The Clue of the Silver Key, Edgar Wallace [interesting books to read .TXT] 📗

have been embarrassed; Surefoot Smith was merely

interested. He laid his hand on the other’s arm. ‘Are you in on the

murder? That’s the question?’

 

Mike’s hands dropped with a crash on the marble-topped table. His

ludicrous, tear-stained face was a picture of bewilderment.

‘Murder?…What do you mean—murder?’ He almost squeaked the question.

 

‘The murder of Hervey Lyne. Didn’t you know?’

 

The man did not answer; he was petrified with terror. ‘Lyne…murdered!’

He croaked the words. It was amazing to believe that he was the one man

in London who did not know that a mysterious murder had been committed in

Regent’s Park on the previous day, because the newspapers were full of

it. Yet Surefoot felt that this was a fact. ‘Murdered…old Lyne

murdered? My God! You don’t mean that?’

 

‘Of course I mean it. What do you think—that I’m trying to make you

laugh?’

 

Mike Hennessey was silent; speech was frozen in him. He could only sit

regarding the detective with round eyes from which all expression had

died. Mike had a weakness for weeping, but he also had an unsuspected

strength of will. When he spoke at last his voice was completely under

control.

 

‘That’s shocking. I didn’t read the newspapers this morning.’

 

‘It was in last night’s,’ said Surefoot.

 

The other shook his head. ‘I haven’t read a newspaper since Thursday

morning,’ he said. ‘Old Lyne! He was Miss Lane’s guardian, wasn’t he?’ He

was fighting for time—time to get the last weakness in him crushed, and

to build himself the reserve that would prevent his collapse. ‘No, I’ve

read nothing about it. It’s curious how you miss things in newspapers,

isn’t it? I’ve been so worried over this theatrical business that I’ve

practically taken no interest in anything else in the world.’

 

‘What work did you do for Wirth?’ Surefoot’s voice was cold. He had

dropped his friendly manner, was even without interest in the unopened

bottle of beer. ‘Did you draw money from the bank on his behalf?’

 

Mike nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve done that for him—big sums of money. Gone to his

bank and met him afterwards by appointment.’

 

‘Where?’ sharply.

 

‘At various places—railway stations; the Kellner Hotel mostly. He

generally drew a big sum when he had his parties, and I used to hand it

over to him before the guests came. He said he was a merchant in the

Midlands, but to tell you the truth, Surefoot, I’ve always had my doubts

about that. Still, he didn’t look a crook, and some of the strangest mugs

are rolling in money. Why shouldn’t he have been? He’s not the first jay

that put up money for a theatrical production, and not the last, please

God!’

 

‘Which bank did you draw it from?’

 

Mike told him. It corresponded with the information which Surefoot

already had.

 

‘He generally gave me a letter to take to the bank manager, asking him to

cash the cheque. I’ve been to Birmingham and Bristol and—’

 

‘That’s all right.’ Smith leaned heavily on the table. ‘Who was

he—Washington Wirth?’

 

Mike shook his head.

 

‘Honestly I don’t know. If I die this minute I don’t know. I got in touch

with him after my last bankruptcy proceedings had appeared in the

newspapers. He wrote to me and said how sorry he was that a clever man

like me had got into trouble, and offered to finance me.’

 

‘A written note?’

 

‘Typewritten. I’ve got the letter in my flat somewhere. He asked me to

meet him at the Kellner. That was before the parties started, when he had

a smaller suite. I went. The only thing I knew about him was that he wore

a wig and that he wasn’t what he appeared to be; but I’ve never pried

into his business—’

 

‘That’s a lie,’ said Surefoot. ‘You just told me that you blackmailed

him.’

 

‘I didn’t really. I put a bluff up on him. I knew he wasn’t what he

pretended to be; I had to guess what he really was.’

 

He was lying: of that Surefoot Smith was perfectly certain. ‘Does it

occur to you that you’re in rather a tight place if this man is ever

arrested? I have reason to believe that he has misappropriated money, the

property of the late Hervey Lyne, and I have also reason to believe that

he killed the old man—and that’s murder. You don’t want to be mixed up

in murder, Mike, do you?’

 

Michael Hennessey’s face was contorted with anguish. He was almost

incoherent when he spoke.

 

‘I’d help you if I could, Mr Smith—but how can I? I don’t know the

man—I swear I don’t know the man!’

 

Smith peered into his face. ‘Do you know anything about Moran?’

 

The big mouth dropped. ‘The banker?’ he stammered.

 

‘Do you know anything about the faked balance sheet which was sent by

accident to Miss Lyne?’ For a second Surefoot thought the man was going

to faint.

 

‘No—nothing; I know Moran—I know Wirth too.’ He stopped, was silent a

little while. ‘Suppose I found him—Wirth—what’s my position then?’

 

Surefoot stood up. ‘Your position is just the same whether you find him

or whether we find him,’ he said roughly. ‘You don’t seem to know what

you’ve let yourself in for, Mike Hennessey. Here’s a man been

murdered—two men have been murdered—probably by the same hand. Tickler

was killed for knowing too much. It might be safer for you if I put you

inside.’

 

A smile dawned on Mike’s face.

 

‘Am I a child?’ he asked. He had got back his old poise. ‘How did I get

out of the gutter—by taking notice of threats? Don’t worry about me,

Surefoot.’

 

‘There’s a lot more I’ve got to say to you,’ interrupted the detective,

‘but just wait here till I telephone.’ A momentary look of alarm came to

the man’s face. ‘Don’t worry; I’m not going to pinch you. I shouldn’t

want any assistance to do that.’

 

There was a telephone booth in the outer room, and he called Scotland

Yard urgently. ‘Chief Inspector Smith speaking. I want two of the best

men on duty to pick me up at Bellini’s. I’m with Mike Hennessey, the

theatrical man. He’s to be under observation day and night from now

onwards, and no mistakes must be made. Do you hear?’

 

They heard and obeyed. A quarter of an hour later, when they strolled out

through the narrow side street to Piccadilly Circus, two young men

followed them, and when Mike called a taxi and drove off, a second taxi

carried the watchers.

 

Mike Hennessey was not at the theatre when the curtain rang down finally

on Cliffs of Fate and, although the termination of this drama meant a

search for new work, there was not one of the cast who did not breathe a

sigh of relief when the curtain finally fell.

 

Dick was reading the evening newspaper when Mary came into the

dressing-room. The story of the Lyne murder was splashed over the front

page; it included an interview with Binny and a talk with the

park-keeper.

 

‘I knew Mr Lyne very well by sight,’ said James Hawkins, who had been a

park-keeper for twenty-three years. ‘He always came into the gardens in

the afternoon, and generally had a little nap before he was taken home.

I’ve spoken a word or two with him, but he was not a gentleman who

encouraged conversation. Mostly his attendant, Mr Binny, used to sit and

read to him. I saw Mr Binny reading that afternoon, and went up to him

and said: “What’s the good of your wasting your breath? The guv’nor’s

asleep.” Little did I think that he was dead! This is the second murder

that we’ve had in the park in thirty-five years…’

 

Dick put down the paper when the girl came in, and prepared to make

himself scarce.

 

‘Sit down. I’m not going to change yet; I’m tired.’

 

‘Well, have you found your man?’ he asked flippantly.

 

She did not smile. ‘I think so,’ she said.

 

‘Have you read the account?’

 

‘I’ve read it—every ghastly line of it.’

 

‘Well,’ he challenged her, ‘is it Binny or the park-keeper?’ And then,

realizing that flippancy was in the circumstances a little callous, he

apologized.

 

‘I don’t know how it is, but I can discuss this murder as though it were

of somebody I’d never heard of. The poor old man loathed me, and I’m sure

if he could only have made up his mind who would have taken better care

of his fortune than me, he would have left the money to him like a shot!

By the way, Binny has a theory of his own. I had a talk with him today.

He favours Jerry Dornford; mainly, I think, because he doesn’t like

Jerry.’

 

‘Has Mr Smith told you all the clues he has?’ she asked.

 

She had evidently paid no attention to Binny’s theory.

 

‘No, I can’t say that he has. He’s rather stuffy when it comes to his own

business.’

 

‘Do you think he would tell me?’

 

He looked at her in amazement. ‘My dear Mary—’ he began.

 

‘Don’t “dear Mary” me, or I shall be very rude to you,’ she said. ‘Do you

think he would?’

 

She was quite serious and he changed his tone. ‘If he thought you could

help him I’m sure he would,’ he said. ‘He’s promised to call here tonight

and tell me the latest developments. Would you like me to ask him?’

 

‘I’ll ask him myself,’ she said.

 

Surefoot arrived very late and very ruffled. He was entitled to his

annoyance, for at half past seven that night a penitent young detective

had called him on the phone and had confessed failure.

 

‘You missed him?’ roared Smith. ‘Two of you? What’s the matter with you?’

 

‘I’m sorry, sir, but he must have known he was being tailed, and he

dodged into the Tube at Piccadilly. I’d just turned my head and he was

gone—’

 

‘Turned your what?’ sneered Surefoot. ‘All right; scour London and pick

him up. You know his address. He’s got to be found.’

 

He came to the Sheridan, full of bitterness about the new generation of

detectives.

 

‘They expect everything to be done for them. They rely on science instead

of their eyesight,’ he fumed.

 

‘Here’s a detective for you.’ Dick indicated the girl, and to his

surprise Surefoot showed no sign of impatience.

 

‘I should say she’s got more sense in her little finger than those

gentlemen have in their big useless, bodies.’ He looked at her

thoughtfully.

 

‘I’m going to ask you something, Mr Smith,’ she said. ‘Would you tell me

all you know about this case? I think I may help you.’

 

Again Dick Allenby was amazed that the big man did not treat the offer as

a joke. He looked at her owlishly, opened his big mouth, closed it again,

rubbed his head-going through his repertory, noted Dick mentally.

 

‘Why shouldn’t you?’ he said at last. ‘Do you want him to know?’ He

jerked his head towards Dick.

 

She hesitated. ‘If you don’t mind. If you do we’ll turn him out.’

 

She was dressed for the street by the time the detective had arrived, and

suggested that they should go to her flat. They went up in the lift

together. Her flat was the last in the corridor. She went ahead of them,

and stood stock still, showing an alarmed face to the two men. The door

was wide open!

 

‘Did you leave it open?’ asked Smith.

 

Surefoot pointed to the lock;