Mary Lane looked at the plain gold watch on her wrist and gasped.
"Four o'clock, my dear!"
There were still twenty couples on the dancing floor of the Legation
Club. It was a gala night, and they kept late hours at the Legation on
these occasions.
"Sorry you've had such a tiring evening."
Dick Allenby didn't look sorry; he certainly did not look tired. There
were no shadows under the laughing grey eyes, the tanned face was
unlined. Yet he had not seen his bed for twenty-four hours.
"Anyway, you rescued me," he said as he called a waiter. "Think of it! I
was alone until you came. When I said Moran had been and gone I was
lying. The devil didn't turn up. Jerry Dornford tried to edge in on the
party--he's still hoping."
He glanced across to a table on the other side of the room where the
immaculately dressed Jerry sat.
"I hardly know him," she said.
Dick smiled.
"He wants to know you better--but he is distinctly a person not to know.
Jerry has been out all the night--went away just before supper and has
only just come back. Your other party was dull, was it? Funny devil,
this man Wirth. It was cheek of Mike Hennessey to invite you there."
"Mike is rather a dear," she protested.
"Mike is a crook--a pleasant crook, but a crook. Whilst he is at large
it is disgraceful that there is anybody else in prison!"
They passed out into the street, and as they stood waiting for a cab
Dick Allenby saw a familiar figure.
"Why, Mr. Smith, you're out late!"
"Early," said Surefoot Smith. He lifted his hat to the girl. "Evening,
Miss Lane. Shockin' habit, night clubs."
"I'm full of bad habits," she smiled.
Here was another man she liked. Chief Inspector Smith of Scotland Yard
was liked by many people and heartily disliked by many more.
The cab drew up. She refused Dick's escort any further and drove off.
"Nice young lady that," said Surefoot. "Actresses don't mean anything to
me--I've just come from Marlborough Street, where I've been chargin'
three of 'em--at least, they called themselves actresses."
"A little raid?"
"A mere nothing," said Surefoot sadly. "I expected to find kings and
only pulled in prawns."
"Pawns," suggested Dick.
"Small fish, anyway," said Surefoot.
That he was called "Surefoot" was no testimony to his gifts as a sleuth.
It was his baptismal name. His father had been a bookmaking publican,
and a month before his child was born the late Mr. Smith, obsessed with
the conviction that Surefoot, the Derby favourite, would not win, had
laid that horse to win himself a fortune. If Surefoot had won, the late
Mr. Smith would have been a ruined man. Surefoot lost, and in gratitude
he had named his infant child after the equine unfortunate.
"I nearly came up to your workshop the other day and had a squint at
that gun of yours--air-gun, ain't it?"
"A sort of one," said Dick. "Who told you about it?"
"That feller Dornford. _He's_ a bad egg! I can't understand it--your
gun. Dornford said you put in a cartridge and fire it, and that charges
the gun."
"It compresses the air--yes."
Dick Allenby was not in the mood to discuss inventions.
"You ought to sell it to Chicago," said Mr. Smith, and made a clicking
noise with his lips. "Chicago! Six murders a week and nobody pinched!"
Dick laughed. He had only returned from Chicago a month before and he
knew something of the problems that the police had to face.
"These ride murders," Surefoot went on. "I mean takin' fellers out into
the country in a car and shootin' 'em. Would it be possible here? No!"
"I'm not so sure." Dick shook his head. "Anyway, it is nearly half-past
four and I'm not going to talk crime with you. Come up to my flat and
we'll have a drink."
Surefoot Smith hesitated.
"All right; there's no sleep for me tonight. There's a cab."
The cab stood in the middle of the road near an island.
Smith whistled.
"Driver's gone away, sir." It was the club link-man who offered the
information. "I tried to get it for the lady."
"He's asleep inside," said Smith, and walked across the road, Dick
following.
Surefoot peered through the closed window of the cab, but saw nothing.
"He's not there," he said, and looked again.
Then he turned the handle and pulled open the door. Somebody was
there--somebody lying on the floor, with his legs on the seat.
"Drunk!" said Smith.
He flashed his lamp on the figure. The face was visible, yet
indistinguishable, for he had been shot through the head at close
quarters; but Smith saw enough to recognise something which had once
been Mr. Horace Tom Tickler and was now just a dead, mangled thing.
"Taken for a ride!" gasped Surefoot. "Good God! What's this--Chicago?"