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

take that meal at

Snell’s, which had all the values of a good club except that there were

one or two members who were personally objectionable to him. And the most

poisonous were the first two he saw at the entrance of the dining-room.

Gerald Dornford and Jules had their little table in the window. Jules

favoured him with a nod, but Jerry kept his eyes steadily averted as Dick

passed.

 

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, recognizing every important 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 further 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 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’s 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

realize 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 so-and-so 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 that 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 upset.’

 

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 came 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 second 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 superscription; her name and address

were scrawled untidily and she guessed at once that it was Hervey Lyne

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 Hervey 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 Leo 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 replaced the receiver, 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 taxi 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’s 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 the one 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 man 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 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 man’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