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

Chapter Fifteen

HE STARED AT the entry for a long time.

 

‘Can I put through a call to his bank in Birmingham?’ he asked.

 

In a few minutes he was connected. The Birmingham bank manager confirmed

all that he already knew. He did not know Mr Washington Wirth, though he

had seen him once in his hotel. Apparently, when Mr Wirth opened his

account, he was suffering from some complaint which confined him to bed

and made it necessary that the blinds should be drawn. The manager’s

chief clerk who interviewed him had taken his signature, and that was the

last that had been seen of him. He had an arrangement by which he could

draw cash against cheques at three other branches of the bank, one at the

London office, one at Bristol and a third, which had never been used, at

Sheffield. He invariably notified the Birmingham branch by telegram that

he was drawing money twenty hours before the cheque was presented; and

although huge sums passed through his account he had very little to his

credit at that moment.

 

Surefoot Smith sent a detective to Birmingham with a number of specimen

signatures, and instructions to bring back Wirth’s.

 

Whoever was the giver of these midnight parties was certainly the man to

whom large sums of money had been paid out of Hervey Lyne’s

account—possibly his murderer. He called Dick and, finding him working

at his new model, told him as much as he thought was necessary of his

discoveries.

 

‘You’re his next of kin and I suppose you ought to know,’ he said.

 

Dick was staggered when he learned the amount of money that was missing.

‘You haven’t overlooked the possibility of Mr Wirth being Hervey Lyne

himself, have you?’

 

‘I’ve thought of that,’ said Surefoot. ‘The fact that he couldn’t move

without an invalid chair means nothing; that’s one of the oldest fakes in

the world. The cheques were undoubtedly signed by him. I’ve seen the last

one; in fact, I’ve got it here.’

 

He took it from his pocket. Turning it over, he saw what he had not

noticed before—a scrawling pencil mark on the back.

 

The mark was faint; it had evidently been written by one of those patent

pencils which occasionally function and occasionally do not. Even so, an

attempt had been made, which was partially successful, to rub off the

inscription. With the aid of a magnifying glass the detective examined

the writing and presently deciphered it.

 

‘Don’t send any more Chinese e….’ Evidently the writing had wandered

off the back of the cheque on to the blotting-paper where the old man

wrote. ‘Now what the devil does that mean?’ asked Smith irritably.

‘There’s no doubt about it being his writing. What does “Chinese” mean?

And who took the trouble to rub it off?’

 

He scratched his head in exasperation. ‘I ought to have asked the clerk

if he’d got any Chinese bonds.’

 

Dick lunched with Mary Lane and passed on to her all that the detective

had told him. He was telling her about the cheque with the inscription on

the back when he heard an exclamation, and looked at her in amazement.

Her eyes and mouth were wide open; she was staring at him.

 

‘Oh!’ she said.

 

Dick smiled. ‘Do you know anything about Chinese bonds?’

 

She shook her head. ‘Tell me all over again, and tell me slowly, because

I’m not particularly clever.’

 

He repeated the story about the faked account and the big cheques that

had obviously been drawn to the credit of Mr Washington Wirth. Whenever

she could not understand she pressed him for explanations, which he was

not always able to give. When he had finished she sighed and leaned back

in her chair. Her eyes were bright.

 

‘You look terribly mysterious.’

 

She nodded. ‘I am mysterious.’

 

‘Do you think you know who killed that unfortunate old man?’

 

She nodded slowly. ‘Yes; I wouldn’t dare name him, but I really do think

I have what the police call a clue. You see, I lived in Hervey Lyne’s

house when I was a little girl, and there are some things I’ve never

forgotten.’

 

‘I’ll tell Surefoot—’ he began.

 

‘No, no.’ She was very insistent. ‘Dick, you mustn’t. If you make me look

foolish I’ll never forgive you. My theory is probably utterly silly. I’ll

make a few inquiries before I even hint at it.’

 

‘In fact, you’re going to be a detective, darling,’ said Dick. ‘By the

way, poor old Lyne’s will has been discovered. I’m his heir. The will is

full of restrictions. For example, if I marry anybody outside my own

nationality and religion I lose something, and if I reside out of England

I lose something, and if I don’t give his dog a good home I lose

something more—his dog has been dead sixteen years, by the way—but,

generally speaking, he’s very generous and gives me about forty thousand

pounds free of death duty—’

 

‘Really!’

 

She was staggered at the old man’s munificence; genuinely relieved, too,

that in a moment of caprice he had not carried out the threat to

disinherit his unpopular nephew.

 

Surefoot Smith did not know that the will had been found until he got

back to his office and, calling up Dick to congratulate him that

afternoon, was annoyed to find that his news was old. ‘As you’re an

interested party you’d better come down to the Yard right away. I’ve the

bank accountant here and he’s got something to say that will interest

you.’

 

Dick arrived to find the accountant looking rather bored in his shabby

surroundings. Evidently the office arrangements at Scotland Yard did not

impress him. He certainly shifted frequently in the hard-seated kitchen

chair which had been placed at his disposal. On Surefoot’s table were a

number of typewritten sheets of paper.

 

‘This is the point,’ said Smith impressively, pushing the sheets for Dick

to see them. ‘This gentleman, Mr—’

 

‘Smith,’ said the accountant.

 

‘That’s very awkward,’ said Surefoot gravely. ‘Have you got any other

name, such as Huxley or Montefiore?’

 

‘Just Smith,’ smiled the accountant.

 

‘Very awkward indeed,’ said Surefoot. ‘Most Smiths adopt another name.

This is his name,’ he went on to explain. ‘Our friend here’ (he

studiously avoided calling his brother Smith by that name, and never

afterwards did he employ it to describe the accountant) ‘says that the

statement that was sent to Miss Lane was not typed at the bank or on any

bank typewriter. He proved this conclusively from my point of view by

giving me specimens from all the typewriters used at the bank. A very

good bit of detective work, though I don’t see that it carries us much

further forward because if, as we believe, Moran has been bilking these

funds, he probably typed the statements at home. The blanks or forms are

not difficult to get?’

 

The accountant shook his head.

 

‘Oh no; they are printed by hundreds of thousands—’

 

‘Could anybody outside the bank secure them?’

 

The accountant thought it was possible.

 

‘It comes to this, then,’ said Surefoot, ‘that you’re satisfied this

statement was not typewritten in your bank?’

 

‘Or by any bank machine,’ said the accountant. ‘Every branch office uses

a’—he mentioned the name of an American make of machine—‘and always the

same type face is used, the same colour ribbon, the same carbons. The

ribbon here is purple; we invariably use black. I didn’t realize that

till I made inquiries. The type face is entirely different.’

 

He suggested the make of machine on which the statement had been written,

and this afterwards proved to be correct.

 

Surefoot could not remember having seen a typewriter at Moran’s flat.

After the accountant had gone, he accompanied Dick to Parkview Terrace

and made a more careful search.

 

They found a portable typewriter, though it was unusable.

 

Remembering the flat in Baynes Mews, Smith was not greatly depressed by

his failure to discover the machine. It was possible, and even likely,

that if Moran was the tenant of Baynes Mews, he would also have other

places of call. In London there might be two or three flats engaged in

false names (that in Baynes Mews had been engaged in the name of

Whiteley), which Moran used for his own purpose—supposing it was Moran.

 

‘Have you any doubts?’ said Dick.

 

‘I’m full of doubts,’ said Surefoot. ‘Some of ‘em may be set at rest when

I find Jerry Dornford. You remember, after we left Naylors Crescent and

were going over to see the old man, Dornford passed in a car that was

raising a noise like hell? And do you remember he slowed down just about

opposite the place where the old man was sitting?’

 

‘Well?’ said Dick, when he paused.

 

‘Well,’ said the other, indignant at his denseness, ‘didn’t