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

of

lengths of flex, the peering police detectives searching every inch of

the interior.

 

There was blood on the seat and on the floor; a trace of it on the gear

lever. One of the detectives pulled a cushion from the driver’s seat…

 

‘Hullo!’ he said and, looking over his shoulder, Dick saw a flat silver

cigarette case, that was passed to Surefoot’s hand.

 

Smith opened the case. It was empty. There was an inscription on the

inside, easy enough to read in the light of the bulb.

 

‘To Leo Moran, from his colleagues in the Willesden branch.’

 

Surefoot turned it over and over in his hand. It was an old case; there

were one or two dents in it, but it was polished bright, and either was

frequently used or had been recently cleaned. Surefoot held it gingerly

by the help of a sheet of paper, and had it carefully wrapped.

 

‘We might get a finger-print on that, but I don’t think it’s likely,’ he

said. ‘It’s a little odd, isn’t it—being under the cushion?’

 

‘He might have put it there and forgotten all about it.’

 

Surefoot shook his head. ‘It’s not his car, it was pinched. As I say,

it’s odd.’ He did not speak again for some time. ‘I mentioned the fact

that the young lady has the bank statement. Mr Hennessey passed the

information on in the course of the ride, or before. The killer settled

with Hennessey—by the way, he was supposed to be driving to Southampton

to catch his boat. The car stopped at a filling station at the end of the

Great West Road; Hennessey got out and telephoned to his flat—presumably

to his housekeeper to send on his baggage. The murderer got rid of

Hennessey as quickly as he could, rushed back to town and burgled Mary

Lane’s flat. Obviously he was somebody who had been there before—’

 

‘Like Moran,’ suggested Dick.

 

Surefoot hesitated.

 

‘He’ll do as well as anybody else,’ he said. ‘He was looking for the bank

statement. He couldn’t have known that his coat was covered with blood,

until he went into the bathroom, and saw either himself in the mirror or

a stain on the wall. I’ll tell you something more: he’s lived in America.

How’s that for deduction?’

 

‘How on earth do you know that?’

 

‘I don’t,’ said the other calmly; ‘it’s deduction—in other words,

guesswork. It’s a typical gang killing though—taking a man for a ride and

throwing him out of the car after he’s been shot. Nobody seems to have

heard the gun go off, but if they did, they’d think it was a motor bike.

They scorch down the by-pass.’

 

He drove home with Dick, and was very voluble. ‘Hennessey was in the

swindle from the start. He knew who Wirth was, knew that Wirth was

forging cheques, and took advantage of his knowledge to blackmail the

other man.’ Then abruptly: ‘I’m going to show Miss Lane the key and the

cheque.’

 

It was the first time Dick had heard about the key.

 

By the time Surefoot Smith reached Scotland Yard, all the grisly relics

of the murdered man had been collected and laid on his table. There were

a notebook, a few odd scraps of paper, about twenty pounds in cash, a

watch and a key-ring, but nothing that was particularly

illuminating—except the absence of any large sum of money. Obviously,

Hennessey did not intend to make his jump for the Continent on a capital

of twenty pounds. Surefoot guessed that the murderer, profiting by the

previous discovery of money in Tickler’s pocket, had relieved him of what

might have been very incriminating evidence.

 

He looked over the papers. One was a page torn from a Bradshaw, with

pencil markings against certain trains. Surefoot guessed that Hennessey’s

plan was to make his way to Vienna. The second paper was the more

interesting. It was a sheet torn from a notebook, and contained a number

of figures.

 

Surefoot had a remarkable memory, and he recognized at once that the

figures represented those balances which had appeared in the statement.

Evidently the paper had been handled many times.

 

Smith was puzzled. Why had Hennessey taken the trouble to jot these notes

down in pencil and keep them? Obviously he knew of the bank statement,

had possibly concocted it; but here he would have some other data than

this scrap of paper.

 

If the bank statement was an invention, as undoubtedly it was, there was

no need to keep this note. Either the man would invent the figures on the

spur of the moment, or else he had some book record of the defalcations

and the amount that should have stood to old Lyne’s account.

 

Early the next morning Smith telephoned to Mary Lane, who had spent an

uneasy night. She was not even stimulated by the knowledge that there was

a police officer in the corridor outside her flat, one at the foot of the

fire escape, and another patrolling in front of the house.

 

‘Come round by all means,’ she said, and was relieved to know that she

was seeing him, for she wanted advice very badly.

 

The morning had brought no news to Surefoot. The inquiries he had made

had drawn blank. A search of Mike Hennessey’s flat gave him no clue that

was of the least value. Of papers or documents there was none; an old

bank book told him no more than that three years before Hennessey had

been living from hand to mouth.

 

He was rather despondent when he came into Mary’s flat. ‘It almost looks

as if science has got to be brought in,’ he said gloomily, as he produced

a small packet from his pocket and laid it on the table. ‘Maybe you’re

it!’

 

He opened the wash-leather wrapper and disclosed the key. Then from his

pocket-book he took out a cheque and laid it on the table. She examined

the faint pencil marks carefully and nodded. ‘That’s Mr Lyne’s

handwriting,’ she said. ‘I think I told you that when I was a girl I

lived in the same house; in fact, I kept house for him, in a very

inefficient way. He was rather trying to live with.’

 

‘In what way?’ asked Surefoot.

 

She hesitated. ‘Well, in many ways—domestically, I mean. For example, he

had the same tradespeople for over forty years, and never changed them,

although he was always quarrelling with them or disputing the amount he

owed them.’ She looked at the key, turning it over and over in her hand.

‘Would you think I was terribly vain if I told you I thought I could find

the man who killed Mr Lyne?’

 

‘I think you would be very silly if you tried to do it on your own,’ said

Smith bluntly. ‘This fellow isn’t one you can monkey about with.’

 

She nodded. ‘I realize that. Will you give me a week to make inquiries?’

 

‘Don’t you think you’d better tell me now what your suspicions are?’

 

She shook her head. ‘No; I’m probably making a fool of myself, and I have

a very natural desire to avoid that.’

 

Smith pursed his thick lips. ‘You can’t keep these—’ he began.

 

‘I don’t want them,’ she said quickly.’ You mean the cheque and the key?

Would it be asking you too much to give me a replica of the key? If I

find the lock it fits I’ll telephone you.’

 

He looked at her in surprise. ‘Do you think you can find the lock?’ She

nodded. Surefoot Smith sighed. ‘This is like doing things in books,’ he

said, ‘and I hate the way they do things in books. It’s romantical, and

romantical things make me sick. But I’ll do this for you, young lady.’

 

Two days later she received a brand-new, shining key, and set forth on

her investigations, never suspecting that, day and night, she was

shadowed by one of three detectives, whose instructions from Surefoot

Smith had been short and not especially encouraging.

 

‘Keep this lady in sight. If you let her out of your sight, your chance

of ever being promoted is practically nil.’

 

It was the third day after the murder of Mike Hennessey that Cassari Oils

moved. They had hovered between �1 3s. and �1 7s. for five years, and

they represented �40 shares. The field was situated in Asia, and had

produced enough oil to prevent the company from collapsing, but

insufficient to bring the shares back to their normal value.

 

Mary read the flaming headline on the City page, ‘Sensational Rise of

Cassari Oils’, and suddenly she recalled the name on the share transfer.

She telephoned Surefoot Smith.

 

‘Those were the shares which you transferred to Moran, were they? That’s

interesting. What did they stand at last night? I haven’t seen the

paper.’

 

The stock had jumped from 25s. to 95s. overnight. When Surefoot Smith put

a call through to the City he was staggered to learn that they stood at

�30 and were rising every minute. He drove up to an office in Old Broad

Street which supplied him with particulars of financial phenomena, and

discovered the reason from an unconcerned stock-jobber.

 

‘They struck big oil about three months ago, and they’ve been sinking new

wells. Apparently they found inexhaustible supplies, but managed to keep

it quiet until they’d cleared the market of every floating share. The

stock is certain to go to a hundred, and I can advise you to have a

little flutter. There’s no doubt about the oil being there.’

 

Surefoot Smith had never had a flutter in his life, except that he

invariably had half a crown on some horse in the Derby which he picked

with the aid of a pin and a list of probable runners. ‘Who’s behind this

move?’ he asked.

 

The jobber shook his head. ‘If I tried to pronounce their names I’d

dislocate my jaw,’ he said.’ They are mostly Turks—Effendi this and Pasha

that. You’ll find them in the Stock Exchange Year Book. They’re a pretty

solid crowd; millionaires, most of them. Oh no, there’s nothing shady

about them; they’re as solid as the Bank of England, and this isn’t a

market rig. They haven’t a London office; Jolman and Joyce are their

agents.’

 

To the office of Messrs Jolman and Joyce, Surefoot Smith went. He found

the place besieged. He sent in his card and was admitted to the office of

Mr Joyce, the senior partner.

 

‘I can’t tell you very much Mr Smith, except what the newspapers can tell

you. There aren’t a large number of shares on the market—I’ve just told a

friend of mine who thought of running a bear, that he’s certain to burn

his fingers. The only big holder I know is a man named Moran—Leo Moran.’