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

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

around 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 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. 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 banknotes 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 taxi I shot him, closed the door and drove him down into

Regent Street, where I left the taxi 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’ve 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, realizing 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 Bypass. 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 your room?’ She shook her head. ‘Did you

recognize 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’s 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 shoes,’ 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’s 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 Cassan 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 Istanbul. 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