Free Red Aces by Edgar Wallace

had conducted most of her uncle’s business, had become a place of bad dreams.
    She had never been very fond of her tyrannical relative, who, if he had paid her well, had extracted the last ounce of service from her. He was an inveterate speculator, and had made considerable monies from his operations on the Stock Exchange. It was she who had bought and sold on his telephoned instructions, she who put his money into a London bank. Over her head all the time he had held one weapon: she had an invalid mother in Italy dependent on his charity.
    All day long, people had been calling at the office. A detective had been there for two hours, taking a new statement; reporters had called in battalions, but these she had not seen. Mr Reeder had supplied her with an outer guard, a hard-faced woman who held the pressmen at bay. But the police now knew everything there was to know about “Wentford’s” private affairs – except one thing. She was keeping faith with the dead in this respect, though every time she thought of her reservation her heart sank.
    She finished up her work and went home, leaving the building by a back door to avoid the patient reporters. They were waiting for her at her flat, but the hard-faced Mrs Grible swept them away.
    Once safely in the flat, a difficulty arose. How could she tactfully and delicately dismiss the guard which Mr Reeder had provided? She offered the woman tea, and Mrs Grible, who said very little, embarrassed her by making it.
    “I’m greatly obliged to you and Mr Reeder,” she said after the little meal. “I don’t think I ought to take up any more of your time–”
    “I’m staying until Mr Reeder comes,” said the lady.
    Very meekly the girl accepted the situation.
    Mr Reeder did not come until ten o’clock. Margot was half dead with weariness, and would have given her legacy to have undressed and gone to bed.
    For his part, he was in the liveliest mood, an astounding circumstance remembering that he had had practically no sleep for thirty-six hours. In an indefinable way he communicated to her some of his own vitality. She found herself suddenly very wide awake.
    “You have seen the police, of course?” Mr Reeder sat on a chair facing her, leaning on the handle of his umbrella, his hat carefully deposited on the floor by his side. “And you have told them everything? It is very wise. The key, now – did you tell them about the key?”
    She went very red. She was (thought Mr Reeder) almost as pretty when she was red as when she was white.
    “The key?” She could fence, a little desperately, with the question, although she knew just what he meant.
    “At the cottage last night you showed me two keys – one the key of the house, the other, from its shape and make, the key of a safe deposit.”
    Margot nodded.
    “Yes. I suppose I should have told them that. But Mr Wentford–”
    “Asked you never to tell. That is why he had two keys, one for you and one for himself.”
    “He hated paying taxes – ” she began.
    “Did he ever come up to town?”
    “Only on very wet days and foggy days. I have never been to the safe deposit, Mr Reeder. Anything that is there he placed himself. I only had the key in case of accidents.”
    “What was he afraid of – did he ever tell you?”
    She shook her head.
    “He was terribly afraid of something. He did all his own housework and cooking – he would never have anybody in. A gardener used to come every few days and look after the electric light plant, and Mr Wentford used to pay him through the window. He was afraid of bombs – you’ve seen the cage round the window in his bedroom? He had that put there for fear somebody should throw in a bomb whilst he was asleep. I can’t tell you what precautions he took. Except myself and the policeman, and once Mr Enward the lawyer, nobody has ever entered that house. His linen was put outside the door every week and left at the door. He had an apparatus for testing milk and he analysed every