boxes—old Reeder came down to see her off, and looked about as happy as a wet cat."

"A boarding house," mused Ravini. "That's a queer sort of job."

"She's secretary," reported Lew. (He had conveyed this information at least four times, but Mr. Lew Steyne was one of those curious people who like to treat old facts as new sensations.)

"It's a posh place, too," said Lew. "Not like the ordinary boarding house—only swells go there. They charge twenty guineas a week for a room, and you're lucky if you get in."

Ravini thought on this, fondling his chin.

"This is a free country," he said. "What's to stop me staying at—what's the name of the place? Larmes Keep? I've never taken 'No' from a woman in my life. Half the time they don't mean it. Anyway, she's got to give me a room if I've the money to pay for it."

"Suppose she writes to Reeder?" suggested Lew.

"Let her write!" Ravini's tone was defiant, whatever might be the state of his mind. "What'll he have on me? It's no crime to pay your rent at a boarding house, is it?"

"Try her with one of your Luck Rings," grinned Lew.

Ravini looked at them admiringly.

"I couldn't get 'em off," he said, "and I'd never dream of parting with my luck that way. She'll be easy as soon as she knows me—don't you worry."

By a curious coincidence, as he was turning out of Half Moon Street the next morning, he met the one man in the world he did not wish to see. Fortunately, Lew had taken his suit-case on to the station, and there was nothing in Mr. Ravini's appearance to suggest that he was setting forth on an affair of gallantry.

Mr. Reeder looked at the man's diamonds glittering in the daylight. They seemed to exercise a peculiar fascination on the detective.

"The luck still holds, Giorgio," he said, and Georgio smiled complacently. "And whither do you go on this beautiful September morning? To bank your nefarious gains, or to get a quick visa to your passport?"

"Strolling round," said Ravini airily. "Just taking a little constitutional." And then, with a spice of mischief: "What's happened to that busy you were putting on to tail me up? I haven't seen him."

Mr. Reeder looked past him to the distance.

"He has never been far from you, Giorgio," he said gently. "He followed you from the Flotsam last night to that peculiar little party you attended in Maida Vale, and he followed you home at 2:15 a.m."

Giorgio's jaw dropped.

"You don't mean he's——" He looked round. The only person visible was a benevolent-looking man who might have been a doctor, from his frock coat and top hat.

"That's not him?" frowned Ravini.

"He," corrected Mr. Reeder. "Your English is not yet perfect."

Ravini did not leave London immediately. It was two o'clock before he had shaken off the watcher, and five minutes later he was on the Southern Express. The same old cabman who had brought Margaret Belman to Larmes Keep carried him up the long, winding hill road through the broad gates to the front of the house, and deposited him under the portico. An elderly porter, in a smart, well-fitting uniform, came out to greet the stranger.

"Mr.——"

"Ravini," said that gentleman. "I haven't booked a room."

The porter shook his head.

"I'm afraid we have no accommodation," he said. "Mr. Daver makes it a rule not to take guests unless they've booked their rooms in advance. I will see the secretary."

Ravini followed him into the spacious hall and sat down on one of the beautiful chairs. This, he decided, was something outside the usual run of boarding-houses. It was luxurious even for a hotel. No other guests were visible. Presently he heard a step on the flagged floor and rose to meet the eyes of Margaret Belman. Though they were unfriendly, she betrayed no sign of recognition. He might have been the veriest stranger.

"The proprietor makes it a rule not to accept guests without previous correspondence," she said. "In those circumstances, I am afraid we cannot offer you accommodation."

"I've already written to the proprietor," said Ravini, never at a loss for a glib lie. "Go along, young lady, be a sport and see what you can do for me."

Margaret hesitated. Her own inclination was to order his suit-case to be put in the waiting cab; but she was part of the organisation of the place, and she could not let her private prejudices interfere with her duties.

"Will you wait?" she said, and went in search of Mr. Daver.

That great criminologist was immersed in a large book and looked up over his horn-rimmed spectacles.

"Ravini? A foreign gentleman? Of course he is. A stranger within our gate, as you would say. It is very irregular, but in the circumstances—yes, I think so."

"He isn't the type of man you ought to have here, Mr. Daver," she said firmly. "A friend of mine who knows these people says he is a member of the criminal classes."

Mr. Daver's ludicrous eyebrows rose.

"The criminal classes! What an extraordinary opportunity to study, as it were, at first hand! You agree? I knew you would! Let him stay. If he bores me, I will send him away."

Margaret went back, a little disappointed, feeling rather foolish, if the truth be told. She found Ravini waiting, caressing his moustache, a little less assured than he had been when she had left him.

"Mr. Daver says you may stay. I will send the housekeeper to you," she said, and went in search of Mrs. Burton and gave that doleful woman the necessary instructions.

She was angry with herself that she had not been more explicit in dealing with Mr. Daver. She might have told him that if Ravini stayed she would leave. She might even have explained the reason why she did not wish the Italian to remain in the house. She was in the fortunate position, however, that she had not to see the guests unless they expressed a wish to interview her, and Ravini was too wise to pursue his advantage.

That night, when she went to her room, she sat down and wrote a long letter to Mr. Reeder, but thought better of it and tore it up. She could not run to J G. Reeder every time she was annoyed. He had a sufficiency of trouble, she decided, and here she was right. Even as she wrote, Mr. Reeder was examining with great interest the spring gun which had been devised for his destruction.