The Clue of the Silver Key - Edgar Wallace (read e book txt) 📗

Chapter Twenty-Three

THE POLICE CHIEF looked at Surefoot in amazement.

 

‘Binny? You mean Lyne’s servant?’ asked the senior.

 

‘That’s what I mean,’ said Surefoot calmly. He dived into the inside of

his pocket, took out a flat envelope, and produced from this the

transcript of the long cable and a blurred photograph. ‘This came over

the wire,’ he explained. ‘It’s a picture of the man—London Len was one of

his names—who is wanted by the police of New York and Chicago. He worked

with three gangs and was lucky to get away with his life. Listen to

this.’

 

He put glasses on his broad nose and read from one of the cables.

 

‘This man speaks with a very common English accent. He is believed to

have been a valet, and his modus operandi is to obtain a situation with a

wealthy family and to use the opportunity for extensive robberies. On the

side he has worked with several booze rackets, is known to be concerned

in the killing of Eddie McGean, and is suspected of other killings.’ He

twisted the photograph round so that the inspectors could see it. ‘It’s

not pretty. It was taken at police headquarters in New York. If you don’t

know Binny, I’ll tell you that is the bird! Even his best friend would

recognize him.’

 

Chief Inspector Knowles examined the photograph and whistled softly. ‘I

know him. I saw him the day you had him up at the Yard, questioning him.

Why should he kill the old boy?’

 

‘Because he’s been forging his name. It was Miss Lane who put us on to

the track, though I was a dummy not to see it myself. All these forgeries

were committed on the seventeenth of the month, and she knew, having

lived with the old man, that that was the date he paid all his

tradesmen’s bills. He was in the habit of writing messages on the back of

his cheques, mainly of an insulting nature. The one we deciphered said:

 

‘“No more Chinese e—.” Miss Lane knew that the old man lived under the

impression that tradesmen spent their lives swindling him. It was his

belief that nothing but Chinese or imported eggs were sent to him. To

keep his egg and butter man up to the scratch, he used to make a note on

the back of the cheque when he paid his bill. That was his practice with

all tradesmen—Miss Lane has seen most of them: shoemakers, tailors,

provision merchants of all kinds. And do you know what they told her?’

 

Surefoot leaned forward over the table and spoke slowly, tapping his

finger on the desk to emphasize each word.

 

‘They told her that two or three years ago Lyne stopped paying by

cheque—and paid cash! Binny either used to go round and settle, or send

the money by postal order. Do you know what that means? It means that

Lyne was going blind, and that the cheques he was signing for the

tradesmen were cheques going into Binny’s private account. What made it

easier for Binny—which is his real name, by the way—was that the old man

would never admit that his sight was failing, and in his vanity claimed

that he could read as well as the next man.

 

It was easy for Binny, on the seventeenth of the month, to put cheques

before his master and pretend they were in settlement of the tradesmen’s

bills, when in reality they were filled in with pencil for the correct

amount. I’ve seen some of them, and under the microscope you can see the

pencil marks and the original amounts for which they were drawn. It was

easy to rub them out after the signature had been obtained, and to fill

them in for the amount Binny happened to require at the time.

 

‘He must have got wind that these investigations were going on, for he

went after Miss Lane, and she saved herself by pretending she thought it

was Moran. It was that which probably saved her life. When Binny heard

her say on the telephone that Moran was trying to break into her room, he

thought he’d leave well alone, and quitted. If he’d had any intelligence,

he would have known that all her inquiries incriminated not Moran, but

him! But that’s the way of ‘em—if criminals had any sense they’d never be

hanged.’

 

The Chief Inspector pushed the photograph back across the table. ‘Where

was the murder committed—the murder of Lyne, I mean?’

 

Surefoot shook his head.

 

‘That’s the one thing that puzzles me. It’s possible, of course, that he

did the shooting just at the moment Dornford’s car passed. The

“confession” that he prepared to throw the crime on to Moran—he was a mug

to say so many nice things about Binny—almost suggests that this is the

case. All the other crimes in this document were committed by Binny in

the way he described.’

 

He went back to the hotel to see Moran. There were other aspects of the

case which needed elucidation. Mike Hennessey’s death puzzled him. If the

manager was blackmailing Binny, there was motive enough. But what could

Mike Hennessey know, except that the servant of the day was the

magnificent Washington Wirth by night? And why should he blackmail the

man who was providing him with a generous income?

 

There was a very special reason for killing Hennessey: of that he was

sure. Before he left the Yard, Surefoot tightened the cords of the net

about the man he wanted. Binny had not been seen since the night Mary

Lane sent him to Newcastle on a fictitious errand so that she could try

the key of the pantry door of Hervey Lyne’s house.

 

The illuminated key was a mystery no longer. Sometimes Mr Washington

Wirth came back from these little parties of his rather exhilarated. It

was necessary that he should change his clothes in the room above the

garage, and once or twice, in changing them, he had left his key behind.

Possibly he was a methodical man, and was in the habit of putting the key

on the table. Its phosphorescent quality was added so that, even if he

switched off the light, he would not forget this necessary method of

gaining admission to Lyne’s house.

 

On the night of Tickler’s murder he had forgotten the key and was

compelled to break a window to get into the scullery—this had been Mary’s

theory. She had recognized the key; as a child she had seen it every day.

She had sent Binny to the north to give herself the opportunity of

testing out her theory. She had nearly lost her life in doing so, for

Binny was no fool: he had left the carriage and gone back ahead of her to

his lair.

 

The detective found Leo Moran conscious, but a very unhappy man, for the

after-effects of gas poisoning are not pleasant. All that he told

Surefoot confirmed what that intelligent officer had already discovered

from a perusal of his private correspondence.

 

Surefoot showed him the ‘confession’, and read portions of it to the

astonished man.

 

‘Murder!’ said Moran scornfully. ‘What rubbish! Who has been murdered?’

 

When Surefoot told him: ‘Hervey Lyne? Good God! How perfectly dreadful!

When did this happen?’

 

‘The day you went away,’ said Surefoot.

 

Moran frowned. ‘But I saw him the day I went away, from my window. He was

sitting under the tree in the park—when I say “the tree” I mean the tree

he always used as shade. I’ve seen him there dozens of times. Binny was

reading to him.’

 

‘What time was this?’ asked Surefoot quickly.

 

Moran thought for a while, then gave an approximate hour.

 

‘That must have been ten minutes before he was found dead. It was too far

away for you to see whether he was talking?’

 

Moran nodded. ‘When I saw him, Binny was reading to him.’

 

Here was unexpected evidence. Moran was probably the only man who had

watched that little group in Hervey Lyne’s last moments.

 

‘Where was he sitting—Binny, I mean?’

 

‘Where he usually sat,’ said Leo Moran instantly. ‘Facing the old man,

practically on a level with his feet. I was watching them for some time.’

 

‘Did you see Binny walk round to the back of the chair?’

 

The other hesitated. ‘Yes, he did—I remember now. He walked right round

the chair. I remember being reminded of how gamblers walk round a chair

for luck.’

 

‘You saw nothing else—heard nothing?’

 

Moran stared at him. ‘Do you suspect Binny?’

 

Surefoot nodded.’ It isn’t a case of suspicion, it’s a certainty.’

 

Again the sick man taxed his memory. ‘I’m sure I’m right in saying that

he went round the chair. I didn’t hear anything—you mean a shot? No, I

didn’t hear that, nor did I see Binny behaving suspiciously.’

 

Surefoot skimmed through the ‘confession’ again. ‘Do you know Binny?’

 

‘Slightly. He worked for me; I dismissed him for stealing. I lost a

number of small items.’

 

Smith put his hand in his pocket and took out the silver cigarette case

that had been found under the cushion of the car in which Mike Hennessey

had ridden to his death. The banker stretched out his hand eagerly. ‘Good

Lord, yes! I wouldn’t have lost that for a fortune. It’s one of the

things that were missing. How did you get it?’

 

In the man’s present condition Surefoot decided it was not the moment to

tell of the other horror which had been fastened upon him. ‘I thought it

might be,’ he said, pocketing the case. ‘It was obviously an old one and

certainly not the kind you would put where I found it. It had been

polished up for the occasion, too.’

 

‘What was the occasion?’ asked Moran curiously, but the detective evaded

the question.

 

Moran spoke quite frankly of his own movements. ‘I was a fool to go off

so hurriedly,’ he confessed,’ but I was rather piqued with my directors,

who had refused me leave. It was very vital I should be in Istanbul

whilst the board of the Cassari Company was being reconstructed. I have

very heavy interests in that company. It is now one of the richest oil

companies in the world. And, by the way, Miss Lane is a rich lady; the

shares I bought from her could not be transferred to me under the Turkish

law without yet another signature. Legally I have the right to that;

morally I haven’t; so the stock she transferred, I am transferring back

at the price I paid. Which means that she has more money than she can

spend in her lifetime. ‘He smiled.’ And so have I, for the matter of

that,’ he added.

 

There was nothing more to be gained from Moran, and Smith left him to

sleep off his intolerable headache. Scotland Yard had phoned that Dick

Allenby was on his way back from Paris by plane. He reached England at

dawn and found a police car waiting to take him