The Clue of the Silver Key by Edgar Wallace (ereader android .TXT) 📕

Chapter Twelve

MARY LANE’S PARTY was a very dull one. She was one of ten young people,

and young people can be very boring.

 

Three of the girls had a giggling secret, and throughout the meal made

esoteric references to some happening which none but they understood. The

young men were vapid and vacuous, after their kind. She was glad to get

away on the excuse of a matinee.

 

Mary lived in a large block of flats in the Marylebone Road.

 

These three small rooms and a kitchenette were home and independence to

her. She seldom received visitors, rarely men visitors, and never in any

circumstances invited a guest so late at night. She was staggered when

the lift-man told her that ‘a gentleman had just gone up to her flat’.

 

‘No, miss, I’ve never seen him before. It wasn’t Mr Allenby, but he says

he knows you.’

 

He opened the door of the lift and walked along the corridor with her. To

her amazement she saw Leo Moran, who had evidently rung the bell of the

flat several times, and was returning to the elevator when they met.

 

‘It is unpardonable of me to come so late, Miss Lane, but when I explain

to you that it’s rather a vital matter I’m sure you won’t be angry with

me. Your maid is asleep.’

 

Mary smiled. ‘I haven’t a maid,’ she said.

 

The situation was a little embarrassing: she did not want to ask him into

the flat; nor could she talk to him in the passage. She compromised by

asking him in and leaving the front door open.

 

Moran was nervous; his voice, when he spoke, was husky; the hand that

took a large envelope from his inside pocket was unsteady.

 

‘I wouldn’t have bothered you at all, but I had rather a disconcerting

letter when I got home, from—an agent of mine.’

 

She knew Moran, though she had never regarded him as a friend, and felt a

sense of resentment every time he had come unbidden to her dressing-room.

Since she received her allowance from old Hervey, she had it also through

the bank of which Leo Moran was manager.

 

‘I’ll be perfectly frank with you, Miss Lane,’ he said, speaking quickly

and nervously. ‘It’s a matter entirely personal to myself, in the sense

that I am personally responsible. The one man who could get me out of my

trouble is the one man I do not wish to approach—your guardian, Mr

Hervey Lyne.’

 

To say she was astonished is to put it mildly. She had always regarded

Moran as a man so perfectly self-possessed that nothing could break

through his reserve, and here he was, fidgeting and stammering like a

schoolboy.

 

‘If I can help you of course I will,’ she said, wondering what was coming

next.

 

‘It concerns some shares which I purchased on behalf of a client of the

bank. Mr Lyne signed the transfer, but the other people—that is to say,

the people to whom the shares were transferred—have just discovered that

it is necessary also that your name shall be on the transfer, as they

were originally part of the stocks left in trust to you. I might say,’ he

went on quickly, ‘that the price of this stock is exactly the same, or

practically the same, as it was when it was taken over.’

 

‘My name—is that all you want? I thought at least it was something

valuable,’ she laughed.

 

He put the paper on the table; it was indubitably a stock transfer; she

had seen such documents before. He indicated where her name should be

signed, and she noticed above it the scrawl of old Lyne.

 

‘Well, that’s done.’ There was no mistaking his relief. ‘You’ll think

it’s awful of me to come at this hour of the night. I can’t tell you how

grateful I am. It simply meant that I had paid out money of the bank’s

without the necessary authorization. Also, if old Mr Lyne died tomorrow,

this transfer would be practically valueless.’

 

‘Is he likely to die tomorrow?’

 

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know; he’s a pretty old man.’ Abruptly he

held out his hand. ‘Good night, and thank you again.’

 

She closed the door on him, went back to her kitchenette to make herself

a cup of chocolate before she went to bed, and sat for a long time at the

kitchen table, sipping the hot decoction, and trying to discover

something sinister in his midnight visitation. Herein she failed. If

Hervey Lyne died tomorrow? By his agitation and hurry one might imagine

that the old man was in extremis. Yet, the last time she had seen old

Hervey, he was very much in possession of his faculties.

 

She was at breakfast the following morning when Dick Allenby called her

up and told her of his loss. She listened incredulously, and thought he

was joking until he told her of the visit of Surefoot Smith.

 

‘My dear—how terrible!’ she said.

 

‘Surefoot thought it was providential. Moran thought nothing.’

 

‘Was he there?’ she asked quickly.

 

‘Yes—why?’

 

She hesitated. Moran had so evidently wished his visit to her to be a

private matter that it seemed like betraying him.

 

‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. And then, as an afterthought: ‘Come round and

tell me all about it.’

 

He was there in half an hour, singularly unemotional and cheerful, she

thought.

 

‘It really isn’t as dramatically important as it sounds,’ he said. ‘If it

has been stolen, as Surefoot thinks it has, with the idea of pinching the

patent, the buyer will be shrewd enough to make a search of the

registrations at the various Patent Offices. I had an acknowledgement

from Germany this morning that it has been entered there.’

 

He was interrupted by a knock at the outer door and she opened it to

admit a second visitor. It was not usual, she explained apologetically to

Dick, that she should receive guests so early, but Mike Hennessey had

telephoned, asking whether he might come.

 

The first thing she noticed when Mike came into the room was his

embarrassment at finding Dick Allenby there. A genial soul was Mike,

big-faced, heavy-featured, sleepy-eyed, constitutionally lazy and

lethargic in his movements. He was never a healthy-looking individual,

but now he looked positively ill, and she remarked upon the fact. Mike

shook his head.

 

‘Had a bad night,’ he said. ‘Good morning, Mr Allenby—don’t go: I’ve

nothing private; only I wanted to see this young lady about our play.

It’s coming off.’

 

‘Thank Heaven for that!’ said Mary gratefully.’ It’s the best news I’ve

had for months.’

 

‘It’s about the worst I’ve had,’ he grumbled.

 

‘Has Mr Wirth withdrawn his support?’

 

It was nearer the truth than she guessed. Mr Wirth’s weekly cheque had

been due on the previous day, it had not arrived and Mike was taking no

chances. ‘The notice goes up tonight that we finish on Saturday,’ he

said. ‘I’ve had the luck to let the theatre—I wish I’d taken a better

offer that I had last week.’

 

He was even more nervous than Moran had been; could not keep his hands

still or his body either. He got up from the chair, walked to the window,

came back and sat down, only to rise again a few moments later.

 

‘Who is this old fellow Wirth? What’s his job?’ asked Dick.

 

‘I don’t know. He’s in some sort of business at Coventry,’ said Mike. ‘I

thought of running up there today to see him. The point is this’—he came

to that point bluntly—‘tomorrow night’s Treasury, and I haven’t enough

money in the bank to pay the artistes. I may get it today, in which case

there’s no fuss. You’re the heaviest salary in the cast. Mary: will you

trust me till next week if things go wrong?’

 

She was staggered at the suggestion. In the case of other productions

Mike’s solvency had always been a matter of the gravest doubt, but Cliffs

of Fate had been under more distinguished patronage, and the general

impression was that, whatever else happened, the money for its

continuance would come in.

 

‘Of course I will, Mike,’ she said; ‘but surely Mr Wirth hasn’t—’

 

‘Gone broke? No, I shouldn’t think so. He’s a strange man,’ said Mike

vaguely.

 

He did not particularize his patron’s strangeness, but was satisfied to

leave it at that. His departure was almost as abrupt a gesture as any he

had performed.

 

‘There’s a pretty sick man,’ said Dick.

 

‘Do you mean he’s ill?’

 

‘Mentally. Something’s upset him. I should imagine that the failure of

old Wirth’s cheque was quite sufficient; but there’s something else

besides.’ He rose. ‘Come and lunch,’ he invited, but she shook her head.

 

She was lunching at home; her matinee excuse at the overnight party had

been on the spur of the moment. She wondered how many would remember it

against her.

 

Dick went on to Scotland Yard, and had to wait half an hour before

Surefoot Smith returned. He had no news of any importance. A description

of the stolen gun had been circulated.

 

‘But that won’t help very much. It’s hardly likely to be pawned or

offered for sale in the Caledonian Market,’ said Surefoot. And then,

abruptly: ‘Do you know Mr Washington Wirth?’

 

‘I’ve heard of him.’

 

‘Have you ever met him? Great party-giver, isn’t he?’

 

Dick smiled. ‘He’s never given me a party, but I believe he’s rather fond

of that sort of amusement.’

 

Surefoot nodded. ‘I’ve just been up to the Kellner Hotel. They know

nothing about him, except that he always pays in cash. He’s been using

the hotel for three years; orders a suite whenever he feels inclined,

leaves the supper and the orchestra to the head waiter; but that’s the

only thing they know about him—that his money is good money, which is

all they want to know, I suppose.’

 

‘Are you interested in him?’ asked Dick, and told the story of Mike

Hennessey’s agitation.

 

Surefoot Smith was interested.

 

‘He’s got a bank, has he? Well, he may be one of those Midland people.

I’ve never understood what makes the corn and coal merchants go in for

theatricals. It’s a form of insanity that’s getting quite common.’

 

‘Mike will tell you all about it,’ suggested Allenby.

 

Mr Smith’s lips curled.

 

‘Mike’ll tell us a whole lot,’ he said sarcastically. ‘That fellow

wouldn’t tell you his right hand had four fingers, for fear you brought

it up in evidence against him. I know Mike!’

 

‘At any rate, he’s got a line on Wirth,’ said Dick.’ He’s been financing

this play.’

 

Since he could find nobody to lunch with, he decided to