In a dim way he remembered the name. It had that value of familiarity which makes even the most assured hesitate to deny acquaintance. It sounded grand, too—the name of a Somebody. And Bennett Street was a place where Somebodies live.
The officer peered into the dark hall.
“If you would put the light on, madam, I will look round.”
She shook her head; he almost felt the shiver of her.
“The lights aren’t working. That is what frightened me. They were quite all right when I went to bed at one o’clock. Something woke me—I don’t know what—and I switched on the lamp by the side of my bed, but there was no light. I keep a little portable battery lamp in my bag. I found this and turned it on.”
She stopped, set her teeth in a mirthless smile. Police Officer Dyer saw the dark eyes were staringly wide.
“I saw—I don’t know what it was—just a patch of black, like somebody crouching by the wall. Then it disappeared. And the door of my room was wide open. I closed and locked it when I went to bed.”
The officer pushed open the door wider, sent a white beam of light along the passage. There was a small hall table against the wall, where a telephone instrument stood. Striding into the hall, he took up the instrument and lifted the hook: the phone was dead.
“Does this—”
So far he got with the question, and then stopped. From somewhere above him he heard a fault but sustained creak—the sound of a foot resting on a faulty floor board. Mrs. Fornese was still standing in the open doorway, and he went back to her.
“Have you a key to this door?” he asked, and she shook her head.
He felt along the inner surface of the lock and found a stop-catch, pushed it up.
“I’ll have to phone from somewhere. You’d better—”
What had she best do? He was a plain police constable and was confronted with a delicate situation.
“Is there anywhere you could go—friends?”
“No.” There was no indecision in that word. And then: “Doesn’t Mr. Reeder live opposite? Somebody told me—”
In the house opposite a light showed. Mr. Dyer surveyed the lighted window dubiously. It stood for the elegant apartment of one who held a post superior to chief constables. No. 7 Bennett Street had been at a recent period converted into flats, and into one of these Mr. Reeder had moved from his suburban home. Why he should take a flat in that exclusive and interesting neighbourhood, nobody knew. He was credited by criminals with being fabulously rich; he was undoubtedly a snug man.
The constable hesitated, searched his pocket for the smallest coin of the realm, and, leaving the lady on the doorstep, crossed the road and tossed a ha’penny to the window. A second later the casement window was pushed open.
“Excuse me, Mr. Reeder, could I see you for a second?”
The head and shoulders disappeared, and in a very short time Mr. Reeder appeared in the doorway. He was so fully dressed that he might have been expecting the summons. The frock coat was tightly buttoned, on the back of his head his flat-topped felt hat, on his nose the pince-nez through which he never looked were askew.
“Anything wrong, constable?” he asked gently.
“Could I use your phone? There is a lady over there—Mrs. Fornese—alone—heard somebody in the house. I heard it, too—”
He heard a short scream—a crash—and jumped round. The door of No. 4 was closed. Mrs. Fornese had disappeared.
In six strides Mr. Reeder had crossed the road and was at the door. Stooping, he pressed in the flap of the letter box and listened. No noise but the ticking of a clock—a faint sighing sound.
“Hum!” said Mr. Reeder, scratching his long nose thoughtfully. “Hum—would you be so kind as to tell me all about this—um—happening?”
The police constable repeated the story, more coherently.
“You fastened the spring lock so that it would not move? A wise precaution.”
Mr. Reeder frowned. Without another word he crossed the street and disappeared into his flat. There was a small drawer at the back of his writing desk. This he unlocked and, taking out a leather holdall, unrolled this and selecting three curious steel instruments that were not unlike small hooks, fitted one into a wooden handle and returned to the constable.
“This, I fear, is—I will not say ‘unlawful,’ for a gentleman of my position is incapable of an unlawful act—shall I say ‘unusual’?”
All the time he talked in his soft, apologetic way, he was working at the lock, turning the instrument first one way and then the other. Presently, with a click, the lock turned and Mr. Reeder pushed open the door.
“I think I had better borrow your lamp—thank you.”
He took the electric lamp from the constable’s hand and flung a white circle of light into the hall. There was no sign of life. He cast the beam up the stairs, and, stooping his head, listened. There came to his ear no sound, and noiselessly he stepped farther into the hall.
The passage continued beyond the foot of the stairs, and at the end was a door which apparently gave to the domestic quarters of the house. To the policeman’s surprise, it was the door which Mr. Reeder examined. He turned the handle, but the door did not move, and, stooping, he squinted at the keyhole.
“There was somebody—upstairs,” began the policeman with respectful hesitation.
“There was somebody upstairs,” repeated Mr. Reeder absently. “You heard a creaky board, I think.”
He came slowly back to the foot of the stairs and looked up. Then he cast his lamp along the floor of the hall.
“No sawdust,” he said, speaking to himself, “so it can’t be that.”
“Shall I go up, sir?” said the policeman, and his foot was on the lower tread when Mr. Reeder, displaying unexpected strength in so weary-looking a man, pushed him back.
“I think not, constable,” he said firmly. “If the lady is upstairs she will have heard our voices. But the lady is not upstairs.”
“Do you think she’s
