The little boy could give her no other information. She would have
called up Mr. Lyne's house, but the old man had an insuperable objection
to the telephone and had never had one installed. She looked at her
watch; it was after two, and for ten minutes she was making a frantic
effort to get in touch with Dick.
Surefoot Smith she hardly knew well enough to consult, and she had a
woman's distaste for approaching the police direct. She called up Mr.
Moran's bank; he had gone home. She tried his club, with no better
success. Moran had left his flat that morning, announcing that he had no
intention of returning for two or three weeks. He had gone on leave.
Curiously enough, the bank did not tell her that: they merely said that
Mr. Moran had gone home early--a completely inaccurate piece of
information, she discovered when the first man, who was evidently a
clerk, was interrupted and a more authoritative voice spoke:
"This is the chief accountant speaking, Miss Lane. You were asking about
Mr. Moran? He has not been to the bank today."
"He's gone on leave, hasn't he?"
"I'm not aware of the fact. I know he has applied for leave, but I don't
think he's gone--in fact, I'm certain. I opened all the letters this
morning."
She hung up the telephone, bewildered, and was sitting at the window,
cogitating on what else she should do, when to her joy the telephone
rang. It was Dick, who had returned to Snell's Club to collect some
letters he had forgotten, and had been told of her call.
"That's very odd," was his comment when he heard about the note. "I'll
try to get Smith. The best thing you can do, angel, is to meet me
outside Baker Street Tube Station in a quarter of an hour. I'll try to
land Smith at the same moment."
She got to the station a little before three, and had to wait for ten
minutes before a taxicab dashed up and Dick jumped out. She saw the
bulky figure of Mr. Smith in one corner of the cab, and, getting in, sat
by him. Dick gave instructions to the taxi driver and seated himself
opposite.
"This is all very mysterious, isn't it?" he said. "Let me see the
letter."
She showed it to him, and he turned it over.
"Hullo, this is a bank statement." He whistled. "Phew! What figures! The
old boy's certainly let the cat out of the bag."
She had paid no attention to the typewritten statement on the back.
"Over two hundred thousand in cash and umpteen hundred thousand in
securities. What is the idea--I mean, of sending this note? I suppose
you couldn't find Moran?"
She shook her head.
Smith was examining the letter carefully.
"Is he blind?" he asked.
"Very nearly," said Dick. "He doesn't admit it, but he can't see well
enough to distinguish you from me. That's his writing--I had a rude
letter from him one day last week. Did you find Moran?"
Mary shook her head.
"Nobody seems to know where he is. He hasn't been to the bank today, and
he's not at his flat."
Surefoot folded the letter and handed it back to the girl.
"It looks as if he doesn't want to see me yet awhile, and not at all if
we don't bring Moran," he said.
They drove into Naylors Crescent, and it was agreed that Surefoot should
sit outside in the cab whilst they interviewed the old man. But repeated
knockings brought no answer. The houses in Naylors Crescent stand behind
deep little areas, and out of one of these next door a head appeared.
"There's nobody in," he said. "Mr. Lyne has gone out in his chair about
an hour ago."
"Where did he go?" asked Dick.
The servant could not say; but Mary was better informed.
"They always go to the same place--into the private gardens of the
park," she said. "It's only a few minutes' walk."
The cab was no longer necessary; Dick paid it off. They were about to
cross the road when a big, open touring car swept past, and Dick had a
momentary glimpse of the man at the wheel. It was Jerry Dornford. The
car was old and noisy; there was a succession of backfires as it passed.
It slowed down a little at one point, then, gathering speed,
disappeared from view.
"Any policeman doing his duty will pinch that fellow under the Noises
Act," said Smith.
Presently they came in sight of the chair. Binny was sitting on his
little collapsible stool, a paper spread open on his knees, a pair of
gold-rimmed glasses perched on his thick nose. The gate into the gardens
was locked and it was some time before Dick attracted the servant's
attention. Presently Binny looked up, and, ambling forward, unlocked the
gate and admitted them.
"I think he's asleep, sir," he said, "and that's a bit awkward. If I
start wheeling him when he's asleep, and he wakes up, he gives me hell!
And he's got to be home by three."
Old Hervey Lyne sat, his chin on his breast, his blue-tinted glasses
firmly fixed on the high bridge of his nose. His gloved hands were
clasped on the rug which was tucked about his legs, Binny folded his
paper, put it in his pocket, folded his stool and hung it on a little
hook on the bath-chair.
"Do you think you'd better wake him up?"
Mary went nearer.
"Mr. Lyne," she said.
She called again, but there was no answer.
Surefoot Smith, who was standing at some distance, came nearer. He
walked round the back of the chair, came to the front, and, leaning
over, pulled open the old man's coat. He closed it again; then, to
Mary's amazement, Surefoot Smith caught her gently by the arm.
"I think you'd better run away for about an hour, and I'll come and see
you at your flat," he said.
His voice was unusually gentle.
She looked at him, and the colour went out of her face.
"Is he dead?" she breathed.
Surefoot Smith nodded; almost impelled her towards the gate. When she
was out of hearing:
"He's been shot through the back. I saw the hole in the cape as I came
round. Look!" He opened the coat.
Dick saw something that was not pleasant to see.