The Clue of the Silver Key by Edgar Wallace (free biff chip and kipper ebooks .TXT) 📖

leading

down, and the hollow steel railway that masons had fixed into the

stonework to allow the easy descent of an invalid 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 feather-weight

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 chauffeurs, but the artistic and

aristocratic classes had swamped these humble West End habitations, and

most of the new population of Baynes Mews were people who came home from

parties 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 torch 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.

 

‘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 on suspicion 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 householders.

 

What a tale to tell if he could sell the information in the right

quarter! Or he could but the ‘black’ on 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 fares, 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 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-organized 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 torch 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 realized 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.