Mary Lane's party was a very dull one. She was one of ten young people,
and young people can be very boring. Three of the girls had a giggling
secret, and throughout the meal made esoteric references to some
happening which none but they understood. The young men were vapid and
vacuous, after their kind. She was glad to get away on the excuse of a
matinée.
Mary lived in a large block of flats in the Marylebone Road. These three
small rooms and a kitchenette were home and independence to her. She
seldom received visitors, rarely men visitors, and never in any
circumstances invited a guest so late at night. She was staggered when
the lift-man told her that "a gentleman had just gone up to her flat."
"No, miss, I've never seen him before. It wasn't Mr. Allenby, but he
says he knows you."
He opened the door of the lift and walked along the corridor with her.
To her amazement she saw Leo Moran, who had evidently rung the bell of
the flat several times, and was returning to the elevator when they met.
"It is unpardonable of me to come so late, Miss Lane, but when I explain
to you that it's rather a vital matter I'm sure you will not be angry
with me. Your maid is asleep."
Mary smiled.
"I haven't a maid," she said.
The situation was a little embarrassing: she could hardly ask him into
the flat; still less did she find it possible to suggest that the
lift-man should be her chaperon. She compromised by asking him in and
leaving the front door open.
Moran was nervous; his voice, when he spoke, was husky; the hand that
took a large envelope from his inside pocket was unsteady.
"I wouldn't have bothered you at all, but I had rather a disconcerting
letter when I got home, from--an agent of mine."
She knew Moran, though she had never regarded him as a friend, and felt
a sense of resentment every time he had come unbidden to her
dressing-room. Since she received her allowance from old Hervey, she had
it also through the bank of which Leo Moran was manager.
"I'll be perfectly frank with you, Miss Lane," he said, speaking quickly
and nervously. "It's a matter entirely personal to myself, in the sense
that I am personally responsible. The one man who could get me out of my
trouble is the one man I do not wish to approach--your guardian, Mr.
Hervey Lyne."
To say she was astonished is to put it mildly. She had always regarded
Moran as a man so perfectly self-possessed that nothing could break
through his reserve, and here he was, fidgeting and stammering like a
schoolboy.
"If I can help you of course I will," she said, wondering what was
coming next.
"It concerns some shares which I purchased on behalf of a client of the
bank. Mr. Lyne signed the transfer, but the other people--that is to
say, the people to whom the shares were transferred--have just
discovered that it is necessary also that your name shall be on the
transfer, as they originally were part of the stocks left in trust to
you. I might say," he went on quickly, "that the price of this stock is
exactly the same, or practically the same, as it was when it was taken
over."
"My name--is that all you want? I thought at least it was something
valuable," she laughed.
He put the paper on the table; it was indubitably a stock transfer; she
had seen such documents before. He indicated where her name should be
signed, and she noticed above it the scrawl of old Lyne.
"Well, that's done."
There was no mistaking his relief.
"You'll think I'm an awful brute to come at this hour of the night. I
can't tell you how grateful I am. It simply meant that I had paid out
money of the bank's without the necessary authorisation. Also, if old
Mr. Lyne died tomorrow, this transfer would be practically valueless."
She made a little grimace.
"Is he likely to die tomorrow?"
He shook his head.
"I don't know; he's a pretty old man."
Abruptly he held out his hand.
"Good-night, and thank you again."
She closed the door on him, went back to her kitchenette to make herself
a cup of chocolate before she went to bed, and sat for a long time at
the kitchen table, sipping the hot decoction, and trying to discover
something sinister in his midnight visitation. Herein she failed. If
Hervey Lyne died tomorrow? By his agitation and hurry one might imagine
that the old man was in extremis. Yet, the last time she had seen old
Hervey, he was very much in possession of his faculties.
She was at breakfast the following morning when Dick Allenby called her
up and told her of his loss. She listened incredulously, and thought he
was joking until he told her of the visit of Surefoot Smith.
"My dear--how terrible!" she said.
"Surefoot thought it was providential. Moran thought nothing."
"Was he there?" she asked quickly.
"Yes--why?"
She hesitated. Moran had so evidently wished his visit to her to be a
private matter that it seemed like betraying him.
"Oh, nothing," she said. And then, as an after-thought: "Come round and
tell me all about it."
He was there in half an hour, singularly unemotional and cheerful, she
thought.
"It really isn't as dramatically important as it sounds," he said. "If
it has been stolen, as Surefoot thinks it has, with the idea of pinching
the patent, the buyer will be shrewd enough to make a search of the
registrations at the various Patent Offices. I had an acknowledgment
from Germany this morning that it has been entered there."
He was interrupted by a knock at the outer door and she opened it to
admit a second visitor. It was not usual, she explained apologetically
to Dick, that she should receive guests so early, but Mike Hennessey had
telephoned, asking whether he might come.
The first thing she noticed when Mike came into the room was his
embarrassment at finding Dick Allenby there. A genial soul was Mike,
big-faced, heavy-featured, sleepy-eyed, constitutionally lazy and
lethargic in his movements. He was never a healthy-looking individual,
but now he looked positively ill, and she remarked upon the fact. Mike
shook his head.
"Had a bad night," he said. "Good-morning, Mr. Allenby--don't go: I've
nothing private; only I wanted to see this young lady about our play.
It's coming off."
"Thank Heaven for that!" said Mary gratefully. "It's the best news I've
had for months."
"It's about the worst I've had," he grumbled.
"Has Mr. Wirth withdrawn his support?"
It was nearer the truth than she guessed. Mr. Wirth's weekly cheque,
which had been due on the previous day, had not arrived, and Mike was
taking no chances.
"The notice goes up tonight that we finish on Saturday," he said. "I've
had the luck to let the theatre--I wish I'd taken a better offer that I
had last week."
He was even more nervous than Moran had been; could not keep his hands
still or his body either. He got up from the chair, walked to the
window, came back and sat down, only to rise again a few moments later.
"Who is this old fellow Wirth? What's his job?" asked Dick.
"I don't know. He's in some sort of business at Coventry," said Mike. "I
thought of running up there today to see him. The point is this"--he
came to that point bluntly--"tomorrow night's Treasury, and I haven't
enough money in the bank to pay the artistes. I may get it today, in
which case there's no fuss. You're the heaviest salary in the cast,
Mary: will you trust me till next week if things go wrong?"
She was staggered at the suggestion. In the case of other productions
Mike's solvency had always been a matter of the gravest doubt, but
_Cliffs of Fate_ had been under more distinguished patronage, and the
general impression was that, whatever else happened, the money for its
continuance would come in.
"Of course I will, Mike," she said; "but surely Mr. Wirth hasn't----"
"Gone broke? No, I shouldn't think so. He's a queer man," said Mike
vaguely.
He did not particularise his patron's queerness, but was satisfied to
leave it at that. His departure was almost as abrupt a gesture as any he
had performed.
"There's a pretty sick man," said Dick.
"Do you mean he's ill?"
"Mentally. Something's upset him. I should imagine that the failure of
old Wirth's cheque was quite sufficient; but there's something else
besides."
He rose.
"Come and lunch," he invited, but she shook her head.
She was lunching at home; her matinée excuse at the overnight party had
been on the spur of the moment. She wondered how many would remember it
against her.
Dick went on to Scotland Yard, and had to wait half an hour before
Surefoot Smith returned. He had no news of any importance. A description
of the stolen gun had been circulated.
"But that won't help you very much. It's hardly likely to be pawned or
offered for sale in the Caledonian Market," said Surefoot. And then,
abruptly: "Do you know Mr. Washington Wirth?"
"I've heard of him."
"Have you ever met him? Great party giver, isn't he?"
Dick smiled.
"He's never given me a party, but I believe he is rather keen on that
sort of amusement."
Surefoot nodded.
"I've just been up to the Kellner Hotel. They know nothing about him
except that he always pays in cash. He's been using the hotel for three
years; orders a suite whenever he feels inclined, leaves the supper and
the band to the head waiter; but that's the only thing they know about
him--that his money is good money, which is all they want to know, I
suppose."
"Are you interested in him?" asked Dick, and told the story of Mike
Hennessey's agitation.
Surefoot Smith was interested.
"He's got a bank, has he? Well, he may be one of those Midland people.
I've never understood what makes the corn and coal merchants go in for
theatricals. It's a form of insanity that's been pretty common since the
war."
"Mike will tell you all about it," suggested Allenby.
Mr. Smith's lips curled.
"Mike'll tell us a whole lot," he said sarcastically. "That fellow
wouldn't tell you his right hand had four fingers, for fear you brought
it up in evidence against him. I know Mike!"
"At any rate, he's got a line on Wirth," said Dick. "He's been financing
this play."
Since he could find nobody to lunch with, he decided to take that meal
at Snell's, which had all the values of a good club except that there
were one or two members who were personally objectionable to him. And
the most poisonous were the first two he saw at the entrance of the
dining-room. Gerald Dornford and Jules had their little table in the
window. Jules favoured him with a nod, but Jerry kept his eyes steadily
averted as Dick passed.
They had, in point of fact, only just sat down when Allenby had arrived,
and in his furtive way Jules had been avoiding the one subject which his
companion wished to discuss. He spoke of the people who were passing in
the street, recognising every important motor-car that passed; he talked
of the military conference which was in session just then, of the party
to which he had been the night before, of anything but----
"Now what about this gun?" said Jerry.
"The gun?"
Jules looked at him blankly, then leaned back in his chair and chuckled.
"What a good thing you came today! I wanted to see you. That little
project of mine must be abandoned."
"What do you mean?" gasped Jerry, turning pale.
"I mean that my principals, or rather the principals of my principals,
have decided not to go any farther in the matter. You see, we've
discovered that all the salient points of the gun have been protected by
patents, especially in those countries where the invention could be best
exploited."
Jerry looked at him, dumbfounded.
"Do you mean to say that you don't want it?"
Jules nodded.
"I mean to say that there's no need for you to take any unnecessary
risks. Now let us discuss some other way of raising the money----"
"Discuss be damned!" said Jerry savagely. "I've got the gun--I took it
last night!"
Jules stroked his smooth chin and looked at his companion thoughtfully.
"That's awkward," he said. "You took it from the workshop, did you?
Well, you can hardly put it back. I advise you to drive somewhere out of
London and dump it in a deep pond. Or, better still, try the river,
somewhere between Temple Lock and Hambleden."
"Do you mean to tell me"--Jerry's husky voice was almost hoarse--"that
I've taken this risk for nothing? What is the idea?"
Jules shrugged.
"I'm sorry. My principals----"
"Damn your principals! You gave me a specific promise that if I got the
thing you'd give me a couple of thousand."
Jules smiled.
"And now, my dear fellow, I give you a specific assurance that I cannot
get two thousand shillings for the gun! It is unfortunate. If you had
procured the invention when I first suggested it, the matter would have
been all over--and paid for. Now it is too late."
He leaned over and patted the other gently on the arm as though he were
a child.
"There is no sense in being foolish about this matter," he said. "Let us
find some other way of raising the wind, eh?"
Jerry Dornford was crushed. He knew Hervey Lyne sufficiently well to
realise that, had he produced the two thousand pounds, the old man would
have grabbed at the money and given him the extra time he had asked.
Hervey could never resist the argument of cash.
He could have grabbed the smiling little cad opposite him and thrown him
out of the window. There was murder in his glance when he looked into
the round, brown eyes of his companion. But Jerry Dornford never forgot
he was a gentleman, and as such was expected to exercise the
self-control which is the peculiar and popular attribute of the
well-bred man.
"Well, it can't be helped," he said. "Order me a drink; I'm a bit
rattled."
Jules played an invisible piano on the edge of the table.
"Our friend Allenby is at the third table on the right. Would it not be
a good idea," he suggested, "to go over and say: 'What a little joke I
played on you, eh?'"
"Don't be a fool," interrupted Jerry roughly. "He called me up last
night and asked me if I had it. He's put the matter in the hands of the
police. I had a visit from Smith this morning."
"So!" Jules pursed his red lips. "That is a pity. Here is your drink."
They sat for a long time over their coffee, saw Dick Allenby leave the
club and cross to the opposite side of St. James's Street.
"Clever fellow, that," said Jules, almost with enthusiasm. "He doesn't
like me. I forget the name he called me the last time we had a little
discussion, but it was terribly offensive. But I like him. I am fond of
clever people; there is nothing so amusing as cleverness."
Dick had hardly left the club before a telephone message come through
for him, and this he missed. It was Mary Lane, and at that moment she
needed Dick's advice very badly. She called his flat again; he had not
returned. She tried a third club, where he sometimes called in the
afternoon, but again was unsuccessful.
She had been writing out the small cheques which her housekeeping
necessitated, when the strange message had arrived. It came in the hands
of a grubby little boy, who carried an envelope which was covered with
uncleanly finger-marks.
"An old gentleman told me to bring it here," he said in his shrill
Cockney.
An old gentleman? She looked at the super-scription; her name and
address were scrawled untidily, and although she had not seen Hervey
Lyne's handwriting, she knew, or rather guessed, that it was he who had
sent the letter.
The boy explained that he had been delivering a parcel at No. 19, and
had seen the old gentleman leaning on his stick in the doorway. He wore
his dressing-gown and had the letter in his hand. He had called the boy,
given him half a crown (that must have been a wrench for Hervey), and
ordered him to deliver the letter at once.
She tore it open. It was written on the back of a ruled sheet of paper
covered with typewritten figures, and the writing was in pencil.
"Bring Moran to me without fail at three o'clock this afternoon. I
saw him two days ago, but I'm not satisfied. Bring police officer."