Part 14

“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 XXII_ _In 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 of _him_—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 XXIII_ _The 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.

“_I_ can,” 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 a _blah_ woman who was walking aimlessly in the road, apparently with no other intention than of courting an early death, this being the way of _blah_ women.

“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: