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

Chapter Twenty-One

LEO MORAN!

 

It was impossible to do anything. The train was gathering speed and its

next stop was Dover. Surefoot must be told. He might get through by

telephone to London, but doubted if he had the time without missing the

boat. Fortunately, when he arrived at Dover Harbour Station and came to

the barrier where passports are examined, he recognized a Scotland Yard

man who was scrutinizing the departing passengers. To him he explained

the urgency of the matter.

 

‘He didn’t come through this port,’ said the detective, shaking his head.

‘The train you saw was the one connecting with the Boulogne-Folkestone

route. I’ll get through to Mr Smith at once. I’ve had a very full

description of Mr Moran for a long time, and so have the officers at

Folkestone—I can’t understand how they missed him.’

 

Smith was not in his office when the call came through, but it was

relayed to him almost immediately. Officers were sent to meet the train,

but on its arrival there was no sign of Moran.

 

Surefoot afterwards learned that it had been held up at South Bromley

Station, and that a man had alighted and given up his ticket, carrying

his own baggage, which consisted of a light suitcase, to a station taxi.

 

He had evidently acted on the impulse of the moment, for when, late that

night, the taxi-driver was interviewed, it was learned that Moran had

been driven to another station within a few miles of Bromley, and had

gone on to London by train.

 

A call at his flat produced no result. The porter had not seen him.

Surefoot put a phone call through to Paris and spoke to Dick. ‘You’ve got

the keys of this man’s flat, haven’t you?’

 

‘Good Lord! Yes, I’d forgotten them. They’re in my work-room. See the

housekeeper. You will find them…’

 

Smith was less anxious to find the keys than to establish the fact that

Leo Moran had not returned. He would naturally call at Dick’s place to

retrieve the keys, and with this idea in his mind Smith put Dick

Allenby’s apartments under observation. But Moran did not come near.

Either he knew that he was being sought and had reason for keeping out of

the way, or he had some other establishment in London about which the

police knew nothing.

 

The second inquiry which Surefoot Smith conducted was even more

profitless. At the moment, however, he concentrated upon Moran. The

register of every hotel in London was carefully scrutinized.

 

Mary Lane knew nothing about the discovery, and when Surefoot Smith saw

her that evening he made no reference at all to the man Dick Allenby had

seen. He made it a practice to call once or twice a day for, although he

was satisfied that there was no immediate danger to the girl, and that

every reason for menacing her had disappeared now that the murderer of

Hervey Lyne was identified, he took no chances. Men who killed as

ruthlessly as ‘Mr Washington Wirth’ were capable of deeper villainies.

 

Mary’s hotel was an old-fashioned block set in the heart of the West End

and in one of the most pleasant backwaters. It furnishings were

Victorian, its equipment a little primitive. As a reluctant concession to

modern progress its ancient proprietor had installed gas fires in its

bedrooms—it had been the last hotel in London to adopt electricity for

lighting.

 

The servants were old and slow; its proprietor still regarded the

telephone as an unwarranted intrusion upon his privacy. There was one

instrument and that part of the office equipment.

 

It had its advantages, as Mary found. It was quiet; one could sleep at

night. Strange guests rarely came; most of its patrons were part of the

great shifting family that had made a habit of the hotel for years and

years. Her room was pleasant and bright; it was on the street, and had

the advantage of a narrow balcony which ran the full length of the

building—a theoretical advantage perhaps, for nothing happened in that

quiet street which made a balcony desirable.

 

Mr Smith called the next evening, and was unlucky. If he had been a few

minutes earlier he would have followed a sturdy figure that mounted the

broad stairs and stood patiently whilst the hotel porter unlocked the

next door to Mary’s bedroom, before ushering Mr Leo Moran into the room

he had engaged.

 

He had not signed himself Leo Moran in the hotel register, but he had

good and sufficient reason for the omission. He was plain Mr John Moore

from Birmingham.

 

He ordered a light meal to be sent up to him, and when that had come and

had been cleared away he locked the door of his room, opened a brief case

and, taking out a number of documents and a writing pad, became

immediately absorbed in the task he had set himself.

 

There was nothing flimsy about this hotel; the walls were thick;

otherwise, he might have heard Surefoot Smith offering astounding

theories concerning a certain fugitive from justice.

 

Surefoot’s visit was not a very long one and, following her practice, the

girl read for an hour. Her nerves were calmer; she had got over the shock

of that ghastly night. She had asked Surefoot to allow her to go back to

her flat.

 

‘I’ll give you another week here,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I may be

wrong, but I have an idea I can liquidate this business in that time.’

 

‘But now that I’ve recognized him, and the police have circulated his

name and description there’s no reason why he should do me any harm,’ she

protested.’ I’m perfectly sure that it was not revenge but

self-preservation—’

 

‘You can’t be sure of anything where that bird is concerned,’ interrupted

Smith. ‘You’ve got to allow for the fact that he’s a little mad.’

 

‘Is he the man the American detective spoke about?’ she asked curiously.

 

Surefoot Smith nodded. ‘Yes, he’s been over there for a few years, and he

was associated with some pretty bad gangs. The curious thing is that,

even in those days, the stage had a fascination for him. He used to give

hectic parties to theatrical people, and even appeared on the stage

himself, though he wasn’t a very great success. Out of his loot he

financed a couple of road companies—it’s the same man all right.’

 

Mary was getting weary of the restrictions imposed on her; resented the

early-to-bed rule which the doctor had prescribed. She lay in bed, very

wakeful, heard ten and eleven strike and was no nearer to sleep than she

had been when she lay down.

 

Some time before midnight she fell into a doze, for she did not remember

hearing twelve o’clock strike. She must have been lying, half asleep,

half awake, for an hour, when something roused her to complete

wakefulness. She shivered and pulled the clothes over her shoulders, and

at that instant became wide awake.

 

The french window, which she had lightly fastened, was wide open; a

draught of chill air swept through the room, the door of which was half

open. She had locked it from the inside—she remembered that