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 tonight 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 peepholes and watch them sewing mail bags—I know of no more sedative occupation than a little needlework! 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-suchlike 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
