The Clue of the Silver Key - Edgar Wallace (read e book txt) 📗
- Author: Edgar Wallace
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down, and the hollow steel railway that masons had fixed into the
stonework to allow the easy descent of an invalid chair.
Inside was wealth, immense, incalculable wealth, and a stupid old man on
the verge of the grave. Outside were poverty and resentment, the
recollection of the rigours of Pentonville Prison, a sense of injustice.
Old Lyne slept on the first floor.
His bed was between these two high windows. That lower window marked the
study where he sat in the daytime. There was a safe in the wall, full of
useless old papers. Old Lyne never kept money in the house. All his life
he had advertised this habit. A burglar or two had gone to enormous
trouble to prove him a liar and had got nothing for their pains.
There he was, sleeping in luxury, the old rat, under feather-weight
blankets specially woven for him, under a satin coverlet packed tight
with rare down, and here was he, Horace Tom Tickler, with a pinch of
silver in his pocket.
But, perhaps he was not there at all? That was an old trick of his, to be
out when everybody thought he was in, and in when they thought he was
out.
He walked up and down the quiet cul-de-sac for nearly an hour, turning
over in his mind numerous schemes, mostly impracticable, then he slouched
back towards the bright streets and coffee stalls. He took a short cut
through the mews to reach Portland Place, and the most astounding luck
was with him.
A policeman walking through Baynes Mews heard the sound of a man singing.
It was, if his hearing gave a right impression, the voice of one who had
gone far in insobriety, and the voice came from a tiny flat, one of the
many above the garages that lined each side of the mews. Time was when
they were occupied exclusively by chauffeurs, but the artistic and
aristocratic classes had swamped these humble West End habitations, and
most of the new population of Baynes Mews were people who came home from
parties and night clubs, their arms filled with gala favours, some of
which made strange and distressing noises.
There was nothing in the voice to indicate anything more startling than
normal inebriety. The policeman would have passed on but for the fact
that he saw a figure sitting on the step of the narrow door which led to
the little flat above.
The officer turned his torch on the sitter and saw nothing which paid for
illumination. The little man who grinned up at the policeman was, as the
officer said to his sergeant later, ‘nothing to write home about’. He was
red-faced, unshaven, wretchedly shabby. His collar might have been white
a week before; he wore no tie and his linen, even in the uncertain light
of the lamp, was uncleanly.
”Ear him?’ He jerked his head upward and grinned. ‘First time it’s ever
happened. Soused! What a mug, eh? Gettin’ soused. He slipped me tonight,
an’ I’d never have tailed him—but for this bit of luck…‘Eard him by
accident…Soused!’
‘You’re a bit soused yourself, aren’t you?’ The policeman’s tone was
unfriendly.
‘I’ve had three whiskies and a glass of beer. Does a man of the world get
soused on that, I ask you?’
The voice upstairs had died down to a deep hum.
‘A friend of yours?’
The little man shook his head.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps; that’s what I got to find out. Is he friendly or
ain’t he?’
The policeman made a gesture.
‘Get out of this. I can’t have you loungin’ about. I seem to know your
face, too. Didn’t I see you at Clerkenwell Police Court once?’
This officer prided himself on his memory for faces. It was his practice
to say that he could never remember names, but never forgot faces. He
thought he was unique and his remark original, and was not conscious of
being one of forty million fellow citizens who also remembered faces and
forgot names.
The little man rose and fell in by the officer’s side.
‘That’s right.’ His step was a little unsteady. ‘I got nine munce for
fraud.’
He had in truth been convicted of petty larceny and had gone to prison
for a month, but thieves have their pride.
Could a man convicted of fraud be arrested on suspicion because he sat in
the doorway of a mews flat? This was the problem that exercised the mind
of the constable. At the end of the mews he looked round for his
sergeant, but that authority was not in sight.
A thought occurred to him. ‘What you got in your pocket?’
The little man stretched out his arms.
‘Search me—go on. You ain’t entitled to, but I’ll let you.’
Another dilemma for the policeman, who was young and not quite sure of
his rights and duties.
‘Push off. Don’t let me see you hanging around here,’ he ordered.
If the little man argued or refused he could be arrested for
‘obstruction’, for ‘insulting behaviour’, for almost anything. But he did
nothing. ‘All right,’ he said, and walked off.
The policeman was tempted to recall him and discover the identity of the
singer. Instead, he watched Mr Tickler until he was out of sight. The
hour was a quarter to two in the morning. The patrol marched on to the
point where his sergeant would meet him.
As for Mr Tickler, he went shuffling down Portland Place, looking in
every doorway to find a cigarette end or cigar butt, which might have
been dropped by returning householders.
What a tale to tell if he could sell the information in the right
quarter! Or he could but the ‘black’ on the singer. Blackmail gets easy
money—if there is money to get. He stopped at a stall in Oxford Circus
and drank a scalding cup of coffee. He was not entirely without funds and
had a bed to go to and money for bus fares, if the buses were running.
Refreshed, he continued his way down Regent Street and met the one man in
the world he would willingly have avoided.
Surefoot Smith was standing in the shadow of a recessed shop window, a
stocky man, in a tightly buttoned overcoat. His hat was, as usual, on the
back of his head; his round face, ruddier than Mr Tickler’s, was
impassive. But for the periodical puffs of smoke which came from his big
briar pipe he might have been a statue carved out of red brick.
‘Hey!’
Reluctantly Tickler turned. He had been quick to identify the silent
watcher. By straightening his shoulders and adding something of
jauntiness to his stride he hoped to prevent the recognition from
becoming mutual.
Surefoot Smith was one of the few people in the world who have minds like
a well-organized card index. Not the smallest and least important
offender who had passed through his hands could hope to reach a blissful
oblivion.
‘Come here—you.’
Tickler came.
‘What are you doing now, Tickler? Burglary, or just fetching the beer for
the con. men? Two a.m.! Got a home?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ah, somewhere in the West End! Gone scientific, maybe. Science is the
ruin of the country!’
Rights or no rights, he passed his hands swiftly over Tickler’s person;
the little man stretched out his arms obediently and smiled. It was not a
pretty smile, for his teeth were few and his mouth large and lop-sided.
But it was a smile of conscious virtue.
‘No jemmy, no chisel, no bit, no gat.’ Surefoot Smith gave Mr Tickler
absolution.
‘No, Mr Smith; I’m runnin’ straight now. I’m going after a job tomorrow.’
‘Don’t waste my time, boy,’ said Surefoot reproachfully. ‘Work! You’ve
read about it. What kind of thieving do you do now? Whizzing? No, you’re
not clever enough.’
Tickler said a bold thing. The lees of wine were still sizzling within
him. ‘I’m a detective,’ he said.
If Surefoot Smith was revolted he did not betray his emotion. ‘Did you
say “defective” or “detective”?’ he asked.
He might have asked further questions, but at that moment a torch flashed
twice from the roof of the building he was watching. Instantly the
roadway seemed to be covered by the figures of overcoated men converging
on the building. Surefoot Smith was one of the first to reach the
opposite sidewalk.
A loud rapping on the door told Mr Tickler all he wanted to know: The
place was being raided—a spieling club, or maybe worse. He was grateful
for the relief and hurried on his way.
At Piccadilly Circus he paused and considered matters. He was quite sober
now and could review the position calmly; and the more he thought, the
more thoroughly he realized that he had allowed opportunity to slip past
him.
He turned and walked along Piccadilly, his chin on his chest, dreaming
dreams of easy money.
Mary Lane looked at the plain gold watch on her wrist and gasped.
‘Four o’clock, dear!’
There were still twenty couples on the dancing floor of the Legation
Club. It was a gala night, and they kept late hours on these occasions.
‘Sorry you’ve had such a tiring evening.’ Dick Allenby didn’t look sorry;
he certainly did not look tired. There were no shadows under the laughing
grey eyes, the tanned face was unlined. Yet he had not seen his bed for
twenty-four hours. ‘Anyway, you rescued me,’ he said as he called a
waiter. ‘Think of it! I was alone until you came. When I said Moran had
been and gone I was lying. The devil didn’t turn up. Jerry Dornford tried
to edge in on the party—he’s still hoping.’
He glanced across to a table on the other side of the room where the
immaculately dressed Jerry sat.
I hardly know him,’ she said.
Dick smiled. ‘He wants to know you better—but he is distinctly a person
not to know. Jerry has been out all the night—went away just before
supper and has only just come back. Your other party was dull, was it?
Funny devil, this man Wirth. It was cheek of Mike Hennessey to invite you
there.’
‘Mike is rather a dear,’ she protested.
‘Mike is a crook—a pleasant crook, but a crook. Whilst he is at large it
is disgraceful that there is anybody else in prison!’
They passed out into the street, and as they stood waiting for a taxi
Dick Allenby saw a familiar figure. ‘Why, Mr Smith, you’re out late!’
‘Early,’ said Surefoot Smith. He lifted his hat to the girl. ‘Evening,
Miss Lane. Shockin’ habit, night clubs.’
‘I’m full of bad habits,’ she smiled.
Here was another man she liked. Chief Inspector Smith of Scotland Yard
was liked by many people and heartily disliked by many more. The taxi
drew up. She refused Dick’s escort any farther and drove off.
‘Nice young lady that,’ said Surefoot. ‘Actresses don’t mean anything to
me—I’ve just come from Marlborough Street, where I’ve been chargin’
three of ‘em—at least, they called themselves actresses.’
‘A little raid?’
‘A mere nothing,’ said Surefoot sadly. ‘I expected to find kings and only
pulled in prawns.’
‘Pawns,’ suggested Dick.
‘Small fish, anyway,’ said Surefoot.
That he was called ‘Surefoot’ was no testimony to his gifts as a sleuth.
It was his baptismal name. His father had been a bookmaking publican, and
a month before his child was born the late Mr Smith, obsessed with the
conviction that Surefoot, the Derby favourite, would not win, had laid
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