They had, in point of fact, only just sat down when Allenby had arrived, and in his furtive way Jules had been avoiding the one subject which his companion wished to discuss. He spoke of the people who were passing in the street, recognising every important motor-car that passed; he talked of the military conference which was in session just then, of the party to which he had been the night before, of anything but——
"Now what about this gun?" said Jerry.
"The gun?"
Jules looked at him blankly, then leaned back in his chair and chuckled.
"What a good thing you came today! I wanted to see you. That little project of mine must be abandoned."
"What do you mean?" gasped Jerry, turning pale.
"I mean that my principals, or rather the principals of my principals, have decided not to go any farther in the matter. You see, we've discovered that all the salient points of the gun have been protected by patents, especially in those countries where the invention could be best exploited."
Jerry looked at him, dumbfounded.
"Do you mean to say that you don't want it?"
Jules nodded.
"I mean to say that there's no need for you to take any unnecessary risks. Now let us discuss some other way of raising the money——"
"Discuss be damned!" said Jerry savagely. "I've got the gun—I took it last night!"
Jules stroked his smooth chin and looked at his companion thoughtfully.
"That's awkward," he said. "You took it from the workshop, did you? Well, you can hardly put it back. I advise you to drive somewhere out of London and dump it in a deep pond. Or, better still, try the river, somewhere between Temple Lock and Hambleden."
"Do you mean to tell me"—Jerry's husky voice was almost hoarse—"that I've taken this risk for nothing? What is the idea?"
Jules shrugged.
"I'm sorry. My principals——"
"Damn your principals! You gave me a specific promise that if I got the thing you'd give me a couple of thousand."
Jules smiled.
"And now, my dear fellow, I give you a specific assurance that I cannot get two thousand shillings for the gun! It is unfortunate. If you had procured the invention when I first suggested it, the matter would have been all over—and paid for. Now it is too late."
He leaned over and patted the other gently on the arm as though he were a child.
"There is no sense in being foolish about this matter," he said. "Let us find some other way of raising the wind, eh?"
Jerry Dornford was crushed. He knew Hervey Lyne sufficiently well to realise that, had he produced the two thousand pounds, the old man would have grabbed at the money and given him the extra time he had asked. Hervey could never resist the argument of cash.
He could have grabbed the smiling little cad opposite him and thrown him out of the window. There was murder in his glance when he looked into the round, brown eyes of his companion. But Jerry Dornford never forgot he was a gentleman, and as such was expected to exercise the self-control which is the peculiar and popular attribute of the well-bred man.
"Well, it can't be helped," he said. "Order me a drink; I'm a bit rattled."
Jules played an invisible piano on the edge of the table.
"Our friend Allenby is at the third table on the right. Would it not be a good idea," he suggested, "to go over and say: 'What a little joke I played on you, eh?'"
"Don't be a fool," interrupted Jerry roughly. "He called me up last night and asked me if I had it. He's put the matter in the hands of the police. I had a visit from Smith this morning."
"So!" Jules pursed his red lips. "That is a pity. Here is your drink."
They sat for a long time over their coffee, saw Dick Allenby leave the club and cross to the opposite side of St. James's Street.
"Clever fellow, that," said Jules, almost with enthusiasm. "He doesn't like me. I forget the name he called me the last time we had a little discussion, but it was terribly offensive. But I like him. I am fond of clever people; there is nothing so amusing as cleverness."
Dick had hardly left the club before a telephone message come through for him, and this he missed. It was Mary Lane, and at that moment she needed Dick's advice very badly. She called his flat again; he had not returned. She tried a third club, where he sometimes called in the afternoon, but again was unsuccessful.
She had been writing out the small cheques which her housekeeping necessitated, when the strange message had arrived. It came in the hands of a grubby little boy, who carried an envelope which was covered with uncleanly finger-marks.
"An old gentleman told me to bring it here," he said in his shrill Cockney.
An old gentleman? She looked at the super-scription; her name and address were scrawled untidily, and although she had not seen Hervey Lyne's handwriting, she knew, or rather guessed, that it was he who had sent the letter.
The boy explained that he had been delivering a parcel at No. 19, and had seen the old gentleman leaning on his stick in the doorway. He wore his dressing-gown and had the letter in his hand. He had called the boy, given him half a crown (that must have been a wrench for Hervey), and ordered him to deliver the letter at once.
She tore it open. It was written on the back of a ruled sheet of paper covered with typewritten figures, and the writing was in pencil.
"Bring Moran to me without fail at three o'clock this afternoon. I saw him two days ago, but I'm not satisfied. Bring police officer."
Here was written, above, a word which she deciphered as "Smith."
"Do not let Moran or anybody know about P.O. This is very urgent."
The note was signed "H. L."
The little boy could give her no other information. She would have called up Mr. Lyne's house, but the old man had an insuperable objection to the telephone and had never had one installed. She looked at her watch; it was after two, and for ten minutes she was making a frantic effort to get in touch with Dick.
Surefoot Smith she hardly knew well enough to consult, and she had a woman's distaste for approaching the police direct. She called up Mr. Moran's bank; he had gone home. She tried his club, with no better success. Moran had left his flat that morning, announcing that he had no intention of returning for two or three weeks. He had gone on leave. Curiously enough, the bank did not tell her that: they merely said that Mr. Moran had gone home early—a completely inaccurate piece of information, she discovered when the first man, who was evidently a clerk, was interrupted and a more authoritative voice spoke:
"This is the chief accountant speaking, Miss Lane. You were asking about Mr. Moran? He has not been to the bank today."
"He's gone on leave, hasn't he?"
"I'm not aware of the fact. I know he has applied for leave, but I don't think he's gone—in fact, I'm certain. I opened all the letters this morning."
She hung up the telephone, bewildered, and was sitting at the window, cogitating on what else she should do, when to her joy the telephone rang. It was Dick, who had returned to Snell's Club to collect some letters he had forgotten, and had been told of her call.
"That's very odd," was his comment when he heard about the note. "I'll try to get Smith. The best thing you can do, angel, is to meet me outside Baker Street Tube Station in a quarter of an hour. I'll try to land Smith at the same moment."
She got to the station a little before three, and had to wait for ten minutes before a taxicab dashed up and Dick jumped out. She saw the bulky figure of Mr. Smith in one corner of the cab, and, getting in, sat by him. Dick gave instructions to the taxi driver and seated himself opposite.
"This is all very mysterious, isn't it?" he said. "Let me see the letter."
She showed it to him, and he turned it over.
"Hullo, this is a bank statement." He whistled. "Phew! What figures! The old boy's certainly let the cat out of the bag."
She had paid no attention to the typewritten statement on the back.
"Over two hundred thousand in cash and umpteen hundred thousand in securities. What is the idea—I mean, of sending this note? I suppose you couldn't find Moran?"
She shook her head.
Smith was examining the letter carefully.
"Is he blind?" he asked.
"Very nearly," said Dick. "He doesn't admit it, but he can't see well enough to distinguish you from me. That's his writing—I had a rude letter from him one day last week. Did you find Moran?"
Mary shook her head.
"Nobody seems to know where he is. He hasn't been to the bank today, and he's not at his flat."
Surefoot folded the letter and handed it back to the girl.
"It looks as if he doesn't want to see me yet awhile, and not at all if we don't bring Moran," he said.
They drove into Naylors Crescent, and it was agreed that Surefoot should sit outside in the cab whilst they interviewed the old man. But repeated knockings brought no answer. The houses in Naylors Crescent stand behind deep little areas, and out of one of these next door a head appeared.
"There's nobody in," he said. "Mr. Lyne has gone out in his chair about an hour ago."
"Where did he go?" asked Dick.
The servant could not say; but Mary was better informed.
"They always go to the same place—into the private gardens of the park," she said. "It's only a few minutes' walk."
The cab was no longer necessary; Dick paid it off. They were about to cross the road when a big, open touring car swept past, and Dick had a momentary glimpse of the man at the wheel. It was Jerry Dornford. The car was old and noisy; there was a succession of backfires as it passed. It slowed down a little at one point, then, gathering speed, disappeared from view.
"Any policeman doing his duty will pinch that fellow under the Noises Act," said Smith.
Presently they came in sight of the chair. Binny was sitting on his little collapsible stool, a paper spread open on his knees, a pair of gold-rimmed glasses perched on his thick nose. The gate into the gardens was locked and it was some time before Dick attracted the servant's attention. Presently Binny looked up, and, ambling forward, unlocked the gate and admitted them.
"I think he's asleep, sir," he said, "and that's a bit awkward. If I start wheeling him when he's asleep, and he wakes up, he gives me hell! And he's got to be home by three."
Old Hervey Lyne sat, his chin on his breast, his blue-tinted glasses firmly fixed on the high bridge of his nose. His gloved hands were clasped on the rug which was tucked about his legs, Binny folded his paper, put it in his pocket, folded his stool and hung it on a little hook on the bath-chair.
"Do you think you'd better wake him up?"
Mary went nearer.
"Mr. Lyne," she said.
She called again, but there was no answer.
Surefoot Smith, who was standing at some distance, came nearer. He walked round the back of the chair, came to the front, and, leaning over, pulled open the old man's coat. He closed it again; then, to Mary's amazement, Surefoot Smith caught her gently by the arm.
"I think you'd better run away for about an hour, and I'll come and see you at your flat," he said.
His voice was unusually gentle.
She looked at him, and the colour went out of her face.
"Is he dead?" she breathed.
Surefoot Smith nodded; almost impelled her towards the gate. When she was out of hearing:
"He's been shot through the back. I saw the hole in the cape as I came round. Look!" He opened the coat.
Dick saw something that was not pleasant to see.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The ambulance had come and gone. Four men sat in the dead man's study. Binny was one; the other, besides Surefoot Smith and Dick Allenby, was the divisional inspector.
Smith turned to the grey-faced servant.
"Tell us just what happened, my boy," he said.
Binny shook his head.
"I don't know ... awful, ain't it, him going like that...."
"Were there any visitors?"
Binny shook his head again.
"Nobody, so far as I know."
"Where was he at one o'clock?"
"In this room, sir, in the chair where you're sitting," said Binny. "He was writing something—put his hand over it when I came in. I didn't see what it was."
"It was probably a letter to Miss Lane," said the detective. "Does he often write notes?"
Binny shook his head.
"When he does write them do you deliver them?"
Binny shook his head again.
"No, sir, not always. Poor Mr. Lyne was very suspicious. His sight wasn't very good and he'd got an idea that people was listening at the door or reading his letters. He'd call anybody off the street to take a note when he sent one, which wasn't often."
"What visitors has he had lately?"
"Mr. Dornford came last night, sir. There was a bit of a quarrel—over money, I think."
"A bad quarrel?" asked Smith.
Binny nodded.
"He asked me to throw him out—Mr. Lyne did."
Surefoot jotted down a note.
"And who else?"
Binny looked serious.
"Mr. Moran came two days ago."
"That's right, sir. Mr. Moran came to see him about banking business, and Miss Lane came—I think that's the lot. We don't often have people call."
Again Smith scribbled something. He employed a weird kind of shorthand, which was indecipherable to Dick, who, from where he sat, had a view of the notes.
"Tell us what happened today. Do you usually go out in the afternoon?"
"Yes, sir, but at lunch-time Mr. Lyne said he wouldn't go out. In fact, he told me not to bother about the chair, that he was expecting some visitors at three o'clock. About two o'clock he changed his mind and said he'd go out. I pulled him into the park gardens and sat down and read a case to him——"
"Do you mean a police court case?"
"That's right, sir. He likes reading about moneylenders' actions against people who owe them something. There was a case this morning——"
"Oh, you mean a Law Courts case—any kind of case, in fact?"
Binny nodded.
"Did he say anything in the park?"
"Nothing at all, sir, of any consequence. He'd been sitting there a quarter of an hour and he asked me to turn up the collar of his coat; he was feeling a draught. I sat down and read to him until I thought he was asleep."
"You heard no sound?"
He thought a moment.
"Yes, there was a bit of a noise, from a car that went past."
For a moment both Smith and Dick had forgotten Gerald Dornford's car, and they exchanged a glance.
"You heard nothing like a shot?"
Binny shook his head.
"Nothing more than the motor-car noise," he said.
"Did Mr. Lyne speak at all—groan, move?"
"No, sir."
Surefoot settled his elbows on the table.
"This is the question I want to ask you, Binny: How long before we found Mr. Lyne was dead did you hear him speak?"
Binny considered.
"About ten minutes, sir," he said. "A park keeper came along and said good-afternoon to him, and, when he didn't answer, I thought he was asleep. That's when I stopped reading."
"Now show me the house," said Smith, rising.
Binny led the way, first to the kitchen, from which opened a bedroom.
His wife was away in the country, living with relations, he told Surefoot, but that made little difference to Lyne's comfort, for Binny did most of the work.
"To tell you the truth, sir, my wife drinks," he said apologetically, "and I'm glad to have her out of the house."
The kitchen was none too tidy. Surefoot Smith saw something on the floor, stooped and picked up a triangular piece of glass from under the table beneath the window. He looked up at the window, felt the puttied edge.
"Had a window broken in?"
Binny hesitated.
"Mr. Lyne didn't want to say anything about it. Somebody broke the glass and opened the window a couple of nights ago."
"A burglar?"
"Mr. Lyne thought it was somebody trying to get in. I didn't send for the police, because he wouldn't let me," he hastened to exculpate himself.
They went upstairs to the front room. There was only one large room on each floor, though both could be divided into two by folding doors. The top room had been Lyne's bedroom, but presented no particular features. A divisional inspector and two of his men would conduct a leisurely search through the possessions and papers of the dead man—Surefoot had taken the keys from the old man's pocket. He had already made a casual inspection of the safe without discovering anything of moment.
They came back to the study. Surefoot Smith stood for a long time, staring out of the window, drumming his fingers on the leather-covered top of the desk. When he spoke it was half to himself.
"There's an American going back to New York tomorrow who might tell us something. I've a good mind to bring him down to a consultation."
"Who's that?" asked Dick curiously.
"John Kelly—he's chief of the detective force in Chicago. He might give us an angle, and then again he mightn't. It's worth trying."
He looked at his watch.
"I wonder if there's any news of Moran—I'm going to look at his flat. I suppose there'll be a servant there?"
"If there isn't," said Dick, "I can help you. He told me he was going away and that he intended sending me the key, so that I could forward any letters that arrived. If you don't mind I'll walk round with you."
The housekeeper of the flat gave a surprising piece of information. Mr. Moran had left only an hour before.
"Are you sure?" asked Dick incredulously. "Didn't he leave this morning?"
The man was very emphatic.
"No, sir, he's been out all the morning, but he didn't actually leave till about half-past three. You're Mr. Allenby, aren't you?" He addressed Dick. "I've got a letter to post for you."
He went to his little office, came out, opened the post-box and took out a stamped envelope which contained a few lines, evidently written in a hurry, and the key of the flat.
"I'm just off. Those brutes have turned me down."
"Who are the brutes?" asked Surefoot.
Dick smiled.
"I presume he's referring to his directors. He told me he was going on his holiday whether they agreed or not."
When they entered the flat there was evidence of Moran's hurried departure. They found, for example, a waistcoat hanging from the edge of the bed, in which was his watch and chain, a gold cigarette case, and about ten pounds in cash. He had evidently changed his clothes quickly and had forgotten to empty his pockets. Another peculiar fact, which both Surefoot and Dick remarked, was that the window overlooking the park had been left open.
"Do you notice anything?" asked Surefoot.
Dick nodded, and a little chill went down his spine. From where he stood, by the open window, he commanded a view, not only of the private gardens, but of the actual spot where old Hervey Lyne had been killed.
Surefoot searched the floor near the window but found nothing. He passed into Moran's elegant bedroom and made a rapid search. Pulling out the wardrobe door, something fell out. He had time to catch it before it reached the floor. It was a Lee-Enfield rifle; a second lay flat on the wardrobe floor, and, near it, half a dozen long black cylinders.
Surefoot snapped open the breech and smelt. He had taken the rifle to the window; he placed the block upon the sill and squinted down the barrel. If it had been recently fired then it must have been recently cleaned, for there was no sign of fouling. He tested the other rifle in the same way; and then he took up one of the cylinders.
"What are those?" he said.
Dick looked at them carefully.
"They're silencers," he said. "But Moran is very much interested in rifle shooting, especially in any new brand of silencer. He has consulted me once or twice, and has frequently urged me to take up the making of silencers. You mustn't forget, Smith, that Mr. Moran is an enthusiastic rifleman. In fact, he's been runner-up for the King's Prize at Bisley, and shooting was about his only recreation."
"And a pretty good recreation too," said Smith dryly.
He searched the wardrobe and the drawers for cartridges, but could find none. The magazines of both rifles were empty. There was no sign of a discharged shell anywhere in the flat.
Smith went back to the window and judged the distance which separated the room from the place of the killing.
"Less than two hundred yards," he suggested, and Dick Allenby agreed.
Moran had not taken his servant. Surefoot got his address from the housekeeper and wired him to report at once.
"You'd better go along and see the young lady. She's probably having hysterics by now——"
"It's hardly likely," said Dick coldly, "but I'll see her. Where are you going?"
Surefoot smiled mysteriously; though why he should make a mystery of the most obvious move, it was hard to say.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The bank premises were closed when he reached them; he rang a bell at the side door and was admitted. The accountant and the chief clerk and two or three other clerks were on duty. He interviewed the accountant in his office.
"I know nothing whatever about Mr. Moran's movements except that he applied for leave and it was not granted. I know that, because the letter from the head office did not come addressed to him personally, but to 'the manager,' and was opened by me. I got him on the 'phone and told him; he said nothing except that he wouldn't be down today."
"Have you reported this to your head office?" asked Surefoot.
No report had been made. It was not a very extraordinary happening. Bank managers do occasionally decide to stay away from business; and, as it happened, there had been no enquiries by 'phone from headquarters, and the fact had not been mentioned.
"It will go in, of course, in the daily report," said the accountant. "To tell you the truth, I was under the impression that Mr. Moran had gone up to the City and had interviewed the managing director; so that when I heard he was taking his leave I naturally supposed that he had persuaded the head office to change its mind. Has anything happened to Mr. Moran?" he asked anxiously.
"I hope not, I'm sure," said Smith with spurious solicitude. "Did he bank with you?"
"He had an account at this branch, but carried only a small balance," explained the accountant. "There was a little trouble about speculation a few years back, and naturally, I suppose, Mr. Moran did not run his main account through us, not wishing the directors to know his business. I can tell you for your private information that he banks with the Southern Provincial. I know that, because once, when his account with us was low, he paid in a cheque on that bank to put it in credit. May I ask, Mr. Smith, what is the reason for this enquiry?"
In a few words Surefoot told him of the murder.
"Yes, we carry Mr. Lyne's account. It is a fairly large one—not as large as it used to be—he is a moneylender and has a lot of money out."
Smith looked at his watch.
"Is it possible to see any of the directors at headquarters?"
The accountant was doubtful, but he put through a telephone call, only to return with the information that all the directors had gone home.
"If Mr. Moran doesn't turn up in the morning——"
"He won't," said Surefoot.
"Well, if he doesn't, I'd be glad if you saw the head office. I really ought not to be giving you any kind of information, either about Mr. Moran or about any of our customers. Just one moment."
He went behind a desk and consulted a clerk. After a while he came back.
"I might tell you this, whether I get into trouble or not, that the late Mr. Lyne drew sixty thousand pounds from the bank yesterday—that is to say, the cheque came into us and was cleared last night. It was a bearer cheque and passed through some bank in the Midlands. I can't give you the exact details, but I've no doubt head office will give you the authorisation."
When Surefoot returned to Scotland Yard he found a group of officers in his room. They were saying good-bye to John Kelly, who was leaving at midnight for the United States.
"I'm sorry," he said, when he heard Surefoot's idea. "Nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to have got in on a murder case. I read it in the evening papers. Have there been any developments?"
Surefoot told him what he had learned at the bank and the American nodded.
"You might do worse than look after a man called Arthur Ryan," he said. "I know that he's in England—I'll send you some photographs of him taken when I was in Chicago. That was part of his graft, running banking accounts, switching somebody else's money from one to the other. You'd never guess he was that kind of bird."
Surefoot was forced to resign, with regret, the invitation to an informal farewell dinner. The Chief Constable was waiting for him, a little impatiently, for his dinner hour was more formal.
"We'll have to circulate a description of Moran," said the chief when he had finished, "but it must be done without publicity, or we'll be getting ourselves into all sorts of trouble. The fact that he keeps a couple of rifles in his room means nothing. Even I know him as a rifle shot. So far as we are aware, there is nothing wrong at the bank, and the only circumstance connecting him with the crime is the old man's note. Have you got it?"
Mary had handed the note to the detective, who produced it from his pocket and spread it on the table.
The Chief Constable nodded.
"The fact that he wants to see Moran again—had he seen him before?"
"Two days ago, according to Binny, the servant—not for two years, according to Moran," said Surefoot slowly, and the Chief looked up.
"Moran said he hadn't seen——"
Surefoot nodded.
"That's just what he said. Allenby asked him casually the night before the murder when he had seen Lyne last. He said two years ago. Allenby is absolutely definite. Now, why did he say he hadn't seen him when he had? And why did old Lyne, when he sent that note, say 'Bring Moran' and immediately follow this by asking for a police officer to be in attendance? There's only one explanation—that he'd discovered something about Moran and intended either to confront him or threaten him with police action. Moran applies for urgent leave from the bank, and this isn't granted. He doesn't come to the bank, and I think we'll find, when I make enquiries at their head office, that the directors know nothing about his being away. Moran had the handling of the old man's account, and if there was anything wrong it meant penal servitude for him; probably the only person who could say whether anything was wrong was Lyne himself. He dies—somebody puts a bullet in him—half an hour before Moran leaves London. That's circumstantial, but better circumstantial evidence than most people are hung on. If you want anything clearer than that, lead me to it."
He continued his enquiries throughout the evening, and about a quarter of an hour before the curtain came down—the penultimate curtain, as it proved—on Cliffs of Fate, he called at the theatre. Mike Hennessey had gone home, as his manager dramatically described, "a broken man."
"He'd set his heart on this play, Mr. Smith——" began the little manager, but Surefoot silenced him.
"Nobody could set their hearts on a lousy play like this," he said. "It doesn't appeal either to the intelligent or the theatrical classes."
He went through the pass door to the stage, and down a long corridor to Mary's dressing-room. Dick Allenby, as he had expected, was with her. She looked tired; evidently the old man's death had been a greater shock to her than either Dick or Surefoot Smith could have expected.
"Oh yes, the play comes off; but things aren't so bad with poor Mike as he expected. His cheque turned up and he was able to pay the company, and, I hope, himself."
She could tell him nothing about Hervey Lyne, but she was very informative about Leo Moran when he began to question her. He heard the story of his midnight call—it was news to Dick also.
"But, my dear, I don't understand. He wanted you to sign a transfer——"
"Did you notice the name of the shares?" interrupted Surefoot.
This she had not seen. Surefoot, who knew a great deal about the City and had been in many financial cases, suggested that it must be a foreign stock. It is the rule on certain foreign Stock Exchanges that shares cannot be transferred by a trustee without the approval and signature of the beneficiaries for whom he is acting.
"There is nothing fishy about that," said Surefoot thoughtfully. "Even if he was a buyer, old Lyne would not have put his name to a transfer unless he had his money's worth."
Surefoot could do little more that night. Lyne's documents were being carefully examined and tabulated, and the place of the murder was roped off and guarded, a precautionary measure justified when, at midnight, the surgeon's report came through.
Hervey Lyne had been killed by a bullet which passed through his heart from behind. Actually no bullet was found in the body, and Surefoot gave orders that at daybreak every inch of the lawn where the murder was committed should be searched for the spent bullet. By nine o'clock he was in the City, awaiting the arrival of the great men of the bank. As he had expected, no leave had been granted to Leo Moran, against whose name there was a black mark in the bank's books.
"He was a very capable manager, and very popular with our clients; otherwise, I doubt if we should have kept him after his speculations. We know nothing against him whatever, except, of course, this act of indiscipline."
"If he's gone away he has simply taken French leave?" asked Surefoot.
"Exactly," said the managing director, "and that is a very serious offence. We believe he is in Devonshire—at least, that is where he said he was going."
Surefoot smiled.
"He's not in Devonshire—I can tell you that," he said. "He left by a specially chartered aeroplane from Croydon at twenty minutes past four yesterday afternoon for Cologne. Another plane was waiting to take him to Berlin, and there we have not as yet traced him."
The managing director looked at him open-mouthed. Surefoot thought he turned a little pale.
"In Berlin?"
He could hardly believe it. One could almost see his mind working. Leo Moran's branch carried very heavy accounts, and a branch manager who disappears suddenly, and in suspicious circumstances, might not have gone empty-handed.
"I shouldn't imagine anything is wrong." He was very much perturbed. "Beyond the fact that he speculated—and, of course, one never knows to what length a gambler will go—he was a very honest, high-principled man. He had, I know, dreams of making a great fortune, but then we have all passed through that stage without doing anything dishonest."
He pressed a bell.
"Nevertheless, I will have an immediate examination of the books, and will send down our two best inspectors. We must replace Mr. Moran at once."
Surefoot had managed to get a very accurate description of Leo Moran, but could find no photograph of him. He should not be difficult to trace; he was almost completely bald, which fact, however, he could disguise, if he had reason for disguise at all, with a wig——
Surefoot stopped in his reasoning and frowned. A wig! He remembered the three wigs he had found in a little room over the garage in Baynes Mews; and he recalled, too, the name of Mr. Washington Wirth who lived in the Midlands.... Sixty thousand pounds had gone from Lyne's account on the previous day through a Midland branch bank.
He asked for and secured authority for obtaining complete information regarding any account that was in Moran's branch, and, armed with this, he went back to the bank and interviewed the chief accountant.
"I happen to know the state of Mr. Lyne's account up till a few days ago," he said. "By error he wrote a note to his ward on the back of the statement."
He produced it from his pocket, and the accountant examined it.
"I'll just check this up," he said. "This would not, of course, show the sixty thousand pounds which was debited the day before yesterday."
He was gone a long time, then came back to the little office where the interview was being held, and put the statement on the table. By it was a sheet of paper, on which he had scribbled a number of figures.
"This statement is entirely inaccurate," he said. "It seems to be dated three days ago, but it does not in any way represent Mr. Lyne's account. It shows, for example, over two hundred thousand pounds on deposit account; the actual amount on deposit is less than fifty thousand—forty-eight thousand seven hundred, to be exact. Most of this has been transferred to the current account at some time or other, the actual cash remaining in that account being about five thousand pounds."
Surefoot whistled softly.
"Then you mean that the difference between the real condition of affairs and this statement is about two hundred thousand pounds?"
The accountant nodded.
"The moment I saw it I knew it was wrong. As a matter of fact, I paid a great deal of attention to this particular account, and I have twice suggested to the manager, Mr. Moran, that he should write to Mr. Lyne, pointing out the low state of his balance. As I say, we don't worry very much about moneylenders' balances, because very often they put all their available cash into loans."
"What about these stocks?"
"They're quite all right, with the exception of thirty thousand pounds' worth of Steel Preferred which were sold four months ago on Mr. Lyne's instructions. The money received for that is in another account."
"Did you receive any letter from Lyne, in answer to yours?"
"In answer to the manager's?" corrected the accountant. "No, sir. I wouldn't see them anyway. They'd be on Mr. Moran's file, where you'll probably find them."
Smith considered the matter.
"Did Mr. Moran see Lyne last Tuesday, about ten o'clock in the morning?"
The accountant smiled.
"If he did, he didn't tell me. Last Tuesday morning?" He considered. "He didn't come in till about midday. He said he'd had an interview of some kind, but what it was I don't know." And then, very seriously: "There's something radically wrong, isn't there, and Mr. Moran is in it? I will give you and the bank any help I can. As I said before, I know nothing whatever about these transactions. Would you like to see Mr. Lyne's account? Very large sums have been going out in the past eighteen months, generally on bearer cheques. That is not unusual with a moneylender's account. It is customary to deposit promissory notes or acceptances against these withdrawals, but I understand that Mr. Lyne has never done this."
He came back with a ledger, which Smith examined with an expert eye. Money had gone in sums of ten, fifteen, twenty thousand, and invariably through a Birmingham bank.
"Only one of these large cheques has been made payable to an individual," said the clerk, turning a leaf and pointing to a name. "It was whilst Mr. Moran was on his holiday——"
Smith looked, and his jaw dropped. The name was Washington Wirth.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
He stared at the entry for a long time.
"Can I get a trunk call through to this bank in Birmingham?" he asked.
Apparently there was some arrangement for facilitating inter-banking calls, for in a few minutes he was connected. The Birmingham bank manager confirmed all that he already knew. He did not know Mr. Washington Wirth, though he had seen him once in his hotel. Apparently, when Mr. Wirth opened his account, he was suffering from some complaint which confined him to bed and made it necessary that the blinds should be drawn. The manager's chief clerk who interviewed him had taken his signature, and that was the last that had been seen of him. He had an arrangement by which he could draw cash against cheques at three other branches of the bank, one at the London office, one at Bristol, and a third, which had never been used, at Sheffield. He invariably notified the Birmingham branch by telegraph that he was drawing money twenty-four hours before the cheque was presented; and although huge sums passed through his account, he had very little to his credit at that moment.
Surefoot Smith sent a detective to Birmingham with a number of specimen signatures, and instructions to bring back Wirth's.
Whoever was the giver of these midnight parties was certainly the man to whom large sums of money had been paid out of Hervey Lyne's account—possibly his murderer. He called up Dick, and, finding him working at his new model, told him as much as he thought was necessary of his discoveries.
"You're his next of kin and I suppose you ought to know this," he said.
Dick was staggered when he learned the amount of money that was missing.
"You haven't overlooked the possibility of Mr. Wirth being Hervey Lyne himself, have you?"
"I've thought of that," said Surefoot. "The fact that he couldn't move without a bath-chair means nothing; that's one of the oldest fakes in the world. The cheques were undoubtedly signed by him. I've seen the last one; in fact, I've got it here."
He took it from his pocket. Turning it over, he saw what he had not noticed before—a scrawling pencil mark on the back. The mark was faint; it had evidently been written by one of those patent pencils which occasionally function and occasionally do not. Even so, an attempt had been made, which was partially successful, to rub off the inscription. With the aid of a magnifying glass the detective examined the writing and presently deciphered it.
"Don't send any more Chinese e...." Evidently the writing had wandered off the back of the cheque on to the blotting-paper where the old man wrote.
"Now what the devil does that mean?" asked Smith irritably. "There's no doubt about it being his writing. What does 'Chinese' mean? And who took the trouble to rub it off?"
He scratched his head in his exasperation.
"I ought to have asked the clerk if he'd got any Chinese bonds."
Dick lunched with Mary Lane and passed on to her all that the detective had told him. He was telling her about the cheque with the inscription on the back when he heard an exclamation, and looked at her in amazement. Her eyes and mouth were wide open; she was staring at him.
"Oh!" she said.
Dick smiled.
"Do you know anything about Chinese bonds?"
She shook her head.
"Tell me it all over again, and tell me slowly, because I'm not particularly clever."
He repeated the story about the faked account and the big cheques that had been drawn obviously to the credit of Mr. Washington Wirth. Whenever she could not understand she pressed him for explanations, which he was not always able to give. When he had finished she sighed and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were bright.
"You look terribly mysterious."
She nodded.
"I am mysterious."
"Do you think you know who killed that unfortunate old man?"
She nodded slowly.
"Yes; I wouldn't dare name him, but I really do think I have what the police call a clue. You see, I lived in Mr. Lyne's house when I was a little girl, and there are some things I've never forgotten."
"I'll tell Surefoot——" he began.
"No, no." She was very insistent "Dick, you mustn't. If you make me look foolish I'll never forgive you. My theory is probably utterly silly. I'll make a few enquiries before I even hint at it."
"In fact you're going to be a detective, darling," said Dick. "By the way, poor old Lyne's will has been discovered. I am his heir. The will is full of restrictions. For example, if I marry anybody outside my own nationality and religion I lose something, and if I reside out of England I lose something, and if I don't give his dog a good home I lose something more—his dog has been dead sixteen years, by the way—but, generally speaking, he's very generous and gives you about forty thousand pounds free of death duty——"
"Really!"
She was staggered at the old man's munificence; genuinely relieved, too, that in a moment of caprice he had not carried out the threat to disinherit his unpopular nephew.
Surefoot Smith did not know that the will had been found until he got back to his office, and, calling up Dick to congratulate him that afternoon, was annoyed to find that his news was old.
"As you're an interested party you'd better come down to the Yard right away. I've the bank accountant here and he's got something to say that will interest you."
Dick arrived to find the accountant looking rather bored in his shabby surroundings. Evidently the office arrangements at Scotland Yard did not impress him. He certainly shifted frequently in the hard-seated kitchen chair which had been placed at his disposal. On Surefoot's table was a number of typewritten sheets of paper.
"This is the point," said Smith impressively, pushing the sheets for Dick to see them. "This gentleman, Mr——"
"Smith," said the accountant.
"That's very awkward," said Surefoot gravely, "Have you got any other name, such as Huxley or Montefiore?"
"Just Smith," smiled the accountant.
"Very awkward indeed," said Surefoot. "Most Smiths adopt another name. This is his name," he went on to explain. "Our friend here" (he studiously avoided calling his brother Smith by that name, and never afterwards did he employ it to describe the accountant) "says that the statement that was sent to Miss Lane was not typed at the bank or on any bank typewriter. He proved this conclusively from my point of view by giving me specimens from all the typewriters used at the bank. A very good bit of detective work, though I don't see that it carries us much farther forward, because, if, as we believe, Moran has been bilking these funds, he probably typed the statements at home. The blanks or forms are not difficult to get?"
The accountant shook his head.
"Oh no; they are printed by hundreds of thousands——"
"Could anybody outside the bank secure them?"
The accountant thought it was possible.
"It comes to this, then," said Surefoot, "that you're satisfied this statement was not typewritten in your bank?"
"Or by any bank machine," said the accountant. "Every branch office uses a"—he mentioned the name of an American make of machine—"and always the same type face is used, the same colour ribbon, the same carbons. The ribbon here is purple; we invariably use black. I didn't realise that till I made enquiries. The type face is entirely different."
He suggested the make of machine on which the statement had been written, and this afterwards proved to be correct.
Surefoot could not remember having seen a typewriter at Moran's flat. He accompanied Dick, after the accountant had gone, to Parkview Terrace, and made a more careful search. They found a portable typewriter, though it was unusable. Remembering the flat in Baynes Mews, Smith was not greatly depressed by his failure to discover the machine. It was possible, and even likely, that if Moran was the tenant of Baynes Mews, he would also have other places of call. In London there might be two or three flats engaged in false names (that in Baynes Mews had been engaged in the name of Whiteley), which Moran used for his own purpose—supposing it was Moran.
"Have you any doubts?" said Dick.
"I'm full of doubts," said Surefoot. "Some of 'em may be set at rest when I find Jerry Dornford. You remember, after we left Naylors Crescent and were going over to see the old man, Dornford passed in a car that was raising a noise like hell? And do you remember he slowed down just about opposite the place where the old man was sitting?"
"Well?" said Dick, when he paused.
"Well," said the other, indignant at his denseness, "didn't he have a gun of yours?"
"Good God! You don't think that Dornford killed him?"
"Why shouldn't he?" asked the other truculently. "He owed Lyne money, and Lyne had threatened to put him into the court unless he paid on the very day of his murder. If you know Dornford's reputation as well as I do, you know that that's the one thing he'd want to avoid. He prides himself upon being a swell, though his father was a horse dealer and his mother—well, I won't talk about her! Bankruptcy means being kicked out of all his clubs. A bird like that would do almost anything to avoid social extinction—is that the right word? Thank you very much."
"Where is he?"
"That's what I'd like to know," said Surefoot grimly. "He hasn't been seen since we saw him!"
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mr. Surefoot Smith was one of those individuals who never seem to do any work. He was to be seen at odd hours of the day, and sometimes in odd places of the West End. It seemed that he was able to dispense with sleep, for you were as likely to meet him at four o'clock in the morning as at four o'clock in the afternoon.
He had a villa at Streatham.
"He is the type of man," Dick Allenby once described him, "who was foreordained to live with a married sister."
In addition, he had a room in Panton Street, Haymarket, and not the more fashionable part of Panton Street either. In all probability this was his real home, though the Streatham villa was not such a myth as his colleagues chose to imagine it.
Thieves knew him and respected him; the aristocrats of the underworld, who were his special prey, avoided him with great care, but not always with conspicuous success. He was the terror of the little card-sharping gangs; confidence men hated him, for he had put more of their kind in prison than any two officers of Scotland Yard. He had hanged three men, and bitterly regretted that a fourth had escaped the gallows through the lunacy of a sentimental jury.
His pleasures were few. Beer was more of a necessity than a dissipation; for how can one sneer at a man who consumes large quantities of malted liquor necessary for his well-being and happiness, and find anything commendable in the physical wreck who seeks, through copious potions of Vichy water, to combat the excesses of his youth?
In the privacy of his Panton Street room, he worked out his problems in a way peculiar to himself. He invariably wrote on white blotting-paper with a pencil, and seldom employed any other medium except when he was called upon to furnish a conventional report to his superiors. He invariably covered both sides of his blotting-paper with writing which nobody but he could read. It was a shorthand invented thirty years ago by a freakish schoolmaster, and the only man who had ever learned it thoroughly was Surefoot Smith. He had not only learned it, but improved upon it. It was his boast that no human being could decode anything he ever wrote; many had had the opportunity and tried, for after Mr. Smith had finished with his blotting-paper it was passed on to junior officers for a more proper use.
He worked out Leo Moran's movements chronologically so far as they could be traced. One portion of the day previous to the murder had been clearly marked. Moran had broadcast a lecture on banking and economics. Surefoot Smith smiled at a whimsical thought. He would not die without honour, if he was the detective who brought about the execution of the first broadcaster.
After his lecture he had gone to the Sheridan Theatre; thence to Dick Allenby's flat. After that, home, where he had found a letter—Surefoot Smith conceded him the truth of this—which sent him in search of Mary Lane.
What had he been doing on the morning of the murder? Possibly the accountant had called him up and told him that his leave was not granted. Mr. Accountant Smith had not said as much, but then between bank employés there was a certain freemasonry, and one didn't expect, or was a fool if one did, that they would tell everything about their comrades, even if they were comrades suspected of forgery and murder.
Surefoot Smith allowed also the element of self-preservation to enter into the accountant's evidence. He himself might not be free from blame; the success of the forgery might be due in not a little measure to his own negligence. Everybody had something to hide—and possibly the accountant was no exception.
One thing was certain; the aeroplane had been ordered at a moment's notice. That was not the method by which Moran intended leaving the country.
What was the stock to the transfer of which he had been so anxious to get Mary Lane's signature? Without a very long and careful search it was unlikely that that question would be answered.
Jerry Dornford's disappearance presented a problem of its own. His manservant in Half Moon Street said he was not worrying; Mr. Dornford often went away for days together, but where, the man could not say, because Mr. Dornford was not apparently of a confiding nature. If the servant guessed, he guessed uncharitably. Here was a man also without money, and almost without friends. He had one or two who had country houses, but enquiries of these had produced no result. The servant remembered the names and addresses of a lady or two, but these could throw no light upon the mystery.
Dornford owned an estate in Berkshire. Part of it was farm land, which produced enough income to pay the interest on the mortgage; and if the mortgagees did not foreclose it was because a sale would bring only a portion of the money which had been advanced. There had been a house on the property, but this had been sold to a local golf club many years before, and all that remained of Gerald Dornford's possessions were about three hundred acres of pine and heather.
Here was a man who certainly could not afford two or three addresses.
The bullet had not been found, though the turf had been taken up, to the distress of the park authorities, and the ground sifted to the depth of a foot. There was a possibility that it might have passed at such an angle that it fell into the canal or against the opposite bank. It all depended on what angle the shot had been fired. If Surefoot Smith's first theory held ground and the old man had been killed by a bullet fired from a rifle on the upper floor of Parkview Terrace, the bullet should have been found within a few feet of where the chair had stood. If it had been fired from Dornford's car, it could hardly have passed through his body and reached the canal.
He was in constant touch with Binny, but the chair-man could give no further information. He had not heard the whiz of the bullet as it passed him, not even heard its impact, and offered here a perfectly reasonable excuse, that the noise of Dornford's car would, had it coincided with the shot, have deadened all other sound.
It was four o'clock on a Saturday afternoon, and Surefoot Smith, who had spent most of the night on his feet, found himself dozing in his chair, a practice which for some reason he regarded as evidence of approaching senility. He got up, washed his face in the bathroom wash-basin, and went out into the Haymarket, not very certain as to the way he should take or in what direction he should continue his investigations.
He crossed Piccadilly Circus and was standing aimlessly watching a traffic block at the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue, when somebody bumped into him. His unconscious assailant was moving on with a muttered apology when Surefoot crooked his finger in his overcoat.
"What's the matter with you, Mike?"
There was reason for his surprise.
In twenty-four hours the appearance of Mike Hennessey had changed. The big face had grown flabby; heavy pouches were under his eyes; his unshaven face was a sickly yellow. Was it Surefoot's fancy, or did he turn a shade whiter at the sight of him?
"Hullo!" he stammered. "Well ... now ... isn't that curious, meeting you?"
"What's the matter, Mike?" asked Surefoot.
It was his habit to suspect criminal intentions in the most innocent of men, and his very question was accusative.
"Eh? Nothing. I'm sort of walking about in a dream today ... that play coming off and everything."
"I've been phoning you all the morning. Where have you been?"
Mike started.
"'Phoning me, Mr. Smith—Surefoot, old boy? I have been out of town. What did you want me for?"
"You weren't at your lodgings, you weren't at the theatre. Why were you keeping out of the way?"
Mike tried to speak, swallowed something, then, huskily:
"Let's go and have a drink somewhere. I've got a lot on my mind, Surefoot, a terrible lot."
There was a brasserie in a side street near the Circus, where beer could not be legally supplied until six o'clock. Nevertheless they made for this spot and the head waiter bustled up with a smile.
"Do you want to have a little private talk, Mr. Smith? You don't need to sit out here; the place is like a morgue. Come into the manager's office."
The manager's office was not a manager's office at all, except by courtesy. It was a very small private room.
"I'll bring you some tea, Mr. Smith. You'll have coffee, won't you, Mr. Hennessey?"
Hennessey, sitting with his eyes shut, nodded.
"What is on your mind?" asked Smith bluntly. "Washington Wirth?"
The closed eyes opened and stared at him.
"Eh? Yes." He blinked at his questioner. "I think ... well, he won't be in the theatrical business any more, and naturally that's worrying me, because he's been a good friend of mine."
He seemed to find a difficulty, not only in speaking, but in breathing. His chest puffed up and down, and then:
"Is that what you wanted to see me about?" he asked jerkily.
"That was just what I wanted to see you about. He was a friend of yours?"
"A patron," said Mr. Hennessey quickly. "I looked after him when he was in town. I didn't know very much about him except that he had a lot of stuff—money, I mean."
"And you didn't ask him where he got it, Mike?"
"Naturally," said Hennessey, avoiding his eyes.
The head waiter came at that moment with a tray which contained two large bottles of beer, a bottle of gin, cracked ice, and a siphon.
"Tea," he said formally, put it down, and left them.
Surefoot Smith was in no sense depressed as he broke the law.
"Now come across, Mike," he said, not unkindly. "I want to hear just who is this fellow Wirth."
Mike licked his dry lips.
"I'd like to know where I am first," he said, doggedly. "Not that I could tell you anything, Surefoot—not anything for certain. What's my position? Suppose I thought he was somebody else, and said: 'Listen—you either help me, or I'm going to ask questions.'"
"Yes, suppose you blackmailed him?" interrupted Smith brutally.
Mike winced at this.
"It wasn't blackmail. I wasn't sure—do you get my meaning? I was putting up a bluff. I wanted to see how far he'd go." And then suddenly he broke down and covered his face with his big, diamond-ringed hands, and began to sob. "Oh, my God! It's awful!" he moaned.
Other men would have been embarrassed; Surefoot Smith was merely interested. He laid his hand on the other's arm.
"Are you in on the murder? That's the question?"
Mike's hands dropped with a crash on to the marble-topped table. His ludicrous, tear-stained face was a picture of bewilderment.
"Murder...? What do you mean—murder?" He almost squeaked the question.
"The murder of Hervey Lyne. Didn't you know?"
The man did not answer; he was petrified with terror.
"Lyne ... murdered!" He croaked the words.
It was amazing to believe that he was the one man in London who did not know that a mysterious murder had been committed in Regent's Park on the previous day, because the newspapers were full of it. Yet Surefoot felt that this was a fact.
"Murdered ... old Lyne murdered? My God! You don't mean that?"
"Of course I mean it. What do you think—that I'm trying to make you laugh?"
Mike Hennessey was silent; speech was frozen in him. He could only sit regarding the detective with round eyes from which all expression had died. Mike had a weakness for weeping, but he also had an unsuspected strength of will. When he spoke at last his voice was completely under control.
"That's shocking. I didn't read the newspapers this morning."
"It was in last night's," said Surefoot.
The other shook his head.
"I haven't read a newspaper since Thursday morning," he said. "Old Lyne! He was Miss Lane's guardian, wasn't he?"
He was fighting for time—time to get the last weakness in him crushed, and to build himself the reserve that would prevent his collapse.
"No, I've read nothing about it. It's curious how you miss things in newspapers, isn't it? I've been so worried over this theatrical business that I've practically taken no interest in anything else in the world."
"What work did you do for Wirth?"
Surefoot's voice was cold. He had dropped his boy-friend manner, was even without interest in the unopened bottle of beer.
"Did you draw money from the bank on his behalf?"
Mike nodded.
"Yes, I've done that for him—big sums of money. Gone to his bank and met him afterwards by appointment."
"Where?" sharply.
"At various places—railway stations; the Kellner Hotel mostly. He generally drew a big sum when he had his parties, and I used to hand it over to him before the guests came. He said he was a merchant in the Midlands, but to tell you the truth, Surefoot, I've always had my doubts about that. Still, he didn't look a crook, and some of the queerest mugs are rolling in money. Why shouldn't he have been? He's not the first jay that put up money for a theatrical production, and not the last, please God!"
"Which bank did you draw it from?"
Mike told him. It corresponded with the information which Surefoot already had.
"He generally gave me a letter to take to the bank manager, asking him to cash the cheque. I've been to Birmingham and Bristol and——"
"That's all right." Smith leaned heavily on the table. "Who was he—Washington Wirth?"
Mike shook his head.
"Honestly I don't know. If I die this minute I don't know. I got in touch with him after my last bankruptcy proceedings had appeared in the newspapers. He wrote to me and said how sorry he was that a clever man like me had got into trouble, and offered to finance me."
"A written note?"
"Typewritten. I've got the letter in my diggings somewhere. He asked me to meet him at the Kellner. That was before the parties started, when he had a smaller suite. I went. The only thing I knew about him was that he wore a wig and that he wasn't what he appeared to be; but I've never pried into his business——"
"That's a lie," said Surefoot. "You just told me that you blackmailed him."
"I didn't really. I put a bluff up on him. I knew he wasn't what he pretended to be; I had to guess what he really was."
He was lying: of that Surefoot Smith was perfectly certain.
"Does it occur to you that you're in rather a tight place if this man is ever arrested? I have reason to believe that he has misappropriated money, the property of the late Hervey Lyne, and I have also reason to believe that he killed the old man—and that's murder. You don't want to be mixed up in murder, Mike, do you?"
Michael Hennessey's face was contorted with anguish. He was almost incoherent when he spoke.
"I'd help you if I could, Mr. Smith—but how can I? I don't know the man—I swear I don't know the man!"
Smith peered into his face.
"Do you know anything about Moran?"
The big mouth dropped.
"The banker?" he stammered.
"Do you know anything about the faked balance sheet which was sent by accident to Miss Lyne?"
For a second Surefoot thought the man was going to faint.
"No—nothing; I know Moran—I know Wirth too."
He stopped, was silent a little while.
"Suppose I found him—Wirth—what's my position then?"
Surefoot stood up.
"Your position is just the same whether you find him or whether we find him," he said roughly. "You don't seem to know what you've let yourself in for, Mike Hennessey. Here's a man been murdered—two men have been murdered—probably by the same hand. Tickler was killed for knowing too much. It might be safer for you if I put you inside."
A smile dawned on Mike's face.
"Am I a child?" he asked. He had got back his old poise. "How did I get out of the gutter—by taking notice of threats? Don't worry about me, Surefoot."
"There's a lot more I've got to say to you," interrupted the detective, "but just wait here till I telephone."
A momentary look of alarm came to the man's face.
"Don't worry; I'm not going to pinch you. I shouldn't want any assistance to do that."
There was a telephone booth in the outer room, and he called Scotland Yard urgently.
"Chief Inspector Smith speaking. I want two of the best men on duty to pick me up at Bellini's. I'm with Mike Hennessey, the theatrical man. He's to be under observation day and night from now onwards, and no mistakes must be made. Do you hear?"
They heard and obeyed. A quarter of an hour later, when they strolled out through the narrow side street to Piccadilly Circus, two young men followed them, and when Mike called a cab and drove off, a second cab carried the watchers.
Mike Hennessey was not at the theatre when the curtain rang down finally on Cliffs of Fate, and although the termination of this drama meant a search for new work, there was not one of the cast who did not breathe a sigh of relief when the muffled strains of the National Anthem came through the thick curtains.
Dick was reading the evening newspaper when Mary came into the dressing-room. The story of the Lyne murder was splashed over the front page; it included an interview with Binny and a talk with the park-keeper.
"I knew Mr. Lyne very well by sight," said James Hawkins, who had been a park-keeper for twenty-three years. "He always came into the gardens in the afternoon, and generally had a little nap before he was taken home. I've spoken a word or two with him, but he was not a gentleman who encouraged conversation. Mostly his attendant, Mr. Binny, used to sit and read to him. I saw Mr. Binny reading that afternoon, and went up to him and said: 'What's the good of your wasting your breath? The guv'nor's asleep.' Little did I think that he was dead! This is the second murder that we've had in the park in thirty-five years...."
Dick put down the paper when the girl came in, and prepared to make himself scarce.
"Sit down. I'm not going to change yet; I'm tired."
"Well, have you found your man?" he asked flippantly.
She did not smile.
"I think so," she said.
"Have you read the account?"
"I've read it—every ghastly line of it."
"Well," he challenged her, "is it Binny or the park-keeper?" And then, realising that flippancy was in the circumstances a little callous, he apologised.
"I don't know how it is, but I can discuss this murder as though it were of somebody I'd never heard of. The poor old man loathed me, and I'm sure if he could only have made up his mind as to who else would have taken better care of his fortune than I, he would have left the money to him like a shot! By the way, Binny has a theory of his own. I had a talk with him today. He favours Jerry Dornford; mainly, I think, because he doesn't like Jerry."