Title: Red Aces (1929) Author: Edgar Wallace A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook eBook No.: 0607671.txt Language: English Date first posted: September 2006 Date most recently updated: September 2006 This eBook was produced by: Jon Jermey Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au ––––––––––––––––––––––––— Title: Red Aces Author: Edgar Wallace When a young man is very much in love with a most attractive girl he is apt to endow her with qualities and virtues which no human being has ever possessed. Yet at rare and painful intervals there enter into his soul certain wild suspicions, and in these moments he is inclined to consider the possibility that she may be guilty of the basest treachery and double dealing. Everybody knew that Kenneth McKay was desperately in love. They knew it at the bank where he spent his days in counting other people’s money, and a considerable amount of his lunch hour writing impassioned and ill-spelt letters to Margot Lynn. His taciturn father, brooding over his vanished fortune in his gaunt Margot Lynn. His taciturn father, brooding over his vanished fortune in his gaunt riverside house at Marlow, may have employed the few moments he gave to the consideration of other people’s troubles in consideration of his son’s new interest. Probably he did not, for George McKay was entirely self-centred and had little thought but for the folly which had dissipated the money he had accumulated with such care, and the development of fantastical schemes for its recovery. Kenneth went over to Beaconsfield every morning on his noisy motorbike and came back every night, sometimes very late, because Margot lived in London; they dined together at the cheaper restaurants and sometimes saw a film. Kenneth was a member of an inexpensive London club which sheltered at least one sympathetic soul. Except for Rufus Machfield, the confidant in question, he had no friends. ‘And let me advise you not to make any here,’ said Rufus. He was a military-looking man of forty-five, and most people found him rather a bore, for the views which he expressed so vehemently, on all subjects from politics to religion, which are the opposite ends of the ethical pole, he had acquired that morning from the leading article of his favourite daily. Yet he was a genial person—a likeable man. He had a luxurious flat in Park Lane, a French valet, a Bentley and no useful occupation. The Leffingham Club is cheap.’ he said, ‘the food’s not bad and it’s near Piccadilly. Against that you have the fact that almost anybody who hasn’t been to prison can become a member—’ ‘The fact that I’m a member—’ began Ken. ‘You’re a gentleman and a public school man,’ interrupted Mr Machfield sonorously. ‘You’re not rich, I admit–-‘ ‘Even I admit that,’ said Ken, rubbing his untidy hair. Kenneth was tall, athletic, as good-looking as a young man need be, or can be without losing his head about his face. He had called at the Leffingham that evening especially to see Rufus and confide his worries. And his worries were enormous. He looked haggard and ill: Mr Machfield thought it possible that he had not been sleeping very well. In this surmise he was right. had not been sleeping very well. In this surmise he was right. ‘About Margot—’ began the young man. Mr Machfield smiled. He had met Margot, had entertained the young people to dinner at his flat, and twice had invited them to a theatre party. Kenneth took a letter from his pocket and passed it across to his friend, and Machfield opened and read it. ‘Dear Kenneth: I’m not seeing you any more. I’m broken hearted to tell you this. Please don’t try to see me—please! M.’ ‘When did this come?’ ‘Last night. Naturally, I went to her flat. She was out. I went to her office—she was out. I was late for the bank and got it hot and strong from the manager. To make matters worse, there’s a fellow dunning me for two hundred pounds— every thing comes at once. I borrowed the money from father. What with one thing and another I’m desperate.’ Mr Machfield rose from his chair. ‘Come home and have a meal, he said. ‘As for the money—’ ‘No, no, no!’ Kenneth McKay was panic-stricken. ‘I don t want to borrow from you.’ For a moment he sat in silence, then: ‘Do you know a man named Reeder —J. G. Reeder?’ Machfield shook his head. ‘He’s a detective,’ explained Kenneth. ‘He has a big bank practice. He was down at our place today—weird-looking devil. If he could be a detective anybody could be!’ Mr Machfield said he recalled the name. ‘He was in that railway robbery, wasn’t he? J. G. Reeder—yes. Pretty smart fellow—young?’ ‘He’s as old as—well, he’s pretty old. And rather old-fashioned.’ ‘He’s as old as—well, he’s pretty old. And rather old-fashioned.’ Rufus snapped his finger to the waiter and paid his bill. ‘You’ll have to take pot luck—but Lamontaine is a wonderful cook. He didn’t know that he was until I made him try.’ So they went together to the little flat in Park Lane. and Lamontaine, the pallid, middle-aged valet who spoke English with no trace of a foreign accent, prepared a meal that justified the praise of his master. In the middle of the dinner the subject of Mr Reeder arose again. ‘What brought him to Beaconsfield—is there anything wrong at your bank?’ Rufus saw the young man’s face go red. ‘Well—there has been money missing; not very large sums. I have my own opinion, but it isn’t fair to—well, you know.’ He was rather incoherent, and Mr Machfield did not pursue the inquiry. ‘I hate the bank anyway—I mean the work. But I had to do something, and when I left Uppingham my father put me there—in the bank, I mean. Poor chap, he lost his money at Monte Carlo or somewhere—enormous sums. You wouldn’t dream that he was a gambler. I’m not complaining, but it’s a little trying sometimes.’ Mr Machfield accompanied him to the door that night and shivered. ‘Cold—shouldn’t be surprised if we had snow,’ he said. In point of fact the snow did not come until a week later. It started as rain and became snow in the night, and in the morning people who lived in the country looked out upon a white world: trees that bore a new beauty and hedges that showed their heads above sloping drifts. There was a car coming from the direction of Beaconsfield. The man on the motorcycle in the centre of the snowy road watched the lights grow brighter and brighter. Presently, in the glare of the headlamps, the driver of the car saw the motor cyclist, realized it was a policeman, saw the lift of his gloved hand and stopped the car. It was not difficult to stop, for the wheels were racing on the stopped the car. It was not difficult to stop, for the wheels were racing on the surface of the road, which had frozen into the worst qualities of ice. And snow was falling on top of this. ‘Anything wrong—’ The driver began to shout the question, and then saw the huddled figure on the ground. It lay limply like a fallen sack; seemed at first glimpse to have nothing of human shape or substance. The driver jumped out and went ploughing through the frozen snow. ‘I just spotted him when I saw you,’ said the policeman. ‘Do you mind turning your car just a little to the right—I want more light on him.’ He dismounted, propped up his bike and went heavy-footed to where the man lay. The second inmate of the car got to the wheel and turned the vehicle with some difficulty so that the light blazed on the dreadful thing. Then he got out of the car, lingered nervously by the motor bike and finally joined the other two. ‘It’s old Wentford,’ said the policeman. ‘Wentford…good God!’ The first of the two motorists fell on his knees by the side of the body and peered down into the grinning face. Old Benny Wentford! ‘Good God!’ he said again. He was a middle-aged lawyer, unused to such a horror. Nothing more terrible had disturbed the smooth flow of his life than an occasional quarrel with the secretary of his golf club. Now here was death, violent and hideous—a dead man on a snowy road…a man who had telephoned to him two hours before, begging him to leave a party and come to him, though the snow had begun to fall all over again. ‘You know Mr Wentford—he has told me about you.’ ‘Yes, I know him. I’ve often called at his house—in fact, I called there tonight but it was shut up. He made arrangements with the Chief Constable that I should call…h’m!’ The policeman stood over the body, his hands on his hips. ‘You stay here—I’ll go and phone the station,’ he said. He got on the motorbike and kicked it to life. ‘Er .. don’t you think we’d better go?’ Mr Enward, the lawyer, asked nervously. He had no desire to be left alone in the night with a battered corpse and a clerk whose trembling was almost audible. ‘You couldn’t turn your car,’ said the policeman—which was true, for the lane was very narrow. They heard the sound of the engine and presently they heard it no more. ‘Is he dead, Mr Enward?’ The young man’s voice was hollow. ‘Yes…I think so…the policeman said so.’ ‘Oughtn’t we to make sure? He may only be…injured?’ Mr Enward had seen the face in the shadow of an uplifted shoulder. He did not wish to see it again. ‘Better leave him alone till a doctor comes…it is no use interfering in these things. Wentford…good God!’ ‘He’s always been a little bit eccentric, hasn’t he?’ The clerk was young and, curiosity being the tonic of youth, he had recovered some of his courage. ‘Living alone in that tiny cottage with all his money. I was cycling past it on Sunday—a concrete box: that’s what my girl friend called it. With all his money—’ ‘He is dead, Henry,’ said Mr Enward severely, ‘and a dead person has no property. I don’t think it quite—um—seemly to talk of him in—um—his presence.’ presence.’ He felt the occasion called for an emotional display of some kind. He had never grown emotional over clients; least of all could this tetchy old man inspire such feeling. A few words of prayer perhaps would not be out of place. But Mr Enward was a churchwarden of a highly respectable church and for forty years had had his praying done for him. If he had been a dissenter…but he was not. He wished he had a prayer book. ‘He’s a long time gone.’ The policeman could not have got far, but it seemed a very long time since he had left. ‘Has he any heirs?’ asked the clerk professionally. Mr Enward did not answer. Instead, he suggested that the lights of the ear should be dimmed. They revealed this Thing too plainly. Henry went back and the lights. It became terribly dark when the lights were lowered, and eyesight played curious tricks: it seemed that the bundle moved. Mr Enward had a feeling that the grinning face was lifting to leer slyly at him over the humped shoulder. ‘Put on the lights again, Henry,’ the lawyer’s voice quavered. ‘I can’t see what I am doing.’ He was doing nothing; on the other hand, he had a creepy feeling that the Thing was behaving oddly. Yet it lay very still, just as it had lain all the time. ‘He must have been murdered. I wonder where they went to?’ asked H hollowly, and a cold shiver vibrated down Mr Enward’s spine. Murdered! Of course he was murdered. There was blood on the snow, and the murderers were… He glanced backward nervously and almost screamed. A man stood in the shadowy space behind the car: the car lights reflected by the snow just revealed him. ‘Who…who are you, please?’ croaked the lawyer. He added ‘please’ because there was no sense in being rough with a man who might be a murderer. might be a murderer. The figure moved into the light. He was slightly bent and even more middle- aged than Mr Enward. He wore a strange black hat, a long raincoat and large, shapeless gloves. About his neck was an enormous yellow scarf, and Mr Enward noticed, in a numb, mechanical way, that his shoes were large and square toed and that he carried a tightly furled umbrella on his arm though the snow was falling heavily. ‘I’m afraid my car has broken down a mile up the road.’ His voice was gentle and apologetic; obviously he had not seen the bundle. In his agitation Mr Enward had stepped into the light of the lamps and hi black shadow sprawled across the deeper shadow. ‘Am I wrong in thinking that you are in the same predicament?’ asked the newcomer. ‘I was unprepared for the—er—condition of the road. It is lamentable that one should have overlooked this possibility.’ ‘Did you pass the policeman?’ asked Mr Enward. Whoever this stranger was, whatever might be his character and disposition, it was right and fair that he should know there was a policeman in the vicinity. ‘Policeman?’ The man was surprised. ‘No, I passed no policeman. At my rate of progress it was very difficult to pass anything—’ ‘Going towards you…on a motorbike,’ said Mr Enward rapidly. ‘He said that he would be back soon. My name is Enward—solicitor—Enward, Caterham and Enward.’ He felt it was a moment for confidence. ‘Delighted!’ murmured the other. ‘We’ve met before. My name—er—is Reeder —R, double E, D, E. R.’ Mr Enward took a step forward. ‘Not the detective? I thought I’d seen you…look!’ He stepped out of the light and the heap on the ground emerged from shadow. The lawyer made a dramatic gesture. Mr Reeder came forward slowly. He stooped over the dead man, took a torch from his pocket and shone it steadily on the face. For a long time he looked and studied. His melancholy face showed on the face. For a long time he looked and studied. His melancholy face showed no evidence that he was sickened or pained. ‘H’m!’ he said, and got up dusting the snow from his knee. He fumbled in the recesses of his overcoat, produced a pair of glasses, put them on awkwardly and surveyed the lawyer over their top. ‘Very—um—extraordinary. I was on my way to see him.’ Enward stared. ‘You were on your way? So was I! Did you know him?’ Mr Reeder considered this question. ‘I—er—didn’t—er—know him. No, I had never met him.’ The lawyer felt that hi own presence needed some explanation. ‘This is my clerk, Mr Henry Greene.’ Mr Reeder bowed slightly. What happened was this…’ He gave a very detailed and graphic description, which began with the recounting of what he had said when the telephone call came through to him at Beaconsfield, and how he was dressed and what his wife had said when she went to find his Wellington boots—her first husband had died through an ill-judged excursion into the night air on as foolish a journey—and how much trouble he had had starting the car, and how long he had had to wait for Henry. Mr Reeder gave the impression that he was not listening. Once he walked out of the blinding light and peered back the way the policeman had gone; once he went over to the body and looked at it again; but most of the time he was wandering down the lane, searching the ground with his torch, with Mr Enward following at his heels lest any of his narrative be lost. ‘Is he dead…I suppose so?’ suggested the lawyer. ‘I—er—have never seen anybody—er—deader,’ said Mr Reeder gently. ‘I should say, with all reverence and respect, that he was—er— extraordinarily should say, with all reverence and respect, that he was—er— extraordinarily dead.’ He looked at his watch. ‘At nine-fifteen you met the policeman? He had just discovered the body? It is now nine thirty-five. How did you know that it was nine-fifteen?’ ‘I heard the church clock at Woburn Green strike the quarter.’ Mr Enward conveyed the impression that the clock struck exclusively for him. Henry halved the glory: he also had heard the clock. ‘At Woburn Green—you heard the clock? H’m…nine-fifteen!’ The snow was falling thickly now. It fell on the heap and lay in the little folds and creases of his clothes. ‘He must have lived somewhere about here?’ Mr Reeder asked the question with great deference. ‘My directions were that his house lay off the main road you would hardly call this a main road…fifty yards beyond a noticeboard advertising land for sale— desirable building land.’ Mr Enward pointed to the darkness. ‘Just there—the noticeboard. Curiously enough, I am the—er—solicitor for the vendor,’ His natural inclination was to emphasize the desirability of the land, but he thought it was hardly the moment. He returned to the question of Mr Wentford house. ‘I’ve only been inside the place once—two years ago, wasn’t it, Henry?’ ‘A year and nine months,’ said Henry exactly. His feet were cold, his spine chilled. He felt sick. ‘You cannot see it from the lane,’ Enward continued. ‘Rather a small, one-storey cottage. He had it specially built for him apparently. It isn’t exactly…a palace.’ ‘Dear me!’ said Mr Reeder, as though this were the most striking news he had heard that evening. ‘In a house he built himself! I suppose he has, or had, a