“Stuff! What do I know about snakes?” He disengaged himself and came back to where Oberzohn was waiting, a figure of patience.
The girl was lying on the bed, her face in the crook of her arm, and he was gazing at her, his expression inscrutable.
“That is all, then. Good night, gracious ladies.”
He turned and marched back towards the step and waved his hand. Monty followed. The girl heard the thud of the trap fall, the scrape of the old man’s boots, and then a rumbling sound, which she did not immediately understand. Later, when in a panic, she tried the trap, she found that a heavy barrel had been put on top, and that it was immovable.
XX
Gurther Reports
Dr. Oberzhon had not been to bed for thirty-five years. It was his practice to sleep in a chair, and alternate his dozes with copious draughts from his favourite authors. Mostly the books were about the soul, and free will, and predestination, with an occasional dip into Nietzsche by way of light recreation. In ordinary circumstances he would have had need for all the philosophy he could master; for ruin had come. The destruction of his store, which, to all intents and purposes, was uninsured, would have been the crowning stroke of fate but for the golden vision ahead.
Villa, that handsome half-breed, had arrived in England and had been with the doctor all the evening. At that moment he was on his way to Liverpool to catch the Coast boat, and he had left with his master a record of the claims that had already been pegged out on Monte Doro, as he so picturesquely renamed the new mountain. There were millions there; uncountable wealth. And between the Herr Doktor and the achievement of this colossal fortune was a life which he had no immediate desire to take. The doctor was a bachelor; women bored him. Yet he was prepared to take the extreme step if by so doing he could doubly ensure his fortune. Mirabelle dead gave him one chance; Mirabelle alive and persuaded, multiplied that chance by a hundred.
He opened the book he was reading at the last page and took out the folded paper. It was a special licence to marry, and had been duly registered at the Greenwich Registrar’s Office since the day before the girl had entered his employment. This was his second and most powerful weapon. He could have been legally married on this nearly a week ago. It was effective for two months at least, and only five days separated him from the necessity of a decision. If the time expired, Mirabelle could live. It was quite a different matter, killing in cold blood a woman for whom the police would be searching, and with whose disappearance his name would be connected, from that other form of slaying he favoured: the striking down of strange men in crowded thoroughfares. She was not for the snake—as yet.
He folded the paper carefully, put it back in the book and turned the page, when there was a gentle tap at the door and he sat up.
“Come in, Pfeiffer. March!”
The door opened slowly and a man sidled into the room, and at the sight of him Dr. Oberzohn gasped.
“Gurther!” he stammered, for once thrown out of his stride.
Gurther smiled and nodded, his round eyes fixed on the tassel of the Herr Doktor’s smoking-cap.
“You have returned—and failed?”
“The American, I think, is dead, Herr Doktor,” said the man in his staccato tone. “The so excellent Pfeiffer is also—dead!”
The doctor blinked twice.
“Dead?” he said gratingly. “Who told you this?”
“I saw him. Something happened … to the snake. Pfeiffer was bitten.”
The old man’s hard eyes fixed him.
“So!” he said softly.
“He died very quickly—in the usual manner,” jerked Gurther, still with that stupid smile.
“So!” said the doctor again. “All then was failure, and out of it comes an American, who is nothing, and Pfeiffer, who is much—dead!”
“God have him in his keeping!” said Gurther, not lowering or raising his eyes. “And all the way back I thought this, Herr Doktor—how much better that it should be Pfeiffer and not me. Though my nerves are so bad.”
“So!” said the doctor for the fourth time, and held out his hand.
Gurther slipped his fingers into his waistcoat pocket and took out a gold cigarette-case. The doctor opened it and looked at the five cigarettes that reposed, at the two halves of the long holder neatly lying in their proper place, closed the case with a snap and laid it on the table.
“What shall I do with you, Gurther? Tomorrow the police will come and search this house.”
“There is the cellar, Herr Doktor: it is very comfortable there. I would prefer it.”
Dr. Oberzohn made a gesture like a boy wiping something from a slate.
“That is not possible: it is in occupation,” he said. “I must find a new place for you.” He stared and mused. “There is the boat,” he said.
Gurther’s smile did not fade.
The boat was a small barge, which had been drawn up into the private dock of the O. & S. factory, and had been rotting there for years, the playing-ground of rats, the dosshouse of the homeless. The doctor saw what was in the man’s mind.
“It may be comfortable. I will give you some gas to kill the rats, and it will only be for five-six days.”
“Ja, Herr Doktor.”
“For tonight you may sleep in the kitchen. One does not expect—”
There was a thunderous knock on the outer door. The two men looked at one another, but still Gurther grinned.
“I think it is the police,” said the doctor calmly.
He got up to his feet, lifted the seat of a long hard-looking sofa, disclosing a deep cavity, and Gurther slipped in, and the seat was replaced. This done, the doctor waddled to the door and turned the key.
“Good morning, Inspector Meadows.”
“May I come in?” said Meadows.
Behind him were two police
