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

>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 nodded. ‘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 wanted to see him. It was outrageous that one couldn’t lunch

in one’s club without being dunned by people like this.

 

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

extremely uncomfortable for Mr Gerald Dornford.

 

As he and Jules were passing down the stairs…‘The swine! Who brought

that kind of chap 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 taxi 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 work-room. 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 bedroom 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.

 

‘Hello, 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 realized how intensely he disliked this man.

 

‘Why this sudden antagonism? After all, I’ve no feeling about this girl

of yours. She’s a nice little thing; a bad actress, but a good girl. 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’re quite right about the antagonism, but it’s 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.