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

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‘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 and shot him with

an automatic—I dug out the bullet from the floor. 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 pushed 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’s got stacks of money, a couple of automatics, and the rope

ahead of him. He isn’t 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’ll 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’ve 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’ll 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 recognized 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 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 some anatta 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 a belt, which he fastened

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. Someone might see him, but the chances were

that everybody would be busy preparing or serving the meal, and 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.

 

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 recognized her as his miserable companion of the past four

years, the half-witted drunkard who had shared the kitchen with him. She

did not recognize him, and it mattered little even if Surefoot saw her.

Binny 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 and 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 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 bolt in the door, took off the 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-room. He brewed himself a cup of

coffee, and this, with some biscuits from 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 realize that the charge of vanity which he so resented was being

justified with every mental step he took towards vengeance.