The Clue of the Silver Key - Edgar Wallace (read e book txt) 📗
- Author: Edgar Wallace
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larders,’ he began, but she arrested his flippancy.
‘Don’t you remember Mr Smith said as we were leaving the house that he
was sure Binny had a hiding place somewhere? I am sure that’s it—on the
right-hand side as you go in.’
Dick Allenby laughed. ‘On the right-hand side as you go into the kitchen
there is a solid brick wall,’ he said, but she shook her head.
‘I’m sure there’s something behind it. I remember now, when I went into
the courtyard to try the key I noticed that there had been no change in
the exterior. There must be a space there. Dick, Providence is with us.’
She was looking towards the entrance. Surefoot Smith was there, very
disconsolate. He caught her eye and nodded.
Obviously she was not the person he wanted to see, for he continued his
scrutiny of the room. She caught his eye again and beckoned him. He came
forward reluctantly.
‘You haven’t seen the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, have you? I’m
lunching with him—he’s paying for it. He said half-past one.’ He looked
at his watch. ‘It’s nearly two. We’ve pinched Binny’s wife, by the way;
one of our men picked her up on the Outer Circle, but she’s got nothing
to say.’
‘I’ve found the hiding place!’ Mary blurted the news, and Surefoot Smith
became instantly alert.
‘Binny’s?’ he asked quickly. ‘In the house you mean?’
She told him breathlessly of her theory. He slapped his knee. ‘You’re
right, of course—the vacuum pump. I wondered what he used it for. If
there was a door—and it was an easy job to make a door on glazed brick—he
couldn’t have had handles, could he? The only way he could get it open
would be by sticking the vacuum on the surface of the brick to give him a
grip. I’ve got the pump at the Yard, and the Commissioner can wait.’
He went out of the room, and half an hour later Hervey Lyne’s little
house was surrounded. Surefoot came into the hall gun in hand, went
quickly into the kitchen and examined the white wall. There was no sign
of a door. He fastened the vacuum to the smooth surface and pulled but,
to his chagrin, nothing happened. The strength of two detectives failed
to move the door. He moved the position of the pump from time to time,
and at the fifth attempt he was rewarded. The slightest pull drew a brick
from the wall. It ran on a steel guide, and dropped over in front,
leaving an oblong aperture which was hollow.
He put his hand inside and felt a steel handle, which he turned and
pulled. The door swung open and he was in Binny’s hiding place. The
disordered heap of clothes on the floor, the shaving mirror thrown down
on the bed, told their own tale. There was greater significance, however,
in the saucer he found in the sink. It was still yellow with the anatta
colouring which Binny had used.
Surefoot Smith looked at it for a long time, and then: ‘I think there’s
going to be serious trouble,’ he said.
Surefoot Smith hurriedly turned over the clothes and articles which had
been emptied from the suitcase, but he found nothing to give him the
slightest clue to Binny’s intentions. One thing was certain: he had been
in his hiding place and had heard all that had happened that morning.
Surefoot had the door shut and himself listened to conversation in the
kitchen and, although he could not catch every word, he was satisfied
that Binny had heard enough.
The anatta in the saucer was a very slight and possibly useless clue. It
told him to look for a yellow-faced man, and this might or might not be a
useful guide to the searchers.
The fugitive had left nothing else behind. Surefoot searched diligently,
crawling over the floor with his eyes glued to the tiled flooring for
some sign of crepe hair. He expected this stage-mad murderer to have
attempted some sort of theatrical disguise, but his search failed to
reveal anything that left a hint as to what that disguise might be.
The only piece of incriminating evidence which Binny had left behind was
the sealed magazine of an automatic and, since this could not have been
overlooked, the detective surmised that the magazine had been left
because the man was carrying as many as he conveniently could.
Another discovery, which, at an earlier stage, would have been
invaluable, was a soiled white glove, obviously the fellow of that which
Surefoot had found in Mr Washington Wirth’s changing-room.
‘You never know,’ said Surefoot, as he handed over the glove to his
subordinate. ‘Juries go mad sometimes, and a little thing like that might
convince ‘em—keep it.’
The larder had evidently been used as sleeping-room. Although the bed
was on the floor, and the apartment itself was bare, Binny had often
found this a convenient retreat. Very little daylight came through the
small window near the ceiling, and apparently he kept that closed most of
the time; it was covered with a square of oilcloth.
Before he left Surefoot tried the experiment of having the clothes packed
in the suitcase. He found, as he had expected, that there was only
sufficient to fill one. He was satisfied, too, that some of the clothes
he had found had been recently changed by Binny, and the conclusion he
reached was that one of the suitcases had contained the disguise which
the murderer wore when he left the house.
He sent his men on missions of inquiry up and down the street, but nobody
had seen Binny leave—he had chosen the hour well. Later he widened the
circle of inquiry, but again he was unsuccessful.
He found Mary Lane and her fiance waiting patiently in the lounge of the
Carlton, and reported his discoveries. ‘If only I’d thought of it
before!’ she said ruefully.
Surefoot Smith’s smile was not altogether unpleasant. ‘Either you or I or
all of us would have been dead,’ he said grimly. ‘That bird carries a
young arsenal, and your bad memory probably saved us a whole lot of
unpleasantness.’
‘Do you think he was there?’
He nodded. ‘There’s no doubt about it.’
‘He’ll get away, then?’ asked Dick.
Surefoot rubbed his chin irritably. ‘I wonder if that would be a good
thing or a bad thing?’ he said. ‘He may try to leave today—all the ports
are being watched, and every single passenger will be under inspection.
The only person who can pass onto a ship leaving this coast tonight is a
baby in arms—and we search even him!’ He drew his chair closer to the
table and leaned across, lowering his voice. ‘Young lady,’ he said, and
he was very serious, ‘you know what rats do when they’re in a corner—they
bite! If this man can’t get out of England by walking or shooting himself
out, he’s coming back to the cause of all his trouble. I’m one, but
you’re another. Do you know where I should like to put you?’
She shook her head, for the moment incapable of speech. She was shocked,
frightened a little, if she had confessed it. Binny was on her nerves,
more than she would admit. She felt her heart beating a little faster,
and when she spoke she was oddly breathless.
‘Do you really think that?’ And then, forcing a smile: ‘Where would you
put me?’
‘In Holloway Prison.’ He was not joking. ‘It’s the safest place in London
for an unmarried woman who’s living around in hotels and flats; and if I
could find an excuse for putting you there for seven days I would.’
‘You’re not serious?’ said Dick, troubled.
Surefoot nodded. ‘I was never more serious in my life. He may get out of
the country; I don’t think it’s possible that he will. If Miss Lane had
not remembered the larder I shouldn’t take the precautions I’m taking
tonight. The doors out of England are locked and barred, unless he’s got
an ocean-going motor-boat somewhere on the East Coast, and I’ve an idea
that he hasn’t.’ Then, abruptly: ‘Where are you staying tonight?’
Mary shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I think at the hotel—’
‘You can’t stay there.’ He was emphatic. I know a place where you could
stay. It wouldn’t have the conveniences of an hotel, but you’d have a
decent bed and security.’ There was a new police station in the
north-west of London, which had married quarters above it, and one of
these was occupied by a woman whose husband, a detective sergeant, had
gone to Canada to bring back a fugitive from justice. ‘I know this woman;
she’s a decent sort, and she’ll give you a bed, if you wouldn’t mind
sleeping there.’
She agreed very meekly. Indeed, she had a sense of relief that he had
found such a simple solution.
Surefoot Smith had a queer sixth sense of danger. He had been concerned
in many murder cases, had dealt with scores of desperate men who would
not have hesitated to kill him they had the opportunity. He had known
cunning men and a few clever criminals, but Binny was an unusual type.
Here was a killer with no regard for human life. Murder to him was not a
desperate expedient—it was part of a normal method.
There was a long conference at Scotland Yard and new and urgent
instructions were sent to all parts of the country insisting upon the
dangerous character of the wanted man. Ordinarily the English police do
not carry firearms, but in this case, as the messages warned a score of
placid chief constables, it would be an act of suicide to accost the
wanted man unless the police officer whose duty it was to arrest him was
prepared to shoot.
Scotland Yard has a record of all projected sailings, and neither from
Liverpool nor Greenock was there any kind boat due to leave in the next
thirty-six hours. Binny’s avenue of escape must be the Continent. Strong
detachments of CID men were sent to reinforce the watchers at Harwich,
Southampton and the two Channel ports and at the airports. And yet, when
these preparations were completed, Surefoot Smith had a vague feeling of
uneasiness and futility.
Binny was in London, and he was too clever a man even to think of
leaving, unless he was ignorant that his hiding place had been
discovered. There was no reason why he should n be. It was hardly likely
that he had a confederate.
At five o’clock Surefoot made an exasperating discovery: he was strolling
in Whitehall when he saw a newspaper placard:
‘WANTED MURDERER’S SECRET HIDING PLACE.’
He bought a paper and saw, conspicuously displayed on the front page, a
long paragraph headed: ‘Secret Chamber in Hervey Lyne’s House.’ Surefoot
swore softly and read on:
‘This afternoon Inspector Smith of Scotland Yard, accompanied by a number
of detectives, made a further search of the house of Hervey Lyne—the
victim of the Regent’s Park murder. The police remained on the premises
for some time. It is understood that in the course of their
investigations a little room, which they had previously overlooked, was
discovered and entered, and unmistakable evidence secured that this
secret chamber had been used as a hiding place by the servant Binny, for
whom the police have been searching…’
Surefoot Smith read no further. It was a waste of time wondering who had
given away the information to the Press. Possibly some young detective
who had been engaged in the search and who was anxious to pass on this
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