"It's all based on deduction so far," said Surefoot, "but it is the kind
of deduction that I am willing to bet on, and that is saying a lot for
me: I don't waste money. Binny had known for some time that the old man
was suspecting him and things were getting desperate. He had to do
something and do it pretty quickly. The old man was getting suspicious
about his bank account. He could not suspect Binny or he would not have
told him to send for Moran. Lyne hated bankers and never had an
interview unless he couldn't help it. When Binny found he had sent for
his bank manager he was in a hole. There was only one thing he could do
and that was to get a confederate to pose as a bank manager and that
confederate was----"
"Mike Hennessey!" said Dick.
Surefoot nodded.
"I haven't any doubt about that," he said. "When we searched Hennessey's
clothes we found a paper containing the identical figures that were on
the statement. This could only mean that Binny had supplied him with the
figures and that Mike had had to commit them to memory in case the old
man questioned him. Obviously the paper had been continuously handled.
It was extremely soiled and had been folded and re-folded."
They were in the kitchen and providentially Surefoot had found a big
sheet of blotting paper, which he spread on the table, and on which he
elaborated his theory as he spoke.
"Moran was never notified and never asked to call. It happened by a
coincidence that he was not in his office at the time of the interview.
He was, in fact, consulting with the agents of the Cassari Oils. At the
time fixed for the appointment Mike came. Hervey Lyne had never seen the
bank manager, and even if he had he would not have recognised him for he
was nearly blind. He must have said something or done something which
left the old man unsatisfied. Lyne was very shrewd. One of his hobbies
was working out how he could be swindled and it is possible that he had
a doubt in his mind whether the man who called on him was Moran.
"We shall never know what it was that made suspicion a certainty. It may
have been something he overheard in the kitchen: there were times when
Binny and his so-called wife had unholy rows--I got this from the
servants in the next house. He picked up the first piece of paper he
could find--it happened to be the bank statement--and wrote the message
to you." He nodded at Mary. "I do not think there is any doubt that he
was sure that the man who had called that morning was not Moran, and
that he suspected Binny of being the villain of the piece and that is
why he asked that the police should be sent for. Binny got to know this.
Whether the old man charged him at the last moment or said something, we
shall only know if Binny tells the truth before he is hanged.
"Binny must have made his plans on the spur of the moment. After he
dressed the old man to take him out, he stepped behind him and shot him
with a magazine pistol--I dug out the bullet from the door. It is
possible that he had no intention of taking him out, but after he found
there was very little blood and no sign of a wound, he decided to take
the risk. The blue glasses Mr. Lyne wore hid his eyes. He was generally
half asleep as he was being pulled into the park. Binny got away with
it. He even asked a policeman to hold up the traffic to allow the chair
to pass."
Surefoot Smith sighed and shook his head in reluctant admiration.
"Think of it! Him sitting there dead, and Binny as cool as a cucumber,
reading the news to the dead man."
"Is there a chance of Binny getting out of England?" asked Dick.
Surefoot scratched his nose thoughtfully.
"Theoretically--no, but this man is a play-actor, meaning no disrespect
to you, Miss Lane. I don't believe in criminals disguising themselves,
but this man isn't an ordinary criminal. At the moment he is in London,
probably living in a flat which he has rented under another name. He may
have two or three of them. He is the sort of man who would be very
careful to make all preparations for a getaway. He has got stacks of
money, a couple of automatic guns, and the rope ahead of him. He is not
going to be taken easily."
"I don't understand him," said Dick, shaking his head. "Why these
theatrical parties? Why Mr. Washington Wirth?"
"He had to have some sort of swell name and appearance. I will tell you
all about the theatrical parties one of these days. He never got the
right people there, with all due respect to you, Miss Lane. He wanted
ladies wearing thousands of pounds' worth of diamonds. He worked that
racket in Chicago: got a big party and held them up, but he never caught
on in London and never attracted the money. And you have got to allow
for vanity, too. He liked to be a big noise even among little people,
again with all due respect to you, Miss Lane."
He picked up the vacuum pump and looked at it.
"I'd like to know what this is for. I think I will take it along with
me."
He slipped it into his pocket. They went out after locking all the
doors--Dick and the girl to the hotel, and the indefatigable Mr. Smith
to his Haymarket flat.
An hour passed in that house. There was neither sound nor movement,
until an oblong strip of glazed brickwork began to open like a door, and
Binny, wearing rubber overshoes, came cautiously into the kitchen, gun
in hand. He listened, went swiftly and noiselessly into the passage, up
the stairs from room to room before he came back to the front door and
slipped a bolt in its place. Returning to the kitchen, he laid his gun
on the table and passed his hand over his unshaven chin. His
unprepossessing face creased in a smile which was not pleasant to see.
"Vanity, eh?" he said.
It was the one thing the detective had said that had infuriated him.
Binny stood by the table, his unshapely head sunk in thought, his
fingers playing mechanically with the long-barrelled automatic that lay
at his hand.
Vanity! That had hurt him. He hated Surefoot Smith; from the first time
he had seen him he had recognised in this slow, ponderous,
unintelligent-looking man a menace to his own security and life. And he
had offended him beyond all pardon. Whatever anybody could say about
this amazing man, his love of the theatre was genuine. Association with
its people was the breath of his nostrils. His first defalcations were
made for the purpose of financing a play that ran only a week. He
himself was no bad actor. He would require all his skill and genius to
escape from the net which was being drawn about him. He went back
through the narrow door into a room that was smaller than the average
prison cell.
It was narrow and long. On the floor was a mattress where he had slept,
and at the foot of the "bed" was a small dressing-table, beneath which
were two suitcases. He took one of these out and unlocked it. On the top
lay a flat envelope containing three passports, which he brought into
the kitchen. Pulling up a chair to the table, he examined each one
carefully. He had made his preparations well. The passports were in
names that Surefoot Smith had never heard of and there was no
resemblance to him in the three photographs attached to each passport.
Fastened to one by a rubber band was a little packet of railway tickets.
One set would take him to the Hook of Holland, another to Italy. He
could change his identity three times on the journey.
From a bulging hip pocket he took a thick pad of banknotes: French,
English, German. He took another pad from a concealed pocket in his
coat, a third and fourth, until there was a great pile of money on the
table.
For a quarter of an hour he sat contemplating his wealth thoughtfully,
then, going back into his little hiding place, he carried out a mirror
and a small shaving set and began carefully to make his preparations.
Vulgar grease paints, however convincing they might look on the stage,
would have no value in the light of day. He poured a little anatto into
a saucer, diluted it and sponged his face carefully, using a magnifying
mirror to check the effects.
For the greater part of two hours he laboured on his face and head;
then, stripping to his underclothes, he began to dress, having first
deposited his money in satchels that were attached to his belt, which
was passed round his waist. The contents of the two cases he turned out,
for he had examined them very carefully the day before. He could not
afford to carry any other baggage than the two automatics and half a
dozen spare magazines, which he disposed about his person.
He chose the lunch hour, and then only after a long scrutiny of the
street from the study window. The servants might see him, but the
chances were that they would be preparing or serving the meal either to
their employers or to themselves. It was the hour, too, when no
tradesmen were delivering, and the only risk was that Surefoot Smith had
left somebody to watch the house. That had to be taken.
He unbolted the front door, turned the handle, and stepped out. As he
reached the Outer Circle he saw something that made him set his jaw. A
slatternly-looking woman was walking unsteadily on the opposite side of
the street. He recognised her as his miserable companion of the past
four years, the half-witted drunkard who had shared the kitchen with
him. She did not recognise him, and it mattered little even if Surefoot
saw her. He had turned her out the previous day with instructions to go
back to Wiltshire, where he had found her, and had given her enough
money to keep her for a year.
He plodded on, looking back occasionally to see if he were followed. He
dared not risk a 'bus. A taxi would be almost as dangerous. To drive a
car in his present disguise would be to attract undesirable attention.
In the Finchley Road there was a block of buildings, the ground floor of
which was shops. Above these was a number of apartments occupied by good
middle-class tenants. The corner of the block, however, had been
reserved for offices and this had a private self-operated elevator.
Binny went into the narrow passage unchallenged, pressed the button, and
had himself carried on to the third floor. Almost opposite the lift, at
an angle of the wall, was a door inscribed: "The New Theatrical
Syndicate." He unlocked the door and went in. The office consisted of
one medium-sized room and a small cloakroom. It was furnished plainly
and had the appearance of being very rarely used. Except for a desk and
a table there was no evidence of its business character.
He shot a little bolt in the door, took off the long coat he wore, and
sat down in the comfortable chair. In one of the drawers there was a
small electric kettle, which he filled in the wash-place. He brewed
himself a cup of coffee, and this, with some biscuits he found in a tin
box, in the second drawer, comprised his lunch.
The getaway was going to be simple. His real baggage was in the
cloakroom at Liverpool Street. Everything was simple, and yet----
Binny could have written a book on the psychology of criminals. He was a
cold-blooded, reasoning killer, who never made the stupid errors of
other criminals. It was a great pity that he had made the appalling
mistake of going back to find the key and had attracted the girl's
attention. Otherwise, Leo Moran would have been dead and there would be
no proof that the confession, which Binny had typed out so
industriously, was not true in every detail.
He had planned it all so carefully: he had intended dropping the key
just on the inside of the locked door and had put it in his pocket and
forgotten it. A little slip that had messed up his artistic plan.
Reason, which had determined his every action, told him to slip out of
London quietly that night and trust to his native genius for safety. But
that something which is part of the mental make-up of criminal minds
clamoured for the spectacular. It would be a great stunt to leave London
with one crushing exploit which would make him the talk of the World. In
his imagination he could see the headlines in the newspapers. "SUREFOOT
SMITH LEFT DEAD AND THE MURDERER ESCAPED!" "SUREFOOT SMITH, THE GREAT
CATCHER OF MURDERERS, WAS HIMSELF CAUGHT!" The fantastic possibilities
took hold of him. His mind began to work, not towards safety, but in the
direction of pleasing sensationalism, and he did not realise that the
charge of vanity which he so resented was being justified with every
mental step he took towards vengeance.