Читать книгу The Clue of the Silver Key - Edgar Wallace - Страница 10

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The bank was closed, and Mr. Moran had gone home, when Surefoot Smith called to make his enquiry.

Surefoot knew almost everybody who had any importance in London. Indeed, quite a number of people would have had a shock if they had known how very completely informed he was about their private lives. It is true that almost every man and woman in any civilised community has, to himself or herself, a criminal history. They may have broken no laws, yet there is guilt on their conscience; and it is a knowledge of this psychology which is of such invaluable aid to investigating detectives.

The nearest way to Parkview Terrace led him across the open end of Naylors Crescent. Glancing down, he saw a man coming towards him and stopped. Binny he knew to be an inveterate gossip, a great collector of stories and scandals, most of which were ill-founded. At the back of his mind, however, he associated Mr. Lyne's serving man with the banker. Years before, Surefoot Smith had been in control of this division, and his memory was extraordinarily good.

"Good-afternoon, Mr. Smith."

Binny tipped his wide-brimmed bowler hat, and then, after a moment's hesitation:

"May I be so bold to ask, sir, if there is any news?"

"You told me you knew this man Tickler?"

Binny shook his head.

"An acquaintance. He was my predecessor——"

"I'd have that word framed," said Surefoot Smith testily. "You mean he was the fellow who had your job before, don't you?" And, when Binny nodded: "Then why didn't you say so? Didn't you work for Moran?"

Binny smiled.

"I've worked for almost every kind of gentleman," he said. "I was Lord Frenley's valet——"

"I don't want your family history, Binny," said Surefoot Smith. "What sort of man is Moran? Nice fellow—generous, eh? Free spender?"

Binny considered the matter as though his life depended upon his answer.

"He was a very nice gentleman. I was only with him for six months," he said. "He lives just round the corner, overlooking the park. In fact, you can see his flat from the gardens."

"A quiet sort of man?" asked Surefoot.

"I never heard him make much noise——" began Binny.

"When I say 'quiet,'" explained Surefoot Smith with a pained expression, "I mean, does he gad about? Women, wine, and song—you know the kind of thing I mean. I suppose your mother told you something when you were young?"

"I don't remember my mother," said Binny. "No, sir, I can't say that Mr. Moran was a gadder. He used to have little parties—ladies and gentlemen from the theatre—but he gave that up after he lost his money."

Surefoot's eyes narrowed.

"Lost his money? He's a bank manager, isn't he? Had he any money to lose?"

"It was his own money, sir." Binny was shocked and hastened to correct a wrong impression. "That was why I left him. He had some shares in a bank—not his own bank but another one—and it went bust. I mean to say——"

"Don't try to interpret 'bust' to me. I know the word," said Surefoot. "Gave little theatrical parties like that fellow What's-his-name? Drinking and all that sort of thing?"

Binny could not help him. He was looking left and right anxiously, as though seeking a means of escape.

"In a hurry?" asked the detective.

"The big picture comes on in ten minutes; I don't want to miss it. It's Mary Pickford in——"

"Oh, her!" said Surefoot, and dismissed the world's sweetheart with a wave of his hand. "Now what about this man Tickler? Did he ever work for Moran?"

Binny considered this and shook his head.

"No, sir, I think he was working for Mr. Lyne when I was with Mr. Moran, but I'm not certain." And then, as a thought struck him: "He's on the wireless tonight."

Surefoot was staggered.

"Who?"

"Mr. Moran. He's talking on economics or something. He often talks on banking and things like that—he's a regular lecturer."

Surefoot Smith was not very much interested in lecturers. He asked a few more questions about the unfortunate Tickler and went on his way.

Parkview Terrace was a noble block of buildings which had suffered the indignity in post-war days, as so many other buildings have suffered, of being converted into apartments. Mr. Moran lived on the top flat, and he was at home, his servant told Surefoot when he came to the door. In point of fact he was dressing for dinner. Smith was shown into a large and handsome sitting-room, furnished expensively and with some taste. There were two windows which commanded a view of Regent's Park and the Canal, but it was the luxury of the appointments which arrested Surefoot's interest.

He knew the financial position of the average branch manager; could tell to within a few pounds just what their salaries were; and it was rather a shock to find even a twelve hundred a year manager living in an apartment which must have absorbed at least four hundred, and displaying evidence of wealth which men in his position have rarely the opportunity of acquiring.

A Persian carpet covered the floor; the electric fittings had the appearance of silver, and were certainly of the more exquisite kind that are not to be duplicated in a department store. There was a big Knolle couch ("Cost a hundred," Smith noted mentally); in an illuminated glass case were a number of beautiful miniatures, and in another, rare ornaments of jade, some of which must have been worth a considerable sum.

Surefoot knew nothing about pictures, but he was satisfied that more than one of those on the wall were genuine Old Masters.

He was examining the cabinet when he heard a step behind him and turned to meet the owner of the flat. Mr. Leo Moran was half-dressed and wore a silk dressing-gown over his shirt and white waistcoat.

"Hullo, Smith! We don't often see you. Sit down and have a drink." He rang the bell. "Beer, isn't it?"

"Beer it is," said Surefoot heartily. "Nice place you've got here, Mr. Moran."

"Not bad," said the other carelessly. He pointed to a picture. "That's a genuine Corot. My father paid three hundred pounds for it, and it's probably worth three thousand today."

"Your father was well off, was he, Mr. Moran?"

Moran looked at him quickly.

"He had money. Why do you ask? You don't imagine I could have furnished a flat like this on a thousand a year, do you?" His eyes twinkled. "Or has it occurred to you that this is part of my illicit gains—moneys pinched from the bank?"

"I hope," said Surefoot Smith solemnly, "that such a thought never entered into my head."

"Beer," said Mr. Leo Moran, addressing the servant who had appeared in the doorway. "You've come about something, haven't you? What is it?"

Surefoot pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"I'm making enquiries about this man Tickler——"

"The fellow who was murdered. Do I know him, you mean? Of course I know him! The fellow was a pest. I never went from this house without finding him on the kerb outside, wanting to tell me something or sell me something—I have never discovered which."

He had a rapid method of speaking. His voice was not what Smith would have described as a gentleman's. Indeed, Leo Moran was very much of the people. His life had been an adventurous one. He had sailed before the mast, he had worked at a brass founder's in the Midlands, been in a dozen kinds of employment before he eventually drifted into banking. A rough diamond, with now and again a rough voice; more often, however, a suave one, for he had the poise and presence which authority and wealth bring. Now and again his voice grew harsh, almost common, and in moments he became very much a man of the people. It was in that tone he asked:

"Do you suppose I killed him?"

Surefoot smiled; whether at the absurdity of the question or the appearance of a large bottle of beer and a tumbler, which were carried in at that moment, Moran was undecided.

"You know Miss Lane, don't you?"

"Slightly." Moran's tone was cold.

"Nice girl—here's luck." Surefoot raised his glass and swallowed its contents at a gulp. "Good beer, almost pre-war. Lord! I remember the time when you could get the best ale in the world for fourpence a quart."

He sighed heavily, and tried to squeeze a little more out of the bottle, but failed.

Moran touched the bell again.

"Why do you ask me about Miss Lane?"

"I knew you were interested in theatricals—there's your servant."

"Another bottle of beer for Mr. Smith," said Moran without turning his head. "What do you mean by theatricals?"

"You used to give parties, didn't you, once upon a time?"

The banker nodded.

"Years ago, in my salad days. Why?"

"I was just wondering," said Smith vaguely.

His host strode up and down the floor, his hands thrust into the silken pockets of his gown.

"What the devil did you come here for, Smith? You're not the sort of man to go barging round making stupid enquiries. Are you connecting me with this absurd murder—the murder of a cheap little gutter rat I scarcely know by sight?"

Surefoot shook his head.

"Is it likely?" he murmured.

Then the beer came, and Moran's fit of annoyance seemed to pass.

"Well, the least you can do is to tell me the strength of it—or aren't you enquiring about the murder at all? Come along, my dear fellow, don't be mysterious!"

Mr. Smith wiped his moustache, got up slowly from the chair and adjusted his horrible pink tie before an old Venetian mirror.

"I'll tell you the strength of it, man to man," he said. "We had an anonymous letter. That was easy to trace. It was sent by Tickler's landlady, and it appeared that when he was very drunk, which was every day, sometimes twice a day, he used to talk to this good lady about you."

"About me?" said the other quickly. "But he didn't know me!"

"Lots of people talk about people they don't know," began Smith. "It's publicity——"

"Nonsense! I'm not a public man. I'm just a poor little bank manager, who hates banking, and would gladly pay a fortune, if he had one to pay, for the privilege of taking all the books of the bank and burning 'em in Regent's Park, making the clerks drunk, throwing open the vault to the petty thieves of London, and turning the whole damn thing into a night club!"

Gazing at him with open mouth, genuinely staggered by such a confession, Smith saw an expression in that sometime genial face that he had never seen before: a certain harshness; heard in his voice the vibration of a hidden fury.

"They nearly kicked me out once because I speculated," Moran went on. "I'm a gambler; I always have been a gambler. If they'd kicked me out I'd have been ruined at that time. I had to crawl on my hands and knees to the directors to let me stay on. I was managing a branch at Chalk Farm at the time, and I've had to pretend that the Northern and Southern Bank is something holy, that its directors are gods; and every time I've tried to get a bit of money so that I could clear out, the market has gone——!" He snapped his fingers. "I don't really know Tickler. Why he should talk about me I haven't the slightest idea."

Surefoot Smith looked into his hat.

"Do you know Mr. Hervey Lyne?" he asked.

"Yes, he's a client of ours."

"Have you seen him lately?"

A pause, and then:

"No, I haven't seen him for two years."

"Oh!" said Surefoot Smith.

He said "Oh!" because he could think of nothing else to say.

"Well, I'll be getting along. Sorry to bother you, but you know what we are at the Yard."

He offered his huge hand to the banker, but Mr. Moran was so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not see it.

After Moran had closed the door upon his visitor he walked slowly back to his room and sat down on the edge of the bed. He sat there for a long time before he got up, walked across the room to a wall safe hidden behind a picture, opened it and took out a number of documents, which he examined very carefully. He put these back, and, groping, found a flat leather case which was packed with strangely coloured documents. They were train and steamship tickets; his passport lay handy, and, fastened in his passport by a thick rubber band, twenty banknotes for a hundred pounds.

He locked the safe again, replaced the picture, and went on with his dressing. He was more than a little perturbed. That casual reference to Hervey Lyne had shaken him.