Chapter EIGHTEEN

Leo Moran! It was no news to Surefoot Smith that this man was interested in the stock, apart from the shares he had acquired from Mary. There was a little touch of trickiness about Moran; that was his reputation both in the bank and amongst his friends. From what Surefoot had gathered, and from his own knowledge of the man, he was capable of quixotic and generous actions, but, generally speaking, carried shrewdness a little beyond the line of fairness. Murderer he might be; forger, as Surefoot believed, he certainly was. The constant of his character was an immense self-interest. He was a bachelor, had no family attachments and few interests besides his shooting and the theatre.

This was a supreme gamble, then--Cassari Oils. Before Surefoot Smith left the stockbroker's office he discovered that Moran was, at any rate on paper, a millionaire. On one point he was puzzled: though Moran had bought steadily, and his operations had covered the years of defalcations, he had spent no very large sum, certainly only a small percentage of the moneys he was making. The man probably had other speculative interests, but these for the moment were impossible to trace.

Mr. Smith went home to his rooms off the Haymarket, and was surprised to find a visitor waiting for him on the landing.

"I haven't been here two minutes," said Mary. "I got on to your secretary at Scotland Yard and he told me that you might be at your flat."

He unlocked the door and ushered her into his untidy sitting-room.

"Well, have you found anything?"

She shook her head and smiled ruefully.

"Only my limitations, I am afraid," she said, and sat down in the chair he pulled forward for her.

"You're giving it up, eh?"

She hesitated.

"No."

It required an effort of will to say "no," for she had awakened that morning with an intense sense of mental discomfort and a realisation of the difficulties which beset her. She had been half inclined to send a penitent note enclosing the key to Surefoot, but confidence--not much, but some--had come to her with breakfast, and she had decided upon this, what was to her, a bold move.

"I realise what I have undertaken," she confessed. "Being a detective is not an easy job, is it? Especially when you don't know things."

Surefoot smiled.

"The art of being a detective is to know nothing," he said oracularly. "What do you know? If you know anything less than I do, you haven't heard of the murder. On the other hand, it is possible you may know a great deal more."

"You are being sarcastic."

He shook his head.

"I don't know the word, Miss Lane. What is it you want to know?"

She consulted a little notebook she took from her pocket.

"Can you give me a list of all the big cheques that were cashed and the dates? I particularly want to know the dates. If my theory is correct, they are made out on the seventeenth of the month."

Surefoot sat back in his chair and stared at her.

"That is a bit scientific," he said, a little resentfully, and she laughed.

"No, it is horribly like a mystery story. But, seriously, I do want to know."

He pulled the telephone towards him and called a number.

"Funnily enough, that is a bit of information I had never thought of getting," he said.

She felt he was a little nettled that he had been remiss in this respect, and she was secretly amused.

"But then, you see, Miss Lane," he went on, "if I had been at the Yard I would probably get it for you--hullo!"

He had got through to the bank. It took some time before the accountant, with whom he eventually got in touch, was able to supply him with the dates.

The cheques were made out on the 17th of April, the 17th of February, the 17th of December, the 17th of May in the previous year--Surefoot jotted down a dozen of them. Hanging up the receiver, he pushed the paper across to the girl.

"I thought so!" Her eyes were very bright. "Every one of them on the seventeenth!"

"Marvellous!" said Surefoot. "Now will you tell me what that means?"

She nodded.

"I will tell you in a week's time. I am going to do a lot of private investigation. There is one thing I wanted to speak about, Mr. Smith." Her voice was troubled. "I don't know whether I am imagining things, but I have an idea that I am being very carefully watched. I am sure a man was following me yesterday. I lost sight of him in Oxford Street; I was looking in a shop window in Regent Street and saw him again. Rather an unpleasant-looking man with a fair moustache."

Surefoot Smith smiled.

"That is Detective Sergeant Mason. I don't think he is much of a good looker myself."

"A detective?" she gasped.

Surefoot nodded.

"Naturally, my dear young lady, I am taking great care of you. You might as well know that you are being shadowed, not because you are under suspicion, but because for the moment you are under our protection."

She heaved a sigh.

"You don't know how relieved I am. It was rather getting on my nerves. As a matter of fact, I don't think I should have come to see you at all but for this."

"What about the seventeenth?" asked Surefoot. "Don't you think it would be wise for you to tell me what your suspicions are about?"

She shook her head.

"I am being mysterious and rather weak," she said.

Her mystery certainly irritated Dick Allenby, who could never be sure of finding her at home. He had a talk with Surefoot and sought his help.

"She will be running into all sorts of danger," Dick complained. "This man obviously will stop at nothing. He may still think that she has got the bank statement."

"Have you seen the young lady at all?"

Surefoot opened another bottle of beer dexterously. He was sitting on a bench in Dick's workroom.

"Yes, I have seen her. She wants me to lend her Binny."

"Lend her Binny?" repeated the detective. "What does that mean?"

"Well, he is in my employ now. She says she wants enquiries made about a former servant of Mr. Lyne's who is living in Newcastle under an assumed name. She wants Binny to go and identify the woman. I saw Binny about it, and he remembers her. She left soon after he arrived. She was a fairly old woman. Apparently she had a dissolute son who was a pretty bad character. Binny doesn't remember him, but Mary does. The old lady, who must be nearly ninety, is living in the north, and Mary wants him to go up to make sure that she hasn't made a mistake."

Surefoot Smith looked at him glumly.

"She told me nothing about it. Binny's your servant now? I suppose you own the house. What are you going to do with it?"

"Sell it," said Dick promptly. "In fact, I've already had an offer."

There was a knock at the door; the caretaker came in with a telegram for Dick. Surefoot saw him open it, watched him idly, and saw his jaw drop as he read it. Without a word he passed the wire across to Smith. It had been handed in at Sunningdale, and ran:

"Re patent air-gun reported stolen from you. Machine answering
description circulated has been found at Toyne Copse lying at the
bottom of a hole beneath body of a man believed to be G. Dornford,
of Half Moon Street. Please report immediately Sunningdale police
station to identify property."