Chapter TWENTY-SIX

Dick Allenby and Mary were lunching at the Carlton, and they were talking about things which ordinarily would have absorbed her.

"You are not listening," he accused her, and she started.

"Wasn't I?" She was very penitent. "Darling, I was thinking of something else. Isn't that a terrible confession? I don't suppose any other girl ever listened to a proposal of marriage with her mind on a nasty old kitchen in an unpleasant little house."

He laughed.

"If you could bring that mind of yours from the drab realities to the idyllic possibilities, I should be a very happy man." And then, curiously: "You mean Hervey Lyne's house? What's worrying you?"

"The kitchen," she said promptly. "There was something there, Dick--I can't think what it was--something I missed, and it is worrying me. I have a dim recollection that the poor old man told me he was having the kitchen rebuilt. I remember him saying what a wonderful fellow Binny was, because he was superintending the operations and saving him a lot of money." She fingered her chin. "There was a dresser," she said thoughtfully. "Of course, that's gone. And a horrid little sink of brown earthen-ware, and----"

She stopped suddenly and stared at him, wide-eyed.

"The larder!" she gasped. "Of course, that's what it was! There was a larder and a door in the wall leading to it. What has happened to the larder?"

He shook his head helplessly.

"I haven't been terribly interested in larders," he began, but she arrested his flippancy.

"Don't you remember Mr. Smith said as we were leaving the house that he was sure Binny had a hiding place somewhere? I am sure that's it--on the right hand side as you go in."

Dick Allenby laughed.

"On the right hand side as you go into the kitchen there is a solid brick wall," he said, but she shook her head.

"I am sure there is something behind it. I remember now, when I went into the courtyard to try the key I noticed that there had been no change in the exterior. There must be a space there. Dick, Providence is with us."

She was looking towards the entrance. Surefoot Smith was there, very disconsolate. He caught her eye and nodded. Obviously she was not the person he wanted to see, for he continued his scrutiny of the room. She caught his eye again and beckoned him. He came forward reluctantly.

"You haven't seen the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, have you? I'm lunching with him--he is paying for it. He said half-past one." He looked at his watch. "It is nearly two. We've pinched Binny's wife by the way; one of our men picked her up on the Outer Circle, but she's got nothing to say."

"I've found the hiding place!" Mary blurted the news and Surefoot Smith became instantly alert.

"Binny's?" he asked quickly. "In the house you mean?"

She told him breathlessly of her theory. He slapped his knee.

"You're right, of course--the vacuum pump. I wondered what he used it for. If there was a door--and it was an easy job to make a door on glazed brick--he could not have had handles, could he? The only way he could get it open would be by sticking the vacuum on the surface of the brick to give him a grip. I have got the pump at the Yard, and the Commissioner can wait."

He went out of the room, and half an hour later Hervey Lyne's little house was surrounded. Surefoot came into the hall, pistol in hand, went quickly into the kitchen and examined the white wall. There was no sign of a door. He fastened the vacuum to the smooth surface and pulled, but, to his chagrin, nothing happened. The strength of two detectives failed to move the door. He moved the position of the pump from time to time, and at the fifth attempt he was rewarded. The slightest pull drew a brick from the wall. It ran on a steel guide, and dropped over in front, leaving an oblong aperture which was hollow.

He put his hand inside and felt a steel handle, which he turned and pulled. The door swung open and he was in Binny's hiding place. The disordered heap of clothes on the floor, the shaving mirror thrown down on the bed, told their own tale. There was greater significance, however, in the saucer he found in the sink. It was still yellow with the annatto colouring which Binny had used.

Surefoot Smith looked at it for a long time, and then:

"I think there is going to be serious trouble," he said.

Surefoot Smith hurriedly turned over the clothes and articles which had been emptied from the suitcase, but he found nothing to give him the slightest clue to Binny's intentions. One thing was certain: he had been in his biding place and had heard all that had happened that morning. Surefoot had the door shut and himself listened to conversation in the kitchen, and although he could not catch every word he was satisfied that Binny had heard enough.

The annatto in the saucer was a very slight and possibly useless clue. It told him to look for a yellow-faced man, and this might or might not be a useful guide to the searchers.

The fugitive had left nothing else behind. Surefoot searched diligently, crawling over the floor with his eyes glued to the tiled flooring for some sign of crepe hair. He expected this stage-mad murderer to have attempted some sort of theatrical disguise, but his search failed to reveal anything that left a hint as to what that disguise might be.

The only piece of incriminating evidence which Binny had left behind was the sealed magazine of an automatic pistol, and, since this could not have been overlooked, the detective surmised that the magazine had been left because the man was carrying as many as he conveniently could.

Another discovery, which, at an earlier stage, would have been invaluable, was a soiled white glove, obviously the fellow of that which Surefoot had found in Mr. Washington Wirth's changing room.

"You never know," said Surefoot as he handed over the glove to his subordinate. "Juries go mad sometimes, and a little thing like that might convince 'em--keep it."

The larder had evidently been used as a sleeping room. Although the bed was on the floor, and the apartment itself was bare, Binny had often found this a convenient retreat. Very little daylight came through the small window near the ceiling, and apparently he kept that closed most of the time; it was covered with a square of oilcloth.

Before he left Surefoot tried the experiment of having the clothes packed in the suitcase. He found, as he had expected, that there was only sufficient to fill one. He was satisfied, too, that some of the clothes he had found had been recently changed by Binny, and the conclusion he reached was that one of the suitcases had contained the disguise which the murderer wore when he left the house.

He sent his men on missions of enquiry up and down the street, but nobody had seen Binny leave--he had chosen the hour well. Later he widened the circle of enquiry, but again was unsuccessful.

He found Mary Lane and her fiancé waiting patiently in the palm court of the Carlton, and reported his discoveries.

"If only I'd thought of it before!" she said ruefully.

Surefoot Smith's smile was not altogether unpleasant.

"Either you or I or all of us would have been dead," he said grimly. "That bird carries a young arsenal, and your bad memory probably saved us a whole lot of unpleasantness."

"Do you think he was there?"

He nodded.

"There's no doubt about it."

"He'll get away, then?" asked Dick.

Surefoot rubbed his chin irritably.

"I wonder if that would be a good thing or a bad thing?" he said. "He may try to leave today--all the ports are being watched, and every single passenger will be under inspection. The only person who can pass on and out to a ship leaving this coast tonight is a baby in arms--and we search even him!"

He drew his chair closer to the table and leaned across, lowering his voice.

"Young lady," he said, and he was very serious, "you know what rats do when they're in a corner--they bite! If this man can't get out of England by walking out or shooting himself out, he's coming back to the cause of all his trouble. I'm one, but you're another. Do you know where I should like to put you?"

She shook her head, for the moment incapable of speech. She was shocked, frightened a little, if she had confessed it. Binny was on her nerves, more than she would admit. She felt her heart beating a little faster, and when she spoke she was oddly breathless.

"Do you really think that?" And then, forcing a smile: "Where would you put me?"

"In Holloway Prison." He was not joking. "It's the safest place in London for an unmarried woman who's living around in hotels and flats; and if I could find an excuse for putting you there for seven days I would."

"You're not serious?" said Dick, troubled.

Surefoot nodded.

"I was never more serious in my life. He may get out of the country; I don't think it's possible that he will. If Miss Lane had not remembered the larder I should not take the precautions I am taking tonight. The doors out of England are locked and barred, unless he's got an ocean-going motor-boat somewhere on the East Coast, and I have an idea that he hasn't."

Then, abruptly:

"Where are you staying tonight?"

Mary shook her head.

"I don't know. I think at the hotel----"

"You can't stay there." He was emphatic. "I know a place where you could stay. It wouldn't have the conveniences of an hotel, but you'd have a decent bed and security." There was a new police station in the north-west of London, which had married quarters above it, and one of these was occupied by a woman whose husband, a detective sergeant, had gone to Canada to bring back a fugitive from justice.

"I know this woman; she's a decent sort, and she'll give you a bed, if you wouldn't mind sleeping there."

She agreed very meekly. Indeed, she had a sense of relief that he had found such a simple solution.

Surefoot Smith had a queer sixth sense of danger. He had been concerned in many murder cases, had dealt with scores of desperate men who would not have hesitated to kill him if they had had the opportunity. He had known cunning men and a few clever criminals, but Binny was an unusual type. Here was a killer with no regard for human life. Murder to him was not a desperate expedient--it was part of a normal method.

There was a long conference at Scotland Yard and new and urgent telegrams were sent to all parts of the country insisting upon the dangerous character of the wanted man. Ordinarily the English police do not carry firearms, but in this case, as the messages warned a score of placid chief constables, it would be an act of suicide to accost the wanted man unless the police officer whose duty it was to arrest him was prepared to shoot.

Scotland Yard has a record of all projected sailings, and neither from Liverpool nor Greenock was there any kind of boat due to leave in the next thirty-six hours.

Binny's avenue of escape must be the Continent. Strong detachments of C.I.D. men were sent to reinforce the watchers at Harwich, Southampton, and the two Channel ports. And yet, when these preparations were completed, Surefoot Smith had a vague feeling of uneasiness and futility. Binny was in London, and he was too clever a man even to think of leaving, unless he was ignorant that his hiding place had been discovered. There was no reason why he should not be. It was hardly likely that he had a confederate.

At five o'clock Surefoot made an exasperating discovery: he was strolling in Whitehall when he saw a newspaper placard: "WANTED MURDERER'S SECRET HIDING PLACE." He bought a paper and saw, conspicuously displayed on the front page, a long paragraph headed: "Secret Chamber in Hervey Lyne's House." Surefoot swore softly and read on:

"This afternoon Inspector Smith of Scotland Yard, accompanied by a
number of detectives, made a further search of the house of Hervey
Lyne--the victim of the Regent's Park murder. The police remained on
the premises for some time. It is understood that in the course of
their investigations a little room, which they had previously
overlooked, was discovered and entered, and unmistakable evidence
secured that this secret chamber had been used as a hiding place by
the servant Binny, for whom the police have been searching...."

Surefoot Smith read no further. It was a waste of time wondering who had given away the information to the Press. Possibly some young detective who had been engaged in the search and who was anxious to pass on this sensational discovery. To bring home this indiscretion was a matter that could be left till later. In the meantime Binny knew if he were to read the newspapers.

Oddly enough, Binny did not see the paragraph, and had already made up his mind as to the course he would pursue.

At eight o'clock that night Surefoot called at Mary Lane's hotel and escorted her to the plain but very comfortable lodgings he had secured for her.

He had a talk with the inspector on duty, but asked for no guard. She was safe. Binny would be a bold man to show himself abroad, and he certainly would not walk into a police station.

At half-past nine that night Surefoot returned to Scotland Yard and read the reports which had come in. The boat train from Liverpool Street had been carefully combed. There was no sign of Binny or anybody who might have been Binny. Every passport had been examined before the train pulled out and, as an act of precaution, the railway platform had been cleared of friends who had gathered to see off the passengers before the officer in charge had given the station master the "All right."

A similar course was being followed at Waterloo, where the police were watching and searching the trains for Havre. It was too early to hear from the sea ports.

Binny was an expert chauffeur. It was hardly likely that he would get out of London by train if he intended leaving London.