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

the luxury of the appointments which arrested

Surefoot’s interest.

 

He knew the financial position of the average bank manager; could tell to

within a few pounds just what their salaries were; and it was rather a

shock to find even a two thousand, five hundred a year manager living in

an apartment which must have absorbed at least eight hundred, and

displaying evidence of wealth which men in his position have rarely the

opportunity of acquiring.

 

A Persian carpet covered the floor; the crystal chandelier was certainly

of the more exquisite kind that are not to be duplicated in a department

store. There was a big Knolle couch (‘Cost five 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 valuable.

 

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,

 

‘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

Sisley. My father paid three hundred pounds for it, and it’s probably

worth six 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 two and a half

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 man 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 inquiries 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’ve 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, Lord! I remember the time when you could

get the best ale in the world for fivepence a pint.’

 

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.’

 

‘Another bottle of beer for Mr Smith,’ said Moran as the valet answered

his ring. ‘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 inquiries. 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 inquiring about the murder at all? Come along, my dear fellow, don’t

be mysterious!’

 

Smith wiped his moustache, got up slowly from the chair an 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’s

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 Moran was so absorbed

in his thoughts that he did not see it.

 

After he had closed the door upon his visitor Moran 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 behind a picture, opened it and took out a number of

documents, which he examined very carefully. He put them back and,

groping, found a flat leather case which was packed with strangely

coloured documents. They were train and boat tickets; his passport lay

handy and, fastened to his passport by a thick rubber band, a thick

bundle of ten-pound banknotes.

 

He locked the safe again, replaced the picture, and went on with his

dressing. He was more than a little perturbed. The casual reference to

Hervey Lyne had shaken him.