“Is the place insured or is it not?” asked Monty for the second time.
Dr. Oberzohn considered. “It is not,” he said. “But this matter is of such small importance compared with the great thing which is coming, that I shall not give it a thought.”
“It was incendiary,” said Newton angrily. “The fire brigade people are certain of it. That cursed crowd are getting back on us for what happened this afternoon.”
“I know of nothing that happened this afternoon,” said Dr. Oberzohn coldly. “You know of nothing either. It was an accident which we all deplored. As to this man … we shall see.”
He hung up the telephone receiver very carefully, went along the passage, down a steep flight of dark stairs, and into a basement kitchen. Before he opened the door he heard the sound of furious voices, and he stood for a moment surveying the scene with every feeling of satisfaction. Except for two men, the room was empty. The servants used the actual kitchen at the front of the house, and this place was little better than a scullery. On one side of the deal table stood Gurther, white as death, his round eyes red with rage. On the other, the short, stout Russian Pole, with his heavy pasty face and baggy eyes; his little moustache and beard bristling with anger. The cards scattered on the table and the floor told the Herr Doktor that this was a repetition of the quarrel which was so frequent between them.
“Schweinhund!” hissed Gurther. “I saw you palm the King as you dealt. Thief and robber of the blind—”
“You German dog! You—”
They were both speaking in German. Then the doctor saw the hand of Gurther steal down and back.
“Gurther!” he called, and the man spun round. “To my parlour—march!”
Without a word, the man strode past him, and the doctor was left with the panting Russian.
“Herr Doktor, this Gurther is beyond endurance!” His voice trembled with rage. “I would sooner live with a pig than this man, who is never normal unless he is drugged.”
“Silence!” shouted Oberzohn, and pointed to the chair. “You shall wait till I come,” he said.
When he came back to his room, he found Gurther standing stiffly to attention.
“Now, Gurther,” he said—he was almost benevolent as he patted the man on the shoulder—“this matter of Gonsalez must end. Can I have my Gurther hiding like a worm in the ground? No, that cannot be. Tonight I will send you to this man, and you are so clever that you cannot fail. He whipped you, Gurther—tied you up and cruelly beat you. Always remember that, my brave fellow—he beat you till you bled. Now you shall see the man again. You will go in a dress for-every-occasion,” he said. “The city-clerk manner. You will watch him in your so clever way, and you shall strike—it is permitted.”
“Ja, Herr Doktor.”
He turned on his heels and disappeared through the door. The doctor waited till he heard him going up the stairs, and then he rang for Pfeiffer. The man came in sullenly. He lacked all the precision of the military Gurther; yet, as Oberzohn knew, of the two he was the more alert, the more cunning.
“Pfeiffer, it has come to me that you are in some danger. The police wish to take you back to Warsaw, where certain unpleasant things happened, as you well know. And I am told”—he lowered his voice—“that a friend of ours would be glad to see you go, hein?”
The man did not raise his sulky eyes from the floor, did not answer, or by any gesture or movement of body suggest that he had heard what the older man had said.
“Gurther goes tomorrow, perhaps on our good work, perhaps to speak secretly to his friends in the police—who knows? He has work to do: let him do it, Pfeiffer. All my men will be there—at a place called Brightlingsea. You also shall go. Gurther would rob a blind man? Good! You shall rob one also. As for Gurther, I do not wish him back. I am tired of him: he is a madman. All men are mad who sniff that white snuff up their foolish noses—eh, Pfeiffer?”
Still the awkward-looking man made no reply.
“Let him do his work: you shall not interfere, until—it is done.”
Pfeiffer was looking at him now, a cold sneer on his face.
“If he comes back, I do not,” he said. “This man is frightening me. Twice the police have been here—three times … you remember the woman. The man is a danger, Herr Doktor. I told you he was the day you brought him here.”
“He can dress in the gentleman-club manner,” said the doctor gently.
“Pshaw!” said the other scornfully. “Is he not an actor who has postured and painted his face and thrown about his legs for so many marks a week?”
“If he does not come back I shall be relieved,” murmured the doctor. “Though it would be a mistake to leave him so that these cunning men could pry into our affairs.”
Pfeiffer said nothing: he understood his instructions; there was nothing to be said. “When does he go?”
“Early tomorrow, before daylight. You will see him, of course.”
He said something in a low tone, that only Pfeiffer heard. The shadow who stood in stockinged feet listening at the door only heard two words. Gurther grinned in the darkness; his bright eyes grew luminous. He heard his companion
