Leon Gonsalez had driven him to town, and on the way up the big man had expressed views about snakebite which were immensely interesting to the man at the wheel. “I’ve figured it out this way: there is no snake at all. What happens is that these guys have extracted snake venom—and that’s easy, by making a poison-snake bite on something soft—and have poisoned a dart or a burr with the venom. I’ve seen that done in Africa, particularly up in the Ituri country, and it’s pretty common in South America. The fellow just throws or shoots it, and just where the dart hits, he gets snake-poisoning right away.”
“That is an excellent theory,” said Leon, “only—no dart or burr has ever been found. It is the first thing the police looked for in the case of the stockbroker. They had the ground searched for days. And it was just the same in the case of the tramp and the bank clerk, just the same in the case of Barberton. A dart would stick some time and would be found in the man’s clothing or near the spot where he was struck down. How do you account for that?”
Mr. Washington very frankly admitted that he couldn’t account for it at all, and Leon chuckled.
“I can,” he said. “In fact, I know just how it’s done.”
“Great snakes!” gasped Washington in amazement. “Then why don’t you tell the police?”
“The police know—now,” said Leon. “It isn’t snakebite—it is nicotine poisoning.”
“How’s that?” asked the startled man, but Leon had his joke to himself.
After a consultation which had lasted most of the night they had brought Washington from Rath Hall, and on the way Leon hinted gently that the Three had a mission for him and hoped he would accept.
“You’re much too good a fellow to be put into an unnecessarily dangerous position,” he said; “and even if you weren’t, we wouldn’t lightly risk your blessed life; but the job we should ask you to do isn’t exactly a picnic.”
“Listen!” said Mr. Washington with sudden energy. “I don’t want any more snakes—not that kind of snake! I’ve felt pain in my time, but nothing like this! I know it must have been snake venom, but I’d like to meet the little wriggler who brews the brand that was handed to me, and maybe I’d change my mind about collecting him—alive!”
Leon agreed silently, and for the next few moments was avoiding a street car on one side, a baker’s cart on another, and a blah woman who was walking aimlessly in the road, apparently with no other intention than of courting an early death, this being the way of blah women.
“Phew!” said Mr. Washington, as the car skidded on the greasy road. “I don’t know whether you’re a good driver or just naturally under the protection of Providence.”
“Both,” said Leon, when he had straightened the machine. “All good drivers are that.”
Presently he continued:
“It is snake venom all right, Mr. Washington; only snake venom that has been most carefully treated by a man who knows the art of concentration of its bad and the extraction of its harmless constituents. My theory is that certain alkaloids are added, and it is possible that there has been a blending of two different kinds of poison. But you’re right when you say that no one animal carries in his poison sac that particular variety of death-juice. If it is any value to you, we are prepared to give you a snake-proof certificate!”
“I don’t want another experience of that kind,” Elijah Washington warned him; but Leon turned the conversation to the state of the road and the problems of traffic control.
There had been nothing seen or heard of Mirabelle, and Meadows’ activities had for the moment been directed to the forthcoming inquest on Barberton. Nowadays, whenever he reached Scotland Yard, he moved in a crowd of reporters, all anxious for news of further developments. The Barberton death was still the livliest topic in the newspapers: the old scare of the snake had been revived and in some degree intensified. There was not a journal which did not carry columns of letters to the editor denouncing the inactivity of the police. Were they, asked one sarcastic correspondent, under the hypnotic influence of the snake’s eyes? Could they not, demanded another, give up trapping speeders on the Lingfield road and bring their mighty brains to the elucidation of a mystery that was to cause every household in London the gravest concern? The Barberton murder was the peg on which every letter-writing faddist had a novel view to hang, and Mr. Meadows was not at that time the happiest officer in the force.
“Where is Lee?” asked Washington as they came into Curzon Street.
“He’s in town for the moment, but we are moving him to the North of England, though I don’t think there is any danger to him, now that Barberton’s letters are in our possession. They would have killed him yesterday to prevent our handling the correspondence. Today I should imagine he has no special importance in the eyes of Oberzohn and Company. And here we are!”
Mr. Washington got out stiffly and was immediately admitted by the butler. The three men went upstairs to where George Manfred was wrestling with a phase of the problem. He was not alone; Digby, his head swathed in bandages, sat, an unhappy man, on the edge of a chair and answered Leon’s cheery greeting with a mournful smile.
“I’m sending Digby to keep observation on Oberzohn’s house; and especially do I wish him to search that old boat of his.”
He was referring to an ancient barge which lay on the mud at the bottom of Mr. Oberzohn’s private dock. From the canal there was a narrow waterway into the little factory grounds. It was so long since the small cantilever bridge which covered the entrance had been raised, that locals regarded
