The bank was closed, and Mr. Moran had gone home, when Surefoot Smith
called to make his enquiry.
Surefoot knew almost everybody who had any importance in London. Indeed,
quite a number of people would have had a shock if they had known how
very completely informed he was about their private lives. It is true
that almost every man and woman in any civilised community has, to
himself or herself, a criminal history. They may have broken no laws,
yet there is guilt on their conscience; and it is a knowledge of this
psychology which is of such invaluable aid to investigating detectives.
The nearest way to Parkview Terrace led him across the open end of
Naylors Crescent. Glancing down, he saw a man coming towards him and
stopped. Binny he knew to be an inveterate gossip, a great collector of
stories and scandals, most of which were ill-founded. At the back of his
mind, however, he associated Mr. Lyne's serving man with the banker.
Years before, Surefoot Smith had been in control of this division, and
his memory was extraordinarily good.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Smith."
Binny tipped his wide-brimmed bowler hat, and then, after a moment's
hesitation:
"May I be so bold to ask, sir, if there is any news?"
"You told me you knew this man Tickler?"
Binny shook his head.
"An acquaintance. He was my predecessor----"
"I'd have that word framed," said Surefoot Smith testily. "You mean he
was the fellow who had your job before, don't you?" And, when Binny
nodded: "Then why didn't you say so? Didn't you work for Moran?"
Binny smiled.
"I've worked for almost every kind of gentleman," he said. "I was Lord
Frenley's valet----"
"I don't want your family history, Binny," said Surefoot Smith. "What
sort of man is Moran? Nice fellow--generous, eh? Free spender?"
Binny considered the matter as though his life depended upon his answer.
"He was a very nice gentleman. I was only with him for six months," he
said. "He lives just round the corner, overlooking the park. In fact,
you can see his flat from the gardens."
"A quiet sort of man?" asked Surefoot.
"I never heard him make much noise----" began Binny.
"When I say 'quiet,'" explained Surefoot Smith with a pained
expression, "I mean, does he gad about? Women, wine, and song--you know
the kind of thing I mean. I suppose your mother told you something when
you were young?"
"I don't remember my mother," said Binny. "No, sir, I can't say that Mr.
Moran was a gadder. He used to have little parties--ladies and gentlemen
from the theatre--but he gave that up after he lost his money."
Surefoot's eyes narrowed.
"Lost his money? He's a bank manager, isn't he? Had he any money to
lose?"
"It was his own money, sir." Binny was shocked and hastened to correct a
wrong impression. "That was why I left him. He had some shares in a
bank--not his own bank but another one--and it went bust. I mean to
say----"
"Don't try to interpret 'bust' to me. I know the word," said Surefoot.
"Gave little theatrical parties like that fellow What's-his-name?
Drinking and all that sort of thing?"
Binny could not help him. He was looking left and right anxiously, as
though seeking a means of escape.
"In a hurry?" asked the detective.
"The big picture comes on in ten minutes; I don't want to miss it. It's
Mary Pickford in----"
"Oh, her!" said Surefoot, and dismissed the world's sweetheart with a
wave of his hand. "Now what about this man Tickler? Did he ever work for
Moran?"
Binny considered this and shook his head.
"No, sir, I think he was working for Mr. Lyne when I was with Mr. Moran,
but I'm not certain." And then, as a thought struck him: "He's on the
wireless tonight."
Surefoot was staggered.
"Who?"
"Mr. Moran. He's talking on economics or something. He often talks on
banking and things like that--he's a regular lecturer."
Surefoot Smith was not very much interested in lecturers. He asked a few
more questions about the unfortunate Tickler and went on his way.
Parkview Terrace was a noble block of buildings which had suffered the
indignity in post-war days, as so many other buildings have suffered, of
being converted into apartments. Mr. Moran lived on the top flat, and he
was at home, his servant told Surefoot when he came to the door. In
point of fact he was dressing for dinner. Smith was shown into a large
and handsome sitting-room, furnished expensively and with some taste.
There were two windows which commanded a view of Regent's Park and the
Canal, but it was the luxury of the appointments which arrested
Surefoot's interest.
He knew the financial position of the average branch manager; could tell
to within a few pounds just what their salaries were; and it was rather
a shock to find even a twelve hundred a year manager living in an
apartment which must have absorbed at least four hundred, and displaying
evidence of wealth which men in his position have rarely the opportunity
of acquiring.
A Persian carpet covered the floor; the electric fittings had the
appearance of silver, and were certainly of the more exquisite kind that
are not to be duplicated in a department store. There was a big Knolle
couch ("Cost a hundred," Smith noted mentally); in an illuminated glass
case were a number of beautiful miniatures, and in another, rare
ornaments of jade, some of which must have been worth a considerable
sum.
Surefoot knew nothing about pictures, but he was satisfied that more
than one of those on the wall were genuine Old Masters.
He was examining the cabinet when he heard a step behind him and turned
to meet the owner of the flat. Mr. Leo Moran was half-dressed and wore a
silk dressing-gown over his shirt and white waistcoat.
"Hullo, Smith! We don't often see you. Sit down and have a drink." He
rang the bell. "Beer, isn't it?"
"Beer it is," said Surefoot heartily. "Nice place you've got here, Mr.
Moran."
"Not bad," said the other carelessly. He pointed to a picture. "That's a
genuine Corot. My father paid three hundred pounds for it, and it's
probably worth three thousand today."
"Your father was well off, was he, Mr. Moran?"
Moran looked at him quickly.
"He had money. Why do you ask? You don't imagine I could have furnished
a flat like this on a thousand a year, do you?" His eyes twinkled. "Or
has it occurred to you that this is part of my illicit gains--moneys
pinched from the bank?"
"I hope," said Surefoot Smith solemnly, "that such a thought never
entered into my head."
"Beer," said Mr. Leo Moran, addressing the servant who had appeared in
the doorway. "You've come about something, haven't you? What is it?"
Surefoot pursed his lips thoughtfully.
"I'm making enquiries about this man Tickler----"
"The fellow who was murdered. Do I know him, you mean? Of course I know
him! The fellow was a pest. I never went from this house without finding
him on the kerb outside, wanting to tell me something or sell me
something--I have never discovered which."
He had a rapid method of speaking. His voice was not what Smith would
have described as a gentleman's. Indeed, Leo Moran was very much of the
people. His life had been an adventurous one. He had sailed before the
mast, he had worked at a brass founder's in the Midlands, been in a
dozen kinds of employment before he eventually drifted into banking. A
rough diamond, with now and again a rough voice; more often, however, a
suave one, for he had the poise and presence which authority and wealth
bring. Now and again his voice grew harsh, almost common, and in moments
he became very much a man of the people. It was in that tone he asked:
"Do you suppose I killed him?"
Surefoot smiled; whether at the absurdity of the question or the
appearance of a large bottle of beer and a tumbler, which were carried
in at that moment, Moran was undecided.
"You know Miss Lane, don't you?"
"Slightly." Moran's tone was cold.
"Nice girl--here's luck." Surefoot raised his glass and swallowed its
contents at a gulp. "Good beer, almost pre-war. Lord! I remember the
time when you could get the best ale in the world for fourpence a
quart."
He sighed heavily, and tried to squeeze a little more out of the bottle,
but failed.
Moran touched the bell again.
"Why do you ask me about Miss Lane?"
"I knew you were interested in theatricals--there's your servant."
"Another bottle of beer for Mr. Smith," said Moran without turning his
head. "What do you mean by theatricals?"
"You used to give parties, didn't you, once upon a time?"
The banker nodded.
"Years ago, in my salad days. Why?"
"I was just wondering," said Smith vaguely.
His host strode up and down the floor, his hands thrust into the silken
pockets of his gown.
"What the devil did you come here for, Smith? You're not the sort of man
to go barging round making stupid enquiries. Are you connecting me with
this absurd murder--the murder of a cheap little gutter rat I scarcely
know by sight?"
Surefoot shook his head.
"Is it likely?" he murmured.
Then the beer came, and Moran's fit of annoyance seemed to pass.
"Well, the least you can do is to tell me the strength of it--or aren't
you enquiring about the murder at all? Come along, my dear fellow, don't
be mysterious!"
Mr. Smith wiped his moustache, got up slowly from the chair and
adjusted his horrible pink tie before an old Venetian mirror.
"I'll tell you the strength of it, man to man," he said. "We had an
anonymous letter. That was easy to trace. It was sent by Tickler's
landlady, and it appeared that when he was very drunk, which was every
day, sometimes twice a day, he used to talk to this good lady about
you."
"About me?" said the other quickly. "But he didn't know me!"
"Lots of people talk about people they don't know," began Smith. "It's
publicity----"
"Nonsense! I'm not a public man. I'm just a poor little bank manager,
who hates banking, and would gladly pay a fortune, if he had one to pay,
for the privilege of taking all the books of the bank and burning 'em in
Regent's Park, making the clerks drunk, throwing open the vault to the
petty thieves of London, and turning the whole damn thing into a night
club!"
Gazing at him with open mouth, genuinely staggered by such a confession,
Smith saw an expression in that sometime genial face that he had never
seen before: a certain harshness; heard in his voice the vibration of a
hidden fury.
"They nearly kicked me out once because I speculated," Moran went on.
"I'm a gambler; I always have been a gambler. If they'd kicked me out
I'd have been ruined at that time. I had to crawl on my hands and knees
to the directors to let me stay on. I was managing a branch at Chalk
Farm at the time, and I've had to pretend that the Northern and Southern
Bank is something holy, that its directors are gods; and every time I've
tried to get a bit of money so that I could clear out, the market has
gone----!" He snapped his fingers. "I don't really know Tickler. Why he
should talk about me I haven't the slightest idea."
Surefoot Smith looked into his hat.
"Do you know Mr. Hervey Lyne?" he asked.
"Yes, he's a client of ours."
"Have you seen him lately?"
A pause, and then:
"No, I haven't seen him for two years."
"Oh!" said Surefoot Smith.
He said "Oh!" because he could think of nothing else to say.
"Well, I'll be getting along. Sorry to bother you, but you know what we
are at the Yard."
He offered his huge hand to the banker, but Mr. Moran was so absorbed in
his thoughts that he did not see it.
After Moran had closed the door upon his visitor he walked slowly back
to his room and sat down on the edge of the bed. He sat there for a long
time before he got up, walked across the room to a wall safe hidden
behind a picture, opened it and took out a number of documents, which he
examined very carefully. He put these back, and, groping, found a flat
leather case which was packed with strangely coloured documents. They
were train and steamship tickets; his passport lay handy, and, fastened
in his passport by a thick rubber band, twenty banknotes for a hundred
pounds.
He locked the safe again, replaced the picture, and went on with his
dressing. He was more than a little perturbed. That casual reference to
Hervey Lyne had shaken him.