Mr. J. G. Reeder Returns by Edgar Wallace Page A

is very nearly five hundred thousand pounds,” he said. “I made a rough survey the other morning. Lidgett was kind enough to let me have the keys – in fact, he had to allow this, because I flatly refused to make any statement concerning the condition of the Treasury until he let me satisfy myself that the money was not entirely gone.
    “He and Buckingham were fellow gamblers. I’ve never quite known how Buckingham came into his confidence, but I have a fancy that Buckingham was necessary for the transport of the gold. I will say this, that I was not aware that the money was being stolen, although I confess I was a little suspicious. When I taxed Lidgett with plundering the treasure house he very frankly admitted the fact, and defied me to take any action against him.
    “I know they quarrelled a great deal, and, as Miss Lane Leonard will tell you, there was some fighting in which Lidgett got the worst of it. The murder was probably subsequent to this. And now I think I had better call Lidgett.”
    He went out of the room and up the stairs, past the far end of the left wing and knocked at the door. A surly voice asked who was there, and when he replied he heard the shuffle of slippered feet across the bare floor and the key was turned in the lock.
    Lidgett was in a dressing gown, his face covered with sticking plaster.
    “Has he gone?” he growled.
    Major Olbude shook his head, a smile on his good-looking face.
    “No,” he said lightly. “At the moment he is in the library with Miss Lane Leonard.”
    Lidgett gaped at him.
    “With her? Talking to her? What the hell’s the idea?”
    “The idea is that I have told Mr Reeder as much of the truth as I know. I naturally couldn’t tell him exactly the circumstances leading to the murder of Buckingham, because I don’t know what preceded it. I gather from your activity in the garage the next day, and the amount of washing down you did, that the murder was committed in the garage. I know you burnt clothes in the furnace, but all this is quite unimportant.”
    Lidgett stood, speechless. And then, as he realised all that was implied: “You swine!” he screamed.
    Mr Reeder heard two quick shots and then a third. He flew up the stairs, arriving simultaneously with a manservant. When he came back to the girl his face was grave.
    “I’m going to take you up to London, young lady,” he said. “I have asked one of the maids to pack your things and bring them down.”
    “I can go up–” she began.
    “There is no need.”
    “What has happened?” she asked.
    “We’ll talk about it in the car,” said Reeder.
    In truth he did nothing of the sort. He did not even tell her that the key attached to a silver chain, which he carried in his pocket, had been taken from the neck of the dead Lidgett and was still spotted with his blood.
     
    “The story, so far as I can piece it together,” said Mr Reeder to his chief, “is somewhat complicated, but is not by any means as complicated as it appeared. Which, sir, is a peculiarity of most human stories.
    “The real Major Olbude was a drug addict who died in St Pancras Infirmary. He was a relative of Lane Leonard’s, and at one time there had been certain business associations between them. When Lane Leonard found he was approaching his end, his mind went back to his brother-in-law and he sent Lidgett in search of him. By a stroke of luck Lidgett was able to trace Olbude, and discovered that he had died at St Pancras Infirmary and been buried under the name of Smith.
    “You must realise that Lidgett was a very shrewd and possibly a clever fellow. He was certainly cunning. He knew that unless a guardian were produced the estate would be thrown into Chancery and he would lose his employment, for he had never been a favourite with Miss Pamela. He conceived the idea of producing a spurious Major Olbude, and his choice fell upon a man he had met at a gambling house in Dean Street, a rather pompous schoolmaster who had this