The clue of the silver key

By Edgar Wallace

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Title: The clue of the silver key

Author: Edgar Wallace

Release date: January 7, 2026 [eBook #77643]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1930

Credits: David T. Jones, Mary Meehan, Al Haines & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CLUE OF THE SILVER KEY ***





                    THE CLUE OF THE SILVER KEY

                        _by_ EDGAR WALLACE


    H&S

    HODDER AND STOUGHTON
    LIMITED    LONDON

     _Dedicated
         to_
    MICHAEL BEARY

    MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN FOR HODDER AND STOUGHTON, LTD.,
    BY BILLING AND SONS LTD., GUILDFORD AND ESHER.




CHAPTER ONE


They were all in this business--Dick Allenby, inventor and heir-at-law;
Jerry Dornford, man about town and wastrel; Mike Hennessey, theatrical
adventurer; Mary Lane, small part actress; Leo Moran, banker and
speculator; Horace Tom Tickler (alas, for him!) was very much in it,
though he knew nothing about it.

Mr. Washington Wirth, who gave parties and loved flattery; old Hervey
Lyne and the patient Binny, who pulled his bath-chair and made his
breakfast and wrote his letters--and Surefoot Smith.

There came a day when Binny, who was an assiduous reader of newspapers
that dealt with the more picturesque aspects of crime, was to find
himself the focal point of attention and his evidence read by millions
who had never before heard of him--a wonderful experience.

Mr. Washington Wirth's parties were most exclusive affairs and, in a
sense, select. The guests were chosen with care, and might not, in the
manner of the age, invite the uninvited to accompany them; but they
were, as Mary Lane said, "an odd lot." She went because Mike Hennessey
asked her, and she rather liked the stout and lethargic Mike. People
called him "poor old Mike" because of his bankruptcies, but just now
sympathy would be wasted on him. He had found Mr. Washington Wirth, a
patron of the theatre and things theatrical, and Mr. Washington Wirth
was a very rich man.

He was also a mysterious man. He was generally believed to live in the
Midlands and to be associated with industry. His London address was the
Kellner Hotel, but he never slept there. His secretary would telephone
in advance for the Imperial suite on a certain day, and on the evening
of that day, when supper was laid for his twenty or thirty guests, and
the specially hired orchestra was tuning up, he would appear, a stout,
flaxen-haired man in horn-rimmed spectacles. The uncharitable said his
flaxen hair was a wig, which may or may not have been true.

He was perfectly tailored, invariably wore white kid gloves. He spoke in
a high, falsetto voice, had a trick of clicking his heels and kissing
the hands of his lady guests which was very Continental.

His guests were hand-picked. He chose--or Mike chose for him--the
smaller theatrical fry; chorus girls, small part ladies, an obscure
singer or two.

Once Mike had suggested a brighter kind of party. Mr. Wirth was shocked.

"I want nothing fast," he said.

He loved adulation--and had his fill of it. He was a generous spender,
a giver of expensive presents; people living on the verge of poverty
might be excused a little flattering.

You could not gate-crash into one of Mr. Washington Wirth's parties,
invitations to which came in the shape of a small oblong badge, not
unlike the badge worn by the ladies in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, on
which the name of the invited guest was written. This the recipient
wore; it served a double purpose, for it enabled Mr. Wirth to read and
address each of his guests by her name.

Mary Lane was well aware that the invitation was no tribute to her own
eminence.

"I suppose if I had been a really important guest I shouldn't have been
invited?" she said.

Mike smiled good-naturedly.

"You _are_ important, Mary--the most important person here, my dear. The
old boy was keen to know you."

"Who is he?"

Mike shook his head.

"He's got all the money in the world," he said.

She laughed. Mary Lane was very lovely when she laughed. She was
conscious that Washington Wirth, albeit occupied with the cooing
attention of two blonde lovelies, was watching her out of the side of
his eyes.

"He gives lots of parties, doesn't he?" she asked. "Mr. Allenby told me
today that they are monthly affairs. He must be rich, of course, or he
wouldn't keep our play running. Honestly, Mike, we must be losing a
fortune at the Sheridan."

Mike Hennessey took his cigar from his mouth and looked at the ash.

"I'm not losing a fortune," he said. Then, most unexpectedly: "Old
Hervey Lyne a friend of yours, Mary?"

She denied the friendship with some vigour.

"No, he's my guardian. Why?"

Mike put back his cigar deliberately.

The band had struck up a waltz. Mr. Wirth was gyrating awkwardly,
holding at arm's length a lady from the Jollity who was used to being
held more tightly.

"I had an idea you were connected," he said. "Moneylender, wasn't he?
That's how he made his stuff. Is Mr. Allenby related to him?"

There was a certain significance in the question, and she flushed.

"Yes--his nephew." She was a little disconcerted. "Why?"

Mike looked past her at the dancers.

"Trying to pretend they enjoy it," he said. "They're all getting
gold-mounted vanity bags tonight--you'll get yours."

"But why do you ask about Mr. Lyne?" she persisted.

"Just wondering how well you knew the old man. No, he's never lent me
money. He wants gilt-edged security and I've never had it. Moran's his
banker."

Mike was one of those disconcerting men whose speech followed the
eccentric course of their thoughts.

He chuckled.

"Funny, that, Mary. Moran's his banker. You don't see the joke, but I
do."

She knew Leo Moran slightly. He was by way of being a friend of Dick
Allenby's, and he was, she knew, a frequent visitor to the theatre,
though he never came "back stage."

When Mike was being cryptic it was a waste of time trying to catch up
with him. She looked at her watch.

"Will he be very annoyed if I leave soon? I have promised to go on to
the Legation."

He shook his head, took her gently by the arm, and led her up to where
Mr. Wirth was being delightfully entertained by three pretty girls who
were trying to guess his age.

"My little friend has to go, Mr. Wirth," he said. "She's got a rehearsal
in the morning."

"Perfectly understood!" said the host.

When he smiled he had white, even teeth, for which no thanks were due to
nature.

"Per-fectly understood. Come again, Miss Mary Lane. I'll be back from
abroad in three weeks."

She took his big, limp hand and shook it. Mike escorted her out and
helped her into her coat.

"Another hour for me and then I pack up," he said. "He never stays after
one. By the way, I'll bring on your gift to the theatre."

She liked Mike--everybody liked Mike. There was hardly an actor or an
actress in London who had not agreed to take half-salary from him. He
could cry very convincingly when he was ruined, and he was always ruined
when hard-hearted people expected him to pay what he owed them.

A lovable soul, entirely dishonest. Nobody knew what he did with the
money which he had lost for so many people, but the probability is that
it was usefully employed.

"I don't know what's the matter with our play," he said, as he walked
with her along the corridor to the elevator. "Maybe it's the
title--_Cliffs of Fate_--what does it mean? I've seen the darn' thing
forty times and still I don't know what it's about."

She stared at him, aghast.

"But you chose it!" she protested.

He shook his head.

"He did." He jerked his thumb back to Mr. Wirth's suite. "He said it
made him feel a better man when he read it. It's never made _me_ want to
go more regularly to the synagogue!"

He saw Mary depart, fussed over her like a broody hen. He liked Mary
because she was real in a world of unreality. The first time he had
taken her out to supper he had offered her a few suggestions on the
quickest method by which a young actress might reach stardom, and her
name in lights, and she had answered him sanely and yet in a way that
did not entirely wound his vanity--and the vanity of a fat man is
prodigious.

Thereafter she went into a new category: he had many; she was the only
woman in the world he really liked, though, it is said, he loved many.
He strolled back to the hectic atmosphere of the supper-room--Mr. Wirth
was presenting the bags.

He was unusually gay: usually he drank very little, but tonight ...
Well, he had promised to drink a whole bottle of champagne if anybody
guessed his age, and one of the three pretty girls had guessed
thirty-two.

"Good God!" said Mike, when they told him.

As soon as was expedient he took his patron aside.

"About time these people went, Mr. Wirth," he said.

Mr. Wirth smiled foolishly; spoke with the refinement which wine brings
to some.

"My deah, deah fellah! I'm quate ceepable of draving myself to deah old
Coventry."

Certainly this was a new Mr. Wirth. Mike Hennessey was troubled. He felt
he was in danger of losing a priceless possession. It was as though the
owner of a secret gold mine, from which he was drawing a rich dividend,
were hoisting a great flapping flag to mark its site.

"What you want," he said agitatedly, "is something cooling. Just wait
here, will you?"

He ran out, saw the head waiter, and came back very soon with a little
blue bottle. He measured a tablespoonful of white granules into a
wine-glass and filled it with water; then he handed this fizzling,
hissing potion to the giver of the feast.

"Drink," he said.

Mr. Wirth obeyed. He stopped and gasped between the gulps.

By now the last guest had gone.

"All right?" asked Mike anxiously.

"Quite all right," snapped the other.

He seemed suddenly sober. Mike, at any rate, was deceived. He did not
see his friend to his car because that was against the rules. Mr. Wirth,
wrapped in a heavy coat, the collar of which was turned up, his opera
hat at a rakish angle over his eyes, made his way to the garage near
the hotel, had his car brought out, and was getting into it when the
watcher sidled up to him.

"Can I have a word with you, mister?"

Mr. Wirth surveyed him glassily, climbed into his seat and shifted his
gear.

"Can I have a word----"

The car jerked forward. The little interviewer, who had one foot on the
running board, was sent sprawling. He got up and began to run after the
car, to the amusement of the garage workers; car and pursuer vanished in
the darkness.




CHAPTER TWO


The trailer lost his quarry in Oxford Street and wandered disconsolately
onward. A sort of homing instinct led him towards Regent's Park. Naylors
Crescent was a magnificent little side street leading from the outer
circle. It was very silent, its small, but stately, houses were in
darkness.

Mr. Tickler--such was his peculiar name--stopped before No. 17 and
looked up at the windows. The white blinds were drawn down and the house
was lifeless. He stood, with his hands thrust into his pockets, blinking
at the green door that he knew so well, at the three worn steps leading
down, and the hollow steel railway that masons had fixed into the
stonework to allow the easy descent of a bath-chair.

Inside was wealth, immense, incalculable wealth, and a stupid old man on
the verge of the grave. Outside were poverty and resentment, the
recollection of the rigours of Pentonville Prison, a sense of injustice.
Old Lyne slept on the first floor. His bed was between these two high
windows. That lower window marked the study where he sat in the daytime.
There was a safe in the wall, full of useless old papers. Old Lyne never
kept money in the house. All his life he had advertised this habit. A
burglar or two had gone to enormous trouble to prove him a liar and had
got nothing for their pains.

There he was, sleeping in luxury, the old rat, under featherweight
blankets specially woven for him, under a satin coverlet packed tight
with rare down, and here was he, Horace Tom Tickler, with a pinch of
silver in his pocket.

But, perhaps he was not there at all? That was an old trick of his, to
be out when everybody thought he was in, and in when they thought he was
out.

He walked up and down the quiet cul-de-sac for nearly an hour, turning
over in his mind numerous schemes, mostly impracticable, then he
slouched back towards the bright streets and coffee stalls. He took a
short cut through the mews to reach Portland Place, and the most
astounding luck was with him.

A policeman walking through Baynes Mews heard the sound of a man
singing. It was, if his hearing gave a right impression, the voice of
one who had gone far in insobriety, and the voice came from a tiny flat,
one of the many above the garages that lined each side of the mews. Time
was when they were occupied exclusively by coachmen and chauffeurs, but
the artistic and aristocratic classes had swamped these humble West End
habitations, and more than half of the new population of Baynes Mews
were people who dressed for dinner and came home from parries and night
clubs, their arms filled with gala favours, some of which made strange
and distressing noises.

There was nothing in the voice to indicate anything more startling than
normal inebriety. The policeman would have passed on but for the fact
that he saw a figure sitting on the step of the narrow door which led to
the little flat above.

The officer turned his electric lamp on the sitter and saw nothing which
paid for illumination. The little man who grinned up at the policeman
was, as the officer said to his sergeant later, "nothing to write home
about." He was red-faced, unshaven, wretchedly shabby. His collar might
have been white a week before; he wore no tie and his linen, even in the
uncertain light of the lamp, was uncleanly.

"'Ear him?" He jerked his head upward and grinned. "First time it's ever
happened. Soused! What a mug, eh? Gettin' soused. He slipped me tonight,
an' I'd never have tailed him--but for this bit of luck.... 'Eard him by
accident.... Soused!"

"You're a bit soused yourself, aren't you?"

The policeman's tone was unfriendly.

"I've had three whiskies and a glass of beer. Does a man of the world
get soused on that, I ask you?"

The voice upstairs had died down to a deep hum.

At the far end of the mews a horse was kicking in his box with maddening
irregularity.

"A friend of yours?"

The little man shook his head.

"I don't know. Perhaps; that's what I got to find out. Is he friendly or
ain't he?"

The policeman made a gesture.

"Get out of this. I can't have you loungin' about. I seem to know your
face, too. Didn't I see you at Clerkenwell Police Court once?"

This officer prided himself on his memory for faces. It was his practice
to say that he could never remember names, but never forgot faces. He
thought he was unique and his remark original, and was not conscious of
being one of forty million fellow citizens who also remembered faces and
forgot names.

The little man rose and fell in by the officer's side.

"That's right." His step was a little unsteady. "I got nine munce for
fraud."

He had in truth been convicted of petty larceny and had gone to prison
for a month, but thieves have their pride.

Could a man convicted of fraud be arrested under the Prevention of
Crimes Act because he sat in the doorway of a mews flat? This was the
problem that exercised the mind of the constable. At the end of the
mews he looked round for his sergeant, but that authority was not in
sight.

A thought occurred to him.

"What you got in your pocket?"

The little man stretched out his arms.

"Search me--go on. You ain't entitled to, but I'll let you."

Another dilemma for the policeman, who was young and not quite sure of
his rights and duties.

"Push off. Don't let me see you hanging around here," he ordered.

If the little man argued or refused he could be arrested for
"obstruction," for "insulting behaviour," for almost anything. But he
did nothing.

"All right," he said, and walked off.

The policeman was tempted to recall him and discover the identity of the
singer. Instead, he watched Mr. Tickler until he was out of sight.

The hour was a quarter to two in the morning. The patrol marched on to
the point where his sergeant would meet him. As for Mr. Tickler, he went
shuffling down Portland Place, looking in every doorway to find a
cigarette end or cigar butt, which might have been dropped by returning
house-holders.

What a tale to tell if he could sell the information in the right
quarter! Or he could put the "black" upon the singer. Blackmail gets
easy money--if there is money to get. He stopped at a stall in Oxford
Circus and drank a scalding cup of coffee. He was not entirely without
funds and had a bed to go to and money for 'bus fare, if the 'buses were
running.

Refreshed, he continued his way down Regent Street and met the one man
in the world he would willingly have avoided. Surefoot Smith was
standing in the shadow of a recessed shop window, a stocky man, in a
tightly buttoned overcoat. His derby hat was, as usual, on the back of
his head; his round face ruddier than Mr. Tickler's was impassive. But
for the periodical puffs of smoke which came from his big briar pipe he
might have been a statue carved out of red brick.

"Hey!"

Reluctantly Tickler turned. He had been quick to identify the silent
watcher. By straightening his shoulders and adding something of
jauntiness to his stride he hoped to prevent the recognition from
becoming mutual.

Surefoot Smith was one of the few people in the world who have minds
like a well-organised card index. Not the smallest and least important
offender who had passed through his hands could hope to reach a blissful
oblivion.

"Come here--you."

Tickler came.

"What are you doing now, Tickler? Burglary, or just fetching the beer
for the con. men? Two a.m.! Got a home?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah, somewhere in the West End! Gone scientific, maybe. Science is the
ruin of the country!"

Rights or no rights, he passed his hands swiftly over Tickler's person;
the little man stretched out his arms obediently and smiled. It was not
a pretty smile, for his teeth were few and his mouth large and
lop-sided. But it was a smile of conscious virtue.

"No jemmy, no chisel, no bit, no gat." Surefoot Smith gave Mr. Tickler
absolution.

"No, Mr. Smith; I'm runnin' straight now. I'm going after a job
tomorrow."

"Don't waste my time, boy," said Surefoot reproachfully. "Work! You've
read about it. What kind of thieving do you do now? Whizzing? No, you're
not clever enough."

Tickler said a bold thing. The lees of wine were still sizzling within
him.

"I'm a detective," he said.

If Surefoot Smith was revolted he did not betray his emotion.

"Did you say 'defective' or 'detective'?" he asked.

He might have asked further questions, but at that moment a pocket lamp
flashed twice from the roof of the building he was watching. Instantly
the roadway seemed to be covered by the figures of overcoated men
converging on the building. Surefoot Smith was one of the first to reach
the opposite sidewalk.

A loud rapping on the door told Mr. Tickler all he wanted to know. The
place was being raided--a spieling club, or maybe worse. He was grateful
for the relief and hurried on his way. At Piccadilly Circus he paused
and considered matters. He was quite sober now and could review the
position calmly; and the more he thought, the more thoroughly he
realised that he had allowed opportunity to slip past him.

He turned and walked along Piccadilly, his chin on his chest, dreaming
dreams of easy money.




CHAPTER THREE


Mary Lane looked at the plain gold watch on her wrist and gasped.

"Four o'clock, my dear!"

There were still twenty couples on the dancing floor of the Legation
Club. It was a gala night, and they kept late hours at the Legation on
these occasions.

"Sorry you've had such a tiring evening."

Dick Allenby didn't look sorry; he certainly did not look tired. There
were no shadows under the laughing grey eyes, the tanned face was
unlined. Yet he had not seen his bed for twenty-four hours.

"Anyway, you rescued me," he said as he called a waiter. "Think of it! I
was alone until you came. When I said Moran had been and gone I was
lying. The devil didn't turn up. Jerry Dornford tried to edge in on the
party--he's still hoping."

He glanced across to a table on the other side of the room where the
immaculately dressed Jerry sat.

"I hardly know him," she said.

Dick smiled.

"He wants to know you better--but he is distinctly a person not to know.
Jerry has been out all the night--went away just before supper and has
only just come back. Your other party was dull, was it? Funny devil,
this man Wirth. It was cheek of Mike Hennessey to invite you there."

"Mike is rather a dear," she protested.

"Mike is a crook--a pleasant crook, but a crook. Whilst he is at large
it is disgraceful that there is anybody else in prison!"

They passed out into the street, and as they stood waiting for a cab
Dick Allenby saw a familiar figure.

"Why, Mr. Smith, you're out late!"

"Early," said Surefoot Smith. He lifted his hat to the girl. "Evening,
Miss Lane. Shockin' habit, night clubs."

"I'm full of bad habits," she smiled.

Here was another man she liked. Chief Inspector Smith of Scotland Yard
was liked by many people and heartily disliked by many more.

The cab drew up. She refused Dick's escort any further and drove off.

"Nice young lady that," said Surefoot. "Actresses don't mean anything to
me--I've just come from Marlborough Street, where I've been chargin'
three of 'em--at least, they called themselves actresses."

"A little raid?"

"A mere nothing," said Surefoot sadly. "I expected to find kings and
only pulled in prawns."

"Pawns," suggested Dick.

"Small fish, anyway," said Surefoot.

That he was called "Surefoot" was no testimony to his gifts as a sleuth.
It was his baptismal name. His father had been a bookmaking publican,
and a month before his child was born the late Mr. Smith, obsessed with
the conviction that Surefoot, the Derby favourite, would not win, had
laid that horse to win himself a fortune. If Surefoot had won, the late
Mr. Smith would have been a ruined man. Surefoot lost, and in gratitude
he had named his infant child after the equine unfortunate.

"I nearly came up to your workshop the other day and had a squint at
that gun of yours--air-gun, ain't it?"

"A sort of one," said Dick. "Who told you about it?"

"That feller Dornford. _He's_ a bad egg! I can't understand it--your
gun. Dornford said you put in a cartridge and fire it, and that charges
the gun."

"It compresses the air--yes."

Dick Allenby was not in the mood to discuss inventions.

"You ought to sell it to Chicago," said Mr. Smith, and made a clicking
noise with his lips. "Chicago! Six murders a week and nobody pinched!"

Dick laughed. He had only returned from Chicago a month before and he
knew something of the problems that the police had to face.

"These ride murders," Surefoot went on. "I mean takin' fellers out into
the country in a car and shootin' 'em. Would it be possible here? No!"

"I'm not so sure." Dick shook his head. "Anyway, it is nearly half-past
four and I'm not going to talk crime with you. Come up to my flat and
we'll have a drink."

Surefoot Smith hesitated.

"All right; there's no sleep for me tonight. There's a cab."

The cab stood in the middle of the road near an island.

Smith whistled.

"Driver's gone away, sir." It was the club link-man who offered the
information. "I tried to get it for the lady."

"He's asleep inside," said Smith, and walked across the road, Dick
following.

Surefoot peered through the closed window of the cab, but saw nothing.

"He's not there," he said, and looked again.

Then he turned the handle and pulled open the door. Somebody was
there--somebody lying on the floor, with his legs on the seat.

"Drunk!" said Smith.

He flashed his lamp on the figure. The face was visible, yet
indistinguishable, for he had been shot through the head at close
quarters; but Smith saw enough to recognise something which had once
been Mr. Horace Tom Tickler and was now just a dead, mangled thing.

"Taken for a ride!" gasped Surefoot. "Good God! What's this--Chicago?"




CHAPTER FOUR


In five minutes there were a dozen policemen round the cab, holding back
the crowd which had gathered, as crowds will gather at any hour of the
day or night in London. Fortunately, a police sergeant had been at
Marlborough Street, attending to a drunk, and he was on the spot within
a few minutes.

"Shot at close quarters by a very small-bore pistol," was his first
verdict after a casual examination.

In a very short time the ambulance arrived, and all that was mortal of
Horace Tom Tickler was removed. A police officer started up the engine
of the taxi and drove it into the station yard for closer inspection.
The number had already been taken. Scotland Yard had sent a swift car to
find the owner, a taxi driver named Wells.

Dick Allenby had not been specifically invited to the investigations,
but had found himself in conversation with Surefoot Smith at crucial
moments of the search, and had drifted with him to the police station.

The man had been shot in the cab; they found a bullet hole through the
leather lining of the hood. The body, Smith thought, had sagged forward
to the ground and the legs had been lifted in the approved gang style.

"He was probably still alive when he was on the floor. The murderer must
have fired a second shot. We have found a bullet in the floor-board of
the cab."

"Have you found the driver?" asked Dick.

"He's on his way."

Mr. Wells, the driver, proved to be a very stout and thoroughly alarmed
man. His story was a simple one. He had got to the garage where he kept
his car a little before 2 o'clock. The door of the garage was closed. He
left the cab outside, which was evidently a practice of his, for the
cleaner, who would come on duty at six o'clock and prepare the cab for
the day's work. He could leave it outside with impunity, because cabs
are very rarely stolen; they are so easily identified and so useless to
the average car thief that they are very seldom "knocked off." His
garage was in a stable yard off the Marylebone Road.

So far as he was concerned, he had a complete alibi, for, after leaving
the cab, he had gone to the nearest police station to deposit an
umbrella and a pocket-book which had been left by a previous passenger.
A policeman had seen him leave the car, and to this policeman he had
brought the lost property, which he had afterwards deposited at the
station. It was a very lonely yard, and, unlike such places, was
entirely without inhabitants, the garages forming part of a building
which was used as a furniture store.

It was seven o'clock, and the West End was alive with market cars, when
Dick drove home to his flat at Queen's Gate. It was curious that the
only impression left on him was one of relief that Mary had not walked
across the road to the cab and opened the door, as she might have done,
and made the hideous discovery. The car had been parked outside the club
twenty minutes before the discovery; the driver had been seen to leave
the taxi and walk towards Air Street.

The earliest discovery that had been made was that the taxi flag was
down and a sum of seventeen shillings was registered on the clock. This
gave the police approximately the period between the murder being
committed and the body being found.

Late that afternoon Surefoot Smith called on Dick Allenby.

"Thought you'd like to know how far we've got," he said. "We found a
hundred one-pound notes in this bird's pocket."

"Tickler's?"

"How did you know his name was Tickler?" Surefoot Smith regarded him
with suspicion.

Dick did not answer immediately.

"Well, the odd thing is, I recognised him when I saw him. He used to be
a servant of my uncle's."

"You didn't tell me that last night."

"I wasn't sure last night; I wasn't sure, in fact, until I saw the body
lifted out. I don't know very much about my uncle's business, but I
understand this man was fired for stealing, about six or seven years
ago."

Surefoot nodded.

"That's right. I'd come to give you that bit of information. I saw old
Lyne this morning, but, bless you, Scotland Yard means nothing to him.
Your uncle, is he?" He nodded again. "Congratulations!"

"What did he say?" asked Dick, curious.

Surefoot Smith lit his huge pipe.

"If you think he broke down, I am here to put you right. All he could
remember about Tickler was that he was a scoundrel, and anyway we knew
that. A hundred one-pound notes! If there had only been a fiver amongst
them it might have been easy."

He cleared a space on a crowded bench and perched himself upon it.

"I wonder who the fellow was who took him for a ride? American, I'll bet
you! That's what's worrying me--science coming into crime!"

Dick laughed.

"According to you, Surefoot, science is responsible for all crime."

Mr. Smith raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

"Well, isn't it? What's science done? It's given us photography to make
forgery easy, aeroplanes to get thieves out of the country, motor-cars
for burglars. What's wireless done? I've had four cases in the West End
in the last six months of fellows who used wireless to rob people!
What's electricity done? It helps safe smashers to drill holes in strong
rooms! Science!"

Dick thought there was very little evidence of applied science in the
taxicab murder, and said so.

"It might have been committed in a horse cab."

"The driver couldn't have left a horse," was the crushing retort. "I'll
bet you this is the first of many."

He reached out and put his hand on the oblong steel box that lay on the
bench near him.

"That's science, and therefore it's going to be used by criminals. It's
a noiseless gun----"

"Was the pistol last night noiseless?" asked Dick.

Surefoot Smith thought a moment, and then:

"Have you got any beer?" he asked.

There were a dozen bottles under one of the benches. Dick had many
visitors who required refreshment. Surefoot Smith opened two and drank
them in rapid succession. He was a great drinker of beer, had been
known to polish off twenty bottles at a sitting without being any the
worse for it, claiming, indeed, that beer intensified his powers of
reasoning.

"No," he said, and wiped his moustache carefully with a large red
handkerchief; "and yet we have seen nobody who heard the shots. Where
were they fired? That cab could have been driven somewhere in the
country. There are plenty of lonely places where a couple of shots would
not be noticed or heard. You can go a long way in a couple of hours.
There were rain marks on the windscreen and mud on the wheels. There was
no rain in London; there has been a lot just outside of London."

He reached mechanically under the bench, took out a third and a fourth
bottle and opened them absent-mindedly.

"And how did you find my noble relative?"

"Friend of yours?" asked Surefoot.

Dick shook his head.

"Well, I can tell you what I think of him."

Mr. Smith described Hervey Lyne in a pungent sentence.

"Very likely," agreed Dick Allenby, watching his beer vanish. "I'm
hardly on speaking terms with him."

Again Surefoot wiped his moustache with great care.

"This fellow Tickler--you had a few words with him, didn't you, about
five years ago?"

Dick's eyes narrowed.

"Did Mr. Lyne tell you that?"

"Somebody told me," said Surefoot vaguely.

"I kicked him out of my flat, yes. He brought father an insulting
message from my uncle, and supplemented it with a few remarks of his
own."

Surefoot got down from the bench and brushed himself carefully.

"You ought to have told me all this last night," he said reproachfully.
"It might have saved me a bit of trouble."

"I also might have saved myself four bottles of beer," said Dick,
slightly irritated.

"That's been put to a good use," said Surefoot.

He examined the odd-looking air-gun again, lifted it without difficulty
and replaced it.

"That might have done it," he said.

"Are you suggesting I killed this fellow?" Dick Allenby's anger was
rising.

Surefoot smiled.

"Don't lose your temper. It's not you I am up against, but science."

"It certainly is a gun," said Dick, controlling his wrath; "but the main
idea--I don't know whether you can get it into your thick head----"

"Thank you," murmured Surefoot.

"--is that this should be put to commercial use. By exploding an
ordinary cartridge, or nearly an ordinary cartridge, in this breech, I
create a tremendous air pressure, which can be just as well used for
running a machine as for shooting a gaol-bird."

"You knew he'd been in gaol?" asked Surefoot, almost apologetically.

"Of course I knew he'd been in gaol--two or three times, I should
imagine, but I only know of one occasion, when my uncle prosecuted him.
If I were you, Surefoot, I'd go to Chicago and learn something of the
police methods there----"

"There ain't any," interrupted Surefoot decidedly. "I've studied the
subject."

As Surefoot Smith walked towards Hyde Park he observed that all other
events in the world had slumped to insignificance by the side of the
taxicab murder. Every newspaper bill flamed with the words. One said
"Important Clue"; he wasted a penny to discover that the clue was the
first news that a hundred pounds had been found in the dead man's
pocket, a fact which had not previously been revealed.

The antecedents of Wells had been investigated during the day and he had
been given a clean bill by a man whose chief desire was to find the most
damning evidence against him.

Smith was due at Scotland Yard for a conference at four o'clock. He
hated conferences, where people sat round and smoked and expressed
extravagant views on subjects they knew nothing about. But on this
occasion, the first time for many years, he arrived promptly and had the
satisfaction of finding that his four colleagues were as barren of ideas
as he. They knew--and this was no discovery--that there was a
possibility that this was a new type of crime which might become
prevalent. Desperadoes had before now stolen cars, but had confined
their operations to minor out-of-town burglaries.

There was one scrap of news. A policeman patrolling Portland Place from
one of the mews behind had identified the body as that of a man to whom
he had spoken at a quarter to two, and this tallied with Smith's own
knowledge, for it was at two o'clock that he had seen Tickler walking
down Regent Street from the direction of Portland Place.

Curiously enough, though a familiar phenomenon to police investigators,
the policeman had said nothing about the drunken man in whose voice
Tickler had been interested. Nor, in his report, had he given so much as
a hint of that part of the conversation which revealed his knowledge of
a man against whom he had had a grudge, and who might conceivably have
had as deep an animosity towards him.

"This tells me no more than I know," said Surefoot, putting down the
report. "Except that it is not true that Tickler ever had nine months;
all his sentences were shorter. Who was it killed this poor little
hound? He was broke, or nearly broke. I saw him stop to pick up a
cigarette from the sidewalk just before he came up to me. Who picked him
up in the stolen cab, and why?"

Fat McEwan leaned back in his well-filled chair and blew a trumpet of
smoke to the ceiling.

"If there were such things as gangs you could guess it in once," he said
despairingly. "But there are no gangs. This man was not even a nose, was
he, Surefoot?"

Surefoot shook his head. "A nose" is a police informer, and Tickler had
never been that.

"Then why the dickens should he have been killed? Tell me that."

This was a fair summary of an hour's discussion. Surefoot Smith went
down to his little office entirely unenlightened. He found a number of
letters, and one that had been posted at Westminster and had been
delivered that afternoon. The envelope was dirty; his address was
scrawled in an illiterate hand. He tore open the envelope and took out a
sheet of paper, obviously extracted from a memorandum book of the
cheaper kind. In pencil were the words:

     "If you want to know who killed poor Mr. Tickler you'd better go
     and have a talk with Mr. L. Moran."

Smith looked at the letter for a long time, and then:

"Why not?" he asked himself aloud.

There were a great many things about Mr. Moran that he could never quite
understand.




CHAPTER FIVE


Faith needs the garnishing of romance as much as hope requires the
support of courage. Mary Lane had faith in her future, courage to brace
the hope of ultimate achievement. Otherwise she was without the more
important and disastrous illusions which do so much to create rosy
prospects and unhappy memories.

She knew that some day she would be accepted by the West End of London
as an important actress, that her name would appear in electric lights
outside a theatre, and a little larger than her fellow artistes on the
day-bill. But she never dreamed vain dreams of sudden fame, though, in
the nature of things, fame is as sudden as the transition of a sound
sleeper to wakefulness. Some day the slumbering public would open its
eyes and be aware of Mary Lane. In the meantime it was oblivious of her
existence--all except a few wide-awake writers of dramatic criticism.
These very few, having a weakness for discovery, continuously swept the
theatrical sky in search of _n_th dimension stars which would one day
(here the astronomical analogy became absurd) blaze into the first
dimension. Occasionally they "found"; more often than not they made
themselves ridiculous, but covered their failure with well-designed fun
poked at themselves and their own enthusiasms--which is one of the
tricks of their business.

It was only a half-hearted discovery so far as Mary was concerned. She
was a brighter speck in the nebula of young actresses. She might be
(they said) a very great actress some day, if she overcame her habit of
dropping her voice, if she learned how to use her hands, if this, that
and the other.

Mary strove diligently, for she was at the age when dramatic critics
seem infallible. She did not dream unprofitably; never lay awake at
night, imagining the eruption of an agitated management into the
dressing-room she shared with two other girls.

"You're understudying Miss Fortescue, aren't you? Get into her clothes
quick: she's been taken ill."

She did not visualise newspaper columns acclaiming the young actress who
had found fame in a night. She knew that understudy performances,
however politely received, are as politely forgotten, and that a girl
who grows famous in an evening steps into oblivion between Saturday and
Monday.

On the second morning after her appearance at Washington Wirth's party,
she had a brief interview with Mr. Hervey Lyne on the subject of her
allowance. It was not a pleasant interview. None of her interviews with
Mr. Lyne had ever been that.

"If you go on the stage you must expect to starve!" he snarled. "Your
fool of a father made me his executor and gave me full authority. A
hundred and fifty a year is all that you get until you're twenty-five.
And there is nothing more to be said!"

She was very pretty and very angry, but she kept her temper admirably.

"Twenty thousand pounds brings in more than a hundred and fifty a year,"
she said.

He glared in her direction; she was just a blotch of blue and pink to
his myopic vision.

"It is all you will get until you are twenty-five--and then I'll be glad
to get rid of you. And another thing, young lady: you're a friend of my
nephew, Richard Allenby?"

Her chin went up.

"Yes."

He wagged a skinny forefinger at her.

"He gets nothing from me--whether I'm alive or dead. Understand that!"

She did not trust herself to reply.

Binny showed her out and was incoherently sympathetic.

"Don't worry, miss," he said in his dull voice; "he ain't himself this
mornin'."

She said nothing, hardly noticed Binny, who sighed heavily and wagged
his head mournfully as he shut the door. He was by way of being a
sentimentalist.

Ten minutes later she was talking vehemently over the telephone to Dick
Allenby. His sympathy was more acceptable.

People used to say about Hervey Lyne that he was the sort of character
that only Dickens could have drawn, which is discouraging to a lesser
chronicler. He was eccentric in appearance and habit; naturally so,
because he was old and self-willed and had a vivid memory of his past
importance.

Everybody who was anybody in the late Victorian age had borrowed money
from Hervey Lyne, and most of them had paid it back with considerable
interest. Unlike the late "Chippy" Isaacs, as mild and pleasant a
gentleman as ever issued money on note of hand, Hervey was harsh,
unconscionable and rude. But he was quick. The swells who drove in
broughams and had thousands on their horses, and gave champagne parties
to men who wore side whiskers and women who wore flounces and regarded
other women who smoked cigarettes as being damned body and soul, were
sometimes in difficulties to find ready money, and generally they chose
Hervey first because they knew their fate sooner than if they applied to
Chippy.

Hervey said "No" or "Yes," and meant "No" or "Yes." You could go into
Hervey's parlour in Naylors Crescent and either come out in five minutes
with the money you needed or in two minutes with the sure knowledge that
if you had stayed two hours you would not have persuaded him.

He gave up lending money when the trustees of the Duke of Crewdon's
estate fought him in the Law Courts and lost. Hervey thought they would
win, and had the shock of his life. Thereafter he only lent very
occasionally, just as a gambler will play cards occasionally (and then
for small stakes) to recover something of the old thrill.

His attitude to the world can be briefly defined: the galley of his life
floated serenely on a sluggish sea of fools. His clients were fools; he
had never felt the least respect for any of them. They were fools to
borrow, fools to agree to enormous and staggering rates of interest,
fools to repay him.

Dick Allenby was a fool, a pottering inventor and an insolent cub who
hadn't the brains to see on which side his bread was buttered. Mary Lane
was a fool, a posturing actress who painted her face and kicked her legs
about (he invariably employed this inelegant illustration) for a
pittance. One was his nephew, and might with tact have inherited a
million; the other was the daughter of his sometime partner, and might,
had she been a good actress, have enjoyed the same inheritance--would
enjoy it yet if he could arouse himself from his surprising lethargy
and alter his will.

His servants were complete fools. Old Binny, bald, stout, perspiring,
who pulled his bath-chair into the park and read him to sleep, was a
fool. He might have taken a kindlier view of Binny and left him a
hundred or so "for his unfailing loyalty and tireless services," but
Binny hummed hymn tunes in the house and hummed them a key or so flat.

Not that Binny cared. He was a cheery soul with large eyes and a
completely bald head. A bit of a sluggard, whom his thin and whining
wife (who was also the cook of 17, Naylors Crescent) found a difficult
man to get out of bed in the mornings. Valet, confidential servant,
messenger, butler, chair-puller, and reader, Binny, alert or sleepy, was
worth exactly three times as much wages as he received.

Old Hervey sat propped up in his armchair, glooming at the egg and toast
that had been put before him. His thin old face wore an expression of
discontent. The thick, tinted glasses which hid the hard blue eyes were
staring at the tray, and his mind was far away.

"Has that jackass of a detective called again?"

"No, sir," said Binny. "You mean Mr. Smith?"

"I mean the fool that came to ask questions about that blackguard
Tickler," stormed the old man, emphasising every sentence with a blow
on the table that set the cups rattling.

"The man who was found in the cab----?"

"You know who I mean," snarled the old man. "I suppose one of his
thieving friends killed him. It's the sort of end a man like that would
come to."

Hervey Lyne relapsed into silence, a scowl on his face. He wondered if
Binny was robbing him too. There had been a suspicious increase in the
grocery bill lately, Binny's explanation that the cost of food had gone
up being entirely unacceptable. And Binny was one of those smooth, smug,
crawling slaves who wouldn't think twice about robbing an employer. It
was about time Binny was changed. He had hinted as much that morning,
and Binny had almost moaned his anguish.

"It's going to be a fine day, sir, for your outing."

He stirred the contents of the teapot surreptitiously with a spoon.

"Don't talk," snapped the old man.

There was another long silence, and then:

"What time is that fellow calling?" he asked harshly.

Binny, who was pouring out the tea at a side table, turned his big head
and gazed pathetically at his employer.

"What feller, sir? The young lady came at nine----"

Hervey's thin lip curled in silent fury.

"Of course she did, you fool! But the bank manager ... didn't you ask
him to come----"

"At ten, sir--Mr. Moran----"

"Get the letter--get it!"

Binny placed the cup of tea before his employer, rummaged through a
small heap of papers on an open secretaire and found what he sought.

"Read it--read it!" snapped the old man. "I can't be bothered."

He never would be bothered again. He could tell light from dark; knew by
a pale blur where the window was, could find his way unaided up the
seventeen stairs which led to his bedroom, but no more. He could sign
his name, and you would never suspect that a man more than half blind
was responsible for that flourish.

     "DEAR MR. LYNE" (read Binny in the monotonous voice he adopted for
     reading aloud),--"I will give myself the pleasure of calling on
     you at ten o'clock tomorrow morning.

     "Yours faithfully,
     "LEO MORAN."

Hervey smiled again.

"Give himself the pleasure, eh?" His thin voice grew shrill. "Does he
think I'm asking him here for his amusement? There's the door bell."

Binny shuffled out and came back in a few seconds with the visitor.

"Mr. Moran," he announced.

"Sit down--sit down, Mr. Moran." The old man waved a hand vaguely. "Find
him a chair, Binny, and get out--d'ye hear? Get out! And don't listen at
the door, damn you!"

The visitor smiled as the door closed on a Binny who was unconcerned,
unemotional, unresentful.

"Now, Moran--you're my bank manager."

"Yes, Mr. Lyne. I asked if I could see you a year ago, if you
remember----"

"I remember," testily. "I don't want to see bank managers: I want them
to look after my money. That is your job--you're paid for it,
handsomely, I've no doubt. You have brought the account?"

The visitor took an envelope from his pocket, and, opening it, brought
out two folded sheets of paper.

"Here----" he began, and his chair creaked as he rose.

"I don't want to see them--just tell me what is my balance."

"Two hundred and twelve thousand seven hundred and sixty pounds and a
few shillings."

"M'm!" The "m'm" was a purr of satisfaction. "That includes the deposit,
eh? And you hold stock...?"

"The stock held amounts to six hundred and thirty-two thousand pounds."

"I'll tell you why I want you----" began Lyne; and then, suspiciously:
"Open the door and see if that fellow's listening."

The visitor rose, opened the door and closed it again.

"There's nobody there," he said.

He was slightly amused, though Mr. Lyne's infirmities prevented him from
observing this fact.

"Nobody, eh? Well, Moran, I'll tell you candidly: I regard myself as a
remarkably able man. That is not boastful, it is a fact which you
yourself could probably verify. I trust nobody--not even bank managers.
My eyesight is not as good as it was, and it is a little difficult to
check up accounts. But I have a remarkable memory. I have trained myself
to carry figures in my head, and I could have told you to within a few
shillings exactly the figures that you gave to me."

He paused, stared through his thick glasses in the direction of the man
who sat at the other side of his desk.

"You're not a speculator or a gambler?"

"No, Mr. Lyne, I am not."

A pause.

"H'm! That fool Binny was reading to me a few days ago the story of a
bank manager who had absconded, taking with him a very considerable
sum. I confess I was uneasy. People have robbed me before----"

"You are not being very polite, Mr. Lyne."

"I'm not trying to be polite," snapped the old man. "I am merely telling
you what has happened to me. There was a scoundrelly servant of mine, a
fellow called Tickler. The fellow who was killed ..."

He rambled on, a long, long story about the minor depredations of his
dishonest servant, and the man who called himself Moran listened
patiently. He was very relieved when he had taken the thin, limp hand in
his and the door of No. 17, Naylors Crescent, closed behind him.

"Phew!" he said. He had a habit of speaking his thoughts aloud. "I
wouldn't go through that again for a lot of money."

Binny, summoned from the deeps by a bell, came in to find the visitor
gone.

"What does he look like, Binny? Has he an honest face?"

Binny thought profoundly.

"Just a face," he said vaguely, and the old man snorted.

"Clear those breakfast things away. Who else is coming to see me?"

Binny thought for a long time.

"A man named Dornford, sir."

"A gentleman named Dornford," corrected his master. "He owes me money,
therefore he is a gentleman. At what hour?"

"About eight o'clock, sir."

Lyne dismissed him with a gesture.

At three o'clock that afternoon he ambled out of his sitting-room,
wrapped in his thick Inverness coat and wearing his soft felt hat,
allowed himself, growling complaints the while, to be tucked into his
bath-chair, and was drawn painfully into the street; more painfully up
the gentle slope to the park and into the private gardens, entry to
which was exclusively reserved for tenants of Naylors and other
terraces. Here he sat, under the shade of a tree, while Binny, perched
uncomfortably upon a folding stool, read in his monotonous voice the
happenings of the day.

Only once the old man interrupted.

"What time is Mr. Dornford calling?"

"At eight o'clock, sir," said Binny.

Lyne nodded, pushed his blue-tinted glasses higher up the thin bridge of
his nose and folded his gloved hands over the rug which protected his
knees from errant breezes.

"You be in when he comes, d'ye hear? A tricky fellow--a dangerous
fellow. You hear me, Binny?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then why the devil didn't you say so? Go on reading that trash."

Binny obeyed, and continued with great relish the story of London's
latest murder. Binny was a great student of crime in the abstract.




CHAPTER SIX


Arthur Jules barely deserves description because he plays so small a
part; but as that small part was big enough to put one man in the shadow
of the gallows, he may be catalogued as a plump, sallow-faced young man,
who wore a monocle, had perfectly brushed hair, and was invariably
dressed as though he were on his way to a wedding reception.

He was a sort of attaché to a South American Legation, and a free-lance
of diplomacy generally. In more suspicious countries he would have been
handed his passport with extreme politeness, and his departure from
Southampton would have been watched by the bored detective whose
business it is to superintend the shipment of oddities.

He was always important and profound; never more so than when he sat at
the bay window overlooking St. James's Street, stroking his little black
moustache thoughtfully and speaking with just the slightest trace of an
accent to Jerry Dornford.

Everybody knew and liked Jerry, whose other name was Gerald. He had all
the qualities which endear a wastrel to the monied classes. He was, of
course, a member of Snell's, as was Jules. He was, indeed, a member of
all the important clubs where gentlemen meet. He paid his subscription,
never passed a cheque which was dishonoured, had never been warned off
or posted as a bankrupt. A tall man, with a slight stoop, brownish hair
very thin on the top, deep-set eyes that smiled in a worn, tired face.

Jerry had lived very fast. Few of his creditors could keep up with him.
He had been a co-respondent, and again a co-respondent, and was single,
and lived in a little flat in Half Moon Street, where he gave small
parties; very small. He retained his membership of exclusive racing
clubs--bookmakers lived in the hope that he would one day settle with
them. He had certain very rich relations who would certainly die, but
were not so certain whether they would bequeath their undoubted wealth
to this profligate son of Sir George Dornford. On the other hand, why
shouldn't they?

He was in desperate need of money now. Jules knew how desperate: they
had few secrets from one another. Whenever the little party in Half Moon
Street was as many as four, Jules was the third.

"What is this fellow's name?"

"Hervey Lyne."

"Hervey Lyne? Yes, I know him. A very odd man," reminiscently. "When my
dear father was Secretary of Legation--that must have been in
'ninety-three--he borrowed money from Lyne. But I thought he had retired
from business. He was a moneylender, wasn't he?"

Jerry's lips twisted in an unpleasant smile.

"Financier," he said laconically. "Yes, he has retired. I owed him three
thousand for years; it's four now. There was, of course, a chance that
the dowager would leave a packet, but the old devil left it away, to the
other side of the family."

"And he is pressing you?"

Jerry's jaw set.

"Yes," he said shortly. "To be exact, he is getting a judgment in
bankruptcy, and I can't stop him. I have been dodging Carey Street all
my life. Things have looked very black at times, but there has always
been something that turned up."

There was a long and gloomy silence. Jules--he had another name, but
nobody could remember it--stroked his little black moustache more
quickly.

"Two thousand--that would stop the action, eh? Well, why not? Take two
thousand, _et voila_! There is nothing to it. I do not ask you, like the
fellow in the story-books, to go to the War Office and rob them of their
schemes of mobilisation. But I _do_ want something, for a gentleman who
has himself been working on the lines of your friend. To me it seems a
very large sum to pay for so small a thing.

"Naturally I do not say that to my gentleman. If he desires to be
extravagant and my friend would benefit--_tiens_, why not?"

Jerry Dornford made a wry face at the street below. When he was asked to
work for money he never forgot that he was a gentleman--it was rather a
disgusting thing he was now asked to do, but he had contemplated things
even more distressful. He had, in fact, found every solution to his
difficulty except suicide.

"I am not so sure that it can be done, anyway," he said.

Two men came into the smoke-room. He looked up quickly and recognised
both, but was interested particularly in one.

"That's Fate," he said.

"Who are they?" asked Jules.

He knew the second of the two, who was a member, but the first man,
middle-aged, rather rotund, fair-haired, was a stranger to him.

"That's my bank manager. Incidentally, he is Lyne's banker too, a fellow
named Moran--Major Moran, he loves to call himself. A Territorial
fellow."

Jules shot a swift glance in the direction of the men who at that moment
were seating themselves at the table.

"A great rifle shot. I saw him at Bisley. I was there with one of our
generals, watching the shooting."

He turned his black eyes to Jerry.

"Well, my friend?"

Jerry breathed heavily through his nose and shook his head.

"I'll have to think it over," he said. "It's a beastly thing to do."

"More beastly to be a bankrupt, my friend," said Jules in his caressing
voice. "Resignation from all clubs.... Poor old Jerry, eh? You are going
into the Mike Hennessey class. You don't want to be that."

"Why Mike Hennessey?" asked Jerry quickly, and the other laughed.

"An association of ideas. You go often to the Sheridan, eh? I do not
blame you ... a very charming girl."

He made a little grimace as though he were about to whistle.

"Association of ideas, eh? Allenby also likes the young lady. Queer how
all things fit in, like the pieces of a puzzle. Think it over, my dear
Jerry, and ring me up at the Grosvenor."

He snapped his fingers towards a club waiter, scribbled his initials on
a bill and strolled towards the door, Jerry following. They had to pass
Moran and his friend; that bluff, jolly-looking man looked up, nodded
with careless friendliness and caught Jerry's sleeve as he was passing.

"I'd like to see you one day this week, if you're not busy, Jerry."

Jerry never forgot he was a member of Snell's and a gentleman. He never
forgot that Mr. Leo Moran was a sort of glorified bank clerk, who had
probably had his education at the State's expense; and, knowing all
these things, he resented the "Jerry." It added to his irritation that
he knew why Mr. Moran wished to see him. It was outrageous that one
couldn't lunch in one's club without being dunned by cads of this
description.

He pulled his sleeve away from the detaining finger and thumb.

"All right," he said.

He would have been more offensive if this man had not been a guest at
the club, and, more important, if it were not in Moran's power to make
things deucedly uncomfortable for Mr. Gerald Dornford.

As he and Jules were passing down the stairs together ...

"The swine! Who brought that kind of bird into the club? Snell's is
getting impossible!"

Jules, who had a weakness for the rococo qualities of Italian opera, was
humming a favourite aria of Puccini's. He smiled and shook his head.

"It takes all sorts of people to make a world, my friend," he said
sententiously.

He flicked a speck from his immaculate coat sleeve, patted Jerry on the
arm as though he were a child, and went swinging up St. James's Street
towards his mysterious Legation.

Jerry Dornford stood for a moment, hesitant, then walked slowly down
towards the palace. He was in a jam, a tight jam, and it wasn't going to
be so very easy to get out.

He obeyed an impulse, called a cab and drove to near Queen's Gate, where
he alighted, paid his fare, and walked on.

Dick Allenby lived in a big house that had been converted into flats.
There was no attendant on duty at the door, and the elevator that took
him up to the fourth floor was automatic. He knocked at the door of
Dick's studio--for studio it had once been, before Dick Allenby had
converted it into a workroom. There was no answer, and he turned the
handle and walked in. The room was empty. Evidently there had been
visitors, for half a dozen empty beer bottles stood on a bench, though
there was only one used tumbler visible. If he had known something of
Surefoot Smith he might have reduced the visiting list to one.

"Are you there, Allenby?" he called.

There was no answer. He walked across to the bench where the
odd-looking steel box lay, and lifted it. To his relief he found he
could carry it without an effort. Putting it down again, he walked to
the door. The key was on the inside; he drew it out and examined it
carefully. If he had been an expert at the job he would have carried wax
and taken an impression. As it was, his early technical training came to
his aid--it had once been intended that he should follow the profession
of engineer.

He listened; there was no sound of the lift moving. Dick, he knew, had
his sleeping room on the upper floor, and was probably there now.
Dornford made a rapid sketch on the back of an envelope--rapid but
accurate. He judged the width of the key, made a brief note and replaced
it as the sound of somebody coming down the stairs reached him.

He was standing examining the empty beer bottles when Dick came in.

"Hullo, Dornford!" There was no great welcome in the tone. "Did you want
to see me?"

Jerry smiled.

"I was bored. I thought I'd come up and see what an inventor looked
like. By the way, I saw you at the theatre the other night--nice girl
that. She was damned rude to me the only time I spoke to her."

Dick faced him squarely.

"And I shall be damned rude to you the next time you speak to her," he
said.

Jerry Dornford chuckled.

"Like that, eh? By the way, I'm seeing the old man tonight. Shall I give
him your love?"

"He'd prefer that you gave him something more substantial," said Dick
coldly.

It was a shot at a venture but it got home. Gerald the imperturbable
winced.

It was odd that up to that moment Dick Allenby had never realised how
intensely he disliked this man. There was excellent reason why he should
hate him, but that was yet to be revealed.

"Why this sudden antagonism? After all, I've no feeling about this girl
of yours. She's a jolly little thing; a bad actress, but a good woman.
They don't go very far on the London stage----"

"If you're talking about Miss Lane I will bring the conversation to a
very abrupt termination," said Dick; and then, bluntly: "Why did you
come up here? You are quite right about the antagonism, but it is not
very sudden, is it? I don't seem to remember that you and I were ever
very great friends."

"We were in the same regiment, old boy--brother officers and all that,"
said Jerry flippantly. "Good Lord! It doesn't seem like twelve years
ago----"

Dick opened the door and stood by it.

"I don't want you here. I don't particularly want to know you. If you
see my uncle tonight you'd better tell him that: it will be a point in
my favour."

Jerry Dornford smiled. His skin was thick, though he was very sensitive
on certain unimportant matters.

"I suppose you knew this fellow Tickler who was killed the other night?"
he began.

"I don't want even to discuss murders with you," said Dick.

He went out of the room, pulled open the door of the lift and shot back
the folding iron gate. He was angry with himself afterwards that he had
lost his temper, but he never knew the time when Jerry Dornford did not
arouse a fury in him. He hated Jerry's views of life, his philosophy,
the looseness of his code. He remembered Jerry's extraordinary dexterity
with cards and a ruined subaltern who went gladly to his death rather
than face the consequence of a night's play.

As he heard the elevator stop at the bottom floor he opened the window
of the workshop to air it--an extravagant gesture, but one which
accurately marked his attitude of mind towards his visitor.




CHAPTER SEVEN


The bank was closed, and Mr. Moran had gone home, when Surefoot Smith
called to make his enquiry.

Surefoot knew almost everybody who had any importance in London. Indeed,
quite a number of people would have had a shock if they had known how
very completely informed he was about their private lives. It is true
that almost every man and woman in any civilised community has, to
himself or herself, a criminal history. They may have broken no laws,
yet there is guilt on their conscience; and it is a knowledge of this
psychology which is of such invaluable aid to investigating detectives.

The nearest way to Parkview Terrace led him across the open end of
Naylors Crescent. Glancing down, he saw a man coming towards him and
stopped. Binny he knew to be an inveterate gossip, a great collector of
stories and scandals, most of which were ill-founded. At the back of his
mind, however, he associated Mr. Lyne's serving man with the banker.
Years before, Surefoot Smith had been in control of this division, and
his memory was extraordinarily good.

"Good-afternoon, Mr. Smith."

Binny tipped his wide-brimmed bowler hat, and then, after a moment's
hesitation:

"May I be so bold to ask, sir, if there is any news?"

"You told me you knew this man Tickler?"

Binny shook his head.

"An acquaintance. He was my predecessor----"

"I'd have that word framed," said Surefoot Smith testily. "You mean he
was the fellow who had your job before, don't you?" And, when Binny
nodded: "Then why didn't you say so? Didn't you work for Moran?"

Binny smiled.

"I've worked for almost every kind of gentleman," he said. "I was Lord
Frenley's valet----"

"I don't want your family history, Binny," said Surefoot Smith. "What
sort of man is Moran? Nice fellow--generous, eh? Free spender?"

Binny considered the matter as though his life depended upon his answer.

"He was a very nice gentleman. I was only with him for six months," he
said. "He lives just round the corner, overlooking the park. In fact,
you can see his flat from the gardens."

"A quiet sort of man?" asked Surefoot.

"I never heard him make much noise----" began Binny.

"When I say 'quiet,'" explained Surefoot Smith with a pained
expression, "I mean, does he gad about? Women, wine, and song--you know
the kind of thing I mean. I suppose your mother told you something when
you were young?"

"I don't remember my mother," said Binny. "No, sir, I can't say that Mr.
Moran was a gadder. He used to have little parties--ladies and gentlemen
from the theatre--but he gave that up after he lost his money."

Surefoot's eyes narrowed.

"Lost his money? He's a bank manager, isn't he? Had he any money to
lose?"

"It was his own money, sir." Binny was shocked and hastened to correct a
wrong impression. "That was why I left him. He had some shares in a
bank--not his own bank but another one--and it went bust. I mean to
say----"

"Don't try to interpret 'bust' to me. I know the word," said Surefoot.
"Gave little theatrical parties like that fellow What's-his-name?
Drinking and all that sort of thing?"

Binny could not help him. He was looking left and right anxiously, as
though seeking a means of escape.

"In a hurry?" asked the detective.

"The big picture comes on in ten minutes; I don't want to miss it. It's
Mary Pickford in----"

"Oh, her!" said Surefoot, and dismissed the world's sweetheart with a
wave of his hand. "Now what about this man Tickler? Did he ever work for
Moran?"

Binny considered this and shook his head.

"No, sir, I think he was working for Mr. Lyne when I was with Mr. Moran,
but I'm not certain." And then, as a thought struck him: "He's on the
wireless tonight."

Surefoot was staggered.

"Who?"

"Mr. Moran. He's talking on economics or something. He often talks on
banking and things like that--he's a regular lecturer."

Surefoot Smith was not very much interested in lecturers. He asked a few
more questions about the unfortunate Tickler and went on his way.

Parkview Terrace was a noble block of buildings which had suffered the
indignity in post-war days, as so many other buildings have suffered, of
being converted into apartments. Mr. Moran lived on the top flat, and he
was at home, his servant told Surefoot when he came to the door. In
point of fact he was dressing for dinner. Smith was shown into a large
and handsome sitting-room, furnished expensively and with some taste.
There were two windows which commanded a view of Regent's Park and the
Canal, but it was the luxury of the appointments which arrested
Surefoot's interest.

He knew the financial position of the average branch manager; could tell
to within a few pounds just what their salaries were; and it was rather
a shock to find even a twelve hundred a year manager living in an
apartment which must have absorbed at least four hundred, and displaying
evidence of wealth which men in his position have rarely the opportunity
of acquiring.

A Persian carpet covered the floor; the electric fittings had the
appearance of silver, and were certainly of the more exquisite kind that
are not to be duplicated in a department store. There was a big Knolle
couch ("Cost a hundred," Smith noted mentally); in an illuminated glass
case were a number of beautiful miniatures, and in another, rare
ornaments of jade, some of which must have been worth a considerable
sum.

Surefoot knew nothing about pictures, but he was satisfied that more
than one of those on the wall were genuine Old Masters.

He was examining the cabinet when he heard a step behind him and turned
to meet the owner of the flat. Mr. Leo Moran was half-dressed and wore a
silk dressing-gown over his shirt and white waistcoat.

"Hullo, Smith! We don't often see you. Sit down and have a drink." He
rang the bell. "Beer, isn't it?"

"Beer it is," said Surefoot heartily. "Nice place you've got here, Mr.
Moran."

"Not bad," said the other carelessly. He pointed to a picture. "That's a
genuine Corot. My father paid three hundred pounds for it, and it's
probably worth three thousand today."

"Your father was well off, was he, Mr. Moran?"

Moran looked at him quickly.

"He had money. Why do you ask? You don't imagine I could have furnished
a flat like this on a thousand a year, do you?" His eyes twinkled. "Or
has it occurred to you that this is part of my illicit gains--moneys
pinched from the bank?"

"I hope," said Surefoot Smith solemnly, "that such a thought never
entered into my head."

"Beer," said Mr. Leo Moran, addressing the servant who had appeared in
the doorway. "You've come about something, haven't you? What is it?"

Surefoot pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"I'm making enquiries about this man Tickler----"

"The fellow who was murdered. Do I know him, you mean? Of course I know
him! The fellow was a pest. I never went from this house without finding
him on the kerb outside, wanting to tell me something or sell me
something--I have never discovered which."

He had a rapid method of speaking. His voice was not what Smith would
have described as a gentleman's. Indeed, Leo Moran was very much of the
people. His life had been an adventurous one. He had sailed before the
mast, he had worked at a brass founder's in the Midlands, been in a
dozen kinds of employment before he eventually drifted into banking. A
rough diamond, with now and again a rough voice; more often, however, a
suave one, for he had the poise and presence which authority and wealth
bring. Now and again his voice grew harsh, almost common, and in moments
he became very much a man of the people. It was in that tone he asked:

"Do you suppose I killed him?"

Surefoot smiled; whether at the absurdity of the question or the
appearance of a large bottle of beer and a tumbler, which were carried
in at that moment, Moran was undecided.

"You know Miss Lane, don't you?"

"Slightly." Moran's tone was cold.

"Nice girl--here's luck." Surefoot raised his glass and swallowed its
contents at a gulp. "Good beer, almost pre-war. Lord! I remember the
time when you could get the best ale in the world for fourpence a
quart."

He sighed heavily, and tried to squeeze a little more out of the bottle,
but failed.

Moran touched the bell again.

"Why do you ask me about Miss Lane?"

"I knew you were interested in theatricals--there's your servant."

"Another bottle of beer for Mr. Smith," said Moran without turning his
head. "What do you mean by theatricals?"

"You used to give parties, didn't you, once upon a time?"

The banker nodded.

"Years ago, in my salad days. Why?"

"I was just wondering," said Smith vaguely.

His host strode up and down the floor, his hands thrust into the silken
pockets of his gown.

"What the devil did you come here for, Smith? You're not the sort of man
to go barging round making stupid enquiries. Are you connecting me with
this absurd murder--the murder of a cheap little gutter rat I scarcely
know by sight?"

Surefoot shook his head.

"Is it likely?" he murmured.

Then the beer came, and Moran's fit of annoyance seemed to pass.

"Well, the least you can do is to tell me the strength of it--or aren't
you enquiring about the murder at all? Come along, my dear fellow, don't
be mysterious!"

Mr. Smith wiped his moustache, got up slowly from the chair and
adjusted his horrible pink tie before an old Venetian mirror.

"I'll tell you the strength of it, man to man," he said. "We had an
anonymous letter. That was easy to trace. It was sent by Tickler's
landlady, and it appeared that when he was very drunk, which was every
day, sometimes twice a day, he used to talk to this good lady about
you."

"About me?" said the other quickly. "But he didn't know me!"

"Lots of people talk about people they don't know," began Smith. "It's
publicity----"

"Nonsense! I'm not a public man. I'm just a poor little bank manager,
who hates banking, and would gladly pay a fortune, if he had one to pay,
for the privilege of taking all the books of the bank and burning 'em in
Regent's Park, making the clerks drunk, throwing open the vault to the
petty thieves of London, and turning the whole damn thing into a night
club!"

Gazing at him with open mouth, genuinely staggered by such a confession,
Smith saw an expression in that sometime genial face that he had never
seen before: a certain harshness; heard in his voice the vibration of a
hidden fury.

"They nearly kicked me out once because I speculated," Moran went on.
"I'm a gambler; I always have been a gambler. If they'd kicked me out
I'd have been ruined at that time. I had to crawl on my hands and knees
to the directors to let me stay on. I was managing a branch at Chalk
Farm at the time, and I've had to pretend that the Northern and Southern
Bank is something holy, that its directors are gods; and every time I've
tried to get a bit of money so that I could clear out, the market has
gone----!" He snapped his fingers. "I don't really know Tickler. Why he
should talk about me I haven't the slightest idea."

Surefoot Smith looked into his hat.

"Do you know Mr. Hervey Lyne?" he asked.

"Yes, he's a client of ours."

"Have you seen him lately?"

A pause, and then:

"No, I haven't seen him for two years."

"Oh!" said Surefoot Smith.

He said "Oh!" because he could think of nothing else to say.

"Well, I'll be getting along. Sorry to bother you, but you know what we
are at the Yard."

He offered his huge hand to the banker, but Mr. Moran was so absorbed in
his thoughts that he did not see it.

After Moran had closed the door upon his visitor he walked slowly back
to his room and sat down on the edge of the bed. He sat there for a long
time before he got up, walked across the room to a wall safe hidden
behind a picture, opened it and took out a number of documents, which he
examined very carefully. He put these back, and, groping, found a flat
leather case which was packed with strangely coloured documents. They
were train and steamship tickets; his passport lay handy, and, fastened
in his passport by a thick rubber band, twenty banknotes for a hundred
pounds.

He locked the safe again, replaced the picture, and went on with his
dressing. He was more than a little perturbed. That casual reference to
Hervey Lyne had shaken him.




CHAPTER EIGHT


At ten o'clock that night quite a number of wireless sets would be shut
off at the item "The Economy of our Banking System," and would be turned
on again at ten fifteen, when the Jubilee Jazz Band would be relayed
from Manchester.

Binny read the programme through and came at last to the ten o'clock
item.

"Moran. Is that the fellow who saw me yesterday?" asked the old man.

"Yes, sir," said Binny.

"Banking systems--bah!" snarled old Lyne. "I don't want to hear it. Do
you understand, Binny?--I don't want to hear it!"

"No, sir," said Binny.

The white, gnarled hands groped along the table till they reached a
repeater watch, and pressed a knob.

"Six o'clock. Get me my salad."

"I saw that detective today, sir--Mr. Smith."

"Get me my salad!"

Chicken salad was his invariable meal at the close of day. Binny served
him, but could do nothing right. If he spoke he was told to be quiet; if
he relapsed into silence old Hervey cursed him for his sulkiness.

He had cleared away the meal, put a cup of weak tea before his master,
and was leaving him to doze, when Lyne called him back.

"What are Cassari Oils?" he demanded.

It was so long since Binny had read the fluctuations of the oil market
that he had no information to give.

"Get a newspaper, you fool!"

Binny went in search of an evening newspaper.

It was his habit to read, morning and night, the movements of industrial
shares; a monotonous proceeding, for Mr. Lyne's money was invested in
gilt-edged securities which were stately and steadfast and seldom moved
except by thirty-seconds. Cassari Oils had been one of his errors. The
shares had been part of a trust fund--he had hesitated for a long time
before he converted them to a more stable stock. The period of his
holding had been two years of torture to him, for they flamed up and
down like a paper fire, and never stayed in one place for more than a
week at a time.

Binny came back with the newspaper and read the quotation, which was
received with a grunt.

"If they'd gone up I'd have sued the bank. That brute Moran advised me
to sell."

"Have they gone up, sir?" asked Binny, interested.

"Mind your own business!" snapped the other.

Hervey Lyne used often to sit and wonder and fret himself over those
Cassaris. They were founder's shares, not lightly come by, not easy to
dispose of. The thought that he might have thrown away a fortune on the
advice of a conservative bank manager, and that when he came to hand
over his stewardship to Mary Lane he might be liable--which he would not
have been--was a nightmare to him. The unease had been renewed that day
by something which Binny had read to him from the morning newspaper
concerning oil discoveries in Asia Minor.

In the course of the years he had accumulated quite a lot of data
concerning the Cassari Oilfield, most of it very depressing to anybody
who had money in the concern. He directed Binny to unearth the pamphlets
and reports, and promised himself a possibly exasperating evening.

Eight o'clock brought a visitor, a reluctant man, who had rehearsed
quite a number of plausible excuses. He had the feeling that he, being
the last of the old man's debtors, was in the position of a mouse in the
paws of an ancient cat, not to be killed too quickly; and here, to some
extent, he was right.

Hervey Lyne received him with a set grin which was a parody of the smile
he had used for so many years on such occasions.

"Sit down, Mr. Dornford," he piped. "Binny, go out!"

"Binny's not here, Mr. Lyne."

"He's listening outside the door--he's always listening. Have a look."

Dornford opened the door; there was no sign of the libelled servant.

"Now, now." Again he was his old business-like self, repeating a speech
which was part of a formula. "About this money--three thousand seven
hundred, I think. You're going to settle tonight?"

"Unfortunately I can't settle tonight, and not for many nights," said
Jerry. "In fact, there's no immediate prospect of my settling at all.
I've made arrangements to get you four or five hundred on account----"

"From Isaac and Solomon, eh?"

Jerry cursed himself for his stupidity. He knew that the moneylenders
exchanged daily a list of proposals which had come to them.

"Well, you're not going to get it, my friend. You've got to find money
to settle this account, or it goes into the hands of my collectors
tomorrow."

Jerry had expected nothing better than this.

"Suppose I find you two thousand by the end of the week?" he said. "Will
you give me a reasonable time to find the remainder?"

To his surprise he was speaking huskily--the imperturbable Jerry, who
had faced so many crises with equanimity, was amazingly agitated in
this, the most crucial of all.

"If you can find two thousand you can find three thousand seven
hundred," boomed the old man. "A week? I wouldn't give you a day--and
where are you getting the two thousand from?"

Jerry cleared his throat.

"A friend of mine----"

"That's a lie to begin with, Mr. Gerald Dornford," said the hateful
voice. "You have no friends; you've used them all up. I'll tell you what
I'll do with you." He leaned over the table, his elbows on the polished
mahogany. He was enjoying this moment of his triumph, recovering some of
the old values of a life that was now only a memory. "I'll give you till
tomorrow night at six o'clock. Your money's here"--he tapped the table
vigorously--"or I'll bankrupt you!"

If his sight had been only near to normal he would have seen the look
that came into Jerry's face, and would have been frightened to silence.
But, if he saw nothing, he sensed the effect of his words.

"You understand, don't you?"

Some of the steel went out of his tone.

"I understand." Jerry's voice was low.

"Tomorrow you bring the money, and I will give you your bill. A minute
after six o'clock, and it goes to the collector."

"But surely, Mr. Lyne"--Jerry found coherent speech at last--"two
thousand pounds on account is not to be sniffed at."

"We shall see," said the old man, nodding. "I've nothing else to say."

Jerry rose; he was shaking with anger.

"I've got something to say, you damned old usurer!" He quivered with
rage. "You bloodsucking old brute! You'll bankrupt me, will you?"

Hervey Lyne had come to his feet, his skinny hand pointing to the door.

"Get out!" His voice was little more than a whisper. "Bloodsucker ...
damned old usurer, am I? Binny--BINNY!"

Binny came stumbling up from the kitchen.

"Throw him out--throw him on his head--smash him!" screamed the old man.

Binny looked at the man who was head and shoulders taller than he, and
his smile was sickly.

"Better get out, sir," he said under his breath, "and don't take no
notice of me."

Then, in a louder, truculent tone:

"Get out of here, will you?" He pulled open the street door noisily.
"Out you get!"

He struck his palm with his fist, and all the time his imploring eyes
begged the visitor to pardon his lapse of manners.

When he came back the moneylender was lying back, exhausted, in his
chair.

"Did you hit him?" he asked weakly.

"Did I hit him, sir? I nearly broke me wrist."

"Did you break _his_ wrist or anything else of him?" snarled Hervey, not
at all interested in the injuries which might have come to the
assailant.

"It'll take two doctors to put him right," said Binny.

The old man's thin lips curled in a sneer.

"I don't believe you touched him, you poor worm!" he said.

"Didn't you hear me----" began Binny, aggrieved.

"Clapping your hands together! Liar and fool, do you think I didn't know
that? I may be blind but I've got ears. Did you hit the burglar last
night--or when was it? You didn't even hear him."

Binny blinked at him helplessly. Two nights before somebody had smashed
a glass at the back of the house and opened a window. Whether they
succeeded in entering the kitchen or not it was impossible to say. Old
Hervey, a light sleeper, heard the crash and came to the head of the
stairs, screaming for Binny, who occupied a subterranean room adjoining
the kitchen.

"Did you hit him? Did you hear him?"

"My idea was to bring in the police," began Binny. "There's nothing like
the lor in cases like this...."

"Get out!" roared the old man. "The law! Do you think I wanted a lot of
clumsy-footed louts in my house ... get away, you make me sick!"

Binny left hurriedly.

For the greater part of two hours the old man sat, muttering to himself,
twisting and untwisting his fingers one in the other; and then, as his
repeater struck ten, he turned to the wireless set at his side and
switched it on. A voice immediately blared at him ...

     "Before I discuss the banking systems of this country I would like
     to say a few words about the history of banking from the earliest
     times...."

Hervey Lyne sat up and listened. His hearing, as he had said, was
extraordinarily sensitive.




CHAPTER NINE


Dick Allenby never described himself as being engaged, and the tell-tale
finger of Mary Lane bore no ring indicative of her future. He mentioned
the fact casually as he sat in her dressing-room between the last two
acts of _Cliffs of Fate_ and he talked to her through a cretonne curtain
behind which she was changing her dress.

"I shall be getting a bad name," he said. "Nothing damages the
reputation of an inventor more readily than to be recognised by
stage-door keepers. He admits me now without question."

"Then you shouldn't come so often," she said, coming through the
curtain, and sitting before her dressing-table.

"I won't say you're a matter of life and death to me," said Dick, "but
very nearly. You're more important than anything in the world."

"Including the Allenby gun?"

"Oh, that!" he said contemptuously. "By the way, a German engineer came
in today and offered me, on behalf of Eckstein's--they're the big Essen
engineers--ten thousand pounds for the patent."

"What was the matter with him?" she asked flippantly.

"That's what I wondered," said Dick, lighting a forbidden cigarette.
"No, he wasn't drunk--quite a capable bloke, and terribly discerning. He
told me he thought I was one of the greatest inventors of the age."

"Darling, you are," she said.

"I know I am," said Dick complacently. "But it sounded awfully nice in
German. Honestly, Mary, I had no idea this thing was worth so much."

"Are you selling it?" She turned her head to ask the question.

Dick hesitated.

"I'm not sure," he said. "But it is this enormous accession of wealth
that has brought me to the point of your unadorned engagement finger."

She turned to the mirror, smoothed her face gently with a puff, and
shook her head.

"I'm going to be a very successful actress," she said.

"You are a very successful actress," said Dick lazily. "You've extracted
a proposal of marriage from a great genius."

She swung round in her chair.

"Do you know what I'm in dread of?" she asked.

"Besides marriage, nothing, I should think."

"No, there's one prospect that terrifies me." She was very serious. "And
that is that your uncle should leave me all his money."

He chuckled softly.

"It is a fear that has never disturbed my night's rest--why do you say
that?"

She looked at him, biting her lip thoughtfully.

"Once he said something about it, and it struck me quite recently that
he loathes you so much that out of sheer pique he might leave it to me,
and that would be dreadful."

He stared at her.

"In Heaven's name, why?" he asked.

"I should have to marry you," she said.

"Out of sheer pique?" he bantered.

She shook her head.

"No; but it would be dreadful, wouldn't it, Dick?"

"I think you're worrying yourself unnecessarily," he said dryly. "The
old boy is more likely to leave it to a dog's home. Do you see much of
him?"

She told him of her visit to Naylors Crescent, but that was old news to
him.

They were talking when there came a tap at the door. She half rose,
thinking it was the call boy; but when the knock was repeated and she
said "Come in," it was Leo Moran who made an appearance.

He favoured Dick with a little grimace.

"Instead of wasting your time here you ought to be sitting at home,
tuning in to my epoch-making address."

"Been broadcasting, have you?" smiled Dick. "Do they make you dress up
for it?"

"I'm going on to supper."

This time the knock was followed by the sing-song voice of the call boy,
and Mary hurried out. She was glad to escape: for some reason she never
felt quite at ease in Mr. Moran's presence.

"Have you seen this show?" asked Dick.

Moran nodded.

"For my sins, yes," he said. "It's the most ghastly play in London. I
wonder why old Mike keeps it on? He must have a very rich backer."

"Have you ever heard of Washington Wirth?"

Leo Moran's face was a blank.

"Never heard of him, no. What is he--an American?"

"Something unusual," said Dick. "I was reckoning up the other day; he
must have lost ten thousand pounds on this play already, and there's no
special reason, so far as I know, why he's keeping it running. Mary's
the only woman in the cast who's worth looking at, and she's no friend
of his."

"Washington Wirth? The name is familiar." Moran looked at the wall above
Dick's head. "I've heard something about him or seen his name. By the
way, I met an old friend of yours tonight, Surefoot Smith. You were
present when that wretched man Tickler was found, weren't you?"

Dick nodded.

"The fool treated me as though I were an accomplice."

"If the fool you are referring to is Surefoot Smith, he treated me as
though I were the murderer," said Dick. "Did you give him some beer?"

Leo Moran opened the door and, after looking down the deserted corridor,
came back and closed the door quietly.

"I was hoping I should see you here, Dick. I want to ask you a favour."

Dick grinned.

"Nothing would give me greater joy than to refuse a favour to a bank
manager," he said.

"Don't be a fool; it has nothing to do with money. Only----"

He stopped, and it seemed as if he were carefully framing his words.

"I may be out of London for a week or two. My leave is due, and I want
to get into the country. I wonder if you could collect my letters at the
flat and keep them for me till I come back?"

"Why not have them sent on?" said Dick, in surprise.

Leo Moran shook his head impatiently.

"I have a special reason for asking. I'm having nothing sent on at all.
My servant is going away on his holiday, and the flat will be in charge
of Heaven knows who. If I send you the key, will you keep an eye on the
place?"

"When are you going?" asked Dick.

Moran was vague on this point; there was no certainty whether his leave
would be granted. Head office was being rather difficult, although he
had a most capable assistant and could have handed over at any moment.

"I want to go at once, but these brutes in the City are just being
tin-godlike. You'll never know how near human beings can approach
divinity until you have had dealings with general managers of banks," he
said. "When you approach them you make three genuflections and stand on
your head, and even then they hardly notice you! Is it a bet?"

"Surely," said Dick. "You know where to send the key. And I'll take a
little cheap advice from you, now you're here."

He told him of the offer he had received for the gun. There was no need
to explain what the gun was, for Leo had both seen and tested it.

"I shouldn't take an outright offer. I should prefer to take half on
account of a royalty," he said, when Dick had finished. "Are you going
to your flat soon?"

"Almost immediately," said the other. "Mary has a supper engagement."

"With Mr. Wirth?" asked Moran with a smile.

"I thought you'd never heard of him?" said Dick.

"His name came to me as I was speaking. He's the fellow who gives these
supper parties. I used to give them myself once upon a time, and Dead
Sea fruit they are! But if you're going back I'll walk with you, and
renew my acquaintance with your remarkable invention."

Leo Moran would have been ever so much more popular but for the fact
that there was invariably a hint of sarcasm in his most commonplace
remarks. Sometimes Dick, who liked him well enough, thought he had been
soured by some big misfortune; for, despite his geniality, there was
generally a bite to his remarks. Dick forgave him as they walked along
the Strand for all that he had to say concerning Jerry Dornford.

"There's a wastrel!" said Moran. "I can't tell you why I think so,
because I'm interviewing him tomorrow on bank business."

Though the evening was warm, a fog had formed, which, as their cab
approached the Park, increased in density. It was clearing off as they
passed through Knightsbridge.

"As a matter of fact," said Dick, "you're making me do something it has
been on my conscience to do all the evening, and that is, go home and
look at that gun. Like a fool, I charged it before I came out. I was
about to make the experiment of trying to shoot a nickel bullet through
a steel plate, and like an idiot I left it loaded. It's thicker here."

The fog was very patchy, and was so dense that the cabman had to feel
his way along the kerb as they approached the house where Dick Allenby
had his workshop.

The little lift was in darkness, and even when Dick turned the switch no
light came. As he moved he trod on something which crashed under his
feet. Immediately there followed a loud and alarming explosion.

"What the devil was that?" asked Moran irritably.

Dick struck a match. He saw on the floor the remains of a small
incandescent globe which had evidently been removed from the roof of the
lift.

"That's odd. Our janitor is a little careless," he said, and pushed the
button that sent the elevator up to the top floor. He took out a key and
had another surprise, for a key was already in the lock, so tightly
fitted that it could not be turned one way or the other.

He twisted the handle; the door gave.

"There's somebody been playing monkey tricks here," he said.

Turning on the light, he stood stock still, momentarily incapable of
speech. The bench on which the gun had stood was empty. The gun was
gone!




CHAPTER TEN


He recovered his voice at last.

"Well, I'll be...!"

Who could have taken it? He was staggered, so staggered that he could
not be angry. Pulling back the door, he examined the key, and, with the
aid of a pair of powerful pliers, presently extracted it. It was a rough
and ready affair, badly filed, but evidently it had fitted, and had done
all that its owner had required, for the lock had turned back.

It was when the unknown had tried to relock the door and take away the
key that he had failed.

Dick walked to where the gun had been and glared down at the bench. Then
he began to laugh.

"The brute!"

"It's a very serious loss to you, isn't it?" asked Moran.

Dick shook his head.

"Not really. All the plans and specifications are in the hands of a
model-maker, and fortunately I applied for letters of patent for the
main features three days ago."

He stared at Moran.

"The question is, who did it?"

And then his jaw dropped.

"If he doesn't know how to handle that thing, and isn't jolly careful,
he'll either kill himself or some innocent passer-by!" he said. "I
wonder if he knows how to unload it?"

He pulled out a chair and sat down, and with a gesture invited his
visitor to sit.

"I suppose we ought to tell the police. Now, if old man Surefoot is at
the Yard ..."

He consulted an address book and gave a number. After a long parley with
a suspicious man at the Scotland Yard exchange, he found himself
connected with Smith. In a few words he explained what had happened.

"I'll come up. Is there anything else missing?"

"No--the beer is intact," said Dick.

When he had hung up the receiver he went into his little larder and
dragged in a wooden case.

"Surefoot will be glad; he loathes science. Don't make a face like that,
my dear chap--Surefoot's clever. I used to think that beer had a
deadening effect on people, but Surefoot is an amazing proof of the
contrary. You don't like him?"

"I'm not passionately attached to him," said Moran. He looked at his
watch. "If you don't mind, I'll leave you alone with your grief. It's
hard luck--is it insured?"

"Spoken like a banker!" said Dick. "No, it isn't, Leo, I never realised
I was a genius till now--it's like the things that you read about in
thrillers! You see what has happened? Our friend came here in the fog,
but to make absolutely sure he shouldn't be seen he took out the light
in the lift, so that nobody should spot him on his way down. The door is
lattice work, and if the light had been on he could have been seen from
any of the floors, supposing somebody was there to see him. I presume he
had a car outside; he put the gun into the machine and got away.
Probably we passed him."

"Who would know you had the gun?"

Dick thought for a while.

"Mary knew; Jerry Dornford knew----By Jove!"

Leo Moran smiled and shook his head.

"Jerry wouldn't have the energy, anyway; and he wouldn't know where to
market----"

He stopped suddenly.

"I saw him the other day at Snell's Club, with that poisonous little
devil Jules--the fellow who is supposed to have been concerned in
pinching the French mobilisation plans."

Dick hesitated, reached for the telephone directory, found the number he
wanted, and put in a call. The line was engaged. Five minutes later the
exchange called back to him, and he heard Jerry's voice.

"Hullo, Dornford! Got my gun?" asked Dick.

"Your what?" asked Jerry's steady voice.

"Somebody said they saw you walking out of my house with something under
your arm this evening."

"I haven't seen your infernal house, and I'm not likely to see it after
your beastly rudeness this afternoon!"

Click!

Jerry Dornford had hung up on him.

"I wonder," said Dick, and frowned as he slowly hung up the receiver. "I
can't believe he did it, though there's nothing bad I wouldn't believe
about him."

"Do you think it was your German friend?" asked Leo.

"Rubbish! Why should he offer me the money? He would have given me a
draft right away this afternoon if I had wanted it. No, we'll leave it
to old man Surefoot."

"Then you'll leave it to him alone," said Leo, and buttoned up his
overcoat.

He went to the door and turned back.

"You'll not go back on your promise, about clearing my letters? It all
depends on what happens tomorrow how soon I go, and the first intimation
you'll get will be when you receive my key."

"Where are you going?" asked Dick.

Leo shook his head.

"That's the one thing I can't tell you," he said.

Sitting alone, surveying the empty bench, Dick Allenby began to realise
the seriousness of his loss. If he was bewildered by the theft, the last
thing in the world he expected, he was by no means shattered.

He tried to get Mary on the 'phone, but thought better of it. It would
be selfish to spoil her night's amusement. Better start again. He was
working at his drawing-board on a new plan, and had already conceived an
improvement on the older model, when Surefoot Smith arrived.

He listened while Dick described the circumstances of his return;
examined the key casually, and seemed more interested in the marks that
the machine had made, visible against its dusty surroundings, than in
anything else.

"No, it's not remarkable," he said when Dick so described the theft.
"Dozens of inventions are stolen in the course of a year ... yes, I mean
burgled. I know a company promoter who floated a business to sell
cameras, who had his house burgled and the plans of the invention stolen
a week before the company was put on the market. I've known other
promoters to have police guards in their houses day and night."

He walked round the room and presently related the sum of his
discoveries.

"The man who took this was taller than you." He pointed to a bench near
the door, the contents of which were in some disorder. "He rested the
gun there while he tried to operate the lock, and that bench is higher
than this. He wore gloves; he must have handled this cylinder and
there's no finger-prints on it. Who has been here lately?"

Dick told him.

"Mr. Gerald Dornford, eh? I shouldn't think he'd have the nerve. We had
some trouble with him once; he was running a little game in the West
End. I might look him up, but it would be asking for trouble. I hardly
think it's worth while putting him under observation," said Surefoot.
"Are you going to call up the Press and tell them all about it? They'll
make a story of it--'Sensational Invention Stolen.'"

"I didn't think of doing anything so silly."

"Then you're wise," said Surefoot.

He looked helplessly around; Dick pointed to the beer case under the
bench.

"In a way, and without any offence to you, Mr. Allenby, I'm glad to see
it go. All these new inventions are coming so thick and fast that you
can't keep track of them."

"Which reminds me," said Dick, "that this thing was loaded."

Surefoot was not gravely concerned.

"If somebody gets shot," he said calmly, "we shall find out who did
it."

He was less interested in the robbery than in the killing of Tickler.

"It's a puzzle to me. I can't understand it. I wouldn't mind if it
hadn't been in that cab. It's the Americanisation of English crime that
is worrying me. These Americans have got our motor-car trade, they've
got our tool trade; if they come here and corner our murder market
there's going to be trouble."

He stopped suddenly, stooped and picked something from the floor. It was
a pearl waistcoat button.

"This sort of thing only happens in stories," he said as he turned it
over. "The fellow was in evening dress, and rubbed this off when he was
carrying the gun. As a clue it's about as much use as the evidence of
the old lady in every murder case who saw a tall, dark man in a big,
grey car."

He looked at the button carefully.

"You can buy these at almost any store in London. You don't even have to
buy 'em--they give 'em away."

He made a careful scrutiny of the floor but found nothing new.

"Still, I'll put it in my pocket," he said.

"It may have been Leo Moran's," said Dick, remembering. "He wore a white
waistcoat. He and I came back together."

Surefoot's nose wrinkled.

"This! It would have been diamonds and sapphires! Ain't he a bank
manager? No, this is the button of some poor depositor. I shouldn't be
surprised if it was somebody with an overdraft! What do you think of Mr.
Moran?"

He was looking at Dick keenly.

"He's a nice fellow; I like him," said Dick.

"There are moments when I don't, but, generally speaking, I do. Who's
Corot?" He pronounced it as though it were spelt Corrot.

"Corot?" said Dick. "You mean the painter?"

Smith nodded.

"Oh, he's a very famous landscape artist."

"Expensive?" asked Surefoot.

"Very," said Dick. "His pictures sell for thousands."

Surefoot rubbed his nose irritably.

"That's what I thought. In fact, he said as much. Seen his flat? It
looks as though it had been furnished for the Queen of Sheba, the
well-known Egyptian. Persian carpet, diamond lamp shades...."

Dick laughed.

"You're talking about Moran's flat? Yes, it's rather beautiful. But he's
got money of his own."

"It was his own when he had it, anyway," said Smith darkly, and left on
this cryptic note.

He had left Scotland Yard with some reluctance, for there was visiting
London at that period one John Kelly, Deputy Chief Commissioner of the
Chicago Police and one of America's foremost detectives. "Great John"
had been holding an audience of senior officers spellbound with stories
of Chicago's gangland. Earlier in the evening Surefoot had discussed the
Regent Street murder.

"It sounds like a 'ride,'" said Kelly, shaking his head, "but I guess
that kind of crime will never be popular in this country. In the first
place, you've no big men in your underworld, and if you had, your police
force and Government are pull-proof. It reads to me like an 'imitation
murder.' I suppose you've got bad men here--I only know one English
gangster. They called him London Len. He was a bad egg--bumped off half
a dozen men before a rival gang got after him and got him on the run. He
was English-born--so far as I've been able to trace he wasn't in the
country five years."

London Len was an "inside man"--he got himself into positions of trust,
and at the first opportunity cleared the contents of the office safe.

"Quick on the draw and ruthless," said John; "but he certainly wouldn't
give a man a hundred pounds and leave it behind when he shot him!"

Now that he was abroad on this foggy night, Surefoot decided to
interview a certain forgetful constable, and before he left the Yard he
arranged to meet the man at Marylebone Road station. He found the police
officer in mufti, waiting in the charge room, rather proud, if anything,
that he had recalled the one fact that he should not have forgotten.

Surefoot Smith listened to the story of the little man who had been
found sitting on the doorstep of an apartment in Baynes Mews, and of the
inebriated songster.

"It's funny I should have forgotten that----" began the policeman. "But
as I was shaving this morning I thought----"

"It's not funny. If it was, I should be laughing. Am I laughing?"

"No, sir," admitted the police officer.

"It's not funny, it's tragic. If you'd been a rabbit wearing uniform,
you would have remembered to tell your superior officer about that
incident. A poor, harmless, lop-eared rabbit would have gone straight to
his sergeant and said 'So-and-so and so-and-so.' And if a rabbit can do
that, why couldn't you?"

The question was unanswerable, partly because the bewildered young
constable was not sure whether "rabbit" had any special esoteric
meaning.

"And you're taking credit," Surefoot went on inexorably, "for
thinking--I repeat, thinking--as you were shaving this morning, that you
ought to have told somebody about meeting that man in the mews. Do you
use a safety razor, my man?"

"Yes, sir," said the officer.

"Then you couldn't cut your throat, which is a pity," said Surefoot.
"Now lead me to this place, and don't speak unless I speak to you. I am
not suspending you from duty, because I am not associated with the
uniformed branch. There was a time when I was associated," he said
carefully, "but in those days police constables had brains."




CHAPTER ELEVEN


The crushed policeman led the way to Baynes Mews and pointed out the
door where he had seen the figure of Tickler sitting. The door did not
yield to Surefoot's pressure. He took from his pocket some skeleton keys
which he had borrowed at the station without authority, and tried them
on the door. Presently he so manipulated the key that he succeeded in
snapping back the lock. He pushed open the door, sent a ray of light up
the dusty stairs, and climbed, breathing stertorously, to the top. He
came upon a landing and a barrier of matchwood, in which was a door. He
tried this and again had recourse to his skeleton key.

Without a warrant he had no right whatever to invade the privacy of an
English home; but Surefoot had never hesitated to break the law in the
interests of justice or the satisfaction of his curiosity.

He found he was in a large, bare room, almost unfurnished except for a
big, cheap-looking wardrobe, a chair, a table, a large mirror, and a
square of carpet. At the back of the room, behind the matchboarding
partition, was a wash-place. Singularly enough, there was no bed, not
even a couch. On the wall was an old print representing the marriage of
Queen Victoria. It was in a dusty maple frame and hung groggily. Mr.
Smith, who had a tidy mind, tried to straighten the picture, and
something fell to the floor. It was a white glove which contained
something heavy; it struck the floor with a clump. He picked it up and
laid it on the dressing-table. The glove was of kid, with three strips
of black lace at the back, and it held a key. It was nothing delicate in
the way of keys, but a large, old-fashioned door-key of a type
fashionable before the introduction of patent locks.

What was remarkable about this key was its colour: it had been painted
with silver paint.

Surefoot looked at the key thoughtfully. An amateur had painted it--the
inside of the business end had not been touched; the steel was bright
and evidently the key was often used.

He brought this beneath the one naked electric globe which served to
illuminate the room, but found nothing new about it. Putting the key in
his pocket, he continued his search, without, however, discovering
anything more noteworthy, until he found the cupboard. Its door seemed
part of the matchboard lining of the room, to the height of which it
rose. There was no handle, and the keyhole was so concealed in the
dovetailing that it might have passed unnoticed but for the fact that
Surefoot Smith was a very painstaking man.

He thought at first it was a Yale lock, but when he tested it out with
the aid of a big clasp-knife, which contained half a dozen tools, he
found it was a very simple "catch." The cupboard held a complete dress
suit, including silk hat and overcoat. On a shelf was a number of plain
but exquisitely woven handkerchiefs, socks, folded dress ties and the
like.

He searched the pockets but could find no clue to the ownership of the
suit. There was no maker's tab on the inside of the coat, or concealed
in the breast pocket. Even the trousers buttons were not inscribed with
the tailor's name.

He examined the dress shirts; they were similarly unidentifiable. He
found nothing more except a large bottle of expensive perfume, a monocle
attached to a broad silk ribbon, and a locked box. This he forced under
the lamp, and found three wigs, perfectly made. One was wrapped in
silver tissue, and it was either new or had been newly dressed.

"Bit queer, isn't it?" said Surefoot Smith aloud.

"Yes, sir," said the constable, who had been silent until that moment.

"I was talking to myself," said Surefoot coldly.

He made another round of the room, but without adding to the sum of his
knowledge.

He replaced everything where he had found it, except the key and the
glove. After all, there might be a perfectly simple explanation of his
finds. The man may have been an actor. The fact that Tickler had been
sitting on his doorstep, listening to his drunken song, meant little,
and would certainly carry no weight with a jury.

On the other hand, if the explanation was so simple, Surefoot Smith was
in a position of some embarrassment. Against his name, if the truth be
told, were many black marks for unauthorised entry. This might very well
be the cause of another.

He went out into the mews, locked the door, and walked silently into
Portland Place, followed by the policeman. And Surefoot Smith did not
forget that the constable might possibly be a witness at any inquiry
before the Commissioner.

"I think that is all, officer," he said, "but I am not blaming you for
failing to report. Things like that," he went on, "slip out of a man's
mind. For instance, I left my house yesterday and forgot to take my
pipe."

The officer murmured his polite surprise. He was a little mollified, and
was sufficiently intelligent to understand the reason for this change of
attitude.

"I suppose it's all right, sir, going into that place without a
warrant?" he said. "I'm asking because I'm a young officer, new to the
force----"

Surefoot Smith surveyed him soberly.

"I went," he said, with great deliberation, "because you reported a
suspicious circumstance. You told me you had reason to believe that the
murderer might be hiding in that loft."

The constable gasped at this atrocious charge, gasped but was
speechless.

"So that, if there's any trouble over it," said Surefoot, "we're both in
it. And my word's better than yours. Now go home and keep your mouth
shut--it won't be hard for you." He could not resist the temptation to
gibe. "In fact, I should say you were a pretty good mouth-shutter."

The key and the white glove he locked away in a drawer of his desk at
Scotland Yard. There was nothing remarkable about either article.
Surefoot Smith would indeed have been glad to sacrifice his finds for
one packet of cartridges, the bullets of which corresponded to those
extracted from the unfortunate Tickler. In his mind, however, he was
satisfied that there was some connection between that flat in Baynes
Mews and the murder of the little thief. The finding of the dress
clothes signified little; it might only mean that some swell, for
reasons best known to himself, wanted a place where he could change
without going home. Such things happen in the West End of London, and in
the east or any other end of any other large city.

The absence of the bed rather puzzled him, but here again it simply
removed one explanation of the flat being used. Yet, if he could have
foreseen the future, he would have known that he had in his possession a
clue more valuable than the science of ballistics could have given to
him.




CHAPTER TWELVE


Mary Lane's party was a very dull one. She was one of ten young people,
and young people can be very boring. Three of the girls had a giggling
secret, and throughout the meal made esoteric references to some
happening which none but they understood. The young men were vapid and
vacuous, after their kind. She was glad to get away on the excuse of a
matinée.

Mary lived in a large block of flats in the Marylebone Road. These three
small rooms and a kitchenette were home and independence to her. She
seldom received visitors, rarely men visitors, and never in any
circumstances invited a guest so late at night. She was staggered when
the lift-man told her that "a gentleman had just gone up to her flat."

"No, miss, I've never seen him before. It wasn't Mr. Allenby, but he
says he knows you."

He opened the door of the lift and walked along the corridor with her.
To her amazement she saw Leo Moran, who had evidently rung the bell of
the flat several times, and was returning to the elevator when they met.

"It is unpardonable of me to come so late, Miss Lane, but when I explain
to you that it's rather a vital matter I'm sure you will not be angry
with me. Your maid is asleep."

Mary smiled.

"I haven't a maid," she said.

The situation was a little embarrassing: she could hardly ask him into
the flat; still less did she find it possible to suggest that the
lift-man should be her chaperon. She compromised by asking him in and
leaving the front door open.

Moran was nervous; his voice, when he spoke, was husky; the hand that
took a large envelope from his inside pocket was unsteady.

"I wouldn't have bothered you at all, but I had rather a disconcerting
letter when I got home, from--an agent of mine."

She knew Moran, though she had never regarded him as a friend, and felt
a sense of resentment every time he had come unbidden to her
dressing-room. Since she received her allowance from old Hervey, she had
it also through the bank of which Leo Moran was manager.

"I'll be perfectly frank with you, Miss Lane," he said, speaking quickly
and nervously. "It's a matter entirely personal to myself, in the sense
that I am personally responsible. The one man who could get me out of my
trouble is the one man I do not wish to approach--your guardian, Mr.
Hervey Lyne."

To say she was astonished is to put it mildly. She had always regarded
Moran as a man so perfectly self-possessed that nothing could break
through his reserve, and here he was, fidgeting and stammering like a
schoolboy.

"If I can help you of course I will," she said, wondering what was
coming next.

"It concerns some shares which I purchased on behalf of a client of the
bank. Mr. Lyne signed the transfer, but the other people--that is to
say, the people to whom the shares were transferred--have just
discovered that it is necessary also that your name shall be on the
transfer, as they originally were part of the stocks left in trust to
you. I might say," he went on quickly, "that the price of this stock is
exactly the same, or practically the same, as it was when it was taken
over."

"My name--is that all you want? I thought at least it was something
valuable," she laughed.

He put the paper on the table; it was indubitably a stock transfer; she
had seen such documents before. He indicated where her name should be
signed, and she noticed above it the scrawl of old Lyne.

"Well, that's done."

There was no mistaking his relief.

"You'll think I'm an awful brute to come at this hour of the night. I
can't tell you how grateful I am. It simply meant that I had paid out
money of the bank's without the necessary authorisation. Also, if old
Mr. Lyne died tomorrow, this transfer would be practically valueless."

She made a little grimace.

"Is he likely to die tomorrow?"

He shook his head.

"I don't know; he's a pretty old man."

Abruptly he held out his hand.

"Good-night, and thank you again."

She closed the door on him, went back to her kitchenette to make herself
a cup of chocolate before she went to bed, and sat for a long time at
the kitchen table, sipping the hot decoction, and trying to discover
something sinister in his midnight visitation. Herein she failed. If
Hervey Lyne died tomorrow? By his agitation and hurry one might imagine
that the old man was in extremis. Yet, the last time she had seen old
Hervey, he was very much in possession of his faculties.

She was at breakfast the following morning when Dick Allenby called her
up and told her of his loss. She listened incredulously, and thought he
was joking until he told her of the visit of Surefoot Smith.

"My dear--how terrible!" she said.

"Surefoot thought it was providential. Moran thought nothing."

"Was he there?" she asked quickly.

"Yes--why?"

She hesitated. Moran had so evidently wished his visit to her to be a
private matter that it seemed like betraying him.

"Oh, nothing," she said. And then, as an after-thought: "Come round and
tell me all about it."

He was there in half an hour, singularly unemotional and cheerful, she
thought.

"It really isn't as dramatically important as it sounds," he said. "If
it has been stolen, as Surefoot thinks it has, with the idea of pinching
the patent, the buyer will be shrewd enough to make a search of the
registrations at the various Patent Offices. I had an acknowledgment
from Germany this morning that it has been entered there."

He was interrupted by a knock at the outer door and she opened it to
admit a second visitor. It was not usual, she explained apologetically
to Dick, that she should receive guests so early, but Mike Hennessey had
telephoned, asking whether he might come.

The first thing she noticed when Mike came into the room was his
embarrassment at finding Dick Allenby there. A genial soul was Mike,
big-faced, heavy-featured, sleepy-eyed, constitutionally lazy and
lethargic in his movements. He was never a healthy-looking individual,
but now he looked positively ill, and she remarked upon the fact. Mike
shook his head.

"Had a bad night," he said. "Good-morning, Mr. Allenby--don't go: I've
nothing private; only I wanted to see this young lady about our play.
It's coming off."

"Thank Heaven for that!" said Mary gratefully. "It's the best news I've
had for months."

"It's about the worst I've had," he grumbled.

"Has Mr. Wirth withdrawn his support?"

It was nearer the truth than she guessed. Mr. Wirth's weekly cheque,
which had been due on the previous day, had not arrived, and Mike was
taking no chances.

"The notice goes up tonight that we finish on Saturday," he said. "I've
had the luck to let the theatre--I wish I'd taken a better offer that I
had last week."

He was even more nervous than Moran had been; could not keep his hands
still or his body either. He got up from the chair, walked to the
window, came back and sat down, only to rise again a few moments later.

"Who is this old fellow Wirth? What's his job?" asked Dick.

"I don't know. He's in some sort of business at Coventry," said Mike. "I
thought of running up there today to see him. The point is this"--he
came to that point bluntly--"tomorrow night's Treasury, and I haven't
enough money in the bank to pay the artistes. I may get it today, in
which case there's no fuss. You're the heaviest salary in the cast,
Mary: will you trust me till next week if things go wrong?"

She was staggered at the suggestion. In the case of other productions
Mike's solvency had always been a matter of the gravest doubt, but
_Cliffs of Fate_ had been under more distinguished patronage, and the
general impression was that, whatever else happened, the money for its
continuance would come in.

"Of course I will, Mike," she said; "but surely Mr. Wirth hasn't----"

"Gone broke? No, I shouldn't think so. He's a queer man," said Mike
vaguely.

He did not particularise his patron's queerness, but was satisfied to
leave it at that. His departure was almost as abrupt a gesture as any he
had performed.

"There's a pretty sick man," said Dick.

"Do you mean he's ill?"

"Mentally. Something's upset him. I should imagine that the failure of
old Wirth's cheque was quite sufficient; but there's something else
besides."

He rose.

"Come and lunch," he invited, but she shook her head.

She was lunching at home; her matinée excuse at the overnight party had
been on the spur of the moment. She wondered how many would remember it
against her.

Dick went on to Scotland Yard, and had to wait half an hour before
Surefoot Smith returned. He had no news of any importance. A description
of the stolen gun had been circulated.

"But that won't help you very much. It's hardly likely to be pawned or
offered for sale in the Caledonian Market," said Surefoot. And then,
abruptly: "Do you know Mr. Washington Wirth?"

"I've heard of him."

"Have you ever met him? Great party giver, isn't he?"

Dick smiled.

"He's never given me a party, but I believe he is rather keen on that
sort of amusement."

Surefoot nodded.

"I've just been up to the Kellner Hotel. They know nothing about him
except that he always pays in cash. He's been using the hotel for three
years; orders a suite whenever he feels inclined, leaves the supper and
the band to the head waiter; but that's the only thing they know about
him--that his money is good money, which is all they want to know, I
suppose."

"Are you interested in him?" asked Dick, and told the story of Mike
Hennessey's agitation.

Surefoot Smith was interested.

"He's got a bank, has he? Well, he may be one of those Midland people.
I've never understood what makes the corn and coal merchants go in for
theatricals. It's a form of insanity that's been pretty common since the
war."

"Mike will tell you all about it," suggested Allenby.

Mr. Smith's lips curled.

"Mike'll tell us a whole lot," he said sarcastically. "That fellow
wouldn't tell you his right hand had four fingers, for fear you brought
it up in evidence against him. I know Mike!"

"At any rate, he's got a line on Wirth," said Dick. "He's been financing
this play."

Since he could find nobody to lunch with, he decided to take that meal
at Snell's, which had all the values of a good club except that there
were one or two members who were personally objectionable to him. And
the most poisonous were the first two he saw at the entrance of the
dining-room. Gerald Dornford and Jules had their little table in the
window. Jules favoured him with a nod, but Jerry kept his eyes steadily
averted as Dick passed.

They had, in point of fact, only just sat down when Allenby had arrived,
and in his furtive way Jules had been avoiding the one subject which his
companion wished to discuss. He spoke of the people who were passing in
the street, recognising every important motor-car that passed; he talked
of the military conference which was in session just then, of the party
to which he had been the night before, of anything but----

"Now what about this gun?" said Jerry.

"The gun?"

Jules looked at him blankly, then leaned back in his chair and chuckled.

"What a good thing you came today! I wanted to see you. That little
project of mine must be abandoned."

"What do you mean?" gasped Jerry, turning pale.

"I mean that my principals, or rather the principals of my principals,
have decided not to go any farther in the matter. You see, we've
discovered that all the salient points of the gun have been protected by
patents, especially in those countries where the invention could be best
exploited."

Jerry looked at him, dumbfounded.

"Do you mean to say that you don't want it?"

Jules nodded.

"I mean to say that there's no need for you to take any unnecessary
risks. Now let us discuss some other way of raising the money----"

"Discuss be damned!" said Jerry savagely. "I've got the gun--I took it
last night!"

Jules stroked his smooth chin and looked at his companion thoughtfully.

"That's awkward," he said. "You took it from the workshop, did you?
Well, you can hardly put it back. I advise you to drive somewhere out of
London and dump it in a deep pond. Or, better still, try the river,
somewhere between Temple Lock and Hambleden."

"Do you mean to tell me"--Jerry's husky voice was almost hoarse--"that
I've taken this risk for nothing? What is the idea?"

Jules shrugged.

"I'm sorry. My principals----"

"Damn your principals! You gave me a specific promise that if I got the
thing you'd give me a couple of thousand."

Jules smiled.

"And now, my dear fellow, I give you a specific assurance that I cannot
get two thousand shillings for the gun! It is unfortunate. If you had
procured the invention when I first suggested it, the matter would have
been all over--and paid for. Now it is too late."

He leaned over and patted the other gently on the arm as though he were
a child.

"There is no sense in being foolish about this matter," he said. "Let us
find some other way of raising the wind, eh?"

Jerry Dornford was crushed. He knew Hervey Lyne sufficiently well to
realise that, had he produced the two thousand pounds, the old man would
have grabbed at the money and given him the extra time he had asked.
Hervey could never resist the argument of cash.

He could have grabbed the smiling little cad opposite him and thrown him
out of the window. There was murder in his glance when he looked into
the round, brown eyes of his companion. But Jerry Dornford never forgot
he was a gentleman, and as such was expected to exercise the
self-control which is the peculiar and popular attribute of the
well-bred man.

"Well, it can't be helped," he said. "Order me a drink; I'm a bit
rattled."

Jules played an invisible piano on the edge of the table.

"Our friend Allenby is at the third table on the right. Would it not be
a good idea," he suggested, "to go over and say: 'What a little joke I
played on you, eh?'"

"Don't be a fool," interrupted Jerry roughly. "He called me up last
night and asked me if I had it. He's put the matter in the hands of the
police. I had a visit from Smith this morning."

"So!" Jules pursed his red lips. "That is a pity. Here is your drink."

They sat for a long time over their coffee, saw Dick Allenby leave the
club and cross to the opposite side of St. James's Street.

"Clever fellow, that," said Jules, almost with enthusiasm. "He doesn't
like me. I forget the name he called me the last time we had a little
discussion, but it was terribly offensive. But I like him. I am fond of
clever people; there is nothing so amusing as cleverness."

Dick had hardly left the club before a telephone message come through
for him, and this he missed. It was Mary Lane, and at that moment she
needed Dick's advice very badly. She called his flat again; he had not
returned. She tried a third club, where he sometimes called in the
afternoon, but again was unsuccessful.

She had been writing out the small cheques which her housekeeping
necessitated, when the strange message had arrived. It came in the hands
of a grubby little boy, who carried an envelope which was covered with
uncleanly finger-marks.

"An old gentleman told me to bring it here," he said in his shrill
Cockney.

An old gentleman? She looked at the super-scription; her name and
address were scrawled untidily, and although she had not seen Hervey
Lyne's handwriting, she knew, or rather guessed, that it was he who had
sent the letter.

The boy explained that he had been delivering a parcel at No. 19, and
had seen the old gentleman leaning on his stick in the doorway. He wore
his dressing-gown and had the letter in his hand. He had called the boy,
given him half a crown (that must have been a wrench for Hervey), and
ordered him to deliver the letter at once.

She tore it open. It was written on the back of a ruled sheet of paper
covered with typewritten figures, and the writing was in pencil.

     "Bring Moran to me without fail at three o'clock this afternoon. I
     saw him two days ago, but I'm not satisfied. Bring police officer."

Here was written, above, a word which she deciphered as "Smith."

     "Do not let Moran or anybody know about P.O. This is very urgent."

The note was signed "H. L."

The little boy could give her no other information. She would have
called up Mr. Lyne's house, but the old man had an insuperable objection
to the telephone and had never had one installed. She looked at her
watch; it was after two, and for ten minutes she was making a frantic
effort to get in touch with Dick.

Surefoot Smith she hardly knew well enough to consult, and she had a
woman's distaste for approaching the police direct. She called up Mr.
Moran's bank; he had gone home. She tried his club, with no better
success. Moran had left his flat that morning, announcing that he had no
intention of returning for two or three weeks. He had gone on leave.
Curiously enough, the bank did not tell her that: they merely said that
Mr. Moran had gone home early--a completely inaccurate piece of
information, she discovered when the first man, who was evidently a
clerk, was interrupted and a more authoritative voice spoke:

"This is the chief accountant speaking, Miss Lane. You were asking about
Mr. Moran? He has not been to the bank today."

"He's gone on leave, hasn't he?"

"I'm not aware of the fact. I know he has applied for leave, but I don't
think he's gone--in fact, I'm certain. I opened all the letters this
morning."

She hung up the telephone, bewildered, and was sitting at the window,
cogitating on what else she should do, when to her joy the telephone
rang. It was Dick, who had returned to Snell's Club to collect some
letters he had forgotten, and had been told of her call.

"That's very odd," was his comment when he heard about the note. "I'll
try to get Smith. The best thing you can do, angel, is to meet me
outside Baker Street Tube Station in a quarter of an hour. I'll try to
land Smith at the same moment."

She got to the station a little before three, and had to wait for ten
minutes before a taxicab dashed up and Dick jumped out. She saw the
bulky figure of Mr. Smith in one corner of the cab, and, getting in, sat
by him. Dick gave instructions to the taxi driver and seated himself
opposite.

"This is all very mysterious, isn't it?" he said. "Let me see the
letter."

She showed it to him, and he turned it over.

"Hullo, this is a bank statement." He whistled. "Phew! What figures! The
old boy's certainly let the cat out of the bag."

She had paid no attention to the typewritten statement on the back.

"Over two hundred thousand in cash and umpteen hundred thousand in
securities. What is the idea--I mean, of sending this note? I suppose
you couldn't find Moran?"

She shook her head.

Smith was examining the letter carefully.

"Is he blind?" he asked.

"Very nearly," said Dick. "He doesn't admit it, but he can't see well
enough to distinguish you from me. That's his writing--I had a rude
letter from him one day last week. Did you find Moran?"

Mary shook her head.

"Nobody seems to know where he is. He hasn't been to the bank today, and
he's not at his flat."

Surefoot folded the letter and handed it back to the girl.

"It looks as if he doesn't want to see me yet awhile, and not at all if
we don't bring Moran," he said.

They drove into Naylors Crescent, and it was agreed that Surefoot should
sit outside in the cab whilst they interviewed the old man. But repeated
knockings brought no answer. The houses in Naylors Crescent stand behind
deep little areas, and out of one of these next door a head appeared.

"There's nobody in," he said. "Mr. Lyne has gone out in his chair about
an hour ago."

"Where did he go?" asked Dick.

The servant could not say; but Mary was better informed.

"They always go to the same place--into the private gardens of the
park," she said. "It's only a few minutes' walk."

The cab was no longer necessary; Dick paid it off. They were about to
cross the road when a big, open touring car swept past, and Dick had a
momentary glimpse of the man at the wheel. It was Jerry Dornford. The
car was old and noisy; there was a succession of backfires as it passed.
It slowed down a little at one point, then, gathering speed,
disappeared from view.

"Any policeman doing his duty will pinch that fellow under the Noises
Act," said Smith.

Presently they came in sight of the chair. Binny was sitting on his
little collapsible stool, a paper spread open on his knees, a pair of
gold-rimmed glasses perched on his thick nose. The gate into the gardens
was locked and it was some time before Dick attracted the servant's
attention. Presently Binny looked up, and, ambling forward, unlocked the
gate and admitted them.

"I think he's asleep, sir," he said, "and that's a bit awkward. If I
start wheeling him when he's asleep, and he wakes up, he gives me hell!
And he's got to be home by three."

Old Hervey Lyne sat, his chin on his breast, his blue-tinted glasses
firmly fixed on the high bridge of his nose. His gloved hands were
clasped on the rug which was tucked about his legs, Binny folded his
paper, put it in his pocket, folded his stool and hung it on a little
hook on the bath-chair.

"Do you think you'd better wake him up?"

Mary went nearer.

"Mr. Lyne," she said.

She called again, but there was no answer.

Surefoot Smith, who was standing at some distance, came nearer. He
walked round the back of the chair, came to the front, and, leaning
over, pulled open the old man's coat. He closed it again; then, to
Mary's amazement, Surefoot Smith caught her gently by the arm.

"I think you'd better run away for about an hour, and I'll come and see
you at your flat," he said.

His voice was unusually gentle.

She looked at him, and the colour went out of her face.

"Is he dead?" she breathed.

Surefoot Smith nodded; almost impelled her towards the gate. When she
was out of hearing:

"He's been shot through the back. I saw the hole in the cape as I came
round. Look!" He opened the coat.

Dick saw something that was not pleasant to see.




CHAPTER THIRTEEN


The ambulance had come and gone. Four men sat in the dead man's study.
Binny was one; the other, besides Surefoot Smith and Dick Allenby, was
the divisional inspector.

Smith turned to the grey-faced servant.

"Tell us just what happened, my boy," he said.

Binny shook his head.

"I don't know ... awful, ain't it, him going like that...."

"Were there any visitors?"

Binny shook his head again.

"Nobody, so far as I know."

"Where was he at one o'clock?"

"In this room, sir, in the chair where you're sitting," said Binny. "He
was writing something--put his hand over it when I came in. I didn't see
what it was."

"It was probably a letter to Miss Lane," said the detective. "Does he
often write notes?"

Binny shook his head.

"When he does write them do you deliver them?"

Binny shook his head again.

"No, sir, not always. Poor Mr. Lyne was very suspicious. His sight
wasn't very good and he'd got an idea that people was listening at the
door or reading his letters. He'd call anybody off the street to take a
note when he sent one, which wasn't often."

"What visitors has he had lately?"

"Mr. Dornford came last night, sir. There was a bit of a quarrel--over
money, I think."

"A bad quarrel?" asked Smith.

Binny nodded.

"He asked me to throw him out--Mr. Lyne did."

Surefoot jotted down a note.

"And who else?"

Binny looked serious.

"Mr. Moran came two days ago."

"That's right, sir. Mr. Moran came to see him about banking business,
and Miss Lane came--I think that's the lot. We don't often have people
call."

Again Smith scribbled something. He employed a weird kind of shorthand,
which was indecipherable to Dick, who, from where he sat, had a view of
the notes.

"Tell us what happened today. Do you usually go out in the afternoon?"

"Yes, sir, but at lunch-time Mr. Lyne said he wouldn't go out. In fact,
he told me not to bother about the chair, that he was expecting some
visitors at three o'clock. About two o'clock he changed his mind and
said he'd go out. I pulled him into the park gardens and sat down and
read a case to him----"

"Do you mean a police court case?"

"That's right, sir. He likes reading about moneylenders' actions against
people who owe them something. There was a case this morning----"

"Oh, you mean a Law Courts case--any kind of case, in fact?"

Binny nodded.

"Did he say anything in the park?"

"Nothing at all, sir, of any consequence. He'd been sitting there a
quarter of an hour and he asked me to turn up the collar of his coat; he
was feeling a draught. I sat down and read to him until I thought he was
asleep."

"You heard no sound?"

He thought a moment.

"Yes, there was a bit of a noise, from a car that went past."

For a moment both Smith and Dick had forgotten Gerald Dornford's car,
and they exchanged a glance.

"You heard nothing like a shot?"

Binny shook his head.

"Nothing more than the motor-car noise," he said.

"Did Mr. Lyne speak at all--groan, move?"

"No, sir."

Surefoot settled his elbows on the table.

"This is the question I want to ask you, Binny: How long before we found
Mr. Lyne was dead did you hear him speak?"

Binny considered.

"About ten minutes, sir," he said. "A park keeper came along and said
good-afternoon to him, and, when he didn't answer, I thought he was
asleep. That's when I stopped reading."

"Now show me the house," said Smith, rising.

Binny led the way, first to the kitchen, from which opened a bedroom.

His wife was away in the country, living with relations, he told
Surefoot, but that made little difference to Lyne's comfort, for Binny
did most of the work.

"To tell you the truth, sir, my wife drinks," he said apologetically,
"and I'm glad to have her out of the house."

The kitchen was none too tidy. Surefoot Smith saw something on the
floor, stooped and picked up a triangular piece of glass from under the
table beneath the window. He looked up at the window, felt the puttied
edge.

"Had a window broken in?"

Binny hesitated.

"Mr. Lyne didn't want to say anything about it. Somebody broke the glass
and opened the window a couple of nights ago."

"A burglar?"

"Mr. Lyne thought it was somebody trying to get in. I didn't send for
the police, because he wouldn't let me," he hastened to exculpate
himself.

They went upstairs to the front room. There was only one large room on
each floor, though both could be divided into two by folding doors. The
top room had been Lyne's bedroom, but presented no particular features.
A divisional inspector and two of his men would conduct a leisurely
search through the possessions and papers of the dead man--Surefoot had
taken the keys from the old man's pocket. He had already made a casual
inspection of the safe without discovering anything of moment.

They came back to the study. Surefoot Smith stood for a long time,
staring out of the window, drumming his fingers on the leather-covered
top of the desk. When he spoke it was half to himself.

"There's an American going back to New York tomorrow who might tell us
something. I've a good mind to bring him down to a consultation."

"Who's that?" asked Dick curiously.

"John Kelly--he's chief of the detective force in Chicago. He might give
us an angle, and then again he mightn't. It's worth trying."

He looked at his watch.

"I wonder if there's any news of Moran--I'm going to look at his flat. I
suppose there'll be a servant there?"

"If there isn't," said Dick, "I can help you. He told me he was going
away and that he intended sending me the key, so that I could forward
any letters that arrived. If you don't mind I'll walk round with you."

The housekeeper of the flat gave a surprising piece of information. Mr.
Moran had left only an hour before.

"Are you sure?" asked Dick incredulously. "Didn't he leave this
morning?"

The man was very emphatic.

"No, sir, he's been out all the morning, but he didn't actually leave
till about half-past three. You're Mr. Allenby, aren't you?" He
addressed Dick. "I've got a letter to post for you."

He went to his little office, came out, opened the post-box and took out
a stamped envelope which contained a few lines, evidently written in a
hurry, and the key of the flat.

     "I'm just off. Those brutes have turned me down."

"Who are the brutes?" asked Surefoot.

Dick smiled.

"I presume he's referring to his directors. He told me he was going on
his holiday whether they agreed or not."

When they entered the flat there was evidence of Moran's hurried
departure. They found, for example, a waistcoat hanging from the edge of
the bed, in which was his watch and chain, a gold cigarette case, and
about ten pounds in cash. He had evidently changed his clothes quickly
and had forgotten to empty his pockets. Another peculiar fact, which
both Surefoot and Dick remarked, was that the window overlooking the
park had been left open.

"Do you notice anything?" asked Surefoot.

Dick nodded, and a little chill went down his spine. From where he
stood, by the open window, he commanded a view, not only of the private
gardens, but of the actual spot where old Hervey Lyne had been killed.

Surefoot searched the floor near the window but found nothing. He passed
into Moran's elegant bedroom and made a rapid search. Pulling out the
wardrobe door, something fell out. He had time to catch it before it
reached the floor. It was a Lee-Enfield rifle; a second lay flat on the
wardrobe floor, and, near it, half a dozen long black cylinders.

Surefoot snapped open the breech and smelt. He had taken the rifle to
the window; he placed the block upon the sill and squinted down the
barrel. If it had been recently fired then it must have been recently
cleaned, for there was no sign of fouling. He tested the other rifle in
the same way; and then he took up one of the cylinders.

"What are those?" he said.

Dick looked at them carefully.

"They're silencers," he said. "But Moran is very much interested in
rifle shooting, especially in any new brand of silencer. He has
consulted me once or twice, and has frequently urged me to take up the
making of silencers. You mustn't forget, Smith, that Mr. Moran is an
enthusiastic rifleman. In fact, he's been runner-up for the King's Prize
at Bisley, and shooting was about his only recreation."

"And a pretty good recreation too," said Smith dryly.

He searched the wardrobe and the drawers for cartridges, but could find
none. The magazines of both rifles were empty. There was no sign of a
discharged shell anywhere in the flat.

Smith went back to the window and judged the distance which separated
the room from the place of the killing.

"Less than two hundred yards," he suggested, and Dick Allenby agreed.

Moran had not taken his servant. Surefoot got his address from the
housekeeper and wired him to report at once.

"You'd better go along and see the young lady. She's probably having
hysterics by now----"

"It's hardly likely," said Dick coldly, "but I'll see her. Where are you
going?"

Surefoot smiled mysteriously; though why he should make a mystery of the
most obvious move, it was hard to say.




CHAPTER FOURTEEN


The bank premises were closed when he reached them; he rang a bell at
the side door and was admitted. The accountant and the chief clerk and
two or three other clerks were on duty. He interviewed the accountant in
his office.

"I know nothing whatever about Mr. Moran's movements except that he
applied for leave and it was not granted. I know that, because the
letter from the head office did not come addressed to him personally,
but to 'the manager,' and was opened by me. I got him on the 'phone and
told him; he said nothing except that he wouldn't be down today."

"Have you reported this to your head office?" asked Surefoot.

No report had been made. It was not a very extraordinary happening. Bank
managers do occasionally decide to stay away from business; and, as it
happened, there had been no enquiries by 'phone from headquarters, and
the fact had not been mentioned.

"It will go in, of course, in the daily report," said the accountant.
"To tell you the truth, I was under the impression that Mr. Moran had
gone up to the City and had interviewed the managing director; so that
when I heard he was taking his leave I naturally supposed that he had
persuaded the head office to change its mind. Has anything happened to
Mr. Moran?" he asked anxiously.

"I hope not, I'm sure," said Smith with spurious solicitude. "Did he
bank with you?"

"He had an account at this branch, but carried only a small balance,"
explained the accountant. "There was a little trouble about speculation
a few years back, and naturally, I suppose, Mr. Moran did not run his
main account through us, not wishing the directors to know his business.
I can tell you for your private information that he banks with the
Southern Provincial. I know that, because once, when his account with us
was low, he paid in a cheque on that bank to put it in credit. May I
ask, Mr. Smith, what is the reason for this enquiry?"

In a few words Surefoot told him of the murder.

"Yes, we carry Mr. Lyne's account. It is a fairly large one--not as
large as it used to be--he is a moneylender and has a lot of money out."

Smith looked at his watch.

"Is it possible to see any of the directors at headquarters?"

The accountant was doubtful, but he put through a telephone call, only
to return with the information that all the directors had gone home.

"If Mr. Moran doesn't turn up in the morning----"

"He won't," said Surefoot.

"Well, if he doesn't, I'd be glad if you saw the head office. I really
ought not to be giving you any kind of information, either about Mr.
Moran or about any of our customers. Just one moment."

He went behind a desk and consulted a clerk. After a while he came back.

"I might tell you this, whether I get into trouble or not, that the late
Mr. Lyne drew sixty thousand pounds from the bank yesterday--that is to
say, the cheque came into us and was cleared last night. It was a bearer
cheque and passed through some bank in the Midlands. I can't give you
the exact details, but I've no doubt head office will give you the
authorisation."

When Surefoot returned to Scotland Yard he found a group of officers in
his room. They were saying good-bye to John Kelly, who was leaving at
midnight for the United States.

"I'm sorry," he said, when he heard Surefoot's idea. "Nothing would have
given me greater pleasure than to have got in on a murder case. I read
it in the evening papers. Have there been any developments?"

Surefoot told him what he had learned at the bank and the American
nodded.

"You might do worse than look after a man called Arthur Ryan," he said.
"I know that he's in England--I'll send you some photographs of him
taken when I was in Chicago. That was part of his graft, running banking
accounts, switching somebody else's money from one to the other. You'd
never guess he was that kind of bird."

Surefoot was forced to resign, with regret, the invitation to an
informal farewell dinner. The Chief Constable was waiting for him, a
little impatiently, for his dinner hour was more formal.

"We'll have to circulate a description of Moran," said the chief when he
had finished, "but it must be done without publicity, or we'll be
getting ourselves into all sorts of trouble. The fact that he keeps a
couple of rifles in his room means nothing. Even I know him as a rifle
shot. So far as we are aware, there is nothing wrong at the bank, and
the only circumstance connecting him with the crime is the old man's
note. Have you got it?"

Mary had handed the note to the detective, who produced it from his
pocket and spread it on the table.

The Chief Constable nodded.

"The fact that he wants to see Moran again--had he seen him before?"

"Two days ago, according to Binny, the servant--not for two years,
according to Moran," said Surefoot slowly, and the Chief looked up.

"Moran said he hadn't seen----"

Surefoot nodded.

"That's just what he said. Allenby asked him casually the night before
the murder when he had seen Lyne last. He said two years ago. Allenby is
absolutely definite. Now, why did he say he hadn't seen him when he had?
And why did old Lyne, when he sent that note, say 'Bring Moran' and
immediately follow this by asking for a police officer to be in
attendance? There's only one explanation--that he'd discovered something
about Moran and intended either to confront him or threaten him with
police action. Moran applies for urgent leave from the bank, and this
isn't granted. He doesn't come to the bank, and I think we'll find, when
I make enquiries at their head office, that the directors know nothing
about his being away. Moran had the handling of the old man's account,
and if there was anything wrong it meant penal servitude for him;
probably the only person who could say whether anything was wrong was
Lyne himself. He dies--somebody puts a bullet in him--half an hour
before Moran leaves London. That's circumstantial, but better
circumstantial evidence than most people are hung on. If you want
anything clearer than that, lead me to it."

He continued his enquiries throughout the evening, and about a quarter
of an hour before the curtain came down--the penultimate curtain, as it
proved--on _Cliffs of Fate_, he called at the theatre. Mike Hennessey
had gone home, as his manager dramatically described, "a broken man."

"He'd set his heart on this play, Mr. Smith----" began the little
manager, but Surefoot silenced him.

"Nobody could set their hearts on a lousy play like this," he said. "It
doesn't appeal either to the intelligent or the theatrical classes."

He went through the pass door to the stage, and down a long corridor to
Mary's dressing-room. Dick Allenby, as he had expected, was with her.
She looked tired; evidently the old man's death had been a greater shock
to her than either Dick or Surefoot Smith could have expected.

"Oh yes, the play comes off; but things aren't so bad with poor Mike as
he expected. His cheque turned up and he was able to pay the company,
and, I hope, himself."

She could tell him nothing about Hervey Lyne, but she was very
informative about Leo Moran when he began to question her. He heard the
story of his midnight call--it was news to Dick also.

"But, my dear, I don't understand. He wanted you to sign a transfer----"

"Did you notice the name of the shares?" interrupted Surefoot.

This she had not seen. Surefoot, who knew a great deal about the City
and had been in many financial cases, suggested that it must be a
foreign stock. It is the rule on certain foreign Stock Exchanges that
shares cannot be transferred by a trustee without the approval and
signature of the beneficiaries for whom he is acting.

"There is nothing fishy about that," said Surefoot thoughtfully. "Even
if he was a buyer, old Lyne would not have put his name to a transfer
unless he had his money's worth."

Surefoot could do little more that night. Lyne's documents were being
carefully examined and tabulated, and the place of the murder was roped
off and guarded, a precautionary measure justified when, at midnight,
the surgeon's report came through.

Hervey Lyne had been killed by a bullet which passed through his heart
from behind. Actually no bullet was found in the body, and Surefoot gave
orders that at daybreak every inch of the lawn where the murder was
committed should be searched for the spent bullet. By nine o'clock he
was in the City, awaiting the arrival of the great men of the bank. As
he had expected, no leave had been granted to Leo Moran, against whose
name there was a black mark in the bank's books.

"He was a very capable manager, and very popular with our clients;
otherwise, I doubt if we should have kept him after his speculations. We
know nothing against him whatever, except, of course, this act of
indiscipline."

"If he's gone away he has simply taken French leave?" asked Surefoot.

"Exactly," said the managing director, "and that is a very serious
offence. We believe he is in Devonshire--at least, that is where he said
he was going."

Surefoot smiled.

"He's not in Devonshire--I can tell you that," he said. "He left by a
specially chartered aeroplane from Croydon at twenty minutes past four
yesterday afternoon for Cologne. Another plane was waiting to take him
to Berlin, and there we have not as yet traced him."

The managing director looked at him open-mouthed. Surefoot thought he
turned a little pale.

"In Berlin?"

He could hardly believe it. One could almost see his mind working. Leo
Moran's branch carried very heavy accounts, and a branch manager who
disappears suddenly, and in suspicious circumstances, might not have
gone empty-handed.

"I shouldn't imagine anything is wrong." He was very much perturbed.
"Beyond the fact that he speculated--and, of course, one never knows to
what length a gambler will go--he was a very honest, high-principled
man. He had, I know, dreams of making a great fortune, but then we have
all passed through that stage without doing anything dishonest."

He pressed a bell.

"Nevertheless, I will have an immediate examination of the books, and
will send down our two best inspectors. We must replace Mr. Moran at
once."

Surefoot had managed to get a very accurate description of Leo Moran,
but could find no photograph of him. He should not be difficult to
trace; he was almost completely bald, which fact, however, he could
disguise, if he had reason for disguise at all, with a wig----

Surefoot stopped in his reasoning and frowned. A wig! He remembered the
three wigs he had found in a little room over the garage in Baynes Mews;
and he recalled, too, the name of Mr. Washington Wirth who lived in the
Midlands.... Sixty thousand pounds had gone from Lyne's account on the
previous day through a Midland branch bank.

He asked for and secured authority for obtaining complete information
regarding any account that was in Moran's branch, and, armed with this,
he went back to the bank and interviewed the chief accountant.

"I happen to know the state of Mr. Lyne's account up till a few days
ago," he said. "By error he wrote a note to his ward on the back of the
statement."

He produced it from his pocket, and the accountant examined it.

"I'll just check this up," he said. "This would not, of course, show the
sixty thousand pounds which was debited the day before yesterday."

He was gone a long time, then came back to the little office where the
interview was being held, and put the statement on the table. By it was
a sheet of paper, on which he had scribbled a number of figures.

"This statement is entirely inaccurate," he said. "It seems to be dated
three days ago, but it does not in any way represent Mr. Lyne's account.
It shows, for example, over two hundred thousand pounds on deposit
account; the actual amount on deposit is less than fifty
thousand--forty-eight thousand seven hundred, to be exact. Most of this
has been transferred to the current account at some time or other, the
actual cash remaining in that account being about five thousand pounds."

Surefoot whistled softly.

"Then you mean that the difference between the real condition of affairs
and this statement is about two hundred thousand pounds?"

The accountant nodded.

"The moment I saw it I knew it was wrong. As a matter of fact, I paid a
great deal of attention to this particular account, and I have twice
suggested to the manager, Mr. Moran, that he should write to Mr. Lyne,
pointing out the low state of his balance. As I say, we don't worry very
much about moneylenders' balances, because very often they put all their
available cash into loans."

"What about these stocks?"

"They're quite all right, with the exception of thirty thousand pounds'
worth of Steel Preferred which were sold four months ago on Mr. Lyne's
instructions. The money received for that is in another account."

"Did you receive any letter from Lyne, in answer to yours?"

"In answer to the manager's?" corrected the accountant. "No, sir. I
wouldn't see them anyway. They'd be on Mr. Moran's file, where you'll
probably find them."

Smith considered the matter.

"Did Mr. Moran see Lyne last Tuesday, about ten o'clock in the morning?"

The accountant smiled.

"If he did, he didn't tell me. Last Tuesday morning?" He considered. "He
didn't come in till about midday. He said he'd had an interview of some
kind, but what it was I don't know." And then, very seriously: "There's
something radically wrong, isn't there, and Mr. Moran is in it? I will
give you and the bank any help I can. As I said before, I know nothing
whatever about these transactions. Would you like to see Mr. Lyne's
account? Very large sums have been going out in the past eighteen
months, generally on bearer cheques. That is not unusual with a
moneylender's account. It is customary to deposit promissory notes or
acceptances against these withdrawals, but I understand that Mr. Lyne
has never done this."

He came back with a ledger, which Smith examined with an expert eye.
Money had gone in sums of ten, fifteen, twenty thousand, and invariably
through a Birmingham bank.

"Only one of these large cheques has been made payable to an
individual," said the clerk, turning a leaf and pointing to a name. "It
was whilst Mr. Moran was on his holiday----"

Smith looked, and his jaw dropped. The name was Washington Wirth.




CHAPTER FIFTEEN


He stared at the entry for a long time.

"Can I get a trunk call through to this bank in Birmingham?" he asked.

Apparently there was some arrangement for facilitating inter-banking
calls, for in a few minutes he was connected. The Birmingham bank
manager confirmed all that he already knew. He did not know Mr.
Washington Wirth, though he had seen him once in his hotel. Apparently,
when Mr. Wirth opened his account, he was suffering from some complaint
which confined him to bed and made it necessary that the blinds should
be drawn. The manager's chief clerk who interviewed him had taken his
signature, and that was the last that had been seen of him. He had an
arrangement by which he could draw cash against cheques at three other
branches of the bank, one at the London office, one at Bristol, and a
third, which had never been used, at Sheffield. He invariably notified
the Birmingham branch by telegraph that he was drawing money twenty-four
hours before the cheque was presented; and although huge sums passed
through his account, he had very little to his credit at that moment.

Surefoot Smith sent a detective to Birmingham with a number of specimen
signatures, and instructions to bring back Wirth's.

Whoever was the giver of these midnight parties was certainly the man to
whom large sums of money had been paid out of Hervey Lyne's
account--possibly his murderer. He called up Dick, and, finding him
working at his new model, told him as much as he thought was necessary
of his discoveries.

"You're his next of kin and I suppose you ought to know this," he said.

Dick was staggered when he learned the amount of money that was missing.

"You haven't overlooked the possibility of Mr. Wirth being Hervey Lyne
himself, have you?"

"I've thought of that," said Surefoot. "The fact that he couldn't move
without a bath-chair means nothing; that's one of the oldest fakes in
the world. The cheques were undoubtedly signed by him. I've seen the
last one; in fact, I've got it here."

He took it from his pocket. Turning it over, he saw what he had not
noticed before--a scrawling pencil mark on the back. The mark was faint;
it had evidently been written by one of those patent pencils which
occasionally function and occasionally do not. Even so, an attempt had
been made, which was partially successful, to rub off the inscription.
With the aid of a magnifying glass the detective examined the writing
and presently deciphered it.

"Don't send any more Chinese e...." Evidently the writing had wandered
off the back of the cheque on to the blotting-paper where the old man
wrote.

"Now what the devil does that mean?" asked Smith irritably. "There's no
doubt about it being his writing. What does 'Chinese' mean? And who took
the trouble to rub it off?"

He scratched his head in his exasperation.

"I ought to have asked the clerk if he'd got any Chinese bonds."

Dick lunched with Mary Lane and passed on to her all that the detective
had told him. He was telling her about the cheque with the inscription
on the back when he heard an exclamation, and looked at her in
amazement. Her eyes and mouth were wide open; she was staring at him.

"Oh!" she said.

Dick smiled.

"Do you know anything about Chinese bonds?"

She shook her head.

"Tell me it all over again, and tell me slowly, because I'm not
particularly clever."

He repeated the story about the faked account and the big cheques that
had been drawn obviously to the credit of Mr. Washington Wirth. Whenever
she could not understand she pressed him for explanations, which he was
not always able to give. When he had finished she sighed and leaned
back in her chair. Her eyes were bright.

"You look terribly mysterious."

She nodded.

"I am mysterious."

"Do you think you know who killed that unfortunate old man?"

She nodded slowly.

"Yes; I wouldn't dare name him, but I really do think I have what the
police call a clue. You see, I lived in Mr. Lyne's house when I was a
little girl, and there are some things I've never forgotten."

"I'll tell Surefoot----" he began.

"No, no." She was very insistent "Dick, you mustn't. If you make me look
foolish I'll never forgive you. My theory is probably utterly silly.
I'll make a few enquiries before I even hint at it."

"In fact you're going to be a detective, darling," said Dick. "By the
way, poor old Lyne's will has been discovered. I am his heir. The will
is full of restrictions. For example, if I marry anybody outside my own
nationality and religion I lose something, and if I reside out of
England I lose something, and if I don't give his dog a good home I lose
something more--his dog has been dead sixteen years, by the way--but,
generally speaking, he's very generous and gives you about forty
thousand pounds free of death duty----"

"Really!"

She was staggered at the old man's munificence; genuinely relieved, too,
that in a moment of caprice he had not carried out the threat to
disinherit his unpopular nephew.

Surefoot Smith did not know that the will had been found until he got
back to his office, and, calling up Dick to congratulate him that
afternoon, was annoyed to find that his news was old.

"As you're an interested party you'd better come down to the Yard right
away. I've the bank accountant here and he's got something to say that
will interest you."

Dick arrived to find the accountant looking rather bored in his shabby
surroundings. Evidently the office arrangements at Scotland Yard did not
impress him. He certainly shifted frequently in the hard-seated kitchen
chair which had been placed at his disposal. On Surefoot's table was a
number of typewritten sheets of paper.

"This is the point," said Smith impressively, pushing the sheets for
Dick to see them. "This gentleman, Mr----"

"Smith," said the accountant.

"That's very awkward," said Surefoot gravely, "Have you got any other
name, such as Huxley or Montefiore?"

"Just Smith," smiled the accountant.

"Very awkward indeed," said Surefoot. "Most Smiths adopt another name.
This is his name," he went on to explain. "Our friend here" (he
studiously avoided calling his brother Smith by that name, and never
afterwards did he employ it to describe the accountant) "says that the
statement that was sent to Miss Lane was not typed at the bank or on any
bank typewriter. He proved this conclusively from my point of view by
giving me specimens from all the typewriters used at the bank. A very
good bit of detective work, though I don't see that it carries us much
farther forward, because, if, as we believe, Moran has been bilking
these funds, he probably typed the statements at home. The blanks or
forms are not difficult to get?"

The accountant shook his head.

"Oh no; they are printed by hundreds of thousands----"

"Could anybody outside the bank secure them?"

The accountant thought it was possible.

"It comes to this, then," said Surefoot, "that you're satisfied this
statement was not typewritten in your bank?"

"Or by any bank machine," said the accountant. "Every branch office uses
a"--he mentioned the name of an American make of machine--"and always
the same type face is used, the same colour ribbon, the same carbons.
The ribbon here is purple; we invariably use black. I didn't realise
that till I made enquiries. The type face is entirely different."

He suggested the make of machine on which the statement had been
written, and this afterwards proved to be correct.

Surefoot could not remember having seen a typewriter at Moran's flat. He
accompanied Dick, after the accountant had gone, to Parkview Terrace,
and made a more careful search. They found a portable typewriter, though
it was unusable. Remembering the flat in Baynes Mews, Smith was not
greatly depressed by his failure to discover the machine. It was
possible, and even likely, that if Moran was the tenant of Baynes Mews,
he would also have other places of call. In London there might be two
or three flats engaged in false names (that in Baynes Mews had been
engaged in the name of Whiteley), which Moran used for his own
purpose--supposing it was Moran.

"Have you any doubts?" said Dick.

"I'm full of doubts," said Surefoot. "Some of 'em may be set at rest
when I find Jerry Dornford. You remember, after we left Naylors Crescent
and were going over to see the old man, Dornford passed in a car that
was raising a noise like hell? And do you remember he slowed down just
about opposite the place where the old man was sitting?"

"Well?" said Dick, when he paused.

"Well," said the other, indignant at his denseness, "didn't he have a
gun of yours?"

"Good God! You don't think that Dornford killed him?"

"Why shouldn't he?" asked the other truculently. "He owed Lyne money,
and Lyne had threatened to put him into the court unless he paid on the
very day of his murder. If you know Dornford's reputation as well as I
do, you know that that's the one thing he'd want to avoid. He prides
himself upon being a swell, though his father was a horse dealer and his
mother--well, I won't talk about her! Bankruptcy means being kicked out
of all his clubs. A bird like that would do almost anything to avoid
social extinction--is that the right word? Thank you very much."

"Where is he?"

"That's what I'd like to know," said Surefoot grimly. "He hasn't been
seen since we saw him!"




CHAPTER SIXTEEN


Mr. Surefoot Smith was one of those individuals who never seem to do any
work. He was to be seen at odd hours of the day, and sometimes in odd
places of the West End. It seemed that he was able to dispense with
sleep, for you were as likely to meet him at four o'clock in the morning
as at four o'clock in the afternoon.

He had a villa at Streatham.

"He is the type of man," Dick Allenby once described him, "who was
foreordained to live with a married sister."

In addition, he had a room in Panton Street, Haymarket, and not the more
fashionable part of Panton Street either. In all probability this was
his real home, though the Streatham villa was not such a myth as his
colleagues chose to imagine it.

Thieves knew him and respected him; the aristocrats of the underworld,
who were his special prey, avoided him with great care, but not always
with conspicuous success. He was the terror of the little card-sharping
gangs; confidence men hated him, for he had put more of their kind in
prison than any two officers of Scotland Yard. He had hanged three men,
and bitterly regretted that a fourth had escaped the gallows through the
lunacy of a sentimental jury.

His pleasures were few. Beer was more of a necessity than a dissipation;
for how can one sneer at a man who consumes large quantities of malted
liquor necessary for his well-being and happiness, and find anything
commendable in the physical wreck who seeks, through copious potions of
Vichy water, to combat the excesses of his youth?

In the privacy of his Panton Street room, he worked out his problems in
a way peculiar to himself. He invariably wrote on white blotting-paper
with a pencil, and seldom employed any other medium except when he was
called upon to furnish a conventional report to his superiors. He
invariably covered both sides of his blotting-paper with writing which
nobody but he could read. It was a shorthand invented thirty years ago
by a freakish schoolmaster, and the only man who had ever learned it
thoroughly was Surefoot Smith. He had not only learned it, but improved
upon it. It was his boast that no human being could decode anything he
ever wrote; many had had the opportunity and tried, for after Mr. Smith
had finished with his blotting-paper it was passed on to junior officers
for a more proper use.

He worked out Leo Moran's movements chronologically so far as they could
be traced. One portion of the day previous to the murder had been
clearly marked. Moran had broadcast a lecture on banking and economics.
Surefoot Smith smiled at a whimsical thought. He would not die without
honour, if he was the detective who brought about the execution of the
first broadcaster.

After his lecture he had gone to the Sheridan Theatre; thence to Dick
Allenby's flat. After that, home, where he had found a letter--Surefoot
Smith conceded him the truth of this--which sent him in search of Mary
Lane.

What had he been doing on the morning of the murder? Possibly the
accountant had called him up and told him that his leave was not
granted. Mr. Accountant Smith had not said as much, but then between
bank employés there was a certain freemasonry, and one didn't expect, or
was a fool if one did, that they would tell everything about their
comrades, even if they were comrades suspected of forgery and murder.

Surefoot Smith allowed also the element of self-preservation to enter
into the accountant's evidence. He himself might not be free from blame;
the success of the forgery might be due in not a little measure to his
own negligence. Everybody had something to hide--and possibly the
accountant was no exception.

One thing was certain; the aeroplane had been ordered at a moment's
notice. That was not the method by which Moran intended leaving the
country.

What was the stock to the transfer of which he had been so anxious to
get Mary Lane's signature? Without a very long and careful search it was
unlikely that that question would be answered.

Jerry Dornford's disappearance presented a problem of its own. His
manservant in Half Moon Street said he was not worrying; Mr. Dornford
often went away for days together, but where, the man could not say,
because Mr. Dornford was not apparently of a confiding nature. If the
servant guessed, he guessed uncharitably. Here was a man also without
money, and almost without friends. He had one or two who had country
houses, but enquiries of these had produced no result. The servant
remembered the names and addresses of a lady or two, but these could
throw no light upon the mystery.

Dornford owned an estate in Berkshire. Part of it was farm land, which
produced enough income to pay the interest on the mortgage; and if the
mortgagees did not foreclose it was because a sale would bring only a
portion of the money which had been advanced. There had been a house on
the property, but this had been sold to a local golf club many years
before, and all that remained of Gerald Dornford's possessions were
about three hundred acres of pine and heather.

Here was a man who certainly could not afford two or three addresses.

The bullet had not been found, though the turf had been taken up, to
the distress of the park authorities, and the ground sifted to the depth
of a foot. There was a possibility that it might have passed at such an
angle that it fell into the canal or against the opposite bank. It all
depended on what angle the shot had been fired. If Surefoot Smith's
first theory held ground and the old man had been killed by a bullet
fired from a rifle on the upper floor of Parkview Terrace, the bullet
should have been found within a few feet of where the chair had stood.
If it had been fired from Dornford's car, it could hardly have passed
through his body and reached the canal.

He was in constant touch with Binny, but the chair-man could give no
further information. He had not heard the whiz of the bullet as it
passed him, not even heard its impact, and offered here a perfectly
reasonable excuse, that the noise of Dornford's car would, had it
coincided with the shot, have deadened all other sound.

It was four o'clock on a Saturday afternoon, and Surefoot Smith, who had
spent most of the night on his feet, found himself dozing in his chair,
a practice which for some reason he regarded as evidence of approaching
senility. He got up, washed his face in the bathroom wash-basin, and
went out into the Haymarket, not very certain as to the way he should
take or in what direction he should continue his investigations.

He crossed Piccadilly Circus and was standing aimlessly watching a
traffic block at the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue, when somebody bumped
into him. His unconscious assailant was moving on with a muttered
apology when Surefoot crooked his finger in his overcoat.

"What's the matter with you, Mike?"

There was reason for his surprise.

In twenty-four hours the appearance of Mike Hennessey had changed. The
big face had grown flabby; heavy pouches were under his eyes; his
unshaven face was a sickly yellow. Was it Surefoot's fancy, or did he
turn a shade whiter at the sight of him?

"Hullo!" he stammered. "Well ... now ... isn't that curious, meeting
you?"

"What's the matter, Mike?" asked Surefoot.

It was his habit to suspect criminal intentions in the most innocent of
men, and his very question was accusative.

"Eh? Nothing. I'm sort of walking about in a dream today ... that play
coming off and everything."

"I've been phoning you all the morning. Where have you been?"

Mike started.

"'Phoning me, Mr. Smith--Surefoot, old boy? I have been out of town.
What did you want me for?"

"You weren't at your lodgings, you weren't at the theatre. Why were you
keeping out of the way?"

Mike tried to speak, swallowed something, then, huskily:

"Let's go and have a drink somewhere. I've got a lot on my mind,
Surefoot, a terrible lot."

There was a brasserie in a side street near the Circus, where beer could
not be legally supplied until six o'clock. Nevertheless they made for
this spot and the head waiter bustled up with a smile.

"Do you want to have a little private talk, Mr. Smith? You don't need to
sit out here; the place is like a morgue. Come into the manager's
office."

The manager's office was not a manager's office at all, except by
courtesy. It was a very small private room.

"I'll bring you some tea, Mr. Smith. You'll have coffee, won't you, Mr.
Hennessey?"

Hennessey, sitting with his eyes shut, nodded.

"What is on your mind?" asked Smith bluntly. "Washington Wirth?"

The closed eyes opened and stared at him.

"Eh? Yes." He blinked at his questioner. "I think ... well, he won't be
in the theatrical business any more, and naturally that's worrying me,
because he's been a good friend of mine."

He seemed to find a difficulty, not only in speaking, but in breathing.
His chest puffed up and down, and then:

"Is that what you wanted to see me about?" he asked jerkily.

"That was just what I wanted to see you about. He was a friend of
yours?"

"A patron," said Mr. Hennessey quickly. "I looked after him when he was
in town. I didn't know very much about him except that he had a lot of
stuff--money, I mean."

"And you didn't ask him where he got it, Mike?"

"Naturally," said Hennessey, avoiding his eyes.

The head waiter came at that moment with a tray which contained two
large bottles of beer, a bottle of gin, cracked ice, and a siphon.

"Tea," he said formally, put it down, and left them.

Surefoot Smith was in no sense depressed as he broke the law.

"Now come across, Mike," he said, not unkindly. "I want to hear just who
is this fellow Wirth."

Mike licked his dry lips.

"I'd like to know where I am first," he said, doggedly. "Not that I
could tell you anything, Surefoot--not anything for certain. What's my
position? Suppose I thought he was somebody else, and said:
'Listen--you either help me, or I'm going to ask questions.'"

"Yes, suppose you blackmailed him?" interrupted Smith brutally.

Mike winced at this.

"It wasn't blackmail. I wasn't sure--do you get my meaning? I was
putting up a bluff. I wanted to see how far he'd go." And then suddenly
he broke down and covered his face with his big, diamond-ringed hands,
and began to sob. "Oh, my God! It's awful!" he moaned.

Other men would have been embarrassed; Surefoot Smith was merely
interested. He laid his hand on the other's arm.

"Are you in on the murder? That's the question?"

Mike's hands dropped with a crash on to the marble-topped table. His
ludicrous, tear-stained face was a picture of bewilderment.

"Murder...? What do you mean--murder?" He almost squeaked the question.

"The murder of Hervey Lyne. Didn't you know?"

The man did not answer; he was petrified with terror.

"Lyne ... murdered!" He croaked the words.

It was amazing to believe that he was the one man in London who did not
know that a mysterious murder had been committed in Regent's Park on
the previous day, because the newspapers were full of it. Yet Surefoot
felt that this was a fact.

"Murdered ... old Lyne murdered? My God! You don't mean that?"

"Of course I mean it. What do you think--that I'm trying to make you
laugh?"

Mike Hennessey was silent; speech was frozen in him. He could only sit
regarding the detective with round eyes from which all expression had
died. Mike had a weakness for weeping, but he also had an unsuspected
strength of will. When he spoke at last his voice was completely under
control.

"That's shocking. I didn't read the newspapers this morning."

"It was in last night's," said Surefoot.

The other shook his head.

"I haven't read a newspaper since Thursday morning," he said. "Old Lyne!
He was Miss Lane's guardian, wasn't he?"

He was fighting for time--time to get the last weakness in him crushed,
and to build himself the reserve that would prevent his collapse.

"No, I've read nothing about it. It's curious how you miss things in
newspapers, isn't it? I've been so worried over this theatrical business
that I've practically taken no interest in anything else in the world."

"What work did you do for Wirth?"

Surefoot's voice was cold. He had dropped his boy-friend manner, was
even without interest in the unopened bottle of beer.

"Did you draw money from the bank on his behalf?"

Mike nodded.

"Yes, I've done that for him--big sums of money. Gone to his bank and
met him afterwards by appointment."

"Where?" sharply.

"At various places--railway stations; the Kellner Hotel mostly. He
generally drew a big sum when he had his parties, and I used to hand it
over to him before the guests came. He said he was a merchant in the
Midlands, but to tell you the truth, Surefoot, I've always had my doubts
about that. Still, he didn't look a crook, and some of the queerest mugs
are rolling in money. Why shouldn't he have been? He's not the first jay
that put up money for a theatrical production, and not the last, please
God!"

"Which bank did you draw it from?"

Mike told him. It corresponded with the information which Surefoot
already had.

"He generally gave me a letter to take to the bank manager, asking him
to cash the cheque. I've been to Birmingham and Bristol and----"

"That's all right." Smith leaned heavily on the table. "Who was
he--Washington Wirth?"

Mike shook his head.

"Honestly I don't know. If I die this minute I don't know. I got in
touch with him after my last bankruptcy proceedings had appeared in the
newspapers. He wrote to me and said how sorry he was that a clever man
like me had got into trouble, and offered to finance me."

"A written note?"

"Typewritten. I've got the letter in my diggings somewhere. He asked me
to meet him at the Kellner. That was before the parties started, when he
had a smaller suite. I went. The only thing I knew about him was that he
wore a wig and that he wasn't what he appeared to be; but I've never
pried into his business----"

"That's a lie," said Surefoot. "You just told me that you blackmailed
him."

"I didn't really. I put a bluff up on him. I knew he wasn't what he
pretended to be; I had to guess what he really was."

He was lying: of that Surefoot Smith was perfectly certain.

"Does it occur to you that you're in rather a tight place if this man is
ever arrested? I have reason to believe that he has misappropriated
money, the property of the late Hervey Lyne, and I have also reason to
believe that he killed the old man--and that's murder. You don't want to
be mixed up in murder, Mike, do you?"

Michael Hennessey's face was contorted with anguish. He was almost
incoherent when he spoke.

"I'd help you if I could, Mr. Smith--but how can I? I don't know the
man--I swear I don't know the man!"

Smith peered into his face.

"Do you know anything about Moran?"

The big mouth dropped.

"The banker?" he stammered.

"Do you know anything about the faked balance sheet which was sent by
accident to Miss Lyne?"

For a second Surefoot thought the man was going to faint.

"No--nothing; I know Moran--I know Wirth too."

He stopped, was silent a little while.

"Suppose I found him--Wirth--what's my position then?"

Surefoot stood up.

"Your position is just the same whether you find him or whether we find
him," he said roughly. "You don't seem to know what you've let yourself
in for, Mike Hennessey. Here's a man been murdered--two men have been
murdered--probably by the same hand. Tickler was killed for knowing too
much. It might be safer for you if I put you inside."

A smile dawned on Mike's face.

"Am I a child?" he asked. He had got back his old poise. "How did I get
out of the gutter--by taking notice of threats? Don't worry about me,
Surefoot."

"There's a lot more I've got to say to you," interrupted the detective,
"but just wait here till I telephone."

A momentary look of alarm came to the man's face.

"Don't worry; I'm not going to pinch you. I shouldn't want any
assistance to do that."

There was a telephone booth in the outer room, and he called Scotland
Yard urgently.

"Chief Inspector Smith speaking. I want two of the best men on duty to
pick me up at Bellini's. I'm with Mike Hennessey, the theatrical man.
He's to be under observation day and night from now onwards, and no
mistakes must be made. Do you hear?"

They heard and obeyed. A quarter of an hour later, when they strolled
out through the narrow side street to Piccadilly Circus, two young men
followed them, and when Mike called a cab and drove off, a second cab
carried the watchers.

Mike Hennessey was not at the theatre when the curtain rang down
finally on _Cliffs of Fate_, and although the termination of this drama
meant a search for new work, there was not one of the cast who did not
breathe a sigh of relief when the muffled strains of the National Anthem
came through the thick curtains.

Dick was reading the evening newspaper when Mary came into the
dressing-room. The story of the Lyne murder was splashed over the front
page; it included an interview with Binny and a talk with the
park-keeper.

     "I knew Mr. Lyne very well by sight," said James Hawkins, who had
     been a park-keeper for twenty-three years. "He always came into the
     gardens in the afternoon, and generally had a little nap before he
     was taken home. I've spoken a word or two with him, but he was not
     a gentleman who encouraged conversation. Mostly his attendant, Mr.
     Binny, used to sit and read to him. I saw Mr. Binny reading that
     afternoon, and went up to him and said: 'What's the good of your
     wasting your breath? The guv'nor's asleep.' Little did I think that
     he was dead! This is the second murder that we've had in the park
     in thirty-five years...."

Dick put down the paper when the girl came in, and prepared to make
himself scarce.

"Sit down. I'm not going to change yet; I'm tired."

"Well, have you found your man?" he asked flippantly.

She did not smile.

"I think so," she said.

"Have you read the account?"

"I've read it--every ghastly line of it."

"Well," he challenged her, "is it Binny or the park-keeper?" And then,
realising that flippancy was in the circumstances a little callous, he
apologised.

"I don't know how it is, but I can discuss this murder as though it were
of somebody I'd never heard of. The poor old man loathed me, and I'm
sure if he could only have made up his mind as to who else would have
taken better care of his fortune than I, he would have left the money to
him like a shot! By the way, Binny has a theory of his own. I had a talk
with him today. He favours Jerry Dornford; mainly, I think, because he
doesn't like Jerry."

"Has Mr. Smith told you all the clues he has?" she asked.

She had evidently paid no attention to Binny's theory.

"No, I can't say that he has. He's rather stuffy when it comes to his
own business."

"Do you think he would tell me?"

He looked at her in amazement.

"My dear Mary----" he began.

"Don't 'dear Mary' me, or I shall be very rude to you," she said. "Do
you think he would?"

She was quite serious and he changed his tone.

"If he thought you could help him I'm sure he would," he said. "He has
promised to call here tonight and tell me the latest developments. Would
you like me to ask him?"

"I'll ask him myself," she said.

Surefoot arrived very late and very ruffled. He was entitled to his
annoyance, for at half-past seven that night a penitent young detective
had called him on the 'phone and had confessed failure.

"You missed him?" roared Smith. "Two of you? What's the matter with
you?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but he must have known he was being tailed, and he
dodged through the Piccadilly Tube. I'd just turned my head and he was
gone----"

"Turned your what?" sneered Surefoot. "All right; scour London and pick
him up. You know his address. He's got to be found."

He came to the Sheridan, full of bitterness about the new generation of
detectives.

"They expect everything to be done for them. They rely on science
instead of their eyesight," he fumed.

"Here's a detective for you."

Dick indicated the girl, and to his surprise Surefoot showed no sign of
impatience.

"I should say she's got more sense in her little finger than
those--gentlemen have in their big, useless bodies."

He looked at her thoughtfully.

"I'm going to ask you something, Mr. Smith," she said. "Would you tell
me all you know about this case? I think I may help you."

Again Dick Allenby was amazed that the big man made no jest of the
offer. He looked at her owlishly, opened his big mouth, closed it again,
rubbed his head (going through his repertory, noted Dick mentally).

"Why shouldn't you?" he said at last. "Do you want him to know?" He
jerked his head towards Dick.

She hesitated.

"If you don't mind. If you do we'll turn him out."

She was dressed for the street by the time the detective had arrived,
and suggested that they should go to her flat. They went up in the lift
together. Her flat was the last in the corridor. She went ahead of them,
and stood stock still, showing an alarmed face to the two men.

The door was wide open!

"Did your servant leave it open?" asked Smith.

Surefoot pointed to the lock; the marks of a powerful jemmy showed
where the door had been forced. The lock itself was hanging on one
screw.

He went ahead, switched on the lights, without result.

"It's been turned off at the fuse box. Where is it?"

She indicated the position, and after a little fumbling there was a
click, and light showed along the short passage.

"He fastened the door after he got in, but couldn't fasten it when he
left."

Smith picked up two small wooden wedges from the floor.

He went out again into the corridor, the end of which was formed by a
half wood, half glass door leading to the fire escape. He tried this,
and, as he expected, found it open. A flight of iron stairs led into the
darkness below. He sent for the lift-man, who could give no information
at all. On a Saturday night most of the people who lived in the flats,
he said, were in the country, where they spent their week-ends, and
there had been no strange visitors that he could remember.

Surefoot went ahead down the passage into the flat, saw a door wide
open, and entered Mary's bedroom. It was a scene of indescribable
confusion; every drawer of every bureau had been taken out and emptied
on the bed and roughly sorted. They found the same in the dining-room,
where the little secretaire desk, which she had locked before she went
out, had been broken and its contents piled on to the table.

Mary gazed with dismay upon the scene of destruction, but was agreeably
surprised when she found that a small box which had been in her desk
drawer, and which had been wrenched open, still contained the articles
of jewellery she had left there. They were valued at something over two
hundred pounds, she told the detective.

"Then what on earth did they come for?" she asked.

On further inspection Smith found that even the waste bin in the kitchen
had been turned bottom upward and sorted over. One valuable clue he
discovered: a small kitchen clock had evidently been knocked off the
dresser and had stopped at eleven-fifteen.

"Less than an hour ago--phew!" Surefoot whistled softly. "In a devil of
a hurry, too. Now tell me who knows this place--I mean, who has been
here before? Forget all your girl friends, but tell me the men."

She could enumerate them very briefly.

"Mike Hennessey has been here, has he? Often? I've seen all the rooms,
haven't I?"

"Except the bathroom," she said.

He opened the door of this well-appointed little apartment, switched on
the light, and went in. The intruder had been here too; the wash-basin
was half-filled with discoloured water.

"Hullo! What's that?"

Smith's eyes narrowed.

Level with the wash-basin, and a little to the right of it, the
enamelled walls of the bathroom bore a red smear. The detective touched
it; it was still moist. He looked at the tessellated floor. There was
nothing, but on the edge of the white bath the smear occurred again.

Behind the door was a clothes hook, and here also there was a trace of
red.

"He came in here first," said Surefoot slowly. "He had to wash his
hands, and, turning on the tap, his sleeve brushed the wall. There was
blood on it; he didn't notice this. He took his coat off and threw it on
the edge of the bath. Then he changed his mind and hung it up."

"Blood?"

Mary stared at the gruesome stain.

"Do you think he hurt himself getting in?"

"No, we should have seen it on the floor or in the passage. Besides, the
glass door of the corridor wasn't broken--I wonder where he got it?"

Surefoot considered all the possibilities in the shortest space of time.

"It beats me," he said.

Surefoot Smith went into the kitchen to re-examine the clock. He was no
believer in coincidences, had seen the stopped clock too often featured
in works of fiction to believe implicitly the story it told. But his
inspection removed all doubt; the clock had not stopped, but was still
ticking; the jolt had merely thrown the pin connecting the hands from
its gear, and no clever clue-maker could have done that.

Mary had followed him into the kitchen, and watched him silently whilst
he was making the examination.

"Now will you tell me?" she said quietly.

Surefoot Smith gaped at her.

"About----?"

"You said you would tell me what you have discovered about Mr. Lyne's
murder."

He perched himself on the edge of the kitchen table, and briefly told
her all he knew.

To say that Dick Allenby was surprised was to put it mildly. He regarded
every Scotland Yard detective as reticence personified. Surefoot Smith
was notoriously "dumb," and here he was talking freely to the girl, and,
if he showed any embarrassment at all, it was the presence of Dick
himself which provoked the inhibition.

Mary Lane sat, her hands clasped in her lap, her brow knitted.

"Got anything?" asked Surefoot anxiously.

And then he must have caught a glimpse of the astonishment in Dick
Allenby's face, for he scowled at him.

"You think I'm being foolish, Mr. Allenby? Get the idea out of your
mind; I never am. Every woman has just the kind of mind that every
detective should have and hasn't. No science in it--not that I mean to
be disrespectful, Miss Lane--just plain common-sense. Got it?"

He addressed the girl again. She shook her head.

"Not quite," she said. "I know why they burgled my flat, of course."

Surefoot Smith nodded.

"But you can't quite understand how they came to think it was here?"

Dick interrupted.

"May I be very dense," he asked politely, "and enquire what this is all
about? Didn't know what was here?"

"The bank statement," said Mary, without looking up, and again Smith
nodded, a broad grin on his face.

"I guess that is what they came for, but I can't understand how they
knew."

Surefoot chuckled.

"I am the clever fellow that gave it away," he said. "I told Mike
Hennessey this afternoon that a bank statement had been sent to you. I
didn't tell him that it was in my pocket, and I could have saved him a
lot of time and trouble. It's a great pity."

He ran his hand irritably through his hair and slid off the table.

"Those bloodstains now--they look bad," he said, and loafed out of the
room with the other two behind him into the bathroom. "That's his
sleeve--that's his hand, but too blurred to get a print. The man who
came here wasn't hurt, and probably wasn't aware that he was
bloodstained. Look at the top of that tap."

He pointed; there was a distinct smear of blood on the white-enamelled
word "hot" on one of the taps.

Surefoot Smith took out his pocket torch and began to examine the
passage-way. It gave him nothing in the shape of clues; but when he went
outside the fireproof door, and inspected the door itself, he found two
new traces of blood, one on the iron railings and one just below the
glass panel of the door.

"I'll use your 'phone," he said, and a few minutes later was talking
volubly to Scotland Yard.

Every railway station was to be watched; Dover, Harwich, Folkestone, and
Southampton were to be warned.

"Not that he'll attempt to get out of the country. It's curious how
seldom they do," he explained to the girl.

His offer to send up a man to be on guard outside the door she refused
immediately, but he insisted, and in such a tone that she knew it would
be a waste of time on her part to press her objection.

On his way home he called at old Lyne's house to interview Binny. That
worthy man was in bed when he knocked, and showed considerable and quite
understandable reluctance to open the door. No police had been left on
the premises; Surefoot had been content to remove all documents to
Scotland Yard for a closer scrutiny, and he sealed up the bedroom and
the study.

Binny led him down to the kitchen, poked together the dying remnants of
the small fire and dropped wood on it, for the night was a little
chilly.

"I wondered who it was knocking--it brought me heart up into me mouth,"
he apologised, as he ushered the visitor into the tiny room. "I suppose,
Mr. Smith"--his voice was very anxious--"the old gentleman didn't leave
me anything? I heard you'd found the will--mind you, I'm not going to be
disappointed if he didn't. He wasn't the kind of man who worried very
much about servants; he used to say he hated having them about the
place. Still, you never know----"

"I haven't read the will thoroughly," said Surefoot, "but I don't seem
to remember finding your name very prominently displayed."

Binny sighed.

"It's been the dream of my life that somebody would die and leave me a
million," he said pathetically. "I was a good servant to him--cooked his
food, made his bed, did everything for him."

The detective pushed over a carton of cheap cigarettes, and, still
sighing, Binny selected one and lit it.

"There's one way you can help me, I think," said Smith. "Do you remember
Mr. Moran coming here?"

Binny nodded.

"Do you know what he came about?"

The servant hesitated a moment.

"I don't know, sir. But I have an idea it had something to do with his
balance. Mr. Lyne was a very curious old gentleman; he never wanted to
see anybody, and when he did he was always a bit unpleasant to 'em."

"Was he unpleasant to Mr. Moran?"

Binny hesitated.

"Well, I don't want to tell tales out of school, Mr. Smith, but from
what I heard he did snap a bit at him."

"You listened, eh?"

Binny smiled and shook his head.

"You didn't have to listen, sir." He pointed to the ceiling. "The
study's above here. You can't hear what people are saying, but if a
gentleman raises his voice as Mr. Lyne did, you can hear him."

"You know Moran?"

Binny nodded.

"Do you know him very well?"

"Very well, sir. I was servant----"

"I remember, yes."

Surefoot Smith bit his lower lip thoughtfully.

"Did he speak to you after his interview with the old man?"

Again Binny hesitated.

"I don't want to get anybody into trouble----"

"The trouble with you, Binny, is that you can't say 'yes' or 'no.' Did
you see him?"

"Yes, sir, I did." Binny was evidently nettled. "I was taking in a
letter that had come by post as he went out. And now, Mr. Smith, I'll
tell you the truth. He said a queer thing to me--he asked me not to
mention the fact that he'd been, and slipped me a quid. Now I've told
you all I know. I thought it was funny--but, bless your heart, he wasn't
the first man to ask me not to mention the fact that they'd called on
Mr. Lyne."

"I suppose not."

On a little table near the wall was a small paper parcel, loosely
wrapped. Surefoot Smith was blessed with a keen sense of smell; he
could disentangle the most conflicting and elusive odours. But putty was
not one of them; it had a pungent, and, to Surefoot Smith, an unpleasant
aroma. He pointed to the parcel.

"Putty?"

Binny looked at him in surprise.

"Yes, sir."

"Have you been mending windows?" Surefoot looked up.

"No, sir, that was done by a glazier. I broke the scullery window this
morning. I didn't like to call anybody in, so I did it myself."

"The trouble in this house is that you're always having windows broken,"
said Surefoot Smith. "Why didn't you report to the police the attempt to
break into this house----Oh, I remember, Mr. Lyne didn't want it."

When he went outside he made a more careful examination of the premises
in the darkness than he had ever done by daylight. He went to the
trouble of going to the back of the house, along the narrow mews, and
here he saw how easy it was for a burglar to obtain admission. The back
of the house was not protected, as most of its fellows were, by a garage
block, and the door and window were approachable for anybody who could
either scale the wall or force the door into the back courtyard. Was it
a coincidence that this attempt had been made to gain admission into
Lyne's house on the night of----?

Surefoot Smith frowned. It must have been the night that Tickler was
murdered. Was there any connection between the two events?

He went back to Scotland Yard to receive reports, and found that his
enquiries had produced no result. Berlin could tell him no more about
Leo Moran, and there was absolutely no news at all of Gerald Dornford.

He opened the safe in a corner of his little room, took out the glove
and the silver key, and laid them on the table. That key puzzled him.
Was there any special reason why its owner should have gone to the
trouble of painting it so elaborately and yet so carelessly? Any plater
would have made a better job of it.

The glove told him nothing. He took from the big drawer of his desk a
large sheet of virgin blotting-paper and began to work out again the sum
of his problem.

Tickler had been killed; old Lyne had been killed, possibly by the same
hand, though there was nothing to connect the two murders. Leo Moran
was, to all intents and purposes, a fugitive from justice, a man against
whom could be made out a prima facie charge of felony. His disappearance
had coincided, not only with the death of Lyne, but with the discovery
that Lyne's bank account had been heavily milked.

Was he in Berlin at all? Somebody was very much interested in the
recovery of the bank statement, had gone to the trouble of burgling Mary
Lane's flat to recover it--who? One man at any rate knew, or thought he
knew, that the statement was at Mary's flat, and that man was Michael
Hennessey.

Mike's conduct that afternoon had been consistent with guilty knowledge.
He knew, at any rate, who was Washington Wirth. The gentleman called
Washington Wirth was a murderer, possibly a murderer twice over.

In disjointed sentences Surefoot wrote down his conclusions as they were
reached; crossed out one and substituted another; elaborated some simple
proposition in his mysterious shorthand, only to cross through the
wriggly lines and begin all over again. He made a little circle that
represented Mary, another for Dick Allenby, another for Gerald Dornford,
a fourth for Leo Moran. At the bottom of the page he put a fifth circle
for Lyne. How were they connected? What was the association between the
four top circles and the fifth?

Between them he placed a larger O that stood for Michael Hennessey.
Michael touched Washington Wirth, he touched Mary Lane, and possibly
Moran. He crossed out this last conclusion and started again.

Gerald Dornford touched Dick Allenby; he could draw a straight line from
Dick Allenby to the murdered man--a line that missed all and any
intermediary.

He got tired after a while, threw down the pencil, and sat back with a
groan. He was reaching for the key when the light went out. There was
nothing very startling and nothing very unexpected about that: the bulb
had been burning yellow for two or three days, and obviously required
replacement. Surefoot Smith, in his lordly way, had demanded a fresh
globe, and the storekeeper, in his more lordly way, had ignored the
request. Without warning, the bulb had ceased to function.

Surefoot was rising to his feet to reach for the bell when something he
saw stopped him dead. In the darkness the key was glowing like green
fire. He saw the handle and every ward of it. And now he understood why
it had such an odd colour--it had been treated with luminous paint.

He picked it up and turned it over. The under side was dull and hardly
showed, for it had not absorbed the rays of the lamp.

Surefoot went out into the corridor and summoned an officer, and a
little later a bulb was discovered and fixed. He examined the key now
with greater interest, jotting down notes upon his already over-crowded
blotting sheet.

He was beginning to see daylight, but only dimly. Then the telephone
bell buzzed; he took it up, and, going to the officer on duty at the
door, called him.

"If you see Mr. Allenby, send him up."

He looked at his watch; it was twenty-minutes past twelve, and he could
only wonder what had brought Dick to Scotland Yard at such an hour.
Possibly his gun had been recovered.

"I wondered if you were here," said Dick, as he came into the office and
closed the door behind him. "I should have telephoned, but I was scared
they wouldn't put me through to you."

"What's the trouble?" asked Surefoot curiously.

Dick smiled.

"There isn't any real trouble; only I've been--or rather, Mary has
been--called up by Hennessey's housekeeper for information about the
gentleman."

"Hasn't he come home?" asked Smith quickly.

"He wasn't expected home," said Dick. "The lady called up from Waterloo
Station; she's been there since nine with a couple of Mike's trunks. He
was leaving for the Continent by the Havre train, and had arranged for
her to be there to meet him with his baggage. She waited till nearly
twelve, got worried, and apparently called up several people who knew
Michael, amongst them Mary. Fortunately, I was just leaving the flat
when the woman telephoned."

"Have you been to his house?"

Dick shook his head.

"It wasn't necessary," he said. "He had a furnished flat in Doughty
Street; he paid his rent and closed up the place tonight. Obviously he
was making a getaway in rather a hurry. He didn't start packing till
this afternoon."

"After he'd seen me," said Surefoot. He scratched his chin. "That's
queer. I can quite understand his wanting to get away--as a matter of
fact, he wouldn't have got any farther than Southampton; I had already
notified the ports."

"You would have arrested him?" asked Dick, in amazement.

"There's no question of arrest, my friend," said Surefoot wearily. "It
isn't necessary to arrest everybody you want to stop going out of
England. Their passports can be out of order, the visa can be on the
wrong page, the stamp can be upside down--there are a dozen ways of
keeping the money in the country."

"Did Hennessey know this?"

Surefoot did not answer immediately.

"I can't understand it," he said slowly. "Of course he didn't know. That
wouldn't have prevented him catching the train."

There was a knock at the door, and a pleasant looking man, whom Dick
recognised as a chief inspector, came in.

"The Buckinghamshire police have got a case after your own heart,
Surefoot," he said. "A regular American gang murder."

Surefoot became instantly alert.

"A gang murder, eh? What kind?"

"They call 'em ride murders, don't they? Somebody has taken this poor
devil for a ride, shot him at close quarters, and thrown him out on to
the sidewalk."

"Where was this?"

"On the Colnbrook by-pass, this side of Slough. A big car passed, picked
up the man lying across the footpath with its lights, and reported to
the police. He couldn't have been dead more than half an hour when the
police got to him."

"What is his description?" asked Surefoot.

"A big made man of forty-five," said the other, "wearing a green
tie----"

"That was the tie that Mike Hennessey was wearing this afternoon!"




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


Mike Hennessey looked very calm, almost majestic in death; most easily
recognisable. Surefoot Smith came out of the sinister little building
and waited while the police sergeant turned the key.

Dick was waiting at the station. He had had enough of horrors for one
night, and had not attempted to join himself in the identification.

"It's Mike all right," said Surefoot. "The murder was committed at
ten-seventeen--there or there-abouts. The time is fixed by the big car
that found the body, and a motor-cyclist who lives in this village
reported to the police that he saw a small saloon car standing by the
side of the road near where the body was found. I make out the two times
as being between ten-fifteen and ten-twenty, and, allowing for the fact
that the big machine did not overtake any car on the Colnbrook by-pass,
that puts the time at ten-seventeen. The murderer's car might have
turned round and gone back. It could, of course, have gone right through
the village of Colnbrook, avoiding the by-pass, and I should imagine
that is what happened. And now, my friend," he said seriously, "you
realise that this was the gentleman who called at your young lady's
flat? His coat must have been covered with blood without his realising
the fact until, in searching the bathroom, he touched the wall with his
sleeve. He took off his coat, washed his hands, and that's that."

"But surely some garage keeper will be able to identify the car if there
was so much blood lost? The interior must be like a shambles."

Surefoot nodded.

"Oh yes, we'll find the car all right. There were three stolen last
night that answer the description. I've just been through to the Yard
and found that a machine has been discovered abandoned in Sussex
Gardens."

A swift police car took them back to Paddington, and Surefoot Smith's
surmise was confirmed. The abandoned car was that which the murderer had
used. There was grisly evidence enough that the man had met his death in
its dark interior--of other evidence there was none.

"We'll test the wheel for finger-prints, but Mr. Wirth will have worn
gloves."

"That lets out Moran, doesn't it?" said Dick.

Surefoot smiled.

"Where is Moran? In Germany, we say--he's as likely to be in London. You
may get to Germany in a few hours and get back in a shorter time. It may
not have been Moran who left at all."

"But why?"

Dick Allenby was bewildered, more than a little alarmed for Mary Lane's
safety, and said as much. To his consternation, Surefoot agreed.

"I don't think she should stay in that flat. She may have other
evidence, and now she's begun to theorise she might be dangerous to our
friend."

He accompanied Smith to the police station whither the car had been
taken, and found the usual scene of impersonal activity. There were
photographers, finger-print experts, car mechanics examining the
speedometer. The owner of the car, who had been found and brought to the
station, was a methodical man: he knew exactly the amount of mileage
that was on the dial before the car was stolen, and his information
helped considerably.

It seemed to Dick Allenby that he had spent the past fortnight examining
bloodstained cars in police yards. There was a touch of the familiar in
the scene he witnessed: the staring electric globes at the ends of
lengths of flex, the peering police detectives searching every inch of
the interior.

There was blood on the seat and on the floor; a trace of it on the gear
lever. One of the detectives pulled a cushion from the driver's seat....

"Hullo!" he said, and, looking over his shoulder, Dick saw a flat silver
cigarette case that was passed to Surefoot's hand.

Smith opened the case. It was empty. There was an inscription on the
inside, easy enough to read in the light of the bulb.

     "To Mr. Leo Moran, from his colleagues in the Willesden branch,
     May, 1920."

Surefoot turned it over and over in his hand. It was an old case; there
were one or two dents in it, but it was polished bright, and either was
frequently used or had been recently cleaned. Surefoot held it gingerly
by the help of a sheet of paper, and had it carefully wrapped.

"We might get a finger-print on that, but I don't think it's likely," he
said. "It's a little odd, isn't it--being under the cushion?"

"He might have put it there and forgotten all about it."

Surefoot shook his head.

"It's not his car, it was pinched. As I say--it's odd."

He did not speak again for some time.

"I mentioned the fact that the young lady has the bank statement. Mr.
Hennessey passed the information on in the course of the ride, or
before. The killer settled with Hennessey--by the way, he was supposed
to be driving to Southampton to catch his boat. The car stopped at a
filling station at the end of the Great West Road; Hennessey got out and
telephoned to his flat--presumably to his housekeeper to send on his
baggage. The murderer got rid of Hennessey as quickly as he could,
rushed back to town and burgled the flat. Obviously he was somebody who
had been there before----"

"Like Moran," suggested Dick.

Surefoot hesitated.

"He'll do as well as anybody else," he said. "He was looking for the
bank statement. He couldn't have known that his coat was covered with
blood, until he went into the bathroom, and saw either himself in the
mirror or a stain on the wall. I'll tell you something more about him:
he's lived in America. How's that for scientific deduction?"

"How on earth do you know that?"

"I don't," said the other calmly; "it's deduction--in other words,
guesswork. It's a typical gang killing, though--taking a man for a ride
and throwing him out of the car after he's been shot. Nobody seems to
have heard the pistol go off, but if they did they'd think it was a
motor-cyclist. They scorch down the by-pass."

He drove home with Dick, and was very voluble.

"Hennessey was in the swindle from the start. He knew who Wirth was,
knew that Wirth was forging cheques, and took advantage of his knowledge
to blackmail the other man." Then, abruptly: "I'm going to show Miss
Lane the key and the cheque."

It was the first time Dick had heard about the key.

By the time Surefoot Smith reached Scotland Yard, all the grisly relics
of the murdered man had been collected and laid on his table. There were
a notebook, a few odd scraps of paper, about twenty pounds in cash, a
watch and chain, and a key-ring, but nothing that was particularly
illuminating--except the absence of any large sum of money. Obviously,
Hennessey did not intend to make his jump for the Continent on a capital
of twenty pounds. Surefoot guessed that the murderer, profiting by the
previous discovery of money in Tickler's pocket, had relieved him of
what might have been very incriminating evidence.

He looked over the papers. One was a page torn from a Bradshaw, with
pencil markings against certain trains. Surefoot guessed that
Hennessey's plan was to make his way to Vienna.

The second paper was the more interesting. It was a sheet torn from a
notebook, and contained a number of figures. Surefoot had a remarkable
memory, and he recognised at once that the figures represented those
balances which had appeared in the statement. Evidently the paper had
been handled many times.

Smith was puzzled. Why had Hennessey taken the trouble to jot these
notes down in pencil and keep them? Obviously he knew of the bank
statement, had possibly concocted it; but here he would have some other
data than this scrap of paper. If the bank statement was an invention,
as undoubtedly it was, there was no need to keep this note. Either the
man would invent the figures on the spur of the moment, or else he had
some book record of the defalcations and the amount that should have
stood to old Lyne's account.

Early the next morning he telephoned to Mary Lane, who had spent an
uneasy night. She was not even stimulated by the knowledge that there
was a police officer in the corridor outside her flat, one at the foot
of the fire escape, and another patrolling before the house.

"Come round by all means," she said, and was relieved to know that she
was seeing him, for she wanted advice very badly.

The morning had brought no news to Surefoot. The enquiries he had made
had drawn blank. A search of Mike Hennessey's flat gave him no clue that
was of the least value. Of papers or documents there was none; an old
bank book told him no more than that three years before Hennessey had
been living from hand to mouth.

He was rather despondent when he came into Mary's flat.

"It almost looks as if science has got to be brought in," he said
gloomily, as he produced a small packet from his pocket and laid it on
the table. "Maybe you're it!"

He opened the wash-leather wrapper and disclosed the key. Then from his
pocket-book he took out a cheque and laid it on the table. She examined
the faint pencil marks carefully and nodded.

"That is Mr. Lyne's handwriting," she said. "I think I told you that
when I was a girl I lived in the same house; in fact, I kept house for
him, in a very inefficient way. He was rather trying to live with."

"In what way?" asked Surefoot.

She hesitated.

"Well, in many ways--domestically, I mean. For example, he had the same
tradespeople for over forty years, and never changed them, although he
was always quarrelling with them or disputing the amount he owed them."

She looked at the key, turning it over and over in her hand.

"Would you think I was terribly vain if I told you I thought I could
find the man who killed Mr. Lyne?"

"I think you would be very silly if you tried to do it on your own,"
said Smith bluntly. "This fellow isn't one you can monkey about with."

She nodded.

"I realise that. Will you give me a week to make enquiries?"

"Don't you think you'd better tell me now what your suspicions are?"

She shook her head.

"No; I am probably making a fool of myself, and I have a very natural
desire to avoid that."

Smith pursed his thick lips.

"You can't keep these----" he began.

"I don't want them," she said quickly. "You mean the cheque and the key?
Would it be asking you too much to give me a replica of the key? If I
find the lock it fits I'll telephone you."

He looked at her in surprise.

"Do you think you can find the lock?"

She nodded. Surefoot Smith sighed.

"This is like doing things in books," he said, "and I hate the way they
do things in books. It's romantical, and romantical things make me sick.
But I'll do this for you, young lady."

Two days later she received a brand-new, shining key, and set forth on
her investigations, never suspecting that, day and night, she was
shadowed by one of three detectives, whose instructions from Surefoot
Smith had been short and not especially encouraging.

"Keep this lady in your sight. If you let her out of your sight, your
chance of ever being promoted is practically nil."

It was the third day after the murder of Mike Hennessey that Cassari
Oils moved. They had hovered between £1 3s. and £1 7s. for five years.
They represented £40 shares, for in pre-war days they had been issued at
1,000 francs. The field was situated in Asia Minor, and had produced
enough oil to prevent the company from collapsing, but insufficient to
bring the shares back to their normal value.

Mary read the flaming headline on the City page, "Sensational Rise of
Cassari Oils," and called up Mr. Smith.

"Those were the shares that you transferred to Moran, weren't they?" he
asked, interested. "What did they stand at last night? I haven't seen
the paper."

The stock had jumped from 25s. to 95s. overnight. When Surefoot Smith
put a call through to the City he was staggered to learn that they stood
at £30 and were rising every minute.

He drove up to an office in Old Broad Street which supplied him with
particulars of financial phenomena, and discovered the reason from an
unconcerned stock-jobber.

"They struck big oil about three months ago, and they've been sinking
new wells. Apparently they found inexhaustible supplies, but managed to
keep it quiet until they'd cleared the market of every floating share.
The stock is certain to go to a hundred, and I can advise you to have a
little flutter. There's no doubt about the oil being there."

Surefoot Smith had never had a flutter in his life, except that he
invariably had half a crown on some horse in the Derby which he picked
with the aid of a pin and a list of probable runners.

"Who is behind this move?" he asked.

The jobber shook his head.

"If I tried to pronounce their names I'd dislocate my jaw," he said.
"They are mostly Turks--Effendi this and Pasha that. You'll find them in
the Stock Exchange Year-book. They're a pretty solid crowd;
millionaires, most of them. Oh no, there's nothing shady about them;
they're as solid as the Bank of England, and this isn't a market rig.
They haven't a London office; Jolman and Joyce are their agents."

To the office of Messrs. Jolman and Joyce Surefoot Smith went. He found
the place besieged. He sent in his card and was admitted to the office
of Mr. Joyce, the senior partner.

"I can't tell you very much, Mr. Smith, except what the newspapers can
tell you. There are not a large number of shares on the market--I've
just told a friend of mine who thought of running a bear that he's
certain to burn his fingers. The only big holder I know is a man named
Moran--Leo Moran."




CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


Leo Moran! It was no news to Surefoot Smith that this man was interested
in the stock, apart from the shares he had acquired from Mary. There was
a little touch of trickiness about Moran; that was his reputation both
in the bank and amongst his friends. From what Surefoot had gathered,
and from his own knowledge of the man, he was capable of quixotic and
generous actions, but, generally speaking, carried shrewdness a little
beyond the line of fairness. Murderer he might be; forger, as Surefoot
believed, he certainly was. The constant of his character was an immense
self-interest. He was a bachelor, had no family attachments and few
interests besides his shooting and the theatre.

This was a supreme gamble, then--Cassari Oils. Before Surefoot Smith
left the stockbroker's office he discovered that Moran was, at any rate
on paper, a millionaire. On one point he was puzzled: though Moran had
bought steadily, and his operations had covered the years of
defalcations, he had spent no very large sum, certainly only a small
percentage of the moneys he was making. The man probably had other
speculative interests, but these for the moment were impossible to
trace.

Mr. Smith went home to his rooms off the Haymarket, and was surprised to
find a visitor waiting for him on the landing.

"I haven't been here two minutes," said Mary. "I got on to your
secretary at Scotland Yard and he told me that you might be at your
flat."

He unlocked the door and ushered her into his untidy sitting-room.

"Well, have you found anything?"

She shook her head and smiled ruefully.

"Only my limitations, I am afraid," she said, and sat down in the chair
he pulled forward for her.

"You're giving it up, eh?"

She hesitated.

"No."

It required an effort of will to say "no," for she had awakened that
morning with an intense sense of mental discomfort and a realisation of
the difficulties which beset her. She had been half inclined to send a
penitent note enclosing the key to Surefoot, but confidence--not much,
but some--had come to her with breakfast, and she had decided upon this,
what was to her, a bold move.

"I realise what I have undertaken," she confessed. "Being a detective is
not an easy job, is it? Especially when you don't know things."

Surefoot smiled.

"The art of being a detective is to know nothing," he said oracularly.
"What do you know? If you know anything less than I do, you haven't
heard of the murder. On the other hand, it is possible you may know a
great deal more."

"You are being sarcastic."

He shook his head.

"I don't know the word, Miss Lane. What is it you want to know?"

She consulted a little notebook she took from her pocket.

"Can you give me a list of all the big cheques that were cashed and the
dates? I particularly want to know the dates. If my theory is correct,
they are made out on the seventeenth of the month."

Surefoot sat back in his chair and stared at her.

"That is a bit scientific," he said, a little resentfully, and she
laughed.

"No, it is horribly like a mystery story. But, seriously, I do want to
know."

He pulled the telephone towards him and called a number.

"Funnily enough, that is a bit of information I had never thought of
getting," he said.

She felt he was a little nettled that he had been remiss in this
respect, and she was secretly amused.

"But then, you see, Miss Lane," he went on, "if I had been at the Yard I
would probably get it for you--hullo!"

He had got through to the bank. It took some time before the accountant,
with whom he eventually got in touch, was able to supply him with the
dates.

The cheques were made out on the 17th of April, the 17th of February,
the 17th of December, the 17th of May in the previous year--Surefoot
jotted down a dozen of them. Hanging up the receiver, he pushed the
paper across to the girl.

"I thought so!" Her eyes were very bright. "Every one of them on the
seventeenth!"

"Marvellous!" said Surefoot. "Now will you tell me what that means?"

She nodded.

"I will tell you in a week's time. I am going to do a lot of private
investigation. There is one thing I wanted to speak about, Mr. Smith."
Her voice was troubled. "I don't know whether I am imagining things, but
I have an idea that I am being very carefully watched. I am sure a man
was following me yesterday. I lost sight of him in Oxford Street; I was
looking in a shop window in Regent Street and saw him again. Rather an
unpleasant-looking man with a fair moustache."

Surefoot Smith smiled.

"That is Detective Sergeant Mason. I don't think he is much of a good
looker myself."

"A detective?" she gasped.

Surefoot nodded.

"Naturally, my dear young lady, I am taking great care of you. You might
as well know that you are being shadowed, not because you are under
suspicion, but because for the moment you are under our protection."

She heaved a sigh.

"You don't know how relieved I am. It was rather getting on my nerves.
As a matter of fact, I don't think I should have come to see you at all
but for this."

"What about the seventeenth?" asked Surefoot. "Don't you think it would
be wise for you to tell me what your suspicions are about?"

She shook her head.

"I am being mysterious and rather weak," she said.

Her mystery certainly irritated Dick Allenby, who could never be sure of
finding her at home. He had a talk with Surefoot and sought his help.

"She will be running into all sorts of danger," Dick complained. "This
man obviously will stop at nothing. He may still think that she has got
the bank statement."

"Have you seen the young lady at all?"

Surefoot opened another bottle of beer dexterously. He was sitting on a
bench in Dick's workroom.

"Yes, I have seen her. She wants me to lend her Binny."

"Lend her Binny?" repeated the detective. "What does that mean?"

"Well, he is in my employ now. She says she wants enquiries made about a
former servant of Mr. Lyne's who is living in Newcastle under an assumed
name. She wants Binny to go and identify the woman. I saw Binny about
it, and he remembers her. She left soon after he arrived. She was a
fairly old woman. Apparently she had a dissolute son who was a pretty
bad character. Binny doesn't remember him, but Mary does. The old lady,
who must be nearly ninety, is living in the north, and Mary wants him to
go up to make sure that she hasn't made a mistake."

Surefoot Smith looked at him glumly.

"She told me nothing about it. Binny's your servant now? I suppose you
own the house. What are you going to do with it?"

"Sell it," said Dick promptly. "In fact, I've already had an offer."

There was a knock at the door; the caretaker came in with a telegram for
Dick. Surefoot saw him open it, watched him idly, and saw his jaw drop
as he read it. Without a word he passed the wire across to Smith. It had
been handed in at Sunningdale, and ran:

     "Re patent air-gun reported stolen from you. Machine answering
     description circulated has been found at Toyne Copse lying at the
     bottom of a hole beneath body of a man believed to be G. Dornford,
     of Half Moon Street. Please report immediately Sunningdale police
     station to identify property."




CHAPTER NINETEEN


He and Surefoot went down into Berkshire together. He had no difficulty
in recognising the rusted steel case which had once been a delicate
piece of mechanism. He left it to Surefoot Smith to make other and more
grisly identification.

Surefoot returned after visiting the place where the body had been
found, and he had further and convincing information. Jerry Dornford's
car had also been discovered less than a hundred yards from the place
where he had died. The car had evidently been driven over the heath land
and concealed in a small copse.

"It's Dornford's own property, and I don't think there will be much
difficulty in reconstructing the accident which put him out," said
Surefoot. "He had an evening newspaper in the car with him; it is dated
the day of old man Lyne's murder."

"Poor devil! How was he killed--or was it a natural death?" asked Dick.

Surefoot shook his head.

"An accident. The gun was loaded, wasn't it? Well, you'll be able to
take the thing to pieces and tell me if it is still loaded. I should say
it wasn't. Dornford stole the gun: there's no doubt about that. He
either got scared or couldn't sell it, and decided to take it into the
country and bury it. Very naturally, he chose a bit of land which is his
own property. He took a spade with him--we found that. When they found
him he was in his shirt sleeves. He had evidently dug the hole and was
in the act of pushing in the gun when it went off. The bullet went
through his body; we found it in a pine-tree that was immediately in the
line of fire. In his pocket we found a demand for the payment of a loan,
from Stelbey's, who did most of old Lyne's work. We also found a few
notes that are going to make it pretty uncomfortable for somebody called
Jules, when we can trace him."

"I can help you there," said Dick, who knew and rather disliked that
sleek young man.

They came back to town late in the evening, and Surefoot was rather
depressed.

"I always thought that Dornford had something to do with the murder, and
put him down as a 'possible.' But it's pretty clear that he couldn't
have done it, unless there were two bullets in the gun, or unless he
understood the mechanism."

Dick went in search of Mary that night to tell her the news. He had
never liked Gerald Dornford, but there were moments when he thought that
his dislike was not so actively shared by the girl; but here he did her
an injustice. A woman's instincts are keener than a man's, and she had
placed Jerry in the definite category of men to be avoided.

She did not get back to her flat till late that night, as he discovered
after repeated rings, and it was an unusually exhilarated voice that
answered him when eventually he reached her.

"I've had a marvellous day, Dick, and I'm going to surprise our friend
tomorrow--no, not tomorrow, the next day."

He tried to break the news gently about Jerry, and was surprised and a
little annoyed to find his sensation was discounted.

"I read it in the evening newspaper. Poor man!" she said.

Dick Allenby spent a disturbed night. He was getting very worried about
the girl and the risks she was taking. When he rang her in the morning
she had already gone out, but when he saw Surefoot that gentleman did
much to allay his anxiety.

"I've got the cleverest shadower at Scotland Yard following her night
and day; you needn't worry." And then, curiously: "She hasn't told you
what line she's following? The only thing I can find from my men is that
she's chasing round the suburbs of London, and that she's doing a lot of
shopping."

"Shopping?" repeated Dick incredulously. "What sort of shopping?"

"Pickles mostly," said Surefoot Smith, "though she's been after ham,
and took over an hour in the City the other day buying tea. She's being
scientific."

If the truth were told, Mr. Smith found it increasingly difficult to
avoid being very annoyed with his mysterious collaborator. He hated
mysteries.

Mary had gone a little outside of her usual orbit of enquiry that day.
She left early for Maidstone and spent the greater part of the morning
talking with a country bootmaker, an ancient and a prosy gentleman with
a poor memory and a defective system of book-keeping. She got back to
town about five, feeling tired, but a hot bath and two hours' rest
revivified her. She was bright and fresh when she buttoned up her long
coat and went out.

It was ten o'clock; the sky was overcast and a sprinkle of rain was
falling when she signalled a taxi and drove to King's Cross. She found
the disconsolate Binny waiting on the platform. Although the night was
warm he wore an overcoat and a muffler, and was a typical picture of
misery and loneliness when she came up to him. The detective who had
followed her watched them talking, and was slightly amused, for he had
been told something about the object of this northward journey of Mr.
Lyne's handyman.

If he was amused, Binny was sceptical.

"I don't suppose I'll remember her, miss. People change, especially
oldish people. She was only in the house about three weeks after I took
on the job."

"But you would recognise her?" insisted the girl.

He hesitated.

"I suppose I would. I must say, miss," he protested, "I don't like these
night journeys. I was in a railway accident once, and my nerves have
never got over it. What with poor Mr. Lyne's death and all the newspaper
reporters coming to see me, I've got in such a state that I don't know
whether I'm on my head or my heels."

She cut short his personal plaint with a repetition of her instructions.

"You will go to this house and ask to see Mrs. Morris--that is the name
she has taken, possibly because her son has been getting into
trouble----"

"Visiting the sins of the parents upon the children I've heard about;
visiting the sins of the children on the parents is something new."

"If it is Mrs. Laxby you are to send me a wire, but you must be
absolutely sure it _is_ Mrs. Laxby. You've got the photograph of her I
gave you?"

He nodded miserably.

"I got it. But ain't this a job for the police, miss?"

"Now, Binny," she said severely, "you're to do as you're told. I've got
you a nice sleeping car and it will be a very comfortable journey."

"They turn me out at four o'clock in the morning," said Binny; and
then, as though he realised he was probably going a little too far with
one who had such authority, he added, in a more cheerful tone: "All
right, miss, you leave it to me; I'll send you a wire."

She left the platform a few minutes before the train pulled out, and
took another taxi. The detective who followed her had no doubt that she
was going back to her flat, and contented himself with giving
instructions to his driver to follow the cab in front. Taxi-men are not
necessarily good detectives, and it was not until the cab he was
shadowing had set down an elderly man at a temperance hotel in
Bloomsbury that he realised he was on the wrong trail, and doubled back
to the flat to pick her up.

She had not returned, and, in a sweat, he began to cast round before
reporting his failure to his very unpleasant superior.

It was a quarter past eleven when he saw the girl walking quickly in the
opposite direction to which his cab was moving. He recognised Mary,
jumped out of the cab, paid the driver, and followed through the rain on
foot.




CHAPTER TWENTY


Unconscious of the fact that she had been shadowed, Mary Lane reached
her objective. She was in a small paved courtyard which was made faintly
malodorous by the presence of an ash-can that had not been emptied for a
week. She moved cautiously, finding her way forward step by step with
the aid of a tiny electric torch which she had taken from her hand-bag.
At the end of the courtyard was a small door, flanked on one side by a
window.

For a little while she stood on the doorstep, listening. Her heart was
beating faster; she was curiously short of breath. Her early morning
resolution to abandon her ridiculous quest came back with a stronger
urge. It was absurd of her, and a little theatrical (she told herself)
to continue these excursions into a realm in which she had no place.
Police work was, in its most elementary phase, men's work.

The quietness of the night, the sense of complete isolation, the gloom
and drabness which the falling rain seemed to emphasise, all these
things worked on her nerves.

She took from her bag the replica key that Surefoot had had cut for her,
and, finding the keyhole, pushed in the key. The truth or futility of
her theory was to be put to the test.

For a moment, as she tried to turn the key, it seemed that she had made
a mistake, and she was almost grateful. And then, as she slightly
altered its position, she felt it turn and the lock snapped back with a
loud "click!"

She was trembling; her knees seemed suddenly incapable of supporting the
weight of her body; her breathing became painfully shallow. Here her
experiment should have ended, and she should have gone back the way she
came, but the spirit of adventure flickered up feebly and she pushed
open the door. It opened without sound, and she peered into the dark
interior fearfully. Should she go in? Reason said "No!" but reason might
be womanly cowardice--a fear of the dark and the bogies that haunt the
dark.

She pushed the door open wider and went in one step. She flashed the
lamp around and saw nothing.

Then out of the darkness came a sound that froze her blood--the
whimpering of a woman.

Her scalp tingled with terror; she thought she was going to faint. It
came from below her feet, and yet from somewhere immediately before her,
as though there were two distinct sounds.

The beam of light she cast ahead wobbled so that she could not see what
it revealed. She steadied her arm against the wall and saw what looked
like a cupboard door. To this she crept and listened.

Yes, the sound came from there and below. It was the entrance to a
cellar. She tried the cupboard door; it was locked. And then there came
to her an unaccountable fear, greater than any she had experienced
before--there was danger, near, very near; a menace beyond her
understanding.

She turned and stood, petrified with horror. The door was slowly
closing. She leaped forward and caught its edge, but somebody was
pressing it, and that somebody was in the room, had been standing behind
the opened door all the time she had been there.

As she opened her lips to scream a big hand closed over her mouth,
another gripped her shoulder and jerked her back violently, as the door
closed with a crash.

"Oh, Miss Lane, how could you?"

The mincing tone, the falsetto voice, the artificial refinement of it
were unmistakable. She had heard that voice at Kellner's Hotel when she
had met Mr. Washington Wirth. She struggled madly, but the man held her
without difficulty.

"May I suggest, my dear young friend, that you keep quiet and save me
from the necessity of cutting your darling little throat?"

Behind the spurious courtesy of that hateful voice lay a threat,
horribly, significantly sincere. She knew him now: he would kill her
with as little compunction as he would slaughter a rabbit. It was not
perhaps expedient to carry out this threat immediately, and her only
hope of salvation lay with her wits.

With a moan she went limp in his arms, and he was so unprepared for this
that he nearly dropped her and dropped with her, for the sudden collapse
almost threw him off his balance. Clumsily he laid her down on the stone
floor.

She heard his exclamation of anger, and, after a while the jingle of
keys. He was unlocking the cupboard door.

Noiselessly she rose and felt for the door knob. It turned without a
sound, and in a second she had flung open the door and was racing across
the courtyard. He was too late to stop her, and she was in the deserted
side street before he recovered from his surprise. A few minutes later
she had reached a main road; ahead of her she saw two policemen, and her
first instinct was to fly to them and tell them of her adventure. She
hesitated; they would think she was mad, and besides----

"Hullo, Miss Lane! You gave me a fright."

It was the detective who had been following her all the evening, and he
did not hide his relief.

"Where on earth did you get to? I'm Stenford from Scotland Yard. Mr.
Smith told me that you knew I was trailing you."

She could have fallen on his neck in her gratitude--she was horrified to
discover that she was hysterical. She gasped her story; he listened,
incredulous.

"Have you got the key?"

She shook her head: she had left it in the door.

"I'll take you home, Miss Lane, and then I'll report to Mr. Smith."

He was a young detective, full of zeal, and he had hardly left her at
the door of her flat before he was racing back to conduct a little
investigation on his own before reporting the sum of his discovery to
Surefoot Smith.

Mary made herself a cup of tea and sat down to steady her nerves before
she went to bed. The flat seemed terribly lonely. Odd noises, common to
all houses, kept her jumping. She realised that she would not sleep that
night except in other and less nerve-wearing surroundings, and was
reaching for the telephone when its bell rang sharply--so unexpectedly
that she jumped.

It was the voice of Surefoot Smith, urgent and anxious.

"That you, Miss Lane? Listen--and get this quickly! Go to your front
door and bolt it! You're not to open the door until I come--I'll be with
you in ten minutes."

"But----"

"Do as I tell you!"

She heard a click as he rang off. She was in a panic. Surefoot would not
have been so alarming unless her situation was a perilous one.

She went out into the hall. It was in darkness. She knew that she had
left a light burning. Acting on blind impulse, she darted back into the
room she had left, slammed the door and shot home a bolt. As she did so
a heavy weight was flung against the door, the weight of a man's body.
There were no arms in the room--nothing more formidable than a pair of
scissors.

Crash!

The door shook; one of the panels bulged. She turned quickly and
switched out the light.

"I have a revolver and I'll fire if you don't go away!" she cried.

There was a silence. She flung up the window. She must be a good actress
or die.

"Mr. Smith! Is that you? Come up the fire escape!" She screamed the
words.

Again the door crashed, and she had an inspiration. She took up the
telephone.

"Get the police station--tell them a man named Moran is trying to break
into my room--Leo Moran--please remember the name in case anything
happens...."

She left the receiver off and crept to the door. Stealthy feet were
moving along the corridor; the sound became less audible and ceased.

Mary Lane sank down on to the floor, and this time there was nothing
theatrical in her swoon. It was the frantic knocking on the door and the
voice of Dick Allenby that brought her, reeling, to her feet. She drew
the bolt to admit him and the detective. She had hardly begun to tell
her story when she fainted again.

"Better get a nurse," said Surefoot. "Phew! I never expected to find her
alive!"

An agitated Dick, engaged in bathing the white face of the girl, was not
even interested to ask how Surefoot learned of the girl's danger. Mr.
Smith's officer had found him at his club and the two men had arrived
simultaneously.

"I got a 'phone call from the detective who was shadowing her, giving me
the story she had told. I told him to go straight back to her flat and
stay there till I came. About half an hour later the simpleton called me
up and said he'd searched the place and found nobody. Can you beat that?
And then, of course, a trunk call from Birmingham came on the line and
cut me off. I got rid of it and called Miss Lane--I should have called
the nearest police station, but I worked it out that I'd be at the flat
before they could deal with the matter. My officer called you at your
club and got you?"

Mary had opened her eyes, and a few minutes later was sitting up, very
white and shaken, but calm enough to tell her story. Throughout that
night Scotland Yard officers combed London and the suburbs for their
man. "May be accompanied by a woman," the official warning ran, and
there was added a description of the wanted pair.

On the advice of Surefoot, Mary moved into an hotel. It was a quiet
hostelry near the Haymarket. Surefoot had an idea that no harm would
come to the girl now that Mr. Washington Wirth's secret was out. He
might kill her to avoid the embarrassment of identification, but now
that she had spoken she was no longer a menace to his security.

"I hope so, at any rate," she said ruefully. "I am a failure as a
detective."

Surefoot sniffed.

"I'm a bad man to ask for compliments," he said. "Beyond the fact that
you've found our man and proved it, and apart from what I might call the
circumstance that you've discovered how the forgeries were wangled,
you've been perfectly useless!"

On the night of the girl's adventure Surefoot had cabled to his friend
in New York the particulars of the English gangster who was at large in
England. He went farther and arranged for the New York Police Department
to cable the photograph of the man to Scotland Yard. A description would
have been sufficient. There was no mistaking. The day the photograph
was received, Surefoot had gone to call on the directors of Moran's
bank. A very careful audit had been made of the bank accounts, but no
further defalcations had been unearthed.

He was leaving when the general manager, who had placed the facts before
him, remarked:

"By the way, I suppose you know that Moran's service in the bank was
interrupted when he went to America? He was there three or four years.
We have reason to believe that he was engaged in some sort of
speculative business--he never gave us any particulars about it."

"That's odd," said Surefoot.

He did not explain where the oddness lay.

"He has also a large interest in Cassari Oils, which have had such a
sensational rise," said the manager. "I only discovered this a few days
ago."

"I have known it for quite a long time," said Surefoot grimly, "and I
can tell you something: he has made nearly a million out of the stock."

The man's eyebrows rose.

"So there was no need for him to be dishonest?"

"There never was," said Surefoot cryptically.

In these days Dick Allenby was a busy man. As principal heir to his
uncle he had an immense amount of work to do. The late Mr. Lyne had
certain interests in France which had to be liquidated. Dick took the
afternoon boat express to Paris.

Between Ashford and Dover there had been a derailment on the day before,
and the passenger trains were being worked on a single line. There was
very little delay occasioned by this method of working the traffic,
except that it necessitated the boat train being brought to a standstill
at a little station near Sandling Junction.

The Continental train drew slowly into the station and stopped. There
was another train waiting to proceed in the opposite direction. As they
were going to move Dick turned his head idly, as passengers will, and
scrutinised the other passengers.

The Pullman car was passing at a snail's pace. The long body drew out of
view and there came a coupé compartment at the end of the car. A man was
sitting in the corner, reading a newspaper. As the trains passed he put
the paper down and turned his head. It was Leo Moran!




CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


Leo Moran!

It was impossible to do anything. The train was gathering speed and its
next stop was Dover. Surefoot must be told. He might get through by
telephone to London, but doubted if he had the time without missing the
boat. Fortunately, when he arrived at Dover Harbour Station and came to
the barrier where passports are examined, he recognised a Scotland Yard
man who was scrutinising the departing passengers. To him he explained
the urgency of the matter.

"He didn't come through this port," said the detective, shaking his
head. "The train you saw was the one connecting with the
Boulogne-Folkestone route. I'll get through to Mr. Smith at once. I've
had a very full description of Mr. Moran for a long time, and so have
the officers at Folkestone--I can't understand how they missed him."

Smith was not in his office when the call came through, but it was
relayed to him almost immediately. Officers were sent to meet the train,
but on its arrival there was no sign of Moran. Surefoot afterwards
learned that it had been held up at South Bromley Station, and that a
man who had occupied a coupé had alighted, given up his ticket,
carrying his own baggage, which consisted of a small expanding suitcase,
to a station taxi.

He had evidently acted on the impulse of the moment, according to the
Pullman car attendant, for when, late that night, the taxi-driver was
interviewed, it was learned that Moran had been driven to another
station within a few miles of Bromley, and had gone on to London by the
electric train.

A call at his flat produced no result. The porter had not seen him.
Surefoot put a 'phone call through to Paris and spoke to Dick.

"You've got the keys of this man's flat, haven't you?"

"Good Lord! Yes, I'd forgotten them. They're in my workroom. See the
housekeeper. You will find them ..."

Smith was less anxious to find the keys than to establish the fact that
Leo Moran had not returned. He would naturally call at Dick's place to
retrieve the keys, and with this idea in his mind Smith put Dick
Allenby's apartments under observation. But Moran did not come near.
Either he knew that he was being sought and had reason for keeping out
of the way, or he had some other establishment in London about which the
police knew nothing.

The second enquiry which Surefoot Smith conducted was even more
profitless. At the moment, however, he concentrated upon Moran. The
register of every hotel in London was carefully scrutinised.

Mary Lane knew nothing about the discovery, and when Surefoot Smith saw
her that evening he made no reference at all to the man Dick Allenby had
seen. He made it a practice to call once or twice a day, for, although
he was satisfied that there was no immediate danger to the girl, and
that every reason for menacing her had disappeared now that the murderer
of Hervey Lyne was identified, he took no chances. Men who killed as
ruthlessly as "Mr. Washington Wirth" were capable of deeper villainies.

Mary's hotel was an old-fashioned block set in the heart of the West End
and in one of the most pleasant backwaters. Its furnishings were
Victorian, its equipment a little primitive. As a reluctant concession
to modern progress its ancient proprietor had installed gas fires in its
bedrooms--it was the last hotel in London to adopt electricity for
lighting.

The servants were old and slow; its proprietor still regarded the
telephone as an unwarranted intrusion upon his privacy. There was one
instrument, and that part of the office equipment.

It had its advantages, as Mary found. It was quiet; one could sleep at
night. Strange guests rarely came; most of its patrons were part of the
great shifting family that had made a habit of the hotel for years and
years. Her room was pleasant and bright; it was on the street, and had
the advantage of a narrow balcony which ran the full length of the
building--a theoretical advantage perhaps, for nothing happened in that
quiet street which made a balcony view desirable.

Mr. Smith called the next evening, and was unlucky. If he had been a few
minutes earlier he would have followed a sturdy figure that mounted the
broad stairs and stood patiently whilst the hotel porter unlocked the
next door to Mary's bedroom, before ushering Mr. Leo Moran into the room
he had engaged. He had not signed himself Leo Moran in the hotel
register, but he had good and sufficient reason for that omission. He
was plain Mr. John Moore from Birmingham.

He ordered a light meal to be sent up to him, and when that had come and
had been cleared away he locked the door of his room, opened a
portfolio, and, taking out a number of documents and a writing pad,
became immediately absorbed in the task he had set himself.

There was nothing flimsy about this hotel; the walls were thick;
otherwise, he might have heard Surefoot Smith offering astounding
theories concerning a certain fugitive from justice.

Surefoot's visit was not a very long one, and, following her practice,
the girl read for an hour. Her nerves were calmer; she had got over the
shock of that ghastly night. She had asked Surefoot to allow her to go
back to the flat.

"I'll give you another week here," he said, shaking his head. "I may be
wrong, but I have an idea I can liquidate this business in that time."

"But now that I've recognised him, and the police have circulated his
name and description, there is no reason why he should do me any harm,"
she protested. "I am perfectly sure that it was not revenge, but
self-preservation----"

"You can't be sure of anything where that bird is concerned,"
interrupted Smith. "You've got to allow for the fact that he's a little
mad."

"Is he the man the American detective spoke about?" she asked curiously.

Surefoot Smith nodded.

"Yes, he's been in Chicago and New York for a few years, and was
associated with some pretty bad gangs. The curious thing is that, even
in those days, the stage had a fascination for him. He used to give
hectic parties to theatrical people, and even appeared on the stage
himself, though he wasn't a very great success. Out of his loot he
financed a couple of road companies--it's the same man all right."

Mary was getting weary of the restrictions imposed on her; resented the
early-to-bed rule which the doctor had prescribed. She lay in bed, very
wakeful, heard ten and eleven strike, and was no nearer to sleep than
she had been when she lay down.

Some time before midnight she fell into a doze, for she did not remember
hearing twelve o'clock strike. She must have been lying, half asleep,
half awake, for an hour, when something roused her to complete
wakefulness. She shivered and pulled the clothes over her shoulders, and
at that instant became wide awake.

The French window, which she had lightly fastened, was wide open; a
draught of chill air swept through the room, the door of which was half
open. She had locked it from the inside--she remembered that distinctly.

As she stood by the side of the bed a man's figure appeared in the
doorway, silhouetted against the dim light in the passage outside. For a
second she stood, petrified with fear and astonishment. Then she
recognised that stocky figure, and the terror of death came to her, and
she screamed.

The man stepped backwards and disappeared. She flew to the door, closed
it with a crash, and turned the key. Switching on the light, she rang
the bell urgently and repeatedly; closed and latched the French windows,
and sat quaking, until she heard a knock at the door and the voice of
the night porter, the one able-bodied servant of the hotel.

Slipping into a wrap, she opened the door to him and told him what had
happened. His expression was one of profound incredulity. He did not say
as much, but she realised that he thought she had been dreaming.

"A man, miss? Nobody's passed me. I've been in the hall since ten."

"Is there no other way he could have got out?"

He thought a moment.

"He might have gone by the servants' stairs. I'll find out. Have you
lost anything?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know," impatiently. "Will you please call Superintendent Smith
at Scotland Yard? Tell him I want to see him--that it's very, very
important."

She went back to her room, locked the door, and did not come out again
until Surefoot's reassuring voice accompanied his knock. She opened the
door to him thankfully, and he stepped in.

Before she could speak, he called back to the porter who had brought him
up.

"There's a bad escape of gas somewhere in this house," he said.

"I noticed it, sir."

The porter went prowling along the passage and came back. "It's coming
from the room next door," he said.




CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


Surefoot knelt and brought his face close to the floor. The smell of gas
was overpowering. He tried the handle. The door was fastened on the
inside. Repeated knocking produced no response. Stepping back he threw
the whole weight of his body against the frame. There was a crash and he
fell headlong into the room. The place was so full of gas that he was
almost asphyxiated and only staggered out with difficulty. Going into
the girl's room, he soaked a towel in water and clapping it over his
face ran through to the room and flung open the window. Then, turning
his attention to the man who lay on the bed, he put his arm round him
and dragged him into the passage.

The man was still breathing. One glance he took at the purple face, and
in his astonishment almost dropped the inanimate figure. Leo Moran!

By this time the hotel was aroused. A doctor, who lived on the same
floor, came out in pyjamas and an overcoat, and rendered first aid,
whilst Surefoot went back into the room.

He switched on the electric light. The gas was still hissing from the
burner on the hearth and he turned this off before he opened the window
wider. He saw now that elaborate preparations had been made for this
near tragedy. There was sticking-plaster down each side of the window.
He found it also over the keyhole, and the space between the bottom of
the door leading into the bathroom had been stuffed with a towel. Near
the bed was a half-glass of whisky and soda. Evidently Moran had been
writing. Surefoot took up a half-finished letter. He saw it was
addressed to the general manager of the bank for which he had worked.

     "DEAR SIR,

     "I am back in London, and for reasons which I will explain to you,
     I am living under an assumed name at this hotel. The explanation
     which I will give I think will satisfy ..."

Here the writing ended in a scrawl, as though Moran had been suddenly
overcome.

There was a closely typed foolscap sheet on the table, but this Surefoot
did not see immediately.

He looked round the room; the first thing that struck him was that the
door of a large cupboard stood wide open and on the floor of the
cupboard, which was empty, were two muddy foot-prints. They were
unmistakably the prints of goloshes, and he remembered the old pair of
goloshes which had been found in the car where Mike Hennessey's body had
been discovered. Somebody had been hiding there. Outside it had been
raining heavily; the prints were still wet.

He went outside and found that Moran had been carried into another
bedroom, where the doctor and the porter were engaged in applying
artificial resuscitation. Returning to Moran's room, he remembered the
typewritten sheet which lay on the top of other documents and picked it
up. He had not read half a dozen words when his jaw dropped in
amazement, and he sat down heavily in a chair: for this typewritten
statement was a murder confession.

     "I, Leopold Moran, am about to say farewell to life, and, before
     going, I want to make a full statement concerning the killing of
     three men. The first of these is a man named Tickler.

     "In some way he had discovered that I was robbing the bank. He had
     been blackmailing me for months. He knew that under the name of Mr.
     Washington Wirth I was giving parties, and traced me back to a room
     over a garage which I used to change my clothes and have used on
     other occasions as a hiding place. He came into this room and
     demanded a thousand pounds. I gave him a hundred in treasury notes
     and then persuaded him to let me drive him down to the West End in
     a cab that was standing in the mews. As he got into the cab I shot
     him, closed the door, and, driving him down into Regent Street,
     left the cab on the rank.

     "The next day I had an interview with Hervey Lyne. He was growing
     suspicious. I had forged his name to large sums of money and when,
     at his request, I called on him, I knew that the game was up. I had
     tried to bribe Binny--his servant--into helping me to keep the old
     man in the dark, but Binny was either too honest or too foolish to
     fall in with my suggestions. Binny is one of the straightest men I
     have ever met. I think he was a fool to himself, but that is
     neither here nor there.

     "I knew Hervey Lyne was in the habit of going into Regent's Park
     every afternoon and he always chose a spot where I could see him.
     On the afternoon in question, realising that I could see my finish,
     I shot him from the window with a rifle to which I had fastened a
     silencer. What made it so easy was that a noisy car was passing at
     the time. Afterwards I sent a man to Germany under my name and
     myself stayed in England.

     "I was afraid of Hennessey, who was also blackmailing me, and I had
     to silence him. I drove him into the country, and killed him on the
     Colnbrook By-pass. Before he died he told me that Miss Lane had the
     bank statement. That night I entered her house and made a search
     for it, but found nothing.

     "All the above is true. I am tired of life and am going out with no
     regret."

It was signed "Leo Moran."

Surefoot read the confession carefully and then began a search of the
room for the goloshes. There was no sign of them.

He found Mary Lane in her room, fully dressed.

"You didn't see the face of the man who tried to get into the room?"

She shook her head.

"Did you recognise him in any other way?"

She thought she had and told him.

As far as he could judge, there was a quarter of an hour between the
appearance of the man and the arrival of Surefoot: time enough, if it
were Moran, to lock himself in his room. He was reaching this conclusion
when he saw something on the floor that glistened. Stooping, he picked
up a key. It lay very near to the open window. Going back to Moran's
room, he scraped away the plaster that covered the keyhole, put in the
key, and turned it. There was no doubt now in his mind.

Moran was still unconscious, though the doctor said he was out of
danger. Surefoot had sent for two detectives, and, leaving the banker in
their charge, he went back to the Yard.

At one o'clock in the morning three Scotland Yard chiefs were called
from their beds and hurried to headquarters. To these Surefoot showed
the confession.

"It is as clear as daylight," said his immediate chief. "As soon as he
is conscious, shoot him into Cannon Row and charge him."

Surefoot said nothing for a moment, but again examined the foolscap
sheet.

"It wasn't typewritten in the room, was it?" he asked. "Perhaps there is
such a thing as an invisible typewriter, but I've never seen one. And
there was no typewriter in the room. And the door was locked on the
inside and the key was on the floor in Miss Lane's room. And the tape
over the window was on the outside, not on the inside. That was a little
error on somebody's part."

He put his hand in his pocket and took out a small bottle containing an
amber liquid.

"That's the whisky that I found in the glass on his writing table--I
want it analysed."

"How was Moran dressed when you found him?" asked one of the chief
inspectors.

"He had everything on--including his boots," said Surefoot. "And what is
more, he was lying with his feet on the pillow--it is not the position I
should choose if I were committing suicide. All very rum and mysterious
and scientific, but it doesn't impress _me_!"

The Chief Inspector sniffed.

"Nothing impresses you, Surefoot, except good beer. What is your
suggestion?"

Surefoot thought for a while.

"Moran's been out this evening--the hall porter saw him come in an hour
before he was discovered. The whisky and soda was sent up to his
room--the whisky in a glass and the bottle unopened--an hour before
that, on his instructions. I've been through the documents I found on
his table, and if there's one thing more certain than another, it is
that he had no intention of committing suicide. He has come back to buy
a lot of outstanding shares in Cassari Oils and to open a London office
for the company. He didn't want to call attention to the fact that he
was back--it might have upset his plans for getting the shares he
wanted. I found all that in a letter he has written to a Turk in
Constantinople. I took the liberty of opening it. And he was seeing the
general manager of the bank tomorrow--that doesn't look like suicide."

"Well?" asked the three men together when he paused.

"He didn't try to commit suicide. Somebody got into his room whilst he
was out--it was easy, for there are two empty rooms that open on to the
balcony--and after getting in he hocussed the whisky and hid himself in
the cupboard. When the dope took effect he came out, picked up Moran
from the floor, and laid him on the bed. He then stuffed up the
ventilation of the room and turned on the gas. Then he got out of the
window on to the balcony and made the door air-tight and went out
through Miss Lane's room--he probably mistook the room for the one
through which he had gained admission to Moran's. He must have dropped
the key and was coming back for it, when Miss Lane screamed."

"How did he get out of the hotel without the night porter seeing him?"

Surefoot smiled pityingly.

"There are three ways out, but the easiest is down the service stairs
and through the kitchen. There is a coffee cook on duty, but it would be
easy to avoid him."

He underlined with his thumb nail a few lines of the confession.

"Notice what a good character he gives to Binny. That was a silly thing
to do--a child in arms would know that only Binny could have written
that statement."

"Binny--the servant!"

Surefoot nodded.

"He's got several other names," he said. "One of them is Washington
Wirth. There's the murderer!"




CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


The police chief looked at Surefoot in amazement.

"Binny? You mean Lyne's servant?" asked the senior.

"That's what I mean," said Surefoot calmly.

He dived into the inside of his pocket, took out a flat envelope, and
produced from this the transcript of the long cable and a blurred
photograph.

"This came over the wire," he explained. "It's a picture of the
man--London Len was one of his names--who is wanted by the police of New
York and Chicago. He worked with three gangs and was lucky to get away
with his life. Listen to this."

He put pince-nez on his broad nose and read from one of the cables.

     "This man speaks with a very common English accent. He is believed
     to have been a valet, and his modus operandi is to obtain a
     situation with a wealthy family and to use the opportunity for
     extensive robberies. On the side he has worked with several booze
     rackets, is known to be concerned in the killing of Eddie McGean,
     and is suspected of other killings."

He twisted the photograph round so that the inspectors could see it.

"It's not pretty. It was taken at police headquarters in New York. If
you don't know Binny, I'll tell you that is the bird! Even his best
friend would recognise him."

Chief Inspector Knowles examined the photograph and whistled softly.

"I know him. I saw him the day you had him up at the Yard, questioning
him. Why should he kill the old boy?"

"Because he's been forging his name. It was Miss Lane who put us on to
the track, though I was a dummy not to see it myself. All these
forgeries were committed on the seventeenth of the month, and she knew,
having lived with the old man, that that was the date he paid all his
tradesmen's bills. He was in the habit of writing messages on the back
of his cheques, mainly of an insulting nature. The one we deciphered
said: 'No more Chinese e----.' Miss Lane knew that the old man lived
under the impression that tradesmen spent their lives swindling him. It
was his belief that nothing but Chinese or imported eggs were sent to
him. To keep his egg and butter man up to the scratch, he used to make a
note on the back of the cheque when he paid his bill. That was his
practice with all tradesmen--Miss Lane has seen most of them:
bootmakers, tailors, provision merchants of all kinds. And do you know
what they told her?"

Surefoot leaned forward over the table and spoke slowly, tapping his
finger on the desk to emphasise each word.

"They told her that two or three years ago Lyne stopped paying by
cheque--and paid cash! Binny either used to go round and settle, or send
the money by postal order. Do you know what that means? It means that
Lyne was going blind, and that the cheques he was signing for the
tradesmen were cheques going into Binny's private account. What made it
easier for Binny--which is his real name, by the way--was that the old
man would never admit that his sight was failing, and in his vanity
claimed that he could read as well as the next man. It was easy for
Binny, on the seventeenth of the month, to put cheques before his master
and pretend they were in settlement of tradesmen's bills, when in
reality they were filled in with pencil for the correct amount. I've
seen some of them, and under the microscope you can see the pencil marks
and the original amounts for which they were drawn. It was easy to rub
them out after the signature had been obtained, and to fill them in for
the amount Binny happened to require at the time.

"He must have got wind that these investigations were going on, for he
went after Miss Lane, and she saved herself by pretending she thought it
was Moran. It was that which probably saved her life. When Binny heard
her shout out of the window that Moran was trying to break into her
room, he thought he'd leave well alone, and quitted. If he'd had any
intelligence, he would have known that all her enquiries incriminated,
not Moran, but him! But that's the way of 'em--if criminals had any
sense they'd never be hanged."

The Chief Inspector pushed the photograph back across the table.

"Where was the murder committed--the murder of Lyne, I mean?"

Surefoot shook his head.

"That's the one thing that puzzles me. It is possible, of course, that
he did the shooting just at the moment Dornford's car passed. The
'confession' that he prepared to throw the crime on to Moran--he was a
mug to say so many nice things about Binny--almost suggests that this is
the case. All the other crimes in this document were committed by Binny
in the way he described."

He went back to the hotel to see Moran. There were other aspects of the
case which needed elucidation.

Mike Hennessey's death puzzled him. If the manager was blackmailing
Binny, there was motive enough. But what could Mike Hennessey know,
except that the servant of the day was the magnificent Washington Wirth
by night? And why should he blackmail the man who was providing him
with a generous income?

There was a very special reason for killing Hennessey: of that he was
sure.

Before he left the Yard Surefoot tightened the cords of the net about
the man he wanted. Binny had not been seen since the night Mary Lane
sent him to Newcastle on a fictitious errand so that she could try the
key of the pantry door of Hervey Lyne's house.

The illuminated key was a mystery no longer. Sometimes "Mr. Washington
Wirth" came back from these little parties of his a little exhilarated.
It was necessary that he should change his clothes in the room above the
garage, and once or twice, in changing them, he had left his key behind.
Possibly he was a methodical man and was in the habit of putting the key
on the table. Its phosphorescent quality was added so that, even if he
switched off the light, he would not forget this necessary method of
gaining admission to Lyne's house.

On the night of Tickler's murder he had forgotten the key and was
compelled to break a window to get into the scullery--this had been
Mary's theory. She had recognised the key; as a child she had seen it
every day. She had sent Binny to the north to give herself the
opportunity of testing out her theory. She had nearly lost her life in
doing so, for Binny was no fool: he had left the carriage and gone back
ahead of her to his lair.

The detective found Leo Moran conscious, but a very unhappy man, for the
after-effects of gas poisoning are not pleasant. All that he told
Surefoot confirmed what that intelligent officer had already discovered
from a perusal of his private correspondence.

Surefoot showed him the "confession," and read portions of it to the
astonished man.

"Murder!" said Moran scornfully. "What rubbish! Who has been murdered?"

When Surefoot told him:

"Hervey Lyne? Good God! How perfectly dreadful! When did this happen?"

"The day you went away," said Surefoot.

Moran frowned.

"But I saw him the day I went away, from my window. He was sitting under
the tree in the park--when I say 'the tree' I mean the tree he always
used as shade. I've seen him there dozens of times. Binny was reading to
him."

"What time was this?" asked Surefoot quickly.

Moran thought for a while, then gave an approximate hour.

"That must have been ten minutes before he was found dead. It was too
far away for you to see whether he was talking?"

Moran nodded.

"When I saw him, Binny was reading to him."

Here was unexpected evidence. Moran was probably the only man who had
watched that little group in Hervey Lyne's last moments.

"Where was he sitting--Binny, I mean?"

"Where he usually sat," said Leo Moran instantly. "Facing the old man,
practically on a level with his feet. I was watching them for some
time."

"Did you see Binny walk round to the back of the chair?"

The other hesitated.

"Yes, he did--I remember now. He walked right round the chair. I
remember being reminded of how gamblers walk round a chair for luck."

"You saw nothing else--heard nothing?"

Moran stared at him.

"Do you suspect Binny?"

Surefoot nodded.

"It isn't a case of suspicion, it's a case of certainty."

Again the sick man taxed his memory.

"I am almost sure I am right in saying that he went round the chair. I
didn't hear anything--you mean a shot? No, I did not hear that, nor did
I see Binny behaving suspiciously."

Surefoot skimmed through the "confession" again.

"Do you know Binny?"

"Slightly. He was my servant; I dismissed him for stealing. I lost a
number of little trinkets."

Smith put his hand in his pocket and took out the silver cigarette case
that had been found under the cushion of the car in which Mike Hennessey
had ridden to his death.

The banker stretched out his hand eagerly.

"Good Lord, yes! I wouldn't have lost that for a fortune. It's one of
the things that were missing. How did you get it?"

In the man's present condition Surefoot decided it was not the moment to
tell of the other horror which had been fastened upon him.

"I thought it might be," he said, pocketing the case. "It was obviously
an old one and not the kind of case you would use, and certainly not the
kind you would put where I found it. It had been polished up for the
occasion, too."

"What was the occasion?" asked Moran curiously, but the detective evaded
the question.

Moran spoke quite frankly of his own movements.

"I was a fool to go off so hurriedly," he confessed, "but I was rather
piqued with my directors, who had refused me leave. It was very vital I
should be in Constantinople whilst the board of the Cassari Company was
being reconstructed. I have very heavy interests in that country, which
is now one of the richest oil companies in the world. And, by the way,
Miss Lane is a rich lady; the shares I bought from her could not be
transferred to me under the Turkish law without yet another signature.
Legally I have the right to that; morally I haven't; so the stock she
transferred, I am transferring back at the price I paid. Which means
that she has more money than she can spend in her lifetime." He smiled.
"And so have I, for the matter of that," he added.

There was nothing more to be gained from Moran, and Smith left him to
sleep off his intolerable headache. Scotland Yard had 'phoned that Dick
Allenby was on his way back from Paris by aeroplane. He reached Croydon
at dawn and found a police car waiting to take him to Regent's Park.

As the car drove into Naylors Crescent he saw Surefoot Smith and three
plain clothes officers waiting outside the house.

"Sorry to bring you back, but it is necessary that I should make another
search of this house, and it is very advisable you should be present."

"Did you find Moran?" asked Dick impatiently. "You got my telephone
message----"

Surefoot nodded.

"Did he tell you anything about Binny?"

"Binny's told me quite a lot about himself," said Surefoot grimly. "I
haven't interviewed the gentleman, but he left a very illuminating
document."

Dick opened the door of the house and they went in. Although it had only
been unoccupied for a very short time, it smelt of emptiness and
neglect. Hervey Lyne's study had been tidied up after the detective's
search. Every corner had been examined, the very floorboards and
hearthstone lifted by the police in their vain effort to find a clue. It
was unlikely that this apartment would yield any fresh evidence.

They went into the kitchen, where Mary Lane had her unpleasant
adventure. Smith had visited the place an hour or two after Mary's
escape, had passed through the cupboard door down a flight of steps to
the coal cellar. The truckle bed he had found there on his first visit
had been removed.

"The queerest thing about Binny is his wife," said Surefoot. "Why he
should attach himself, or allow himself to be attached, to this poor
drunkard is beyond my understanding. He must have smuggled her away the
night Miss Lane came here, and where she is at the moment I'd rather not
enquire."

Dick had already expressed his opinion on this matter. He thought it was
probable that the woman was not Binny's wife at all. Hervey Lyne
invariably advertised for a man and wife. To gain admission to the
establishment Binny would not have been above hiring a woman to suit his
purpose. This theory was rather supported by the fact that "Mrs. Binny"
occupied a small, separate room. That she could have been a source of
menace to the murderer was unlikely. The evidence of tradesmen had been
that she was invariably in a state of fuddle, and that the cooking was
done by Binny himself.




CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


The bath-chair in which the old man had been found dead occupied a place
under the stairs, and to Dick's surprise the detective gave instructions
to have it taken into the front room study. Surefoot had always had an
uncomfortable feeling that he had not paid sufficient attention to the
chair. What he had learned in the past few days made a further
examination essential.

Immediately opposite the door of the study there was an alcove in the
wall of the passage, and he saw now that this served a useful purpose.
Obviously Lyne was in the habit of getting into the bath-chair in the
study. Against the lintel of the door, at the height of the wheel's hub,
were several scratches and indentations where the hub had touched the
wood. But for the fortuitous circumstance of the alcove being so placed,
it would have been difficult either to take the chair into the room or
bring it out. Surefoot put a detective into the chair and made the
experiment of drawing him into the street. The width of the conveyance
was only a few inches less than the width of the front door opening and
again he found marks on the door posts where the hub had touched.
Without assistance he drew the chair into the street. The wheels fitted
into the little tramlines which Lyne had had placed for the purpose.
The slope was so gentle that it was as easy to pull the laden chair back
into the house.

The experiment told him very little. On the day of the murder he had
examined every square inch of the vehicle. He ordered it to be put back
in the place where it had been found and then continued his search and
examination of the house.

"What do you expect to find?" asked Dick.

"Binny," was the terse reply. "This fellow isn't a fool. He has got a
hiding place somewhere, and I wish I knew where to look for it." He
looked at his watch. "I wonder if I could persuade Miss Lane to come
along?"

Dick Allenby took a cab to the hotel, a little doubtful whether after
the excitement of the night she would be either physically fit or
willing to come to this house of gloom.

He found her in her sitting-room, showing no evidence of the strain she
had experienced. Her first question was about Binny.

"No, we haven't found him," said Dick. His voice was troubled. "I am
getting terribly worried about you, Mary. This fellow would stop at
nothing."

She shook her head.

"I don't think he'll worry me again," she said. "Mr. Smith is right:
Binny will take no risk that does not bring him profit. As long as he
thought he could get the bank statement from me or stop me speaking and
telling what I had discovered about the cheques, I think I must have
been in terrible danger."

"How did he know you were making enquiries?"

"He knew when I sent him up to the North," she said. "That was a crude
little plan, wasn't it? I under-rated his intelligence and he must have
been following me when I was visiting the tradesmen. I had an idea once
that I saw him. It was the day I went to Maidstone."

She showed no reluctance in accompanying Dick back to the house. On the
way she told him that she had seen Leo Moran in the night and that he
was out of danger. There had been a time when the doctors had been
doubtful as to whether he would recover.

They reached the house. Surefoot was in the little courtyard at the
back. She followed Dick down the few steps that led to the kitchen. She
shuddered as she recalled her midnight visit to this sinister little
apartment. Even now, in the light of day, it had an unpleasant
atmosphere, due, she admitted to herself, rather to her imagination than
to unhappy memory. There was the "cupboard" door wide open now and the
little door into which she had fitted the replica of the silver key. The
kitchen and the adjoining scullery seemed amazingly small. She realised
that this was due to the fact that her earliest recollections of the
house belonged to childhood when small rooms look large and low articles
of furniture unusually high.

Surefoot came in as she was looking around and nodded a greeting.

"Remember this, Miss Lane?"

"Yes." She pointed to the inner kitchen, looking very modern with its
lining in white glazed brick. "That's new," she said, and walked in.

The place puzzled her: she missed something, and try as she did she
could not recollect what it was. Some feature of the room as she
remembered it, was missing. She did not mention her doubts, thinking
that memory was playing tricks--a way that memory has.

"You know what this is?" asked Smith.

He had found it in the kitchen drawer: a curious looking instrument
rather like a short garden syringe, except that at the end was a rubber
cup.

"It is a vacuum pump," explained Smith.

He wetted the edge of the rubber cup, pressed it on the table and,
drawing up the piston, lifted the table bodily at one end.

"What's the idea of that? Have you ever seen it before?"

She shook her head.

Surefoot had found some other things: a small pot of dark-green paint
and a hardened mass wrapped in oily newspaper.

"Putty," he explained. "I saw it when I was here before. Do you know
what it was used for?"

He beckoned her and she followed him into a dark passage. The lamp that
had been switched on gave very little light, but Surefoot took a
powerful little torch from his pocket and, walking up to the door,
stooped and, sending the bright light along the inside of the thick door
panel, said:

"You see that, and that?"

She saw now a deep circular indentation.

"It was filled with putty and painted over. I thought it was a nut-hole
until I started picking out the putty."

"What is it?" she asked wonderingly.

"It is the mark made by a spent bullet," said Smith slowly. "The bullet
that killed Hervey Lyne. He was shot in this passage."




CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


"It's all based on deduction so far," said Surefoot, "but it is the kind
of deduction that I am willing to bet on, and that is saying a lot for
me: I don't waste money. Binny had known for some time that the old man
was suspecting him and things were getting desperate. He had to do
something and do it pretty quickly. The old man was getting suspicious
about his bank account. He could not suspect Binny or he would not have
told him to send for Moran. Lyne hated bankers and never had an
interview unless he couldn't help it. When Binny found he had sent for
his bank manager he was in a hole. There was only one thing he could do
and that was to get a confederate to pose as a bank manager and that
confederate was----"

"Mike Hennessey!" said Dick.

Surefoot nodded.

"I haven't any doubt about that," he said. "When we searched Hennessey's
clothes we found a paper containing the identical figures that were on
the statement. This could only mean that Binny had supplied him with the
figures and that Mike had had to commit them to memory in case the old
man questioned him. Obviously the paper had been continuously handled.
It was extremely soiled and had been folded and re-folded."

They were in the kitchen and providentially Surefoot had found a big
sheet of blotting paper, which he spread on the table, and on which he
elaborated his theory as he spoke.

"Moran was never notified and never asked to call. It happened by a
coincidence that he was not in his office at the time of the interview.
He was, in fact, consulting with the agents of the Cassari Oils. At the
time fixed for the appointment Mike came. Hervey Lyne had never seen the
bank manager, and even if he had he would not have recognised him for he
was nearly blind. He must have said something or done something which
left the old man unsatisfied. Lyne was very shrewd. One of his hobbies
was working out how he could be swindled and it is possible that he had
a doubt in his mind whether the man who called on him was Moran.

"We shall never know what it was that made suspicion a certainty. It may
have been something he overheard in the kitchen: there were times when
Binny and his so-called wife had unholy rows--I got this from the
servants in the next house. He picked up the first piece of paper he
could find--it happened to be the bank statement--and wrote the message
to you." He nodded at Mary. "I do not think there is any doubt that he
was sure that the man who had called that morning was not Moran, and
that he suspected Binny of being the villain of the piece and that is
why he asked that the police should be sent for. Binny got to know this.
Whether the old man charged him at the last moment or said something, we
shall only know if Binny tells the truth before he is hanged.

"Binny must have made his plans on the spur of the moment. After he
dressed the old man to take him out, he stepped behind him and shot him
with a magazine pistol--I dug out the bullet from the door. It is
possible that he had no intention of taking him out, but after he found
there was very little blood and no sign of a wound, he decided to take
the risk. The blue glasses Mr. Lyne wore hid his eyes. He was generally
half asleep as he was being pulled into the park. Binny got away with
it. He even asked a policeman to hold up the traffic to allow the chair
to pass."

Surefoot Smith sighed and shook his head in reluctant admiration.

"Think of it! Him sitting there dead, and Binny as cool as a cucumber,
reading the news to the dead man."

"Is there a chance of Binny getting out of England?" asked Dick.

Surefoot scratched his nose thoughtfully.

"Theoretically--no, but this man is a play-actor, meaning no disrespect
to you, Miss Lane. I don't believe in criminals disguising themselves,
but this man isn't an ordinary criminal. At the moment he is in London,
probably living in a flat which he has rented under another name. He may
have two or three of them. He is the sort of man who would be very
careful to make all preparations for a getaway. He has got stacks of
money, a couple of automatic guns, and the rope ahead of him. He is not
going to be taken easily."

"I don't understand him," said Dick, shaking his head. "Why these
theatrical parties? Why Mr. Washington Wirth?"

"He had to have some sort of swell name and appearance. I will tell you
all about the theatrical parties one of these days. He never got the
right people there, with all due respect to you, Miss Lane. He wanted
ladies wearing thousands of pounds' worth of diamonds. He worked that
racket in Chicago: got a big party and held them up, but he never caught
on in London and never attracted the money. And you have got to allow
for vanity, too. He liked to be a big noise even among little people,
again with all due respect to you, Miss Lane."

He picked up the vacuum pump and looked at it.

"I'd like to know what this is for. I think I will take it along with
me."

He slipped it into his pocket. They went out after locking all the
doors--Dick and the girl to the hotel, and the indefatigable Mr. Smith
to his Haymarket flat.

An hour passed in that house. There was neither sound nor movement,
until an oblong strip of glazed brickwork began to open like a door, and
Binny, wearing rubber overshoes, came cautiously into the kitchen, gun
in hand. He listened, went swiftly and noiselessly into the passage, up
the stairs from room to room before he came back to the front door and
slipped a bolt in its place. Returning to the kitchen, he laid his gun
on the table and passed his hand over his unshaven chin. His
unprepossessing face creased in a smile which was not pleasant to see.

"Vanity, eh?" he said.

It was the one thing the detective had said that had infuriated him.

Binny stood by the table, his unshapely head sunk in thought, his
fingers playing mechanically with the long-barrelled automatic that lay
at his hand.

Vanity! That had hurt him. He hated Surefoot Smith; from the first time
he had seen him he had recognised in this slow, ponderous,
unintelligent-looking man a menace to his own security and life. And he
had offended him beyond all pardon. Whatever anybody could say about
this amazing man, his love of the theatre was genuine. Association with
its people was the breath of his nostrils. His first defalcations were
made for the purpose of financing a play that ran only a week. He
himself was no bad actor. He would require all his skill and genius to
escape from the net which was being drawn about him. He went back
through the narrow door into a room that was smaller than the average
prison cell.

It was narrow and long. On the floor was a mattress where he had slept,
and at the foot of the "bed" was a small dressing-table, beneath which
were two suitcases. He took one of these out and unlocked it. On the top
lay a flat envelope containing three passports, which he brought into
the kitchen. Pulling up a chair to the table, he examined each one
carefully. He had made his preparations well. The passports were in
names that Surefoot Smith had never heard of and there was no
resemblance to him in the three photographs attached to each passport.
Fastened to one by a rubber band was a little packet of railway tickets.
One set would take him to the Hook of Holland, another to Italy. He
could change his identity three times on the journey.

From a bulging hip pocket he took a thick pad of banknotes: French,
English, German. He took another pad from a concealed pocket in his
coat, a third and fourth, until there was a great pile of money on the
table.

For a quarter of an hour he sat contemplating his wealth thoughtfully,
then, going back into his little hiding place, he carried out a mirror
and a small shaving set and began carefully to make his preparations.

Vulgar grease paints, however convincing they might look on the stage,
would have no value in the light of day. He poured a little anatto into
a saucer, diluted it and sponged his face carefully, using a magnifying
mirror to check the effects.

For the greater part of two hours he laboured on his face and head;
then, stripping to his underclothes, he began to dress, having first
deposited his money in satchels that were attached to his belt, which
was passed round his waist. The contents of the two cases he turned out,
for he had examined them very carefully the day before. He could not
afford to carry any other baggage than the two automatics and half a
dozen spare magazines, which he disposed about his person.

He chose the lunch hour, and then only after a long scrutiny of the
street from the study window. The servants might see him, but the
chances were that they would be preparing or serving the meal either to
their employers or to themselves. It was the hour, too, when no
tradesmen were delivering, and the only risk was that Surefoot Smith had
left somebody to watch the house. That had to be taken.

He unbolted the front door, turned the handle, and stepped out. As he
reached the Outer Circle he saw something that made him set his jaw. A
slatternly-looking woman was walking unsteadily on the opposite side of
the street. He recognised her as his miserable companion of the past
four years, the half-witted drunkard who had shared the kitchen with
him. She did not recognise him, and it mattered little even if Surefoot
saw her. He had turned her out the previous day with instructions to go
back to Wiltshire, where he had found her, and had given her enough
money to keep her for a year.

He plodded on, looking back occasionally to see if he were followed. He
dared not risk a 'bus. A taxi would be almost as dangerous. To drive a
car in his present disguise would be to attract undesirable attention.

In the Finchley Road there was a block of buildings, the ground floor of
which was shops. Above these was a number of apartments occupied by good
middle-class tenants. The corner of the block, however, had been
reserved for offices and this had a private self-operated elevator.

Binny went into the narrow passage unchallenged, pressed the button, and
had himself carried on to the third floor. Almost opposite the lift, at
an angle of the wall, was a door inscribed: "The New Theatrical
Syndicate." He unlocked the door and went in. The office consisted of
one medium-sized room and a small cloakroom. It was furnished plainly
and had the appearance of being very rarely used. Except for a desk and
a table there was no evidence of its business character.

He shot a little bolt in the door, took off the long coat he wore, and
sat down in the comfortable chair. In one of the drawers there was a
small electric kettle, which he filled in the wash-place. He brewed
himself a cup of coffee, and this, with some biscuits he found in a tin
box, in the second drawer, comprised his lunch.

The getaway was going to be simple. His real baggage was in the
cloakroom at Liverpool Street. Everything was simple, and yet----

Binny could have written a book on the psychology of criminals. He was a
cold-blooded, reasoning killer, who never made the stupid errors of
other criminals. It was a great pity that he had made the appalling
mistake of going back to find the key and had attracted the girl's
attention. Otherwise, Leo Moran would have been dead and there would be
no proof that the confession, which Binny had typed out so
industriously, was not true in every detail.

He had planned it all so carefully: he had intended dropping the key
just on the inside of the locked door and had put it in his pocket and
forgotten it. A little slip that had messed up his artistic plan.
Reason, which had determined his every action, told him to slip out of
London quietly that night and trust to his native genius for safety. But
that something which is part of the mental make-up of criminal minds
clamoured for the spectacular. It would be a great stunt to leave London
with one crushing exploit which would make him the talk of the World. In
his imagination he could see the headlines in the newspapers. "SUREFOOT
SMITH LEFT DEAD AND THE MURDERER ESCAPED!" "SUREFOOT SMITH, THE GREAT
CATCHER OF MURDERERS, WAS HIMSELF CAUGHT!" The fantastic possibilities
took hold of him. His mind began to work, not towards safety, but in the
direction of pleasing sensationalism, and he did not realise that the
charge of vanity which he so resented was being justified with every
mental step he took towards vengeance.




CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


Dick Allenby and Mary were lunching at the Carlton, and they were
talking about things which ordinarily would have absorbed her.

"You are not listening," he accused her, and she started.

"Wasn't I?" She was very penitent. "Darling, I was thinking of something
else. Isn't that a terrible confession? I don't suppose any other girl
ever listened to a proposal of marriage with her mind on a nasty old
kitchen in an unpleasant little house."

He laughed.

"If you could bring that mind of yours from the drab realities to the
idyllic possibilities, I should be a very happy man." And then,
curiously: "You mean Hervey Lyne's house? What's worrying you?"

"The kitchen," she said promptly. "There was something there, Dick--I
can't think what it was--something I missed, and it is worrying me. I
have a dim recollection that the poor old man told me he was having the
kitchen rebuilt. I remember him saying what a wonderful fellow Binny
was, because he was superintending the operations and saving him a lot
of money." She fingered her chin. "There was a dresser," she said
thoughtfully. "Of course, that's gone. And a horrid little sink of
brown earthen-ware, and----"

She stopped suddenly and stared at him, wide-eyed.

"The larder!" she gasped. "Of course, that's what it was! There was a
larder and a door in the wall leading to it. What has happened to the
larder?"

He shook his head helplessly.

"I haven't been terribly interested in larders," he began, but she
arrested his flippancy.

"Don't you remember Mr. Smith said as we were leaving the house that he
was sure Binny had a hiding place somewhere? I am sure that's it--on the
right hand side as you go in."

Dick Allenby laughed.

"On the right hand side as you go into the kitchen there is a solid
brick wall," he said, but she shook her head.

"I am sure there is something behind it. I remember now, when I went
into the courtyard to try the key I noticed that there had been no
change in the exterior. There must be a space there. Dick, Providence is
with us."

She was looking towards the entrance. Surefoot Smith was there, very
disconsolate. He caught her eye and nodded. Obviously she was not the
person he wanted to see, for he continued his scrutiny of the room. She
caught his eye again and beckoned him. He came forward reluctantly.

"You haven't seen the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, have you? I'm
lunching with him--he is paying for it. He said half-past one." He
looked at his watch. "It is nearly two. We've pinched Binny's wife by
the way; one of our men picked her up on the Outer Circle, but she's got
nothing to say."

"I've found the hiding place!" Mary blurted the news and Surefoot Smith
became instantly alert.

"Binny's?" he asked quickly. "In the house you mean?"

She told him breathlessly of her theory. He slapped his knee.

"You're right, of course--the vacuum pump. I wondered what he used it
for. If there was a door--and it was an easy job to make a door on
glazed brick--he could not have had handles, could he? The only way he
could get it open would be by sticking the vacuum on the surface of the
brick to give him a grip. I have got the pump at the Yard, and the
Commissioner can wait."

He went out of the room, and half an hour later Hervey Lyne's little
house was surrounded. Surefoot came into the hall, pistol in hand, went
quickly into the kitchen and examined the white wall. There was no sign
of a door. He fastened the vacuum to the smooth surface and pulled, but,
to his chagrin, nothing happened. The strength of two detectives failed
to move the door. He moved the position of the pump from time to time,
and at the fifth attempt he was rewarded. The slightest pull drew a
brick from the wall. It ran on a steel guide, and dropped over in front,
leaving an oblong aperture which was hollow.

He put his hand inside and felt a steel handle, which he turned and
pulled. The door swung open and he was in Binny's hiding place. The
disordered heap of clothes on the floor, the shaving mirror thrown down
on the bed, told their own tale. There was greater significance,
however, in the saucer he found in the sink. It was still yellow with
the annatto colouring which Binny had used.

Surefoot Smith looked at it for a long time, and then:

"I think there is going to be serious trouble," he said.

Surefoot Smith hurriedly turned over the clothes and articles which had
been emptied from the suitcase, but he found nothing to give him the
slightest clue to Binny's intentions. One thing was certain: he had been
in his biding place and had heard all that had happened that morning.
Surefoot had the door shut and himself listened to conversation in the
kitchen, and although he could not catch every word he was satisfied
that Binny had heard enough.

The annatto in the saucer was a very slight and possibly useless clue.
It told him to look for a yellow-faced man, and this might or might not
be a useful guide to the searchers.

The fugitive had left nothing else behind. Surefoot searched diligently,
crawling over the floor with his eyes glued to the tiled flooring for
some sign of crepe hair. He expected this stage-mad murderer to have
attempted some sort of theatrical disguise, but his search failed to
reveal anything that left a hint as to what that disguise might be.

The only piece of incriminating evidence which Binny had left behind was
the sealed magazine of an automatic pistol, and, since this could not
have been overlooked, the detective surmised that the magazine had been
left because the man was carrying as many as he conveniently could.

Another discovery, which, at an earlier stage, would have been
invaluable, was a soiled white glove, obviously the fellow of that which
Surefoot had found in Mr. Washington Wirth's changing room.

"You never know," said Surefoot as he handed over the glove to his
subordinate. "Juries go mad sometimes, and a little thing like that
might convince 'em--keep it."

The larder had evidently been used as a sleeping room. Although the bed
was on the floor, and the apartment itself was bare, Binny had often
found this a convenient retreat. Very little daylight came through the
small window near the ceiling, and apparently he kept that closed most
of the time; it was covered with a square of oilcloth.

Before he left Surefoot tried the experiment of having the clothes
packed in the suitcase. He found, as he had expected, that there was
only sufficient to fill one. He was satisfied, too, that some of the
clothes he had found had been recently changed by Binny, and the
conclusion he reached was that one of the suitcases had contained the
disguise which the murderer wore when he left the house.

He sent his men on missions of enquiry up and down the street, but
nobody had seen Binny leave--he had chosen the hour well. Later he
widened the circle of enquiry, but again was unsuccessful.

He found Mary Lane and her fiancé waiting patiently in the palm court of
the Carlton, and reported his discoveries.

"If only I'd thought of it before!" she said ruefully.

Surefoot Smith's smile was not altogether unpleasant.

"Either you or I or all of us would have been dead," he said grimly.
"That bird carries a young arsenal, and your bad memory probably saved
us a whole lot of unpleasantness."

"Do you think he was there?"

He nodded.

"There's no doubt about it."

"He'll get away, then?" asked Dick.

Surefoot rubbed his chin irritably.

"I wonder if that would be a good thing or a bad thing?" he said. "He
may try to leave today--all the ports are being watched, and every
single passenger will be under inspection. The only person who can pass
on and out to a ship leaving this coast tonight is a baby in arms--and
we search even him!"

He drew his chair closer to the table and leaned across, lowering his
voice.

"Young lady," he said, and he was very serious, "you know what rats do
when they're in a corner--they bite! If this man can't get out of
England by walking out or shooting himself out, he's coming back to the
cause of all his trouble. I'm one, but you're another. Do you know where
I should like to put you?"

She shook her head, for the moment incapable of speech. She was shocked,
frightened a little, if she had confessed it. Binny was on her nerves,
more than she would admit. She felt her heart beating a little faster,
and when she spoke she was oddly breathless.

"Do you really think that?" And then, forcing a smile: "Where would you
put me?"

"In Holloway Prison." He was not joking. "It's the safest place in
London for an unmarried woman who's living around in hotels and flats;
and if I could find an excuse for putting you there for seven days I
would."

"You're not serious?" said Dick, troubled.

Surefoot nodded.

"I was never more serious in my life. He may get out of the country; I
don't think it's possible that he will. If Miss Lane had not remembered
the larder I should not take the precautions I am taking tonight. The
doors out of England are locked and barred, unless he's got an
ocean-going motor-boat somewhere on the East Coast, and I have an idea
that he hasn't."

Then, abruptly:

"Where are you staying tonight?"

Mary shook her head.

"I don't know. I think at the hotel----"

"You can't stay there." He was emphatic. "I know a place where you could
stay. It wouldn't have the conveniences of an hotel, but you'd have a
decent bed and security." There was a new police station in the
north-west of London, which had married quarters above it, and one of
these was occupied by a woman whose husband, a detective sergeant, had
gone to Canada to bring back a fugitive from justice.

"I know this woman; she's a decent sort, and she'll give you a bed, if
you wouldn't mind sleeping there."

She agreed very meekly. Indeed, she had a sense of relief that he had
found such a simple solution.

Surefoot Smith had a queer sixth sense of danger. He had been concerned
in many murder cases, had dealt with scores of desperate men who would
not have hesitated to kill him if they had had the opportunity. He had
known cunning men and a few clever criminals, but Binny was an unusual
type. Here was a killer with no regard for human life. Murder to him was
not a desperate expedient--it was part of a normal method.

There was a long conference at Scotland Yard and new and urgent
telegrams were sent to all parts of the country insisting upon the
dangerous character of the wanted man. Ordinarily the English police do
not carry firearms, but in this case, as the messages warned a score of
placid chief constables, it would be an act of suicide to accost the
wanted man unless the police officer whose duty it was to arrest him was
prepared to shoot.

Scotland Yard has a record of all projected sailings, and neither from
Liverpool nor Greenock was there any kind of boat due to leave in the
next thirty-six hours.

Binny's avenue of escape must be the Continent. Strong detachments of
C.I.D. men were sent to reinforce the watchers at Harwich, Southampton,
and the two Channel ports. And yet, when these preparations were
completed, Surefoot Smith had a vague feeling of uneasiness and
futility. Binny was in London, and he was too clever a man even to think
of leaving, unless he was ignorant that his hiding place had been
discovered. There was no reason why he should not be. It was hardly
likely that he had a confederate.

At five o'clock Surefoot made an exasperating discovery: he was
strolling in Whitehall when he saw a newspaper placard: "WANTED
MURDERER'S SECRET HIDING PLACE." He bought a paper and saw,
conspicuously displayed on the front page, a long paragraph headed:
"Secret Chamber in Hervey Lyne's House." Surefoot swore softly and read
on:

    "This afternoon Inspector Smith of Scotland Yard, accompanied by a
    number of detectives, made a further search of the house of Hervey
    Lyne--the victim of the Regent's Park murder. The police remained on
    the premises for some time. It is understood that in the course of
    their investigations a little room, which they had previously
    overlooked, was discovered and entered, and unmistakable evidence
    secured that this secret chamber had been used as a hiding place by
    the servant Binny, for whom the police have been searching...."

Surefoot Smith read no further. It was a waste of time wondering who had
given away the information to the Press. Possibly some young detective
who had been engaged in the search and who was anxious to pass on this
sensational discovery. To bring home this indiscretion was a matter that
could be left till later. In the meantime Binny knew if he were to read
the newspapers.

Oddly enough, Binny did not see the paragraph, and had already made up
his mind as to the course he would pursue.

At eight o'clock that night Surefoot called at Mary Lane's hotel and
escorted her to the plain but very comfortable lodgings he had secured
for her.

He had a talk with the inspector on duty, but asked for no guard. She
was safe. Binny would be a bold man to show himself abroad, and he
certainly would not walk into a police station.

At half-past nine that night Surefoot returned to Scotland Yard and read
the reports which had come in. The boat train from Liverpool Street had
been carefully combed. There was no sign of Binny or anybody who might
have been Binny. Every passport had been examined before the train
pulled out and, as an act of precaution, the railway platform had been
cleared of friends who had gathered to see off the passengers before the
officer in charge had given the station master the "All right."

A similar course was being followed at Waterloo, where the police were
watching and searching the trains for Havre. It was too early to hear
from the sea ports.

Binny was an expert chauffeur. It was hardly likely that he would get
out of London by train if he intended leaving London.




CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


The detective left the Yard a few minutes after eleven, and, turning to
his left, walked towards Blackfriars. To Surefoot Smith that long ribbon
of pavement which runs without a break from Scotland Yard to Savoy Hill
was a garden of thought. At headquarters somebody with a florid mind had
christened it his "Boulevard of Cogitation." Summer or winter, rain or
fine, Surefoot Smith found here the solution of all his problems. Men
had been hanged, swindlers had been sent down to the shades, very
commonplace happenings had assumed a sinister importance, and, by
contrast, seemingly guilty men and women had had their innocence
established in the course of Surefoot Smith's midnight recreation.

There were very few pedestrians at this hour of the night. The courting
couples, for some strange reason, chose the better lighted river side of
the road. Cars flashed past occasionally. There was an irregular
procession of street cars at long intervals, and once an occasional
night hawk shuffled along the kerb-side in search of a stray cigarette
end.

Near one of the entrances to the Embankment Gardens a saloon car was
drawn up by the kerb. Glancing inside, more from habit than curiosity,
Surefoot saw the figure of a woman sitting, and continued his stroll.

He paced on, turning over the question of Binny in his mind. The greater
problem was solved; the more dangerous and delicate business of
effecting the man's arrest had yet to be accomplished. He was uneasy,
which was not usual. Surefoot Smith was a great dreamer. He visualised
the most fantastic possibilities, and because he allowed his thoughts
the fullest and widest range, he was more successful than many of his
fellows. For there is this about dreaming, that it throws the
commonplace possibilities into sharp relief, and it is on the
commonplace possibilities that most detectives rely.

He turned on his tracks at Savoy Hill and walked slowly back towards the
Yard. By this time the reports would be coming in from the coast, though
it was still a little too early for any but Southampton, where an extra
vigilance was being exercised. A German-American liner, which was due at
that port that night, was taking in passengers for Hamburg, and this
fact had necessitated sending a second batch of watchers to the port.

He saw the car still standing by the side of the road. It was no great
distance from the Lost Property Office and it was likely that the lady
had sent her chauffeur in search of something she had left behind her in
a cab in the course of the day. As he drew near her he saw that the
woman was standing by the open door of the machine--a middle-aged lady,
he gathered by her plumpness.

To his surprise she addressed him in a high-pitched voice.

"I wonder if you could fetch a policeman for me?"

A staggering request to make of one of the recognised heads of Scotland
Yard.

"What's wrong?" asked Surefoot Smith.

She stepped aside from the door.

"My chauffeur," she said. "He has come back rather the worse for drink,
and I can't get him out of the car."

A drunken chauffeur is an offence to all good policemen. Surefoot opened
the door wider and peered in.

He saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. His consciousness of life
went out like a snuffed candle.




CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


His head was aching terribly. He tried to move his hands and found
movement restricted. He did not realise why for a long time.

The car was moving with great rapidity, far beyond the legalised speed
limit. There were no lights. By the whir of the wheels he guessed he was
on a newly made road. It was queer that this fact should have appeared
so important to him. He could remember nothing, knew nothing, except
that he was lying curled up on the floor of a motor-car which was moving
rapidly and smoothly. Then he stopped thinking again for a long time and
was glad of the unconsciousness which obliterated this throbbing head of
his.

The car was now bumping over an uneven surface. It was that which roused
him to consciousness. He blinked up, tried to raise himself, felt
gingerly along his wrists and recognised the shape of the handcuffs--his
own; he always carried an unauthorised pair in his coat pocket.
Unauthorised, because they were not of the regulation type--they were
American handcuffs which were so much easier to put on--a tap on the
wrist and the D swung round and was fast.

Somebody had handcuffed him. Somebody had tied his legs together with a
silk scarf. He could feel it, but he could not reach the knot. And then
he remembered the woman and the car and the drunken chauffeur who was
not there.

The car was bumping painfully. It seemed to be passing over a ploughed
field or, at best, a cart track. It was the latter, he found when the
car stopped.

A little while later the door was pulled open; he saw the outlines of
the "woman" and knew exactly who "she" was.

There was a little cottage a few yards away; one of those monstrous
little boxes of red brick and tiling that disfigure the countryside
since the war. His coat collar was gripped and he was jerked out into
the road, falling on his knees.

"Get up, you----," hissed a voice, and what followed was not ladylike.

He was half-dragged and half-pushed towards the cottage; the door was
flung open and he was thrust into a dark interior. It smelt of drying
mortar and plaster and new wood. He guessed it was unfurnished. He
waited awhile. The door was locked on the inside and he was again urged
forward into a room so completely dark that he knew the window was
shuttered. He fell on the floor. It was amazing that he walked at all
with his legs bound, as they were, with the silk scarf.

As he lay there, a match spluttered, there was a tinkle of an oil lamp
chimney being taken off, and presently the room was illuminated by the
soft glow of a kerosene lamp. The only articles of furniture in the room
were two sofas, a chair, and a kitchen table. Wooden shutters covered
the window, as he had suspected. There were neither hangings nor
curtains of any description, and the table was innocent of cloth.

His captor pulled the chair forward, sat down, his hands on his knees,
and surveyed him.

Surefoot would never have recognised this yellow-faced old woman with a
grey wig and a long fur coat. The wig was now a little askew--it gave
him a comical but terrible appearance. He was sensitive to ridicule,
took off the wig and hat with one movement and appeared even more
grotesque with his bald head and his yellow face.

"Got you," said Binny huskily.

He was grinning, but there was no merriment in that smile.

"Mr. Surefoot Smith is not so sure on his feet after all."

The jest seemed to amuse him, and then, as though conscious of the
attitude which the situation demanded, he assumed that affected mincing
tone which had belonged to Mr. Washington Wirth.

"I built this little place a couple of years ago. I thought it might be
useful, but I haven't been here for a long time. I am leaving the
country. Perhaps you would like to buy it, Mr. Smith? It's an excellent
retreat for a professional gentleman who wishes to be quiet, and you are
going to be very quiet!"

From his pocket he took an automatic pistol and laid it on the table
beside him, and, stooping down, he lifted Surefoot and sat him in a
corner of the room. Bending down, he unfastened the sagging silk scarf
about his ankles and jerked off the detective's shoes, throwing them
into another corner of the room. He hesitated a second, then loosened
Surefoot's collar.

"You are not hurt, my dear Mr. Smith," he remarked. "A rubber truncheon
applied to the back of the neck does not kill. It is, I admit, very
uncomfortable. There was once a copper in Cincinnati who tried that
treatment on me. It was two months before I was well enough to shoot
him. You didn't know of my little retreat?"

Surefoot's mouth was dry, his head was whizzing, but he was entirely
without fear, though he realised his case was a desperate one.

"Oh yes, I did, Binny," he said. "This place is about a hundred yards
from the Bath Road near Taplow. You bought the ground four years ago,
and paid a hundred and fifty pounds for it."

For a second Binny was thrown off his balance.

"This house was searched last week by my police officers, and is now
under the observation of the Buckinghamshire police. You have got
another cottage of a similar character in Wiltshire."

"Oh, indeed?"

Binny was completely taken aback. He was rattled too. Surefoot saw this
and pushed home his advantage.

"What's the good of being a fool? We have got no evidence against you
for murder. The only evidence is that you have forged Hervey Lyne's
cheques. The worst that can happen to you is a seven stretch."

Again he put his finger upon the one great doubt which obsessed the man.

"You may get an extra year for this," said Surefoot, "but what's a year?
Get me some water. There's a kitchen just behind this room. Let the tap
run: the water was rusty when I was here last week. There's a tin cup on
the dresser."

The instinct to obey is stronger than the instinct to command. Binny
went out and returned with the tin cup and put it to the detective's
lips.

"Now take these handcuffs off and we'll have a little talk. Why didn't
you bring Mike Hennessey here instead of----" He realised his colossal
error as soon as the words were spoken.

Binny stepped back with a snarl.

"Don't want me for murder, eh? You double-crossing busy! I will show
you what I want you for."

His hand moved towards the gun on the table.

Binny took up the pistol and examined it carefully.

"I have always wanted to tell you where you get off, Smith----" he
began.

"Your wish has come true," said Surefoot coolly. "But you'd better work
fast."

"I'll work fast enough," said the other grimly.

He slipped the gun into his pocket, picked up the scarf, and retied his
prisoner's ankles.

He then took off his fur coat and relieved himself of his woman's
garments. From a theatre trunk he retrieved an old suit, which he put
on.

Surefoot Smith watched him interestedly.

"I gather you have some hard work to do?" he said.

"Pretty hard," said the other, and added significantly: "The ground here
is fairly soft. You don't get down to clay till you have dug six feet."

If he expected to terrify his captive he was disappointed.

"Why not let me do it?" said Smith. "You are fat and out of condition.
Digging my own grave is a hobby of mine."

For a second Binny seemed to be considering this suggestion.

"No, I'll do it," he said, "fat or not fat."

"Why bother?" Surefoot's voice was almost airy. "As soon as I am missing
they will search here and in Wiltshire. I gather your object is to leave
no trace. You are not sure now whether we could convict you for murder,
are you? If you kill a police officer you are certain to be hanged.
Every man in Scotland Yard will turn out to find evidence against you.
People who were sleeping in their beds will swear that they saw you cosh
me."

He libelled the best police force in the world without shame.

"You might get away with Hennessey," Surefoot went on, "and old Lyne and
Tickler, but you could not get away with me. They will come along and
search this ground, which, if I remember rightly, is grass-grown, and
unless you do a little bit of artistic turfing they will find me and
that will be the finish of you."

Binny paused at the door and turned with an ugly grin on his face.

"I used to know a copper who talked like you, but he talked himself into
hell, see?"

He went out and closed the door behind him.

Surefoot Smith sat, thinking very hard. He made an effort to break the
single link that bound the two cuffs together. It was certainly a
painful process, probably impossible. By drawing up his legs and
separating them at the knees he could reach the trebly knotted silk
scarf. It was difficult, but he succeeded in loosening one knot, and was
at work on the second when he heard the man returning along the bare
boards of the passage.

Binny was finding his task more difficult than he had anticipated. His
face was wet with perspiration. He groped in the trunk, took out a
bottle of whisky, and, removing the patent top, took a long drink.

"Is it courage or strength you're looking for?" asked Surefoot.

"You'll see," growled the other, glaring down at the helpless man
malignantly.

The butts of two automatics stuck out of his trousers pockets. Surefoot
eyed them longingly.

Binny was half-way to the door when a thought struck him, and he turned
back and examined the knots of the scarf.

"Oh, you've undone one, have you. We'll see about that."

Again he searched the trunk and found a length of cord. He slipped it
round the link of the handcuffs and knotted the cord firmly behind the
detective's neck, so that his hands were drawn up almost to his chin.

"You look funny--almost as if you were praying!" remarked Binny. "I
shan't keep you long."

He went out of the room on this promise.

Sprawling there helplessly, Surefoot heard the hoot of cars as they
passed. He was, he knew, about a hundred yards from the main road, but
it was a road along which, day and night, traffic was continually
passing.

The possibility that the Buckinghamshire police would search this little
cottage was very remote, unless somebody at Scotland Yard had a
brain-wave that this was the most likely place to which the prisoner
would be taken. But Scotland Yard might not even miss him. He was an
erratic man; when he was engaged in an important case he would absent
himself from headquarters for days together, leaving his chiefs fuming.
The search would not begin until Binny was well out of the country.

He watched the smoky oil lamp burning; the flame had been turned on too
high and one side of the glass chimney was smoked.

Binny was out for a getaway; he would leave no traces. Even the murder
would not be committed in the house.

Half an hour, an hour passed, and he heard the heavy feet of the man
coming for him, and knew that the hour was at hand.




CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


Scotland Yard had missed Surefoot Smith in the sense that the negative
reports which had been taken to his room had not been read or attended
to. The fact that they were negative would have justified the officer on
duty accepting the situation, but for the peculiar conscientiousness of
a young police officer who reported to the station at Cannon Row, which
is part of Scotland Yard, that a blue saloon car, driven by a woman, had
disregarded his stop signal at the junction of Westminster Bridge and
the Embankment, and had driven on the wrong side of the road. He called
on it to stop, and, when that failed, had taken its number.

Ordinarily the question of a technical offence of this character would
have been left over till the morning, but whilst he was making his
statement a Member of Parliament came into the station to report the
loss of a blue saloon car, which had been taken from the front of his
club in Pall Mall. It had been standing on a rank, against all traffic
rules, and he had actually been a witness of the theft.

"It was a man dressed as a woman," was his startling conclusion.

"What makes you think that, sir?" asked the inspector in charge.

"As he got in, the top of the car, which has a very low body, knocked
his hat off. It was a bald-headed man with a yellow face like somebody
suffering from jaundice."

The inspector sat bolt upright. All England was looking for a
bald-headed man with a jaundiced face, and in a few moments the wires
were humming.

Again it was a traffic policeman who supplied information, and again it
was Binny's anxiety to make a quick run out of London that betrayed him.
He had been held up near Heston, where a tramline crosses the main
arterial road. He narrowly escaped collision with the tram and the car
skidded. The policeman walked across the road to examine the licence of
the driver, whose engine had stopped. The policeman distinctly saw a
stout woman driver, but before he could ask a question the engine had
been restarted and the car moved on. This must have happened in the
second period of Surefoot's unconsciousness.

It was not until an hour and a half after the enquiry had been sent out
that the traffic policeman's report was received. By this time a "hurry
up" call for Surefoot had failed to locate him. Moreover, he had left on
his table at Scotland Yard a half-finished sheet of notes.

Now Surefoot never in any circumstances left his notes behind him; and
another significant fact was that he had not handed the key of his room
to the officer at the door, a practice which he invariably followed,
however hurried might be his departure.

His habit of taking a walk was common knowledge. He had been seen
walking towards Savoy Hill. The policeman on duty at the foot of the
hill had also seen him turn back. Then somebody remembered the blue
motor-car that had been standing by the side of the road.

By the time these enquiries had been completed every detective in
Scotland Yard had been assembled on the instructions of the hastily
summoned chief.

"He may be heading for the coast. What is more likely is that he's on
his way to one of those houses of his," said the Chief Constable. "Get
the Buckinghamshire and Salisbury police on the 'phone, and, to make
absolutely sure, send squad cars right away to both places."

One of the first people who had been interrogated was Dick Allenby. It
was known that Surefoot was a friend of his, and Surefoot was an
inveterate gossiper, who loved nothing better than to sit up till three
in the morning with a friendly and sympathetic audience. Dick Allenby's
arrival at the Yard coincided with the departure of the first squad car
for Salisbury.

"We may be chasing moonbeams," said the Chief Constable; "very likely
old Surefoot will turn up in about a quarter of an hour, but I am
taking no unnecessary risks."

"But he would never get bluffed," said Dick scornfully.

The Chief shook his head.

"I don't know. This fellow has had a pretty hectic experience in
America, and it will not be the first person he has taken for a ride in
this country."

Of one thing he was sure--that the threat of a revolver would not have
induced Surefoot to get into that car.

He looked at his watch; it was half-past one, and he shook his head.

"I wish the night were over," he said.

From that remark Dick sensed all that the other feared.

       *       *       *       *       *

Surefoot Smith had less than half a minute to do his thinking and to
decide on one of the dozen plans--most of them impracticable--that were
spinning in his mind.

The door opened slowly and Binny came in. He wiped his forehead on a big
handkerchief he took out of his pocket, and sat down.

"You will come a little walk with me, my friend," he said pleasantly.

He took the bottle from the table, swallowed a generous drink, and wiped
his mouth. Stooping, he untied the scarf that bound Surefoot's ankles
and jerked him to his feet.

Surefoot Smith rose unsteadily. His head was swimming, but the terrific
nature of the moment brought about his instant recovery. Binny was
standing by the door, fingering his gun. He had fixed to the end of the
barrel an egg-shaped object, the like of which Surefoot had never seen
before, and he found himself wondering how Dick Allenby, who was
interested in silencers and who had asserted so often that a silencer
could not be used on an automatic, because of the backfire, would
reconcile this freakish thing with his theories.

Surefoot walked to the table and stood, resting his manacled hands on
its deal surface.

"Saying a prayer or something?" mocked Binny.

"You don't want anybody to know I have been here, do you? You don't want
to leave any trace, and that's why you don't kill me in this room?"

"That's the idea," said the other cheerfully.

"If you had a few hundred people rushing in this direction and asking
questions, that would spoil your plan, wouldn't it?"

Binny's eyes narrowed.

"What's the idea?" he demanded.

He took one step towards his prisoner, when Surefoot lifted the lamp and
flung it into the open hamper. There was a crash as the glass reservoir
broke, a flicker of light, and then a huge flame shot up towards the
ceiling.

Binny stood, paralysed to inaction, and in the next moment Surefoot had
flung himself upon the man. He drove straight at Binny's face with his
clenched hands. The man ducked and the blow missed him. Something
exploded in the detective's face; he felt the sting of the powder and
heard an expelled cartridge "ting" against the wall.

He struck again, striving to bring the steel handcuffs on to the man's
head. Binny twisted aside, but did not wholly escape the impact of the
shock. The gun fell from his hand on to the floor.

The room was now a mass of flames; the fire had licked through the thin
plaster of the wall and the laths were burning like paper. The
atmosphere was thick with acrid smoke, the heat already intolerable.

Again Surefoot struck and again Binny dodged. Surefoot had kicked the
pistol out of reach--kicked it into the mass of flames that were
spurting from the bottom of the canvas-covered trunk. The door was open
and Binny darted out of the room, trying to close it after him, but
Smith's shoulders were in the way. Jerking the door wider, he stumbled
into the passage and hurled himself at the murderer.

The only hope was to keep at close quarters. Binny had another pistol,
had it half out of his pocket, when Surefoot pinned him against the hot
wall, and, bracing his feet, exerted all his strength to crush him
there. In this position it was impossible to hit the man. In the
half-light he saw Binny reaching out towards the front door and edged
him nearer to facilitate his task. As the door was flung open and the
air came rushing in, the hum of the fire became a roar; flames were
flung out like red and yellow banners whipped by the wind.

Binny was trying to pull himself clear of the hands that held him by the
singlet; striving desperately to pull out his second pistol. His breath
was coming in shrill whistles; he was frightened, had lost all his old
reserve of courage. He wriggled desperately to escape the pressure of
the heavy figure that was jammed against him, and at last, by a
superhuman effort, he succeeded, and darted through the door, Surefoot
behind him. His gun was out now and he fired. The detective hurled
himself on his man and brought him down. He was up in a second and was
running towards the back of the house.

The flames were coming from the roof. The countryside for a hundred
yards was almost as light as day. Surefoot, handcuffed as he was, flew
in pursuit; and then suddenly Binny turned, and this time his aim was
deliberate. Surefoot Smith knew that there was no hope now. The man who
covered him was a dead shot, and was within half a dozen paces of him.

In desperation he sprang forward. His feet touched air, and he was
falling, falling....

He heard the shot, wondered dimly if this was death, and was brought to
the realisation that he was still alive by the impact of his body at the
bottom of the hole into which he had fallen. He realised at once what
had happened: Binny had been busy all that night preparing this hiding
place for his crime, but had missed falling into the hole.

He struggled to his feet, bruised and aching, heard a second shot and
looked up. There was a third and fourth. An authoritative voice was
challenging somebody. Then he heard his own name called, and shouted. A
man's face loomed over the edge of the pit. It was his own sergeant.
They brought him up to the top.

"He won't get away," said the detective to whom Surefoot addressed a
gasping enquiry.

"Which way did he go, and where is his car?"

He was weary, aching from head to foot, bruised and scratched, but for
the moment he had no thought of comfort.

"Feel in my hip pocket; I think he left the key of these handcuffs."

They unlocked the irons and took them off, and he rubbed his bruised
wrists.

"Have you found his car?"

Binny's saloon had not been located. The last time Surefoot had seen
it, it was at the door of the cottage, but evidently, during one of his
absences, the man had taken it to a hiding place. There was a small
garage attached to the cottage--a tiny shed--but this was unoccupied.

By the light of the burning house they picked up the tracks. They
crossed the grassland to the left of the cottage and must have passed
over the very place where Binny had dug the grave. Thereafter they were
difficult to trace, but obviously they went straight across the field in
the same direction as the man had taken. A quarter of an hour later they
picked up unmistakable evidence that the car had been left standing near
a small secondary road. The gate was wide open and the tracks of the
machine were visible on the soft, wet earth. He had not made for the
main road again, but had turned up to the road to Cookham, where traffic
would be practically non-existent at this hour of the night and the
chances of observation nil.

The solitary police officer on duty at Cookham had seen the car pass,
but had not observed the driver. He had turned on to the toll bridge,
but at this hour of the night the toll gate is left open. The Bourne End
police had seen several cars without taking particular notice of them.
He could have taken the Oxford Road across the railway crossing, or he
could have followed the river to Marlow.

Surefoot Smith rejected the suggestion that he should go home and rest,
leaving the chase to the Flying Squad and the Buckinghamshire police; he
rejected it violently and with oaths.

"This fellow can't go far, dressed as he is," he said, "in a singlet and
trousers--I pulled most of his shirt off. He is going to hold up
somebody, or burgle a house and get a new outfit. You realise what this
man is, don't you? He is trained in the gang methods. He will not stop
at murder--you are not dealing with an ordinary English criminal."

They were not kept waiting long for proof of this. Deciding upon the
Marlow road as being more likely to offer opportunities for this
desperado, they came upon a policeman pushing a bicycle. It was raining
heavily, and his helmet and cape were dripping wet.

"A blue car passed here five minutes ago," he said.

The police car sped on. Just outside of Marlow they found the machine
they were seeking; it was empty.

At three o'clock in the morning a car passing along the Oxford Road was
stopped by a policeman, who stood in the middle of the roadway with
outstretched arms. Driving the car was a well-to-do farmer from Oxford.
He was inclined to be truculent at this stop.

"I am sorry to bother you," said the police officer, "but we are
searching for an escaped murderer, and I want you to give me a lift to
the other side of High Wycombe."

The farmer, rather intrigued, was not at all displeased, probably a
little thrilled, to find himself a participant in a man hunt, and the
policeman got into the uncomfortable rear seat of the car. It sped on
through the Wycombes.

"I will tell you where to drop me," said the officer.

On the other side of High Wycombe there is a fork road which leads to
Princes Risborough.

"Turn here," said the officer.

The driver expostulated--he had to get back to Oxford.

"Turn here," said the police officer, and something cold touched the
nape of the farmer's neck.

"Do as you're told."

The policeman's voice was peremptory. The gun in his grimy hand was
eloquent. The farmer almost jumped out of his seat with astonishment. He
was not wanting in courage, but he was unarmed.

"What's your game?" he asked. He was still unsuspicious that the man
behind him was anything but a policeman. "You're not allowed to do that
sort of thing."

"Get it out of your nut that I'm a copper," said Binny. "The man whose
clothes I'm wearing is lying in a ditch with a break in his bean. Drive
where I tell you and save a lot of argument."

The driver turned the car in the direction indicated. They went along a
new road, a portion of which was under construction. There were red
lamps and a watchman's fire. Dimly the farmer realised that the man
behind him was the wanted murderer, and the realisation chilled him.

They were in a country which even at high noon is a little deserted. It
was a silent desert now. All the time Binny was watching left and right
for a suitable place for his purpose. Presently they passed by the side
of the road a wooden building that had the appearance of a barn, and he
ordered the driver to stop and turn back. There was an open gate by the
side of the barn, and through this they drove.

"Stop here," said Binny. He pushed open the door of the saloon. "Now get
down."

He took the little electric lantern which had been part of the
unfortunate policeman's equipment, and flashed it on to the door of the
barn. It was unsecured by lock or hasp. He pulled open the door with one
hand, covering his prisoner with the other.

"Go inside," he said, and followed.

Half an hour later he came out again, wearing the farmer's tweed suit
and his high-collared water-proof jacket. He listened for a second at
the door before closing it, got into the limousine, and backed on to
the road. There was still a considerable danger of his being stopped. A
solitary man driving a car would be suspect, no matter whose clothes he
was wearing, and the present solution to his difficulty was merely a
temporary measure.

If he could find one of those night trucks that run between London and
the provinces it would serve him better. These express lorries carried
two and often three men. He had to trust to luck.

Detection was certain if he took a direction which led him away from
London. In the few hours that remained before the dawn he must work his
way back to London. He had three bolt-holes; had the police found them
all?

He drove through Aylesbury and worked right. He had an extraordinary
knowledge of topography, and was aiming to reach the Great North Road
and approach London from that direction.

Passing through a village, a policeman came out of the shadows and held
up his hand. For a second Binny hesitated; his first impulse was to
drive on, but he was none too certain of the immediate locality, and the
chances were that if he did not stop now he would find a "barrage" a few
miles farther on.

Binny had studied the police situation very carefully. He knew that the
police could close London in a ring by the establishment of these
barrage posts, and that he would be liable at any moment to come upon a
place where a lorry was drawn up across the road. He knew too of the
canvas belts, heavily spiked, which are thrown across the roadway, with
disastrous consequences to the non-stop motorist.

He took his foot off the accelerator and brought his car to a
standstill.

"Let me see your driving licence," said the police officer.

Binny stiffened. He had relieved his victim of all his portable goods,
but a driving licence was not amongst them. Motorists have a trick of
carrying this important document in the pocket attached to the door. If
it were not there....

He slipped his gun out of his pocket and laid it on the seat by his side
before he lifted up the flap of the pocket and began a search. His heart
jumped as his fingers touched the familiar shape of the licence. He
handed it out and the policeman examined it by the light of his lantern.

"Is this Dornby or Domby?" asked the officer.

"Dornby," said Binny promptly.

It was as likely to be that as the other. The officer handed back the
licence without a word.

"You haven't seen anybody driving a blue saloon, have you--a man dressed
in shirt and trousers?"

Binny chuckled.

"Well, I wouldn't be able to tell the colour of the saloon, and I
certainly wouldn't see what the driver was wearing. Why? Do you want
somebody?"

"There's been a murder committed," said the policeman vaguely. "We only
had a vague idea as to why the 'arrest and detain' notice should have
been issued. Good-night, Mr. Dornby."

Binny drove on. The policeman had not looked into that yellow face, but
the next policeman might. They were pretty slick at Scotland Yard, he
decided, and wondered how these isolated police posts should have been
notified.

He looked at the licence. John Henry Domby was the name, of Wellfield
Farm. He memorised this, put the licence in his pocket, and went on.

He had now reached a point where he could avoid villages, for he would
soon be striking the North Road, where most efficient barrages would be
established, especially when he reached the Metropolitan Police area.

He came at last to the long, winding road that runs from London through
Doncaster to the north. Left or right? That was the problem.

He debouched on to the highway through a narrow lane with high banks. It
was near a turn of the road. He heard the whir of a motor-car, saw the
glow of headlamps, and turned sharply to the left.

The car that came round the corner was hugging the left of the road.
The driver saw Binny's machine almost too late to avoid a collision. He
swerved to the right, the car skidded on the slippery road, turned
completely round, and, striking a telegraph post with one of its wheels,
hung drunkenly over the side of the ditch.

Binny pulled up to avoid a second collision, for the wrecked machine was
now immediately in front of him, and only by jamming on his brakes did
he bring his own car to a standstill a few inches from the other. He
heard the chauffeur shout, the door was jerked open, and a woman
scrambled out into the glare of the headlamps.

Binny stared, hardly able to believe his eyes. The woman standing in the
downpour was Mary Lane!




CHAPTER THIRTY


Security can be very irksome, especially when it is wedded to a lumpy
bed in an ill-ventilated room. The sergeant's wife had given her the
second best bedroom, which was, by most standards, a comfortable
apartment. Mary felt desperately tired when she put out the light, but
the moment her head touched the pillow all her weariness and desire for
sleep had left her. She lay for half an hour, counting sheep, making up
shopping lists, weaving stories, but grew wider and wider awake. At the
end of that time she got up, turned on the light, and slipped into her
dressing-gown.

She thought the mere act of rising would make her sleepy, but she had
been mistaken. She was seized with a longing for her own comfortable
quarters at the hotel, and began to dress. She could easily make an
excuse to the sergeant's wife, who had gone out for the evening and
would not be back till after midnight. There was no telephone in the
quarters, but Surefoot Smith had made her free of the station, and she
knew she had only to go down-stairs and see the night inspector and he
would put her in touch with the detective.

She felt horribly ungrateful, but, so far as she had been concerned,
she had come to this safe retreat without any enthusiasm. The danger
from Binny was probably exaggerated--Surefoot himself had told her that
the man could have no further interest in her now that the hue and cry
was out.

Scribbling a note to her hostess--a note which contained more lame
excuses for her eccentricity than were necessary--she put on her coat
and went down to the charge room.

The inspector to whom she had been introduced had gone out, visiting the
patrols. Evidently he had not impressed upon the sergeant in charge the
necessity for keeping a watchful eye upon the visitor, and he received
her explanation for her return to the hotel with polite interest, until
she mentioned the name of Surefoot Smith. Then he became very attentive.

"He's not at the Yard, miss. As a matter of fact, there's been some
trouble there. We've had a special warning to look out for him."

She opened her eyes in astonishment.

"Look out for him?" And then, quickly: "Has he disappeared?"

The sergeant did not forget that reticence is the first duty of a
constable, and became evasive.

"Is it something to do with Binny?" she insisted.

"Well, yes." He hesitated before he became more communicative. "He's the
man wanted for the murder of the old man in Regent's Park. Yes, they've
got an idea at the Yard that Binny's got him away somewhere. Rather a
queer idea that a murderer can get away an inspector of the C.I.D., but
there you are!"

She sensed, without realising, the eternal if gentle rivalry between the
uniformed and the ununiformed branches of the Metropolitan Police.

"How could an inspector be lured away? It sounds silly, doesn't it?
Personally, I believe it's all bunk, but there you are! We're on the
lookout for both of them."

She asked him to get her a cab, and again he was reluctant. Sergeants in
charge of station houses have no time to find cabs for visitors; but she
was evidently a friend of Surefoot Smith's and he stretched a point in
her favour, telephoned to a cab rank, and five minutes later she was
driving through the rain to Scotland Yard.

She left just as the squad cars were starting out in search of Surefoot,
and she interviewed the Chief Inspector. He offered her very little
information and a great deal of fatherly advice about going to bed. He
evidently knew nothing whatever of Surefoot's plan to protect her, and
was a little embarrassed when she asked if she might stay at Scotland
Yard until some news was received.

"I shouldn't worry if I were you, Miss Lane," he said. "We've got police
barrages on all the roads for thirty miles round London, and I am very
certain that Surefoot will turn up. He's an erratic sort of individual,
and I wouldn't be surprised to see him walk in at any moment."

Nevertheless, she was determined to stay, and he had her taken to
Surefoot's own room.

It was a quiet room, and now that the first excitement of the night was
over she realised how tired she was and how foolish she had been to
leave even an uncomfortable bed.

She sat at the table, resting her head on one palm, found herself
nodding, and, after a while, passing into that uneasy stage of
semi-consciousness which is nearly sleep.

She woke with a jump as the Chief Inspector came in.

"Young lady, you go home," he said. "We've found Surefoot; so far as I
can make out, he's not very badly hurt."

He told her briefly what had happened.

"Binny has escaped. Surefoot's theory is that he's breaking north. Have
you ever noticed that a fugitive from justice invariably turns north?
It's a fact--at least, nearly a fact. Now you go home, Miss Lane, and
I'll send an officer round to your hotel in the morning with the latest
news."

"Is he coming back to London?" she asked. "Mr. Smith, I mean?"

The Chief smiled.

"If he had half the intelligence he's supposed to have he'd get himself
admitted to a nursing home. No. We've formed a sort of headquarters
barrage this side of Welwyn. Chief Inspector Roose is in charge, and
Surefoot is going across for a consultation. He's all right--your friend
Mr. Allenby is with him."

He had a cab called and she drove to her hotel. She must have been half
asleep for two hours, she saw as she passed Big Ben and heard two
o'clock strike. She was wider awake than she had been at any period of
the night.

The hall porter who admitted her was searching for her letters when she
stopped him.

"Is there a place where I can hire a car?" she asked.

He looked at her in astonishment.

"Yes, miss. Do you want one tonight?"

She hesitated. The Chief had said that Dick and Surefoot were at Welwyn,
but he had not said where. At first she supposed that they had taken up
their quarters at the local police station--she was rather hazy as to
what a barrage meant. But there would be policemen on the road, stopping
cars, and they would direct her to where the two men could be found.

Why she should go at all was not quite clear even to herself. It was a
desire to be "in it," to be close to the big events which touched her
own life so closely, to see with her own eyes the development of the
story in which she had been a character. She could find plenty of
excuses; none that she could have stated convincingly.

"Yes, get me a car. Tell them to come round as soon as they can."

He gave her the key of her room and she went upstairs, and presently the
porter came up after her, bringing some coffee he had made, for by night
he was not only custodian but cook.

Leo Moran had been removed to his own flat, he told her, but mainly he
talked, with a certain amount of pride, about the reporters who had been
"coming and going" since the discovery of the gassed banker.

She had hardly finished her coffee before the car came, and, dressing
herself a little more warmly, she went down and gave the driver
instructions.

As the car drew out of the suburbs into the open country, Binny and his
flight assumed a new significance. She was not sorry for him. If she was
a little frightened, it was not of the man, but at the thought of the
vast machinery that her brain had put into motion. The moment she had
heard of that scrawled note on the back of the cheque she had solved the
mystery of Binny's defalcations, and when she had heard that all the
forgeries were dated the seventeenth of the month--the day that the old
man invariably paid his tradesmen's bills--she was sure.

And now, because she had remembered the shape and appearance of the key
of a kitchen door, because she had added cheques to key, eighteen
thousand London policemen were looking for this bald-headed man. That
was the frightening thing; not Binny and the menace of him, but the
spectacle of these great winding wheels moving to crush a malefactor.

To Mary Lane, Binny was hardly as much an individual as a force. She
thought the car was speeding a little dangerously on the wet road. Once
she distinctly felt a skid, and gripped the arm-rest tightly.

They could not have been more than a few miles from Welwyn when,
rounding a turn, she saw a car come into the road ahead, and went cold,
for she realised that, at the speed they were travelling, it was almost
impossible to avoid it. Her car swerved and turned giddily; she felt a
crash, and was thrown violently to her knees as the machine canted over.

She reached up at the door, and by sheer physical strength flung it open
and scrambled out on to the wet road. The chauffeur was already standing
by the bonnet, staring at the car stupidly.

"I'm very sorry, miss," he said huskily. "I'll have to telephone for
another car from town. Perhaps this gentleman will take you into
Welwyn."

The second car, in avoiding which the accident had occurred, was behind
them. Mary walked towards it as the driver got down from his seat. His
coat collar was turned up, and she could not see his face.

"Had an accident?" he asked gruffly.

The chauffeur came forward.

"Will you drive us into Welwyn?" he asked. "I've smashed my near side
front wheel."

"You'd better wait with the car. I'll drive the lady; it's only a couple
of miles ahead," said the other. "Go on, miss, jump in; I'll drop you in
the town and send back a breakdown gang for the car."

This arrangement apparently suited the chauffeur, and Mary followed the
motorist, and, when he opened the door of his car, entered without any
misgivings. He walked round the back of the machine, got in by the other
door, and sat by her side. She could not see his face; his collar was
still turned up. As he started the engine and moved on she thought she
heard him laugh, and wondered what there was amusing in the situation.

"It's very good of you to take me," she said. "I'm afraid the accident
was our fault."

He did not reply for a moment, but at last:

"Accidents will happen," he said sententiously.

They went two or three hundred yards along the road, and then suddenly
the car turned left. She knew roughly the position of Welwyn, knew
enough at any rate to realise that they were going away from the town.

"Haven't you made a mistake?" she asked.

"No." His reply was short and gruff, but it aroused in her no more than
a sense of resentment.

From the second road they turned into a third, a narrow lane which ran
roughly parallel with the main road. It skirted some big estate; high
trees banked up one side of the lane, and a wire fence cut the estate
from the road. The car slowed, and as they came abreast of a white gate,
stopped. The driver turned the machine so that the headlamps searched
the gate and revealed its flimsy character. Without hesitation he sent
the car jerking forward, crashing one of the lamps and sending the gate
into splinters.

Beyond was a fairly smooth gravel road, and up this the car sped.

"Where are we going?"

A cold chill was at the girl's heart; an understanding of her danger set
her trembling from head to foot.

Binny did not reply till they had gone a hundred yards. He found an
opening between the trees on the right, set the car in that direction,
and jolted on for another fifty yards. Then he stopped the machine.

"What is the meaning of this?" she asked.

"You're a very nice young lady, a very sweet young lady. Charmed to
meet you again in such romantic circumstances."

As she heard that mincing, affected voice she almost swooned. Binny! The
horror of her discovery came to her with full force, as he went on:

"Friend of Mr. Allenby's--fiancée, aren't you, young lady? And a friend
of my dear friend, Surefoot Smith."

She reached out for the door handle and tried to rise, but he threw her
back.

"I've had several ideas about you. The first was that nobody would stop
me if they saw me driving with a lady. Then it struck me that I was
being optimistic. The second thought that occurred to me, my dear, was
that you might be of great assistance to me. And the third thought, my
sweet young thing, was that, if the worst came to the worst--they can
only hang you once, you know, whatever you do. Not that they will hang
me," he went on quickly, "I am too clever for them. Now we'll get out
and see where we are."

He leaned over her, pushed open the door, and, catching her by the arm,
guided her to the ground.

Just before she had left the hotel the porter had handed her a thick
bundle of letters. She had advertised for a maid and had given the hotel
as her address; these were some of the replies. She had thrust them into
her pocket, and as she stepped from the car she remembered them. She
drew one from her pocket and dropped it on the ground.

Binny had retained the lantern he had taken from the policeman, and with
the aid of this they found their way through the plantation.

"You and I will find another car."

He chatted pleasantly, and even in her terror she could find time to
wonder how he could return to the character of Washington Wirth. It was
grotesque, unbelievable, like a bad dream.

"I am a man of infinite resource," he went on, never releasing his grip
of her arm. "For hundreds of years they will talk about Binny, just as
today they talk about Jack Sheppard. And the wonderful thing about it is
that I shall end my life quietly, as a respectable member of society.
Possibly be a town councillor or a mayor in a colonial town--a pleasing
prospect and a part that I could act!"

It was at this point she dropped her third letter. She must husband her
trail; the supply of letters was not inexhaustible. She dropped her
fourth as they started to cross the corner of a field.

All the time he kept up his incessant babble.

"You need have no qualms, my dear young lady. No harm will come to
you--for the moment. Whilst you are alive, I am alive! You are a
hostage--that is the word, isn't it?"

She made no reply. The first feeling of panic had worn off. She could
only speculate upon what would happen at the last, when this desperate
man was in a corner and she was at his mercy.

Before them loomed against the night sky the outlines of a big house.
They came to a lawn surrounded by an iron fence, and, walking parallel
with this, they reached on open gateway and a paved yard.

Once or twice there had been a lull in his monologue. He had stopped to
listen. It was a very still night; the sound of distant rumbling trains,
the whine of motor-cars passing along the highway came to them
distinctly. He was apparently satisfied, for he made no comment. Now, as
they passed into a tiled yard, he stopped again and listened, turning
his head backwards. As he did so he saw the flash of a lamp--only for
the fraction of a second, and then it disappeared. It seemed to come
from the plantation they had left. He had left his lights burning--was
that it? He moved left and right a few paces, and did not see the light
again.

The possibility that there were gamekeepers in the wood now occurred to
him. It was obviously a covert of some kind; the lower part of the fence
was made of wire netting.

He never once released his hold of the girl. She felt the tenseness of
the moment and held her breath. Then, without a word, he guided her into
the yard, and now she observed that he used his lamp with greater
caution. There were stables here; two of the half doors were wide open
and hung on broken hinges. There was no need to make any further
investigation; the house to which the stables were attached was
unoccupied.

They came to what was evidently a kitchen door and found a small,
weather-stained notice.

"Keys at Messrs. Thurlow, Welwyn."

There was a long casement window at the back of the house. Binny pushed
the barrel of his pistol through two panes, groped for the catch, and,
finding it, pulled it open.

"Get in----" he began, and at that moment he was caught in a circle of
blinding light.

From somewhere in the yard a powerful lamp was turned on him, and a
voice he hated said:

"Don't move, Binny!"

It was Surefoot Smith.

For a second he stood, paralysed, his arm still clasping the girl's.
Suddenly he jerked her before him, his arm round her waist.

"If you come anywhere near me I'll shoot," he said, and she felt the
cold barrel of a gun glide along her neck.

"What's the good of being silly, Binny?" Surefoot's voice was almost
caressing.

They could not see him in the glare of the light that he or somebody
held.

"Stand your trial like a man. It's fifty-fifty we've got nothing on
you."

"You haven't, eh?" snarled Binny. "That dog doesn't fight, Smith. You
take your men and clear them out of this place. Give me an hour, and
I'll leave this baby without hurting her. Come any closer and I'll blow
her head off--and then you'll have something on me. It won't be
fifty-fifty either."

There was a long pause, and the girl heard the low voices of men in
conversation.

"All right," said Surefoot at last. "I'll give you an hour, but you'll
hand over the girl right away."

Binny laughed harshly.

"Am I a child? I'll leave her when I'm safe. You go back to where you
came, and----"

That was all he said. The silent-footed man who had worked round behind
him struck swiftly with a rubber truncheon. The girl had only time to
swing herself clear before he crumpled and fell.

       *       *       *       *       *

The chauffeur of the wrecked car had been in luck. Hardly had Binny
disappeared before another machine came into the sight, and the
chauffeur begged a lift into Welwyn. Less than a mile along the road
they ran into a police barrage and he told his story. He gave valuable
information, for he had seen the lights of Binny's car turn from the
road.

"Practically you were never out of sight, from the moment you left the
plantation," said Surefoot. "The broken gate gave him away, and he left
the lights of his car burning. It was easy, even without the trail of
letters you left. Very scientific, but we didn't see them!"

The arrest and conviction of Binny had a demoralising effect upon
Surefoot Smith. On the day this wholesale murderer stood on the trap in
Pentonville Prison, Surefoot departed from the rule of a lifetime,
refused all beer and drank spirits. As he explained to Dick Allenby:

"If ever there was a day to get soused--that was the day!"


THE END

       *       *       *       *       *

NOVELS BY

EDGAR WALLACE


    The Man at the Carlton
    White Face
    The India-Rubber Men
    Red Aces
    Again the Ringer
    Again Sanders
    The Clue of the Silver Key
    The Flying Squad
    The Double
    Again the Three Just Men
    The Forger
    The Squeaker
    The Feathered Serpent
    Terror Keep
    The Square Emerald
    The Ringer
    The Northing Tramp
    The Traitor's Gate
    The Brigand
    The Joker
    Sanders
    The Black Abbot
    The Door with Seven Locks
    The Gaunt Stranger
    The Mind of Mr. J. G. Reeder
    Penelope of the "Polyantha"
    The Day of Uniting
    We Shall See
    The Yellow Snake
    The Four Just Men
    The Terrible People
    The Green Archer
    The Clue of the New Pin
    The Crimson Circle
    The Angel of Terror
    The Law of the Four Just Men
    The Strange Countess
    The Sinister Man
    Double Dan
    The Valley of Ghosts


    HODDER AND STOUGHTON
    LIMITED    LONDON





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