Elver hesitated. He was a man burnt up by the Indian suns, wizened like a dried yellow apple, and he had no interest in the world beyond his work.
“I’ll go with you,” he said, stepping into the car. “And if your Barberton man fails you, you can have me as a guest. I like to hear you talking. One cannot know too much of the criminal mind! And life is dull since the snake stopped biting!”
The car made towards Blackfriars Bridge, and Manfred kept watch of the sidewalk. There was no sign of Barberton, and he signalled Leon to turn and come back. This brought the machine to the Embankment side of the broad boulevard. They had passed under Waterloo Bridge and were nearing Cleopatra’s Needle when Gonsalez saw the man they were seeking.
He was leaning against the parapet, his elbows on the coping and his head sunk forward as though he were studying the rush of the tide below. The car pulled up near a policeman who was observing the lounger thoughtfully. The officer recognized the police surgeon and saluted.
“Can’t understand that bird, sir,” he said. “He’s been standing there for ten minutes—I’m keeping an eye on him because he looks to me like a suicide who’s thinkin’ it over!”
Manfred approached the man, and suddenly, with a shock, saw his face. It was set in a grin—the eyes were wide open, the skin a coppery red.
“Elver! Leon!”
As Leon sprang from the car, Manfred touched the man’s shoulder and he fell limply to the ground. In a second the doctor was on his knees by the side of the still figure.
“Dead,” he said laconically, and then: “Good God!”
He pointed to the neck, where a red patch showed.
“What is that?” asked Manfred steadily.
“The snake!” said the doctor.
V
The Golden Woman
Barberton had been stricken down in the heart of London, under the very eyes of the policeman, it proved.
“Yes, sir, I’ve had him under observation for a quarter of an hour. I saw him walking along the Embankment, admiring the view, long before he stopped here.”
“Did anybody go near him or speak to him?” asked Dr. Elver, looking up.
“No, sir, he stood by himself. I’ll swear that nobody was within two yards of him. Of course, people have been passing to and fro, but I have been looking at him all the time, and I’ve not seen man or woman within yards of him, and my eyes were never off him.”
A second policeman had appeared on the scene, and he was sent across to Scotland Yard in Manfred’s car, for the ambulance and the police reserves necessary to clear and keep in circulation the gathering crowd. These returned simultaneously, and the two friends watched the pitiable thing lifted into a stretcher, and waited until the white-bodied vehicle had disappeared with its sad load before they returned to their machine.
Gonsalez took his place at the wheel; George got in by his side. No word was spoken until they were back at Curzon Street. Manfred went in alone, whilst his companion drove the machine to the garage. When he returned, he found Poiccart and George deep in discussion.
“You were right, Raymond.” Leon Gonsalez stripped his thin coat and threw it on a chair. “The accuracy of your forecasts is almost depressing. I am waiting all the time for the inevitable mistake, and I am irritated when this doesn’t occur. You said the snake would reappear, and the snake has reappeared. Prophesy now for me, O seer!”
Poiccart’s heavy face was gloomy; his dark eyes almost hidden under the frown that brought his bushy eyebrows lower.
“One hasn’t to be a seer to know that our association with Barberton will send the snake wriggling towards Curzon Street,” he said. “Was it Gurther or Pfeiffer?”
Manfred considered.
“Pfeiffer, I think. He is the steadier of the two. Gurther has brainstorms; he is on the neurotic side. And that nine-thonged whip of yours, Leon, cannot have added to his mental stability. No, it was Pfeiffer, I’m sure.”
“I suppose the whip unbalanced him a little,” said Leon. He thought over this aspect as though it were one worth consideration. “Gurther is a sort of Jekyll and Hyde, except that there is no virtue to him at all. It is difficult to believe, seeing him dropping languidly into his seat at the opera, that this exquisite young man in his private moments would not change his linen more often than once a month, and would shudder at the sound of a running bath-tap! That almost sounds as though he were a morphia fiend. I remember a case in ’99 … but I am interrupting you?”
“What precautions shall you take, Leon?” asked George Manfred.
“Against the snake?” Leon shrugged his shoulders. “The old military precaution against Zeppelin raids; the precaution the farmer takes against a plague of wasps. You cannot kneel on the chest of the vespa vulgaris and extract his sting with an anaesthetic. You destroy his nest—you bomb his hangar. Personally, I have never feared dissolution in any form, but I have a childish objection to being bitten by a snake.”
Poiccart’s saturnine face creased for a moment in a smile. “You’ve no objection to stealing my theories,” he said dryly, and the other doubled up in silent laughter.
Manfred was pacing the little room, his hands behind him, a thick Egyptian cigarette between his lips.
“There’s a train leaves Paddington for Gloucester at ten forty-five,” he said. “Will you telegraph to Miss Goddard, Heavytree Farm, and ask her to meet the train with a cab? After that I shall want two men to patrol the vicinity of the farm day and night.”
Poiccart pulled open a drawer of the desk, took out a small book and ran his finger down the index.
“I can get this service in Gloucester,” he said. “Gordon, Williams, Thompson and Elfred—they’re reliable people and have worked for us before.”
Manfred nodded.
“Send them the usual instructions by letter. I wonder
