The Clue of the Silver Key - Edgar Wallace (read e book txt) 📗
- Author: Edgar Wallace
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‘Binny must have made his plans on the spur of the moment. After he
dressed the old man to take him out, he stepped behind and shot him with
an automatic—I dug out the bullet from the floor. It is possible that he
had no intention of taking him out, but after he found there was very
little blood and no sign of a wound, he decided to take the risk. The
blue glasses Mr Lyne wore hid his eyes. He was generally half asleep as
he was being pushed into the park. Binny got away with it. He even asked
a policeman to hold up the traffic to allow the chair to pass.’ Surefoot
Smith sighed and shook his head in reluctant admiration. ‘Think of it!
Him sitting there dead, and Binny as cool as a cucumber, reading the news
to the dead man.’
‘Is there a chance of Binny getting out of England?’ asked Dick.
Surefoot scratched his nose thoughtfully. ‘Theoretically—no, but this man
is a play-actor, meaning no disrespect to you, Miss Lane. I don’t believe
in criminals disguising themselves, but this man isn’t an ordinary
criminal. At the moment he is in London, probably living in a flat which
he has rented under another name. He may have two or three of them. He is
the sort of man who would be very careful to make all preparations for a
getaway. He’s got stacks of money, a couple of automatics, and the rope
ahead of him. He isn’t going to be taken easily.’
‘I don’t understand him,’ said Dick, shaking his head. ‘Why these
theatrical parties? Why Mr Washington Wirth?’
‘He had to have some sort of swell name and appearance. I’ll tell you all
about the theatrical parties one of these days. He never got the right
people there, with all due respect to you, Miss Lane. He wanted ladies
wearing thousands of pounds’ worth of diamonds. He worked that racket in
Chicago: got a big party and held them up, but he never caught on in
London and never attracted the money. And you’ve got to allow for vanity,
too. He liked to be a big noise, even among little people, again with all
due respect to you, Miss Lane.’
He picked up the vacuum pump and looked at it. ‘I’d like to know what
this is for. I think I’ll take it along with me.’
He slipped it into his pocket. They went out after locking all the
doors—Dick and the girl to the hotel, and the indefatigable Mr Smith to
his Haymarket flat.
An hour passed in that house. There was neither sound nor movement, until
an oblong strip of glazed brickwork began to open like a door, and Binny,
wearing rubber overshoes, came cautiously into the kitchen, gun in hand.
He listened, went swiftly and noiselessly into the passage, up the stairs
from room to room, before he came back to the front door and slipped a
bolt in its place. Returning to the kitchen, he laid his gun on the
table, and passed his hand over his unshaven chin. His unprepossessing
face creased in a smile which was not pleasant to see.
‘Vanity, eh?’ he said.
It was the one thing the detective had said that had infuriated him.
Binny stood by the table, his unshapely head sunk in thought, his fingers
playing mechanically with the long-barrelled automatic that lay at his
hand.
Vanity! That had hurt him. He hated Surefoot Smith; from the first time
he had seen him he had recognized in this slow ponderous,
unintelligent-looking man a menace to his own security and life. And he
had offended him beyond all pardon! Whatever anybody could say about this
amazing man, his love of the theatre was genuine. Association with its
people was the breath of his nostrils. His first defalcations were made
for the purpose of financing a play that ran only a week. He himself was
no bad actor. He would require all his skill and genius to escape from
the net which was being drawn about him. He went back through the narrow
door into a room that was smaller than the average prison cell.
It was narrow and long. On the floor was a mattress where he had slept,
and at the foot of the ‘bed’ was a small dressing-table, beneath which
were two suitcases. He took one of these out and unlocked it. On the top
lay a flat envelope containing three passports, which he brought into the
kitchen. Pulling up a chair to the table, he examined each one carefully.
He had made his preparations well. The passports were in names that
Surefoot Smith had never heard of and there was no resemblance to him in
the three photographs attached to each passport.
Fastened to one by a rubber band was a little packet of tickets. One set
would take him to the Hook of Holland, another to Italy. He could change
his identity three times on the journey.
From a bulging hip pocket he took a thick pad of banknotes: French,
English, German. He took another pad from a concealed pocket in his coat,
a third and fourth, until there was a great pile of money on the table.
For a quarter of an hour he sat contemplating his wealth thoughtfully;
then, going back into his little hiding place, he carried out a mirror
and a small shaving set and began carefully to make his preparations.
Vulgar grease paints, however convincing they might look on the stage,
would have no value in the light of day. He poured some anatta into a
saucer, diluted it and sponged his face carefully, using a magnifying
mirror to check the effects.
For the greater part of two hours he laboured on his face and head; then,
stripping to his underclothes, he began to dress, having first deposited
his money in satchels that were attached to a belt, which he fastened
round his waist. The contents of the two cases he turned out, for he had
examined them very carefully the day before. He could not afford to carry
any other baggage than the two automatics and half a dozen spare
magazines, which he disposed about his person.
He chose the lunch hour, and then only after a long scrutiny of the
street from the study window. Someone might see him, but the chances were
that everybody would be busy preparing or serving the meal, and it was
the hour, too, when no tradesmen were delivering, and the only risk was
that Surefoot Smith had left somebody to watch the house.
He unbolted the front door, turned the handle, and stepped out. As he
reached the Outer Circle he saw something that made him set his jaw. A
slatternly-looking woman was walking unsteadily on the opposite side of
the street. He recognized her as his miserable companion of the past four
years, the half-witted drunkard who had shared the kitchen with him. She
did not recognize him, and it mattered little even if Surefoot saw her.
Binny had turned her out the previous day with instructions to go back to
Wiltshire, where he had found her, and had given her enough money to keep
her for a year.
He plodded on, looking back occasionally to see if he were followed. He
dared not risk a bus. A taxi would be almost as dangerous and to drive a
car in his present disguise would be to attract undesirable attention.
In the Finchley Road there was a block of buildings, the ground floor of
which was shops. Above these was a number of apartments occupied by good
middle-class tenants. The corner of the block, however, had been reserved
for offices, and this had a self-operated elevator. Binny went into the
narrow passage unchallenged, pressed the button, and had himself carried
on to the third floor.
Almost opposite the lift, at an angle of the wall was a door inscribed:
‘The New Theatrical Syndicate’. He unlocked the door and went in. The
office consisted of one medium-sized room and a small cloakroom. It was
furnished plainly and had the appearance of being very rarely used.
Except for a desk and a table there was no evidence of its business
character.
He shot a bolt in the door, took off the coat he wore, and sat down in
the comfortable chair. In one of the drawers there was a small electric
kettle, which he filled in the wash-room. He brewed himself a cup of
coffee, and this, with some biscuits from a tin box, in the second
drawer, comprised his lunch.
The getaway was going to be simple. His real baggage was in the cloakroom
at Liverpool Street. Everything was simple, and yet—
Binny could have written a book on the psychology of criminals. He was a
cold-blooded, reasoning killer, who never made the stupid errors of other
criminals. It was a great pity that he had made the appalling mistake of
going back to find the key and had attracted the girl’s attention.
Otherwise, Leo Moran would have been dead and there would be no proof
that the confession, which Binny had typed out so industriously, was not
true in every detail.
He had planned it all so carefully: he had intended dropping the key just
on the inside of the locked door and had put it in his pocket and
forgotten it. A little slip that had messed up his artistic plan. Reason,
which had determined his every action, told him to slip out of London
quietly that night and trust to his native genius for safety. But that
something which is part of the mental make-up of criminal minds clamoured
for the spectacular. It would be a great stunt to leave London with one
crushing exploit which would make him the talk of the world.
In his imagination he could see the headlines in the newspapers.
‘SUREFOOT SMITH LEFT DEAD AND THE MURDERER ESCAPED’
‘SUREFOOT SMITH, THE GREAT CATCHER OF MURDERERS, WAS HIMSELF CAUGHT’
The fantastic possibilities took hold of him. His mind began to work, not
towards safety, but in the direction of pleasing sensationalism, and he
did not realize that the charge of vanity which he so resented was being
justified with every mental step he took towards vengeance.
DICK ALLENBY AND Mary were lunching at the Carlton, and they were talking
about things which ordinarily would have absorbed her.
‘You’re not listening,’ he accused her, and she started.
‘Wasn’t I?’ She was very penitent. ‘Darling, I was thinking of something
else. Isn’t that a terrible confession? I don’t suppose any other girl
ever listened to a proposal of marriage with her mind on a nasty old
kitchen in an unpleasant little house.’
He laughed. ‘If you could bring that mind of yours from the drab
realities to the idyllic possibilities, I should be a very happy man.’
And then, curiously: ‘You mean Hervey Lyne’s house? What’s worrying you?’
‘The kitchen,’ she said promptly. ‘There was something there, Dick—I
can’t think what it was—something I missed, and it’s worrying me. I have
a dim recollection that the poor old man told me he was having the
kitchen rebuilt. I remember him saying what a wonderful fellow Binny was,
because he was superintending the operations and saving him a lot of
money.’ She fingered her chin.’ There was a dresser,’ she said
thoughtfully. ‘Of course, that’s gone. And a horrid little sink of brown
earthenware, and—’ She stopped suddenly and stared at him, wide-eyed.
‘The larder!’ she gasped. ‘Of course, that’s what it was! There was a
larder and a door in the wall leading to it. What’s happened to the
larder?’
He shook
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