“Call Elver,” suggested Leon, and George pulled the telephone towards him.
It was some time before he could get into touch with Dr. Elver, and then he learnt, to his relief, that the redoubtable Inspector Meadows had complete charge.
“He’s coming up to see you,” said Elver. “As a matter of fact, the chief was here when I arrived at the Yard, and he particularly asked Meadows to consult with you. There’s going to be an awful kick at the Home Secretary’s office about this murder. We had practically assured the Home Office that there would be no repetition of the mysterious deaths and that the snake had gone dead for good.”
Manfred asked a few questions and then hung up.
“They are worried about the public—you never know what masses will do in given circumstances. But you can gamble that the English mass does the same thing—Governments hate intelligent crowds. This may cost the Home Secretary his job, poor soul! And he’s doing his best.”
A strident shout in the street made him turn his head with a smile.
“The late editions have got it—naturally. It might have been committed on their doorstep.”
“But why?” asked Poiccart. “What was Barberton’s offence?”
“His first offence,” said Leon promptly, without waiting for Manfred to reply, “was to go in search of Miss Mirabelle Leicester. His second and greatest was to consult with us. He was a dead man when he left the house.”
The faint sound of a bell ringing sent Poiccart down to the hall to admit an unobtrusive, middle-aged man, who might have been anything but what he was: one of the cleverest trackers of criminals that Scotland Yard had known in thirty years. A sandy-haired, thin-faced man, who wore pince-nez and looked like an actor, he had been a visitor to Curzon Street before, and now received a warm welcome. With little preliminary he came to the object of his call, and Manfred told him briefly what had happened, and the gist of his conversation with Barberton.
“Miss Mirabelle Leicester is—” began Manfred.
“Employed by Oberzohn—I know,” was the surprising reply. “She came up to London this morning and took a job as laboratory assistant. I had no idea that Oberzohn & Smitts had a laboratory on the premises.”
“They hadn’t until a couple of days ago,” interrupted Leon. “The laboratory was staged especially for her.”
Meadows nodded, then turned to Manfred. “He didn’t give you any idea at all why he wanted to meet Miss Leicester?”
George shook his head.
“No, he was very mysterious indeed on that subject,” he said.
“He arrived by the Benguella, eh?” said Meadows, making a note. “We ought to get something from the ship before they pay off their stewards. If a man isn’t communicative on board ship, he’ll never talk at all! And we may find something in his belongings. Would you like to come along, Manfred?”
“I’ll come with pleasure,” said George gravely. “I may help you a little—you will not object to my making my own interpretation of what we see?”
Meadows smiled.
“You will be allowed your private mystery,” he said.
A taxi set them down at the Petworth Hotel in Norfolk Street, and they were immediately shown up to the room which the dead man had hired but had not as yet occupied. His trunk, still strapped and locked, stood on a small wooden trestle, his overcoat was hanging behind the door; in one corner of the room was a thick holdall, tightly strapped, and containing, as they subsequently discovered, a weather-stained mackintosh, two well-worn blankets and an air pillow, together with a collapsible canvas chair, also showing considerable signs of usage. This was the object of their preliminary search.
The lock of the trunk yielded to the third key which the detective tried. Beyond changes of linen and two suits, one of which was practically new and bore the tab of a store in St. Paul de Loanda, there was very little to enlighten them. They found an envelope full of papers, and sorted them out one by one on the bed. Barberton was evidently a careful man: he had preserved his hotel bills, writing on their backs brief but pungent comments about the accommodation he had enjoyed or suffered. There was an hotel in Lobuo which was full of vermin; there was one at Mossamedes of which he had written:
“Rats ate one boot. Landlord made no allowance. Took three towels and pillow-slip.”
“One of the Four Just Men in embryo,” said Meadows dryly.
Manfred smiled.
On the back of one bill were closely written columns of figures: “126, 1315, 107, 1712, about 24,” etc. Against a number of these figures the word “about” appeared, and Manfred observed that invariably this qualification marked one of the higher numbers. Against the 107 was a thick pencil mark.
There were amongst the papers several other receipts. In St. Paul he had bought a “pistol automatic of precision” and ammunition for the same. The “pistol automatic of precision” was not in the trunk.
“We found it in his pocket,” said Meadows briefly. “That fellow was expecting trouble, and was entitled to, if it is true that they tortured him at Mosamodes.”
“Moss-am-o-dees,” Manfred corrected the mispronunciation. It almost amounted to a fad in him that to hear a place miscalled gave him a little pain.
Meadows was reading a letter, turning the pages slowly.
“This is from his sister: she lives at Brightlingsea, and there’s nothing in it except …” He read a portion of the letter aloud:
“… thank you for the books. The children will appreciate them. It must have been like old times writing them—but I can understand how it helped pass the time. Mr. Lee came over and asked if I had heard from you. He is wonderful.”
The letter was in an educated hand.
“He didn’t strike me as a man who wrote books,” said Meadows, and continued his search.
Presently he unfolded a dilapidated
