RED ACES BEING THREE CASES OF MR. REEDER _by_ EDGAR WALLACE H&S HODDER AND STOUGHTON LIMITED LONDON [DEDICATION] TO MY FRIEND AND SECRETARY R.G. CURTIS CONTENTS RED ACES KENNEDY THE CON. MAN THE CASE OF JOE ATTYMAR RED ACES CHAPTER I When a young man is very much in love with a most attractive girl he is apt to endow her with qualities and virtues which no human being has ever possessed. Yet at rare and painful intervals there enter into his soul certain wild suspicions, and in these moments he is inclined to regard the possibility that she may be guilty of the basest treachery and double dealing. Everybody knew that Kenneth McKay was desperately in love. They knew it at the bank where he spent his days in counting other people’s money, and a considerable amount of his lunch hour writing impassioned and ill-spelt letters to Margot Lynn. His taciturn father, brooding over his vanished fortune in his gaunt riverside house at Marlow, may have employed the few moments he gave to the consideration of other people’s troubles in consideration of his son’s new interest. Probably he did not, for George McKay was entirely self-centred and had little thought but for the folly which had dissipated the money he had accumulated with such care, and the development of fantastical schemes for its recovery. All day long, summer and winter, he sat in his study, a pack of cards before him, working out averages and what he called “inherent probabilities,” or at a small roulette wheel, where, alternately, he spun and recorded the winning numbers. Kenneth went over to Beaconsfield every morning on his noisy motor-bicycle and came back every night, sometimes very late, because Margot lived in London. She had a small flat where she could not receive him, but they dined together at the cheaper restaurants and sometimes saw a play. Kenneth was a member of an inexpensive London club which sheltered at least one sympathetic soul. Except Mr. Rufus Machfield, the confident in question, he had no friends. “And let me advise you not to make any here,” said Rufus. He was a military-looking man of forty-five, and most people found him rather a bore, for the views which he expressed so vehemently, on all subjects from politics to religion, which are the opposite ends of the ethical pole, he had acquired that morning from the leading article of his favourite daily. Yet he was a genial person and a likeable man. He had a luxurious flat in Park Lane, a French valet, a couple of hacks which he rode in the park, and no useful occupation. “The Leffingham Club is cheap,” he said, “the food’s not bad, and it is near Piccadilly. Against that you have the fact that almost anybody who hasn’t been to prison can become a member----” “The fact that I’m a member----” began Ken. “You’re a gentleman and a public school man,” interrupted Mr. Machfield a little sonorously. “You’re not rich, I admit----”