The Clue of the Silver Key by Edgar Wallace (free biff chip and kipper ebooks .TXT) 📖
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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 I got cut off, so I 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’m 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 for particulars of the English gangster who was at large in
England. He went further 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’ve 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 Hervey 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
scrutinized the other passengers.
The Pullman car was passing at a snail’s pace. The long body drew out of
view and there came another coach and in the last 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!
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 recognized a Scotland Yard
man who was scrutinizing 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 had alighted and given up his ticket, carrying
his own baggage, which consisted of a light suitcase, to a station taxi.
He had evidently acted on the impulse of the moment, 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 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 work-room. 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 inquiry 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 scrutinized.
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. It 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 had been 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 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 the 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 brief case
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
her 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 recognized him, and the police have circulated his
name and description there’s no reason why he should do me any harm,’ she
protested.’ I’m 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 over there for a few years, and he
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
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