knew – about the jugs?’ he asked gently.
She was sitting on the edge of a sofa, her hands clasped on her knees, her deep-set eyes staring at the carpet.
‘John – that was my first husband – told me. He was a professor of chemistry and natural science, and also told me about the electric furnace. It is so easy to make if you have power – we use nothing but electricity in this house for heating and everything. And then I saw my poor darling being ruined through me, and I found how much money there was in the bank, and I told Billingham to draw it and bring it to me without Sidney knowing. He came here in the evening. I sent Sidney away – to Brighton, I think. I did everything – put the new lock on the telephone box and fixed the shaft from the roof to the little room – it was easy to disperse everything with all the doors open and an electric fan working on the floor–’
She was telling him about the improvised furnace in the greenhouse when the police arrived with the divisional surgeon, and she went away with them, weeping because there would be nobody to press Sidney’s ties or put out his shirts.
Mr Reeder took the inspector up to the little room and showed him its contents.
‘This funnel leads to the telephone box–’ he began.
‘But the jugs are empty,’ interrupted the officer.
Mr J G Reeder struck a match and, waiting until it burnt freely, lowered it into the jug. Half an inch lower than the rim the light went out.
‘Carbon monoxide,’ he said, ‘which is made by steeping marble chips in hydrochloric acid – you will find the mixture in the tank. The gas is colourless and odourless – and heavy. You can pour it out of a jug like water. She could have bought the marble, but was afraid of arousing suspicion. Billingham was killed that way. She got him to go to the telephone box, probably closed the door on him herself, and then killed him painlessly.’
‘What did she do with the body?’ asked the horrified officer.
‘Come out into the hothouse,’ said Mr Reeder, ‘and pray do not expect to see horrors: an electric furnace will dissolve a diamond to its original elements.’
Mr Reeder went home that night in a state of mental perturbation, and for an hour paced the floor of his large study in Brockley Road.
Over and over in his mind he turned one vital problem: did he owe an apology to Margaret Belman for saying that she was his wife?
Sheer Melodrama
It was Mr Reeder who planned the raid on Tommy Fenalow’s snide shop and worked out all the details except the composition of the raiding force. Tommy had a depot at Golders Green whither trusted agents came, purchasing £1 Treasury notes for £7 10s. per hundred, or £70 a thousand. Only experts could tell the difference between Tommy’s currency and that authorized by and printed for HM Treasury. They were the right shades of brown and green, the numbers were of issued series, the paper was exact. They were printed in Germany at £3 a thousand, and Tommy made thousands per cent profit.
Mr Reeder discovered all about Tommy’s depot in his spare time, and reported the matter to his chief, the Director of Public Prosecutions. From Whitehall to Scotland Yard is two minutes’ walk, and in just that time the information got across.
‘Take Inspector Greyash with you and superintend the raid,’ were his instructions.
He left the inspector to make all the arrangements, and amongst those who learnt of the projected coup was a certain detective officer who made more money from questionable associations than he did from Government. This officer ‘blew’ the raid to Tommy, and when Mr Reeder and his bold men arrived at Golders Green, there was Tommy and three friends playing a quiet game of auction bridge, and the only Treasury notes discoverable were veritable old masters.
‘It is a pity,’ sighed J G when they reached the street; ‘a great pity. Of course I hadn’t the least idea that Detective-Constable Wilshore
She was sitting on the edge of a sofa, her hands clasped on her knees, her deep-set eyes staring at the carpet.
‘John – that was my first husband – told me. He was a professor of chemistry and natural science, and also told me about the electric furnace. It is so easy to make if you have power – we use nothing but electricity in this house for heating and everything. And then I saw my poor darling being ruined through me, and I found how much money there was in the bank, and I told Billingham to draw it and bring it to me without Sidney knowing. He came here in the evening. I sent Sidney away – to Brighton, I think. I did everything – put the new lock on the telephone box and fixed the shaft from the roof to the little room – it was easy to disperse everything with all the doors open and an electric fan working on the floor–’
She was telling him about the improvised furnace in the greenhouse when the police arrived with the divisional surgeon, and she went away with them, weeping because there would be nobody to press Sidney’s ties or put out his shirts.
Mr Reeder took the inspector up to the little room and showed him its contents.
‘This funnel leads to the telephone box–’ he began.
‘But the jugs are empty,’ interrupted the officer.
Mr J G Reeder struck a match and, waiting until it burnt freely, lowered it into the jug. Half an inch lower than the rim the light went out.
‘Carbon monoxide,’ he said, ‘which is made by steeping marble chips in hydrochloric acid – you will find the mixture in the tank. The gas is colourless and odourless – and heavy. You can pour it out of a jug like water. She could have bought the marble, but was afraid of arousing suspicion. Billingham was killed that way. She got him to go to the telephone box, probably closed the door on him herself, and then killed him painlessly.’
‘What did she do with the body?’ asked the horrified officer.
‘Come out into the hothouse,’ said Mr Reeder, ‘and pray do not expect to see horrors: an electric furnace will dissolve a diamond to its original elements.’
Mr Reeder went home that night in a state of mental perturbation, and for an hour paced the floor of his large study in Brockley Road.
Over and over in his mind he turned one vital problem: did he owe an apology to Margaret Belman for saying that she was his wife?
Sheer Melodrama
It was Mr Reeder who planned the raid on Tommy Fenalow’s snide shop and worked out all the details except the composition of the raiding force. Tommy had a depot at Golders Green whither trusted agents came, purchasing £1 Treasury notes for £7 10s. per hundred, or £70 a thousand. Only experts could tell the difference between Tommy’s currency and that authorized by and printed for HM Treasury. They were the right shades of brown and green, the numbers were of issued series, the paper was exact. They were printed in Germany at £3 a thousand, and Tommy made thousands per cent profit.
Mr Reeder discovered all about Tommy’s depot in his spare time, and reported the matter to his chief, the Director of Public Prosecutions. From Whitehall to Scotland Yard is two minutes’ walk, and in just that time the information got across.
‘Take Inspector Greyash with you and superintend the raid,’ were his instructions.
He left the inspector to make all the arrangements, and amongst those who learnt of the projected coup was a certain detective officer who made more money from questionable associations than he did from Government. This officer ‘blew’ the raid to Tommy, and when Mr Reeder and his bold men arrived at Golders Green, there was Tommy and three friends playing a quiet game of auction bridge, and the only Treasury notes discoverable were veritable old masters.
‘It is a pity,’ sighed J G when they reached the street; ‘a great pity. Of course I hadn’t the least idea that Detective-Constable Wilshore
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