“I pray that you’re a true prophet,” said Simpson grimly. “I could wish for nothing better.”
They were still talking of Flack and his passion for ready gold when Mr. Lew Steyne arrived in the charge of a local detective. No crook, however hardened, can step into the gloomy approaches of Scotland Yard without experiencing some uneasiness, and Lew’s attempt to display his indifference was rather pathetic.
“What’s the idea, Mr. Simpson?” he asked, in a grieved tone. “I’ve done nothing.”
He scowled at Reeder, who was known to him, and whom he regarded, very rightly, as being responsible for his appearance at this most hated spot.
Simpson put a question, and Mr. Lew Steyne shrugged his shoulders.
“I ask you, Mr. Simpson, am I Ravini’s keeper? I know nothing about the Italian crowd, and Ravini’s scarcely an acquaintance.”
Mr. Reeder shook his head.
“You spent two hours with him last Thursday evening,” he said, and Lew was a little taken aback.
“I had a little bit of business with him, I admit,” he said. “Over a house I’m trying to rent—”
His shifty eyes had become suddenly steadfast; he was looking open-mouthed at the three rings that lay on the table. Reeder saw him frown, and then:
“What are those?” asked Lew huskily. “They’re not Giorgio’s luck stones?”
Simpson nodded and pushed the little square of white paper on which they lay toward the visitor.
“Do you know them?” he asked.
Lew picked up one of the rings and turned it round in his hand.
“What’s the idea?” he asked suspiciously. “Ravini told me himself he could never get these off.”
And then, as the significance of their presence dawned upon him, he gasped.
“What’s happened to him?” he asked quickly. “Is he—”
“I fear,” said Mr. Reeder soberly, “that Giorgio Ravini is no longer with us.”
“Dead?” Lew almost shrieked the word. His yellow face went a chalky white. “Where—who did it?”
“That is exactly what we want to know,” said Simpson. “Now, Lew, you’ve got to spill it. Where is Ravini? He said he was going to Paris, I know, but, actually, where did he go?”
The thief’s eyes strayed to Mr. Reeder.
“He was after that bird, that’s all I know,” he said sullenly.
“Which bird?” asked Simpson, but Mr. Reeder had no need to have its identity explained.
“He was after—Miss Belman?”
Lew nodded.
“Yes, a girl he knew—she went down into the country to take a job as hotel manager or something. I saw her go, as a matter of fact. Ravini wanted to get better acquainted, so he went down to stay at the hotel.”
Even as he spoke, Mr. Reeder had reached for the telephone, and had given the peculiar code word which is equivalent to a command for a clear line.
A high-pitched voice answered him.
“I am Mr. Daver, the proprietor. … Miss Belman? I’m afraid she is out just now. She will be back in a few minutes. Who is it speaking?”
Mr. Reeder replied diplomatically. He was anxious to get into touch with George Ravini, and for two minutes he allowed the voluble Mr. Daver to air a grievance.
“Yes, he went in the early morning, without paying his bill …”
“I will come down and pay it,” said Mr. Reeder.
IX
“The point is,” said Mr. Daver, “the only point—I think you will agree with me here—that really has any interest for us is that Mr. Ravini left without paying his bill. This was the point I emphasized to a friend of his who called me on the telephone this morning. That is to me the supreme mystery of his disappearance—he left without paying his bill!”
He leaned back in his chair and beamed at the girl in the manner of one who had expounded an unanswerable problem. With his fingertips together, he had an appearance which was oddly reminiscent.
“The fact that he left behind a pair of pajamas which are practically valueless merely demonstrates that he left in a hurry. You agree with me? I am sure you do. Why he should leave in a hurry is naturally beyond my understanding. You say he was a crook; possibly he received information that he had been detected.”
“He had no telephone calls and no letters while he was here,” insisted Margaret.
Mr. Daver shook his head.
“That proves nothing. Such a man would have associates. I am sorry he has gone. I hoped to have an opportunity of studying his type. And, by the way, I have discovered something about Flack—the famous John Flack—did you know that he had escaped from the lunatic asylum? I gather from your alarm that you didn’t. I am an observer, Miss B. Years of study of this fascinating subject have produced in me a sixth sense—the sense of observation, which is atrophied in ordinary individuals.”
He took a long envelope from his drawer and pulled out a small bundle of press cuttings. These he sorted on his table, and presently unfolded a newspaper portrait of an elderly man and laid it before her.
“Flack,” he said briefly.
She was surprised at the age of the man: the thin face, the grizzled moustache and beard, the deep-set intelligent eyes suggested almost anything rather than that confirmed and dangerous criminal.
“My press-cutting agency supplied these,” he said. “And here is another portrait which may interest you, and in a sense the arrival of this photograph is a coincidence. I am sure you will agree with me when I tell you why. It is a picture of a man called Reeder.”
Mr. Daver did not look up, or he would have seen the red come to the girl’s face.
“A clever old gentleman attached to the Public Prosecutor’s Department.”
“He is not very old,” said Margaret coldly.
“He looks old,” said Mr. Daver, and Margaret had to agree that the newspaper portrait was not a very flattering one.
“This is the gentleman who was instrumental in arresting Flack, and the coincidence—now what do you imagine the coincidence is?”
She shook her head.
“He’s coming here this day!”
Margaret Belman’s mouth opened in amazement.
“I had a
