CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Leo Moran!
It was impossible to do anything. The train was gathering speed and its next stop was Dover. Surefoot must be told. He might get through by telephone to London, but doubted if he had the time without missing the boat. Fortunately, when he arrived at Dover Harbour Station and came to the barrier where passports are examined, he recognised a Scotland Yard man who was scrutinising the departing passengers. To him he explained the urgency of the matter.
"He didn't come through this port," said the detective, shaking his head. "The train you saw was the one connecting with the Boulogne-Folkestone route. I'll get through to Mr. Smith at once. I've had a very full description of Mr. Moran for a long time, and so have the officers at Folkestone—I can't understand how they missed him."
Smith was not in his office when the call came through, but it was relayed to him almost immediately. Officers were sent to meet the train, but on its arrival there was no sign of Moran. Surefoot afterwards learned that it had been held up at South Bromley Station, and that a man who had occupied a coupé had alighted, given up his ticket, carrying his own baggage, which consisted of a small expanding suitcase, to a station taxi.
He had evidently acted on the impulse of the moment, according to the Pullman car attendant, for when, late that night, the taxi-driver was interviewed, it was learned that Moran had been driven to another station within a few miles of Bromley, and had gone on to London by the electric train.
A call at his flat produced no result. The porter had not seen him. Surefoot put a 'phone call through to Paris and spoke to Dick.
"You've got the keys of this man's flat, haven't you?"
"Good Lord! Yes, I'd forgotten them. They're in my workroom. See the housekeeper. You will find them ..."
Smith was less anxious to find the keys than to establish the fact that Leo Moran had not returned. He would naturally call at Dick's place to retrieve the keys, and with this idea in his mind Smith put Dick Allenby's apartments under observation. But Moran did not come near. Either he knew that he was being sought and had reason for keeping out of the way, or he had some other establishment in London about which the police knew nothing.
The second enquiry which Surefoot Smith conducted was even more profitless. At the moment, however, he concentrated upon Moran. The register of every hotel in London was carefully scrutinised.
Mary Lane knew nothing about the discovery, and when Surefoot Smith saw her that evening he made no reference at all to the man Dick Allenby had seen. He made it a practice to call once or twice a day, for, although he was satisfied that there was no immediate danger to the girl, and that every reason for menacing her had disappeared now that the murderer of Hervey Lyne was identified, he took no chances. Men who killed as ruthlessly as "Mr. Washington Wirth" were capable of deeper villainies.
Mary's hotel was an old-fashioned block set in the heart of the West End and in one of the most pleasant backwaters. Its furnishings were Victorian, its equipment a little primitive. As a reluctant concession to modern progress its ancient proprietor had installed gas fires in its bedrooms—it was the last hotel in London to adopt electricity for lighting.
The servants were old and slow; its proprietor still regarded the telephone as an unwarranted intrusion upon his privacy. There was one instrument, and that part of the office equipment.
It had its advantages, as Mary found. It was quiet; one could sleep at night. Strange guests rarely came; most of its patrons were part of the great shifting family that had made a habit of the hotel for years and years. Her room was pleasant and bright; it was on the street, and had the advantage of a narrow balcony which ran the full length of the building—a theoretical advantage perhaps, for nothing happened in that quiet street which made a balcony view desirable.
Mr. Smith called the next evening, and was unlucky. If he had been a few minutes earlier he would have followed a sturdy figure that mounted the broad stairs and stood patiently whilst the hotel porter unlocked the next door to Mary's bedroom, before ushering Mr. Leo Moran into the room he had engaged. He had not signed himself Leo Moran in the hotel register, but he had good and sufficient reason for that omission. He was plain Mr. John Moore from Birmingham.
He ordered a light meal to be sent up to him, and when that had come and had been cleared away he locked the door of his room, opened a portfolio, and, taking out a number of documents and a writing pad, became immediately absorbed in the task he had set himself.
There was nothing flimsy about this hotel; the walls were thick; otherwise, he might have heard Surefoot Smith offering astounding theories concerning a certain fugitive from justice.
Surefoot's visit was not a very long one, and, following her practice, the girl read for an hour. Her nerves were calmer; she had got over the shock of that ghastly night. She had asked Surefoot to allow her to go back to the flat.
"I'll give you another week here," he said, shaking his head. "I may be wrong, but I have an idea I can liquidate this business in that time."
"But now that I've recognised him, and the police have circulated his name and description, there is no reason why he should do me any harm," she protested. "I am perfectly sure that it was not revenge, but self-preservation——"
"You can't be sure of anything where that bird is concerned," interrupted Smith. "You've got to allow for the fact that he's a little mad."
"Is he the man the American detective spoke about?" she asked curiously.
Surefoot Smith nodded.
"Yes, he's been in Chicago and New York for a few years, and was associated with some pretty bad gangs. The curious thing is that, even in those days, the stage had a fascination for him. He used to give hectic parties to theatrical people, and even appeared on the stage himself, though he wasn't a very great success. Out of his loot he financed a couple of road companies—it's the same man all right."
Mary was getting weary of the restrictions imposed on her; resented the early-to-bed rule which the doctor had prescribed. She lay in bed, very wakeful, heard ten and eleven strike, and was no nearer to sleep than she had been when she lay down.
Some time before midnight she fell into a doze, for she did not remember hearing twelve o'clock strike. She must have been lying, half asleep, half awake, for an hour, when something roused her to complete wakefulness. She shivered and pulled the clothes over her shoulders, and at that instant became wide awake.
The French window, which she had lightly fastened, was wide open; a draught of chill air swept through the room, the door of which was half open. She had locked it from the inside—she remembered that distinctly.
As she stood by the side of the bed a man's figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light in the passage outside. For a second she stood, petrified with fear and astonishment. Then she recognised that stocky figure, and the terror of death came to her, and she screamed.
The man stepped backwards and disappeared. She flew to the door, closed it with a crash, and turned the key. Switching on the light, she rang the bell urgently and repeatedly; closed and latched the French windows, and sat quaking, until she heard a knock at the door and the voice of the night porter, the one able-bodied servant of the hotel.
Slipping into a wrap, she opened the door to him and told him what had happened. His expression was one of profound incredulity. He did not say as much, but she realised that he thought she had been dreaming.
"A man, miss? Nobody's passed me. I've been in the hall since ten."
"Is there no other way he could have got out?"
He thought a moment.
"He might have gone by the servants' stairs. I'll find out. Have you lost anything?"
She shook her head.
"I don't know," impatiently. "Will you please call Superintendent Smith at Scotland Yard? Tell him I want to see him—that it's very, very important."
She went back to her room, locked the door, and did not come out again until Surefoot's reassuring voice accompanied his knock. She opened the door to him thankfully, and he stepped in.
Before she could speak, he called back to the porter who had brought him up.
"There's a bad escape of gas somewhere in this house," he said.
"I noticed it, sir."
The porter went prowling along the passage and came back. "It's coming from the room next door," he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Surefoot knelt and brought his face close to the floor. The smell of gas was overpowering. He tried the handle. The door was fastened on the inside. Repeated knocking produced no response. Stepping back he threw the whole weight of his body against the frame. There was a crash and he fell headlong into the room. The place was so full of gas that he was almost asphyxiated and only staggered out with difficulty. Going into the girl's room, he soaked a towel in water and clapping it over his face ran through to the room and flung open the window. Then, turning his attention to the man who lay on the bed, he put his arm round him and dragged him into the passage.
The man was still breathing. One glance he took at the purple face, and in his astonishment almost dropped the inanimate figure. Leo Moran!
By this time the hotel was aroused. A doctor, who lived on the same floor, came out in pyjamas and an overcoat, and rendered first aid, whilst Surefoot went back into the room.
He switched on the electric light. The gas was still hissing from the burner on the hearth and he turned this off before he opened the window wider. He saw now that elaborate preparations had been made for this near tragedy. There was sticking-plaster down each side of the window. He found it also over the keyhole, and the space between the bottom of the door leading into the bathroom had been stuffed with a towel. Near the bed was a half-glass of whisky and soda. Evidently Moran had been writing. Surefoot took up a half-finished letter. He saw it was addressed to the general manager of the bank for which he had worked.
"Dear Sir,
"I am back in London, and for reasons which I will explain to you, I am living under an assumed name at this hotel. The explanation which I will give I think will satisfy ..."
Here the writing ended in a scrawl, as though Moran had been suddenly overcome.
There was a closely typed foolscap sheet on the table, but this Surefoot did not see immediately.
He looked round the room; the first thing that struck him was that the door of a large cupboard stood wide open and on the floor of the cupboard, which was empty, were two muddy foot-prints. They were unmistakably the prints of goloshes, and he remembered the old pair of goloshes which had been found in the car where Mike Hennessey's body had been discovered. Somebody had been hiding there. Outside it had been raining heavily; the prints were still wet.
He went outside and found that Moran had been carried into another bedroom, where the doctor and the porter were engaged in applying artificial resuscitation. Returning to Moran's room, he remembered the typewritten sheet which lay on the top of other documents and picked it up. He had not read half a dozen words when his jaw dropped in amazement, and he sat down heavily in a chair: for this typewritten statement was a murder confession.
"I, Leopold Moran, am about to say farewell to life, and, before going, I want to make a full statement concerning the killing of three men. The first of these is a man named Tickler.
"In some way he had discovered that I was robbing the bank. He had been blackmailing me for months. He knew that under the name of Mr. Washington Wirth I was giving parties, and traced me back to a room over a garage which I used to change my clothes and have used on other occasions as a hiding place. He came into this room and demanded a thousand pounds. I gave him a hundred in treasury notes and then persuaded him to let me drive him down to the West End in a cab that was standing in the mews. As he got into the cab I shot him, closed the door, and, driving him down into Regent Street, left the cab on the rank.
"The next day I had an interview with Hervey Lyne. He was growing suspicious. I had forged his name to large sums of money and when, at his request, I called on him, I knew that the game was up. I had tried to bribe Binny—his servant—into helping me to keep the old man in the dark, but Binny was either too honest or too foolish to fall in with my suggestions. Binny is one of the straightest men I have ever met. I think he was a fool to himself, but that is neither here nor there.
"I knew Hervey Lyne was in the habit of going into Regent's Park every afternoon and he always chose a spot where I could see him. On the afternoon in question, realising that I could see my finish, I shot him from the window with a rifle to which I had fastened a silencer. What made it so easy was that a noisy car was passing at the time. Afterwards I sent a man to Germany under my name and myself stayed in England.
"I was afraid of Hennessey, who was also blackmailing me, and I had to silence him. I drove him into the country, and killed him on the Colnbrook By-pass. Before he died he told me that Miss Lane had the bank statement. That night I entered her house and made a search for it, but found nothing.
"All the above is true. I am tired of life and am going out with no regret."
It was signed "Leo Moran."
Surefoot read the confession carefully and then began a search of the room for the goloshes. There was no sign of them.
He found Mary Lane in her room, fully dressed.
"You didn't see the face of the man who tried to get into the room?"
She shook her head.
"Did you recognise him in any other way?"
She thought she had and told him.
As far as he could judge, there was a quarter of an hour between the appearance of the man and the arrival of Surefoot: time enough, if it were Moran, to lock himself in his room. He was reaching this conclusion when he saw something on the floor that glistened. Stooping, he picked up a key. It lay very near to the open window. Going back to Moran's room, he scraped away the plaster that covered the keyhole, put in the key, and turned it. There was no doubt now in his mind.
Moran was still unconscious, though the doctor said he was out of danger. Surefoot had sent for two detectives, and, leaving the banker in their charge, he went back to the Yard.
At one o'clock in the morning three Scotland Yard chiefs were called from their beds and hurried to headquarters. To these Surefoot showed the confession.
"It is as clear as daylight," said his immediate chief. "As soon as he is conscious, shoot him into Cannon Row and charge him."
Surefoot said nothing for a moment, but again examined the foolscap sheet.
"It wasn't typewritten in the room, was it?" he asked. "Perhaps there is such a thing as an invisible typewriter, but I've never seen one. And there was no typewriter in the room. And the door was locked on the inside and the key was on the floor in Miss Lane's room. And the tape over the window was on the outside, not on the inside. That was a little error on somebody's part."
He put his hand in his pocket and took out a small bottle containing an amber liquid.
"That's the whisky that I found in the glass on his writing table—I want it analysed."
"How was Moran dressed when you found him?" asked one of the chief inspectors.
"He had everything on—including his boots," said Surefoot. "And what is more, he was lying with his feet on the pillow—it is not the position I should choose if I were committing suicide. All very rum and mysterious and scientific, but it doesn't impress me!"
The Chief Inspector sniffed.
"Nothing impresses you, Surefoot, except good beer. What is your suggestion?"
Surefoot thought for a while.
"Moran's been out this evening—the hall porter saw him come in an hour before he was discovered. The whisky and soda was sent up to his room—the whisky in a glass and the bottle unopened—an hour before that, on his instructions. I've been through the documents I found on his table, and if there's one thing more certain than another, it is that he had no intention of committing suicide. He has come back to buy a lot of outstanding shares in Cassari Oils and to open a London office for the company. He didn't want to call attention to the fact that he was back—it might have upset his plans for getting the shares he wanted. I found all that in a letter he has written to a Turk in Constantinople. I took the liberty of opening it. And he was seeing the general manager of the bank tomorrow—that doesn't look like suicide."
"Well?" asked the three men together when he paused.
"He didn't try to commit suicide. Somebody got into his room whilst he was out—it was easy, for there are two empty rooms that open on to the balcony—and after getting in he hocussed the whisky and hid himself in the cupboard. When the dope took effect he came out, picked up Moran from the floor, and laid him on the bed. He then stuffed up the ventilation of the room and turned on the gas. Then he got out of the window on to the balcony and made the door air-tight and went out through Miss Lane's room—he probably mistook the room for the one through which he had gained admission to Moran's. He must have dropped the key and was coming back for it, when Miss Lane screamed."
"How did he get out of the hotel without the night porter seeing him?"
Surefoot smiled pityingly.
"There are three ways out, but the easiest is down the service stairs and through the kitchen. There is a coffee cook on duty, but it would be easy to avoid him."
He underlined with his thumb nail a few lines of the confession.
"Notice what a good character he gives to Binny. That was a silly thing to do—a child in arms would know that only Binny could have written that statement."
"Binny—the servant!"
Surefoot nodded.
"He's got several other names," he said. "One of them is Washington Wirth. There's the murderer!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The police chief looked at Surefoot in amazement.
"Binny? You mean Lyne's servant?" asked the senior.
"That's what I mean," said Surefoot calmly.
He dived into the inside of his pocket, took out a flat envelope, and produced from this the transcript of the long cable and a blurred photograph.
"This came over the wire," he explained. "It's a picture of the man—London Len was one of his names—who is wanted by the police of New York and Chicago. He worked with three gangs and was lucky to get away with his life. Listen to this."
He put pince-nez on his broad nose and read from one of the cables.
"This man speaks with a very common English accent. He is believed to have been a valet, and his modus operandi is to obtain a situation with a wealthy family and to use the opportunity for extensive robberies. On the side he has worked with several booze rackets, is known to be concerned in the killing of Eddie McGean, and is suspected of other killings."
He twisted the photograph round so that the inspectors could see it.
"It's not pretty. It was taken at police headquarters in New York. If you don't know Binny, I'll tell you that is the bird! Even his best friend would recognise him."
Chief Inspector Knowles examined the photograph and whistled softly.
"I know him. I saw him the day you had him up at the Yard, questioning him. Why should he kill the old boy?"
"Because he's been forging his name. It was Miss Lane who put us on to the track, though I was a dummy not to see it myself. All these forgeries were committed on the seventeenth of the month, and she knew, having lived with the old man, that that was the date he paid all his tradesmen's bills. He was in the habit of writing messages on the back of his cheques, mainly of an insulting nature. The one we deciphered said: 'No more Chinese e——.' Miss Lane knew that the old man lived under the impression that tradesmen spent their lives swindling him. It was his belief that nothing but Chinese or imported eggs were sent to him. To keep his egg and butter man up to the scratch, he used to make a note on the back of the cheque when he paid his bill. That was his practice with all tradesmen—Miss Lane has seen most of them: bootmakers, tailors, provision merchants of all kinds. And do you know what they told her?"
Surefoot leaned forward over the table and spoke slowly, tapping his finger on the desk to emphasise each word.
"They told her that two or three years ago Lyne stopped paying by cheque—and paid cash! Binny either used to go round and settle, or send the money by postal order. Do you know what that means? It means that Lyne was going blind, and that the cheques he was signing for the tradesmen were cheques going into Binny's private account. What made it easier for Binny—which is his real name, by the way—was that the old man would never admit that his sight was failing, and in his vanity claimed that he could read as well as the next man. It was easy for Binny, on the seventeenth of the month, to put cheques before his master and pretend they were in settlement of tradesmen's bills, when in reality they were filled in with pencil for the correct amount. I've seen some of them, and under the microscope you can see the pencil marks and the original amounts for which they were drawn. It was easy to rub them out after the signature had been obtained, and to fill them in for the amount Binny happened to require at the time.
"He must have got wind that these investigations were going on, for he went after Miss Lane, and she saved herself by pretending she thought it was Moran. It was that which probably saved her life. When Binny heard her shout out of the window that Moran was trying to break into her room, he thought he'd leave well alone, and quitted. If he'd had any intelligence, he would have known that all her enquiries incriminated, not Moran, but him! But that's the way of 'em—if criminals had any sense they'd never be hanged."
The Chief Inspector pushed the photograph back across the table.
"Where was the murder committed—the murder of Lyne, I mean?"
Surefoot shook his head.
"That's the one thing that puzzles me. It is possible, of course, that he did the shooting just at the moment Dornford's car passed. The 'confession' that he prepared to throw the crime on to Moran—he was a mug to say so many nice things about Binny—almost suggests that this is the case. All the other crimes in this document were committed by Binny in the way he described."
He went back to the hotel to see Moran. There were other aspects of the case which needed elucidation.
Mike Hennessey's death puzzled him. If the manager was blackmailing Binny, there was motive enough. But what could Mike Hennessey know, except that the servant of the day was the magnificent Washington Wirth by night? And why should he blackmail the man who was providing him with a generous income?
There was a very special reason for killing Hennessey: of that he was sure.
Before he left the Yard Surefoot tightened the cords of the net about the man he wanted. Binny had not been seen since the night Mary Lane sent him to Newcastle on a fictitious errand so that she could try the key of the pantry door of Hervey Lyne's house.
The illuminated key was a mystery no longer. Sometimes "Mr. Washington Wirth" came back from these little parties of his a little exhilarated. It was necessary that he should change his clothes in the room above the garage, and once or twice, in changing them, he had left his key behind. Possibly he was a methodical man and was in the habit of putting the key on the table. Its phosphorescent quality was added so that, even if he switched off the light, he would not forget this necessary method of gaining admission to Lyne's house.
On the night of Tickler's murder he had forgotten the key and was compelled to break a window to get into the scullery—this had been Mary's theory. She had recognised the key; as a child she had seen it every day. She had sent Binny to the north to give herself the opportunity of testing out her theory. She had nearly lost her life in doing so, for Binny was no fool: he had left the carriage and gone back ahead of her to his lair.
The detective found Leo Moran conscious, but a very unhappy man, for the after-effects of gas poisoning are not pleasant. All that he told Surefoot confirmed what that intelligent officer had already discovered from a perusal of his private correspondence.
Surefoot showed him the "confession," and read portions of it to the astonished man.
"Murder!" said Moran scornfully. "What rubbish! Who has been murdered?"
When Surefoot told him:
"Hervey Lyne? Good God! How perfectly dreadful! When did this happen?"
"The day you went away," said Surefoot.
Moran frowned.
"But I saw him the day I went away, from my window. He was sitting under the tree in the park—when I say 'the tree' I mean the tree he always used as shade. I've seen him there dozens of times. Binny was reading to him."
"What time was this?" asked Surefoot quickly.
Moran thought for a while, then gave an approximate hour.
"That must have been ten minutes before he was found dead. It was too far away for you to see whether he was talking?"
Moran nodded.
"When I saw him, Binny was reading to him."
Here was unexpected evidence. Moran was probably the only man who had watched that little group in Hervey Lyne's last moments.
"Where was he sitting—Binny, I mean?"
"Where he usually sat," said Leo Moran instantly. "Facing the old man, practically on a level with his feet. I was watching them for some time."
"Did you see Binny walk round to the back of the chair?"
The other hesitated.
"Yes, he did—I remember now. He walked right round the chair. I remember being reminded of how gamblers walk round a chair for luck."
"You saw nothing else—heard nothing?"
Moran stared at him.
"Do you suspect Binny?"
Surefoot nodded.
"It isn't a case of suspicion, it's a case of certainty."
Again the sick man taxed his memory.
"I am almost sure I am right in saying that he went round the chair. I didn't hear anything—you mean a shot? No, I did not hear that, nor did I see Binny behaving suspiciously."
Surefoot skimmed through the "confession" again.
"Do you know Binny?"
"Slightly. He was my servant; I dismissed him for stealing. I lost a number of little trinkets."
Smith put his hand in his pocket and took out the silver cigarette case that had been found under the cushion of the car in which Mike Hennessey had ridden to his death.
The banker stretched out his hand eagerly.
"Good Lord, yes! I wouldn't have lost that for a fortune. It's one of the things that were missing. How did you get it?"
In the man's present condition Surefoot decided it was not the moment to tell of the other horror which had been fastened upon him.
"I thought it might be," he said, pocketing the case. "It was obviously an old one and not the kind of case you would use, and certainly not the kind you would put where I found it. It had been polished up for the occasion, too."
"What was the occasion?" asked Moran curiously, but the detective evaded the question.
Moran spoke quite frankly of his own movements.
"I was a fool to go off so hurriedly," he confessed, "but I was rather piqued with my directors, who had refused me leave. It was very vital I should be in Constantinople whilst the board of the Cassari Company was being reconstructed. I have very heavy interests in that country, which is now one of the richest oil companies in the world. And, by the way, Miss Lane is a rich lady; the shares I bought from her could not be transferred to me under the Turkish law without yet another signature. Legally I have the right to that; morally I haven't; so the stock she transferred, I am transferring back at the price I paid. Which means that she has more money than she can spend in her lifetime." He smiled. "And so have I, for the matter of that," he added.
There was nothing more to be gained from Moran, and Smith left him to sleep off his intolerable headache. Scotland Yard had 'phoned that Dick Allenby was on his way back from Paris by aeroplane. He reached Croydon at dawn and found a police car waiting to take him to Regent's Park.
As the car drove into Naylors Crescent he saw Surefoot Smith and three plain clothes officers waiting outside the house.
"Sorry to bring you back, but it is necessary that I should make another search of this house, and it is very advisable you should be present."
"Did you find Moran?" asked Dick impatiently. "You got my telephone message——"
Surefoot nodded.
"Did he tell you anything about Binny?"
"Binny's told me quite a lot about himself," said Surefoot grimly. "I haven't interviewed the gentleman, but he left a very illuminating document."
Dick opened the door of the house and they went in. Although it had only been unoccupied for a very short time, it smelt of emptiness and neglect. Hervey Lyne's study had been tidied up after the detective's search. Every corner had been examined, the very floorboards and hearthstone lifted by the police in their vain effort to find a clue. It was unlikely that this apartment would yield any fresh evidence.
They went into the kitchen, where Mary Lane had her unpleasant adventure. Smith had visited the place an hour or two after Mary's escape, had passed through the cupboard door down a flight of steps to the coal cellar. The truckle bed he had found there on his first visit had been removed.
"The queerest thing about Binny is his wife," said Surefoot. "Why he should attach himself, or allow himself to be attached, to this poor drunkard is beyond my understanding. He must have smuggled her away the night Miss Lane came here, and where she is at the moment I'd rather not enquire."
Dick had already expressed his opinion on this matter. He thought it was probable that the woman was not Binny's wife at all. Hervey Lyne invariably advertised for a man and wife. To gain admission to the establishment Binny would not have been above hiring a woman to suit his purpose. This theory was rather supported by the fact that "Mrs. Binny" occupied a small, separate room. That she could have been a source of menace to the murderer was unlikely. The evidence of tradesmen had been that she was invariably in a state of fuddle, and that the cooking was done by Binny himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The bath-chair in which the old man had been found dead occupied a place under the stairs, and to Dick's surprise the detective gave instructions to have it taken into the front room study. Surefoot had always had an uncomfortable feeling that he had not paid sufficient attention to the chair. What he had learned in the past few days made a further examination essential.
Immediately opposite the door of the study there was an alcove in the wall of the passage, and he saw now that this served a useful purpose. Obviously Lyne was in the habit of getting into the bath-chair in the study. Against the lintel of the door, at the height of the wheel's hub, were several scratches and indentations where the hub had touched the wood. But for the fortuitous circumstance of the alcove being so placed, it would have been difficult either to take the chair into the room or bring it out. Surefoot put a detective into the chair and made the experiment of drawing him into the street. The width of the conveyance was only a few inches less than the width of the front door opening and again he found marks on the door posts where the hub had touched. Without assistance he drew the chair into the street. The wheels fitted into the little tramlines which Lyne had had placed for the purpose. The slope was so gentle that it was as easy to pull the laden chair back into the house.
The experiment told him very little. On the day of the murder he had examined every square inch of the vehicle. He ordered it to be put back in the place where it had been found and then continued his search and examination of the house.
"What do you expect to find?" asked Dick.
"Binny," was the terse reply. "This fellow isn't a fool. He has got a hiding place somewhere, and I wish I knew where to look for it." He looked at his watch. "I wonder if I could persuade Miss Lane to come along?"
Dick Allenby took a cab to the hotel, a little doubtful whether after the excitement of the night she would be either physically fit or willing to come to this house of gloom.
He found her in her sitting-room, showing no evidence of the strain she had experienced. Her first question was about Binny.
"No, we haven't found him," said Dick. His voice was troubled. "I am getting terribly worried about you, Mary. This fellow would stop at nothing."
She shook her head.
"I don't think he'll worry me again," she said. "Mr. Smith is right: Binny will take no risk that does not bring him profit. As long as he thought he could get the bank statement from me or stop me speaking and telling what I had discovered about the cheques, I think I must have been in terrible danger."
"How did he know you were making enquiries?"
"He knew when I sent him up to the North," she said. "That was a crude little plan, wasn't it? I under-rated his intelligence and he must have been following me when I was visiting the tradesmen. I had an idea once that I saw him. It was the day I went to Maidstone."
She showed no reluctance in accompanying Dick back to the house. On the way she told him that she had seen Leo Moran in the night and that he was out of danger. There had been a time when the doctors had been doubtful as to whether he would recover.
They reached the house. Surefoot was in the little courtyard at the back. She followed Dick down the few steps that led to the kitchen. She shuddered as she recalled her midnight visit to this sinister little apartment. Even now, in the light of day, it had an unpleasant atmosphere, due, she admitted to herself, rather to her imagination than to unhappy memory. There was the "cupboard" door wide open now and the little door into which she had fitted the replica of the silver key. The kitchen and the adjoining scullery seemed amazingly small. She realised that this was due to the fact that her earliest recollections of the house belonged to childhood when small rooms look large and low articles of furniture unusually high.
Surefoot came in as she was looking around and nodded a greeting.
"Remember this, Miss Lane?"
"Yes." She pointed to the inner kitchen, looking very modern with its lining in white glazed brick. "That's new," she said, and walked in.
The place puzzled her: she missed something, and try as she did she could not recollect what it was. Some feature of the room as she remembered it, was missing. She did not mention her doubts, thinking that memory was playing tricks—a way that memory has.
"You know what this is?" asked Smith.
He had found it in the kitchen drawer: a curious looking instrument rather like a short garden syringe, except that at the end was a rubber cup.
"It is a vacuum pump," explained Smith.
He wetted the edge of the rubber cup, pressed it on the table and, drawing up the piston, lifted the table bodily at one end.
"What's the idea of that? Have you ever seen it before?"
She shook her head.
Surefoot had found some other things: a small pot of dark-green paint and a hardened mass wrapped in oily newspaper.
"Putty," he explained. "I saw it when I was here before. Do you know what it was used for?"
He beckoned her and she followed him into a dark passage. The lamp that had been switched on gave very little light, but Surefoot took a powerful little torch from his pocket and, walking up to the door, stooped and, sending the bright light along the inside of the thick door panel, said:
"You see that, and that?"
She saw now a deep circular indentation.
"It was filled with putty and painted over. I thought it was a nut-hole until I started picking out the putty."
"What is it?" she asked wonderingly.
"It is the mark made by a spent bullet," said Smith slowly. "The bullet that killed Hervey Lyne. He was shot in this passage."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
"It's all based on deduction so far," said Surefoot, "but it is the kind of deduction that I am willing to bet on, and that is saying a lot for me: I don't waste money. Binny had known for some time that the old man was suspecting him and things were getting desperate. He had to do something and do it pretty quickly. The old man was getting suspicious about his bank account. He could not suspect Binny or he would not have told him to send for Moran. Lyne hated bankers and never had an interview unless he couldn't help it. When Binny found he had sent for his bank manager he was in a hole. There was only one thing he could do and that was to get a confederate to pose as a bank manager and that confederate was——"
"Mike Hennessey!" said Dick.
Surefoot nodded.
"I haven't any doubt about that," he said. "When we searched Hennessey's clothes we found a paper containing the identical figures that were on the statement. This could only mean that Binny had supplied him with the figures and that Mike had had to commit them to memory in case the old man questioned him. Obviously the paper had been continuously handled. It was extremely soiled and had been folded and re-folded."
They were in the kitchen and providentially Surefoot had found a big sheet of blotting paper, which he spread on the table, and on which he elaborated his theory as he spoke.
"Moran was never notified and never asked to call. It happened by a coincidence that he was not in his office at the time of the interview. He was, in fact, consulting with the agents of the Cassari Oils. At the time fixed for the appointment Mike came. Hervey Lyne had never seen the bank manager, and even if he had he would not have recognised him for he was nearly blind. He must have said something or done something which left the old man unsatisfied. Lyne was very shrewd. One of his hobbies was working out how he could be swindled and it is possible that he had a doubt in his mind whether the man who called on him was Moran.
"We shall never know what it was that made suspicion a certainty. It may have been something he overheard in the kitchen: there were times when Binny and his so-called wife had unholy rows—I got this from the servants in the next house. He picked up the first piece of paper he could find—it happened to be the bank statement—and wrote the message to you." He nodded at Mary. "I do not think there is any doubt that he was sure that the man who had called that morning was not Moran, and that he suspected Binny of being the villain of the piece and that is why he asked that the police should be sent for. Binny got to know this. Whether the old man charged him at the last moment or said something, we shall only know if Binny tells the truth before he is hanged.
"Binny must have made his plans on the spur of the moment. After he dressed the old man to take him out, he stepped behind him and shot him with a magazine pistol—I dug out the bullet from the door. It is possible that he had no intention of taking him out, but after he found there was very little blood and no sign of a wound, he decided to take the risk. The blue glasses Mr. Lyne wore hid his eyes. He was generally half asleep as he was being pulled into the park. Binny got away with it. He even asked a policeman to hold up the traffic to allow the chair to pass."
Surefoot Smith sighed and shook his head in reluctant admiration.
"Think of it! Him sitting there dead, and Binny as cool as a cucumber, reading the news to the dead man."
"Is there a chance of Binny getting out of England?" asked Dick.
Surefoot scratched his nose thoughtfully.
"Theoretically—no, but this man is a play-actor, meaning no disrespect to you, Miss Lane. I don't believe in criminals disguising themselves, but this man isn't an ordinary criminal. At the moment he is in London, probably living in a flat which he has rented under another name. He may have two or three of them. He is the sort of man who would be very careful to make all preparations for a getaway. He has got stacks of money, a couple of automatic guns, and the rope ahead of him. He is not going to be taken easily."
"I don't understand him," said Dick, shaking his head. "Why these theatrical parties? Why Mr. Washington Wirth?"
"He had to have some sort of swell name and appearance. I will tell you all about the theatrical parties one of these days. He never got the right people there, with all due respect to you, Miss Lane. He wanted ladies wearing thousands of pounds' worth of diamonds. He worked that racket in Chicago: got a big party and held them up, but he never caught on in London and never attracted the money. And you have got to allow for vanity, too. He liked to be a big noise even among little people, again with all due respect to you, Miss Lane."
He picked up the vacuum pump and looked at it.
"I'd like to know what this is for. I think I will take it along with me."
He slipped it into his pocket. They went out after locking all the doors—Dick and the girl to the hotel, and the indefatigable Mr. Smith to his Haymarket flat.
An hour passed in that house. There was neither sound nor movement, until an oblong strip of glazed brickwork began to open like a door, and Binny, wearing rubber overshoes, came cautiously into the kitchen, gun in hand. He listened, went swiftly and noiselessly into the passage, up the stairs from room to room before he came back to the front door and slipped a bolt in its place. Returning to the kitchen, he laid his gun on the table and passed his hand over his unshaven chin. His unprepossessing face creased in a smile which was not pleasant to see.
"Vanity, eh?" he said.
It was the one thing the detective had said that had infuriated him.
Binny stood by the table, his unshapely head sunk in thought, his fingers playing mechanically with the long-barrelled automatic that lay at his hand.
Vanity! That had hurt him. He hated Surefoot Smith; from the first time he had seen him he had recognised in this slow, ponderous, unintelligent-looking man a menace to his own security and life. And he had offended him beyond all pardon. Whatever anybody could say about this amazing man, his love of the theatre was genuine. Association with its people was the breath of his nostrils. His first defalcations were made for the purpose of financing a play that ran only a week. He himself was no bad actor. He would require all his skill and genius to escape from the net which was being drawn about him. He went back through the narrow door into a room that was smaller than the average prison cell.
It was narrow and long. On the floor was a mattress where he had slept, and at the foot of the "bed" was a small dressing-table, beneath which were two suitcases. He took one of these out and unlocked it. On the top lay a flat envelope containing three passports, which he brought into the kitchen. Pulling up a chair to the table, he examined each one carefully. He had made his preparations well. The passports were in names that Surefoot Smith had never heard of and there was no resemblance to him in the three photographs attached to each passport. Fastened to one by a rubber band was a little packet of railway tickets. One set would take him to the Hook of Holland, another to Italy. He could change his identity three times on the journey.
From a bulging hip pocket he took a thick pad of banknotes: French, English, German. He took another pad from a concealed pocket in his coat, a third and fourth, until there was a great pile of money on the table.
For a quarter of an hour he sat contemplating his wealth thoughtfully, then, going back into his little hiding place, he carried out a mirror and a small shaving set and began carefully to make his preparations.
Vulgar grease paints, however convincing they might look on the stage, would have no value in the light of day. He poured a little anatto into a saucer, diluted it and sponged his face carefully, using a magnifying mirror to check the effects.
For the greater part of two hours he laboured on his face and head; then, stripping to his underclothes, he began to dress, having first deposited his money in satchels that were attached to his belt, which was passed round his waist. The contents of the two cases he turned out, for he had examined them very carefully the day before. He could not afford to carry any other baggage than the two automatics and half a dozen spare magazines, which he disposed about his person.
He chose the lunch hour, and then only after a long scrutiny of the street from the study window. The servants might see him, but the chances were that they would be preparing or serving the meal either to their employers or to themselves. It was the hour, too, when no tradesmen were delivering, and the only risk was that Surefoot Smith had left somebody to watch the house. That had to be taken.
He unbolted the front door, turned the handle, and stepped out. As he reached the Outer Circle he saw something that made him set his jaw. A slatternly-looking woman was walking unsteadily on the opposite side of the street. He recognised her as his miserable companion of the past four years, the half-witted drunkard who had shared the kitchen with him. She did not recognise him, and it mattered little even if Surefoot saw her. He had turned her out the previous day with instructions to go back to Wiltshire, where he had found her, and had given her enough money to keep her for a year.
He plodded on, looking back occasionally to see if he were followed. He dared not risk a 'bus. A taxi would be almost as dangerous. To drive a car in his present disguise would be to attract undesirable attention.
In the Finchley Road there was a block of buildings, the ground floor of which was shops. Above these was a number of apartments occupied by good middle-class tenants. The corner of the block, however, had been reserved for offices and this had a private self-operated elevator.
Binny went into the narrow passage unchallenged, pressed the button, and had himself carried on to the third floor. Almost opposite the lift, at an angle of the wall, was a door inscribed: "The New Theatrical Syndicate." He unlocked the door and went in. The office consisted of one medium-sized room and a small cloakroom. It was furnished plainly and had the appearance of being very rarely used. Except for a desk and a table there was no evidence of its business character.
He shot a little bolt in the door, took off the long coat he wore, and sat down in the comfortable chair. In one of the drawers there was a small electric kettle, which he filled in the wash-place. He brewed himself a cup of coffee, and this, with some biscuits he found in a tin box, in the second drawer, comprised his lunch.
The getaway was going to be simple. His real baggage was in the cloakroom at Liverpool Street. Everything was simple, and yet——
Binny could have written a book on the psychology of criminals. He was a cold-blooded, reasoning killer, who never made the stupid errors of other criminals. It was a great pity that he had made the appalling mistake of going back to find the key and had attracted the girl's attention. Otherwise, Leo Moran would have been dead and there would be no proof that the confession, which Binny had typed out so industriously, was not true in every detail.
He had planned it all so carefully: he had intended dropping the key just on the inside of the locked door and had put it in his pocket and forgotten it. A little slip that had messed up his artistic plan. Reason, which had determined his every action, told him to slip out of London quietly that night and trust to his native genius for safety. But that something which is part of the mental make-up of criminal minds clamoured for the spectacular. It would be a great stunt to leave London with one crushing exploit which would make him the talk of the World. In his imagination he could see the headlines in the newspapers. "Surefoot Smith Left Dead and the Murderer Escaped!" "Surefoot Smith, the Great Catcher of Murderers, was Himself Caught!" The fantastic possibilities took hold of him. His mind began to work, not towards safety, but in the direction of pleasing sensationalism, and he did not realise that the charge of vanity which he so resented was being justified with every mental step he took towards vengeance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Dick Allenby and Mary were lunching at the Carlton, and they were talking about things which ordinarily would have absorbed her.
"You are not listening," he accused her, and she started.
"Wasn't I?" She was very penitent. "Darling, I was thinking of something else. Isn't that a terrible confession? I don't suppose any other girl ever listened to a proposal of marriage with her mind on a nasty old kitchen in an unpleasant little house."
He laughed.
"If you could bring that mind of yours from the drab realities to the idyllic possibilities, I should be a very happy man." And then, curiously: "You mean Hervey Lyne's house? What's worrying you?"
"The kitchen," she said promptly. "There was something there, Dick—I can't think what it was—something I missed, and it is worrying me. I have a dim recollection that the poor old man told me he was having the kitchen rebuilt. I remember him saying what a wonderful fellow Binny was, because he was superintending the operations and saving him a lot of money." She fingered her chin. "There was a dresser," she said thoughtfully. "Of course, that's gone. And a horrid little sink of brown earthen-ware, and——"
She stopped suddenly and stared at him, wide-eyed.
"The larder!" she gasped. "Of course, that's what it was! There was a larder and a door in the wall leading to it. What has happened to the larder?"
He shook his head helplessly.
"I haven't been terribly interested in larders," he began, but she arrested his flippancy.
"Don't you remember Mr. Smith said as we were leaving the house that he was sure Binny had a hiding place somewhere? I am sure that's it—on the right hand side as you go in."
Dick Allenby laughed.
"On the right hand side as you go into the kitchen there is a solid brick wall," he said, but she shook her head.
"I am sure there is something behind it. I remember now, when I went into the courtyard to try the key I noticed that there had been no change in the exterior. There must be a space there. Dick, Providence is with us."
She was looking towards the entrance. Surefoot Smith was there, very disconsolate. He caught her eye and nodded. Obviously she was not the person he wanted to see, for he continued his scrutiny of the room. She caught his eye again and beckoned him. He came forward reluctantly.
"You haven't seen the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, have you? I'm lunching with him—he is paying for it. He said half-past one." He looked at his watch. "It is nearly two. We've pinched Binny's wife by the way; one of our men picked her up on the Outer Circle, but she's got nothing to say."
"I've found the hiding place!" Mary blurted the news and Surefoot Smith became instantly alert.
"Binny's?" he asked quickly. "In the house you mean?"
She told him breathlessly of her theory. He slapped his knee.
"You're right, of course—the vacuum pump. I wondered what he used it for. If there was a door—and it was an easy job to make a door on glazed brick—he could not have had handles, could he? The only way he could get it open would be by sticking the vacuum on the surface of the brick to give him a grip. I have got the pump at the Yard, and the Commissioner can wait."
He went out of the room, and half an hour later Hervey Lyne's little house was surrounded. Surefoot came into the hall, pistol in hand, went quickly into the kitchen and examined the white wall. There was no sign of a door. He fastened the vacuum to the smooth surface and pulled, but, to his chagrin, nothing happened. The strength of two detectives failed to move the door. He moved the position of the pump from time to time, and at the fifth attempt he was rewarded. The slightest pull drew a brick from the wall. It ran on a steel guide, and dropped over in front, leaving an oblong aperture which was hollow.
He put his hand inside and felt a steel handle, which he turned and pulled. The door swung open and he was in Binny's hiding place. The disordered heap of clothes on the floor, the shaving mirror thrown down on the bed, told their own tale. There was greater significance, however, in the saucer he found in the sink. It was still yellow with the annatto colouring which Binny had used.
Surefoot Smith looked at it for a long time, and then:
"I think there is going to be serious trouble," he said.
Surefoot Smith hurriedly turned over the clothes and articles which had been emptied from the suitcase, but he found nothing to give him the slightest clue to Binny's intentions. One thing was certain: he had been in his biding place and had heard all that had happened that morning. Surefoot had the door shut and himself listened to conversation in the kitchen, and although he could not catch every word he was satisfied that Binny had heard enough.
The annatto in the saucer was a very slight and possibly useless clue. It told him to look for a yellow-faced man, and this might or might not be a useful guide to the searchers.
The fugitive had left nothing else behind. Surefoot searched diligently, crawling over the floor with his eyes glued to the tiled flooring for some sign of crepe hair. He expected this stage-mad murderer to have attempted some sort of theatrical disguise, but his search failed to reveal anything that left a hint as to what that disguise might be.
The only piece of incriminating evidence which Binny had left behind was the sealed magazine of an automatic pistol, and, since this could not have been overlooked, the detective surmised that the magazine had been left because the man was carrying as many as he conveniently could.
Another discovery, which, at an earlier stage, would have been invaluable, was a soiled white glove, obviously the fellow of that which Surefoot had found in Mr. Washington Wirth's changing room.
"You never know," said Surefoot as he handed over the glove to his subordinate. "Juries go mad sometimes, and a little thing like that might convince 'em—keep it."
The larder had evidently been used as a sleeping room. Although the bed was on the floor, and the apartment itself was bare, Binny had often found this a convenient retreat. Very little daylight came through the small window near the ceiling, and apparently he kept that closed most of the time; it was covered with a square of oilcloth.
Before he left Surefoot tried the experiment of having the clothes packed in the suitcase. He found, as he had expected, that there was only sufficient to fill one. He was satisfied, too, that some of the clothes he had found had been recently changed by Binny, and the conclusion he reached was that one of the suitcases had contained the disguise which the murderer wore when he left the house.
He sent his men on missions of enquiry up and down the street, but nobody had seen Binny leave—he had chosen the hour well. Later he widened the circle of enquiry, but again was unsuccessful.
He found Mary Lane and her fiancé waiting patiently in the palm court of the Carlton, and reported his discoveries.
"If only I'd thought of it before!" she said ruefully.
Surefoot Smith's smile was not altogether unpleasant.
"Either you or I or all of us would have been dead," he said grimly. "That bird carries a young arsenal, and your bad memory probably saved us a whole lot of unpleasantness."
"Do you think he was there?"
He nodded.
"There's no doubt about it."
"He'll get away, then?" asked Dick.
Surefoot rubbed his chin irritably.
"I wonder if that would be a good thing or a bad thing?" he said. "He may try to leave today—all the ports are being watched, and every single passenger will be under inspection. The only person who can pass on and out to a ship leaving this coast tonight is a baby in arms—and we search even him!"
He drew his chair closer to the table and leaned across, lowering his voice.
"Young lady," he said, and he was very serious, "you know what rats do when they're in a corner—they bite! If this man can't get out of England by walking out or shooting himself out, he's coming back to the cause of all his trouble. I'm one, but you're another. Do you know where I should like to put you?"
She shook her head, for the moment incapable of speech. She was shocked, frightened a little, if she had confessed it. Binny was on her nerves, more than she would admit. She felt her heart beating a little faster, and when she spoke she was oddly breathless.
"Do you really think that?" And then, forcing a smile: "Where would you put me?"
"In Holloway Prison." He was not joking. "It's the safest place in London for an unmarried woman who's living around in hotels and flats; and if I could find an excuse for putting you there for seven days I would."
"You're not serious?" said Dick, troubled.
Surefoot nodded.
"I was never more serious in my life. He may get out of the country; I don't think it's possible that he will. If Miss Lane had not remembered the larder I should not take the precautions I am taking tonight. The doors out of England are locked and barred, unless he's got an ocean-going motor-boat somewhere on the East Coast, and I have an idea that he hasn't."
Then, abruptly:
"Where are you staying tonight?"
Mary shook her head.
"I don't know. I think at the hotel——"
"You can't stay there." He was emphatic. "I know a place where you could stay. It wouldn't have the conveniences of an hotel, but you'd have a decent bed and security." There was a new police station in the north-west of London, which had married quarters above it, and one of these was occupied by a woman whose husband, a detective sergeant, had gone to Canada to bring back a fugitive from justice.
"I know this woman; she's a decent sort, and she'll give you a bed, if you wouldn't mind sleeping there."
She agreed very meekly. Indeed, she had a sense of relief that he had found such a simple solution.
Surefoot Smith had a queer sixth sense of danger. He had been concerned in many murder cases, had dealt with scores of desperate men who would not have hesitated to kill him if they had had the opportunity. He had known cunning men and a few clever criminals, but Binny was an unusual type. Here was a killer with no regard for human life. Murder to him was not a desperate expedient—it was part of a normal method.
There was a long conference at Scotland Yard and new and urgent telegrams were sent to all parts of the country insisting upon the dangerous character of the wanted man. Ordinarily the English police do not carry firearms, but in this case, as the messages warned a score of placid chief constables, it would be an act of suicide to accost the wanted man unless the police officer whose duty it was to arrest him was prepared to shoot.
Scotland Yard has a record of all projected sailings, and neither from Liverpool nor Greenock was there any kind of boat due to leave in the next thirty-six hours.
Binny's avenue of escape must be the Continent. Strong detachments of C.I.D. men were sent to reinforce the watchers at Harwich, Southampton, and the two Channel ports. And yet, when these preparations were completed, Surefoot Smith had a vague feeling of uneasiness and futility. Binny was in London, and he was too clever a man even to think of leaving, unless he was ignorant that his hiding place had been discovered. There was no reason why he should not be. It was hardly likely that he had a confederate.
At five o'clock Surefoot made an exasperating discovery: he was strolling in Whitehall when he saw a newspaper placard: "Wanted Murderer's Secret Hiding Place." He bought a paper and saw, conspicuously displayed on the front page, a long paragraph headed: "Secret Chamber in Hervey Lyne's House." Surefoot swore softly and read on:
"This afternoon Inspector Smith of Scotland Yard, accompanied by a number of detectives, made a further search of the house of Hervey Lyne—the victim of the Regent's Park murder. The police remained on the premises for some time. It is understood that in the course of their investigations a little room, which they had previously overlooked, was discovered and entered, and unmistakable evidence secured that this secret chamber had been used as a hiding place by the servant Binny, for whom the police have been searching...."
Surefoot Smith read no further. It was a waste of time wondering who had given away the information to the Press. Possibly some young detective who had been engaged in the search and who was anxious to pass on this sensational discovery. To bring home this indiscretion was a matter that could be left till later. In the meantime Binny knew if he were to read the newspapers.
Oddly enough, Binny did not see the paragraph, and had already made up his mind as to the course he would pursue.
At eight o'clock that night Surefoot called at Mary Lane's hotel and escorted her to the plain but very comfortable lodgings he had secured for her.
He had a talk with the inspector on duty, but asked for no guard. She was safe. Binny would be a bold man to show himself abroad, and he certainly would not walk into a police station.
At half-past nine that night Surefoot returned to Scotland Yard and read the reports which had come in. The boat train from Liverpool Street had been carefully combed. There was no sign of Binny or anybody who might have been Binny. Every passport had been examined before the train pulled out and, as an act of precaution, the railway platform had been cleared of friends who had gathered to see off the passengers before the officer in charge had given the station master the "All right."
A similar course was being followed at Waterloo, where the police were watching and searching the trains for Havre. It was too early to hear from the sea ports.
Binny was an expert chauffeur. It was hardly likely that he would get out of London by train if he intended leaving London.