The Clue of the Silver Key, Edgar Wallace [interesting books to read .TXT] 📗
- Author: Edgar Wallace
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bought steadily, and his operations had covered the years of
defalcations, he had spent no very large sum, certainly only a small
percentage of the money he was making. The man probably had other
speculative interests, but these for the moment were impossible to trace.
Smith went home to his rooms off the Haymarket, and was surprised to find
a visitor waiting for him on the landing.
‘I haven’t been here two minutes,’ said Mary. ‘I got on to your assistant
at Scotland Yard, and he told me that you might be at your flat.’
He unlocked the door and ushered her into his untidy sitting-room. ‘Well,
have you found anything?’
She shook her head and smiled ruefully. ‘Only my limitations, I’m
afraid,’ she said, and sat down in the chair he pulled forward for her.
‘You’re giving it up, eh?’
She hesitated. ‘No.’
It required an effort of will to say’ no’, for she had awakened that
morning with an intense sense of mental discomfort and a realization of
the difficulties which beset her. She had been half inclined to send a
penitent note enclosing the key to Surefoot, but confidence—not much, but
some—had come to her with breakfast, and she had decided upon this, what
was to her, a bold move.
‘I realize what I have undertaken,’ she confessed. ‘Being detective is
not an easy job, is it? Especially when you don’t know things.’
Surefoot smiled. ‘The art of being a detective is to know nothing,’ he
said oracularly. ‘What do you know? If you know anything less than I do,
you haven’t heard of the murder. On the other hand, it is possible you
may know a great deal more.’
‘You are being sarcastic.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know the word, Miss Lane. What is it you want
to know?’
She consulted a little notebook she took from her pocket. ‘Can you give
me a list of all the big cheques that were cashed and the dates? I
particularly want to know the dates. If my theory is correct, they are
made out on the seventeenth of the month.’
Surefoot sat back in his chair and stared at her. ‘That’s a bit
scientific,’ he said, a little resentfully, and she laughed.
‘No, it is horribly like a mystery story. But, seriously, I do want to
know.’
He pulled the telephone towards him and called a number. ‘Funnily enough,
that is a bit of information I’d never thought of getting,’ he said.
She felt that he was somewhat nettled that he had been remiss in this
respect, and she was secretly amused. ‘But then, you see, Miss Lane,’ he
went on, ‘if I’d been at the Yard I would probably get it for you—hullo!’
He had got through to the bank. It took some time before the accountant,
with whom he eventually got in touch, was able to supply him with the
dates.
The cheques were made out on the 17th of April, the 17th of February, the
17th of December, the 17th of May in the previous year—Surefoot jotted
down a dozen of them. Hanging up the receiver, he pushed the paper across
to the girl.
‘I thought so!’ Her eyes were very bright. ‘Every one of them on the
seventeenth!’
‘Marvellous!’ said Surefoot.’ Now will you tell me what that means?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll tell you in a week’s time. I’m going to do a lot of
private investigation. There’s one thing I wanted to speak about, Mr
Smith.’ Her voice was troubled. ‘I don’t know whether I am imagining
things, but I have an idea that I am being very carefully watched. I’m
sure a man was following me yesterday. I lost sight of him in Oxford
Street; I was looking in a shop window in Regent Street and saw him
again. Rather an unpleasant-looking man with a fair moustache.’
Surefoot Smith smiled. ‘That is Detective Sergeant Mason. I don’t think
he’s much of a good looker myself.’
‘A detective?’ she gasped.
Surefoot nodded. ‘Naturally, my dear young lady, I am taking great care
of you. You might as well know that you are being shadowed, not because
you are under suspicion, but because for the moment you are under our
protection.’
She heaved a sigh. ‘You don’t know how relieved I am. It was rather
getting on my nerves. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I should have
come to see you at all but for that.’
‘What about the seventeenth?’ asked Surefoot. ‘Don’t you think it would
be wise for you to tell me what your suspicions are about?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m being mysterious and rather weak,’ she said.
The mystery certainly irritated Dick Allenby, who could never be sure of
finding her at home. He had a talk with Surefoot and sought his help.
‘She’ll be running into all sorts of danger,’ Dick complained ‘Obviously
this man will stop at nothing. He may still think that she has the bank
statement.’
‘Have you seen the young lady at all?’ Surefoot opened another bottle of
beer dexterously. He was sitting on a bench in Dick’s work-room.
‘Yes, I’ve seen her. She wants me to lend her Binny.’
‘Lend her Binny?’ repeated the detective. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, he’s in my employ now. She says she wants inquiries made about a
former servant of Hervey Lyne’s who’s living in Newcastle under an
assumed name. She wants Binny to go and identify the woman. I saw Binny
about it, and he remembered her. She left soon after he arrived. She was
a fairly old woman. Apparently she had a dissolute son who was a pretty
bad character. Binny doesn’t remember him, but Mary does. The old lady,
who must be nearly ninety, is living in the north, and Mary wants him to
go up to make sure that she hasn’t made a mistake.’
Surefoot Smith looked at him glumly. ‘She told me nothing about it. Binny
works for you now? I suppose you own the house. What are you going to do
with it?’
‘Sell it,’ said Dick promptly. ‘In fact, I’ve already had a offer.’
There was a knock at the door; the caretaker came in with a telegram for
Dick. Surefoot saw him open it, watched him idly, and saw his jaw drop as
he read it. Without a word he passed the telegram across to Smith. It had
been handed in at Sunningdale, and ran:
‘Re patent air-gun reported stolen from you. Machine answering
description circulated has been found at Toyne Copse lying at the bottom
of a hole beneath body of a man believed to be G. Dornford, of Half Moon
Street. Please report immediately Sunningdale police station to identify
property.’
HE AND SUREFOOT went down to Berkshire together. He had no difficulty in
recognizing the rusted steel case which had once been a delicate piece of
mechanism. He left it to Surefoot Smith to make other and more grisly
identification.
Surefoot returned after visiting the place where the body had been found,
and he had further and convincing information. Jerry Dornford’s car had
also been discovered less than a hundred yards from the place where he
had died. The car had evidently been driven over the heath land and
concealed in a small copse.
‘It’s Dornford’s own property, and I don’t think there will be much
difficulty in reconstructing the accident which put him out,’ said
Surefoot. ‘He had an evening newspaper in the car with him; it’s dated
the day of old man Lyne’s murder.’
‘Poor devil! How was he killed—or was it a natural death?’ asked Dick.
Surefoot shook his head. ‘An accident. The gun was loaded, wasn’t it?
Well, you’ll be able to take the thing to pieces and tell me if it’s
still loaded. I should say it wasn’t. Dornford stole the gun: there’s no
doubt about that. He either got scared or couldn’t sell it, and decided
to take it into the country and bury it. Very naturally, he chose a bit
of land which is his own property. He took a spade with him—we found
that. When they found him he was in his shirt sleeves. He had evidently
dug the hole and was in the act of pushing in the gun when it went off.
The bullet went through his body; we found it in a pine-tree that was
immediately in the line of fire. In his pocket we found a demand for the
payment of a loan, from Stelby’s, who did most of old Lyne’s work. We
also found a few notes that are going to make it pretty uncomfortable for
somebody called Jules, when we can trace him.’
‘I can help you there,’ said Dick, who knew and rathe disliked the sleek
young man.
They came back to town late in the evening, and Surefoot was rather
depressed. ‘I always thought that Dornford had something to do with the
murder, and put him down as a “possible”. But it’s pretty clear that he
couldn’t have done it, unless there were two bullets in the gun, or
unless he understood the mechanism.’
Dick went in search of Mary that night to tell her the news. He had never
liked Gerald Dornford, but there were moments when he thought that his
dislike was not so actively shared by the girl; but here he did her an
injustice. A woman’s instinct are keener than a man’s, and she had placed
Jerry in the definite category of men to be avoided.
She did not get back to her flat till late that night, as he discovered
after repeated rings, and it was an unusually exhilarated voice that
answered him when eventually he reached her. ‘I’ve had a marvellous day,
Dick, and I’m going to surprise our friend tomorrow—no, not tomorrow, the
next day.’
He tried to break the news gently about Jerry, and was surprised and a
little annoyed to find his sensation was discounted. ‘I read it in the
evening newspaper. Poor man!’ she said.
Dick Allenby spent a disturbed night. He was getting very worried about
the girl and the risks she was taking. When he rang her in the morning
she had already gone out, but when he saw Surefoot that gentleman did
much to allay his anxiety. ‘I’ve got the cleverest shadower at Scotland
Yard following her night and day; you needn’t worry.’ And then,
curiously: ‘She hasn’t told you what line she’s following? The only thing
I can find from my men is that she’s chasing round the suburbs of London,
and that she’s doing a lot of shopping.’
‘Shopping?’ repeated Dick incredulously. ‘What sort of shopping?’
‘Pickles mostly,’ said Surefoot Smith, ‘though she’s been after ham, and
she took over an hour in the City the other day buying tea. She’s being
scientific.’
If the truth were told, Mr Smith found it increasingly difficult to avoid
being very annoyed with his mysterious collaborator. He hated mysteries.
Mary had gone a little outside of her usual orbit of inquiry that day.
She left early for Maidstone and spent the greater part of the morning
talking with a country shoemaker, an ancient and prosy gentleman with a
poor memory and a defective system of book-keeping. She got back to
London about five, feeling tired; but a hot bath and two hours’ rest
revivified her. She was bright and fresh when she put on her coat and
went out again.
It was ten o’clock; the sky was overcast and a sprinkle of rain was
falling when she signalled a taxi and
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