Chapter TWENTY-THREE

The police chief looked at Surefoot in amazement.

"Binny? You mean Lyne's servant?" asked the senior.

"That's what I mean," said Surefoot calmly.

He dived into the inside of his pocket, took out a flat envelope, and produced from this the transcript of the long cable and a blurred photograph.

"This came over the wire," he explained. "It's a picture of the man--London Len was one of his names--who is wanted by the police of New York and Chicago. He worked with three gangs and was lucky to get away with his life. Listen to this."

He put pince-nez on his broad nose and read from one of the cables.

"This man speaks with a very common English accent. He is believed
to have been a valet, and his modus operandi is to obtain a
situation with a wealthy family and to use the opportunity for
extensive robberies. On the side he has worked with several booze
rackets, is known to be concerned in the killing of Eddie McGean,
and is suspected of other killings."

He twisted the photograph round so that the inspectors could see it.

"It's not pretty. It was taken at police headquarters in New York. If you don't know Binny, I'll tell you that is the bird! Even his best friend would recognise him."

Chief Inspector Knowles examined the photograph and whistled softly.

"I know him. I saw him the day you had him up at the Yard, questioning him. Why should he kill the old boy?"

"Because he's been forging his name. It was Miss Lane who put us on to the track, though I was a dummy not to see it myself. All these forgeries were committed on the seventeenth of the month, and she knew, having lived with the old man, that that was the date he paid all his tradesmen's bills. He was in the habit of writing messages on the back of his cheques, mainly of an insulting nature. The one we deciphered said: 'No more Chinese e----.' Miss Lane knew that the old man lived under the impression that tradesmen spent their lives swindling him. It was his belief that nothing but Chinese or imported eggs were sent to him. To keep his egg and butter man up to the scratch, he used to make a note on the back of the cheque when he paid his bill. That was his practice with all tradesmen--Miss Lane has seen most of them: bootmakers, tailors, provision merchants of all kinds. And do you know what they told her?"

Surefoot leaned forward over the table and spoke slowly, tapping his finger on the desk to emphasise each word.

"They told her that two or three years ago Lyne stopped paying by cheque--and paid cash! Binny either used to go round and settle, or send the money by postal order. Do you know what that means? It means that Lyne was going blind, and that the cheques he was signing for the tradesmen were cheques going into Binny's private account. What made it easier for Binny--which is his real name, by the way--was that the old man would never admit that his sight was failing, and in his vanity claimed that he could read as well as the next man. It was easy for Binny, on the seventeenth of the month, to put cheques before his master and pretend they were in settlement of tradesmen's bills, when in reality they were filled in with pencil for the correct amount. I've seen some of them, and under the microscope you can see the pencil marks and the original amounts for which they were drawn. It was easy to rub them out after the signature had been obtained, and to fill them in for the amount Binny happened to require at the time.

"He must have got wind that these investigations were going on, for he went after Miss Lane, and she saved herself by pretending she thought it was Moran. It was that which probably saved her life. When Binny heard her shout out of the window that Moran was trying to break into her room, he thought he'd leave well alone, and quitted. If he'd had any intelligence, he would have known that all her enquiries incriminated, not Moran, but him! But that's the way of 'em--if criminals had any sense they'd never be hanged."

The Chief Inspector pushed the photograph back across the table.

"Where was the murder committed--the murder of Lyne, I mean?"

Surefoot shook his head.

"That's the one thing that puzzles me. It is possible, of course, that he did the shooting just at the moment Dornford's car passed. The 'confession' that he prepared to throw the crime on to Moran--he was a mug to say so many nice things about Binny--almost suggests that this is the case. All the other crimes in this document were committed by Binny in the way he described."

He went back to the hotel to see Moran. There were other aspects of the case which needed elucidation.

Mike Hennessey's death puzzled him. If the manager was blackmailing Binny, there was motive enough. But what could Mike Hennessey know, except that the servant of the day was the magnificent Washington Wirth by night? And why should he blackmail the man who was providing him with a generous income?

There was a very special reason for killing Hennessey: of that he was sure.

Before he left the Yard Surefoot tightened the cords of the net about the man he wanted. Binny had not been seen since the night Mary Lane sent him to Newcastle on a fictitious errand so that she could try the key of the pantry door of Hervey Lyne's house.

The illuminated key was a mystery no longer. Sometimes "Mr. Washington Wirth" came back from these little parties of his a little exhilarated. It was necessary that he should change his clothes in the room above the garage, and once or twice, in changing them, he had left his key behind. Possibly he was a methodical man and was in the habit of putting the key on the table. Its phosphorescent quality was added so that, even if he switched off the light, he would not forget this necessary method of gaining admission to Lyne's house.

On the night of Tickler's murder he had forgotten the key and was compelled to break a window to get into the scullery--this had been Mary's theory. She had recognised the key; as a child she had seen it every day. She had sent Binny to the north to give herself the opportunity of testing out her theory. She had nearly lost her life in doing so, for Binny was no fool: he had left the carriage and gone back ahead of her to his lair.

The detective found Leo Moran conscious, but a very unhappy man, for the after-effects of gas poisoning are not pleasant. All that he told Surefoot confirmed what that intelligent officer had already discovered from a perusal of his private correspondence.

Surefoot showed him the "confession," and read portions of it to the astonished man.

"Murder!" said Moran scornfully. "What rubbish! Who has been murdered?"

When Surefoot told him:

"Hervey Lyne? Good God! How perfectly dreadful! When did this happen?"

"The day you went away," said Surefoot.

Moran frowned.

"But I saw him the day I went away, from my window. He was sitting under the tree in the park--when I say 'the tree' I mean the tree he always used as shade. I've seen him there dozens of times. Binny was reading to him."

"What time was this?" asked Surefoot quickly.

Moran thought for a while, then gave an approximate hour.

"That must have been ten minutes before he was found dead. It was too far away for you to see whether he was talking?"

Moran nodded.

"When I saw him, Binny was reading to him."

Here was unexpected evidence. Moran was probably the only man who had watched that little group in Hervey Lyne's last moments.

"Where was he sitting--Binny, I mean?"

"Where he usually sat," said Leo Moran instantly. "Facing the old man, practically on a level with his feet. I was watching them for some time."

"Did you see Binny walk round to the back of the chair?"

The other hesitated.

"Yes, he did--I remember now. He walked right round the chair. I remember being reminded of how gamblers walk round a chair for luck."

"You saw nothing else--heard nothing?"

Moran stared at him.

"Do you suspect Binny?"

Surefoot nodded.

"It isn't a case of suspicion, it's a case of certainty."

Again the sick man taxed his memory.

"I am almost sure I am right in saying that he went round the chair. I didn't hear anything--you mean a shot? No, I did not hear that, nor did I see Binny behaving suspiciously."

Surefoot skimmed through the "confession" again.

"Do you know Binny?"

"Slightly. He was my servant; I dismissed him for stealing. I lost a number of little trinkets."

Smith put his hand in his pocket and took out the silver cigarette case that had been found under the cushion of the car in which Mike Hennessey had ridden to his death.

The banker stretched out his hand eagerly.

"Good Lord, yes! I wouldn't have lost that for a fortune. It's one of the things that were missing. How did you get it?"

In the man's present condition Surefoot decided it was not the moment to tell of the other horror which had been fastened upon him.

"I thought it might be," he said, pocketing the case. "It was obviously an old one and not the kind of case you would use, and certainly not the kind you would put where I found it. It had been polished up for the occasion, too."

"What was the occasion?" asked Moran curiously, but the detective evaded the question.

Moran spoke quite frankly of his own movements.

"I was a fool to go off so hurriedly," he confessed, "but I was rather piqued with my directors, who had refused me leave. It was very vital I should be in Constantinople whilst the board of the Cassari Company was being reconstructed. I have very heavy interests in that country, which is now one of the richest oil companies in the world. And, by the way, Miss Lane is a rich lady; the shares I bought from her could not be transferred to me under the Turkish law without yet another signature. Legally I have the right to that; morally I haven't; so the stock she transferred, I am transferring back at the price I paid. Which means that she has more money than she can spend in her lifetime." He smiled. "And so have I, for the matter of that," he added.

There was nothing more to be gained from Moran, and Smith left him to sleep off his intolerable headache. Scotland Yard had 'phoned that Dick Allenby was on his way back from Paris by aeroplane. He reached Croydon at dawn and found a police car waiting to take him to Regent's Park.

As the car drove into Naylors Crescent he saw Surefoot Smith and three plain clothes officers waiting outside the house.

"Sorry to bring you back, but it is necessary that I should make another search of this house, and it is very advisable you should be present."

"Did you find Moran?" asked Dick impatiently. "You got my telephone message----"

Surefoot nodded.

"Did he tell you anything about Binny?"

"Binny's told me quite a lot about himself," said Surefoot grimly. "I haven't interviewed the gentleman, but he left a very illuminating document."

Dick opened the door of the house and they went in. Although it had only been unoccupied for a very short time, it smelt of emptiness and neglect. Hervey Lyne's study had been tidied up after the detective's search. Every corner had been examined, the very floorboards and hearthstone lifted by the police in their vain effort to find a clue. It was unlikely that this apartment would yield any fresh evidence.

They went into the kitchen, where Mary Lane had her unpleasant adventure. Smith had visited the place an hour or two after Mary's escape, had passed through the cupboard door down a flight of steps to the coal cellar. The truckle bed he had found there on his first visit had been removed.

"The queerest thing about Binny is his wife," said Surefoot. "Why he should attach himself, or allow himself to be attached, to this poor drunkard is beyond my understanding. He must have smuggled her away the night Miss Lane came here, and where she is at the moment I'd rather not enquire."

Dick had already expressed his opinion on this matter. He thought it was probable that the woman was not Binny's wife at all. Hervey Lyne invariably advertised for a man and wife. To gain admission to the establishment Binny would not have been above hiring a woman to suit his purpose. This theory was rather supported by the fact that "Mrs. Binny" occupied a small, separate room. That she could have been a source of menace to the murderer was unlikely. The evidence of tradesmen had been that she was invariably in a state of fuddle, and that the cooking was done by Binny himself.