Chapter TWELVE

Mary Lane's party was a very dull one. She was one of ten young people, and young people can be very boring. Three of the girls had a giggling secret, and throughout the meal made esoteric references to some happening which none but they understood. The young men were vapid and vacuous, after their kind. She was glad to get away on the excuse of a matinée.

Mary lived in a large block of flats in the Marylebone Road. These three small rooms and a kitchenette were home and independence to her. She seldom received visitors, rarely men visitors, and never in any circumstances invited a guest so late at night. She was staggered when the lift-man told her that "a gentleman had just gone up to her flat."

"No, miss, I've never seen him before. It wasn't Mr. Allenby, but he says he knows you."

He opened the door of the lift and walked along the corridor with her. To her amazement she saw Leo Moran, who had evidently rung the bell of the flat several times, and was returning to the elevator when they met.

"It is unpardonable of me to come so late, Miss Lane, but when I explain to you that it's rather a vital matter I'm sure you will not be angry with me. Your maid is asleep."

Mary smiled.

"I haven't a maid," she said.

The situation was a little embarrassing: she could hardly ask him into the flat; still less did she find it possible to suggest that the lift-man should be her chaperon. She compromised by asking him in and leaving the front door open.

Moran was nervous; his voice, when he spoke, was husky; the hand that took a large envelope from his inside pocket was unsteady.

"I wouldn't have bothered you at all, but I had rather a disconcerting letter when I got home, from--an agent of mine."

She knew Moran, though she had never regarded him as a friend, and felt a sense of resentment every time he had come unbidden to her dressing-room. Since she received her allowance from old Hervey, she had it also through the bank of which Leo Moran was manager.

"I'll be perfectly frank with you, Miss Lane," he said, speaking quickly and nervously. "It's a matter entirely personal to myself, in the sense that I am personally responsible. The one man who could get me out of my trouble is the one man I do not wish to approach--your guardian, Mr. Hervey Lyne."

To say she was astonished is to put it mildly. She had always regarded Moran as a man so perfectly self-possessed that nothing could break through his reserve, and here he was, fidgeting and stammering like a schoolboy.

"If I can help you of course I will," she said, wondering what was coming next.

"It concerns some shares which I purchased on behalf of a client of the bank. Mr. Lyne signed the transfer, but the other people--that is to say, the people to whom the shares were transferred--have just discovered that it is necessary also that your name shall be on the transfer, as they originally were part of the stocks left in trust to you. I might say," he went on quickly, "that the price of this stock is exactly the same, or practically the same, as it was when it was taken over."

"My name--is that all you want? I thought at least it was something valuable," she laughed.

He put the paper on the table; it was indubitably a stock transfer; she had seen such documents before. He indicated where her name should be signed, and she noticed above it the scrawl of old Lyne.

"Well, that's done."

There was no mistaking his relief.

"You'll think I'm an awful brute to come at this hour of the night. I can't tell you how grateful I am. It simply meant that I had paid out money of the bank's without the necessary authorisation. Also, if old Mr. Lyne died tomorrow, this transfer would be practically valueless."

She made a little grimace.

"Is he likely to die tomorrow?"

He shook his head.

"I don't know; he's a pretty old man."

Abruptly he held out his hand.

"Good-night, and thank you again."

She closed the door on him, went back to her kitchenette to make herself a cup of chocolate before she went to bed, and sat for a long time at the kitchen table, sipping the hot decoction, and trying to discover something sinister in his midnight visitation. Herein she failed. If Hervey Lyne died tomorrow? By his agitation and hurry one might imagine that the old man was in extremis. Yet, the last time she had seen old Hervey, he was very much in possession of his faculties.

She was at breakfast the following morning when Dick Allenby called her up and told her of his loss. She listened incredulously, and thought he was joking until he told her of the visit of Surefoot Smith.

"My dear--how terrible!" she said.

"Surefoot thought it was providential. Moran thought nothing."

"Was he there?" she asked quickly.

"Yes--why?"

She hesitated. Moran had so evidently wished his visit to her to be a private matter that it seemed like betraying him.

"Oh, nothing," she said. And then, as an after-thought: "Come round and tell me all about it."

He was there in half an hour, singularly unemotional and cheerful, she thought.

"It really isn't as dramatically important as it sounds," he said. "If it has been stolen, as Surefoot thinks it has, with the idea of pinching the patent, the buyer will be shrewd enough to make a search of the registrations at the various Patent Offices. I had an acknowledgment from Germany this morning that it has been entered there."

He was interrupted by a knock at the outer door and she opened it to admit a second visitor. It was not usual, she explained apologetically to Dick, that she should receive guests so early, but Mike Hennessey had telephoned, asking whether he might come.

The first thing she noticed when Mike came into the room was his embarrassment at finding Dick Allenby there. A genial soul was Mike, big-faced, heavy-featured, sleepy-eyed, constitutionally lazy and lethargic in his movements. He was never a healthy-looking individual, but now he looked positively ill, and she remarked upon the fact. Mike shook his head.

"Had a bad night," he said. "Good-morning, Mr. Allenby--don't go: I've nothing private; only I wanted to see this young lady about our play. It's coming off."

"Thank Heaven for that!" said Mary gratefully. "It's the best news I've had for months."

"It's about the worst I've had," he grumbled.

"Has Mr. Wirth withdrawn his support?"

It was nearer the truth than she guessed. Mr. Wirth's weekly cheque, which had been due on the previous day, had not arrived, and Mike was taking no chances.

"The notice goes up tonight that we finish on Saturday," he said. "I've had the luck to let the theatre--I wish I'd taken a better offer that I had last week."

He was even more nervous than Moran had been; could not keep his hands still or his body either. He got up from the chair, walked to the window, came back and sat down, only to rise again a few moments later.

"Who is this old fellow Wirth? What's his job?" asked Dick.

"I don't know. He's in some sort of business at Coventry," said Mike. "I thought of running up there today to see him. The point is this"--he came to that point bluntly--"tomorrow night's Treasury, and I haven't enough money in the bank to pay the artistes. I may get it today, in which case there's no fuss. You're the heaviest salary in the cast, Mary: will you trust me till next week if things go wrong?"

She was staggered at the suggestion. In the case of other productions Mike's solvency had always been a matter of the gravest doubt, but _Cliffs of Fate_ had been under more distinguished patronage, and the general impression was that, whatever else happened, the money for its continuance would come in.

"Of course I will, Mike," she said; "but surely Mr. Wirth hasn't----"

"Gone broke? No, I shouldn't think so. He's a queer man," said Mike vaguely.

He did not particularise his patron's queerness, but was satisfied to leave it at that. His departure was almost as abrupt a gesture as any he had performed.

"There's a pretty sick man," said Dick.

"Do you mean he's ill?"

"Mentally. Something's upset him. I should imagine that the failure of old Wirth's cheque was quite sufficient; but there's something else besides."

He rose.

"Come and lunch," he invited, but she shook her head.

She was lunching at home; her matinée excuse at the overnight party had been on the spur of the moment. She wondered how many would remember it against her.

Dick went on to Scotland Yard, and had to wait half an hour before Surefoot Smith returned. He had no news of any importance. A description of the stolen gun had been circulated.

"But that won't help you very much. It's hardly likely to be pawned or offered for sale in the Caledonian Market," said Surefoot. And then, abruptly: "Do you know Mr. Washington Wirth?"

"I've heard of him."

"Have you ever met him? Great party giver, isn't he?"

Dick smiled.

"He's never given me a party, but I believe he is rather keen on that sort of amusement."

Surefoot nodded.

"I've just been up to the Kellner Hotel. They know nothing about him except that he always pays in cash. He's been using the hotel for three years; orders a suite whenever he feels inclined, leaves the supper and the band to the head waiter; but that's the only thing they know about him--that his money is good money, which is all they want to know, I suppose."

"Are you interested in him?" asked Dick, and told the story of Mike Hennessey's agitation.

Surefoot Smith was interested.

"He's got a bank, has he? Well, he may be one of those Midland people. I've never understood what makes the corn and coal merchants go in for theatricals. It's a form of insanity that's been pretty common since the war."

"Mike will tell you all about it," suggested Allenby.

Mr. Smith's lips curled.

"Mike'll tell us a whole lot," he said sarcastically. "That fellow wouldn't tell you his right hand had four fingers, for fear you brought it up in evidence against him. I know Mike!"

"At any rate, he's got a line on Wirth," said Dick. "He's been financing this play."

Since he could find nobody to lunch with, he decided to take that meal at Snell's, which had all the values of a good club except that there were one or two members who were personally objectionable to him. And the most poisonous were the first two he saw at the entrance of the dining-room. Gerald Dornford and Jules had their little table in the window. Jules favoured him with a nod, but Jerry kept his eyes steadily averted as Dick passed.

They had, in point of fact, only just sat down when Allenby had arrived, and in his furtive way Jules had been avoiding the one subject which his companion wished to discuss. He spoke of the people who were passing in the street, recognising every important motor-car that passed; he talked of the military conference which was in session just then, of the party to which he had been the night before, of anything but----

"Now what about this gun?" said Jerry.

"The gun?"

Jules looked at him blankly, then leaned back in his chair and chuckled.

"What a good thing you came today! I wanted to see you. That little project of mine must be abandoned."

"What do you mean?" gasped Jerry, turning pale.

"I mean that my principals, or rather the principals of my principals, have decided not to go any farther in the matter. You see, we've discovered that all the salient points of the gun have been protected by patents, especially in those countries where the invention could be best exploited."

Jerry looked at him, dumbfounded.

"Do you mean to say that you don't want it?"

Jules nodded.

"I mean to say that there's no need for you to take any unnecessary risks. Now let us discuss some other way of raising the money----"

"Discuss be damned!" said Jerry savagely. "I've got the gun--I took it last night!"

Jules stroked his smooth chin and looked at his companion thoughtfully.

"That's awkward," he said. "You took it from the workshop, did you? Well, you can hardly put it back. I advise you to drive somewhere out of London and dump it in a deep pond. Or, better still, try the river, somewhere between Temple Lock and Hambleden."

"Do you mean to tell me"--Jerry's husky voice was almost hoarse--"that I've taken this risk for nothing? What is the idea?"

Jules shrugged.

"I'm sorry. My principals----"

"Damn your principals! You gave me a specific promise that if I got the thing you'd give me a couple of thousand."

Jules smiled.

"And now, my dear fellow, I give you a specific assurance that I cannot get two thousand shillings for the gun! It is unfortunate. If you had procured the invention when I first suggested it, the matter would have been all over--and paid for. Now it is too late."

He leaned over and patted the other gently on the arm as though he were a child.

"There is no sense in being foolish about this matter," he said. "Let us find some other way of raising the wind, eh?"

Jerry Dornford was crushed. He knew Hervey Lyne sufficiently well to realise that, had he produced the two thousand pounds, the old man would have grabbed at the money and given him the extra time he had asked. Hervey could never resist the argument of cash.

He could have grabbed the smiling little cad opposite him and thrown him out of the window. There was murder in his glance when he looked into the round, brown eyes of his companion. But Jerry Dornford never forgot he was a gentleman, and as such was expected to exercise the self-control which is the peculiar and popular attribute of the well-bred man.

"Well, it can't be helped," he said. "Order me a drink; I'm a bit rattled."

Jules played an invisible piano on the edge of the table.

"Our friend Allenby is at the third table on the right. Would it not be a good idea," he suggested, "to go over and say: 'What a little joke I played on you, eh?'"

"Don't be a fool," interrupted Jerry roughly. "He called me up last night and asked me if I had it. He's put the matter in the hands of the police. I had a visit from Smith this morning."

"So!" Jules pursed his red lips. "That is a pity. Here is your drink."

They sat for a long time over their coffee, saw Dick Allenby leave the club and cross to the opposite side of St. James's Street.

"Clever fellow, that," said Jules, almost with enthusiasm. "He doesn't like me. I forget the name he called me the last time we had a little discussion, but it was terribly offensive. But I like him. I am fond of clever people; there is nothing so amusing as cleverness."

Dick had hardly left the club before a telephone message come through for him, and this he missed. It was Mary Lane, and at that moment she needed Dick's advice very badly. She called his flat again; he had not returned. She tried a third club, where he sometimes called in the afternoon, but again was unsuccessful.

She had been writing out the small cheques which her housekeeping necessitated, when the strange message had arrived. It came in the hands of a grubby little boy, who carried an envelope which was covered with uncleanly finger-marks.

"An old gentleman told me to bring it here," he said in his shrill Cockney.

An old gentleman? She looked at the super-scription; her name and address were scrawled untidily, and although she had not seen Hervey Lyne's handwriting, she knew, or rather guessed, that it was he who had sent the letter.

The boy explained that he had been delivering a parcel at No. 19, and had seen the old gentleman leaning on his stick in the doorway. He wore his dressing-gown and had the letter in his hand. He had called the boy, given him half a crown (that must have been a wrench for Hervey), and ordered him to deliver the letter at once.

She tore it open. It was written on the back of a ruled sheet of paper covered with typewritten figures, and the writing was in pencil.

"Bring Moran to me without fail at three o'clock this afternoon. I
saw him two days ago, but I'm not satisfied. Bring police officer."

Here was written, above, a word which she deciphered as "Smith."

"Do not let Moran or anybody know about P.O. This is very urgent."

The note was signed "H. L."

The little boy could give her no other information. She would have called up Mr. Lyne's house, but the old man had an insuperable objection to the telephone and had never had one installed. She looked at her watch; it was after two, and for ten minutes she was making a frantic effort to get in touch with Dick.

Surefoot Smith she hardly knew well enough to consult, and she had a woman's distaste for approaching the police direct. She called up Mr. Moran's bank; he had gone home. She tried his club, with no better success. Moran had left his flat that morning, announcing that he had no intention of returning for two or three weeks. He had gone on leave. Curiously enough, the bank did not tell her that: they merely said that Mr. Moran had gone home early--a completely inaccurate piece of information, she discovered when the first man, who was evidently a clerk, was interrupted and a more authoritative voice spoke:

"This is the chief accountant speaking, Miss Lane. You were asking about Mr. Moran? He has not been to the bank today."

"He's gone on leave, hasn't he?"

"I'm not aware of the fact. I know he has applied for leave, but I don't think he's gone--in fact, I'm certain. I opened all the letters this morning."

She hung up the telephone, bewildered, and was sitting at the window, cogitating on what else she should do, when to her joy the telephone rang. It was Dick, who had returned to Snell's Club to collect some letters he had forgotten, and had been told of her call.

"That's very odd," was his comment when he heard about the note. "I'll try to get Smith. The best thing you can do, angel, is to meet me outside Baker Street Tube Station in a quarter of an hour. I'll try to land Smith at the same moment."

She got to the station a little before three, and had to wait for ten minutes before a taxicab dashed up and Dick jumped out. She saw the bulky figure of Mr. Smith in one corner of the cab, and, getting in, sat by him. Dick gave instructions to the taxi driver and seated himself opposite.

"This is all very mysterious, isn't it?" he said. "Let me see the letter."

She showed it to him, and he turned it over.

"Hullo, this is a bank statement." He whistled. "Phew! What figures! The old boy's certainly let the cat out of the bag."

She had paid no attention to the typewritten statement on the back.

"Over two hundred thousand in cash and umpteen hundred thousand in securities. What is the idea--I mean, of sending this note? I suppose you couldn't find Moran?"

She shook her head.

Smith was examining the letter carefully.

"Is he blind?" he asked.

"Very nearly," said Dick. "He doesn't admit it, but he can't see well enough to distinguish you from me. That's his writing--I had a rude letter from him one day last week. Did you find Moran?"

Mary shook her head.

"Nobody seems to know where he is. He hasn't been to the bank today, and he's not at his flat."

Surefoot folded the letter and handed it back to the girl.

"It looks as if he doesn't want to see me yet awhile, and not at all if we don't bring Moran," he said.

They drove into Naylors Crescent, and it was agreed that Surefoot should sit outside in the cab whilst they interviewed the old man. But repeated knockings brought no answer. The houses in Naylors Crescent stand behind deep little areas, and out of one of these next door a head appeared.

"There's nobody in," he said. "Mr. Lyne has gone out in his chair about an hour ago."

"Where did he go?" asked Dick.

The servant could not say; but Mary was better informed.

"They always go to the same place--into the private gardens of the park," she said. "It's only a few minutes' walk."

The cab was no longer necessary; Dick paid it off. They were about to cross the road when a big, open touring car swept past, and Dick had a momentary glimpse of the man at the wheel. It was Jerry Dornford. The car was old and noisy; there was a succession of backfires as it passed. It slowed down a little at one point, then, gathering speed, disappeared from view.

"Any policeman doing his duty will pinch that fellow under the Noises Act," said Smith.

Presently they came in sight of the chair. Binny was sitting on his little collapsible stool, a paper spread open on his knees, a pair of gold-rimmed glasses perched on his thick nose. The gate into the gardens was locked and it was some time before Dick attracted the servant's attention. Presently Binny looked up, and, ambling forward, unlocked the gate and admitted them.

"I think he's asleep, sir," he said, "and that's a bit awkward. If I start wheeling him when he's asleep, and he wakes up, he gives me hell! And he's got to be home by three."

Old Hervey Lyne sat, his chin on his breast, his blue-tinted glasses firmly fixed on the high bridge of his nose. His gloved hands were clasped on the rug which was tucked about his legs, Binny folded his paper, put it in his pocket, folded his stool and hung it on a little hook on the bath-chair.

"Do you think you'd better wake him up?"

Mary went nearer.

"Mr. Lyne," she said.

She called again, but there was no answer.

Surefoot Smith, who was standing at some distance, came nearer. He walked round the back of the chair, came to the front, and, leaning over, pulled open the old man's coat. He closed it again; then, to Mary's amazement, Surefoot Smith caught her gently by the arm.

"I think you'd better run away for about an hour, and I'll come and see you at your flat," he said.

His voice was unusually gentle.

She looked at him, and the colour went out of her face.

"Is he dead?" she breathed.

Surefoot Smith nodded; almost impelled her towards the gate. When she was out of hearing:

"He's been shot through the back. I saw the hole in the cape as I came round. Look!" He opened the coat.

Dick saw something that was not pleasant to see.