Chapter XXIThe Account Book
IT was five o’clock in the morning when the mud-spattered Spanz dropped down through the mist and driving rain of the Chiltern Hills and struck the main Gloucester Road, pulling up with a jerk before Heavytree Farm. Manfred sprang out, but before he could reach the door, Aunt Alma had opened it, and by the look of her face he saw that she had not slept that night.
“Where is Digby?” he asked.
“He’s gone to interview the Chief Constable,” said Alma. “Come in, Mr. Gonsalez.”
Leon was wet from head to foot: there was not a dry square centimetre upon him. But he was his old cheerful self as he stamped into the hall, shaking himself free of his heavy mackintosh.
“Digby, of course, heard nothing, George.”
“I’m the lightest sleeper in the world,” said Aunt Alma, “but I heard not a sound. The first thing I knew was when a policeman came up and knocked at my door and told me that he’d found the front door open.”
“No clue was left at all?”
“Yes,” said Aunt Alma. They went into the drawing-room and she took up from the table a small black bottle with a tube and cap attached. “I found this behind the sofa. She’d been lying on the sofa; the cushions were thrown on the floor and she tore the tapestry in her struggle.”
Leon turned the faucet, and, as the gas hissed out, sniffed.
“The new dental gas,” he said. “But how did they get in? No window was open or forced?”
“They came in at the door: I’m sure of that. And they had a woman with them,” said Aunt Alma proudly.
“How do you know?”
“There must have been a woman,” said Aunt Alma. “Mirabelle would not have opened the door except to a woman, without waking either myself or Mr. Digby.”
Leon nodded, his eyes gleaming.
“Obviously,” he said.
“And I found the marks of a woman’s foot in the passage. It is dried now, but you can still see it.”
“I have already seen it,” said Leon. “It is to the left of the door: a small pointed shoe and a rubber heel. Miss Leicester opened the door to the woman, the men came in, and the rest was easy. You can’t blame Digby,” he said appealingly to George.
He was the friend at court of every agent, but this time Manfred did not argue with him.
“I blame myself,” he said. “Poiccart told me——”
“He was here,” said Aunt Alma.
“Who—Poiccart?” asked Manfred, surprised, and Gonsalez slapped his knee.
“That’s it, of course! What fools we are! We ought to have known why this wily old fox had left his post. What time was he here?”
Alma told him all the circumstances of the visit.
“He must have left the house immediately after us,” said Leon, with a wide grin of amusement, “caught the five o’clock train for Gloucester, taxied across.”
“And after that?” suggested Manfred.
Leon scratched his chin.
“I wonder if he’s back?” He took up the telephone and put a trunk call through to London. “Somehow I don’t think he is. Here’s Digby, looking as if he expected to be summarily executed.”
The police pensioner was indeed in a mournful and pathetic mood.
“I don’t know what you’ll think of me, Mr. Manfred——” he began.
“I’ve already expressed a view on that subject.” George smiled faintly. “I’m not blaming you, Digby. To leave a man who has been knocked about as you have been without an opposite number, was the height of folly. I didn’t expect them back so soon. As a matter of fact, I intended putting four men on from to-day. You’ve been making inquiries?”
“Yes, sir. The car went through Gloucester very early in the morning and took the Swindon road. It was seen by a cyclist policeman; he said there was a fat roll of tarpaulin lying on the tent of the trolley.”
“No sign of anybody chasing it in a car, or on a motor-bicycle?” asked Manfred anxiously.
Poiccart had recently taken to motor-cycling.
“No, sir.”
“You saw Mr. Poiccart?”
“Yes, he was just going back to London. He said he wanted to see the place with his own eyes.”
George was disappointed. If it had been a visit of curiosity, Poiccart’s absence from town was understandable. He would not have returned at the hour he was rung up.
Aunt Alma was cooking a hasty breakfast, and they had accepted her offer gratefully, for both men were famished; and they were in the midst of the meal when the London call came through.
“Is that you, Poiccart?”
“That is I,” said Poiccart’s voice. “Where are you speaking from?”
“Heavytree Farm. Did you see anything of Miss Leicester?”
There was a pause.
“Has she gone?”
“You didn’t know?”
Another pause.
“Oh, yes, I knew; in fact, I accompanied her part of the way to London, and was bumped off when the trolley struck a refuge on the Great West Road. Meadows is here: he has just come from Oberzohn’s. He says he has found nothing.”
Manfred thought for a while.
“We will be back soon after nine,” he said.
“Leon driving you?” was the dry response.
“Yes—in spite of which we shall be back at nine.”
“That man has got a grudge against my driving,” said Leon, when Manfred reported the conversation. “I knew it was he when Digby described the car and said there was a fat roll of mackintosh on the top. ‘Fat roll’ is not a bad description. Do you know whether Poiccart spoke to Miss Leicester?”
“Yes, he asked her if she grew onions”—a reply which sent Leon into fits of silent laughter.
Breakfast was over and they were making their preparations for departure, when Leon asked unexpectedly:
“Has Miss Leicester a writing-table of her own?”
“Yes, in her room,” said Alma, and took him up to show him the old bureau.
He opened the drawers without apology, took out some old letters, turned them over, reading them shamelessly. Then he opened the blotter. There were several sheets of blank paper headed “Heavytree Farm,” and two which bore her signature at the bottom. Alma explained that the bank account of the establishment was in Mirabelle’s name, and, when it was necessary to draw cash, it was a rule of the bank that it should be accompanied by a covering letter—a practice which still exists in some of the old West-country banking establishments. She unlocked a drawer that he had not been able to open and showed him a cheque-book with three blank cheques signed with her name.
“That banker has known me since I was so high,” said Alma scornfully. “You wouldn’t think there’d be so much red-tape.”
Leon nodded.
“Do you keep any account books?”
“Yes, I do,” said Alma in surprise. “The household accounts, you mean?”
“Could I see one?”
She went out and returned with a thin ledger, and he made a brief examination of its contents. Wholly inadequate, thought Alma, considering the trouble she had taken and the interest he had shown.
“That’s that,” he said. “Now, George,en voiture!”
“Why did you want to see the account book?” asked Manfred as they bowled up the road.
“I am naturally commercial-minded,” was the unsatisfactory reply. “And, George, we’re short of juice. Pray like a knight in armour that we sight a filling station in the next ten minutes.”
If George had prayed, the prayer would have been answered: just as the cylinders started to miss they pulled up the car before a garage, and took in a supply which was more than sufficient to carry them to their destination. It was nine o’clock exactly when the car stopped before the house. Poiccart, watching the arrival from George’s room, smiled grimly at the impertinent gesture of the chauffeur.
Behind locked doors the three sat in conference.
“This has upset all my plans,” said Leon at last. “If the girl was safe, I should settle with Oberzohn to-night.”
George Manfred stroked his chin thoughtfully. He had once worn a trim little beard, and had never got out of that beard-stroking habit of his.
“We think exactly alike. I intended suggesting that course,” he said gravely.
“The trouble is Meadows. I should like the case to have been settled one way or the other, and for Meadows to be out of it altogether. One doesn’t wish to embarrass him. But the urgency is very obvious. It would have been very easy,” said Leon, a note of regret in his gentle voice. “Now of course it is impossible until the girl is safe. But for that”—he shrugged his shoulders—“to-morrow friend Oberzohn would have experienced a sense of lassitude. No pain . . . just a little tiredness. Sleep, coma—death on the third day. He is an old man, and one has no desire to hurt the aged. There is no hurt like fear. As for Gurther, we will try a more violent method, unless Oberzohn gets him first. I sincerely hope he does.”
“This is news to me. What is this about Gurther?” asked Poiccart.
Manfred told him.
“Leon is right now,” Poiccart nodded. He rose from the table and unlocked the door. “If any of you men wish to sleep, your rooms are ready; the curtains are drawn, and I will wake you at such and such an hour.”
But neither were inclined for sleep. George had to see a client that morning: a man with a curious story to tell. Leon wanted a carburetter adjusted. They would both sleep in the afternoon, they said.
The client arrived soon after. Poiccart admitted him and put him in the dining-room to wait before he reported his presence.
“I think this is your harem man,” he said, and went downstairs to show up the caller.
He was a commonplace-looking man with a straggling, fair moustache and a weak chin.
“Debilitated or degenerate,” he suggested.
“Probably a little of both,” assented Manfred, when the butler had announced him.
He came nervously into the room and sat down opposite to Manfred.
“I tried to get you on the ’phone last night,” he complained, “but I got no answer.”
“My office hours are from ten till two,” said George good-humouredly. “Now will you tell me again this story of your sister?”
The man leaned back in the chair and clasped his knees, and began in a sing-song voice, as though he were reciting something that he had learned by heart.
“We used to live in Turkey. My father was a merchant of Constantinople, and my sister, who went to school in England, got extraordinary ideas, and came back a most violent pro-Turk. She is a very pretty girl and she came to know some of the best Turkish families, although my father and I were dead against her going about with these people. One day she went to call on Hymar Pasha, and that night she didn’t come back. We went to the Pasha’s house and asked for her, but he told us she had left at four o’clock. We then consulted the police, and they told us, after they had made investigations, that she had been seen going on board a ship which left for Odessa the same night. I hadn’t seen her for ten years, until I went down to the Gringo Club, which is a little place in the East End—not high class, you understand, but very well conducted. There was a cabaret show after midnight, and whilst I was sitting there, thinking about going home—very bored, you understand, because that sort of thing doesn’t appeal to me—I saw a girl come out from behind a curtain dressed like a Turkish woman, and begin a dance. She was in the middle of the dance when her veil slipped off. It was Marie! She recognized me at once, and darted through the curtains. I tried to follow her, but they held me back.”
“Did you go to the police?” asked Manfred.
The man shook his head.
“No, what is the use of the police?” he went on in a monotonous tone. “I had enough of them in Constantinople, and I made up my mind that I would get outside help. And then somebody told me of you, and I came along. Mr. Manfred, is it impossible for you to rescue my sister? I’m perfectly sure that she is being detained forcibly and against her will.”
“At the Gringo Club?” asked Manfred.
“Yes,” he nodded.
“I’ll see what I can do,” said George. “Perhaps my friends and I will come down and take a look round some evening. In the meantime will you go back to your friend Dr. Oberzohn and tell him that you have done your part and I will do mine? Your little story will go into my collection of Unplausible Inventions!”
He touched a bell and Poiccart came in.
“Show Mr. Liggins out, please. Don’t hurt him—he may have a wife and children, though it is extremely unlikely.”
The visitor slunk from the room as though he had been whipped.
The door had scarcely closed upon him when Poiccart called Leon down from his room.
“Son,” he said, “George wants that man trailed.”
Leon peeped out after the retiring victim of Turkish tyranny.
“Not a hard job,” he said. “He has flat feet!”
Poiccart returned to the consulting-room.
“Who is he?” he asked.
“I don’t know. He’s been sent here either by Oberzohn or by friend Newton, the general idea being to bring us all together at the Gringo Club—which is fairly well known to me—on some agreeable evening. A bad actor! He has no tone. I shouldn’t be surprised if Leon finds something very interesting about him.”
“He’s been before, hasn’t he?”
Manfred nodded.
“Yes, he was here the day after Barberton came. At least, I had his letter the next morning and saw him for a few moments in the day. Queer devil, Oberzohn! And an industrious devil,” he added. “He sets everybody moving at once, and of course he’s right. A good general doesn’t attack with a platoon, but with an army, with all his strength, knowing that if he fails to pierce the line at one point he may succeed at another. It’s an interesting thought, Raymond, that at this moment there are probably some twenty separate and independent agencies working for our undoing. Most of them ignorant that their efforts are being duplicated. That is Oberzohn’s way—always has been his way. It’s the way he has started revolutions, the way he has organized religious riots.”
After he had had his bath and changed, he announced his intention of calling at Chester Square.
“I’m rather keen on meeting Joan Newton again, even if she has returned to her normal state of Jane Smith.”
Miss Newton was not at home, the maid told him when he called. Would he see Mr. Montague Newton, who was not only at home, but anxious for him to call, if the truth be told, for he had seen his enemy approaching.
“I shall be pleased,” murmured Manfred, and was ushered into the splendour of Mr. Newton’s drawing-room.
“Too bad about Joan,” said Mr. Newton easily. “She left for the Continent this morning.”
“Without a passport?” smiled Manfred.
A little slip on the part of Monty, but how was Manfred to know that the authorities had, only a week before, refused the renewal of her passport pending an inquiry into certain irregularities? The suggestion had been that other people than she had travelled to and from the Continent armed with this individual document.
“You don’t need a passport for Belgium,” he lied readily. “Anyway, this passport stuff’s a bit overdone. We’re not at war now.”
“All the time we’re at war,” said Manfred. “May I sit down?”
“Do. Have a cigarette?”
“Let me see the brand before I accept,” said Manfred cautiously, and the man guffawed as at a great joke.
The visitor declined the offer of the cigarette-case and took one from a box on the table.
“And is Jane making the grand tour?” he asked blandly.
“Jane’s run down and wants a rest.”
“What’s the matter with Aylesbury?”
He saw the man flinch at the mention of the women’s convict establishment, but he recovered instantly.
“It is not far enough out, and I’m told that there are all sorts of queer people living round there. No, she’s going to Brussels and then on to Aix-la-Chapelle, then probably to Spa—I don’t suppose I shall see her again for a month or two.”
“She was at Heavytree Farm in the early hours of this morning,” said Manfred, “and so were you. You were seen and recognized by a friend of mine—Mr. Raymond Poiccart. You travelled from Heavytree Farm to Oberzohn’s house in a Ford trolley.”
Not by a flicker of an eyelid did Monty Newton betray his dismay.
“That is bluff,” he said. “I didn’t leave this house last night. What happened at Heavytree Farm?”
“Miss Leicester was abducted. You are surprised, almost agitated, I notice.”
“Do you think I had anything to do with it?” asked Monty steadily.
“Yes, and the police share my view. A provisional warrant was issued for your arrest this morning. I thought you ought to know.”
Now the man drew back, his face went from red to white, and then to a deeper red again. Manfred laughed softly.
“You’ve got a guilty conscience, Newton,” he said, “and that’s half-way to being arrested. Where is Jane?”
“Gone abroad, I tell you.”
He was thrown off his balance by this all too successful bluff and had lost some of his self-possession.
“She is with Mirabelle Leicester: of that I’m sure,” said Manfred. “I’ve warned you twice, and it is not necessary to warn you a third time. I don’t know how far deep you’re in these snake murders: a jury will decide that sooner or later. But you’re dead within six hours of my learning that Miss Leicester has been badly treated. You know that is true, don’t you?”
Manfred was speaking very earnestly.
“You’re more scared of us than you are of the law, and you’re right, because we do not put our men to the hazard of a jury’s intelligence. You get the same trial from us as you get from a judge who knows all the facts. You can’t beat an English judge, Newton.”
The smile returned and he left the room. Fred, near at hand, waiting in the passage but at a respectful distance from the door, let him out with some alacrity.
Monty Newton turned his head sideways, caught a fleeting glimpse of the man he hated—hated worse than he hated Leon Gonsalez—and then called harshly for his servant.
“Come here,” he said, and Fred obeyed. “They’ll be sending round to make inquiries, and I want you to know what to tell them,” he said. “Miss Joan went away this morning to the Continent by the eight-fifteen. She’s either in Brussels or Aix-la-Chapelle. You’re not sure of the hotel, but you’ll find out. Is that clear to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Fred was looking aimlessly about the room.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I was wondering where the clock is.”
“Clock?” Now Monty Newton heard it himself. The tick-tick-tick of a cheap clock, and he went livid. “Find it,” he said hoarsely, and even as he spoke his eyes fell upon the little black box that had been pushed beneath the desk, and he groped for the door with a scream of terror.
Passers-by in Chester Square saw the door flung open and two men rush headlong into the street. And the little American clock, which Manfred had purchased a few days before, went on ticking out the time, and was still ticking merrily when the police experts went in and opened the box. It was Manfred’s oldest jest, and never failed.
Chapter XXIIIn the Store Cellar
IT was impossible that Mirabelle Leicester could fail to realize the serious danger in which she stood. Why she had incurred the enmity of Oberzohn, for what purpose this man was anxious to keep her under his eye, she could not even guess. It was a relief to wake up in the early morning, as she did, and find Joan sleeping in the same room; for though she had many reasons for mistrusting her, there was something about this doll-faced girl that made an appeal to her.
Joan was lying on the bed fully dressed, and at the sound of the creaking bed she turned and got up, fastening her skirt.
“Well, how do you like your new home?” she asked, with an attempt at joviality, which she was far from feeling, in spite of Monty’s assurances.
“I’ve seen better,” said Mirabelle coolly.
“I’ll bet you have!” Joan stretched and yawned; then, opening one of the cupboards, took a shovelful of coal and threw it into the furnace, clanging the iron door. “That’s my job,” she said humorously, “to keep you warm.”
“How long am I going to be kept here?”
“Five days,” was the surprising answer.
“Why five?” asked Mirabelle curiously.
“I don’t know. Maybe they’ll tell you,” said Joan.
She fixed a plug in the wall and turned on the small electric fire. Disappearing, she came back with a kettle which she placed on top of the ring.
“The view’s not grand, but the food’s good,” she said, with a gaiety that Mirabelle was now sure was forced.
“You’re with these people, of course—Dr. Oberzohn and Newton?”
“Mister Newton,” corrected Joan. “Yes, I’m his fiancée. We’re going to be married when things get a little better,” she said vaguely, “and there’s no use in your getting sore with me because I helped to bring you here. Monty’s told me all about it. They’re going to do you no harm at all.”
“Then why——” began Mirabelle.
“He’ll tell you,” interrupted Joan, “sooner or later. The old man, or—or—well, Monty isn’t in this: he’s only obliging Oberzohn.”
With one thing Mirabelle agreed: it was a waste of time to indulge in recriminations or to reproach the girl for her supreme treachery. After all, Joan owed nothing to her, and had been from the first a tool employed for her detention. It would have been as logical for a convict to reproach the prison guard.
“How do you come to be doing this sort of thing?” she asked, watching the girl making tea.
“Where do you get ‘this sort of thing’ from?” demanded Joan. “If you suppose that I spend my life chaperoning females, you’ve got another guess coming. Scared, aren’t you?”
She looked across at Mirabelle and the girl shook her head.
“Not really.”
“I should be,” confessed Joan. “Do you mind condensed milk? There’s no other. Yes, I should be writhing under the table, knowing something about Oberzohn.”
“If I were Oberzohn,” said Mirabelle with spirit, “I should be hiding in a deep hole where the Four Just Men would not find me.”
“Four Just Men!” sneered the girl, and then her face changed. “Were they the people who whipped Gurther?”
Mirabelle had not heard of this exploit, but she gave them credit with a nod.
“Is that so? Does Gurther know they’re friends of yours?” she asked significantly.
“I don’t know Gurther.”
“He’s the man who danced with you the other night—Lord—I forget what name we gave him. Because, if he does know, my dear,” she said slowly, “you’ve got two people to be extremely careful with. Gurther’s half mad. Monty has always said so. He dopes too, and there are times when he’s not a man at all but a low-down wolf. I’m scared ofhim—I’ll admit it. There aren’t Four Just Men, anyway,” she went off at a tangent. “There haven’t been more than three for years. One of them was killed in Bordeaux. That’s a town I’d hate to be killed in,” said Joan irreverently.
An interval of silence followed whilst she opened an air-tight tin and took out a small cake, and, putting it on the table, cut it into slices.
“What are they like?” she asked.
Evidently the interval had been filled with thoughts of the men from Curzon Street.
“Monty says they’re just bluff, but I’m not so sure that Monty tells me all he thinks. He’s so scared that he told me to call and see them, just because they gave him an order—which isn’t like Monty. They’ve killed people, haven’t they?”
Mirabelle nodded.
“And got away with it? They must be clever.” Joan’s admiration was dragged from her. “Where do they get their money?”
That was always an interesting matter to Joan.
When the girl explained, she was really impressed. That they could kill and get away with it, was wonderful; that they were men of millions, placed them in a category apart.
“They’ll never find you here,” said Joan. “There’s nobody living knows about this vault. There used to be eight men working here, sorting monkey hides, and every one of them’s dead. Monty told me. He said this place is below the canal level, and Oberzohn can flood it in five minutes. Monty thinks the old man had an idea of running a slush factory here.”
“What is a slush factory?” asked Mirabelle, open-mouthed.
“Phoney—snide—counterfeit. Not English, but Continental work. He was going to do that if things had gone really bad, but of course you make all the difference.”
Mirabelle put down her cup.
“Does he expect to make money out of me?” she said, trying hard not to laugh.
The girl nodded solemnly.
“Does he think I have a great deal of money?”
“He’s sure.”
Joan was sure too. Her tone said that plainly enough.
Mirabelle sat down on the bed, for the moment too astonished to speak. Her own financial position was no mystery. She had been left sufficient to bring her in a small sum yearly, and with the produce of the farm had managed to make both ends meet. It was the failure of the farm as a source of profit which had brought her to her new job in London. Alma had also a small annuity; the farm was the girl’s property, but beyond these revenues she had nothing. There was not even a possibility that she was an heiress. Her father had been a comparatively poor man, and had been supported in his numerous excursions to various parts of the world in search of knowledge by the scientific societies to which he was attached; his literary earnings were negligible; his books enjoyed only a very limited sale. She could trace her ancestry back for seven generations; knew of her uncles and aunts, and they did not include a single man or woman who, in the best traditions of the story-books, had gone to America and made an immense fortune.
“It is absurd,” she said. “I have no money. If Mr. Oberzohn puts me up to ransom, it will have to be something under a hundred!”
“Put you up to ransom?” said Joan. “I don’t get you there. But you’re rich all right—I can tell you that. Monty says so, and Monty wouldn’t lie to me.”
Mirabelle was bewildered. It seemed almost impossible that a man of Oberzohn’s intelligence and sources of information could make such a mistake. And yet Joan was earnest.
“They must have mistaken me for somebody else,” she said, but Joan did not answer. She was sitting up in a listening attitude, and her eyes were directed towards the iron door which separated their sleeping apartment from the larger vault. She had heard the creak of the trap turning and the sound of feet coming down the stairs.
Mirabelle rose as Oberzohn came in. He wore his black dressing-gown, his smoking-cap was at the back of his head, and the muddy Wellington boots which he had pulled over his feet looked incongruous, and would at any other time have provoked her to laughter.
He favoured her with a stiff nod.
“You have slept well, gracious lady?” he said, and to her amazement took her cold hand in his and kissed it.
She felt the same feeling of revulsion and unreality as had overcome her that night at the dance when Gurther had similarly saluted her.
“It is a nice place, for young people and for old.” He looked round the apartment with satisfaction. “Here I should be content to spend my life reading my books, and giving my mind to thought, but”—he spread his hands and shrugged—“what would you? I am a business man, with immense interests in every part of the world. I am rich, too, beyond your dreams! I have stores in every part of the world, and thousands of men and women on my pay-roll.”
Why was he telling her all this, she wondered, reciting the facts in a monotonous voice. Surely he had not come down to emphasize the soundness of his financial position?
“I am not very much interested in your business, Mr. Oberzohn,” she said, “but I want to know why I am being detained here. Surely, if you’re so rich, you do not want to hold me to ransom?”
“To ransom?” His forehead went up and down. “That is foolish talk. Did she tell you?” He pointed at the girl, and his face went as black as thunder.
“No, I guessed,” said Mirabelle quickly, not wishing to get her companion into bad odour.
“I do not hold you to ransom. I hold you, lovely lady, because you are good for my eyes. Did not Heine say, ‘The beauty of women is a sedative to the soul’? You should read Heine: he is frivolous, but in his stupidity there are many clever thoughts. Now tell me, lovely lady, have you all you desire?”
“I want to go out,” she said. “I can’t stay in this underground room without danger to my health.”
“Soon you shall go.” He bowed stiffly again, and shuffled across the floor to the furnace. Behind this were the two baize-covered boxes, and one he lifted tenderly. “Here are secrets such as you should not pry into,” he said in his awkward English. “The most potent of chemicals, colossal in power. The ignorant would touch them and they would explode—you understand?”
He addressed Mirabelle, who did not understand but made no answer.
“They must be kept warm for that reason. One I take, the other I leave. You shall not touch it—that is understood? My good friend has told you?” He brought his eyes to Joan.
“I understand all right,” she said. “Listen, Oberzohn: when am I going out for a walk? This place is getting on my nerves already.”
“To-night you shall have exercise with the lovely lady. I myself will accompany you.”
“Why am I here, Mr. Oberzohn?” Mirabelle asked again.
“You are here because you are in danger,” said Oberzohn, holding the green box under his arm. “You are in very great danger.” He nodded with every word. “There are certain men, of all the most infamous, who have a design upon your life. They are criminal, cunning and wise—but not so cunning or wise as Dr. Oberzohn. Because I will not let you fall into their hands I keep you here, young miss. Good morning.”
Again he bowed stiffly and went out, the iron door clanging behind him. They heard him climbing the stairs, the thud of the trap as it fell, and the rumble which Joan, at any rate, knew was made by the cement barrel being rolled to the top of the trap.
“Pleasant little fellow, isn’t he?” said Joan bitterly. “Him and his chemicals!” She glared down at the remaining box. “If I were sure it wouldn’t explode, I should smash it to smithereens!” she said.
Later she told the prisoner of Oberzohn’s obsession; of how he spent time and money in his search for the vital elixir.
“Monty thinks he’ll find it,” she said seriously. “Do you know, that old man has had an ox stewed down to a pint? There used to be a king in Europe—I forget his name—who had the same stuff, but not so strong. Monty says that Oberzohn hardly ever takes a meal—just a teaspoonful of this dope and he’s right for the day. And Monty says . . .”
For the rest of that dreary morning the girl listened without hearing to the wise sayings and clever acts of Monty; and every now and again her eyes strayed to the baize-covered box which contained “the most potent chemicals,” and she wondered whether, in the direst extremity, she would be justified in employing these dread forces for her soul’s salvation.
Chapter XXIIIThe Courier
ELIJAH WASHINGTON came up to London for a consultation. With the exception of a blue contusion beneath his right eye, he was none the worse for his alarming experience.
Leon Gonsalez had driven him to town, and on the way up the big man had expressed views about snake-bite which were immensely interesting to the man at the wheel.
“I’ve figured it out this way: there is no snake at all. What happens is that these guys have extracted snake venom—and that’s easy, by making a poison-snake bite on something soft—and have poisoned a dart or a burr with the venom. I’ve seen that done in Africa, particularly up in the Ituri country, and it’s pretty common in South America. The fellow just throws or shoots it, and just where the dart hits, he gets snake-poisoning right away.”
“That is an excellent theory,” said Leon, “only—no dart or burr has ever been found. It is the first thing the police looked for in the case of the stockbroker. They had the ground searched for days. And it was just the same in the case of the tramp and the bank clerk, just the same in the case of Barberton. A dart would stick some time and would be found in the man’s clothing or near the spot where he was struck down. How do you account for that?”
Mr. Washington very frankly admitted that he couldn’t account for it at all, and Leon chuckled.
“Ican,” he said. “In fact, I know just how it’s done.”
“Great snakes!” gasped Washington in amazement. “Then why don’t you tell the police?”
“The police know—now,” said Leon. “It isn’t snake-bite—it is nicotine poisoning.”
“How’s that?” asked the startled man, but Leon had his joke to himself.
After a consultation which had lasted most of the night they had brought Washington from Rath Hall, and on the way Leon hinted gently that the Three had a mission for him and hoped he would accept.
“You’re much too good a fellow to be put into an unnecessarily dangerous position,” he said; “and even if you weren’t, we wouldn’t lightly risk your blessed life; but the job we should ask you to do isn’t exactly a picnic.”
“Listen!” said Mr. Washington with sudden energy. “I don’t want any more snakes—not that kind of snake! I’ve felt pain in my time, but nothing like this! I know it must have been snake venom, but I’d like to meet the little wriggler who brews the brand that was handed to me, and maybe I’d change my mind about collecting him—alive!”
Leon agreed silently, and for the next few moments was avoiding a street car on one side, a baker’s cart on another, and ablahwoman who was walking aimlessly in the road, apparently with no other intention than of courting an early death, this being the way ofblahwomen.
“Phew!” said Mr. Washington, as the car skidded on the greasy road. “I don’t know whether you’re a good driver or just naturally under the protection of Providence.”
“Both,” said Leon, when he had straightened the machine. “All good drivers are that.”
Presently he continued:
“It is snake venom all right, Mr. Washington; only snake venom that has been most carefully treated by a man who knows the art of concentration of its bad and the extraction of its harmless constituents. My theory is that certain alkaloids are added, and it is possible that there has been a blending of two different kinds of poison. But you’re right when you say that no one animal carries in his poison sac that particular variety of death-juice. If it is any value to you, we are prepared to give you a snake-proof certificate!”
“I don’t want another experience of that kind,” Elijah Washington warned him; but Leon turned the conversation to the state of the road and the problems of traffic control.
There had been nothing seen or heard of Mirabelle, and Meadows’ activities had for the moment been directed to the forthcoming inquest on Barberton. Nowadays, whenever he reached Scotland Yard, he moved in a crowd of reporters, all anxious for news of further developments. The Barberton death was still the livliest topic in the newspapers: the old scare of the snake had been revived and in some degree intensified. There was not a journal which did not carry columns of letters to the editor denouncing the inactivity of the police. Were they, asked one sarcastic correspondent, under the hypnotic influence of the snake’s eyes? Could they not, demanded another, give up trapping speeders on the Lingfield road and bring their mighty brains to the elucidation of a mystery that was to cause every household in London the gravest concern? The Barberton murder was the peg on which every letter-writing faddist had a novel view to hang, and Mr. Meadows was not at that time the happiest officer in the force.
“Where is Lee?” asked Washington as they came into Curzon Street.
“He’s in town for the moment, but we are moving him to the North of England, though I don’t think there is any danger to him, now that Barberton’s letters are in our possession. They would have killed him yesterday to prevent our handling the correspondence. To-day I should imagine he has no special importance in the eyes of Oberzohn and Company. And here we are!”
Mr. Washington got out stiffly and was immediately admitted by the butler. The three men went upstairs to where George Manfred was wrestling with a phase of the problem. He was not alone; Digby, his head swathed in bandages, sat, an unhappy man, on the edge of a chair and answered Leon’s cheery greeting with a mournful smile.
“I’m sending Digby to keep observation on Oberzohn’s house; and especially do I wish him to search that old boat of his.”
He was referring to an ancient barge which lay on the mud at the bottom of Mr. Oberzohn’s private dock. From the canal there was a narrow waterway into the little factory grounds. It was so long since the small cantilever bridge which covered the entrance had been raised, that locals regarded the bridge floor as part of the normal bank of the canal. But behind the green water-gates was a concrete dock large enough to hold one barge, and here for years a decrepit vessel had wallowed, the hunting-ground of rats and the sleeping-place of the desperately homeless.
“The barge is practically immovable: I’ve already reported on that,” said Leon.
“It certainly has that appearance, and yet I would like a search,” replied Manfred. “You understand that this is night duty, and I have asked Meadows to notify the local inspector that you will be on duty—I don’t want to be pulled out of my bed to identify you at the Peckham police station. It isn’t a cheerful job, but you might be able to make it interesting by finding your way into his grounds. I don’t think the factory will yield much, but the house will certainly be a profitable study to an observer of human nature.”
“I hope I do better this time, Mr. Manfred,” said Digby, turning to go. “And, if you don’t mind, I’ll go by day and take a look at the place. I don’t want to fall down this time!”
George smiled as he rose and shook the man’s hand at parting.
“Even Mr. Gonsalez makes mistakes,” he said maliciously, and Leon looked hurt.
Manfred tidied some papers on his desk and put them into a drawer, waiting for Poiccart’s return. When he had come:
“Now, Mr. Washington, we will tell you what we wish you to do. We wish you to take a letter to Lisbon. Leon has probably hinted something to that effect, and it is now my duty to tell you that the errand is pretty certain to be an exceedingly dangerous one, but you are the only man I know to whom I could entrust this important document. I feel I cannot allow you to undertake this mission without telling you that the chances are heavily against your reaching Portugal.”
“Bless you for those cheerful words,” said Washington blankly. “The only thing I want to be certain about is, am I likely to meet Mr. Snake?”
Manfred nodded, and the American’s face lengthened.
“I don’t know that even that scares me,” he said at last, “especially now that I know that the dope they use isn’t honest snake-spit at all but a synthesized poison. It was having my confidence shaken in snakes that rattled me. When do you want me to go?”
“To-night.”
Mr. Washington for the moment was perplexed, and Manfred continued:
“Not by the Dover-Calais route. We would prefer that you travelled by Newhaven-Dieppe. Our friends are less liable to be on the alert, though I can’t even guarantee that. Oberzohn spends a lot of money in espionage. This house has been under observation for days. I will show you.”
He walked to the window and drew aside the curtain.
“Do you see a spy?” he asked, with a twinkle in his eye.
Mr. Washington looked up and down the street.
“Sure!” he said. “That man at the corner smoking a cigar——”
“Is a detective officer from Scotland Yard,” said Manfred. “Do you see anybody else?”
“Yes,” said Washington after a while, “there’s a man cleaning windows on the opposite side of the road: he keeps looking across here.”
“A perfectly innocent citizen,” said Manfred.
“Well, he can’t be in any of those taxis, because they’re empty.” Mr. Washington nodded to a line of taxis drawn up on the rank in the centre of the road.
“On the contrary, he is in the first taxi on the rank—he is the driver! If you went out and called a cab, he would come to you. If anybody else called him, he would be engaged. His name is Clarke, he lives at 43, Portlington Mews; he is an ex-convict living apart from his wife, and he receives seven pounds a week for his services, ten pounds every time he drives Oberzohn’s car, and all the money he makes out of his cab.”
He smiled at the other’s astonishment.
“So the chances are that your movements will be known; even though you do not call the cab, he will follow you. You must be prepared for that. I’m putting all my cards on the table, Mr. Washington, and asking you to do something which, if you cannot bring yourself to agree, must be done by either myself, Poiccart or Gonsalez. Frankly, none of us can be spared.”
“I’ll go,” said the American. “Snake or no snake, I’m for Lisbon. What is my route?”
Poiccart took a folded paper from his pocket.
“Newhaven, Dieppe, Paris. You have a reserved compartment on the Sud Express; you reach Valladolid late to-morrow night, and change to the Portuguese mail. Unless I can fix an aeroplane to meet you at Irun. We are trying now. Otherwise, you should be in Lisbon at two o’clock on the following afternoon. He had better take the letter now, George.”
Manfred unlocked the wall safe and took out a long envelope. It was addressed to “Senhor Alvaz Manuel y Cintra, Minister of Colonies,” and was heavily sealed.
“I want you to place this in Senhor Cintra’s hands. You’ll have no difficulty there because you will be expected,” he said. “Will you travel in that suit?”
The American thought.
“Yes, that’s as good as any,” he said.
“Will you take off your jacket?”
Mr. Washington obeyed, and with a small pair of scissors Manfred cut a slit in the lining and slipped the letter in. Then, to the American’s astonishment, Leon produced a rolled housewife, threaded a needle with extraordinary dexterity, and for the next five minutes the snake-hunter watched the deft fingers stitching through paper and lining. So skilfully was the slit sewed that Elijah Washington had to look twice to make sure where the lining had been cut.
“Well, that beats the band!” he said. “Mr. Gonsalez, I’ll send you my shirts for repair!”
“And here is something for you to carry.” It was a black leather portfolio, well worn. To one end was attached a steel chain terminating in a leather belt. “I want you to put this round your waist, and from now on to carry this wallet. It contains nothing more important than a few envelopes imposingly sealed, and if you lose it no great harm will come.”
“You think they’ll go for the wallet?”
Manfred nodded.
“One cannot tell, of course, what Oberzohn will do, and he’s as wily as one of his snakes. But my experience has been,” he said, “that the cleverer the criminal, the bigger the fool and the more outrageous his mistakes. You will want money.”
“Well, I’m not short of that,” said the other with a smile. “Snakes are a mighty profitable proposition. Still, I’m a business man . . .”
For the next five minutes they discussed financial details, and he was more than surprised to discover the recklessness with which money was disbursed.
He went out, with a glance from the corner of his eye at the taximan, whose hand was raised inquiringly, but, ignoring the driver, he turned and walked towards Regent Street, and presently found a wandering taxi of an innocuous character, and ordered the man to drive to the Ritz-Carlton, where rooms had been taken for him.
He was in Regent Street before he looked round through the peep-hole, and, as Manfred had promised him, the taxi was following, its flag down to prevent chance hiring. Mr. Washington went up to his room, opened the window and looked out: the taxi had joined a near-by rank. The driver had left his box.
“He’s on the ’phone,” muttered Mr. Washington, and would have given a lot of money to have known the nature of the message.