The electric power of the factory had, in the old days, been carried on two distinct circuits, and the connection with the vaults was practically untouched by the explosion.
They were in a smaller room now, fairly comfortably furnished. Gurther knew it well, for it was here that he had spent the greater part of his first six months in England. Ventilation came through three small gratings near the roof. There was a furnace, and, as Gurther knew, an ample supply of fuel in one of the three cellars that opened into the vault.
“Here will you stay until I send for you,” said Oberzohn. “Tonight, perhaps, after they have searched. You have a pistol?”
“Ja, Herr Doktor.”
“Food, water, bedding—all you need.” Oberzohn jerked open another of the cellars and took stock of the larder. “Tonight I may come for you—tomorrow night—who knows? You will light the fire at once.” He pointed to the two baize-covered boxes. “Good morning, Gurther.”
“Good morning, Herr Doktor.”
Oberzohn went up to the factory level, dropped the trap and his foot pushed back the ashes which hid its presence, and with a cautious look round he crossed the field to his house. He was hardly in his study before the first police car came bumping along the lane.
XII
Leon Theorizes
Making inquiries, Detective-Inspector Meadows discovered that, on the previous evening at eight o’clock, two men had called upon Barberton. The first of these was described as tall and rather aristocratic in appearance. He wore dark, horn-rimmed spectacles. The hotel manager thought he might have been an invalid, for he walked with a stick. The second man seemed to have been a servant of some kind, for he spoke respectfully to the visitor.
“No, he gave no name, Mr. Meadows,” said the manager. “I told him of the terrible thing which had happened to Mr. Barberton, and he was so upset that I didn’t like to press the question.”
Meadows was on his circuitous way to Curzon Street when he heard this, and he arrived in time for breakfast. Manfred’s servants regarded it as the one eccentricity of an otherwise normal gentleman that he invariably breakfasted with his butler and chauffeur. This matter had been discussed threadbare in the tiny servants’ hall, and it no longer excited comment when Manfred telephoned down to the lower regions and asked for another plate.
The Triangle were in cheerful mood. Leon Gonsalez was especially bright and amusing, as he invariably was after such a night as he had spent.
“We searched Oberzohn’s house from cellar to attic,” said Meadows when the plate had been laid.
“And of course you found nothing. The elegant Gurther?”
“He wasn’t there. That fellow will keep at a distance if he knows that there’s a warrant out for him. I suspect some sort of signal. There was a very bright green light burning in one of those ridiculous Gothic turrets.”
Manfred stifled a yawn. “Gurther went back soon after midnight,” he said, “and was there until Oberzohn’s return.”
“Are you sure?” asked the astonished detective.
Leon nodded, his eyes twinkling. “After that, one of those infernal river mists blotted out observation,” he said, “but I should imagine Herr Gurther is not far away. Did you see his companion, Pfeiffer?”
Meadows nodded. “Yes, he was cleaning boots when I arrived.”
“How picturesque!” said Gonsalez. “I think he will have a valet the next time he goes to prison, unless the system has altered since your days, George?”
George Manfred, who had once occupied the condemned cell in Chelmsford Prison, smiled.
“An interesting man, Gurther,” mused Gonsalez. “I have a feeling that he will escape hanging. So you could not find him? I found him last night. But for the lady, who was both an impediment and an interest, we might have put a period to his activities.” He caught Meadows’ eye. “I should have handed him to you, of course.”
“Of course,” said the detective dryly.
“A remarkable man, but nervous. You are going to see Mr. Johnson Lee?”
“What made you say that?” asked the detective in astonishment, for he had not as yet confided his intention to the three men.
“He will surprise you,” said Leon. “Tell me, Mr. Meadows: when you and George so thoroughly and carefully searched Barberton’s box, did you find anything that was suggestive of his being a cobbler, let us say—or a bookbinder?”
“I think in his sister’s letter there was a reference to the books he had made. I found nothing particular except an awl and a long oblong of wood which was covered with pinpricks. As a matter of fact, when I saw it my first thought was that, living the kind of life he must have done in the wilderness, it was rather handy to be able to repair his own shoes. The idea of bookbinding is a new one.”
“I should say he never bound a book in his life, in the ordinary sense of the word,” remarked Manfred; “and as Leon says, you will find Johnson Lee a very surprising man.”
“Do you know him?”
Manfred nodded gravely.
“I have just been on the telephone to him,” he said. “You’ll have to be careful of Mr. Lee, Meadows. Our friend the snake may be biting his way, and will, if he hears a breath of suspicion that he was in Barberton’s confidence.”
The detective put down his knife and fork.
“I wish you fellows would stop being mysterious,” he said, half annoyed, half amused. “What is behind this business? You talk of the snake as though you could lay your hands on him.”
“And we could,” they said in unison.
“Who is he?” challenged the detective.
“The Herr Doktor,” smiled Gonsalez.
“Oberzohn?”
Leon nodded.
“I thought you would have discovered that by connecting the original three murders together—and murders they were. First”—he ticked the names off on his fingers—“we have a
