Red Aces by Edgar Wallace Read Free Book Online

of Mr Wentford.
    “9.15.  Mr Enward and his clerk drive up by motor-car, and are stopped by the constable, who rides into Beaconsfield for assistance.
    “6.45 a.m.  The body of Constable Verity is found shot dead 120 yards north of where the body of Mr Wentford was found.”
     
    Mr Kingfether, the sub-manager of the Beaconsfield branch of the Great Central Bank, read this account and was rightly agitated. He got to the bank very early that morning, for he had a letter to write, and his managerial office gave him the privacy he required. He was a serious man, with serious-looking spectacles on a pale, plump face. He had a little black moustache and his cheeks and chin were invariably blue, for he had what barbers call a “strong beard”.
    The newspapers arrived as he was writing. They were pushed under the closed outer door of the bank, and, being at the moment stuck for the alternative to an often reiterated term of endearment, he rose and brought the newspapers into the office, put a new coal on the fire and sat down to glance through them. There were two papers, one financial and one human.
    He read the latter first, and there was the murder in detail, though it had only occurred the night before. The discovery of the constable’s body was not described, because it had not been discovered when the paper went to press.
    He read and reread, his mind in a whirl, and then he took the telephone and called Mr Enward. That gentleman was also in his office that snowy morning, though the hour was eight.
    “Good morning, Kingfether…Yes, yes, it’s true…I was practically a witness – they’ve found the poor policeman…dead…yes, murdered…yes, shot…I was the last person to speak to him. Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful! That such horrors can be – I say that such horrors can be…I said that such…What’s the matter with your ’phone? He banks with you? Really? Really? I’ll come over and talk with you…”
    Mr Kingfether hung up the telephone and wiped his face with his handkerchief. It was a face that became moist on the least provocation. Presently he folded the newspaper and looked at his unfinished letter. He was on the eighth page and the last words he had written were:
     
    …can hardly live the day through without seeing your darling face, my own…
     
    It was obvious that he was not writing to his general manager, or to a client who had overdrawn his account.
    He added “beloved” mechanically, though he had used the word a dozen times before. Then he unfolded the paper and read of the murder again.
    A knock at the side door: he went out to admit Enward. The lawyer was more important than usual. Participation in public affairs has this effect. And a news agency had telephoned to ask whether they could send a photographer, and Mr Enward, shivering at the telephone in his pyjamas, had said “Yes” and had been photographed at his breakfast table at 7.30 a.m., poising a cup of tea and looking excessively grave. He would presently appear in one hundred and fifty newspapers above the caption “Lawyer Who Discovered His Own Client Murdered.”
    “It is a terrible business,” said Mr Enward, throwing off his coat. “He banked with you? I’m in charge of affairs, Kingfether, though heaven knows I am ignorant about ’em! I don’t know how he stands…what is his credit here?”
    Mr Kingfether considered.
    “I’ll get the ledger from the safe,” he said.
    He locked the centre drawer of his desk, because his letter to Ena Burslem was there and other documents, but Mr Enward saw nothing offensive in the act of caution; rather was it commendable.
    “Here is his account.” Kingfether laid the big ledger on the desk and opened it where his thumb marked a page. “Credit three thousand four hundred pounds.”
    Mr Enward fixed his glasses and looked.
    “Has he anything on deposit? Securities – no? Did he come often to the bank?”
    “Never,” said Kingfether. “He used the account to pay bills.