The Clue of the Silver Key - Edgar Wallace (read e book txt) 📗
- Author: Edgar Wallace
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into the Mike Hennessey class. You don’t want to be that.’
‘Why Mike Hennessey?’ asked Jerry quickly, and the other laughed.
‘An association of ideas. You go often to the Sheridan, eh? I do not
blame you…a very charming girl.’ He nodded. ‘Association of ideas, eh?
Allenby also likes the young lady. Queer how all things fit in, like the
pieces of a puzzle. Think it over, my dear Jerry, and ring me up at the
Grosvenor.’
He snapped his fingers towards a club waiter, scribbled his initials on a
bill and strolled towards the door, Jerry following.
They had to pass Moran and his friend; that bluff, jolly-looking man
looked up, nodded with careless friendliness and caught Jerry’s sleeve as
he was passing.
‘I’d like to see you one day this week, if you’re not busy, Jerry.’
Jerry never forgot he was a member of Snell’s and a gentleman. He never
forgot that Mr Leo Moran was a sort of glorified bank clerk, who had
probably had his education at the State’s expense; and, knowing all these
things, he resented the ‘Jerry’. It added to his irritation that he knew
why Mr Moran wanted to see him. It was outrageous that one couldn’t lunch
in one’s club without being dunned by people like this.
He pulled his sleeve away from the detaining finger and thumb. ‘All
right,’ he said.
He would have been more offensive if this man had not been a guest at the
club and, more important, if it were not in Moran’s power to make things
extremely uncomfortable for Mr Gerald Dornford.
As he and Jules were passing down the stairs…‘The swine! Who brought
that kind of chap into the club? Snell’s is getting impossible!’
Jules, who had a weakness for the rococo qualities of Italian opera, was
humming a favourite aria of Puccini’s. He smiled and shook his head. ‘It
takes all sorts of people to make a world, my friend,’ he said
sententiously. He flicked a speck from his immaculate coat sleeve, patted
Jerry on the arm as though he were a child, and went swinging up St
James’s Street towards his mysterious Legation.
Jerry Dornford stood for a moment hesitant, then walked slowly down
towards the palace. He was in a jam, a tight jam, and it wasn’t going to
be so very easy to get out. He obeyed an impulse, called a taxi and drove
to near Queen’s Gate, where he alighted, paid his fare, and walked on.
Dick Allenby lived in a big house that had been converted into flats.
There was no attendant on duty at the door, and the elevator that took
him up to the fourth floor was automatic. He knocked at the door of
Dick’s studio—for studio it had once been, before Dick Allenby had
converted it into a work-room. There was no answer, and he turned the
handle and walked in.
The room was empty. Evidently there had been visitors, for half a dozen
empty beer bottles stood on a bench, though there was only one used
tumbler visible. If he had known something of Surefoot Smith, he might
have reduced the visiting list to one.
‘Are you there, Allenby?’ he called.
There was no answer. He walked across to the bench where the odd-looking
steel box lay, and lifted it. To his relief he found he could carry it
without an effort. Putting it down again, he walked to the door. The key
was on the inside; he drew it out and examined it carefully. If he had
been an expert at the job he would have carried wax and taken an
impression. As it was, his early technical training came to his aid—it
had once been intended that he should follow the profession of engineer.
He listened; there was no sound of the lift moving. Dick, he knew, had
his bedroom on the upper floor, and was probably there now. Dornford made
a rapid sketch on the back of an envelope—rapid but accurate. He judged
the width of the key, made a brief note and replaced it as the sound of
somebody coming down the stairs reached him.
He was standing examining the empty beer bottles when Dick came in.
‘Hello, Dornford!’ There was no great welcome in the tone. ‘Did you want
to see me?’
Jerry smiled. ‘I was bored. I thought I’d come up and see what an
inventor looked like. By the way, I saw you at the theatre the other
night—nice girl that. She was damned rude to me the only time I spoke to
her.’
Dick faced him squarely. ‘And I shall be damned rude to you the next time
you speak to her,’ he said.
Jerry Dornford chuckled. ‘Like that, eh? By the way, I’m seeing the old
man tonight. Shall I give him your love?’
‘He’d prefer that you gave him something more substantial,’ said Dick
coldly. It was a shot at a venture, but it got home. Gerald the
imperturbable winced. It was odd that up to that moment Dick Allenby had
never realized how intensely he disliked this man.
‘Why this sudden antagonism? After all, I’ve no feeling about this girl
of yours. She’s a nice little thing; a bad actress, but a good girl. They
don’t go very far on the London stage—’
‘If you’re talking about Miss Lane I will bring the conversation to a
very abrupt termination,’ said Dick; and then, bluntly: ‘Why did you come
up here? You’re quite right about the antagonism, but it’s not very
sudden, is it? I don’t seem to remember that you and I were ever very
great friends.’
‘We were in the same regiment, old boy—brother officers and all that,’
said Jerry flippantly. ‘Good Lord! It doesn’t seem like twelve years
ago—’
Dick opened the door and stood by it.
‘I don’t want you here. I don’t particularly want to know you. If you see
my uncle tonight you’d better tell him that: it will be a point in my
favour.’
Jerry Dornford smiled. His skin was thick, though he was very sensitive
on certain unimportant matters.
‘I suppose you knew this fellow Tickler who was killed the other night?’
he began.
‘I don’t want even to discuss murders with you,’ said Dick.
He went out of the room, pulled open the door of the lift and shot back
the folding iron gate. He was angry with himself afterwards that he had
lost his temper, but he never knew the time when Jerry Dornford did not
arouse a fury in him. He hated Jerry’s views of life, his philosophy, the
looseness of his code. He remembered Jerry’s extraordinary dexterity with
cards and a ruined subaltern who went gladly to his death rather than
face the consequence of a night’s play.
As he heard the elevator stop at the bottom floor he opened the window of
the workshop to air it—an extravagant gesture, but one which accurately
marked his attitude of mind towards his visitor.
THE BANK WAS closed and Mr Moran had gone home, when Surefoot Smith
called to make his inquiry.
Surefoot knew almost everybody who had any importance in London. Indeed,
quite a number of people would have had a shock if they had known how
very completely informed he was about their private lives. It is true
that almost every man and woman in any civilized community has, to
himself or herself, a criminal history. They may have broken no laws, yet
there is guilt on their conscience; and it is a knowledge of this
psychology which is of such invaluable aid to investigating detectives.
The nearest way to Parkview Terrace led him across the open end of
Naylors Crescent. Glancing down, he saw a man coming towards him and
stopped. Binny he knew to be an inveterate gossip, a great collector of
stories and scandals, most of which were ill-founded. At the back of his
mind, however, he associated Hervey Lyne’s manservant with the banker.
Years before, Surefoot Smith had been in control of this division, and
his memory was extraordinary good.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Smith.’
Binny tipped his wide-brimmed bowler hat, and then, after a moment’s
hesitation:
‘May I be so bold to ask, sir, if there is any news?’
‘You told me you knew this man Tickler?’
Binny shook his head. ‘An acquaintance. He was my predecessor—’
‘I’d have that word framed,’ said Surefoot Smith testily. ‘You mean he
was the fellow who had your job before, don’t you?’ And, when Binny
nodded:’ Then why didn’t you say so? Didn’t you work for Moran?’
Binny smiled. ‘I’ve worked for almost every kind of gentleman,’ he said.
‘I was Lord Frenley’s valet—’
‘I don’t want your family history,’ said Surefoot Smith. ‘What sort of a
man is Moran? Nice fellow—generous? Free spender?’
Binny considered the matter as though his life depended upon his answer.
‘He was a very nice gentleman. I was only with him six months,’ he said.
‘He lives just round the corner, overlooking the park. In fact, you can
see his flat from the gardens.’
‘A quiet sort of man?’ asked Surefoot.
‘I never heard him make much noise—’ began Binny.
‘When I say “quiet”,’ explained Surefoot Smith with a pained expression,
‘I mean, does he gad about? Women, wine, and song—you know the kind of
thing I mean. I suppose your mother told you something when you were
young?’
‘I don’t remember my mother,’ said Binny. ‘No, sir, I can’t say that Mr
Moran was a gadder. He used to have little parties—ladies and gentlemen
from the theatre—but he gave that up after he lost his money.’
Surefoot’s eyes narrowed.
‘Lost his money? He’s a bank manager, isn’t he? Had he any money to
lose?’
‘It was his own money, sir.’ Binny was shocked and hastened to correct a
wrong impression. ‘That was why I left him. He had some shares in a
bank—not his own bank, but another one—and it went bust. I mean to
say—’
‘Don’t try to interpret “bust” to me. I know the word,’ said Surefoot.
‘Gave little theatrical parties like that fellow What’s-his-name?
Drinking and all that sort of thing?’
Binny could not help him. He was looking left and right anxiously, as
though seeking a means of escape.
‘In a hurry?’ asked the detective.
‘The big picture comes on in ten minutes; I don’t want to miss it.’
Surefoot was not impressed. ‘Now what about this man Tickler? Did he ever
work for Moran?’
Binny considered this and shook his head. ‘No, sir, I think he was
working for Mr Lyne when I was with Mr Moran, but I’m not certain.’ And
then, as a thought struck him: ‘He’s on the radio tonight.’
Surefoot was staggered. ‘Who?’
‘Mr Moran. He’s talking on economics or something. He often talks on
banking and things like that—he’s a regular lecturer.’
Surefoot Smith was not very much interested in lecturers.
He asked a few more questions about the unfortunate Tickler and went on
his way.
Parkview Terrace was a noble block of buildings which had suffered the
indignity of being converted into apartments. Leo Moran lived in the top
flat, and he was at home, his man told Surefoot when he came to the door.
In point of fact he was dressing for dinner. Smith was shown into a large
and hand—some sitting-room, furnished expensively and with some taste.
There were two windows which commanded a view of Regent’s Park and the
Canal, but it was
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