“Where is Lew?”
In the stillness of the house the words, though spoken in a low tone, were audible.
“I don’t know—inside somewhere. He had to fix that dago.”
Leon grinned. This description of himself never failed to tickle him.
One of the workers in the library came out at this point.
“Have you seen Cuccini?”
“No,” said the man at the door.
“Go in and find him. He ought to be here.”
Cuccini’s absence evidently made him uneasy, for though he returned to the room he was out again in a minute, asking if the messenger had come back. Then, from the back of the passage, came the searcher’s voice: “The kitchen’s locked.”
The safe-cutter uttered an expression of amazement.
“Locked? What’s the idea?”
He came to the foot of the stairs and bellowed up: “Cuccini!”
Only the echo answered him.
“That’s queer.” He poked his head in the door of the study. “Rush that job, Mike. There’s some funny business here.” And over his shoulder, “Tell the boys to get ready to jump.”
The man went out into the night and was absent some minutes, to return with an alarming piece of news.
“They’ve gone, boss. I can’t see one of them.”
The “boss” cursed him, and himself went into the grounds on a visit of inspection. He came back in a hurry, ran into the study, and Leon heard his voice: “Stand ready to clear.”
“What about Cuccini?”
“Cuccini will have to look after himself … got it, Mike?”
The deep voice said something. There followed the sound of a crack, as though something of iron had broken. It was the psychological moment. Leon parted the curtains and dropped lightly to the floor.
The man at the door turned in a flash at the sound.
“Put ’em up!” he said sharply.
“Don’t shoot.” Leon’s voice was almost conversational in its calmness. “The house is surrounded by police.”
With an oath the man darted out of the door, and at that instant came the sound of the first shot, followed by desultory firing from the direction of the road. The second guard had been the first to go. Leon ran to the door, slammed it tight and switched on the lights as the two men came from the study. Under the arm of one was a thick pad of square brown sheets. He dropped his load and put up his hands at the sight of the gun; but his companion was made of harder material, and, with a yell, he leapt at the man who stood between him and freedom. Leon twisted aside, advanced his shoulder to meet the furious drive of the man’s fist; then, dropping his pistol, he stooped swiftly and tackled him below the knees. The man swayed, sought to recover his balance and fell with a crash on the stone floor. All the time his companion stood dazed and staring, his hands waving in the air.
There was a knock at the outer door. Without turning his back upon his prisoners, Leon reached for the bar and pulled it up. Manfred came in.
“The gentleman who shouted ‘Cuccini’ scared them. I think they’ve got away. There were two cars parked on the road.”
His eyes fell upon the brown sheets scattered on the floor and he nodded.
“I think you have all you want, Leon,” he said.
The detectives came crowding in at that moment and secured their prisoners whilst Leon Gonsalez and his friend went out on to the lawn to search for Gurther.
The man lay as he had fallen, on his face, and as Leon flashed his lamp upon the figure, he saw that the snake had struck behind the ear.
“Gurther?” frowned Leon.
He turned the figure on its back and gave a little gasp of surprise, for there looked up to the starry skies the heavy face of Pfeiffer.
“Pfeiffer! I could have sworn it was the other! There has been some double-crossing here. Let me think.” He stood for fully a minute, his chin on his hand. “I could have understood Gurther; he was becoming a nuisance and a danger to the old man. Pfeiffer, the more reliable of the two, hated him. My first theory was that Gurther had been put out by order of Oberzohn.”
“Suppose Gurther heard that order, or came to know of it?” asked Manfred quietly.
Leon snapped his fingers.
“That is it! We had a similar case a few years ago, you will remember, George? The old man gave the ‘out’ order to Pfeiffer—and Gurther got his blow in first. Shrewd fellow!”
When they returned to the house, the three were seated in a row in Johnson Lee’s library. Cuccini, of course, was an old acquaintance. Of the other two men, Leon recognized one, a notorious gunman whose photograph had embellished the pages of Hue and Cry for months.
The third, and evidently the skilled workman of the party, for he it was whom they had addressed as “Mike” and who had burnt out the lock of Lee’s safe, was identified by Meadows as Mike Selwyn, a skilful burglar and bank-smasher, who had, according to his statement, only arrived from the Continent that afternoon in answer to a flattering invitation which promised considerable profit to himself.
“And why I left Milan,” he said bitterly, “where the graft is easy and the money’s good, I’d like you to tell me!”
The prisoners were removed to the nearest secure lockup, and by the time Lee’s servants returned from their dance, all evidence of an exciting hour had disappeared, except that the blackened and twisted door of the safe testified to the sinister character of the visitation.
Meadows returned as they were gathering together the scattered sheets. There were hundreds of them, all written in Braille characters, and Manfred’s sensitive fingers were skimming their surface.
“Oh, yes,” he said, in answer to a question that was put to him, “I knew Lee was blind, the day we searched Barberton’s effects. That was my mystery.” He laughed. “Barberton expected a
