The Clue of the Silver Key - Edgar Wallace (read e book txt) 📗
- Author: Edgar Wallace
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Snell’s, which had all the values of a good club except that there were
one or two members who were personally objectionable to him. And the most
poisonous were the first two he saw at the entrance of the dining-room.
Gerald Dornford and Jules had their little table in the window. Jules
favoured him with a nod, but Jerry kept his eyes steadily averted as Dick
passed.
They had, in point of fact, only just sat down when Allenby had arrived,
and in his furtive way Jules had been avoiding the one subject which his
companion wished to discuss. He spoke of the people who were passing in
the street, recognizing every important car that passed; he talked of the
military conference which was in session just then, of the party to which
he had been the night before, of anything but—
‘Now what about this gun?’ said Jerry.
‘The gun?’
Jules looked at him blankly, then leaned back in his chair and chuckled.
‘What a good thing you came today! I wanted to see you. That little
project of mine must be abandoned.’
‘What do you mean?’ gasped Jerry, turning pale.
‘I mean that my principals, or rather the principals of my principals,
have decided not to go any further in the matter. You see, we’ve
discovered that all the salient points of the gun have been protected by
patents, especially in those countries where the invention could be best
exploited.’
Jerry looked at him, dumbfounded. ‘Do you mean to say that you don’t want
it?’
Jules nodded. ‘I mean to say there’s no need for you to take any
unnecessary risks. Now let us discuss some other way of raising the
money—’
‘Discuss be damned!’ said Jerry savagely.’ I’ve got the gun—I took it
last night!’
Jules stroked his smooth chin and looked at his companion thoughtfully.
‘That’s awkward,’ he said. ‘You took it from the workshop, did you? Well,
you can hardly put it back. I advise you to drive somewhere out of London
and dump it in a deep pond. Or, better still, try the river, somewhere
between Temple Lock and Hambleden.’
‘Do you mean to tell me,’ Jerry’s husky voice was almost hoarse—‘that
I’ve taken this risk for nothing? What’s the idea?’
Jules shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. My principals—’
‘Damn your principals! You gave me a specific promise that if I got the
thing you’d give me a couple of thousand.’
Jules smiled. ‘And now, my dear fellow, I give you a specific assurance
that I cannot get two thousand shillings for the gun! It is unfortunate.
If you had procured the invention when I first suggested it, the matter
would have been all over—and paid for. Now it is too late.’ He leaned
over and patted the other gently on the arm as though he were a child.
‘There is no sense in being foolish about this matter,’ he said. ‘Let us
find some other way of raising the wind, eh?’
Jerry Dornford was crushed. He knew Hervey Lyne sufficiently well to
realize that, had he produced the two thousand pounds, the old man would
have grabbed at the money and given him the extra time he had asked.
Hervey could never resist the argument of cash.
He could have grabbed the smiling little so-and-so opposite him and
thrown him out of the window. There was murder in his glance when he
looked into the round, brown eyes of his companion. But Jerry Dornford
never forgot that he was a gentleman, and as such was expected to
exercise the self-control which is the peculiar and popular attribute of
the well-bred man.
‘Well, it can’t be helped,’ he said. ‘Order me a drink; I’m a bit upset.’
Jules played an invisible piano on the edge of the table.
‘Our friend Allenby is at the third table on the right. Would it not be a
good idea,’ he suggested,’ to go over and say: “What a little joke I
played on you, eh”?’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ interrupted Jerry roughly. ‘He called me up last night
and asked me if I had it. He’s put the matter in the hands of the police.
I had a visit from Smith this morning.’
‘So!’ Jules pursed his red lips. ‘That is a pity. Here is your drink.’
They sat for a long time over their coffee, saw Dick Allenby leave the
club and cross to the opposite side of St James’s Street.
‘Clever fellow, that,’ said Jules, almost with enthusiasm. ‘He doesn’t
like me. I forget the name he called me the last time we had a little
discussion, but it was terribly offensive. But I like him. I am fond of
clever people; there is nothing so amusing as cleverness.’
Dick had hardly left the club before a telephone message came through for
him, and this he missed. It was Mary Lane, and at that moment she needed
Dick’s advice very badly. She called his flat again; he had not returned.
She tried a second club, where he sometimes called in the afternoon, but
again was unsuccessful.
She had been writing out the small cheques which her housekeeping
necessitated, when the strange message had arrived. It came in the hands
of a grubby little boy, who carried an envelope which was covered with
uncleanly finger-marks.
‘An old gentleman told me to bring it here,’ he said in his shrill
cockney.
An old gentleman? She looked at the superscription; her name and address
were scrawled untidily and she guessed at once that it was Hervey Lyne
who had sent the letter.
The boy explained that he had been delivering a parcel at No. 19, and had
seen the old gentleman leaning on his stick in the doorway. He wore his
dressing-gown and had the letter in his hand. He had called the boy,
given him half a crown (that must have been a wrench for Hervey), and
ordered him to deliver the letter at once.
She tore it open. It was written on the back of a ruled sheet of paper
covered with typewritten figures, and the writing was in pencil.
‘Bring Moran to me without fail at three o’clock this afternoon. I saw
him two days ago, but I’m not satisfied. Bring police officer.’
Here was written, above, a word which she deciphered as ‘Smith’.
‘Do not let Moran or anybody know about P.O. This is very urgent.’
The note was signed ‘H.L.’.
The little boy could give her no other information. She would have called
up Hervey Lyne’s house, but the old man had an insuperable objection to
the telephone and had never had one installed. She looked at her watch;
it was after two, and for ten minutes she was making a frantic effort to
get in touch with Dick.
Surefoot Smith she hardly knew well enough to consult, and she had a
woman’s distaste for approaching the police direct.
She called up Leo Moran’s bank; he had gone home. She tried his club,
with no better success. Moran had left his flat that morning, announcing
that he had no intention of returning for two or three weeks. He had gone
on leave. Curiously enough, the bank did not tell her that: they merely
said that Mr Moran had gone home early—a completely inaccurate piece of
information, she discovered when the first man, who was evidently a
clerk, was interrupted and a more authoritative voice spoke:
‘This is the chief accountant speaking, Miss Lane. You were asking about
Mr Moran? He has not been to the bank today.’
‘He’s gone on leave, hasn’t he?’
‘I’m not aware of the fact. I know he has applied for leave, but I don’t
think he’s gone—in fact, I’m certain. I opened all the letters this
morning.’
She replaced the receiver, bewildered, and was sitting at the window,
cogitating on what else she should do, when to her joy the telephone
rang. It was Dick, who had returned to Snell’s Club to collect some
letters he had forgotten, and had been told of her call.
‘That’s very odd,’ was his comment when he heard about ‘the note. ‘I’ll
try to get Smith. The best thing you can do, angel, is to meet me outside
Baker Street Tube Station in a quarter of an hour. I’ll try to land Smith
at the same moment.’
She got to the station a little before three, and had to wait for ten
minutes before a taxi dashed up and Dick jumped out. She saw the bulky
figure of Mr Smith in one corner of the cab and, getting in, sat by him.
Dick gave instructions to the taxi-driver and seated himself opposite.
‘This is all very mysterious, isn’t it?’ he said.’ Let me see the
letter.’
She showed it to him, and he turned it over.
‘Hullo, this is a bank statement.’ He whistled. ‘Phew! What figures! The
old boy’s certainly let the cat out of the bag.’
She had paid no attention to the typewritten statement on the back.
‘Over two hundred thousand in cash and umpteen hundred thousand in
securities. What’s the idea—I mean, of sending this note? I suppose you
couldn’t find Moran?’
She shook her head.
Smith was examining the letter carefully. ‘Is he blind?’ he asked.
‘Very nearly,’ said Dick. ‘He doesn’t admit it, but he can’t see well
enough to distinguish you from me. That’s his writing—I had a rude
letter from him one day last week. Did you find Moran?’
Mary shook her head. ‘Nobody seems to know where he is. He hasn’t been to
the bank today, and he’s not at his flat.’
Surefoot folded the letter and handed it back to the girl. ‘It looks as
if he doesn’t want to see me yet awhile, and not at all if we don’t bring
Moran,’ he said.
They drove into Naylors Crescent, and it was agreed that Surefoot should
sit outside in the cab whilst they interviewed the old man. But repeated
knockings brought no answer. The houses in Naylors Crescent stand behind
deep little areas, and out of the one next door a head appeared.
‘There’s nobody in,’ he said. ‘Mr Lyne has gone out in his chair about an
hour ago.’
‘Where did he go?’ asked Dick.
The man could not say; but Mary was better informed. ‘They always go to
the same place—into the private gardens of the park,’ she said. ‘It’s
only a few minutes’ walk.’
The cab was no longer necessary; Dick paid it off. They were about to
cross the road when a big, open car swept past, and Dick had a momentary
glimpse of the man at the wheel. It was Jerry Dornford. The car was old
and noisy; there was a succession of backfires as it passed. It slowed
down a little at one point, then, gathering speed, disappeared from view.
‘Any policeman doing his duty will pinch that fellow under the Noises
Act,’ said Smith.
Presently they came in sight of the chair. Binny was sitting on his
little collapsible stool, a paper spread open on his knees, a pair of
gold-rimmed glasses perched on his thick nose. The gate into the gardens
was locked and it was some time before Dick attracted the man’s
attention. Presently Binny looked up and, ambling forward, unlocked the
gate and admitted them.
‘I think he’s asleep, sir,’ he said, ‘and that’s a bit awkward. If I
start wheeling him when he’s asleep, and he wakes up, he gives me hell!
And he’s got to be home by three.’
Old Hervey Lyne sat, his chin on
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