The Clue of the Silver Key, Edgar Wallace [interesting books to read .TXT] 📗
- Author: Edgar Wallace
- Performer: -
Book online «The Clue of the Silver Key, Edgar Wallace [interesting books to read .TXT] 📗». Author Edgar Wallace
this morning. I didn’t like to call anybody in, so I did it myself.’
‘The trouble in this house is that you’re always having windows broken,’
said Surefoot Smith. ‘Why didn’t you report to the police the attempt to
break into this house—Oh, I remember, Mr Lyne didn’t want it.’
When he went outside he made a more careful examination of the premises
in the darkness than he had ever done by daylight. He went to the trouble
of going to the back of the house, along the narrow mews, and here he saw
how easy it was for a burglar to obtain admission. The back of the house
was not protected, as most of its fellows were, by a garage block, and
the door and window were approachable for anybody who could either scale
the wall or force the door into the back courtyard. Was it a coincidence
that this attempt had been made to gain admission into Lyne’s house on
the night of—?
Surefoot Smith frowned. It must have been the night that Tickler was
murdered. Was there any connexion between the two events?
He went back to Scotland Yard to receive reports, and found that his
inquiries had produced no result. Berlin could tell him no more about Leo
Moran, and there was absolutely no news at all of Gerald Dornford.
He opened the safe in a corner of his little room, took out the glove and
the silver key, and laid them on the table. That key puzzled him. Was
there any special reason why its owner should have gone to the trouble of
painting it so elaborately and yet so carelessly? Any plater would have
made a better job of it.
The glove told him nothing. He took from the big drawer of his desk a
large sheet of virgin blotting-paper and began to work out again the sum
of his problem.
Tickler had been killed; old Lyne had been killed, possibly by the same
hand, though there was nothing to connect the two murders. Leo Moran was,
to all intents and purposes, a fugitive from justice, a man against whom
could be made out a prima facie charge of felony. His disappearance had
coincided, not only with the death of Lyne, but with the discovery that
Lyne’s bank account had been heavily milked.
Was he in Berlin at all? Somebody was very much interested in the
recovery of the bank statement, had gone to the trouble of burgling Mary
Lane’s flat to recover it—who? One man at any rate knew, or thought he
knew, that the statement was at Mary’s flat, and that man was Michael
Hennessey.
Mike’s conduct that afternoon had been consistent with guilty knowledge.
He knew, at any rate, the true identity of Washington Wirth. The
gentleman called Washington Wirth was a murderer, possibly a murderer
twice over.
In disjointed sentences Surefoot wrote down his conclusions as they were
reached; crossed out one and substituted another; elaborated some simple
proposition in his mysterious shorthand, only to cross through the
wriggly lines and begin all over again. He made a little circle that
represented Mary, another for Dick Allenby, another for Gerald Dornford,
a fourth for Leo Moran. At the bottom of the page he put a fifth circle
for Lyne. How were they connected? What was the association between the
four top circles and the fifth?
Between them he placed a larger O that stood for Michael Hennessey.
Michael touched Washington Wirth, he touched Mary Lane and possibly
Moran. He crossed out this last conclusion and started again.
Gerald Dornford touched Dick Allenby; he could draw a straight line from
Dick Allenby to the murdered man—a line that missed all and any
intermediary.
He got tired after a while, threw down the pencil, and sat back with a
groan. He was reaching for the key when the light went out. There was
nothing very startling and nothing very unexpected about that: the bulb
had been burning yellow for two or three days, and obviously required
replacement.
Surefoot Smith, in his lordly way, had demanded a fresh bulb, and the
storekeeper, in his more lordly way, had ignored the request. Without
warning, the bulb had ceased to function.
Surefoot was rising to his feet to reach for the bell when something he
saw stopped him dead. In the darkness the key was glowing like green
fire. He saw the handle and every ward of it. And now he understood why
it had such an odd colour—it had been treated with luminous paint.
He picked it up and turned it over. The under side was dull and hardly
showed, for it had not absorbed the rays of the light.
Surefoot went out into the corridor and summoned an officer, and a little
later a bulb was discovered and fixed. He examined the key now with
greater interest, jotting down notes upon his already overcrowded
blotting sheet. He was beginning to see daylight, but only dimly. Then
the telephone rang; he lifted the receiver and listened: then he called
the officer on duty at the door. ‘If you see Mr Allenby, send him up.’
He looked at his watch; it was twenty minutes past twelve, and he could
only wonder what had brought Dick to Scotland Yard at such an hour.
Possibly his gun had been recovered.
‘I wondered if you were here,’ said Dick, as he came into the office and
closed the door behind him. ‘I should have telephoned, but I was scared
they wouldn’t put me through to you.’
‘What’s the trouble?’ asked Surefoot curiously.
Dick smiled. ‘There isn’t any real trouble; only I’ve been—or rather,
Mary has been—called up by Hennessey’s housekeeper for information about
the gentleman.’
‘Hasn’t he come home?’ asked Smith quickly.
‘He wasn’t expected home,’ said Dick. ‘The lady called up from Waterloo
Station; she’s been there since nine with a couple of Mike’s trunks. He
was leaving for the Continent by the Havre train, and had arranged for
her to be there to meet him with his baggage. She waited till nearly
twelve, got worried, and apparently called up several people who knew
Michael, amongst them Mary. Fortunately, I was just leaving the flat when
the woman telephoned.’
‘Have you been to his house?’
Dick shook his head. ‘It wasn’t necessary,’ he said. ‘He had a furnished
flat in Doughty Street; he paid his rent and closed up the place tonight.
Obviously he was making a getaway in rather a hurry. He didn’t start
packing till this afternoon.’
‘After he’d seen me,’ said Surefoot. He scratched his chin. ‘That’s
strange. I can quite understand his wanting to get away—as a matter of
fact, he wouldn’t have got any farther than Southampton; I had already
notified the ports.’
‘You’d have arrested him?’ asked Dick, in amazement.
‘There’s no question of arrest, my friend,’ said Surefoot wearily.’ It
isn’t necessary to arrest everybody you want to stop going out of
England. Their passports can be out of order, the stamp can be upside
down—there are a dozen ways of keeping the money in the country.’
‘Did Hennessey know this?’
Surefoot did not answer immediately. ‘I can’t understand it,’ he said
slowly. ‘Of course he didn’t know. That wouldn’t have prevented him
catching the train.’
There was a knock at the door, and a pleasant looking man, whom Dick
recognized as a chief inspector, came in. ‘The Buckinghamshire police
have got a case after your own heart, Surefoot,’ he said. ‘A regular
American gang murder.’
Surefoot became instantly alert. ‘A gang murder, eh? What kind?’
‘They call ‘em ride murders, don’t they? Somebody has taken this poor
devil for a ride, shot him at close quarters, and thrown him out on the
sidewalk.’
‘Where was this?’
‘On the Colnbrook by-pass, this side of Slough. A big car passed, picked
up the man lying across the footpath with its lights, and the driver
reported to the police. He couldn’t have been dead more than half an hour
when the police got to him.’
‘What’s his description?’ asked Surefoot.
‘A big made man of forty-five,’ said the other, ‘wearing a green tie—’
‘That was the tie that Mike Hennessey was wearing this afternoon!’
MIKE HENNESSEY LOOKED very calm, almost majestic, in death; most easily
recognizable. Surefoot Smith came out of the sinister little building and
waited while the police sergeant turned the key.
Dick was waiting at the station. He had had enough of horrors for one
night, and had not attempted to join in the identification.
‘It’s Mike all right,’ said Surefoot. ‘The murder was committed at
ten-seventeen—there or thereabouts. The time is fixed by the big car that
found the body, and a motor-cyclist who lives in this village reported to
the police that he saw a small saloon car standing by the side of the
road near where the body was found. I make out the two times as being
between ten-fifteen and ten-twenty, and, allowing for the fact that the
big car didn’t overtake any other car on the Colnbrook by-pass, that puts
the time at ten-seventeen. The murderer’s car might have turned round and
gone back. It could, of course, have gone right through the village of
Colnbrook, avoiding the by-pass, and I should imagine that is what
happened. And now, my friend,’ he said seriously, ‘you realize that this
was the gentleman who called at your young lady’s flat? His coat must
have been covered with blood without his realizing the fact until, in
searching the bathroom, he touched the wall with his sleeve. He took off
his coat, washed his hands, and that’s that.’
‘But surely some garage man will be able to identify the car if there was
so much blood lost? The interior must be a shambles.’
Surefoot nodded.
‘Oh, yes, we’ll find the car all right. There were three stolen last
night that answer the description. I’ve just been through to the Yard and
found that one has been discovered abandoned in Sussex Gardens.’
A swift police car took them back to Paddington, and Surefoot Smith’s
surmise was confirmed. The abandoned car was the one which the murderer
had used. There was grisly evidence enough that the man had met his death
in its dark interior—of other evidence there was none.
‘We’ll test the wheel for finger-prints, but Mr Wirth will have worn
gloves.’
‘That lets out Moran, doesn’t it?’ said Dick.
Surefoot smiled. ‘Where is Moran? In Germany, we say—he’s as likely to be
in London. You may get to Germany in a few hours and get back in a
shorter time. It may not have been Moran who left at all.’
‘But why?’
Dick Allenby was bewildered, more than a little alarmed for Mary Lane’s
safety, and said as much. To his consternation, Surefoot agreed. ‘I don’t
think she should stay in that flat. She may have other evidence, and now
she’s begun to theorise she might be dangerous to our friend.’
He accompanied Smith to the police station whither the car had been
taken, and found the usual scene of impersonal activity. There were
photographers, finger-print experts, car mechanics examining the
speedometer. The owner of the car, who had been found and brought to the
station, was a methodical man: he knew exactly the amount of mileage that
was on the dial before the car was stolen, and his information helped
considerably.
It seemed to Dick Allenby that he had spent the past fortnight examining
bloodstained cars in police yards. There was a touch of the familiar in
the scene he witnessed; the staring electric globes at the ends
Comments (0)