The bank premises were closed when he reached them; he rang a bell at
the side door and was admitted. The accountant and the chief clerk and
two or three other clerks were on duty. He interviewed the accountant in
his office.
"I know nothing whatever about Mr. Moran's movements except that he
applied for leave and it was not granted. I know that, because the
letter from the head office did not come addressed to him personally,
but to 'the manager,' and was opened by me. I got him on the 'phone and
told him; he said nothing except that he wouldn't be down today."
"Have you reported this to your head office?" asked Surefoot.
No report had been made. It was not a very extraordinary happening. Bank
managers do occasionally decide to stay away from business; and, as it
happened, there had been no enquiries by 'phone from headquarters, and
the fact had not been mentioned.
"It will go in, of course, in the daily report," said the accountant.
"To tell you the truth, I was under the impression that Mr. Moran had
gone up to the City and had interviewed the managing director; so that
when I heard he was taking his leave I naturally supposed that he had
persuaded the head office to change its mind. Has anything happened to
Mr. Moran?" he asked anxiously.
"I hope not, I'm sure," said Smith with spurious solicitude. "Did he
bank with you?"
"He had an account at this branch, but carried only a small balance,"
explained the accountant. "There was a little trouble about speculation
a few years back, and naturally, I suppose, Mr. Moran did not run his
main account through us, not wishing the directors to know his business.
I can tell you for your private information that he banks with the
Southern Provincial. I know that, because once, when his account with us
was low, he paid in a cheque on that bank to put it in credit. May I
ask, Mr. Smith, what is the reason for this enquiry?"
In a few words Surefoot told him of the murder.
"Yes, we carry Mr. Lyne's account. It is a fairly large one--not as
large as it used to be--he is a moneylender and has a lot of money out."
Smith looked at his watch.
"Is it possible to see any of the directors at headquarters?"
The accountant was doubtful, but he put through a telephone call, only
to return with the information that all the directors had gone home.
"If Mr. Moran doesn't turn up in the morning----"
"He won't," said Surefoot.
"Well, if he doesn't, I'd be glad if you saw the head office. I really
ought not to be giving you any kind of information, either about Mr.
Moran or about any of our customers. Just one moment."
He went behind a desk and consulted a clerk. After a while he came back.
"I might tell you this, whether I get into trouble or not, that the late
Mr. Lyne drew sixty thousand pounds from the bank yesterday--that is to
say, the cheque came into us and was cleared last night. It was a bearer
cheque and passed through some bank in the Midlands. I can't give you
the exact details, but I've no doubt head office will give you the
authorisation."
When Surefoot returned to Scotland Yard he found a group of officers in
his room. They were saying good-bye to John Kelly, who was leaving at
midnight for the United States.
"I'm sorry," he said, when he heard Surefoot's idea. "Nothing would have
given me greater pleasure than to have got in on a murder case. I read
it in the evening papers. Have there been any developments?"
Surefoot told him what he had learned at the bank and the American
nodded.
"You might do worse than look after a man called Arthur Ryan," he said.
"I know that he's in England--I'll send you some photographs of him
taken when I was in Chicago. That was part of his graft, running banking
accounts, switching somebody else's money from one to the other. You'd
never guess he was that kind of bird."
Surefoot was forced to resign, with regret, the invitation to an
informal farewell dinner. The Chief Constable was waiting for him, a
little impatiently, for his dinner hour was more formal.
"We'll have to circulate a description of Moran," said the chief when he
had finished, "but it must be done without publicity, or we'll be
getting ourselves into all sorts of trouble. The fact that he keeps a
couple of rifles in his room means nothing. Even I know him as a rifle
shot. So far as we are aware, there is nothing wrong at the bank, and
the only circumstance connecting him with the crime is the old man's
note. Have you got it?"
Mary had handed the note to the detective, who produced it from his
pocket and spread it on the table.
The Chief Constable nodded.
"The fact that he wants to see Moran again--had he seen him before?"
"Two days ago, according to Binny, the servant--not for two years,
according to Moran," said Surefoot slowly, and the Chief looked up.
"Moran said he hadn't seen----"
Surefoot nodded.
"That's just what he said. Allenby asked him casually the night before
the murder when he had seen Lyne last. He said two years ago. Allenby is
absolutely definite. Now, why did he say he hadn't seen him when he had?
And why did old Lyne, when he sent that note, say 'Bring Moran' and
immediately follow this by asking for a police officer to be in
attendance? There's only one explanation--that he'd discovered something
about Moran and intended either to confront him or threaten him with
police action. Moran applies for urgent leave from the bank, and this
isn't granted. He doesn't come to the bank, and I think we'll find, when
I make enquiries at their head office, that the directors know nothing
about his being away. Moran had the handling of the old man's account,
and if there was anything wrong it meant penal servitude for him;
probably the only person who could say whether anything was wrong was
Lyne himself. He dies--somebody puts a bullet in him--half an hour
before Moran leaves London. That's circumstantial, but better
circumstantial evidence than most people are hung on. If you want
anything clearer than that, lead me to it."
He continued his enquiries throughout the evening, and about a quarter
of an hour before the curtain came down--the penultimate curtain, as it
proved--on _Cliffs of Fate_, he called at the theatre. Mike Hennessey
had gone home, as his manager dramatically described, "a broken man."
"He'd set his heart on this play, Mr. Smith----" began the little
manager, but Surefoot silenced him.
"Nobody could set their hearts on a lousy play like this," he said. "It
doesn't appeal either to the intelligent or the theatrical classes."
He went through the pass door to the stage, and down a long corridor to
Mary's dressing-room. Dick Allenby, as he had expected, was with her.
She looked tired; evidently the old man's death had been a greater shock
to her than either Dick or Surefoot Smith could have expected.
"Oh yes, the play comes off; but things aren't so bad with poor Mike as
he expected. His cheque turned up and he was able to pay the company,
and, I hope, himself."
She could tell him nothing about Hervey Lyne, but she was very
informative about Leo Moran when he began to question her. He heard the
story of his midnight call--it was news to Dick also.
"But, my dear, I don't understand. He wanted you to sign a transfer----"
"Did you notice the name of the shares?" interrupted Surefoot.
This she had not seen. Surefoot, who knew a great deal about the City
and had been in many financial cases, suggested that it must be a
foreign stock. It is the rule on certain foreign Stock Exchanges that
shares cannot be transferred by a trustee without the approval and
signature of the beneficiaries for whom he is acting.
"There is nothing fishy about that," said Surefoot thoughtfully. "Even
if he was a buyer, old Lyne would not have put his name to a transfer
unless he had his money's worth."
Surefoot could do little more that night. Lyne's documents were being
carefully examined and tabulated, and the place of the murder was roped
off and guarded, a precautionary measure justified when, at midnight,
the surgeon's report came through.
Hervey Lyne had been killed by a bullet which passed through his heart
from behind. Actually no bullet was found in the body, and Surefoot gave
orders that at daybreak every inch of the lawn where the murder was
committed should be searched for the spent bullet. By nine o'clock he
was in the City, awaiting the arrival of the great men of the bank. As
he had expected, no leave had been granted to Leo Moran, against whose
name there was a black mark in the bank's books.
"He was a very capable manager, and very popular with our clients;
otherwise, I doubt if we should have kept him after his speculations. We
know nothing against him whatever, except, of course, this act of
indiscipline."
"If he's gone away he has simply taken French leave?" asked Surefoot.
"Exactly," said the managing director, "and that is a very serious
offence. We believe he is in Devonshire--at least, that is where he said
he was going."
Surefoot smiled.
"He's not in Devonshire--I can tell you that," he said. "He left by a
specially chartered aeroplane from Croydon at twenty minutes past four
yesterday afternoon for Cologne. Another plane was waiting to take him
to Berlin, and there we have not as yet traced him."
The managing director looked at him open-mouthed. Surefoot thought he
turned a little pale.
"In Berlin?"
He could hardly believe it. One could almost see his mind working. Leo
Moran's branch carried very heavy accounts, and a branch manager who
disappears suddenly, and in suspicious circumstances, might not have
gone empty-handed.
"I shouldn't imagine anything is wrong." He was very much perturbed.
"Beyond the fact that he speculated--and, of course, one never knows to
what length a gambler will go--he was a very honest, high-principled
man. He had, I know, dreams of making a great fortune, but then we have
all passed through that stage without doing anything dishonest."
He pressed a bell.
"Nevertheless, I will have an immediate examination of the books, and
will send down our two best inspectors. We must replace Mr. Moran at
once."
Surefoot had managed to get a very accurate description of Leo Moran,
but could find no photograph of him. He should not be difficult to
trace; he was almost completely bald, which fact, however, he could
disguise, if he had reason for disguise at all, with a wig----
Surefoot stopped in his reasoning and frowned. A wig! He remembered the
three wigs he had found in a little room over the garage in Baynes Mews;
and he recalled, too, the name of Mr. Washington Wirth who lived in the
Midlands.... Sixty thousand pounds had gone from Lyne's account on the
previous day through a Midland branch bank.
He asked for and secured authority for obtaining complete information
regarding any account that was in Moran's branch, and, armed with this,
he went back to the bank and interviewed the chief accountant.
"I happen to know the state of Mr. Lyne's account up till a few days
ago," he said. "By error he wrote a note to his ward on the back of the
statement."
He produced it from his pocket, and the accountant examined it.
"I'll just check this up," he said. "This would not, of course, show the
sixty thousand pounds which was debited the day before yesterday."
He was gone a long time, then came back to the little office where the
interview was being held, and put the statement on the table. By it was
a sheet of paper, on which he had scribbled a number of figures.
"This statement is entirely inaccurate," he said. "It seems to be dated
three days ago, but it does not in any way represent Mr. Lyne's account.
It shows, for example, over two hundred thousand pounds on deposit
account; the actual amount on deposit is less than fifty
thousand--forty-eight thousand seven hundred, to be exact. Most of this
has been transferred to the current account at some time or other, the
actual cash remaining in that account being about five thousand pounds."
Surefoot whistled softly.
"Then you mean that the difference between the real condition of affairs
and this statement is about two hundred thousand pounds?"
The accountant nodded.
"The moment I saw it I knew it was wrong. As a matter of fact, I paid a
great deal of attention to this particular account, and I have twice
suggested to the manager, Mr. Moran, that he should write to Mr. Lyne,
pointing out the low state of his balance. As I say, we don't worry very
much about moneylenders' balances, because very often they put all their
available cash into loans."
"What about these stocks?"
"They're quite all right, with the exception of thirty thousand pounds'
worth of Steel Preferred which were sold four months ago on Mr. Lyne's
instructions. The money received for that is in another account."
"Did you receive any letter from Lyne, in answer to yours?"
"In answer to the manager's?" corrected the accountant. "No, sir. I
wouldn't see them anyway. They'd be on Mr. Moran's file, where you'll
probably find them."
Smith considered the matter.
"Did Mr. Moran see Lyne last Tuesday, about ten o'clock in the morning?"
The accountant smiled.
"If he did, he didn't tell me. Last Tuesday morning?" He considered. "He
didn't come in till about midday. He said he'd had an interview of some
kind, but what it was I don't know." And then, very seriously: "There's
something radically wrong, isn't there, and Mr. Moran is in it? I will
give you and the bank any help I can. As I said before, I know nothing
whatever about these transactions. Would you like to see Mr. Lyne's
account? Very large sums have been going out in the past eighteen
months, generally on bearer cheques. That is not unusual with a
moneylender's account. It is customary to deposit promissory notes or
acceptances against these withdrawals, but I understand that Mr. Lyne
has never done this."
He came back with a ledger, which Smith examined with an expert eye.
Money had gone in sums of ten, fifteen, twenty thousand, and invariably
through a Birmingham bank.
"Only one of these large cheques has been made payable to an
individual," said the clerk, turning a leaf and pointing to a name. "It
was whilst Mr. Moran was on his holiday----"
Smith looked, and his jaw dropped. The name was Washington Wirth.