"Why this sudden antagonism? After all, I've no feeling about this girl of yours. She's a jolly little thing; a bad actress, but a good woman. 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 are quite right about the antagonism, but it is 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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The bank was closed, and Mr. Moran had gone home, when Surefoot Smith called to make his enquiry.
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 civilised 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 Mr. Lyne's serving man with the banker. Years before, Surefoot Smith had been in control of this division, and his memory was extraordinarily 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, Binny," said Surefoot Smith. "What sort of man is Moran? Nice fellow—generous, eh? 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 for 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. It's Mary Pickford in——"
"Oh, her!" said Surefoot, and dismissed the world's sweetheart with a wave of his hand. "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 wireless 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 in post-war days, as so many other buildings have suffered, of being converted into apartments. Mr. Moran lived on the top flat, and he was at home, his servant told Surefoot when he came to the door. In point of fact he was dressing for dinner. Smith was shown into a large and handsome 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 the luxury of the appointments which arrested Surefoot's interest.
He knew the financial position of the average branch manager; could tell to within a few pounds just what their salaries were; and it was rather a shock to find even a twelve hundred a year manager living in an apartment which must have absorbed at least four hundred, and displaying evidence of wealth which men in his position have rarely the opportunity of acquiring.
A Persian carpet covered the floor; the electric fittings had the appearance of silver, and were certainly of the more exquisite kind that are not to be duplicated in a department store. There was a big Knolle couch ("Cost a hundred," Smith noted mentally); in an illuminated glass case were a number of beautiful miniatures, and in another, rare ornaments of jade, some of which must have been worth a considerable sum.
Surefoot knew nothing about pictures, but he was satisfied that more than one of those on the wall were genuine Old Masters.
He was examining the cabinet when he heard a step behind him and turned to meet the owner of the flat. Mr. Leo Moran was half-dressed and wore a silk dressing-gown over his shirt and white waistcoat.
"Hullo, Smith! We don't often see you. Sit down and have a drink." He rang the bell. "Beer, isn't it?"
"Beer it is," said Surefoot heartily. "Nice place you've got here, Mr. Moran."
"Not bad," said the other carelessly. He pointed to a picture. "That's a genuine Corot. My father paid three hundred pounds for it, and it's probably worth three thousand today."
"Your father was well off, was he, Mr. Moran?"
Moran looked at him quickly.
"He had money. Why do you ask? You don't imagine I could have furnished a flat like this on a thousand a year, do you?" His eyes twinkled. "Or has it occurred to you that this is part of my illicit gains—moneys pinched from the bank?"
"I hope," said Surefoot Smith solemnly, "that such a thought never entered into my head."
"Beer," said Mr. Leo Moran, addressing the servant who had appeared in the doorway. "You've come about something, haven't you? What is it?"
Surefoot pursed his lips thoughtfully.
"I'm making enquiries about this man Tickler——"
"The fellow who was murdered. Do I know him, you mean? Of course I know him! The fellow was a pest. I never went from this house without finding him on the kerb outside, wanting to tell me something or sell me something—I have never discovered which."
He had a rapid method of speaking. His voice was not what Smith would have described as a gentleman's. Indeed, Leo Moran was very much of the people. His life had been an adventurous one. He had sailed before the mast, he had worked at a brass founder's in the Midlands, been in a dozen kinds of employment before he eventually drifted into banking. A rough diamond, with now and again a rough voice; more often, however, a suave one, for he had the poise and presence which authority and wealth bring. Now and again his voice grew harsh, almost common, and in moments he became very much a man of the people. It was in that tone he asked:
"Do you suppose I killed him?"
Surefoot smiled; whether at the absurdity of the question or the appearance of a large bottle of beer and a tumbler, which were carried in at that moment, Moran was undecided.
"You know Miss Lane, don't you?"
"Slightly." Moran's tone was cold.
"Nice girl—here's luck." Surefoot raised his glass and swallowed its contents at a gulp. "Good beer, almost pre-war. Lord! I remember the time when you could get the best ale in the world for fourpence a quart."
He sighed heavily, and tried to squeeze a little more out of the bottle, but failed.
Moran touched the bell again.
"Why do you ask me about Miss Lane?"
"I knew you were interested in theatricals—there's your servant."
"Another bottle of beer for Mr. Smith," said Moran without turning his head. "What do you mean by theatricals?"
"You used to give parties, didn't you, once upon a time?"
The banker nodded.
"Years ago, in my salad days. Why?"
"I was just wondering," said Smith vaguely.
His host strode up and down the floor, his hands thrust into the silken pockets of his gown.
"What the devil did you come here for, Smith? You're not the sort of man to go barging round making stupid enquiries. Are you connecting me with this absurd murder—the murder of a cheap little gutter rat I scarcely know by sight?"
Surefoot shook his head.
"Is it likely?" he murmured.
Then the beer came, and Moran's fit of annoyance seemed to pass.
"Well, the least you can do is to tell me the strength of it—or aren't you enquiring about the murder at all? Come along, my dear fellow, don't be mysterious!"
Mr. Smith wiped his moustache, got up slowly from the chair and adjusted his horrible pink tie before an old Venetian mirror.
"I'll tell you the strength of it, man to man," he said. "We had an anonymous letter. That was easy to trace. It was sent by Tickler's landlady, and it appeared that when he was very drunk, which was every day, sometimes twice a day, he used to talk to this good lady about you."
"About me?" said the other quickly. "But he didn't know me!"
"Lots of people talk about people they don't know," began Smith. "It's publicity——"
"Nonsense! I'm not a public man. I'm just a poor little bank manager, who hates banking, and would gladly pay a fortune, if he had one to pay, for the privilege of taking all the books of the bank and burning 'em in Regent's Park, making the clerks drunk, throwing open the vault to the petty thieves of London, and turning the whole damn thing into a night club!"
Gazing at him with open mouth, genuinely staggered by such a confession, Smith saw an expression in that sometime genial face that he had never seen before: a certain harshness; heard in his voice the vibration of a hidden fury.
"They nearly kicked me out once because I speculated," Moran went on. "I'm a gambler; I always have been a gambler. If they'd kicked me out I'd have been ruined at that time. I had to crawl on my hands and knees to the directors to let me stay on. I was managing a branch at Chalk Farm at the time, and I've had to pretend that the Northern and Southern Bank is something holy, that its directors are gods; and every time I've tried to get a bit of money so that I could clear out, the market has gone——!" He snapped his fingers. "I don't really know Tickler. Why he should talk about me I haven't the slightest idea."
Surefoot Smith looked into his hat.
"Do you know Mr. Hervey Lyne?" he asked.
"Yes, he's a client of ours."
"Have you seen him lately?"
A pause, and then:
"No, I haven't seen him for two years."
"Oh!" said Surefoot Smith.
He said "Oh!" because he could think of nothing else to say.
"Well, I'll be getting along. Sorry to bother you, but you know what we are at the Yard."
He offered his huge hand to the banker, but Mr. Moran was so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not see it.
After Moran had closed the door upon his visitor he walked slowly back to his room and sat down on the edge of the bed. He sat there for a long time before he got up, walked across the room to a wall safe hidden behind a picture, opened it and took out a number of documents, which he examined very carefully. He put these back, and, groping, found a flat leather case which was packed with strangely coloured documents. They were train and steamship tickets; his passport lay handy, and, fastened in his passport by a thick rubber band, twenty banknotes for a hundred pounds.
He locked the safe again, replaced the picture, and went on with his dressing. He was more than a little perturbed. That casual reference to Hervey Lyne had shaken him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
At ten o'clock that night quite a number of wireless sets would be shut off at the item "The Economy of our Banking System," and would be turned on again at ten fifteen, when the Jubilee Jazz Band would be relayed from Manchester.
Binny read the programme through and came at last to the ten o'clock item.
"Moran. Is that the fellow who saw me yesterday?" asked the old man.
"Yes, sir," said Binny.
"Banking systems—bah!" snarled old Lyne. "I don't want to hear it. Do you understand, Binny?—I don't want to hear it!"
"No, sir," said Binny.
The white, gnarled hands groped along the table till they reached a repeater watch, and pressed a knob.
"Six o'clock. Get me my salad."
"I saw that detective today, sir—Mr. Smith."
"Get me my salad!"
Chicken salad was his invariable meal at the close of day. Binny served him, but could do nothing right. If he spoke he was told to be quiet; if he relapsed into silence old Hervey cursed him for his sulkiness.
He had cleared away the meal, put a cup of weak tea before his master, and was leaving him to doze, when Lyne called him back.
"What are Cassari Oils?" he demanded.
It was so long since Binny had read the fluctuations of the oil market that he had no information to give.
"Get a newspaper, you fool!"
Binny went in search of an evening newspaper.
It was his habit to read, morning and night, the movements of industrial shares; a monotonous proceeding, for Mr. Lyne's money was invested in gilt-edged securities which were stately and steadfast and seldom moved except by thirty-seconds. Cassari Oils had been one of his errors. The shares had been part of a trust fund—he had hesitated for a long time before he converted them to a more stable stock. The period of his holding had been two years of torture to him, for they flamed up and down like a paper fire, and never stayed in one place for more than a week at a time.
Binny came back with the newspaper and read the quotation, which was received with a grunt.
"If they'd gone up I'd have sued the bank. That brute Moran advised me to sell."
"Have they gone up, sir?" asked Binny, interested.
"Mind your own business!" snapped the other.
Hervey Lyne used often to sit and wonder and fret himself over those Cassaris. They were founder's shares, not lightly come by, not easy to dispose of. The thought that he might have thrown away a fortune on the advice of a conservative bank manager, and that when he came to hand over his stewardship to Mary Lane he might be liable—which he would not have been—was a nightmare to him. The unease had been renewed that day by something which Binny had read to him from the morning newspaper concerning oil discoveries in Asia Minor.
In the course of the years he had accumulated quite a lot of data concerning the Cassari Oilfield, most of it very depressing to anybody who had money in the concern. He directed Binny to unearth the pamphlets and reports, and promised himself a possibly exasperating evening.
Eight o'clock brought a visitor, a reluctant man, who had rehearsed quite a number of plausible excuses. He had the feeling that he, being the last of the old man's debtors, was in the position of a mouse in the paws of an ancient cat, not to be killed too quickly; and here, to some extent, he was right.
Hervey Lyne received him with a set grin which was a parody of the smile he had used for so many years on such occasions.
"Sit down, Mr. Dornford," he piped. "Binny, go out!"
"Binny's not here, Mr. Lyne."
"He's listening outside the door—he's always listening. Have a look."
Dornford opened the door; there was no sign of the libelled servant.
"Now, now." Again he was his old business-like self, repeating a speech which was part of a formula. "About this money—three thousand seven hundred, I think. You're going to settle tonight?"
"Unfortunately I can't settle tonight, and not for many nights," said Jerry. "In fact, there's no immediate prospect of my settling at all. I've made arrangements to get you four or five hundred on account——"
"From Isaac and Solomon, eh?"
Jerry cursed himself for his stupidity. He knew that the moneylenders exchanged daily a list of proposals which had come to them.
"Well, you're not going to get it, my friend. You've got to find money to settle this account, or it goes into the hands of my collectors tomorrow."
Jerry had expected nothing better than this.
"Suppose I find you two thousand by the end of the week?" he said. "Will you give me a reasonable time to find the remainder?"
To his surprise he was speaking huskily—the imperturbable Jerry, who had faced so many crises with equanimity, was amazingly agitated in this, the most crucial of all.
"If you can find two thousand you can find three thousand seven hundred," boomed the old man. "A week? I wouldn't give you a day—and where are you getting the two thousand from?"
Jerry cleared his throat.
"A friend of mine——"
"That's a lie to begin with, Mr. Gerald Dornford," said the hateful voice. "You have no friends; you've used them all up. I'll tell you what I'll do with you." He leaned over the table, his elbows on the polished mahogany. He was enjoying this moment of his triumph, recovering some of the old values of a life that was now only a memory. "I'll give you till tomorrow night at six o'clock. Your money's here"—he tapped the table vigorously—"or I'll bankrupt you!"
If his sight had been only near to normal he would have seen the look that came into Jerry's face, and would have been frightened to silence. But, if he saw nothing, he sensed the effect of his words.
"You understand, don't you?"
Some of the steel went out of his tone.
"I understand." Jerry's voice was low.
"Tomorrow you bring the money, and I will give you your bill. A minute after six o'clock, and it goes to the collector."
"But surely, Mr. Lyne"—Jerry found coherent speech at last—"two thousand pounds on account is not to be sniffed at."
"We shall see," said the old man, nodding. "I've nothing else to say."
Jerry rose; he was shaking with anger.
"I've got something to say, you damned old usurer!" He quivered with rage. "You bloodsucking old brute! You'll bankrupt me, will you?"
Hervey Lyne had come to his feet, his skinny hand pointing to the door.
"Get out!" His voice was little more than a whisper. "Bloodsucker ... damned old usurer, am I? Binny—Binny!"
Binny came stumbling up from the kitchen.
"Throw him out—throw him on his head—smash him!" screamed the old man.
Binny looked at the man who was head and shoulders taller than he, and his smile was sickly.
"Better get out, sir," he said under his breath, "and don't take no notice of me."
Then, in a louder, truculent tone:
"Get out of here, will you?" He pulled open the street door noisily. "Out you get!"
He struck his palm with his fist, and all the time his imploring eyes begged the visitor to pardon his lapse of manners.
When he came back the moneylender was lying back, exhausted, in his chair.
"Did you hit him?" he asked weakly.
"Did I hit him, sir? I nearly broke me wrist."
"Did you break his wrist or anything else of him?" snarled Hervey, not at all interested in the injuries which might have come to the assailant.
"It'll take two doctors to put him right," said Binny.
The old man's thin lips curled in a sneer.
"I don't believe you touched him, you poor worm!" he said.
"Didn't you hear me——" began Binny, aggrieved.
"Clapping your hands together! Liar and fool, do you think I didn't know that? I may be blind but I've got ears. Did you hit the burglar last night—or when was it? You didn't even hear him."
Binny blinked at him helplessly. Two nights before somebody had smashed a glass at the back of the house and opened a window. Whether they succeeded in entering the kitchen or not it was impossible to say. Old Hervey, a light sleeper, heard the crash and came to the head of the stairs, screaming for Binny, who occupied a subterranean room adjoining the kitchen.
"Did you hit him? Did you hear him?"
"My idea was to bring in the police," began Binny. "There's nothing like the lor in cases like this...."
"Get out!" roared the old man. "The law! Do you think I wanted a lot of clumsy-footed louts in my house ... get away, you make me sick!"
Binny left hurriedly.
For the greater part of two hours the old man sat, muttering to himself, twisting and untwisting his fingers one in the other; and then, as his repeater struck ten, he turned to the wireless set at his side and switched it on. A voice immediately blared at him ...
"Before I discuss the banking systems of this country I would like to say a few words about the history of banking from the earliest times...."
Hervey Lyne sat up and listened. His hearing, as he had said, was extraordinarily sensitive.
CHAPTER NINE
Dick Allenby never described himself as being engaged, and the tell-tale finger of Mary Lane bore no ring indicative of her future. He mentioned the fact casually as he sat in her dressing-room between the last two acts of Cliffs of Fate and he talked to her through a cretonne curtain behind which she was changing her dress.
"I shall be getting a bad name," he said. "Nothing damages the reputation of an inventor more readily than to be recognised by stage-door keepers. He admits me now without question."
"Then you shouldn't come so often," she said, coming through the curtain, and sitting before her dressing-table.
"I won't say you're a matter of life and death to me," said Dick, "but very nearly. You're more important than anything in the world."
"Including the Allenby gun?"
"Oh, that!" he said contemptuously. "By the way, a German engineer came in today and offered me, on behalf of Eckstein's—they're the big Essen engineers—ten thousand pounds for the patent."
"What was the matter with him?" she asked flippantly.
"That's what I wondered," said Dick, lighting a forbidden cigarette. "No, he wasn't drunk—quite a capable bloke, and terribly discerning. He told me he thought I was one of the greatest inventors of the age."
"Darling, you are," she said.
"I know I am," said Dick complacently. "But it sounded awfully nice in German. Honestly, Mary, I had no idea this thing was worth so much."
"Are you selling it?" She turned her head to ask the question.
Dick hesitated.
"I'm not sure," he said. "But it is this enormous accession of wealth that has brought me to the point of your unadorned engagement finger."
She turned to the mirror, smoothed her face gently with a puff, and shook her head.
"I'm going to be a very successful actress," she said.
"You are a very successful actress," said Dick lazily. "You've extracted a proposal of marriage from a great genius."
She swung round in her chair.
"Do you know what I'm in dread of?" she asked.
"Besides marriage, nothing, I should think."
"No, there's one prospect that terrifies me." She was very serious. "And that is that your uncle should leave me all his money."
He chuckled softly.
"It is a fear that has never disturbed my night's rest—why do you say that?"
She looked at him, biting her lip thoughtfully.
"Once he said something about it, and it struck me quite recently that he loathes you so much that out of sheer pique he might leave it to me, and that would be dreadful."
He stared at her.
"In Heaven's name, why?" he asked.
"I should have to marry you," she said.
"Out of sheer pique?" he bantered.
She shook her head.
"No; but it would be dreadful, wouldn't it, Dick?"
"I think you're worrying yourself unnecessarily," he said dryly. "The old boy is more likely to leave it to a dog's home. Do you see much of him?"
She told him of her visit to Naylors Crescent, but that was old news to him.
They were talking when there came a tap at the door. She half rose, thinking it was the call boy; but when the knock was repeated and she said "Come in," it was Leo Moran who made an appearance.
He favoured Dick with a little grimace.
"Instead of wasting your time here you ought to be sitting at home, tuning in to my epoch-making address."
"Been broadcasting, have you?" smiled Dick. "Do they make you dress up for it?"
"I'm going on to supper."
This time the knock was followed by the sing-song voice of the call boy, and Mary hurried out. She was glad to escape: for some reason she never felt quite at ease in Mr. Moran's presence.
"Have you seen this show?" asked Dick.
Moran nodded.
"For my sins, yes," he said. "It's the most ghastly play in London. I wonder why old Mike keeps it on? He must have a very rich backer."
"Have you ever heard of Washington Wirth?"
Leo Moran's face was a blank.
"Never heard of him, no. What is he—an American?"
"Something unusual," said Dick. "I was reckoning up the other day; he must have lost ten thousand pounds on this play already, and there's no special reason, so far as I know, why he's keeping it running. Mary's the only woman in the cast who's worth looking at, and she's no friend of his."
"Washington Wirth? The name is familiar." Moran looked at the wall above Dick's head. "I've heard something about him or seen his name. By the way, I met an old friend of yours tonight, Surefoot Smith. You were present when that wretched man Tickler was found, weren't you?"
Dick nodded.
"The fool treated me as though I were an accomplice."
"If the fool you are referring to is Surefoot Smith, he treated me as though I were the murderer," said Dick. "Did you give him some beer?"
Leo Moran opened the door and, after looking down the deserted corridor, came back and closed the door quietly.
"I was hoping I should see you here, Dick. I want to ask you a favour."
Dick grinned.
"Nothing would give me greater joy than to refuse a favour to a bank manager," he said.
"Don't be a fool; it has nothing to do with money. Only——"
He stopped, and it seemed as if he were carefully framing his words.
"I may be out of London for a week or two. My leave is due, and I want to get into the country. I wonder if you could collect my letters at the flat and keep them for me till I come back?"
"Why not have them sent on?" said Dick, in surprise.
Leo Moran shook his head impatiently.
"I have a special reason for asking. I'm having nothing sent on at all. My servant is going away on his holiday, and the flat will be in charge of Heaven knows who. If I send you the key, will you keep an eye on the place?"
"When are you going?" asked Dick.
Moran was vague on this point; there was no certainty whether his leave would be granted. Head office was being rather difficult, although he had a most capable assistant and could have handed over at any moment.
"I want to go at once, but these brutes in the City are just being tin-godlike. You'll never know how near human beings can approach divinity until you have had dealings with general managers of banks," he said. "When you approach them you make three genuflections and stand on your head, and even then they hardly notice you! Is it a bet?"
"Surely," said Dick. "You know where to send the key. And I'll take a little cheap advice from you, now you're here."
He told him of the offer he had received for the gun. There was no need to explain what the gun was, for Leo had both seen and tested it.
"I shouldn't take an outright offer. I should prefer to take half on account of a royalty," he said, when Dick had finished. "Are you going to your flat soon?"
"Almost immediately," said the other. "Mary has a supper engagement."
"With Mr. Wirth?" asked Moran with a smile.
"I thought you'd never heard of him?" said Dick.
"His name came to me as I was speaking. He's the fellow who gives these supper parties. I used to give them myself once upon a time, and Dead Sea fruit they are! But if you're going back I'll walk with you, and renew my acquaintance with your remarkable invention."
Leo Moran would have been ever so much more popular but for the fact that there was invariably a hint of sarcasm in his most commonplace remarks. Sometimes Dick, who liked him well enough, thought he had been soured by some big misfortune; for, despite his geniality, there was generally a bite to his remarks. Dick forgave him as they walked along the Strand for all that he had to say concerning Jerry Dornford.
"There's a wastrel!" said Moran. "I can't tell you why I think so, because I'm interviewing him tomorrow on bank business."
Though the evening was warm, a fog had formed, which, as their cab approached the Park, increased in density. It was clearing off as they passed through Knightsbridge.
"As a matter of fact," said Dick, "you're making me do something it has been on my conscience to do all the evening, and that is, go home and look at that gun. Like a fool, I charged it before I came out. I was about to make the experiment of trying to shoot a nickel bullet through a steel plate, and like an idiot I left it loaded. It's thicker here."
The fog was very patchy, and was so dense that the cabman had to feel his way along the kerb as they approached the house where Dick Allenby had his workshop.
The little lift was in darkness, and even when Dick turned the switch no light came. As he moved he trod on something which crashed under his feet. Immediately there followed a loud and alarming explosion.
"What the devil was that?" asked Moran irritably.
Dick struck a match. He saw on the floor the remains of a small incandescent globe which had evidently been removed from the roof of the lift.
"That's odd. Our janitor is a little careless," he said, and pushed the button that sent the elevator up to the top floor. He took out a key and had another surprise, for a key was already in the lock, so tightly fitted that it could not be turned one way or the other.
He twisted the handle; the door gave.
"There's somebody been playing monkey tricks here," he said.
Turning on the light, he stood stock still, momentarily incapable of speech. The bench on which the gun had stood was empty. The gun was gone!
CHAPTER TEN
He recovered his voice at last.
"Well, I'll be...!"
Who could have taken it? He was staggered, so staggered that he could not be angry. Pulling back the door, he examined the key, and, with the aid of a pair of powerful pliers, presently extracted it. It was a rough and ready affair, badly filed, but evidently it had fitted, and had done all that its owner had required, for the lock had turned back.
It was when the unknown had tried to relock the door and take away the key that he had failed.
Dick walked to where the gun had been and glared down at the bench. Then he began to laugh.
"The brute!"
"It's a very serious loss to you, isn't it?" asked Moran.
Dick shook his head.
"Not really. All the plans and specifications are in the hands of a model-maker, and fortunately I applied for letters of patent for the main features three days ago."
He stared at Moran.
"The question is, who did it?"
And then his jaw dropped.
"If he doesn't know how to handle that thing, and isn't jolly careful, he'll either kill himself or some innocent passer-by!" he said. "I wonder if he knows how to unload it?"
He pulled out a chair and sat down, and with a gesture invited his visitor to sit.
"I suppose we ought to tell the police. Now, if old man Surefoot is at the Yard ..."
He consulted an address book and gave a number. After a long parley with a suspicious man at the Scotland Yard exchange, he found himself connected with Smith. In a few words he explained what had happened.
"I'll come up. Is there anything else missing?"
"No—the beer is intact," said Dick.
When he had hung up the receiver he went into his little larder and dragged in a wooden case.
"Surefoot will be glad; he loathes science. Don't make a face like that, my dear chap—Surefoot's clever. I used to think that beer had a deadening effect on people, but Surefoot is an amazing proof of the contrary. You don't like him?"
"I'm not passionately attached to him," said Moran. He looked at his watch. "If you don't mind, I'll leave you alone with your grief. It's hard luck—is it insured?"
"Spoken like a banker!" said Dick. "No, it isn't, Leo, I never realised I was a genius till now—it's like the things that you read about in thrillers! You see what has happened? Our friend came here in the fog, but to make absolutely sure he shouldn't be seen he took out the light in the lift, so that nobody should spot him on his way down. The door is lattice work, and if the light had been on he could have been seen from any of the floors, supposing somebody was there to see him. I presume he had a car outside; he put the gun into the machine and got away. Probably we passed him."
"Who would know you had the gun?"
Dick thought for a while.
"Mary knew; Jerry Dornford knew——By Jove!"
Leo Moran smiled and shook his head.
"Jerry wouldn't have the energy, anyway; and he wouldn't know where to market——"
He stopped suddenly.
"I saw him the other day at Snell's Club, with that poisonous little devil Jules—the fellow who is supposed to have been concerned in pinching the French mobilisation plans."
Dick hesitated, reached for the telephone directory, found the number he wanted, and put in a call. The line was engaged. Five minutes later the exchange called back to him, and he heard Jerry's voice.
"Hullo, Dornford! Got my gun?" asked Dick.
"Your what?" asked Jerry's steady voice.
"Somebody said they saw you walking out of my house with something under your arm this evening."
"I haven't seen your infernal house, and I'm not likely to see it after your beastly rudeness this afternoon!"
Click!
Jerry Dornford had hung up on him.
"I wonder," said Dick, and frowned as he slowly hung up the receiver. "I can't believe he did it, though there's nothing bad I wouldn't believe about him."
"Do you think it was your German friend?" asked Leo.
"Rubbish! Why should he offer me the money? He would have given me a draft right away this afternoon if I had wanted it. No, we'll leave it to old man Surefoot."
"Then you'll leave it to him alone," said Leo, and buttoned up his overcoat.
He went to the door and turned back.
"You'll not go back on your promise, about clearing my letters? It all depends on what happens tomorrow how soon I go, and the first intimation you'll get will be when you receive my key."
"Where are you going?" asked Dick.
Leo shook his head.
"That's the one thing I can't tell you," he said.
Sitting alone, surveying the empty bench, Dick Allenby began to realise the seriousness of his loss. If he was bewildered by the theft, the last thing in the world he expected, he was by no means shattered.
He tried to get Mary on the 'phone, but thought better of it. It would be selfish to spoil her night's amusement. Better start again. He was working at his drawing-board on a new plan, and had already conceived an improvement on the older model, when Surefoot Smith arrived.
He listened while Dick described the circumstances of his return; examined the key casually, and seemed more interested in the marks that the machine had made, visible against its dusty surroundings, than in anything else.
"No, it's not remarkable," he said when Dick so described the theft. "Dozens of inventions are stolen in the course of a year ... yes, I mean burgled. I know a company promoter who floated a business to sell cameras, who had his house burgled and the plans of the invention stolen a week before the company was put on the market. I've known other promoters to have police guards in their houses day and night."
He walked round the room and presently related the sum of his discoveries.
"The man who took this was taller than you." He pointed to a bench near the door, the contents of which were in some disorder. "He rested the gun there while he tried to operate the lock, and that bench is higher than this. He wore gloves; he must have handled this cylinder and there's no finger-prints on it. Who has been here lately?"
Dick told him.
"Mr. Gerald Dornford, eh? I shouldn't think he'd have the nerve. We had some trouble with him once; he was running a little game in the West End. I might look him up, but it would be asking for trouble. I hardly think it's worth while putting him under observation," said Surefoot. "Are you going to call up the Press and tell them all about it? They'll make a story of it—'Sensational Invention Stolen.'"
"I didn't think of doing anything so silly."
"Then you're wise," said Surefoot.
He looked helplessly around; Dick pointed to the beer case under the bench.
"In a way, and without any offence to you, Mr. Allenby, I'm glad to see it go. All these new inventions are coming so thick and fast that you can't keep track of them."
"Which reminds me," said Dick, "that this thing was loaded."
Surefoot was not gravely concerned.
"If somebody gets shot," he said calmly, "we shall find out who did it."
He was less interested in the robbery than in the killing of Tickler.
"It's a puzzle to me. I can't understand it. I wouldn't mind if it hadn't been in that cab. It's the Americanisation of English crime that is worrying me. These Americans have got our motor-car trade, they've got our tool trade; if they come here and corner our murder market there's going to be trouble."
He stopped suddenly, stooped and picked something from the floor. It was a pearl waistcoat button.
"This sort of thing only happens in stories," he said as he turned it over. "The fellow was in evening dress, and rubbed this off when he was carrying the gun. As a clue it's about as much use as the evidence of the old lady in every murder case who saw a tall, dark man in a big, grey car."
He looked at the button carefully.
"You can buy these at almost any store in London. You don't even have to buy 'em—they give 'em away."
He made a careful scrutiny of the floor but found nothing new.
"Still, I'll put it in my pocket," he said.
"It may have been Leo Moran's," said Dick, remembering. "He wore a white waistcoat. He and I came back together."
Surefoot's nose wrinkled.
"This! It would have been diamonds and sapphires! Ain't he a bank manager? No, this is the button of some poor depositor. I shouldn't be surprised if it was somebody with an overdraft! What do you think of Mr. Moran?"
He was looking at Dick keenly.
"He's a nice fellow; I like him," said Dick.
"There are moments when I don't, but, generally speaking, I do. Who's Corot?" He pronounced it as though it were spelt Corrot.
"Corot?" said Dick. "You mean the painter?"
Smith nodded.
"Oh, he's a very famous landscape artist."
"Expensive?" asked Surefoot.
"Very," said Dick. "His pictures sell for thousands."
Surefoot rubbed his nose irritably.
"That's what I thought. In fact, he said as much. Seen his flat? It looks as though it had been furnished for the Queen of Sheba, the well-known Egyptian. Persian carpet, diamond lamp shades...."
Dick laughed.
"You're talking about Moran's flat? Yes, it's rather beautiful. But he's got money of his own."
"It was his own when he had it, anyway," said Smith darkly, and left on this cryptic note.
He had left Scotland Yard with some reluctance, for there was visiting London at that period one John Kelly, Deputy Chief Commissioner of the Chicago Police and one of America's foremost detectives. "Great John" had been holding an audience of senior officers spellbound with stories of Chicago's gangland. Earlier in the evening Surefoot had discussed the Regent Street murder.
"It sounds like a 'ride,'" said Kelly, shaking his head, "but I guess that kind of crime will never be popular in this country. In the first place, you've no big men in your underworld, and if you had, your police force and Government are pull-proof. It reads to me like an 'imitation murder.' I suppose you've got bad men here—I only know one English gangster. They called him London Len. He was a bad egg—bumped off half a dozen men before a rival gang got after him and got him on the run. He was English-born—so far as I've been able to trace he wasn't in the country five years."
London Len was an "inside man"—he got himself into positions of trust, and at the first opportunity cleared the contents of the office safe.
"Quick on the draw and ruthless," said John; "but he certainly wouldn't give a man a hundred pounds and leave it behind when he shot him!"
Now that he was abroad on this foggy night, Surefoot decided to interview a certain forgetful constable, and before he left the Yard he arranged to meet the man at Marylebone Road station. He found the police officer in mufti, waiting in the charge room, rather proud, if anything, that he had recalled the one fact that he should not have forgotten.
Surefoot Smith listened to the story of the little man who had been found sitting on the doorstep of an apartment in Baynes Mews, and of the inebriated songster.
"It's funny I should have forgotten that——" began the policeman. "But as I was shaving this morning I thought——"
"It's not funny. If it was, I should be laughing. Am I laughing?"
"No, sir," admitted the police officer.
"It's not funny, it's tragic. If you'd been a rabbit wearing uniform, you would have remembered to tell your superior officer about that incident. A poor, harmless, lop-eared rabbit would have gone straight to his sergeant and said 'So-and-so and so-and-so.' And if a rabbit can do that, why couldn't you?"
The question was unanswerable, partly because the bewildered young constable was not sure whether "rabbit" had any special esoteric meaning.
"And you're taking credit," Surefoot went on inexorably, "for thinking—I repeat, thinking—as you were shaving this morning, that you ought to have told somebody about meeting that man in the mews. Do you use a safety razor, my man?"
"Yes, sir," said the officer.
"Then you couldn't cut your throat, which is a pity," said Surefoot. "Now lead me to this place, and don't speak unless I speak to you. I am not suspending you from duty, because I am not associated with the uniformed branch. There was a time when I was associated," he said carefully, "but in those days police constables had brains."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The crushed policeman led the way to Baynes Mews and pointed out the door where he had seen the figure of Tickler sitting. The door did not yield to Surefoot's pressure. He took from his pocket some skeleton keys which he had borrowed at the station without authority, and tried them on the door. Presently he so manipulated the key that he succeeded in snapping back the lock. He pushed open the door, sent a ray of light up the dusty stairs, and climbed, breathing stertorously, to the top. He came upon a landing and a barrier of matchwood, in which was a door. He tried this and again had recourse to his skeleton key.
Without a warrant he had no right whatever to invade the privacy of an English home; but Surefoot had never hesitated to break the law in the interests of justice or the satisfaction of his curiosity.
He found he was in a large, bare room, almost unfurnished except for a big, cheap-looking wardrobe, a chair, a table, a large mirror, and a square of carpet. At the back of the room, behind the matchboarding partition, was a wash-place. Singularly enough, there was no bed, not even a couch. On the wall was an old print representing the marriage of Queen Victoria. It was in a dusty maple frame and hung groggily. Mr. Smith, who had a tidy mind, tried to straighten the picture, and something fell to the floor. It was a white glove which contained something heavy; it struck the floor with a clump. He picked it up and laid it on the dressing-table. The glove was of kid, with three strips of black lace at the back, and it held a key. It was nothing delicate in the way of keys, but a large, old-fashioned door-key of a type fashionable before the introduction of patent locks.
What was remarkable about this key was its colour: it had been painted with silver paint.
Surefoot looked at the key thoughtfully. An amateur had painted it—the inside of the business end had not been touched; the steel was bright and evidently the key was often used.
He brought this beneath the one naked electric globe which served to illuminate the room, but found nothing new about it. Putting the key in his pocket, he continued his search, without, however, discovering anything more noteworthy, until he found the cupboard. Its door seemed part of the matchboard lining of the room, to the height of which it rose. There was no handle, and the keyhole was so concealed in the dovetailing that it might have passed unnoticed but for the fact that Surefoot Smith was a very painstaking man.
He thought at first it was a Yale lock, but when he tested it out with the aid of a big clasp-knife, which contained half a dozen tools, he found it was a very simple "catch." The cupboard held a complete dress suit, including silk hat and overcoat. On a shelf was a number of plain but exquisitely woven handkerchiefs, socks, folded dress ties and the like.
He searched the pockets but could find no clue to the ownership of the suit. There was no maker's tab on the inside of the coat, or concealed in the breast pocket. Even the trousers buttons were not inscribed with the tailor's name.
He examined the dress shirts; they were similarly unidentifiable. He found nothing more except a large bottle of expensive perfume, a monocle attached to a broad silk ribbon, and a locked box. This he forced under the lamp, and found three wigs, perfectly made. One was wrapped in silver tissue, and it was either new or had been newly dressed.
"Bit queer, isn't it?" said Surefoot Smith aloud.
"Yes, sir," said the constable, who had been silent until that moment.
"I was talking to myself," said Surefoot coldly.
He made another round of the room, but without adding to the sum of his knowledge.
He replaced everything where he had found it, except the key and the glove. After all, there might be a perfectly simple explanation of his finds. The man may have been an actor. The fact that Tickler had been sitting on his doorstep, listening to his drunken song, meant little, and would certainly carry no weight with a jury.
On the other hand, if the explanation was so simple, Surefoot Smith was in a position of some embarrassment. Against his name, if the truth be told, were many black marks for unauthorised entry. This might very well be the cause of another.
He went out into the mews, locked the door, and walked silently into Portland Place, followed by the policeman. And Surefoot Smith did not forget that the constable might possibly be a witness at any inquiry before the Commissioner.
"I think that is all, officer," he said, "but I am not blaming you for failing to report. Things like that," he went on, "slip out of a man's mind. For instance, I left my house yesterday and forgot to take my pipe."
The officer murmured his polite surprise. He was a little mollified, and was sufficiently intelligent to understand the reason for this change of attitude.
"I suppose it's all right, sir, going into that place without a warrant?" he said. "I'm asking because I'm a young officer, new to the force——"
Surefoot Smith surveyed him soberly.
"I went," he said, with great deliberation, "because you reported a suspicious circumstance. You told me you had reason to believe that the murderer might be hiding in that loft."
The constable gasped at this atrocious charge, gasped but was speechless.
"So that, if there's any trouble over it," said Surefoot, "we're both in it. And my word's better than yours. Now go home and keep your mouth shut—it won't be hard for you." He could not resist the temptation to gibe. "In fact, I should say you were a pretty good mouth-shutter."
The key and the white glove he locked away in a drawer of his desk at Scotland Yard. There was nothing remarkable about either article. Surefoot Smith would indeed have been glad to sacrifice his finds for one packet of cartridges, the bullets of which corresponded to those extracted from the unfortunate Tickler. In his mind, however, he was satisfied that there was some connection between that flat in Baynes Mews and the murder of the little thief. The finding of the dress clothes signified little; it might only mean that some swell, for reasons best known to himself, wanted a place where he could change without going home. Such things happen in the West End of London, and in the east or any other end of any other large city.
The absence of the bed rather puzzled him, but here again it simply removed one explanation of the flat being used. Yet, if he could have foreseen the future, he would have known that he had in his possession a clue more valuable than the science of ballistics could have given to him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mary Lane's party was a very dull one. She was one of ten young people, and young people can be very boring. Three of the girls had a giggling secret, and throughout the meal made esoteric references to some happening which none but they understood. The young men were vapid and vacuous, after their kind. She was glad to get away on the excuse of a matinée.
Mary lived in a large block of flats in the Marylebone Road. These three small rooms and a kitchenette were home and independence to her. She seldom received visitors, rarely men visitors, and never in any circumstances invited a guest so late at night. She was staggered when the lift-man told her that "a gentleman had just gone up to her flat."
"No, miss, I've never seen him before. It wasn't Mr. Allenby, but he says he knows you."
He opened the door of the lift and walked along the corridor with her. To her amazement she saw Leo Moran, who had evidently rung the bell of the flat several times, and was returning to the elevator when they met.
"It is unpardonable of me to come so late, Miss Lane, but when I explain to you that it's rather a vital matter I'm sure you will not be angry with me. Your maid is asleep."
Mary smiled.
"I haven't a maid," she said.
The situation was a little embarrassing: she could hardly ask him into the flat; still less did she find it possible to suggest that the lift-man should be her chaperon. She compromised by asking him in and leaving the front door open.
Moran was nervous; his voice, when he spoke, was husky; the hand that took a large envelope from his inside pocket was unsteady.
"I wouldn't have bothered you at all, but I had rather a disconcerting letter when I got home, from—an agent of mine."
She knew Moran, though she had never regarded him as a friend, and felt a sense of resentment every time he had come unbidden to her dressing-room. Since she received her allowance from old Hervey, she had it also through the bank of which Leo Moran was manager.
"I'll be perfectly frank with you, Miss Lane," he said, speaking quickly and nervously. "It's a matter entirely personal to myself, in the sense that I am personally responsible. The one man who could get me out of my trouble is the one man I do not wish to approach—your guardian, Mr. Hervey Lyne."
To say she was astonished is to put it mildly. She had always regarded Moran as a man so perfectly self-possessed that nothing could break through his reserve, and here he was, fidgeting and stammering like a schoolboy.
"If I can help you of course I will," she said, wondering what was coming next.
"It concerns some shares which I purchased on behalf of a client of the bank. Mr. Lyne signed the transfer, but the other people—that is to say, the people to whom the shares were transferred—have just discovered that it is necessary also that your name shall be on the transfer, as they originally were part of the stocks left in trust to you. I might say," he went on quickly, "that the price of this stock is exactly the same, or practically the same, as it was when it was taken over."
"My name—is that all you want? I thought at least it was something valuable," she laughed.
He put the paper on the table; it was indubitably a stock transfer; she had seen such documents before. He indicated where her name should be signed, and she noticed above it the scrawl of old Lyne.
"Well, that's done."
There was no mistaking his relief.
"You'll think I'm an awful brute to come at this hour of the night. I can't tell you how grateful I am. It simply meant that I had paid out money of the bank's without the necessary authorisation. Also, if old Mr. Lyne died tomorrow, this transfer would be practically valueless."
She made a little grimace.
"Is he likely to die tomorrow?"
He shook his head.
"I don't know; he's a pretty old man."
Abruptly he held out his hand.
"Good-night, and thank you again."
She closed the door on him, went back to her kitchenette to make herself a cup of chocolate before she went to bed, and sat for a long time at the kitchen table, sipping the hot decoction, and trying to discover something sinister in his midnight visitation. Herein she failed. If Hervey Lyne died tomorrow? By his agitation and hurry one might imagine that the old man was in extremis. Yet, the last time she had seen old Hervey, he was very much in possession of his faculties.
She was at breakfast the following morning when Dick Allenby called her up and told her of his loss. She listened incredulously, and thought he was joking until he told her of the visit of Surefoot Smith.
"My dear—how terrible!" she said.
"Surefoot thought it was providential. Moran thought nothing."
"Was he there?" she asked quickly.
"Yes—why?"
She hesitated. Moran had so evidently wished his visit to her to be a private matter that it seemed like betraying him.
"Oh, nothing," she said. And then, as an after-thought: "Come round and tell me all about it."
He was there in half an hour, singularly unemotional and cheerful, she thought.
"It really isn't as dramatically important as it sounds," he said. "If it has been stolen, as Surefoot thinks it has, with the idea of pinching the patent, the buyer will be shrewd enough to make a search of the registrations at the various Patent Offices. I had an acknowledgment from Germany this morning that it has been entered there."
He was interrupted by a knock at the outer door and she opened it to admit a second visitor. It was not usual, she explained apologetically to Dick, that she should receive guests so early, but Mike Hennessey had telephoned, asking whether he might come.
The first thing she noticed when Mike came into the room was his embarrassment at finding Dick Allenby there. A genial soul was Mike, big-faced, heavy-featured, sleepy-eyed, constitutionally lazy and lethargic in his movements. He was never a healthy-looking individual, but now he looked positively ill, and she remarked upon the fact. Mike shook his head.
"Had a bad night," he said. "Good-morning, Mr. Allenby—don't go: I've nothing private; only I wanted to see this young lady about our play. It's coming off."
"Thank Heaven for that!" said Mary gratefully. "It's the best news I've had for months."
"It's about the worst I've had," he grumbled.
"Has Mr. Wirth withdrawn his support?"
It was nearer the truth than she guessed. Mr. Wirth's weekly cheque, which had been due on the previous day, had not arrived, and Mike was taking no chances.
"The notice goes up tonight that we finish on Saturday," he said. "I've had the luck to let the theatre—I wish I'd taken a better offer that I had last week."
He was even more nervous than Moran had been; could not keep his hands still or his body either. He got up from the chair, walked to the window, came back and sat down, only to rise again a few moments later.
"Who is this old fellow Wirth? What's his job?" asked Dick.
"I don't know. He's in some sort of business at Coventry," said Mike. "I thought of running up there today to see him. The point is this"—he came to that point bluntly—"tomorrow night's Treasury, and I haven't enough money in the bank to pay the artistes. I may get it today, in which case there's no fuss. You're the heaviest salary in the cast, Mary: will you trust me till next week if things go wrong?"
She was staggered at the suggestion. In the case of other productions Mike's solvency had always been a matter of the gravest doubt, but Cliffs of Fate had been under more distinguished patronage, and the general impression was that, whatever else happened, the money for its continuance would come in.
"Of course I will, Mike," she said; "but surely Mr. Wirth hasn't——"
"Gone broke? No, I shouldn't think so. He's a queer man," said Mike vaguely.
He did not particularise his patron's queerness, but was satisfied to leave it at that. His departure was almost as abrupt a gesture as any he had performed.
"There's a pretty sick man," said Dick.
"Do you mean he's ill?"
"Mentally. Something's upset him. I should imagine that the failure of old Wirth's cheque was quite sufficient; but there's something else besides."
He rose.
"Come and lunch," he invited, but she shook her head.
She was lunching at home; her matinée excuse at the overnight party had been on the spur of the moment. She wondered how many would remember it against her.
Dick went on to Scotland Yard, and had to wait half an hour before Surefoot Smith returned. He had no news of any importance. A description of the stolen gun had been circulated.
"But that won't help you very much. It's hardly likely to be pawned or offered for sale in the Caledonian Market," said Surefoot. And then, abruptly: "Do you know Mr. Washington Wirth?"
"I've heard of him."
"Have you ever met him? Great party giver, isn't he?"
Dick smiled.
"He's never given me a party, but I believe he is rather keen on that sort of amusement."
Surefoot nodded.
"I've just been up to the Kellner Hotel. They know nothing about him except that he always pays in cash. He's been using the hotel for three years; orders a suite whenever he feels inclined, leaves the supper and the band to the head waiter; but that's the only thing they know about him—that his money is good money, which is all they want to know, I suppose."
"Are you interested in him?" asked Dick, and told the story of Mike Hennessey's agitation.
Surefoot Smith was interested.
"He's got a bank, has he? Well, he may be one of those Midland people. I've never understood what makes the corn and coal merchants go in for theatricals. It's a form of insanity that's been pretty common since the war."
"Mike will tell you all about it," suggested Allenby.
Mr. Smith's lips curled.
"Mike'll tell us a whole lot," he said sarcastically. "That fellow wouldn't tell you his right hand had four fingers, for fear you brought it up in evidence against him. I know Mike!"
"At any rate, he's got a line on Wirth," said Dick. "He's been financing this play."
Since he could find nobody to lunch with, he decided to take that meal at Snell's, which had all the values of a good club except that there were one or two members who were personally objectionable to him. And the most poisonous were the first two he saw at the entrance of the dining-room. Gerald Dornford and Jules had their little table in the window. Jules favoured him with a nod, but Jerry kept his eyes steadily averted as Dick passed.