“No marks of any kind,” said Meadows, carrying the chart to the window to examine it more carefully. “And that, I think, is about all—unless this is something.”
“This” was wrapped in a piece of cloth, and was fastened to the bottom and the sides of the trunk by two improvised canvas straps. Meadows tried to pull it loose and whistled.
“Gold,” he said. “Nothing else can weigh quite as heavily as this.”
He lifted out the bundle eventually, unwrapped the covering, and gazed in amazement on the object that lay under his eyes. It was an African bête, a nude, squat idol, rudely shaped, the figure of a native woman.
“Gold?” said Manfred incredulously, and tried to lift it with his finger and thumb. He took a firmer grip and examined the discovery closely.
There was no doubt that it was gold, and fine gold. His thumbnail made a deep scratch in the base of the statuette. He could see the marks where the knife of the inartistic sculptor had sliced and carved.
Meadows knew the coast fairly well: he had made many trips to Africa and had stopped off at various ports en route.
“I’ve never seen anything exactly like it before,” he said, “and it isn’t recent workmanship either. When you see this”—he pointed to a physical peculiarity of the figure—“you can bet that you’ve got something that’s been made at least a couple of hundred years, and probably before then. The natives of West and Central Africa have not worn toe-rings, for example, since the days of the Caesars.”
He weighed the idol in his hand.
“Roughly ten pounds,” he said. “In other words, eight hundred pounds’ worth of gold.”
He was examining the cloth in which the idol had been wrapped, and uttered an exclamation.
“Look at this,” he said.
Written on one corner, in indelible pencil, were the words:
“Second shelf up left Gods lobby sixth.”
Suddenly Manfred remembered.
“Would you have this figure put on the scales right away?” he said. “I’m curious to know the exact weight.”
“Why?” asked Meadows in surprise, as he rang the bell.
The proprietor himself, who was aware that a police search was in progress, answered the call, and, at the detective’s request, hurried down to the kitchen and returned in a few minutes with a pair of scales, which he placed on the table. He was obviously curious to know the purpose for which they were intended, but Inspector Meadows did not enlighten him, standing pointedly by the door until the gentleman had gone.
The figure was taken from under the cloth where it had been hidden whilst the scales were being placed, and put in one shallow pan on the machine.
“Ten pounds seven ounces,” nodded Manfred triumphantly. “I thought that was the one!”
“One what?” asked the puzzled Meadows.
“Look at this list.”
Manfred found the hotel bill with the rows of figures and pointed to the one which had a black cross against it.
“107,” he said. “That is our little fellow, and the explanation is fairly plain. Barberton found some treasure-house filled with these statues. He took away the lightest. Look at the figures! He weighed them with a spring balance, one of those which register up to 21 lbs. Above that he had to guess—he puts ‘about 24,’ ‘about 22.’ ”
Meadows looked at his companion blankly, but Manfred was not deceived. That clever brain of the detective was working.
“Not for robbery—the trunk is untouched. They did not even burn his feet to find the idol or the treasure-house: they must have known nothing of that. It was easy to rob him—or, if they knew of his gold idol, they considered it too small loot to bother with.”
He looked slowly round the apartment. On the mantelshelf was a slip of brown paper like a pipe-spill. He picked it up, looked at both sides, and, finding the paper blank, put it back where he had found it. Manfred took it down and absently drew the strip between his sensitive fingertips.
“The thing to do,” said Meadows, taking one final look round, “is to find Miss Leicester.”
Manfred nodded.
“That is one of the things,” he said slowly. “The other, of course, is to find Johnny.”
“Johnny?” Meadows frowned suspiciously. “Who is Johnny?” he asked.
“Johnny is my private mystery.” George Manfred was smiling. “You promised me that I might have one!”
VI
In Chester Square
When Mirabelle Leicester went to Chester Square, her emotions were a curious discord of wonder, curiosity and embarrassment. The latter was founded on the extraordinary effusiveness of her companion, who had suddenly, and with no justification, assumed the position of dearest friend and lifelong acquaintance. Mirabelle thought the girl was an actress: a profession in which sudden and violent friendships are not of rare occurrence. She wondered why Aunt Alma had not made an effort to come to town, and wondered more that she had known of Alma’s friendship with the Newtons. That the elder woman had her secrets was true, but there was no reason why she should have refrained from speaking of a family who were close enough friends to be asked to chaperon her in town.
She had time for thought, for Joan Newton chattered away all the time, and if she asked a question, she either did not wait for approval, or the question was answered to her own satisfaction before it was put.
Chester Square, that dignified patch of Belgravia, is an imposing quarter. The big house into which the girl was admitted by a footman had that air of luxurious comfort which would have appealed to a character less responsive to refinement than Mirabelle Leicester’s. She was ushered into a big drawing-room which ran from the front to the back of the house, and did not terminate even there, for a large, cool conservatory, bright with flowers, extended a considerable
