For the second time in twenty-four hours this young man, who had almost been tongue-tied and had never deigned to notice her, had poured forth a torrent of confidences, and in one had, with frantic insistence, set forth a plan which had amazed and shocked her. Abruptly he finished, wiped his weak eyes, and in his normal voice:
“Get Billingham on the phone; I want him.”
She wondered, as her busy fingers flew over the keys of her typewriter, to what extent his agitation and wild eloquence was due to the rumoured “shakiness” of Telfers Consolidated.
Mr. Billingham came, a sober little man, bald and taciturn, and went in his secretive way into his employer’s room. There was no hint in his appearance or his manner that he contemplated a great crime. He was stout to a point of podginess; apart from his habitual frown, his round face, unlined by the years, was marked by an expression of benevolence.
Yet Mr. Stephen Billingham, managing director of the Telfer Consolidated Trust, went into the office of the London and Central Bank late that afternoon and, presenting a bearer cheque for one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, which was duly honoured, was driven to the Credit Lilloise. He had telephoned particulars of his errand, and there were waiting for him seventeen packets, each containing a million francs, and a smaller packet of a hundred and forty-six mille notes. The franc stood at 74.55 and he received the eighteen packages in exchange for a cheque on the Credit Lilloise for £80,000 and the 150 thousand-pound notes which he had drawn on the London and Central.
Of Billingham’s movements thenceforth little was known. He was seen by an acquaintance driving through Cheapside in a taxicab which was traced as far as Charing Cross—and there he disappeared. Neither the airways nor the waterways had known him, the police theory being that he had left by an evening train that had carried an excursion party via Havre to Paris.
“This is the biggest steal we have had in years,” said the Assistant Director of Public Prosecutions. “If you can slip in sideways on the inquiry, Mr. Reeder, I should be glad. Don’t step on the toes of the City police—they are quite amiable people where murder is concerned, but a little touchy where money is in question. Go along and see Sidney Telfer.”
Fortunately, the prostrated Sidney was discoverable outside the City area. Mr. Reeder went into the outer office and saw a familiar face.
“Pardon me, I think I know you, young lady,” he said, and she smiled as she opened the little wooden gate to admit him.
“You are Mr. Reeder—we live in the same road,” she said, and then quickly: “Have you come about Mr. Billingham?”
“Yes.” His voice was hushed, as though he were speaking of a dead friend. “I wanted to see Mr. Telfer, but perhaps you could give me a little information.”
The only news she had was that Sidney Telfer had been in the office since seven o’clock and was at the moment in such a state of collapse that she had sent for the doctor.
“I doubt if he is in a condition to see you,” she said.
“I will take all responsibility,” said Mr. Reeder soothingly. “Is Mr. Telfer—er—a friend of yours. Miss—?”
“Belman is my name.” He had seen the quick flush that came to her cheek: it could mean one of two things. “No, I am an employee, that is all.”
Her tone told him all he wanted to know. Mr. J. G. Reeder was something of an authority on office friendships.
“Bothered you a little, has he?” he murmured, and she shot a suspicious look at him. What did he know, and what bearing had Mr. Telfer’s mad proposal on the present disaster? She was entirely in the dark as to the true state of affairs; it was, she felt, a moment for frankness.
“Wanted you to run away! Dear me!” Mr. Reeder was shocked. “He is married?”
“Oh, no—he’s not married,” said the girl shortly. “Poor man, I’m sorry for him now. I’m afraid that the loss is a very heavy one—who would suspect Mr. Billingham?”
“Ah! who indeed!” sighed the lugubrious Reeder, and took off his glasses to wipe them; almost she suspected tears. “I think I will go in now—that is the door?”
Sidney jerked up his face and glared at the intruder. He had been sitting with his head on his arms for the greater part of an hour.
“I say … what do you want?” he asked feebly. “I say … I can’t see anybody … Public Prosecutor’s Department?” He almost screamed the words. “What’s the use of prosecuting him if you don’t get the money back?”
Mr. Reeder let him work down before he began to ply his very judicious questions.
“I don’t know much about it,” said the despondent young man. “I’m only a sort of figurehead. Billingham brought the cheques for me to sign and I signed ’em. I never gave him instructions; he got his orders. I don’t know very much about it. He told me, actually told me, that the business was in a bad way—half a million or something was wanted by next week … Oh, my God! And then he took the whole of our cash.”
Sidney Telfer sobbed his woe into his sleeve like a child. Mr. Reeder waited before he asked a question in his gentlest manner.
“No, I wasn’t here: I went down to Brighton for the weekend. And the police dug me out of bed at four in the morning. We’re bankrupt. I’ll have to sell my car and resign from my club—one has to resign when one is bankrupt.”
There was little more to learn from the broken man, and Mr. Reeder returned to his chief with a report that added nothing to the sum of knowledge. In a week the theft of Mr. Billingham passed from scare lines to paragraphs in most of the papers—Billingham had made a perfect getaway.
In the bright lexicon of Mr. J. G. Reeder there
