Chapter THIRTEEN

The ambulance had come and gone. Four men sat in the dead man's study. Binny was one; the other, besides Surefoot Smith and Dick Allenby, was the divisional inspector.

Smith turned to the grey-faced servant.

"Tell us just what happened, my boy," he said.

Binny shook his head.

"I don't know ... awful, ain't it, him going like that...."

"Were there any visitors?"

Binny shook his head again.

"Nobody, so far as I know."

"Where was he at one o'clock?"

"In this room, sir, in the chair where you're sitting," said Binny. "He was writing something--put his hand over it when I came in. I didn't see what it was."

"It was probably a letter to Miss Lane," said the detective. "Does he often write notes?"

Binny shook his head.

"When he does write them do you deliver them?"

Binny shook his head again.

"No, sir, not always. Poor Mr. Lyne was very suspicious. His sight wasn't very good and he'd got an idea that people was listening at the door or reading his letters. He'd call anybody off the street to take a note when he sent one, which wasn't often."

"What visitors has he had lately?"

"Mr. Dornford came last night, sir. There was a bit of a quarrel--over money, I think."

"A bad quarrel?" asked Smith.

Binny nodded.

"He asked me to throw him out--Mr. Lyne did."

Surefoot jotted down a note.

"And who else?"

Binny looked serious.

"Mr. Moran came two days ago."

"That's right, sir. Mr. Moran came to see him about banking business, and Miss Lane came--I think that's the lot. We don't often have people call."

Again Smith scribbled something. He employed a weird kind of shorthand, which was indecipherable to Dick, who, from where he sat, had a view of the notes.

"Tell us what happened today. Do you usually go out in the afternoon?"

"Yes, sir, but at lunch-time Mr. Lyne said he wouldn't go out. In fact, he told me not to bother about the chair, that he was expecting some visitors at three o'clock. About two o'clock he changed his mind and said he'd go out. I pulled him into the park gardens and sat down and read a case to him----"

"Do you mean a police court case?"

"That's right, sir. He likes reading about moneylenders' actions against people who owe them something. There was a case this morning----"

"Oh, you mean a Law Courts case--any kind of case, in fact?"

Binny nodded.

"Did he say anything in the park?"

"Nothing at all, sir, of any consequence. He'd been sitting there a quarter of an hour and he asked me to turn up the collar of his coat; he was feeling a draught. I sat down and read to him until I thought he was asleep."

"You heard no sound?"

He thought a moment.

"Yes, there was a bit of a noise, from a car that went past."

For a moment both Smith and Dick had forgotten Gerald Dornford's car, and they exchanged a glance.

"You heard nothing like a shot?"

Binny shook his head.

"Nothing more than the motor-car noise," he said.

"Did Mr. Lyne speak at all--groan, move?"

"No, sir."

Surefoot settled his elbows on the table.

"This is the question I want to ask you, Binny: How long before we found Mr. Lyne was dead did you hear him speak?"

Binny considered.

"About ten minutes, sir," he said. "A park keeper came along and said good-afternoon to him, and, when he didn't answer, I thought he was asleep. That's when I stopped reading."

"Now show me the house," said Smith, rising.

Binny led the way, first to the kitchen, from which opened a bedroom.

His wife was away in the country, living with relations, he told Surefoot, but that made little difference to Lyne's comfort, for Binny did most of the work.

"To tell you the truth, sir, my wife drinks," he said apologetically, "and I'm glad to have her out of the house."

The kitchen was none too tidy. Surefoot Smith saw something on the floor, stooped and picked up a triangular piece of glass from under the table beneath the window. He looked up at the window, felt the puttied edge.

"Had a window broken in?"

Binny hesitated.

"Mr. Lyne didn't want to say anything about it. Somebody broke the glass and opened the window a couple of nights ago."

"A burglar?"

"Mr. Lyne thought it was somebody trying to get in. I didn't send for the police, because he wouldn't let me," he hastened to exculpate himself.

They went upstairs to the front room. There was only one large room on each floor, though both could be divided into two by folding doors. The top room had been Lyne's bedroom, but presented no particular features. A divisional inspector and two of his men would conduct a leisurely search through the possessions and papers of the dead man--Surefoot had taken the keys from the old man's pocket. He had already made a casual inspection of the safe without discovering anything of moment.

They came back to the study. Surefoot Smith stood for a long time, staring out of the window, drumming his fingers on the leather-covered top of the desk. When he spoke it was half to himself.

"There's an American going back to New York tomorrow who might tell us something. I've a good mind to bring him down to a consultation."

"Who's that?" asked Dick curiously.

"John Kelly--he's chief of the detective force in Chicago. He might give us an angle, and then again he mightn't. It's worth trying."

He looked at his watch.

"I wonder if there's any news of Moran--I'm going to look at his flat. I suppose there'll be a servant there?"

"If there isn't," said Dick, "I can help you. He told me he was going away and that he intended sending me the key, so that I could forward any letters that arrived. If you don't mind I'll walk round with you."

The housekeeper of the flat gave a surprising piece of information. Mr. Moran had left only an hour before.

"Are you sure?" asked Dick incredulously. "Didn't he leave this morning?"

The man was very emphatic.

"No, sir, he's been out all the morning, but he didn't actually leave till about half-past three. You're Mr. Allenby, aren't you?" He addressed Dick. "I've got a letter to post for you."

He went to his little office, came out, opened the post-box and took out a stamped envelope which contained a few lines, evidently written in a hurry, and the key of the flat.

"I'm just off. Those brutes have turned me down."

"Who are the brutes?" asked Surefoot.

Dick smiled.

"I presume he's referring to his directors. He told me he was going on his holiday whether they agreed or not."

When they entered the flat there was evidence of Moran's hurried departure. They found, for example, a waistcoat hanging from the edge of the bed, in which was his watch and chain, a gold cigarette case, and about ten pounds in cash. He had evidently changed his clothes quickly and had forgotten to empty his pockets. Another peculiar fact, which both Surefoot and Dick remarked, was that the window overlooking the park had been left open.

"Do you notice anything?" asked Surefoot.

Dick nodded, and a little chill went down his spine. From where he stood, by the open window, he commanded a view, not only of the private gardens, but of the actual spot where old Hervey Lyne had been killed.

Surefoot searched the floor near the window but found nothing. He passed into Moran's elegant bedroom and made a rapid search. Pulling out the wardrobe door, something fell out. He had time to catch it before it reached the floor. It was a Lee-Enfield rifle; a second lay flat on the wardrobe floor, and, near it, half a dozen long black cylinders.

Surefoot snapped open the breech and smelt. He had taken the rifle to the window; he placed the block upon the sill and squinted down the barrel. If it had been recently fired then it must have been recently cleaned, for there was no sign of fouling. He tested the other rifle in the same way; and then he took up one of the cylinders.

"What are those?" he said.

Dick looked at them carefully.

"They're silencers," he said. "But Moran is very much interested in rifle shooting, especially in any new brand of silencer. He has consulted me once or twice, and has frequently urged me to take up the making of silencers. You mustn't forget, Smith, that Mr. Moran is an enthusiastic rifleman. In fact, he's been runner-up for the King's Prize at Bisley, and shooting was about his only recreation."

"And a pretty good recreation too," said Smith dryly.

He searched the wardrobe and the drawers for cartridges, but could find none. The magazines of both rifles were empty. There was no sign of a discharged shell anywhere in the flat.

Smith went back to the window and judged the distance which separated the room from the place of the killing.

"Less than two hundred yards," he suggested, and Dick Allenby agreed.

Moran had not taken his servant. Surefoot got his address from the housekeeper and wired him to report at once.

"You'd better go along and see the young lady. She's probably having hysterics by now----"

"It's hardly likely," said Dick coldly, "but I'll see her. Where are you going?"

Surefoot smiled mysteriously; though why he should make a mystery of the most obvious move, it was hard to say.