THE TREASURE HUNT

Many criminals believe that every detective has a lot of money which they earned through illegal means. They say that policemen have so much money that their work is only a hobby, and all the money they earn there is not important to them.

As Mr. J. G. Reeder usually worked with bank robbers, the criminals believed that he had several houses and a lot of money. But not in a bank, because it would be too risky. The criminals dreamed that one day when Mr. Reeder died, they would find the money.

The Director of Public Prosecutions and a judge were having lunch together on Saturday, and they started to talk about Mr. J. G. Reeder: 

“He’s very good,” the director said, “but I hate his hat and his black coat. His hair is horrible too, but he’s very good. I’m afraid that if I talked rough to him, he would start crying. He is very gentle—almost too gentle for this work. He apologizes to the messenger every time he calls him!”

The judge, who knew something about people, replied with a cold smile, “He sounds like a potential murderer to me,” he said.

But the judge was not so mistaken because Mr. Reeder was capable of breaking the law. Still, many people thought he was absolutely harmless and weak. One of these was a certain Lew Kohl, who printed fake banknotes.

At court, many men who had to go to prison because of evidence Mr. Reeder had uncovered promised revenge on him in the near future.

Some of them were really angry and shouting, but when they met Mr. Reeder after returning from prison, they were nice and sorry about their behavior and threats.

But when, in the early part of 1914, Lew Kohl was sent to prison for ten years, he neither screamed nor promised anything horrible to Mr. Reeder. Lew just smiled, and when he looked at the detective, there was no hate or anger. He just said: 

“At the first opportunity, I will kill you.”

Many years passed, and Mr. Reeder was promoted, but he never forgot Lew’s smile.

The new work was not difficult, and it was very interesting. Most of the anonymous letters that the Director received came to Mr. Reeder. Usually, they were quite simple to deal with, but sometimes: 

“Sir James is going to marry his cousin, and it’s not even three months since his poor wife fell from the ship going to Calais. There’s something very strange about this. Miss Margaret doesn’t like him because she knows he wants her money. Why was I sent away to London that night? He doesn’t like driving in the dark. It’s strange that he wanted to drive that night when it was raining heavily.”

This letter was signed “A Friend.”

‘Sir James’ was Sir James Tithermite. During the war, he was a director of a public department and received his title for his services.

“Look it up,” said the Director when he saw the letter. “I seem to remember that Lady Tithermite drowned at sea.”

“On the nineteenth of December last year,” said Mr Reeder. “She and Sir James were going to Monte Carlo. Sir James drove to Dover and parked his car at the Lord Wilson Hotel. The night was stormy, and the journey on the ship was rough. They were halfway across when Sir James realised his wife was missing. Her luggage was in the cabin, along with her passport, ticket, and hat, but the lady herself was never found, and she was never seen again.”

The Director nodded. “I see, you’ve read about the case.”

“I remember it,” said Mr Reeder. “The case is my favourite puzzle. Unfortunately, I see evil in everything, and I have often thought how easy— but I am afraid that I see evil everywhere. It is terrible to have a criminal mind.”

The Director looked at him, unsure if Mr Reeder was being serious. But at that moment, his face was completely serious.

“A dismissed driver wrote that letter, of course,” the Director began.

“Thomas Dayford,” Mr Reeder finished. “He currently works for the Kent Motor-Bus Company, and he has three children. Two of them are twins.”

The Chief laughed. “I suppose you know everything!” he said. “See what’s behind the letter. Sir James has powerful political connections. There is nothing in this letter, of course. Be careful, Reeder— if anyone complains, I will make your life difficult!”

Mr Reeder’s idea of being careful was quite unusual. He travelled to Maidstone the next morning by bus and walked along a road up to the big grey house.

There was a girl sitting in a chair on the grass. She had a book on her knees, and when she saw him, she stood up and approached him cheerfully.

“I’m Miss Margaret Letherby— are you from—?” She mentioned the name of a well-known firm of solicitors, and she was disappointed when Mr Reeder said that he wasn’t.

She was very pretty, but she wasn’t particularly clever.

“I thought— do you wish to see Sir James? He is in the library. If you ring the bell, one of the maids will take you to him.”

Mr Reeder wondered why any girl with money would want to marry a man much older than herself, especially one she didn’t like. It was a bit of a mystery. But Miss Margaret would have married any strong man who was insistent.

There was no need to ring the bell. A tall, strong man in a suit stood in the doorway. His fair hair was long, and he had a heavy moustache.

“Well?” he asked aggressively.

“I’m from the Public Prosecutor’s office,” said Mr Reeder. “I received an anonymous letter.”

He looked at the man intently.

“Come in,” Sir James said. As he closed the door, he glanced quickly first at the girl and then at the road. “I’m expecting a solicitor,” he said, opening the door to the library.

His voice was steady; he didn’t seem nervous at all when Reeder told him why he had come.

“Well— what about this anonymous letter? You don’t take it seriously, do you?”

Mr Reeder took a document from his pocket and handed it to Sir James, who frowned as he read. But Mr Reeder had a feeling that Sir James softened a bit as he read.

“This is a ridiculous story from someone who thinks they saw my wife’s jewellery on sale in Paris,” he said. “There’s nothing to it. I can show you all her jewellery. I brought back the jewel case after that dreadful night. I don’t know who wrote this. Who is the lying scoundrel who sent this?”

Mr Reeder had never before been called a lying scoundrel, but he accepted it calmly.

“I thought it wasn’t true,” he said, shaking his head. “I followed the case. You left here in the afternoon—”

“At night,” Sir James quickly corrected. He didn’t want to discuss the matter, but Mr Reeder persisted. “It’s only eighty minutes to Dover. We arrived there at eleven o’clock, about the same time as the train, and we boarded the ship immediately. I got my key and put my wife and her luggage in the cabin.”

“Was your wife a good sailor?”

“Yes, a very good sailor; she was well that night. I left her in the cabin sleeping and went for a walk around the ship—”

“It was raining heavily, and the sea was rough,” said Reeder.

“Yes— I’m a pretty good sailor— anyway, that story about my poor wife’s jewels is nonsense. You can tell the Director that.”

He opened the door for his visitor, and Mr Reeder slowly collected the letter and his things.

“You have a beautiful place here, Sir James— a lovely place. It’s really big.”

“Three thousand acres.” He was clearly impatient now. “Goodbye.”

Mr Reeder walked slowly down the road, his mind working. He missed a bus he could easily have caught and continued walking along the baronet’s property. After a quarter of a mile, he came to a lane branching off to the right from the main road. At the corner stood an old stone house behind an iron gate. The house was dilapidated, and no one seemed to care for it.

Mr Reeder heard the sound of a letterbox and, when he turned, saw a postman.

“What place is this?” Mr Reeder asked.

“South Lodge— Sir James Tithermite’s property. It’s never used now. Hasn’t been for years— I don’t know why.”

Mr Reeder walked with the postman towards the village, gathering a lot of information from him.

“Yes, poor lady! She was very frail.”

Mr Reeder asked a question and received a much better answer than he had hoped for.

“Yes, the lady was a bad sailor. I know because every time she went abroad, she used to buy a bottle of that stuff people take for sea-sickness. I’ve delivered many bottles to her.”

Mr Reeder continued on to the village and spent some time at the chemist’s, the blacksmith’s shop, and the building yard. He caught the last bus back to Maidstone and, by great good fortune, the last train to London.

On Friday, when the Director asked him questions, he only replied with:

“Yes, I saw Sir James— a very interesting man.”

On the following March Sunday morning, Mr Reeder stood at the window of his house in Brockley Road, looking out at the street. It was 7:30, and Mr Reeder had been at his desk since six.

He returned to his table.

“Dear me,” said Mr Reeder quietly.

He went back to the window and watched a man turn off Lewisham High Road towards his house. It was a tall, upright man with a serious brown face.

“Dear me!” Mr Reeder said as he heard the doorbell.

A few minutes later, his housekeeper knocked on the door.

“Will you see Mr Kohl, sir?” she asked.

Mr J. G. Reeder nodded as Lew Kohl entered the room. Mr Reeder was wearing a dressing gown, with his glasses perched on his nose.

“Good morning, Kohl.”

Lew Kohl looked at the man who had sent him to seven and a half years of hell, and the corner of his thin lips curled upward.

“Morning, Mr Reeder. You didn’t expect to see me, I suppose?”

“Not so early,” replied Reeder in his mild voice, “but I forgot that many prisoners learn to rise early in prison.”

It seemed as though he was complimenting him on his good behaviour.

“I suppose you’ve got a pretty good idea of why I’m here, eh? I haven’t forgotten, Reeder, and a man in prison has plenty of time to think.”

The older man raised his eyebrows, and the glasses on his nose slipped further down.

“I’m going to get you, Reeder— you can go ahead and tell your boss, the Public Prosecutor. But I’ll get you! There will be no evidence, and I’ll find all that money you’ve hidden somewhere, Reeder!”

The myth of Reeder’s fortune was believed even by someone as intelligent as Kohl.

“You’ll get my money? You won’t get very rich,” Mr Reeder said with a faint hint of humour.

“You know what I mean— think it over. One day, some time, you’ll die, and all of Scotland Yard won’t catch me for the killing! I’ve thought it through—”

“One has time to think in prison,” Mr J. G. Reeder remarked. “You’re becoming one of the world’s great thinkers, Kohl.”

“That’s all.” Lew Kohl stood up, the smile still on his face. “Maybe you’ll think about it a bit, and in a day or two, you won’t be feeling so pleased with yourself.”

Reeder’s expression was sombre. Lew Kohl’s hand was on the doorknob.

“Womp!”

It was the sound of something heavy hitting the wall. Something flew past Lew’s face, leaving a deep hole in the wall.

Mr Reeder held a gun in his hand, fitted with a silencer. Kohl was stunned.

“Now, how on earth did that happen?” he asked in disbelief.

Lew Kohl stood there, both angry and frightened.

“You— you…!” he breathed. “You tried to shoot me!”

Mr Reeder was looking at him over his glasses.

“Good gracious— you think that? Are you still planning to kill me, Kohl?”

Kohl tried to speak, but no words came out. He quickly opened the door, rushed down the stairs, and out of the house. His foot had just touched the first step when something fell beside him. It was a large stone vase that had been on the window sill of Mr Reeder’s bedroom. He leapt over the shattered pieces and looked up. There was Mr Reeder’s face at the window, looking surprised.

“I’ll get you!” Kohl shouted as he ran away.

Mr Stan Bride was washing his face in his room at Fitzroy Square when his friend Lew Kohl burst in.

Stan Bride was a small, strong man with a huge red face. He stopped drying himself and looked over the towel.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked sharply. “You look as if you’ve been chased by a policeman. Why did you go out so early?”

Lew told him what had happened.

“You poor fool!” said Stan. “Don’t you think he was waiting for you? Do you really believe he didn’t know you were out the moment you left prison?”

“I’ve scared him, anyway,” said Kohl, but Mr Bride laughed.

“Scared him? You think he’s scared?” he laughed. “Scare that old man!” (He didn’t say ‘man.’) “If he’s as pale as you, then maybe he’s scared! But he’s not. Of course, he shot past you— if he’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead now. But he didn’t. Now you’ve got something to think about.”

“Where that gun came from, I don’t—”

There was a knock at the door.

“Who’s there?” asked Bride, and a familiar voice answered.

“It’s that policeman from Scotland Yard,” Bride said as he opened the door.

The ‘policeman’ was Sergeant Allford, C.I.D.

“Morning, boys— how come you’re not in church, Stan?”

Stan smiled politely.

“How’s trade, Lew?”

“Not so bad.”

“I’ve come to see you about a gun. It’s a Lew-Colt automatic, R.7/94318.”

“I’ve got no gun,” Lew said.

Bride suddenly felt a wave of fear. If they found a gun, it would send him straight back to prison.

“Will you come with me to the station, or will you let me search you here?”

“Search me,” said Lew, extending his arms. The policeman searched him thoroughly but found nothing.

“I’ll have a look around,” said the detective, and his ‘look around’ was very thorough.

“It was a mistake,” Sergeant Allford said. Then, suddenly: “What did you throw into the river?”

Lew’s heart raced. It was clear he had been followed that morning.

Bride waited until the detective had left, then turned to his companion.

“Clever, aren’t you! That old fox knew you had a gun— and he knew the serial number too. If Allford had found it, I’d be heading back to prison with you.”

“I threw it in the river,” Lew replied.

“At least you did that!” Bride said angrily. “Leave Reeder alone— he’s trouble, pure and simple!”

“I didn’t know they were following me,” Kohl said; “but I’ll get him! And his money too.”

“Get him from another place,” Bride said. “I don’t care that you’re a criminal, I don’t care that you’re a murderer, but I don’t tolerate stupidity. You can take all his money, but I suspect it’s all tied up in property and land. I don’t like Reeder— I don’t like snakes either, but I stay away from the zoo.”

So, Lew Kohl found a new flat on the top floor of an Italian’s house in Dean Street, and there he had time to think about how to destroy his enemy. New plans were needed because everything he had planned in prison was now useless.

Lew changed his mind. He no longer wanted to kill Reeder; he wanted to take his money and hurt him that way.

Nearly a week later, Mr Reeder walked into the Director’s office and shared his theory about Sir James Tithermite and his late wife. When Mr Reeder had finished, the Director pushed his chair back from the table.

“My dear man,” he said, slightly irritated, “I can’t allow you to pursue this case. The story is so far-fetched that I cannot let you continue with it.”

“The sea was stormy, yet Lady Tithermite was not seasick,” the detective gently suggested. “That is very significant, sir.”

The Director shook his head. 

“I can’t do anything. There’s no evidence,” he said. “Can’t you do something—unofficially?” 

Mr Reeder shook his head. 

“People there know I’m a detective, and I wouldn’t be able to cover my tracks. But I know where the place is.” 

The Director shook his head again. 

“No, Reeder,” he said quietly, “there are no facts. Oh yes, I know you have a criminal mind, but we will do nothing here. The man is a baronet!” 

Mr Reeder sighed and went back to his office, but he wasn’t disheartened. There was something new in his investigation. 

Whenever he went to Maidstone, someone followed him. Mr Reeder pretended not to notice, but he wondered whether his lesson had failed to affect Lew Kohl. 

Then Mr Reeder had a new idea, one that made him feel quite pleased. 

Mr Bride was practising card tricks, ensuring that the ace of diamonds would stay on top, when Lew Kohl burst into his room. Lew seemed genuinely delighted. 

“I’ve got him!” Lew said. 

Bride put aside the cards and stood up. 

“Got who?” he asked coldly. “And if it’s killing, don’t tell me—just get out!” 

“There’s no killing.” 

Lew sat down with a huge smile on his face. 

“I’ve been following Reeder for a week, and it wasn’t easy.” 

“Well?” asked Bride, when Lew paused dramatically. 

“I’ve found his money!” 

“I don’t believe it!” 

Lew nodded. 

“He’s been going to Maidstone a lot lately and driving to a little village about five miles away. That’s where I always lost him. But yesterday, when he came back to the station to catch the last train, he was in the waiting room. I watched him. What do you think he did?” 

Mr Bride had no idea.

“He opened his bag,” Lew said, “and took out a lot of banknotes! Then I followed him to London. There’s a restaurant at the station, and he went in to get a cup of coffee. As he came out, he took out his handkerchief. He didn’t notice that a little book fell from his bag, but I did. He left the station, and I grabbed that book. Look!” 

It was a small, old notebook. 

Bride reached out to take it. 

“Wait a second,” Lew said. “We’ll split whatever we find, but I need your help.” 

Bride hesitated. 

“If it’s only theft, I’m in,” he said. 

“Just theft—and an easy one at that,” Lew replied, handing the notebook to Bride. 

For most of the night, they sat together discussing Mr J.G. Reeder and his supposed fortune. 

It was raining on Monday night when Lew and his friend walked the five miles to the village in a strong storm. They had all their tools in their pockets. 

They encountered no one during their walk, and the church bell was striking eleven when Lew climbed over the gate of South Lodge. Mr Bride followed him. 

They unlocked the door of the old building in ten minutes, and moments later, they stood in a small room in front of a large fireplace. Lew took off his coat and draped it over the window. Then he lit his lamp and knelt down, examining the large stone of the fireplace carefully. 

“This workmanship isn’t very good,” he remarked. 

He took out his tools and slowly began to move the stone, but it was very heavy. 

“We’ll need to do this together,” Lew said. 

They got their fingers beneath the stone and removed it within a few seconds. Lew picked up the lamp and looked into the dark space behind the stone. And then: 

“Oh, my God!” he screamed. 

A second later, two terrified men ran out of the house, where a dark figure was waiting for them. 

“Put your hands up, Kohl!” said a voice, and though Lew hated Mr Reeder, at that moment, he wanted to hug him. 

At midnight, Sir James Tithermite was discussing matters with his future bride when his servant entered, followed by the Chief Constable and a man Sir James vaguely remembered. 

“Sir James Tithermite?” said the Chief Constable, though he knew Sir James well. 

“Yes, Colonel, what is it?” the baronet asked. 

“I’m arresting you on the charge of murdering your wife, Eleanor Mary Tithermite.” 

“The most crucial fact was whether Lady Tithermite was a good or bad sailor,” explained J.G. Reeder to his chief. “If she were a bad sailor, it was unlikely that she would have been on the ship, even for five minutes, without calling for the stewardess. The stewardess did not see her, nor did anyone else on board, because she was never on board! She was murdered before the journey even began; her body was hidden under the fireplace in the old house. 

Sir James drove to Dover, handed his luggage to a porter who took it to his cabin. He timed his arrival so that he boarded the ship with a crowd of passengers from the train, and no one knew whether he was alone or with his wife—and no one cared. He got his key, placed the luggage, along with his wife’s hat, in the cabin. Officially, Lady Tithermite was on board. Then, he discovered she had ‘disappeared.’ The ship was searched, but of course, she was not found. As I mentioned before—” 

“You have a criminal mind,” said the Director, pleased. “Go on, Reeder.” 

“Yes, it was very simple to create the illusion that Lady Tithermite was on board, so I deduced that if the murder was committed, it must have been near the house. Then, the local builder mentioned that he had given Sir James a lesson on building a wall. The local blacksmith told me that the gate near the old house had been damaged, probably by Sir James’s car. I wanted to know when it was repaired. I was certain the body was under the fireplace, but I needed to search the house, and I couldn’t do it myself because it would have risked our reputation,” he explained. 

The Director pondered for a moment. 

“Of course, Kohl went there because you made him believe that you had a lot of money hidden there. I suppose he read that in your little notebook? But why did he believe you had a treasure there?” 

Mr Reeder smiled sadly. 

“The criminal mind is a strange thing,” he said. “It thrives on illusions and fairy tales. Fortunately, I understand that mind. As I have often said—”