Red Aces by Edgar Wallace Read Free Book Online Page B

thought there was some sort of friendship between Mr Wentford and the young lady?”
    Kenneth made a gesture of despair.
    “I don’t know what I thought – I was just a jealous fool.”
    A very long silence, broken by a coal falling from the fire on to the iron bottom of the fender.
    “You paid out six hundred pounds the other day to a lady on Mr Wentford’s cheque?”
    “I didn’t know that Wentford was – ” began Ken, but Mr Reeder brushed aside that aspect of the situation. “Yes, a veiled lady. She came by car. It was a large sum of money, but the day before Mr Kingfether had told me to honour any cheque of Mr Wentford’s, no matter to whom money was paid.”
    “Will you tell me something about your quarrel with the young lady?” Mr Reeder asked. “It is, I realize, a delicate subject.”
    Kenneth hesitated, then told his story as he had told it to Mr Machfield.
    “Miss Lynn called on you that night – did she ask you to destroy the photograph you had taken?”
    The young man was surprised at this query.
    “No – I had forgotten all about the photograph till the other day. I must have sent the pack to be developed or put them aside to send them. Would the picture of Mr Wentford be any good to you?”
    J G Reeder shook his head. He asked very little more. He was, it seemed, the easiest man in the world to satisfy. Before he left he saw the sub-manager alone.
    “Did you tell Mr McKay that he was to honour any cheque of Mr Wentford’s, no matter to whom the money was paid?”
    The answer came instantly.
    “Of course not! Naturally I should expect him to be sure that the person who presented a cheque had authority. And another curious thing which I have not mentioned. I lunch at the inn opposite and I usually have a seat in the window, where I can see these premises, but I have no recollection of any car drawing up to the bank.”
    “H’m!” was all that Mr Reeder said.
    He made a few enquiries in Beaconsfield and the neighbourhood and went on to Wentford’s house, where Gaylor had arranged to meet him. The inspector was pacing up and down the snowy terrace before the house and he was in very good spirits.
    “I think I’ve got the man,” he said. “Do you know anybody named McKay?”
    Mr Reeder looked at him slyly.
    “I know a dozen,” he said.
    “Come inside and I’ll show you something.”
    Reeder followed him into the room. The carpet had been taken up, the furniture moved. Evidently a very thorough search had been in progress. Gaylor swung back the bookcase: the safe door was ajar.
    “We got keys from the maker – quick work! They were down here by eight-thirty.”
    He stooped down and pulled out three bundles. The first was made up of bills, the second of used cheques, the third was a thick bundle of French banknotes, each to the value of 1,000 francs.
    “That is surprise No. 1,” began the detective, flourishing the money. “French money–”
    “I am afraid it doesn’t surprise me,” said Mr Reeder apologetically. “You see, I’ve been examining the gentleman’s bank book. By the way, here are the numbers of notes drawn from Mr Wentford’s account.” He handed over a slip of paper.
    “Six hundred pounds is a lot of money,” said Gaylor. “I’ll ’phone these through. Well, what else did you find in the bank book?”
    “I observed,” said Mr Reeder, “though I did not emphasize the fact, that all the money he paid in was in French bank notes. Number two is – ?”
    The inspector extracted a sheet of headed paper from one heap. Written in pencil was what was evidently a memorandum from somebody who signed himself “D H Hartford”.
     
    I have found that the man who is employing a private detective to find you is George McKay of Sennet House, Marlow. I don’t know what his intentions are, but they’re not pleasant. There is nothing to worry about: he is employing one of the most incompetent private detectives in the business.
     
    “Extraordinary!” said Mr